The Prodigal Daughter CHAPTER 4.
Back to The Prodigal Daughter
"Alice is late, remarked Mr. Melleville, on the next morning, as the family were gathering around the breakfast-table.
"Shall I go up into her room and call her?" asked a little girl, about eleven years of age, Mr. Melleville's next oldest child.
"Yes, run up, Mary. Perhaps she is sick."
The child returned in a few moments, with the news that Alice was not there, and that the bed was untumbled.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Melleville startled from the table, and went hurriedly to Alice's chamber. The child's story was too true. She was not there, nor were there any indications that she had passed the night in her room. On examining her drawers, a large portion of her clothes, it was found, had been removed!
Mr. Melleville sat down, and remained for some time in deep self-communion, while the mother burst into tears. Of the worst, they were both assured. He loved his child with a strong and natural affection, but pride was an over-mastering principle in his heart. A powerful struggle agitated him as he sat thus, for many minutes, in deep, painful thought. Pride at last conquered, and, rising to his feet, he turned to the mother, and said, in a calm but resolute tone,
"Alice is our child no longer; from this hour, we cast her off. I thought her a girl of high-toned feelings, but she has proved herself unworthy of the name of Melleville. Better it is that she should change it."
"And yet she is — "
"Tempt me not, Jane, neither deceive yourself. Alice has separated herself from us, and never again can claim a place in our hearts. Forget that you ever bore such a child. Let her name and her memory from this hour pass from us. We have other children, let them be all in all to us."
From that day and from that hour, the poor girl's name was not allowed to be mentioned in the presence of either parent. But neither the servants nor her younger sisters could forget her, nor was her name banished from their lips, when alone, nor were tears for her, strangers to their eyes. How far the memory of their child lingered in the parents' hearts, how often they dreamed of her, and in these night-visions yearned towards her with unutterable tenderness — no one knew. As far as others could determine, she was forgotten or, if not forgotten, unforgiven.
And now let us leave the heartless parents, and turn to the poor, deluded girl — blinded and deceived by a spurious passion, under the semblance of true love.
There was a hurried, agitating flight to Richmond, a hurried and agitating ceremony, and then came a long, long pause for reflection. The party, consisting of Anderson and his bride, Jones and a young lady friend, returned to Webster, the place from which they had started on their questionable errand, and Alice was established at a private boarding-house, to await the course of events. As eager as they were to look away and turn away from Mr. Melleville, but a day before — were they now as eager to look towards him. But, although pains were taken to let him know where they were — no word, no token came to them.
On the fifth day, Alice wrote a humble letter to her mother. But day after day, she waited, in vain, for an answer. None came. And in that time, she had learned a sad lesson. It was that the love of her husband was not sufficient to compensate for every other love; that the affection which is borne by a daughter for her parents, cannot be set aside, even for a husband's deeper and more passionate love. And as time passed on, and not the slightest notice was taken of them by any of her family, Anderson himself began to feel uneasy. His income was, in amount, far less than he had demands for himself; how, then, could he support a wife; one, too, who had been, from childhood, used to every comfort and every luxury? Such thoughts it may naturally be supposed, could not be entertained, without becoming apparent in some form. Alice perceived that, day after day, her husband grew more thoughtful and serious — and less tender in his attentions towards her.
One month from the day of their marriage — criminal on one side, and thoughtless on the other — Anderson and Alice sat alone, in gloomy self-communion; he, brooding over his disappointment and embarrassments, and she, thinking of her lost home and its dear inhabitants. At last, turning towards her, he said,
"It is strange, Alice, that no one of your family has come near you."
Alice looked up, while her eyes filled with tears, but she did not reply.
"It is now four weeks since we were married. Surely in that time we ought to have heard from them."
"I fear very greatly," Alice said, "that my father will never see me again." And she burst into tears.
"Do not distress yourself with such a thought Alice. He will, he must relent. Surely your mother loves you, and will overrule the anger of your father."
"My mother cannot, and I believe never attempts to influence my father," Alice said, looking up, with the tears flowing over her cheeks. "He told me, that if I married you, he would never forgive me or see me — and few men keep their word more strictly than he. I am sadly afraid that I have nothing to hope for there; that I am alone with you in the world!"
Her tender glance, and the affectionate, confiding tone in which the last sentence was uttered, touched the heart of one as cold and selfish as her husband; stooping down, he kissed her cheek, and said, with more of sincerity and true feeling than he had ever yet spoken to her,
"Dear Alice! I will try to make you as happy as I can! But you ought to know it, at once, that I have not the means to make you as comfortable, nor to provide you with the luxuries that you have been used to from childhood. But I will do my best."
He spoke from the impulse of a sudden resolution to change his habits, for her sake, and to do all in his power to make her happy.
"I ask only to share your lot, dear husband! I forsook all for you. Love me — and I will try to be happy."
Anderson kissed the cheek of his young wife with more of an unselfish affection than he had yet felt, and, inwardly resolving that he would, for her sake, be a man of energy and principle — he left the room, and returned to his place of business. There he was met by a police officer, with a writ against him for debt.
"I cannot meet this just now," Anderson said.
"I am not a collector, but an officer. I cannot call again," the officer said, half ironically.
"Well! well! I will pay this on Monday," the young man replied, quickly.
"I would advise you to come prepared to pay it then; for when judgment is rendered up, the money will have to be forthcoming. Such are our orders." And so saying, the officer turned away.
A similar process for fifty dollars was also served on him within an hour, the whole amounting to upwards of a hundred dollars. This sum would not cover over one-third of his debts in the city.
On the same night, at about nine o'clock, he returned to the store in which he was a salesman.
"I have come in to have some talk with you," Anderson said to his employer. "I am in trouble, and need your advice and assistance."
"I am sorry you did not ask that earlier, William; I might have saved you from an act of which it is now too late to repent."
"No doubt. But the past is past. I want to talk of the present and future."
"Say on."
"Two writs have been served on me today, and I have until Monday to pay them. I cannot pay them — it is of no use to even think of it."
"Well?"
"I owe a good deal besides. Debts foolishly contracted. Before I was married, no one hoped to get anything by troubling me. Now, a different game will be played."
"Well?"
"I must leave here."
"Where will you go?"
"I have, tonight, made an engagement to go to Washington, and keep bar."
"At what salary?"
"Six hundred dollars."
"Your best plan is, certainly, to go."
"But I have no money to take me there. And I have come in to know if to your many and long-continued kindnesses to one who has not always deserved them, you will add another."
"William," said his employer, in a serious tone, "if it had not been for your father, I would have fired you long ago. For his sake I have borne with your irregularities, and too frequent neglect of business. For his sake, I will now advance you fifty dollars."
"And promise to keep my secret until I am beyond the reach of the processes from the court?"
"With that, I have nothing to do, and shall therefore not speak of it. But when do you leave?"
"I must be off in two days."
"In your new home, I earnestly hope, William, you will resolve to lead a new life. Remember, that another's happiness is now connected with your actions; if indeed, anything you can do will ever make that too trusting, deluded creature, who is now your wife, happy."
"That act was a great and foolish one, yes — I will call it a wicked one. But it is past now, and cannot be recalled. I vainly hoped that Mr. Melleville would soon relent, and then all would have been well."
"You should have known his character better, before you presumed so far. Had you consulted me, I could have dissipated your error in that respect."
"But I did not. And if I had, I would not, probably, have heeded your warning."
"Perhaps not. Well, now that the deed is done, let me beg of you, for her sake, to do the best you can."
"I will, I will!" Anderson said, much moved, and then withdrew to return home and break the painful news to his wife. He found her sitting alone, and weeping.
"Dear Alice," he said, with unusual tenderness, as he sat down by her side, and took her hand within his, "what can I do to make you happy?"
"Nothing, nothing, dear husband — I am happy now!" she said, brushing away her tears, and trying to smile cheerfully as she looked up into his face.
"I have wronged you much, Alice. But what is past cannot be mended. Are you willing to share my lot with me?"
"I am, William, be it what it may," she said earnestly.
"Then, Alice, I must go away from this place."
"O William!" ejaculated his wife, with a look of painful surprise.
"I had better tell you the simple truth, and then leave you to decide. I will not urge you or try to influence you. You shall be free to go — or stay. Perhaps when I go away, your father may take you home again, where I am sure you will be happier than I can make you. Know, then, Alice, that I am in debt here several hundred dollars more than I can pay. Writs have been served on me, and if not satisfied by Monday next, I will go to prison."
Alice looked at her husband with a stupefied air, but did not reply.
"I have secured a situation in Washington, at a salary that will support us if we are frugal. Now, Alice, will you go or stay?"
"I will go with you, William. Why should I stay here? And who is there in the wide world to care for me, but you? But how soon must we go?"
"In two days."
"Then, I will make one more appeal to my father. Who knows, but that his heart will soften towards me, when he finds that I am about to go away, never perhaps to return?"
"Do, Alice, do. And I will write also."
Before retiring to her bed, Alice wrote to her mother, and through her to her father — a humble, penitent and touching epistle. Urging them to see her before she went away — just to drop her one word, saying that they forgave her.
Her husband also wrote, stating plainly that he went away through necessity, and urging upon Mr. Melleville to take his daughter home.
"I have not the means of supporting her," he said in his letter, "and unless you take her again, she must suffer in many ways. Will you not again receive her? Solemnly I promise, if you will take her home, that I will never come near you. I do not write this because I do not love, or am not willing to take care of Alice. I would part from her with exceeding pain. But I am sure that I cannot provide for her as she has been used to live, and I am well convinced that away from you, she never can be happy. Come for her, or send for her within two days. After that, it will be too late."
The first day passed, and there was neither word nor letter, nor token of any kind from Mr. or Mrs. Melleville to Alice. All through the next day, she looked and longed in painful, heart-sickening suspense, but in vain; and night fell gloomily around, yet no word had come.
With a feeling of hopelessness, did poor Mrs. Anderson prepare to accompany her husband on his flight, for such it really was, from her native village. At ten o'clock at night they took their places in the stage-coach — she silent, sad and heartless. Just as the driver was mounting the box, Alice felt a hand upon her arm, and looking up, she saw standing by the coach, an old colored servant of her father's; one who had been her nurse when an infant. She held in her hand a letter, which was eagerly seized by the unhappy girl.
"Who is it from, Nancy?" she asked, much agitated.
"From little Mary. Your parents would not write, and don't know about Mary's writing or me coming to see you. But I couldn't let you go, Miss Alice, without seeing your dear face once more. O, if they only loved you as I do!" And the tears streamed down the cheeks of the affectionate creature, as she stood clasping tightly the hand of her young mistress. At that moment, the driver cracked his whip, and the coach moved off.
"God bless you, Miss Alice!" fell from the lips of the servant in a fervent ejaculation. In the next moment she stood alone, looking sadly after the retiring stagecoach.
Fully two hours passed before Alice had an opportunity to read that precious letter — warm, she knew, from an affectionate and innocent heart. But for the trembling, eager desire she felt to know its contents, her feelings on thus leaving, perhaps forever, her home and dearest friends, would have been indeed terrible.
By the dim light of a flickering lamp, at the first stage-station, she opened and read her letter. It ran thus:
"Dear sister Alice. I happened to see your letter on mother's table today, and then I knew what father meant yesterday, when I heard him say to her 'No, no, no! I will have nothing to do with her.' But if they don't love you, Alice, I do, and if I had dared — I would have been to see you every day. O, it is so lonesome, and so sad now that you are gone. Neither father or mother are like what they used to be. He never seems pleased, nor she happy. And you are going clear away. O, how I cry when I think of it. And what will become of you? O sister, I wish I could go with you, for your sake; I know you must feel so bad, never to see any of us, nor know anything about us. Nancy will take this to you. She doesn't forget you, nor do any of us, except mother and father, and I think it is hard work with them. Good-bye, dear sister, and don't forget, wherever you are, your sister MARY."
Alice sobbed two or three times, convulsively, as if she were struggling hard with her feelings, and then turned slowly away from the dim light by which she had read the letter, and re-entered the coach.
Back to The Prodigal Daughter