The Prodigal Daughter CHAPTER 10.
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"Dear sister!" ejaculated Mary, now recovered from her illness, folding the weakened form of Alice in her arms.
Alice laid her head upon Mary's shoulder and wept for a moment or two; and then lifting her face, asked for Ellen, and George, and William and Thomas.
"They have all been taken away from us, Alice!" her father said, with a strong effort at composure.
"Not dead!"
"Yes, my child, all dead," the tears gushing from his eyes. "We have but you and Mary left."
It were needless to picture, or attempt to picture the wordless grief of Mrs. Anderson's heart, when she found that the dear little ones she had so loved, years before, and whose bright young faces and glad voices she had so often yearned to see and hear, had all passed away like the figures in a dream. Sadly did she mourn for them many, many days. How often in her lonely exile, had she thought of these dear ones! How often had she dreamed or them! How often had her heart fluttered like a caged bird, eager to fly back to the parent tree, and gather those little ones again in her arms.
During her journey homeward, with her father and mother, she had not once asked for them. She had feared to do so. Thirteen years had rolled away, and she dared scarcely hope that changes had not been wrought in her father's house — that death had not been there. As the carriage that conveyed her back to her old home rolled up the broad avenue which led to the family mansion, her whole frame became agitated. She bent eagerly out of the window, and took in at a glance the old familiar objects and places which were dearer to her than any other upon the whole earth.
But only one of the dear ones she had left behind stood amid the group of servants that crowded around the door. It was Mary. She was soon in her arms. Her heart foreboded an evil answer, as she lifted her head from the bosom of her sister, and asked for those whom her eyes would no more see upon the earth. That answer confirmed all she had most dreaded to hear. They were sleeping their last, long, dreamless sleep! How silent and desolate, the old mansion seemed to her, as her footsteps echoed along its walls! She washome again. The long banished one had returned, but she found not all as she had left it. There were, alas! too many vacant seats at the table.
Thirteen years, spent in exile, sorrow, pain and cruel neglect — had wrought a great change on Alice. She did not seem to be herself; as she really was not the same being who had left her father's house a long time before, fondly confiding in one who had basely wronged her. To her father and mother, it appeared almost impossible that the pale, bent, emaciated, careworn creature they had brought home — could be the sunny child once loved with such deep tenderness. Not less changed, was everything to the eye of Alice. Home, in all her day dreams, and night visions — home, the Paradise for which she ever sighed — was a spot invested with all that was lovely. The old mansion, the tall trees that clustered majestically around, and spread their leaf-laden branches as if in benediction over it — no spot on earth was so lovely as this.
But now, when her eyes had been blessed with the long-desired vision of home — now, when she again trod the halls and familiar rooms of the old homestead, and looked out upon the tall trees, green lawn, vine-clad arbors, and fragrant garden walks — a change was visible. The trees were the same old forest monarchs, and their arms depended with the same protecting grace — but the brightness and beauty with which her fond imagination had invested them, were gone. She wandered from room to room of the spacious mansion. All was familiar — and yet all was changed. Why was it? Alas! the change was in her own heart! She saw with different eyes. The deep, heart-searching trials of thirteen years of banishment, had taken off the charm from external things. They had no longer the power to delight which they had possessed, when life was fresh and young.
"I am not the same being I was — or else things have greatly changed," she said to Mary, a few days after her arrival at home. "Nothing looks to me as it did before I went away."
"And yet, all is as it then was. I see no difference," Mary replied.
"The change is no doubt here," Alice said, in a mournful voice, laying her hand upon her heart as she spoke. "I see with different eyes. But I wish it were not so. I wish it were to me as I had fondly hoped it would be — bright and beautiful as before."
"But why is it not so, dear sister?" Mary said, entwining her arms fondly about her neck, and pressing her lips to her cheek. "This is home — your own home. And we love you as tenderly — yes, far more tenderly and purely than we ever loved you."
"I can hardly tell, Mary. Perhaps it is because there are so few to love me. Dear little Willie! How often have I dreamed of him! How often have I folded, involuntarily, my arms tightly across my bosom, when thinking of the sweet child, fondly imagining that he was in them, bending my face to lay it upon his downy cheek. Dear child! I shall see him no more! And sprightly Ellen — she, too, is gone — and George, and Thomas! All, all gone! And my own innocent child is numbered, too, with the lost ones!"
As Mrs. Anderson said this, her feelings gave way, and she wept for a long time. Mary's tears were mingled with hers.
Gradually, however, Mrs. Anderson became more cheerful; and this, with the fact of her restoration to them, helped to buoy up the spirits of her father and mother, deeply depressed on account of the great affliction they had sustained in the loss of their children.
It was not long before Alice and their grandchild filled a large place in the aching void that had been left in their hearts. A light began to fall here and there in mellowed spots through the household, gradually diffusing itself, until, even to the eye of Mrs. Anderson, home wore something of its former charm.
One day, while the sisters were alone in their chamber, Alice drew a soiled and crumpled paper from her trunk, and holding it up, said: "Mary, you don't know how often my heart has blessed you for this letter. It has remained the one dear link that has bound me to my home, telling me, that if all the rest had forgotten me, there was one heart whose love, no circumstances could change. I cannot tell how often I have read and wept over this pledge of your young and pure affection. 'One heart is true to me still! One heart bears faithfully my image!' I have often said, when thinking of home."
Mary did not reply. Words, though forming on her tongue — her tongue refused to utter. But she silently threw her arms around her sister's neck, and with hearts full of tenderness that separation and change had only rendered more fervent, they embraced each other.
In reclaiming his child, Mr. Melleville had acted with entire disregard to her husband, as much so as if he had not been living. Against him, his heart felt a strong resentment. As for Alice, as cruelly as he had abused her — he bore still the relation of a husband to her, and she could not think of him without some movement of that tenderness she had once felt. Months passed away, and she heard nothing of him. At length a letter came. It was from the keeper of the Alms-house at Baltimore. The news it brought was, that her husband had died there a few days before. A few natural tears were shed, and then her spirits rose as if reacting from a heavy pressure. He had lived to be the loathsome skeleton of which she had dreamed — and from whose disgusting and horrible presence she could not get free, until, as in her dream, her father had lifted the bony, putrid hand from her bosom.
And now we must drop the curtain on the history of Alice Melleville, or rather Mrs. Anderson. The stream that has long been fettered and wasted amid rocks, and tossed over precipices — has found at last a peaceful valley, where it moves along in stillness and purity.
THE END.
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