The
Carters, the Blairs, the Fitzhughs, the Hansons, the Randolphs,
the Lees, the Ludwells, the Joneses, the Beverleys, the Tarletons--
a whole catalogue of them stretched back in his memory. He knew
the coat of arms displayed by each house. He could repeat their
legends.
"I wish you could tell me more," he went on. "Can't you recollect
anything further about your early childhood, your first
impressions--the house, the woman who taught you to pray, the old
black mammy? Any little thing might be of priceless value as
evidence."
Alice shrugged her shoulders after the creole fashion with
something of her habitual levity of manner, and laughed. His
earnestness seemed disproportioned to the subject, as she fancied
he must view it, although to her it had always been something to
dream over. It was impossible for her to realize, as he did, the
importance of details in solving a problem like that involved in
her past history. Nor could she feel the pathos and almost tragic
fascination with which her story had touched him.
"There is absolutely nothing more to tell," she said. "All my life
I have tried to remember more, but it's impossible; I can't get
any further back or call up another thing. There's no use trying.
It's all like a dream--probably it is one. I do have such dreams.
In my sleep I can lift myself into the air, just as easy, and fly
back to the same big white house that I seem to remember.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161