CHAPTER I. GUARDIAN AND WARD.
[figure description] Page 007.[end figure description]
The night was dark and the clouds black and heavy
which hung over Redstone Hall, whose massive walls
loomed up through the darkness like some huge sentinel
keeping guard over the spacious grounds by which
it was surrounded. Within the house all was still,
and without there was no sound to break the midnight
silence save the sighing of the autumnal wind
through the cedar trees, or the roar of the river, which,
swollen by the recent heavy rains, went rushing on to
meet its twin sister at a point well known in Kentucky,
where our story opens, as “The Forks of the Elkhorn.”
From one of the lower windows a single light was
shining, and its dim rays fell upon the face of a white-haired
man, who moaned uneasily in his sleep, as if
pursued by some tormenting fear. At last, as the oldfashioned
clock struck off the hour of twelve, he
awoke, and glancing nervously toward the corner,
whence the sound proceeded, he whispered, “Have
you come again, Ralph Lindsey, to tell me of my
sin?”
“What is it, Mr. Raymond?” and a young girl
-- 008 --
[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]
glided to the bedside of the old man, who, taking her
hand in his, the better to assure himself of her presence,
said, “Marian, is there nothing in that corner
yonder—nothing with silvery hair?”
“Nothing,” answered Marian, “nothing but the
lamplight shining on the face of the old clock. Did
you think there was some one here?”
“Yes—no. Marian, do you believe the dead can
come back to us again—when we have done them a
wrong—the dead who are buried in the sea, I mean?”
Marian shuddered involuntarily, and cast a timid
look toward the shadowy corner, then, conquering her
weakness, she answered, “No, the dead cannot come
back. But why do you talk so strangely to-night?”
The old man hesitated a moment ere he replied.—
“The time has come for me to speak, so that your father
can rest in peace. He has been with me more
than once in this very room, and to-night I fancied he
was here again, asking why I had dealt so falsely with
his child.”
“Falsely!” cried Marian, kissing tenderly the hand
of the only parent she had ever known. “Not falsely,
I am sure, for you have been most kind to me.”
“And yet, Marian,” he said, “I have done you a
wrong—a wrong which has eaten into my very soul,
and worn my life away. I did not intend to speak of
it to-night, but something prompts me to do so, and
you must listen. On that night when your father
died, and when all in the ship, save ourselves and the
watch, were asleep, I laid my hand on his forehead,
and swore to be faithful to my trust. Do you hear,
Marian—faithful to my trust. You don't know what
that meant, but I know, and I've broken my oath to
the dying—and from that grave in the ocean he comes
to me sometimes, and with the same look upon his
face which it wore that Summer afternoon when we
laid him in the sea, he asks why justice has not been
done to you. Wait, Marian, until I have finished,”
he continued, as he saw her about to speak; “I know
-- 009 --
[figure description] Page 009.[end figure description]
I have not long to live, and I would make amends;
but, Marian, I would rather—oh, so much rather, you
should not know the truth until I'm dead. You
will forgive me then more readily, won't you, Marian?
Promise me you will forgive the poor old man who
has loved you so much—loved you, if possible, better
than he loved his only son.”
He paused for her reply, and half bewildered, Marian
answered, “I don't know what you mean—but if,
as you say, a wrong has been done, no matter how
great that wrong may be, it is freely forgiven for the
sake of what you've been to me.”
The sick man wound his arm lovingly around her,
and bringing her nearer to him, he said, “Bless you,
Marian—bless you for that. It makes my deathbed
easier. I will leave it in writing—my confession. I
cannot tell it now, for I could not bear to see upon
your face that you despised me. You wrote to Frederic,
and told him to come quickly?”
“Yes,” returned Marian, “I said you were very
sick and wished to see him at once.”
For a moment there was silence in the room; then,
removing his arm from the neck of the young girl, the
old man raised himself upon his elbow and looking
her steadily in the face, said, “Marian, could you love
my son Frederic?”
The question was a strange one, but Marian Lindsey
was accustomed to strange modes of speech in her
guardian, and with a slightly heightened color she
answered quietly, “I do love him as a brother—”
“Yes, but I would have you love him as something
nearer,” returned her guardian. “Ever since I took
you for my child it has been the cherished object of
my life that you should be his wife.”
There was a nervous start and an increase of color
in Marian's face, for the idea, though not altogether
disagreeable, was a new one to her, but she made no
reply, and her guardian continued, “I am selfish in
this wish, though not wholly so. I know you could
-- 010 --
[figure description] Page 010.[end figure description]
be happy with him, and in no other way can my good
name be saved from disgrace. Promise me, Marian,
that you will be his wife very soon after I am dead,
and before all Kentucky is talking of my sin. You
are not too young. You will be sixteen in a few
months, and many marry as early as that.”
“Does he wish it?” asked Marian, timidly; and her
guardian replied, “He has known you but little of
late, but when he sees you here at home, and learns
how gentle and good you are, he cannot help loving
you as you deserve.”
“Yes he can,” answered Marian with childish simplicity.
“No man as handsome as Frederic ever loved
a girl with an ugly face, and I heard him tell Will
Gordon, when he spent a vacation here, that I was a
nice little girl, but altogether too freckled, too red-headed,
and scrawney, ever to make a handsome woman,”
and Marian's voice trembled slightly as she
recalled a speech which had wrung from her many
tears.
To this remark Col. Raymond made no reply — for
he too, had cause to doubt Frederic's willingness to
marry a girl who boasted so few personal charms as
did Marian Lindsey then. Rumors, too, he had heard,
of a peerlessly beautiful creature, with raven hair
and eyes of deepest black, who at the north kept his
son a captive to her will. But this could not be;
Frederick must marry Marian, for in no other way
could the name of Raymond be saved from a disgrace,
or the vast possessions he called his be kept in
the family, and he was about to speak again when a
heavy tread in the hall announced the approach of
some one, and a moment after, Aunt Dinah, the
housekeeper, appeared. “She had come to sit up
with her marster,” she said, “and let Miss Marian
go to bed, where children like her ought to be.”
At first Marian objected, for though scarcely conscious
of it herself, she was well enough pleased to
sit where she was and hear her guardian talk of
-- 011 --
[figure description] Page 011.[end figure description]
Frederic and of what she had no hope would ever be; but
when Aunt Dinah suggested to her that sitting up
so much would make her look yellow and old, she
yielded, for Frederic was a passionate admirer of
beauty, and she well knew that she had none to lose.
Kissing her guardian good night, she hurried to her
chamber, but not to sleep, for the tumult of thought
which her recent conversation had awakened kept her
restless and wakeful. Under ordinary circumstances
she would have wondered what the wrong could be
at which Col. Raymond had hinted, but now she
scarcely remembered it, or if it occurred to her at all,
she instantly dismissed it from her mind as some trivial
thing which the weak state of her guardian's mind
magnified into a serious matter.
Thirteen years before our story opens, Marian had
embarked with her father on board a ship which
sailed from Liverpool to New York. Of that father
she remembered little save that he was very poor,
and that he talked of his poverty as if it were something
of which he was proud. Pleasant memories,
though, she had of an American gentleman who used
often to take her on his lap, and tell her of the land
to which she was going; and when one day her father
laid him down in his berth, with the fever as they
said, she remembered how the kind man had cared
for him, holding his aching head and watching by
him till he died;—then, when it was all over, he had
taken her upon his knee and told her she was to be
his little girl now, and he bade her call him father—
telling her how her own dead parent had asked him
to care for her, who in all the wide world had no near
relative. Something, too, she remembered about an
old coarse bag, which had troubled her new father
very much, and which he had finally put in the bottom
of his trunk, throwing overboard a few articles
of clothing to make room for it. The voyage was long
and stormy, but they reached New York at last, and
he took her to his home—not Redstone Hall, but an
-- 012 --
[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]
humble farm-house on the Hudson, where he had always
lived. Frederic was a boy then—a dark haired
handsome boy of eleven, and even now she shuddered
as she remembered how he used to tease and worry
her. Still he liked her, she was sure—and the first
real grief which she remembered was on that rainy
day when, with an extra pull at her long curls, he
bade her good-by and went off to a distant boarding
school.
Col. Raymond, her guardian, was growing rich,
and people said he must have entered into some fortunate
speculation while abroad, for, since his return,
prosperity had attended every movement; and when,
six months after Frederic's departure, he went to
Kentucky and purchased Redstone Hall, then rather
a dilapidated building, Mrs. Burt, his housekeeper,
had wondered where all his money came from, when
he used to be so poor. They had moved to Kentucky
when Marian was five and a half years old—and now,
after ten years' improvement, there was not in the
whole county so beautiful a spot as Redstone Hall,
with its terraced grounds, its graveled walks, its plats
of grass, its grand old trees, its creeping vines, its
flowering shrubs and handsome park in the rear. And
this was Marian's home;—here she had lived a rather
secluded life, for only when Frederic was with them
did they see much company, and all the knowledge
she had of the world was what she gleaned from
books or learned from the negress Dinah, who, “having
lived with the very first families,” frequently entertained
her young mistress with stories of “the
quality,” and the dinner parties at which her presence
was once so indispensable. And Marian, listening
to these glowing descriptions of satin dresses, diamonds
and feathers, sometimes wished that she were
rich, and could have a taste of fashion. To be sure,
her guardian bought her always more than she needed—
but it was not hers, and without any particular
reason why she should do so, she felt that she was a
-- 013 --
[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
dependent and something of an inferior, especially
when Frederic came home with his aristocratic manners,
his graceful mustache, and the soft scent of perfumery
he usually carried with him. He was always
polite and kind to Marian, but she felt that there was
a gulf between them. He was handsome; she was
plain—he was rich; she was poor—he was educated,
and she—alas, for Marian's education—she read a
great deal, but never yet had she given herself up to
a systematic course of study. Governesses she had
in plenty, but she usually coaxed them off into the
woods, or down by the river, where she left them to
do what they pleased, while she learned many a lesson
from the great book of nature spread out so beautifully
before her. All this had tended to make and
keep her a very child, and it was not until her fourteenth
year that any thing occurred to develop the
genuine womanly qualities which she possessed.
By the death of a distant relative, a little unfortunate
blind girl was left to Colonel Raymond's care, and
was immediately taken to Redstone Hall, where she
became the pet of Marian, who loved nothing in the
whole world as dearly as the poor blind Alice. And
well was that love repaid; for to Alice Marian Lindsey
was the embodiment of everything beautiful, pure
and good. Frederic, on the contrary, was a kind of
terror to the little Alice. “He was so precise and
stuck up,” she said; “and when he was at home Marian
was not a bit like herself.” To Marian, however,
his occasional visits to Redstone Hall were sources of
great pleasure. To look at his handsome figure, to
listen to his voice, to anticipate his slightest wish and
minister to his wants so quietly that he scarcely knew
from whom the attention came, was happiness for
her, and when he smiled upon her, as he often did,
calling her “a good little girl,” she felt repaid for all
she had done. Occasionally, since her guardian's illness,
she had thought of the future when some fine
lady might come to Redstone Hall as its mistress, but
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
the subject was an unpleasant one, and she always
dismissed it from her mind. In her estimation, there
were few worthy to be the wife of Frederic—certainly
not herself—and when the idea was suggested to her
by his father, she regarded it as an utter impossibility.
Still it kept her wakeful, and once she said softly
to herself, “I could love him so much if he would let
me, and I should be so proud of him, too.” Then, as
she remembered the remark she had heard him make
to his college friend, she covered her face with her
hands and whispered, sadly, “Oh, I wish I wasn't
ugly.” Anon, however, there came stealing over her
the thought that in the estimation of others she was
not as plain as in that of Frederic Raymond. Every
body seemed to like her, and if she were hideous looking
they could not. Alice, whose darkened eyes
had never looked upon the light of day, and who
judged by the touch alone, declared that she was
beautiful, while old Dinah said that age would improve
her as it did wine, and that in time she would
be the handsomest woman in all Kentucky.
Never before had Marian thought so much of her
personal appearance—and now, feeling anxious to
know exactly what her defects were, she arose, and
lighting the lamp, placed it upon her dressing bureau—
then throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she
sat down and minutely inspected the face which Frederie
Raymond called so homely. The features were
regular enough, but the face was very thin—
“scrawney,” Frederic had said, and the cheek bones
were plainly perceptible. This might be the result of
eating slate-stones; Dinah, who knew everything,
said it was, and mentally resolving thereafter to abjure
everything of the kind, Marian continued her
investigations. It did not occur to her that her
complexion was surpassingly fair, nor yet that her
eyes were of a most beautiful blue, so intent was she
upon the freckles which dotted her nose and a portion
of her face. Slate-stones surely had nothing to do
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
with these, and she knew of no way of remedying
this evil—unless, indeed, poulticing should do it.—
She would consult Dinah on the subject, and feeling a
good deal of confidence in the negress' judgment, she
passed on to what she considered her crowning point of
ugliness—her hair! It was soft, luxuriant and curly,
but alas, it bore the color which, though accounted
beautiful in Mary Stuart's time, has long since been
proscribed by fashion as horrid and unbecoming. Turn
which way she would, or hold the lamp in any position
she chose, it was still red—a dark, decided red—and
the tears came to Marian's eyes as she recalled the
many times when, as a boy, Frederic taunted her with
being a “red-head” or a “brick-top,” just as the humor
suited him. Suddenly she remembered that
among her treasures was a lock of her mother's
hair, and opening a rosewood box she took from it a
shining trees which she laid upon the marble top of
her bureau, and then bent down to admire its color, a
beautiful auburn, such as is rarely seen—and which,
when seen, is sure to be admired.
“And this was my mother's,” she whispered,
smoothing caressingly the silken hair. “I must resemble
her more than my father, who my guardian
says was dark. I wish I was like her in everything,
for I believe she was beautiful,” and into the mind of
the orphan girl there crept an image of a brighthaired,
sweet-faced woman, whose eyes of lustrous
blue looked lovingly into her own—and this was her
mother. She had seen her thus in fancy many a time,
but never so vividly as to-night, and unconsciously
she breathed the petition, “Let me look like her
some day, and I shall be content.”
The gray morning light was by this time stealing
through the window, and overcome with weariness and
watching, Marian fell asleep, and when, two hours
later, old Dinah came in to wake her, she found her
sitting before the glass, with the lamp still burning at
-- 016 --
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
her side, and her head resting on her arms, which lay
upon the low bureau.
“For the dear Lord's sake, what are you doing?”
was Dinah's exclamation, which at once roused Marian,
who unhesitatingly answered,
“I got up to look in the glass, and see if I was so
very homely.”
“Humbly! Nonsense, child,” returned old Dinah.
“You look like a picter lyin' thar with the sun a shinin'
on yer har, and makin' it look like a piece of crimson
satin.”
The compliment was a doubtful one, but Marian
knew it was well meant, and, without a word in reply,
commenced her morning toilet. That day, somewhat
to her disappointment, her guardian did not resume
the conversation of the previous night. He was
convinced that Marian could be easily won, but he
did not think it wise to encourage her until he had
talked with his son, whose return he looked for auxiously.
But day after day went by, and it was in
vain that Alice listened, and Marian watched, for the
daily stage. It never stopped at the gate; and each
time that the old man heard them say it had gone by,
he groaned afresh, fearing Frederic would not come
until it was too late.
“I can at least tell him the truth on paper,” he said
to himself at last, “and it may be he will pay more
heed to words, which a dead father wrote, than to
words which a living father spoke.”
Marian was accordingly bidden to bring him his little
writing desk, and then to leave the room, for he
would be alone when he wrote that letter of confession.
It cost him many a fierce struggle—the telling
to his son a secret which none save himself and God
had ever known—aye, which none had ever need to
know if he would have it so—but he would not. The
secret had worn his life away, and he must make reparation
now. So, with the perspiration dropping
from every pore, he wrote; and, as he wrote, in his
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
disordered imagination, there stood beside his pillow
the white-haired Englishman, watching carefully to
see that justice was done at last to Marian. Recently
several letters had passed between the father and his
son concerning the marriage of the latter with Marian—
a marriage every way distasteful to the young man,
who, in his answer, had said far harsher things of Marian
than he really meant, hoping thus to put an end
to his father's plan. She was “rough, uncouth, uneducated
and ugly,” he said, “and if his father did not
give up that foolish fancy, he should positively hate
the red-headed fright.”
All this the old man touched upon—quoting the
very words his son had used, and whispering to himself,
“Poor—poor Marian, it would break her heart
to know that he said that, but she never will—she
never will;” and then, with the energy of despair, he
wrote the reason why she must be the wife of his son,
pleading with him as only a dying man can plead,
that he would not disregard the wishes of his father,
and begging him to forget the dark-haired Isabel,
who, though perhaps more beautiful, was not—could
not—be as pure, as gentle and as good as Marian.
The letter was finished, and 'mid burning tears of
remorse and shame the old man read it through.
“Yes, that will do,” he said. “Frederic will heed
what's written here. He'll marry her or else make
restitution;” and laying it away, he commenced the
last and hardest part of all—the confessing to Marian
how he had sinned against her.
Although there was no tie of blood between them,
the gentle young orphan had crept down into his inmost
heart, where once he treasured a little goldenhaired
girl, who, before Frederic was born, died on
his lap, and went to the heaven made for such as she.
In the first moments of his bereavement, he had
thought his loss could never be repaired, but when,
with her soft arms around his neck, Marian Lindsey
had murmured in his car how much she loved the
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
only father she had ever known, he felt that the angel
he had lost was restored to him tenfold in the little
English girl. He knew that she believed that there
was in him no evil, and his heart throbbed with agony
as he nerved himself to tell her how for years he had
acted a villain's part, but it was done at last, and with
a passionate appeal for her forgiveness, and a request
that she would not forget him wholly, but come
some time to visit his lonely grave, he finished the
letter, and folding it up, wrote upon its back, “For
Marian;” then, taking the one intended for Frederic,
he attempted to write, “For my Son,” but the ink was
gone from his pen, there was a blur before his eyes,
and though he traced the words he left no impress,
and the letter bore no superscription to tell to whom
it belonged. Stepping upon the floor, he dragged his
feeble limbs to the adjoining room, his library, and
placing both letters in his private drawer, retired to
his bed, where, utterly exhausted, he fell asleep.
When at last he awoke, Marian was sitting by his
side, and to her he communicated what he had done,
telling her where the letters were, and that if he died
ere Frederic's return, she must give the one bearing
the words “For my Son” to him.
“You will not read it, of course,” he said, “or ever
seek to know what its contents are.”
Had Marian Lindsey been like many girls, the caution
would have insured the reading of the letter at
once, but she fortunately shrank from anything dishonorable,
and was blessed with but a limited share
of woman's curiosity; consequently, the letter was
safe in her care, even though no one ever came to
claim it. All that afternoon she sat by her guardian,
and when as usual the stage thundered down the turnpike,
leaving no Frederic at the door, she soothed him
with the hope that he would be there to-morrow. But
the morrow came and went as did other to-morrows,
until Col. Raymond grew so ill that a telegram was
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
despatched to the truant boy, bidding him hasten if
he would see his father again alive.
“That will bring him,” the old man said, while the
big tears rolled down his wrinkled face. “He'll be
here in a few days,” and he asked that his bed might
be moved near the window, where, propped upon pillows,
he watched with childish impatience for the
coming of his boy.
-- --
CHAPTER II. FATHER AND SON.
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
A telegram from Frederic, who was coming home
at last! He would be there that very day, and the
inmates of Redstone Hall were thrown into a state of
unusual excitement. Old Dinah in jaunty turban and
clean white apron, bustled from the kitchen to the
dining room, and from the dining room back to the
kitchen, jingling her huge bunch of keys with an air
of great importance, and kicking from under her feet
any luckless black baby which chanced to be in her
way, making always an exception in favor of “Victoria
Eugenia,” who bore a striking resemblance to herself,
and would one day call her “gran'mam.” Dinah
was in her element, for nothing pleased her better
than the getting up a “tip top dinner,” and fully
believing that Frederic had been half starved in a land
where they didn't have hoe-cake and bacon three
times a day, she determined to give him one full meal,
such as would make his stomach ache for three full
hours at least!
Mr. Raymond, too, was better than usual to-day,
and at his post by the window watched eagerly the
distant turn in the road where the stage would first
appear. In her chamber, Marian was busy with her
toilet, trying the effect of dress after dress, and at
Alice's suggestion deciding at last upon a pale blue,
which harmonized well with her fair complexion.
“Frederic likes blue, I know,” she thought, as
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
she remembered having heard him admire a dress of
that color worn by a young lady who had once visited
at Redstone Hall.
Dinah, when consulted as to the best method of
making red hair dark, had strongly recommended
“possum ile and sulphur, scented with some kind of
essence;” but to this dye Marian did not take kindly.
She preferred that her hair should retain its natural
color, and falling as it did in soft curls around her
face and neck, it was certainly not unbecoming. Her
toilet was completed at last—Alice's little hands had
decided that it was perfect—the image reflected by
the mirror was far from being ordinary-looking, and
secretly wondering if Frederic would not think her
tolerably pretty, Marian sat down to await his coming.
She had not been seated long when Alice's quick ear
caught the sound of the distant stage, and in a few
moments Marian from behind the half-closed shutter,
was watching the young man as he came slowly up
the avenue, which led from the highway to the house.
His step was usually bounding and rapid, but now he
lingered as if unwilling to reach the door.
“'Tis because of his father,” thought Marian. “He
fears he may be dead.”
But not of his father alone was Frederic thinking.
It was not pleasant coming home; for aside from the
fear that his father might really die, was a dread of
what that father might ask him to do. For Marian as
a sister, he had no dislike, for he knew she possessed
many gentle, womanly virtues, but from the thoughts
of making her his wife he instinctively shrank. Only
one had the shadow of a claim to bear that relation to
him, and of her he was thinking that September afternoon
as he came up the walk. She was poor, he
knew, and the daughter of his landlady, who claimed
a distant relationship with his father; but she was
beautiful, and a queen might covet her stately bearing,
and polished, graceful manner. Into her heart
he had never looked, for satisfied with the fair
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
exterior, he failed to see the treachery lurking in her large
black eyes, or yet to detect the fierce, stormy passions,
which had a home within her breast.
Isabella Huntington, or “Cousin Bell,” as he called
her, was beautiful, accomplished, and artful, and during
the year that Frederic Raymond had been an
inmate of her mother's family, she had succeeded in
so completely infatuating the young man that now
there was to him but one face in the world, and that
in fancy shone upon him even when it was far away.
He had never said to her that he loved her, for though
often tempted so to do, something had always interposed
between them, bidding him wait until he knew
her better. Consequently he was not bound to her
by words, but he thought it very probable that she
would one day be his wife, and as he drew near to
Redstone Hall, he could not forbear feeling a glow of
pride, fancying how she would grace that elegant
mansion as its rightful mistress. Of Marian, too, he
thought—harsh, bitter thoughts, mingled with softer
emotions as he reflected that she possibly knew
nothing of his father's plan. He pitied her, he said,
for if his father died, she would be alone in the world.
After what had passed, it would hardly be pleasant
for him to have her there where he could see her
every day;—she might not be agreeable to Isabel
either, and he should probably provide for her handsomely
and have her live somewhere else—at a fashionable
boarding school, perhaps!
Magnanimous Frederic! He was growing very
generous, and by the time he reached the long piazza,
Marian Lindsey was comfortably disposed of in the
third story of some seminary far away from Redstone
Hall!
The meeting between the father and son was an affecting
one—the former sobbing like a child, and
asking of the latter why he had tarried so long. The
answer to this question was that Frederic had been
absent from New Haven for three weeks, and that
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
Isabel, who took charge of his letters, neglected to forward
the one written by Marian. At the mention of
Isabel, the old man's cheek flushed, and he said,
impatiently, “the neglect was an unpardonable one,
for it bore on its face `In haste.' Perhaps, though,
she did it purposely, hoping thus to keep you from
me.”
Instantly Frederic warmed up in Isabel's defence,
saying she was incapable of a mean act. He doubted
whether she had observed the words “In haste” at
all, and if she did she only withheld it for the sake of
saving him from anxiety as long as possible.
At this moment there was the sound of little uncertain
feet near the door, and Alice groped her way
into the room. She was a fair, sweet-faced little child,
and taking her upon his knee, Frederic kissed her
affectionately, and asked her many questions as to
what she had done since he was home six months
before. Seldom before had he paid her so much attention,
and feeling anxious that Marian should be similarly
treated, the little girl, after answering his questions,
said to him, coaxingly,
“Won't you kiss Marian, too, when she comes
down? She's been ever so long dressing herself and
trying to look pretty.”
Instantly the eyes of the father and son met—those
of the former expressive of entreaty, while those of
the latter flashed with defiance.
“Go for Marian, child, and tell her to come here,”
said Mr. Raymond.
Alice obeyed, and as she left the room, Frederic
said bitterly, “I see she is leagued with you. I had
thought better of her than that.”
“No, she isn't,” cried the father, fearing that his
favorite project was in danger. “I merely suggested
it to her once—only once.”
Frederic was about to reply, when the rustling of
female garments announced the approach of Marian.
To Colonel Raymond she was handsome then, as with
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
a hightened bloom upon her cheek and a bashful light
in her deep blue eyes, she entered timidly and offered
her hand to Frederic. But to the jealous young man
she was merely a plain, ordinary country girl, bearing
no comparison to the peerless Isabel. Still he
greeted her kindly, addressed to her a few trivial reremarks,
and then resumed his conversation with little
Alice, who, feeling that matters were going wrong,
rolled her eyes often and anxiously toward the spot
where she knew Marian was sitting—and when at last
the latter left the room, she said to Frederic, “Isn't
Marian pretty in her blue dress, with all those curls?
There are twenty of them, for I heard her count them.
Say she is pretty, so I can tell her and make her
feel good.”
Frederic would not then have admitted that Marian
was pretty, even had he thought so, and biting his
lip with vexation, he replied, “I do not particularly
admire blue, and I detest cork-screw curls.”
Marian was still in the lower hall, and heard both
the question and the answer. Darting up the stairs,
she flew to her chamber, and throwing herself upon
the bed, burst into a passionate flood of tears. All in
vain had she dressed herself for Frederic Raymond's
eye—curling her hair in twenty curls, even as Alice
had said. He hated blue—he hated curls—cork-screw
curls particularly. What could he mean? She never
heard the term thus applied before. It must have
some reference to their color, and clutching at her
luxuriant tresses she would have torn them from her
head, had not a little childish hand been laid upon
hers, and Alice's soothing voice murmured in her ear,
“don't cry, Marian; I wouldn't care for him. He's
just as mean as he can be, and if I owned Redstone
Hall, I wouldn't let him live here, would you?”
“Yes—no—I don't know,” sobbed Marian. “I
don't own Redstone Hall. I don't own anything, and
I most wish I was dead.”
Alice was unaccustomed to such a burst of passion,
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
and was trying to frame some reply, when the dinner
bell rang, and lifting up her head, Marian said, “Go
down, Alice, and tell Dinah I can't come, and if she
insists, tell her I won't!”
Alice knew she was in earnest, and going below she
delivered the message to Dinah in the presence of
Frederic, who silently took his seat at the table.
“For the dear Lord's sake, what's happened her
now?” said Dinah, casting a rueful glance at Marian's
empty chair.
“She's crying,” returned Alice, “and she dislikes
somebody in this room awfully; 'taint you, Dinah,
nor 'taint me,” and the blind eyes flashed indignantly
at Frederic, who smiled quietly as he replied, “Thank
you, Miss Alice.”
Alice made no reply, and the dinner proceeded in
silence. After it was over, Frederic returned to his
father, who had been nerving himself for the task
he had to perform, and which he determined should
be done at once.
“Lock the door, Frederic,” he said, “and then sit
by me while I say to you what I have so long wished
to say.”
With a lowering brow Frederic complied, and seating
himself near to his father, he folded his arms and
said, “Go on, I am ready now to hear—but if it is of
Marian you would speak, I will spare you that trouble,
father,” and Frederic's voice was milder in its
tone. “I have always liked Marian very much as a
sister, and if it so chances that you are taken from
us, I will be the best of brothers to her. I will care
for her and see that she does not want. Let this satisfy
you, father, for I cannot marry her. I do not
love her, for I love another; one compared to whom
Marian is as the night to the day. Let me tell you of
Isabel, father,” and Frederic's voice was still softer
in its tone.
The old man shook his head and answered mournfully,
“No, Frederic, were she as fair as the morning
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
I could not wish her to be your wife. I have never
told you before, but I once received an anonymous
letter concerning this same Isabel, saying she was
treacherous and deceitful, and would lead you on to
ruin.”
“The villain! It was Rudolph's doings,” muttered
Frederic; then in a louder tone he said, “I can explain
that, I think. When Isabel was quite young,
she was engaged conditionally to Rudolph McVicar,
a worthless fellow whom she has since discarded. He
is a jealous, malignant creature, and has sworn to be
revenged. He wrote that letter, I am sure. It is like
him.”
“It may be,” returned the father, “but I distrust
this Isabel. Her mother, as you are aware, is a distant
relative of mine. I know her well, and though I
never saw the daughter, I am sure she is selfish, ambitious,
deceitful and proud, while Marian is so
good.”
“Marian is a mere child,” interrupted Frederic.
“Almost sixteen,” rejoined the father, “and before
you marry her she will be older still.”
“Yes, yes, much older,” thought Frederic, continning
aloud, “Listen to reason, father. I certainly do
not love Marian, neither do I suppose that she loves
me. Now if you have our mutual good at heart, you
cannot desire a marriage which would surely result in
wretchedness to both.”
“I have thought of all that,” returned the father.
“A few kind words from you would win Marian's
love at once, and when once won she would be to you
a faithful, loving wife, whom you would ere long
learn to prize. You cannot treat any woman badly,
Frederic, much less Marian. I know you would be
happy with her, and should desire the marriage even
though it could not save me from dishonor in the
eyes of the world.”
“Father,” said Frederic, turning slightly pale,
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
“what do you mean? You have in your letters hinted
of a wrong done to somebody. Was it to Marian?
If so, do not seek to sacrifice my happiness, but make
amends in some other way. Will money repair the
wrong? If so, give it to her, even to half your fortune,
and leave me alone.”
He had touched a tender point, and raising himself
in bed, the old man gasped, “Yes, yes, boy—but you
have no money to give her. Redstone Hall is not
mine, not yours, but hers. Those houses in Louisville
are hers—not mine, not yours. Everything you see
around you is hers—all hers; and if you refuse her,
Frederic—hear me—if you refuse Marian Lindsey,
strict restitution must be made, and you will be a
beggar as it were. Marry her, and as her husband
you will keep it all and save me from disgrace.—
Choose, Frederic, choose.”
Mr. Raymond was terribly excited, and the great
drops of perspiration stood thickly upon his forehead,
and trickled from beneath his hoary hair.
“Is he going mad!” thought Frederic, his own
heart throbbing with a nervous fear of coming evil,
but ere he could speak his father continued, “Hear
my story, and you will know how I came by these
ill-gotten gains,” and he glanced around the richly
furnished room. “You know I was sent to England,
or I could not have gone, for I had no means with
which to meet the necessary expenses. In the streets
of Liverpool I first saw Marian's father, and I mistook
him for a beggar. Again I met him on board ship,
and making his acquaintance, found him to be a man
of no ordinary intellect. There was something about
him which pleased me, and when he became ill, I
cared for him as for a friend. The night he died we
were alone, and he confided to me his history. He
was an only child, and, orphaned at an early age, became
an inmate of one of those dens of cruelty—
those schools on the Dotheboys plan. From this
bondage he escaped at last, and then for more than
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
thirty years employed his time in making and saving
money. He was a miser in every sense of the word,
and though counting his money by thousands—yes,
by tens of thousands, he starved himself almost to
death. No one suspected his wealth—not even his
young wife, Mary Grey, whom he married three years
before I met him, and who died when Marian was
born. She, too, had been an only child and an orphan;
and as in England there was none to care for
him or his, he conceived the idea of emigrating to
America, and there lavishing his stores of gold on
Marian. She should be a lady, he said, and live in
a palace fit for a queen. But death overtook him,
and to me he entrusted his child with all his money—
some in gold, and some in bank notes. And when
he was dying, Frederic, and the perspiration was cold
on his brow, he made me lay my hand there and
swear to be faithful to my trust as guardian of his
child. For her, and for her alone, the money must
be used. But, Frederic, I broke that oath. The Raymonds
are noted for their love of gain, and when the
Englishman was buried in the sea, the tempter whispered
that the avenue to wealth, which I so long had
coveted, was open now—that no one knew or would
ever know of the miser's fortune; and I yielded. I
guarded the bag where the treasure was hidden
with more than a miser's vigilance, and I chuckled
with delight when I found it far more than he had
said.”
“Oh, my father, my father!” groaned Frederic,
covering his white face with his hands, for he knew
now that he was penniless.
“Don't curse me, boy,” hoarsely whispered the old
man; “Marian will not. She'll forgive me—for Marian
is an angel; but I must hasten. You remember
how I grew gradually rich, and people talked of my
good luck. Very cautiously I used the money at first
so as not to excite suspicion, but when I came to Kentucky,
where I was not known, I was less fearful, and
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
launched into speculations, until now they say I am
the wealthiest man in Franklin county. But it's hers—
it's Marian's—every cent of it is hers. Your education
was paid for with her money; all you have and
are you owe to Marian Lindsey, who, by every law of
the land, is the heiress of Redstone Hall.”
He paused a moment, and trembling with emotion,
Frederic said, “Is there nothing ours, father? Our
old home on the Hudson? That, surely, is not
hers?”
“You are right,” returned the father; “the old
shell was mine, but when I brought Marian home, it
was not worth a thousand dollars, and it was all I had
in the world. Her money has made it what it is. I
always intended to tell her when she was old enough
to understand, but as time went by I shrank from it,
particularly when I saw how much you prized the
luxuries which money alone can buy, and how that
money kept you in the proud position you occupy.—
But it has killed me, Frederic, before my time—and
now at the last do you wonder that I wish restitution
to be made? I would save you from poverty, and
my name from disgrace, by marrying you to Marian.
She must know the truth, of course, for in no other
way can my conscience be satisfied—but the world
would still be kept in ignorance.”
“And if I do not marry her, oh, father, must it
come—poverty, disgrace, everything?”
The young man's voice was almost heart-broken in
its tone, but the old man wavered not as he answered—
“Yes, Frederic, it must come. If you refuse, I
must deed it all to her. The lawyer, of course, must
know the cause of so strange a proceeding, and I have
no faith that he would keep the secret, even if Marian
should. I left it in writing in case you did not come,
and I gave you my dying curse if you failed of restoring
to Marian her fortune. But you are here—you
have heard my story, and it remains for you to choose.
You have never taken care of yourself—have never
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
been taught to think it necessary—and how can you
struggle with poverty. Would that Isabel join her
destiny with one who had not where to lay his head?”
“Stop, father! in mercy stop, ere you drive me
mad!” and starting to his feet Frederic paced the
floor wildly, distractedly.
A dark cloud had fallen upon him, and turn which
way he would it enveloped him in its dark folds. He
knew his father would keep his word, and he desired
that he should do so. It was right, and he shrank
from any further injustice to the orphan, Marian, with
whom he had suddenly changed places. He was the
dependent now, and hers the hand that fed him.—
Frederic Raymond was proud, and the remembrance
of his father's words, “Her money paid for your education;
all you have and are, you owe to Marian
Lindsey,” stung him to his inmost soul. Still he
could not make her his wife. It would be a greater
wrong than ever his father had done to her. And yet
if he had never seen Isabel, never mingled in the society
of beautiful and accomplished women, he might,
perhaps, have learned to love the gentle little girl,
whose presence, he knew, made the life and light of
Redstone Hall. But he could not do it now, and going
up to his father, he said hesitatingly, as if it cost
a bitter, agonized struggle to give up all his wealth,
“I cannot do it, father; neither would Marian wish
it if she knew. Send for her now,” he continued, as
a new idea flashed upon him, “tell her all, here in my
presence, and let her choose for me; but stay,” he
added, quickly, coloring crimson at the unmanly selfishness
which had prompted the sending for Marian,
a selfishness which whispered that the generous girl
would share her fortune with him; “stay, we will not
send for her. I can decide the matter alone.”
“Not now,” returned the father. “Wait until to-morrow
at nine o'clock. If you do not come to me
then, I shall send for Lawyer Gibson, and the
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
writings will be drawn. I give you until that time to
decide; and now leave me, for I would rest.”
He motioned toward the door, and glad to escape
from an atmosphere which seemed laden with grief,
Frederic went out into the open air, and Col. Raymond
was again alone. His first thought was of the
letter—the one intended for his son. He could destroy
that now—for he would not that Marian should ever
know what it contained. She might not be Frederic's
wife, but he would save her from unnecessary pain;
and exerting all his strength, he tottered to his private
drawer, and took the letter in his hand. It was growing
very dark within the room, and holding it up to
the fading light, the dim-eyed old man read, or
thought he read, “For my Son.”
“Yes, this is the one,” he whispered — “the other
reads `For Marian,”' and hastening back to his bed-room
he threw upon the fire burning in the grate, the
letter, but, alas, the wrong one—for in the drawer
still lay the fatal missive which would one day break
poor Marian's heart, and drive her forth a wanderer
from the home she loved so well.
That night Frederic did not come down to supper.
He was weary with his rapid journey, he said, and
would rather rest. So Marian, who had dried her
tears and half forgotten their cause, sat down to her
solitary tea, little dreaming of the stormy scene which
the walls of Frederic's chamber looked upon that
night. All through the dreary hours he walked the
floor, and when the morning light came struggling
through the windows, it found him pale, haggard, and
older by many years than he had been the day before.
Still he was undecided. “Love in a cottage” with
Isabel, looked fair enough in the distance, but where
could he get the “cottage?” To be sure, he was
going through the form of studying law, but he had
never looked upon the profession as a means of procuring
his livelihood, neither did he see any way by
which he could pursue his studies, unless, indeed, he
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
worked to defray the expense. He might, perhaps,
saw wood. Ben Gardiner did in college—Ben with
the threadbare coat, cowhide boots, smiling face and
best lessons in the class. Ben liked it well enough,
and so, perhaps, would he! He held his hands up to
the light; they were soft and white as a girl's. They
would blister with the first cut. He couldn't saw
wood—he couldn't do anything. And would Isabel
love him still when she knew how poor he was. It
seemed unjust to doubt her, but he did, and he
remembered sundry rumors he had heard touching
her ambitious, selfish nature. Anon, too, there crept
into his heart pleasant memories of a little, quiet girl,
who had always sought to do him good, and ministered
to his comfort in a thousand unobtrusive ways.
And this was Marian, the one his father would have
him marry; and why didn't he? when the marrying
her would insure him all the elegances of life to
which he had been accustomed, and which he prized
so highly. She was a child yet; he could mold her
to his will and make her what he pleased. She might
be handsome some time. There was certainly room
for improvement. But no, she would never be aught
save the plain, unpolished Marian, wholly unlike the
beautiful picture he had formed of Redstone Hall's
proud mistress. He could not marry her, he would
not marry her, and then he went back to the question,
“What shall I do, if I don't?”
As his father had said, the Raymonds were lovers
of wealth, and this weakness Frederic possessed to a
great degree. Indeed, it was the foundation of all his
other faults, making him selfish and sometimes overbearing.
As yet he was not worthy to be the husband
of one as gentle and good as Marian, but he was passing
through the fire, and the flames which burned so
fiercely would purify and make him better. He heard
the clock strike eight, and a moment after breakfast
was announced.
“I am not ready yet; tell Marian not to wait,” was
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
the message he gave the servant; and so another hour
passed by, and heard the clock strike nine.
His hour was up, but he could not yet decide. He
walked to the window and looked down on his home,
which never seemed so beautiful before as on that
September morning. He could stay there if he chose,
for he felt sure he could win Marian's love if he tried.
And then he wondered if his life would not be made
happier with the knowledge that he had obeyed his
father's request, and saved his name from dishonor.
There was the sound of horses' feet upon the graveled
road. It was the negro Jake, and he was going for
Lawyer Gibson.
Rapidly another hour went by, and then he heard
the sound of horses' hoofs again, but this time there
were two who rode, Jake and the lawyer. In a moment
the latter was at the door, and the sound of his
feet, as he strode through the lower hall, went to the
heart of the listening young man like bolts of ice. He
heard a servant call Marian and say that his father
wanted her; some new idea had entered the sick
man's head. He had probably decided to tell her all
before he died, but it was not too late to prevent it,
the young man thought; he could not be a beggar,
and with a face as white as ashes, and limbs which
trembled in every joint, he hurried down the stairs,
meeting in the hall both Marian and the lawyer.
“Go back,” he whispered to the former, lnying his
hand upon her shoulder; “I would see my father first
alone.”
Wonderingly Marian looked into his pale, worn
face and bloodshot eyes; then motioning the lawyer
into another room, she, too, followed him thither,
while Frederic sought his father's bedside, and bending
low whispered in the ear of the bewildered and
half-crazed man that he would marry the Heiress of
Redstone Hall!
-- --
CHAPTER III. DEATH AT REDSTONE HALL.
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
For two days after the morning of which we have
written, Colonel Raymond lay in a kind of stupor
from which he would rouse at intervals, and pressing
the hand of his son who watched beside him,
he would whisper faintly, “God bless you for making
your old father so happy. God bless you, my
darling boy.”
And Frederic, as often as he heard these words,
would lay his aching head upon the pillow and try to
force back the thoughts which continually whispered
to him that a bad promise was better broken than
kept, and that at the last he would tell Marian all,
and throw himself upon her generosity. Since the
morning when he made the fatal promise he had said
but little to her, though she had been often in the
room, ministering to his father's comfort—and once
in the evening when he looked more than usually pale
and weary, she had insisted upon taking his place, or
sharing at least in his vigils. But he had declined
her offer, and two hours later a slender little figure
had glided noiselessly into the room and placed upon
the table behind him a waiter, filled with delicacies
which her own hand had prepared, and which she
knew from experience would be needed ere the long
night was over. He did not turn his head when she
came in, but he knew whose step it was; and in his
heart he thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
compelled himself to eat what she had brought because he
knew how disappointed she would be if in the morning
she found it all untouched.
And still he was as far from loving her now as he
had ever been; and on the second night, as he sat by
his sleeping father, he resolved, come what might, he
would retract the promise made under such excitement.
“When father wakes, I'll tell him I cannot,”
he said, and anxiously he watched the clock, which
pointed at last to midnight. The twelve long strokes
rang through the silent room, and with a short, quick
gasp his father woke.
“Frederic,” he said, and in his voice there was a
tone never heard there before. “Frederic, has the
light gone out, or why is it so dark? Where are you,
my son? I cannot see.”
“Here, father—here I am,” and Frederic took in
his the shriveled hand which was cold with approaching
death.
“Frederic, it has come at last, and I am going
from you; but before I go, lay your hand upon my
brow, where the death sweat is standing, and say
again what you said two days ago. Say you will make
Marian your wife, and that until she is your wife she
shall not know what I have done, for that might influence
her decision. The letter I have left for her is
in my private drawer, but you can keep the key.—
Promise, Frederic—promise both, for I am going
very fast.”
Twice Frederic essayed to speak, but the words “I
cannot” died on his lips, and again the faint voice—
fainter than when it spoke before, said, “Promise, my
boy, and save the name of Raymond from dishonor!”
It was in vain he struggled to resist his destiny.—
The pleading tones of his dying father prevailed. Isabel
Huntington—Marian Lindsey—Redstone Hall—
everything seemed as nought compared with that
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
father's wishes, and falling on his knees the young man
said, “Heaven helping me, father, I will do both.”
“And as you have made me happy, so may you be
happy and prospered all the days of your life,” returned
the father, laying his clammy hand upon the
brown hair of his son. “Tell Marian that dying I
blessed her with more than a father's blessing, for she
is very dear to me. And the little helpless Alice—
she has money of her own, but she must still live
with you and Marian. Be kind to the servants, Frederic.
Don't part with a single one—and—and—can
you hear me, boy? Keep your promise as you hope
for heaven hereafter.”
They were the last words the old man ever spoke—
and when at last Frederic raised his head he knew
by the white face lying motionless upon the pillow,
that he was with the dead. The household was
aroused, and crowding round the door the negroes
came, their noisy outcries grating harshly on the ear
of the young man, who felt unequal to the task of
stopping them. But when Marian came, a few low
spoken words from her quieted the tumult, and those
whose services were not needed dispersed to the kitchen,
where, forgetful of their recent demonstrations of
grief, they speculated upon the probable result of
their “old marster's death,” and wondered if with
the new one they should lead as easy a life as they
had done heretofore.
The next morning the news spread rapidly, not
only that Colonel Raymond was dead, but also that
he had died without a will—this last piece of information
being given by Lawyer Gibson, who, a little
disappointed in the result of his late visit to Redstone
Hall, had several times in public expressed his opinion
that it was all the work of Frederic, who wanted
everything himself, and feared his father would leave
something to Marian Lindsey. This seemed very probable;
and in the same breath with which they deplored
the loss of Colonel Raymond, the neighbors
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
denounced his son as selfish and avaricious. Still he
was now the richest man in the county, and it would
not be politic to treat him with disrespect—so they
came about him with words of sympathy and offers
of assistance, all of which he listened to abstractedly,
and when they asked for some directions as to
the arrangements for the burial, he answered, “I do
not know—I am not myself to-day—but go to Marian.
I will abide by her decision.”
So to Marian they went; and hushing her own
great grief—for she mourned for the departed as for
a well loved father—Marian told them what she
thought her guardian would wish that they should do.
It is not customary in Kentucky to keep the dead as
long as at the North, and ere the sun of the first day
was low in the west a grave was made within an enclosure
near the river side, where the cedar and the
fir were growing, and when the sun was setting, a
long procession wound slowly down the terraced walk,
bearing with them one who when they returned came
not with them, but was resting quietly where the
light from the windows of his former home could fall
upon his peaceful grave.
-- --
CHAPTER IV. KEEPING THE PROMISE.
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
Four weeks had passed away since Colonel Raymond
was laid to rest. The negroes, having finished
their mourning at the grave and at church on the
Sabbath succeeding the funeral, had gone back to
their old light-hearted way of living, and outwardly
there were no particular signs of grief at Redstone
Hall. But two there were who suffered keenly, and
suffered all the more that neither could speak to the
other a word of sympathy. With Alice Marian
wept bitterly, feeling that she was indeed homeless
and friendless in the wide world. From Dinah she
had heard the story of the Will, and remembering
the events of that morning when Lawyer Gibson, as
she supposed, had come to draw it, she thought it
very probable. Still this did not trouble her one half
so much as the studied reserve which Frederic manifested
toward her. At the funeral he had offered her his
arm, walking with her to the grave and back; but
since that night he had kept aloof, seeing her only at
the table, or when he wished to ask some question
which she alone could answer.
In the first days of her sorrow she had forgotten the
letter which her guardian had left for her, and when
she did remember it and go to the private drawer
where he said it was, she found the drawer locked.—
Frederic had the key, of course, and thinking that
if a wrong had indeed been done to her, he knew it,
too, she waited in hopes that he would speak of it,
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
and perhaps bring her the letter. But Frederic Raymond
had sworn to keep that letter from her yet
awhile, and he dared not break his vow. On the
night after the burial he, too, had gone to the private
drawer, and, taking the undirected missive in
his hand, had felt strongly tempted to break its seal
and read. But he had no right to do that, he said;
all that was required of him was to keep it from Marian
until such time as he was at liberty to let her
read it. So, with a benumbed sensation at his
heart, he locked the drawer and left the room, feeling
that his own destiny was fixed, and that it was worse
than useless to struggle against it. He could not
write to Isabel yet, but he wrote to her mother, telling
her of his father's death, and saying he did not
know how long it would be ere they saw him again at
New Haven. This done, he sat down in a kind of torpor,
and waited for circumstances to shape themselves.—
Marian would seek for her letter, he thought, and
missing the key, would come to him, and then—oh,
how he hoped it would be weeks and months before
she came, for when she did he knew he must tell her
why it was withheld.
Meantime, Marian waited day after day vainly
wishing that he would speak to her upon the subject;
but he did not, and at last, four weeks after
her guardian's death, she sought the library again,
but found the drawer locked as usual.
“It is unjust to treat me so,” she said. “The letter
is mine, and I have a right to read it.”
Then, as she recalled the conversation which had
passed between herself and Colonel Raymond on that
night when he first hinted of a wrong, she wondered
if he had said aught to Frederic of her. Most earnestly
she hoped not—and yet she was almost certain
that he had, and this was why Frederic treated her so
strangely. “He hates me,” she said bitterly, “because
he thinks I want him—but he needn't, for I
wouldn't have him now, even if he knelt at my feet,
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
and begged of me to be his wife; I'll tell him so, too,
the first chance I get,” and sinking into the large arm
chair Marian laid her head upon the writing desk and
wept.
The day had been rainy and dark, and as she sat
there in the gathering night and listened to the low
moan of the October wind, she thought with gloomy
forebodings of the future, and what it would bring to
her.
“Oh, it is dreadful to be so homeless—so friendless,
so poor,” she cried, and in that cry there was a
note of desolation which touched a chord of pity in
the heart of him who stood on the threshold of the
door, silently watching the young girl as she battled
with her stormy grief.
He did not know why he had come to that room,
and he surely would not have come had he expected
to find her there. But it could not now be helped;
he was there with her; he had witnessed her sorrow,
and involuntarily advancing toward her he laid his
hand lightly upon her shoulder and said, “Poor child,
don't cry so hard.”
She seemed to him a little girl, and as such he had
addressed her; but to the startled Marian it mattered
not what he said—there was kindness in his voice, and
lifting up her face, which even in the darkness looked
white and worn, she sobbed, “Oh, Frederic, you
don't hate me, then?”
“Hate you, Marian,” he answered, “of course not.
What put that idea into your head?”
“Because—because you act so cold and strange,
and don't come near me when my heart is aching so
hard for him—your father.”
Frederic made no reply, and resolving to make a
clean breast of it, Marian continned, “There's nobody
to care for me now, and I wish you to be my brother,
just as you used to be, and if your father said any
thing else of me to you he didn't mean it, I am sure;
I don't at any rate, and I want you to forget it and not
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
hate me for it. I'll go away from Redstone Hall if
you say so, but you mustn't hate me for what I could
not help. Will you, Frederic?” and Marian's voice
was again choked with tears.
She had stumbled upon the very subject uppermost
in Frederic's mind, and drawing a chair near to her,
he said, “I will not profess to be ignorant of what you
mean, Marian. My father had some strange fancies at
the last, but for these you are not to blame. Did he
say nothing to you of a letter?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Marian quickly, “and I've
been for it so many times. Will you give it to me now,
Frederic? It's mine, you know,” and Marian looked
at him wistfully.
Frederic hesitated a moment, and misapprehending
the motive of his hesitancy, Marian continued,
“Do not fear what I may think. He said a wrong
had been done to me, but if it has not affected me
heretofore, it surely will not now—and I loved him
well enough to forgive anything. Let me have the
letter, won't you?”
“Marian,” and Frederic trembled with strong emotion,
“the night my father died, I laid my hand upon
his head and promised that you should not see that
letter until you were a bride.”
“A bride!” Marian exclaimed passionately, “I
shall never be a bride—never—certainly not yours!”
and the little hands worked nervously together, while
she continued. “I asked you to forget that whim of
your father's. He did not mean it—he would not
have it so, and neither would I,” and Frederic Raymond
could almost see the angry flash of the blue eyes
turned so defiantly toward him.
Man-like he began to feel some interest now that
there was opposition, and to her exclamation “neither
would I,” he replied softly, “Not if I wish it,
Marian?”
The tone rather than the words affected the young
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
girl, thrilling her with a new-born delight; and laying
her hand again upon the desk, she sobbed
afresh, not impetuously, this time, but steadily, as if
the crying did her good. Greatly she longed for him
to speak again, but he did not. He was waiting for
her, and drying her tears, she lifted up her face, and
in a voice which seemed to demand the truth, she
said: “Frederic, do you wish it? Here, almost in the
room where your father died, can you say to me truly
that you wish me to be your wife?”
It was a perplexing question, and Frederic Raymond
felt that he was dealing falsely with her, but
he made to her the only answer he could—“Men seldom
ask a woman to marry them unless they wish it.”
“I know,” returned Marian, “but—do—would you
have thought of it if your father had not first suggested
it?”
“Marian,” said Frederic, “I am much older than
yourself, and I might never have thought of marrying
you. He, however, gave me good reasons why I
should wish to have it so—in all sincerity I ask you
to be my wife. Will you, Marian? It seems soon
to talk of these things, but he so desired it.”
In her bewilderment Marian fancied he had said,
“I do wish to have it so,” but she would know another
thing, and not daring to put the question to him
direct, she said, “Do men ever wish to marry one
whom they do not love?”
Frederic understood her at once, and for a moment
felt strongly tempted to tell her the truth, for in that
case he was sure she would refuse to listen to his suit
and he would then be free, but his father's presence
seemed over and around him, while Redstone Hall
was too fair to be exchanged for poverty; and so
he answered, “I have always loved you as a
sister, and in time I will love you as you deserve. I
will be kind to you, Marian, and I think I can make
you happy”
He spoke with earnestness, for he knew he was
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
deceiving the young girl, and in his inmost soul he determined
to repair the wrong by learning to love her,
as she said:
“And suppose I refuse you, what then?”
Marian spoke decidedly, and something in her manner
startled Frederic, who now that he had gone thus
far, did not care to be thwarted.
“You will not refuse me, I am sure,” he said.—
“We cannot live together here just as we have done,
for people would talk.”
“I can go away,” said Marian, mournfully, while
Frederic replied,
“No, Marian, if you will not be my wife, I must
go away; Redstone Hall cannot be the home of us
both, and if you refuse I shall go—soon, very soon.”
“Won't you ever come back?” asked Marian, with
childish simplicity; but ere Frederic could answer,
the door suddenly opened and old Dinah appeared,
exclaiming as her eye fell upon them, “For the dear
Lord's sake, if you two ain't settin' together in the
dark, when I've done hunted everywhar for you,” and
Dinah's face wore a very knowing look, as setting
down the candle she departed, muttering something
about “when me and Philip was young.”
The spell was broken for Marian, and starting up,
she said, “I cannot talk any more to-night. I'll answer
you some other time,” and she hurried into the
hall, where she stumbled upon Dinah, who greeted
her with “Ain't you two kinder hankerin' arter each
other, 'case if you be, it's the sensiblest thing you ever
done. Marster Frederic is the likeliest, trimmest
chap in Kentuck, and you've got an uncommon heap
of sense.”
Marian made no reply but darted up the stairs to
her room, where she could be alone to think. It
seemed to her a dream, and yet she knew it was a
reality. Frederic had asked her to be his wife, and
though she had said to herself that she would not marry
him even if he knelt at her feet, she felt vastly like
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
revoking that decision! If she were only sure he
loved her, or would love her; and then she recalled
every word he had said, wishing she could have
looked into his face and seen what its expression was.
She did not think of the letter in her excitement.—
She only thought of Frederic's question, and she
longed for some one in whom she could confide.
Alice, who always retired early, was already asleep,
and as her soft breathing fell on Marian's ear, she
said, “Alice is much wiser than children usually are
at six and a half. I mean to tell her,” and, stealing
to the bedside, she whispered, “Alice, Alice, wake up
a moment, will you?”
Alice turned on her pillow, and when sure she was
awake, Marian said impetuously, “If you were me,
would you marry Frederic Raymond?”
The blind eyes opened wide, as if they doubted the
sanity of the speaker; then quietly replying, “No,
indeed, I wouldn't,” Alice turned a second time upon
her pillow and slept again, while Marian, a good deal
piqued at the answer, tormented herself with wondering
what the child could mean, and why she disliked
Frederic so much. The next morning it was
Alice who awoke Marian and said, “Was it a
dream, or did you say something to me last night
about marrying Frederic?”
For a moment Marian forgot that the sightless eyes
turned so inquiringly toward her could not see, and
she covered her face with her hands to hide the
blushes she knew were burning there.
“Say,” persisted Alice, “what was it?” and half
willingly, half reluctantly, Marian told of the strange
request which Frederic had made, saying nothing,
however, of the letter, for if Colonel Raymond had
done her a wrong, she felt it a duty she owed his
memory to keep it to herself.
The darkened world in which Alice lived, had matured
her other faculties far beyond her age, and
though not yet seven years old, she was in many
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
things scarcely less a child than Marian, whose story
puzzled her, for she could hardly understand how one
who had seemed so much her companion could think
of being a married woman. Marian soon convinced
her, however, that there was a vast difference between
almost seven and almost sixteen, and still she
was not reconciled.
“Frederic is well enough,” she said, “and I once
heard Agnes Gibson say he was the best match in the
county, but somehow he don't seem to like you.
Ain't he stuck up, and don't he know a heap more
than you?”
“Yes, but I can learn,” answered Marian, sadly,
thinking with regret of the many hours she had played
in the woods when she might have been practising
upon the piano, or reading the books which Frederic
liked best. “I can in time make a lady perhaps—
and then you know if I don't have him, one of us
must go away, for he said so.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Alice, catching her breath and
drawing nearer to Marian, “wouldn't it be nice for
you and me to live here all alone with Dinah, and do
just as we're a mind to. Tell him you won't, and let
him go back where he came from.”
“No,” returned Marian, “if either goes away, it
will be me, for I've no right here, and Frederic has.”
“You go away,” repeated Alice. “What could
you do without Dinah?”
“I don't know,” returned Marian mournfully, a
dim foreboding as it were of her dark future rising
up before her. “I can't sew—I don't know enough
to teach, and I couldn't do anything but die!”
This settled the point with Alice. She would rather
Marian should marry Frederic than go away and
die, and so she said, “I'd have him, I reckon,” adding
quickly, “You'll carry the keys, then, won't you,
and give me all the preserves and cake I want?”
Thus was the affair amicably adjusted between the
two, and when at the breakfast table she met with
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
Frederic, she was ready to answer his question; but
she chose to let him broach the subject, and this he
did do that evening when he found her alone in his
father's room. He had decided that it was useless to
struggle with his fate, and he resolved to make the
best of it. How far Redstone Hall, bank notes, stock
and real estate influenced this decision we cannot say,
but he was sincere in his intention of treating Marian
well, and when he found her by accident in his father's
room, he said to her kindly, “Can you answer me
now?”
Marian was not yet enough accustomed to the world
to conceal whatever she felt, and with the light of a
new happiness shining on her childish face, she went
up to him, and laying her hand confidingly upon
his, she said, “I will marry you, Frederic, if you wish
me to.”
A strange enigma is human nature. When the
previous night she had hesitated to answer, Frederic
was conscious of a vague fear that she might say no—
and now that she had said yes, he felt less pleasure
than pain, for the die he knew was cast. A more observing
eye than Marian's would have seen the dark
shadow which flitted over his face, and the sudden
paling of his lips, but she did not; she only saw how
he shook off her hand without even so much as touching
it, and all the novels she had ever read would
surely have sanctioned so modest a proceeding as
that! But novels, she reflected, were not true, and
as she was an actor in real life, she must accept
whatever that life might bring. Still she was not
quite satisfied, and when Frederic, fancying he should
feel better if the matter were well over, said to her,
“There is no reason why we should delay—my father
would wish the marriage to take place immediately,
and I will speak to Dinah at once,” she felt that with
him it was a mere form, and bursting into tears she
said passionately, “You are not obliged to marry me.
I certainly did not ask you to.”
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
For a moment Frederic stood irresolute, and then he
replied, “Don't be foolish, Marian, but take a common
sense view of the matter. I am not accustomed
to love-making, and the character would not suit me
now when my heart is so full of sorrow for my father.
Many a one would gladly take your place, but”—here
he paused, uncertain how to proceed and still keep
truth upon his side—then, as a bright thought struck
him, he added, “but I prefer you to all the girls in
Kentucky. Be satisfied with this, and wait patiently
for the time when I can show you that I love you.”
His manner both frightened and fascinated Marian,
and she answered through her tears, “I will be satisfied,
and wait.”
Frederic knew well that Marian was too much of
a child to manage the affair, and after his interview
with her, he sought out Dinah, to whom he announced
his intentions.
“There is no need of delay,” he said, “and two
weeks from to-day is the time appointed. There will
be no show—no parade—simply a quiet wedding in
the presence of a few friends, who will dine with
us, of course. The dinner, you must see to, and I
will attend to the rest.”
Amid ejaculations of surprise and delight, old Dinah
heard what he had to say—and then, boiling over
with the news, hastened to the kitchen, where she
was soon surrounded by an astonished and listening
audience, the various members of which were affected
differently, just according to their different ideas
of what “marster Frederic's” wife ought to be.
Among the negroes at Redstone Hall were two distinct
parties, one of which having belonged to Mr.
Higgins, the former owner of the place, looked rather
contemptuously upon the other clique, who had been
purchased of Mr. Smithers, a neighboring planter,
and were not supposed to have as high blood in their
veins as was claimed by their darker rivals. Hence
between the democratic Smitherses and the aristocratic
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
Higginses was waged many a fierce battle, which was
usually decided by old Dinah, who, having belonged
to another family still, “thanked the Lord that she
was neither a Higginses nor a Smitherses, but was
a peg or so above such low-lived truck as them.”
On this occasion the announcement of Master Frederic's
expected marriage was received by the Smitherses
with loud shouts of joy and hurrahs for Miss
Marian. The Higginses, on the contrary, though
friendly to Marian, declared she was not high bred
enough to keep up the glory of the house, and Aunt
Hetty, who led the clan and was a kind of rival to
old Dinah, launched forth into a wonderful stream
of eloquence.
“Miss Marian would do in her place,” she said, “but
'twas a burnin' shame to set such an onery thing over
them as had been oncet used to the quality. 'Twas
different with the Smitherses, whose old Miss was
bed rid with a spine in her back, and hadn't but one
store carpet in the house. But the Higginses, she'd
let 'em know, had been 'customed to sunthin' better.
Oh,” said she, “you or'to seen Miss Beatrice the fust
day Marster brought her home. She looked jest like
a queen, with that great long switchin' tail to her
dress, a wipin' up the walk so clean that I, who was a
gal then, didn't have to sweep it for mor'n a week—
and them ars she put on when she curchied inter the
room and walkin' backards sot down on the rim of the
cheer—so”—and holding out her short linsey-woolsey
to its widest extent, the old negress proceeded to illustrate.
But alas for Aunt Hetty—her intention was anticipated
by stuttering Josh, the most mischievous spirit
of all the Smithers clan. Quick as thought the active
boy removed the chair where she expected to land,
pushing into its place an overflowing slop-pail, and
into this the discomfited old lady plunged amid the
execrations of her partisans and the jeers of her opponents.
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
“You Josh—you villain—the Lord spar me long
enough to break yer sassy neck!” she screamed, as
with difficulty she extricated herself from her position
and wrung her dripping garments.
“Sarved you right,” said Dinah, shaking her fat
sides with delight. “Sarved you right, and the fust
one that raises thar voice agin Miss Marian 'll catch
sunthin' a heap wus than dirty dishwater.”
But Dinah's threat was unnecessary, for with Hetty's
downfall the star of the Higginses set, leaving
that of the Smitherses still in the ascendant!
Meantime Marian was confiding to Alice the story
of her engagement, and wondering if Frederic intended
taking a bridal tour. She hoped he did, for she so
much wished to see a little of the world, particularly
New York, of which she had heard such glowing
accounts. But nothing could be less in accordance
with Frederic's feelings than a bridal tour—and when
once Marian ventured to broach the subject, he said
that under the circumstances it would hardly be right
to go off and enjoy themselves, so they had better
stay quietly at home. And this settled the point, for
Marian never thought of questioning his decision. If
they made no journey, she would not need any additions
to her wardrobe, and she was thus saved from
the trouble which usually falls to the lot of brides.—
Still it was not at all in accordance with her ideas—
this marrying without a single article of finery, and
once she resolved to indulge in a new dress at least.
She had ample means of her own, for her guardian had
been lavish of his money, always giving her far more
than she could use, and during the last year she had
been saving a fund for the purpose of surprising Alice
and the blacks with handsome Christmas presents.—
The former was to have a little gold watch, which she
had long desired, because she liked to hear it tick—
but the watch and the dress could not both be bought,
and when she considered this, Marian generously gave
up the latter for the sake of pleasing the blind girl.
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
Among her dresses was a neat, white muslin, given
her by Colonel Raymond only the Summer previous,
and this she decided should be the wedding robe, for
black was gloomy, she said, and would almost seem
ominous of evil.
And so the childish bride elect made her simple arrangements,
unassisted by any one save Dinah and
the little Alice, the latter of whom was really of the
most service, for old Dinah spent the greater portion
of her time in grumbling because “Marster Frederic
didn't act more lover-like to his wife that was to be.”
Marian, too, felt this keenly, but she would not
admit it, and she said to Dinah, “You can't expect
him to be like himself when he's mourning for his father.”
“Mournin' for his father,” returned Dinah,—“and
what if he is? Can't a fellow kiss a gal and mourn a
plenty too? Taint no way to do to mope from mornin'
till night like you was gwine to the gallus. Me
and Phil didn't act that way when he was settin' to
me—but I 'spect they've done got some new fangled
way of courtin' jest as they hev for everything else—
but I'm satisfied with the old fashion, and I wish
them fetch—ed Yankees would mind their own business
and let well 'nough alone.”
Dinah felt considerably relieved after this long
speech, particularly as she had that very morning
made it in substance to Frederic—and when that evening
she saw the young couple seated upon the same
sofa, and tolerably near to each other, she was sure
she had done some good by “ginnen 'em a piece of
her mind.”
Among the neighbors there was a great deal of
talk, and occasionally a few of them called at Redstone
Hall, but these only came to go away again, and
comment on Frederic's strange taste in marrying one
so young, and so wholly unlike himself. It could
not be, they said, that he had really cared about the
Will, else why had he so soon taken Marian to share
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
his fortune with him? But Frederic kept his own
counsel, and once when questioned on the subject of
his marriage and asked if it were not a sudden thing,
he answered haughtily, “Of course not—it was decided
years ago, when Marian first came to live with
us.”
And so amid the speculations of friends, the gossip
of Dinah, the joyous anticipations of Marian, and the
harrowing doubts of Frederic, the two weeks passed
away, bringing at last the eventful day when Redstone
Hall was to have once more a mistress.
-- 052 --
CHAPTER V. THE BRIDAL DAY.
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
“It was the veriest farce in all the world, the marriage
of Frederic Raymond with a child of fifteen;”
at least so said Agnes Gibson of twenty-five,
and so said sundry other guests who at the appointed
hour assembled in the parlor of Redstone Hall, to
witness the sacrifice—not of Frederic as they vainly
imagined, but of the unsuspecting Marian.
He knew what he did, and why he did it, while she,
blindfolded as it were, was about to leap into the uncertain
future. No such gloomy thoughts as these,
however, intruded themselves upon her mind as she
stood before her mirror and with trembling fingers
made her simple bridal toilet. When first the idea of
marrying Frederic was suggested to her nearly as
much pride as love had mingled in her thoughts, for
Marian was not without her ambition, and the honor
of being the mistress of Redstone Hall had influenced
her decision. But during the two weeks since her
engagement, her heart had gone out toward him with
a deep absorbing love, and had he now been the
poorest man in all the world and she a royal princess,
she would have spurned the wealth that kept her
from him, or gladly have laid it at his feet for the
sake of staying with him and knowing that he wished
it. And this was the girl whom Frederic Raymond
was about to wrong by making her his wife when he
knew he did not love her. But she should never
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
know it, he said—should never suspect that nothing
but his hand and name went with the words he was so
soon to utter, and he determined to be true to her and
faithful to his marriage vow.
Some doubt he had as to the effect his father's letter
might have upon her, and once he resolved that
she should never see it; but this was an idle thought,
not to be harbored for a moment. He had told her
when she asked him for it the last time that she
should have it on her bridal day; for so his father
willed it, and he would keep his word. He had written
to Isabel at the very last, for though he was not
bound to her by a promise he knew an explanation of
his conduct was due to her, and he forced himself to
write it. Not a word did he say against Marian, but
he gave her to understand that but for his father the
match would never have been made—that circumstances
over which he had no control compelled him
to do what he was doing. He should never forget
the pleasant hours spent in her society, he said, and
he closed by asking her to visit the future Mrs. Raymond
at Redstone Hall. It cost him a bitter struggle
to write thus indifferently to one he loved so well, but
it was right, he said, and when the letter was finished
he felt that the last tie which bound him to Isabel was
sundered, and there was nothing for him now but to
make the best of Marian. So when on their bridal
morning she came to him and asked his wishes concerning
her dress, he answered her very kindly, “As
you are in mourning you had better make no change,
besides I think black very becoming to your fair
complexion.”
This was the first compliment he had ever paid her,
and her heart thrilled with delight, but when, as she
was leaving the room he called her back and said,
still gently, kindly, “Would you as soon wear your
hair plain? I do not quite fancy ringlets,” her eyes
filled with tears, for she remembered the corkscrew
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
curls, and glancing in the mirror at her wavy hair,
she wished it were possible to remedy the defect.
“I will do the best I can,” she said, and returning
to her room, she commenced her operations, but it
was a long, tedious process, the combing out of those
curls, for her hair was tenacious of its rights, and even
when she thought it subdued and let go of the end, it
rolled up about her forehead in tight round rings, as if
spurning alike both water and brush.
“I'd like to see the man what could make me yank
out my wool like that,” muttered Dinah, who was
watching the straightening process with a lowering
brow, inasmuch as it reflected dishonor upon her own
crisped locks. “If the Lord made yer har to curl,
war it so, and not mind every freak of his'n. Fust
you know, he'll be a-wantin' you to war yer face on
t'other side of yer head, but 'taint no way to do. You
must begin as you can hold out. In a few hours
you'll have as much right here as he has, and I'd show
it, too, by pitchin' inter us niggers and jawin' to kill.
I shall know you don't mean nothin' and shan't keer.
Come to think on't, though, I reckon you'd better let
me and the Smitherses be and begin with them Higginses.
I'd give it to old Hetty good—she 'sarves to
be took down a button hole lower, if ever a nigger
did, for she said a heap o' stuff about you.”
Marian smiled a kind of quiet happy smile and
went on with her task, which was finished at last, and
her luxuriant hair was bound at the back of her head
in a large flat knot. The effect was not becoming and
she knew it, but if Frederic liked it she was satisfied,
even if Dinah did demur, telling her she looked like
“a cat whose ears had been boxed.” Frederic did
not like it, but after the pains she had taken he would
not tell her so, and when she said to him, “I am
ready,” he offered her his arm and went silently down
the stairs to the parlor, where guests and clergymen
were waiting.
The day was bright and beautiful, for the light of
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
the glorious Indian Summer sun was resting on the
Kentucky hills, and through the open window the
murmuring ripple of the Elkhorn came, while the
balmy breath of the south wind swept over the white
face of the bride, and lifted from her neck the few
stray locks which, escaping from their confinement,
curled naturally in their accustomed place. But to
the assembled guests there seemed in all a note of
sadness, a warning voice which said the time for this
bridal was not yet; and years after, when the beautiful
mistress of Redstone Hall rode by in her handsome
carriage, Agnes Gibson told to her little sister
how on that November day the cheeks of both bride
and bridegroom paled as if with mortal fear when the
words were spoken which made them one.
Whether it were the newness of her position, or a
presentiment of coming evil Marian could not tell, but
into her heart there crept a chill as she glanced timidly
at the man who stood so silently beside her, and
thought, “He is my husband.” It was, indeed, a
sombre wedding—“more like a funeral,” the guests
declared, as immediately after dinner they took their
leave and commented upon the affair as people always
will. Oh, how Frederic longed yet dreaded to
have them go. He could not endure their congratulations,
which to him were meaningless, and he had
no wish to be alone. He was recovering from his
apathy, and could yesterday have been his again, he
believed he would have broken his promise. But
yesterday had gone and to-morrow had come—it was
to-day, now, with him, and Marian was his wife.
Turn which way he would, the reality was the same,
and with an intense loathing of himself and a deep pity
for her, he feigned some trivial excuse and went away
to his room, where, with the gathering darkness and
his own wretched thoughts, he would be alone.
With strange unrest Marian wandered from room to
room, wondering if Frederic had so soon grown
weary of her presence, and sometimes half wishing
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
that she were Marian Lindsey again, and that the
new name by which they called her belonged to some
one else. At last, when it was really dark—when the
lamps were lighted in the parlor and Alice had wept
a bitter, passionate good-night in her arms and gone
to sleep, she bethought her of the letter. She could
read it now. She had complied with all the stipulations,
and there was no longer a reason why it should
be withheld. She went to Frederic's door; but he
was not there, and a servant passing in the hall said
he had returned to the parlor while she was busy with
Alice. So to the parlor Marian went, finding him
sitting unemployed and wrapped in gloomy thought.
He heard her step upon the carpet, but standing in
the shadow as she did, she could not see the look of
pain which flitted over his face at her approach.
“Frederic,” she said, “I may read the letter now—
will you give me the key?”
Mechanically he did as she desired, and then with a
slightly uneasy feeling as to the effect the letter might
have upon her, he went back to his reflections, while
she started to leave the room. When she reached the
door she paused a moment and looked back. In giving
her the key he had changed his position, and she
could see the suffering expression of his white face.
Quickly returning to his side, she said anxiously, “Are
you sick?”
“Nothing but a headache. You know I am accustomed
to that,” he replied.
Marian hesitated a moment—then parting the damp
brown hair from off his forehead she kissed him timidly
and left the room. Involuntarily Frederic raised
his hand to wipe the spot away, but something stayed
the act and whispered to him that a wife's first kiss
was a holy thing and could never be repeated!
Through the hall the nimble feet of Marian sped until
she stood within her late guardian's room, and
there she stopped, for the atmosphere seemed oppressive
and laden with terror.
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
“'Tis because it's so dark,” she said, and going out
into the hall, she took a lamp from the table and then
returned.
But the olden feeling was with her still—a feeling
as if she were treading some fearful gulf, and she was
half tempted to turn back even now, and ask Frederic
to come with her while she read the letter.
“I will not be so foolish, though,” she said, and
opening the library door she walked boldly in; but
the same Marian who entered there never came out
again!
-- --
CHAPTER VI. READING THE LETTER.
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
Oh, how still it was in that room, and the click of
the key as it turned the slender bolt echoed through
the silent apartment, causing Marian to start as if a
living presence had been near. The drawer was
opened, and she held the letter in her hand, while
unseen voices seemed whispering to her, “Oh, Marian,
Marian—leave the letter still untouched. Do not
seek to know the secret it contains, but go back to the
man who is your husband, and by those gentle acts
which seldom fail in their effect, win his love. It will
be far more precious to you than all the wealth of
which you are the unsuspecting heiress.”
But Marian did not understand—nor know why it
was she trembled so. She only knew she had the
letter in her hand—her letter—the one left by her
guardian. It bore no superscription, but it was for
her, of course, and fixing herself in a comfortable position,
she broke the seal and read:
“My Dear Child:”
There was nothing in those three words suggestive
of a mistake—and Marian read on till, with a quick,
nervous start, she glanced forward, then backward—
and then read on and on, until at last not even the fear
of death itself could have stopped her from that reading.
That letter was never intended for her eye—she
knew that now, but had the cold hand of her guardian
been interposed to wrest it from her, she would have
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
held it fast until she learned the whole. Like coals
of living fire, the words burned into her soul, scorching,
blistering as they burned—and when the letter
was finished she fell upon her face with a cry so full
of agony and horror that Frederic in the parlor heard
the wail of human anguish, and started to his feet,
wondering whence it came.
With the setting of the sun the November wind had
risen, and as the young man listened it swept moaning
past the window, seeming not unlike the sound he
had first heard. “It was the wind,” he said, and he
resumed his seat, while, in that little room, not very
far away, poor Marian came back to consciousness,
and crouching on the floor, prayed that she might die.
She understood it now—how she had been deceived,
betrayed, and cruelly wronged. She knew, too, that
she was the heiress of untold wealth, and for a single
moment her heart beat with a gratified pride, but the
surprise was too great to be realized at once, and the
feeling was soon absorbed in the reason why Frederic
Raymond had made her his wife. It was not herself
he had married, but her fortune—her money—Redstone
Hall. She was merely a necessary incumbrance,
which he would rather should have been omitted in
the bargain. The thought was maddening, and,
stretching out her arms, she asked again that she
might die.
“Oh, why didn't he come to me?” she cried, “and
tell me? I would gladly have given him half my
fortune—yes, all—all—rather than be the wretched
thing I am, and he would have been free to love and
marry this—”
She could not at first speak the name of her rival—
but she said it at last, and the sound of it wrung her
heart with a new and torturing pain. She had never
heard of Isabel Huntington before, and as she thought
how beautiful and grand she was, she whispered to
herself, “Why didn't he go back to her, and leave me,
the red-headed fright, alone? Yes, that was what he
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
wrote to his father. Let me look at it again,” and the
tone of her voice was bitter and the expression of her
face hard and stony, as taking up the letter she read
for the second time that “she was uncouth, uneducated
and ugly,” and if his father did not give up that
foolish fancy, Frederic would positively “hate the red
headed fright.” Her guardian had not given up the
foolish fancy, consequently there was but one inference
to be drawn.
In her excitement she did not consider that Frederic
had probably written of her harsher things than he
really meant. She only thought, “He loathes me—
he despises me—he wishes I was dead—and I dared
to kiss him too,” she added. “How he hated me for
that, but 'twas the first, and it shall be the last, for I
will go away forever and leave him Redstone Hall,
the bride he married a few hours ago,” and laying her
face upon the chair Marian thought long and earnestly
of the future. She had come into that room a happy,
simple-hearted, confiding child, but she had lived
years since, and she sat there now a crushed but self-reliant
woman, ready to go out and contend with the
world alone. Gradually her thoughts and purposes
took a definite form. She was ignorant of the knotty
points of law, and she did not know but Frederic could
get her a divorce, but from this publicity she shrank.
She could not be pointed at as a discarded wife. She
would rather go away where Frederic would never
see nor hear of her again, and she fancied that by so
doing he would after a time at least be free to marry
Isabel. She had not wept before, for her tears seemed
scorched with pain, but at the thought of another coming
there to take the place she had hoped to fill,
they rained in torrents over her white face, and clasping
her little hands convulsively together, she cried—
“How can I give him up when I love him so much—
so much?”
Gradually there stole over her the noble, unselfish
thought, that because she loved him so much, she
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
would willingly sacrifice herself and all she had for the
sake of making him happy—and then she grew calm
again and began to decide where she would go. Instinctively
her mind turned toward New York city as
the great hiding place from the world. Mrs. Burt,
the woman who had lived with them in Yonkers, and
who had always been so kind to her, was in New York
she knew, for she had written to Colonel Raymond not
long before his death, asking if there was anything in
Kentucky for her son Ben to do. This letter her
guardian had answered and then destroyed with many
others, which he said were of no consequence, and only
lumbered up his drawer. Consequently there was
no possibility that this letter would suggest Mrs. Burt
to Frederic, who had never seen her, she having come
and gone while he was away at school, and thus far
the project was a safe one. But her name—she might
some time be recognized by that, and remembering
that her mother's maiden name was Mary Grey, and
that Frederic, even if he had ever known it, which
was doubtful, had probably forgotten it, she resolved
upon being henceforth Marian Grey, and she repeated
it aloud, feeling the while that the change was well—
for she was no longer the same girl she used to know
as Marian Lindsey. Once she said softly to herself,
“Marian Raymond,” but the sound grated harshly, for
she felt that she had no right to bear that name.
This settled, she turned her thoughts upon the means
by which New York was to be reached, and she was
glad that she had not bought the dress, for now
she had ample funds with which to meet the expense,
and she would go that very night, before her resolution
failed her. Redstone Hall was only two miles
from the station, and as the evening train passed at
half-past nine, there would be time to reach it, and
write a farewell letter, too, to Frederic, for she must
tell him how, though it broke her heart to do it, she
willingly gave him everything, and hoped he would
be happy when she was gone forever. Marian was
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
beautiful then in her desolation, and so Frederic Raymond
would have said, could he have seen her with
the light of her noble sacrifice of self shining in her
eyes, and the new-born, womanly expression on her
face. The first fearful burst was over, and calmly she
sat down to her task—but the storm rose high again
as she essayed to write that good-by, which would
seem to him who read it a cry of despair wrung from
a fainting heart.
“Frederic—dear Frederic,” she began, “can I—
may I say my husband once—just once—and I'll never
insult you with that name again?
“I am going away forever, Frederic, and when
you are reading this I shall not be at Redstone Hall,
nor anywhere around it. Do not try to find me. It
is better you should not. Your father's letter, which
was intended for you, and by mistake has come to me,
will tell you why I go. I forgive your father, Frederic—
fully, freely forgive him—but you—oh, Frederic,
if I loved you less I should blame you for deceiving
me so cruelly. If you had told me all I would gladly
have shared my fortune with you. I would have
given you more than half, and when you brought that
beautiful Isabel home I would have loved her as a
sister.
“Why didn't you, Frederic? What made you
treat me so? What made you break my heart when
you could have helped it? It aches so hard now as I
write, and the hardest pain of all is the loss of faith
in you. I thought you so noble, so good, and I may
confess to you here on paper, I loved you so much—
how much you will never know, for I shall never
come back to tell you.
“And I kissed you, too. Forgive me for that,
Frederic. I didn't know then how you hated me.—
Wash the stain from your forehead, can't you?—and
don't lay it up against me. If I thought I could make
you love me, I would stay. I would endure torture
for years if I knew the light was shining beyond, but
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
it cannot be. The sight of me would make you hate
me more. So I give everything I have to you and
Isabel. You'll marry her at a suitable time, and when
you see how well she becomes your home, you will be
glad I went away. If you must tell her of me, and I
suppose you must, speak kindly of me, won't you?—
You needn't talk of me often, but sometimes, when
you are all alone, and you are sure she will not know,
think of poor little Marian, who gave her life away,
that one she loved the best in all the world might
have wealth and happiness.
“Farewell, Frederic, farewell. Death itself cannot
be harder than bidding you good-by, and knowing it
is for ever.”
And well might Marian say this, for it seemed to
her that she dipped her pen in her very heart's blood,
when she wrote that last adieu. She folded up the
letter and directed it to Frederic—then taking another
sheet she wrote to the blind girl:
“Dearest Alice—Precious little Alice. If my
heart was not already broken, it would break at leaving
you. Don't mourn for me much, darling. Tell
Dinah and Hetty, and the other blacks, not to cry—
and if I've ever been cross to them, they must forget
it now that I am gone. God bless you all. Good by—
good by.”
The letters finished, she left them upon the desk,
where they could not help being seen by the first one
who should enter—then stealing up the stairs to the
closet at the extremity of the hall, she put on her
bonnet, vail and shawl, and started for her purse,
which was in the chamber where Alice slept. Careful,
very careful were her footsteps now, lest she
should waken the child, who, having cried herself to
sleep, was resting quietly. The purse was obtained,
as was also a daguerreotype of her guardian which
lay in the same drawer—and then for a moment she
stood gazing at the little blind girl, and longing to
give her one more kiss; but she dared not, and
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
glancing hurriedly around the room which had been hers
so long, she hastened down the stairs and out upon
the piazza. She could see the light from the parlor
window streaming out into the darkness, and drawing
near she looked through blinding tears upon the solitary
man, who, sitting there alone, little dreamed of
the whispered blessings breathed for him but a few
yards away. It seemed to Marian in that moment of
agony that her very life was going out, and she leaned
against a pillar to keep herself from falling.
“Oh, can I leave him?” she thought. “Can I go
away forever, and never see his face again or listen
to his voice?” and looking up into the sky she prayed
that if in heaven they should meet again, he might
know and love her there for what she suffered here.
On the withered grass and leaves near by there was
a rustling sound as if some one was coming, and Marian
drew back for fear of being seen, but it was only
Bruno, the large watch dog. He had just been released
from his kennel, and he came tearing up the
walk, and with a low savage growl sprang toward the
spot where Marian was hiding.
“Bruno, good Bruno,” she whispered, and in an instant
the fierce mastiff crouched at her feet and licked
her hand with a whining sound, as if he suspected
something wrong.
One more yearning glance at Frederic—one more
tearful look at her old home, and Marian walked rapidly
down the avenue, followed by Bruno, who could
neither be coaxed nor driven back. It was all in vain
that Marian stamped her little foot, wound her arms
round his shaggy neck, bidding him return; he only
answered with a faint whine quite as expressive of
obstinacy as words could have been. He knew Marian
had no business to be abroad at that hour of the
night, and, with the faithfulness of his race, was determined
to follow. At length, as she was beginning
to despair of getting rid of him, she remembered how
pertinaciously he would guard any article which he
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
knew belonged to the family—and on the bridge
which crossed the Elkhorn, she purposely dropped her
glove and handkerchief, the latter of which bore her
name in full. The ruse was successful, for after vainly
attempting to make her know that she had lost
something, the dog turned back, and, with a loud,
mournful howl, which Marian accepted as his farewell,
he laid himself down by the handkerchief and glove,
turning his head occasionally in the direction Marian
had gone, and uttering low plaintive howls when he
saw she did not return.
Meantime Marian kept on her way, striking out into
the fields so as not to be observed—and at last, just
as the cars sounded in the distance, she came up to a
clump of trees growing a little to the left, and on the
opposite side of the road from that on which the depot
stood. By getting in here no one would see her at
the station, and when the train stopped she came out
from her concealment, and bounding lightly upon the
platform of the rear car, entered unobserved. As the
passengers were sitting with their backs toward her,
but one or two noticed her when she came in, and
these scarce gave her a thought, as she sank into the
seat nearest to the door, and drawing her vail over
her face trembled violently lest she should be recognized,
or at least noted and remembered. But her
fears were vain, for no one there had ever seen or
heard of her—and in a moment more the train was
moving on, and she, heart-broken and alone, was taking
her bridal tour!
-- --
CHAPTER VII. THE ALARM.
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
In her solitary bed little Alice slumbered on, moaning
occasionally in her sleep, and at last when the
clock struck nine, starting up and calling “Marian,
Marian, where are you?” Then, remembering that
Marian could not come to her that night, she puzzled
her little brain with the great mystery, and wept herself
to sleep for the second time.
In the kitchen old Dinah was busy with various
household matters. With Frederic she had heard in
the distance the bitter moan which Marian made when
first she learned how she had been deceived, and like
him she had wondered what the sound could be—then
as a baby's cry came from a cabin near by, she had
said to herself, “some of them Higgins brats, I'll warrant.
They're allus a squallin',” and, satisfied with
this conclusion, she had resumed her work. Once or
twice after that she was in the house, feeling a good
deal disturbed at seeing Frederic sitting alone without
his bride, who, she rightly supposed, “was somewhar.
But 'tain't no way,” she muttered; “Phil and
me didn't do like that;” then reflecting that “white
folks wasn't like niggers,” she returned to the kitchen
just as Bruno set up his first loud howl. With Dinah
the howl of a dog was a sure sign of death, and dropping
her tallow candle in her fright, she exclaimed—
“for the Lord's sake who's gwine to die now? I hope
to goodness 'taint me, nor Phil, nor Lid, nor Victory
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
Eugeny,” and turning to Aunt Hetty, who was troubled
with vertigo, she asked if “she'd felt any signs of
an afterplax fit lately?”
“The Lord,” exclaimed old Hetty, “I hain't had a
drap o' blood in me this six month, and if Bruno's
howlin' for me, he may as well save his breath;” but
in spite of this self-assurance, the old negress, when
no one saw her, dipped her head in a bucket of water
by way of warding off the danger.
Thus the evening wore away until at last Dinah,
standing in the doorway, heard the whistle of the train
as it passed the Big Spring station.
“Who s'posed 'twas half-past nine,” she exclaimed.
“I'll go this minit and see if Miss Marian wants
me.”
Just then another loud piercing howl from Bruno,
who was growing impatient, fell upon her ear and arrested
her movements.
“What can ail the critter,” she said—“and he's
down on the bridge, too, I believe.”
The other negroes also heard the cry, which was
succeeded by another and another, and became at last
one prolonged yell, which echoed down the river and
over the hills, starting Frederic from his deep reverie
and bringing him to the piazza, where the blacks had
assembled in a body.
“'Spects mebbe Bruno's done cotched somethin' or
somebody down thar,” suggested Philip, the most
courageous of the group.
“Suppose you go and see,” said Frederic, and lighting
his old lantern Philip sallied out, followed ere
long by all his comrades, who, by accusing each other
of being “skeered to death,” managed to keep up
their own courage.
The bridge was reached, and in a tremor of delight
Bruno bounded upon Phil, upsetting the old man and
extinguishing the light, so that they were in total
darkness. The white handkerchief, however, caught
Dinah's eye, and in picking it up she also felt the
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
glove, which was lying near it. But this did not explain
the mystery—and after searching in vain for
man, beast or hobgoblin, the party returned to the
house, where their master awaited them.
“Thar warn't nothin' thar 'cept this yer rag and
glove,” said Dinah, passing the articles to him.
He took them, and going to the light saw the name
upon the handkerchief, “Marian Lindsey.” The glove
too, he recognised as belonging to her, and with a
vague fear of impending evil, he asked where they
found them.
“On the bridge,” answered Dinah; “somebody
must have drapped 'em. That handkercher looks
mighty like Miss Marian's hem-stitched one.”
“It is hers,” returned Frederic—“do you know
where she is?”
“You is the one who orto know that, I reckon,”
answered Dinah, adding that she “hadn't seen her
sense jest after dark, when she went up stars with
Alice.”
Frederic was interested now. In his abstraction he
had not heeded the lapse of time, though he wondered
where Marian was, and once feeling anxious to know
what she would say to the letter, he was tempted to
go in quest of her. But he did not—and now, with a
presentiment that all was not right, he went to Alice's
chamber, but found no Marian there. Neither was
she in any of the chambers, nor in the hall, nor in the
dining room, nor in his father's room, and he stood at
last in the library door. The writing-desk was open,
and on it lay three letters—one for Alice, one for him,
the other undirected. With a beating heart he took
the one intended for himself, and tearing it open, read
it through. When Marian wrote that “she gave her
life away,” she had no thought of deceiving him, for
her giving him up was giving her very life. But he
did not so understand it, and sinking into a chair he
gasped, “Marian is dead!” while his face grew livid
and his heart sick with the horrid fear.
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
“Dead, Marster Frederic,” shrieked old Dinah—
“who dars tell me my chile is dead!” and bounding
forward like a tiger, she grasped the arm of the
wretched man, exclaiming, “whar is she the dead?
and what is she dead for? and what's that she's writ
that makes yer face as white as a piece of paper?—
Read, and let us hear.”
“I can't, I can't,” moaned the stricken man. “Oh,
has it come to this? Marian, Marian—won't somebody
bring her back?”
“If marster 'll tell me whar to look, I'll find her,
so help me, Lord,” said uncle Phil, the tears rolling
down his dusky cheeks.
“You found her handkerchief upon the bridge,”
returned Frederic, “and Bruno has been howling
there—don't you see? She's in the river!—She's
drowned! Oh, Marian—poor Marian, I've killed her—
but God knows I did not mean to;” and in the very
spot where not long before poor Marian had fallen on
her face, the desolate man now lay on his, and suffered
in part what she had suffered there.
It was a striking group assembled there. The
bowed man, convulsed with strong emotion, and
clutching with one hand the letter which had done the
fearful work. The blacks gathered round, some weeping
bitterly and all petrified with terror, while into
their midst when the storm was at its hight the little
Alice groped her way—her soft hair falling over her
white night dress, her blind eyes rolling round the
room, and her quick ear turned to catch any sound
which might explain the strange proceedings. She
had been roused from sleep by the confusion, and
hearing the uproar in the hall and library, had felt
her way to the latter spot, where in the doorway she
stood asking for Marian.
“Bless you, honey, Miss Marian's dead—drownded,”
said Dinah, and Alice's shriek mingled with the
general din.
“Where's Frederic?” asked the little girl, feeling
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
intuitively that he was the one who needed the most
sympathy.
At the sound of his name Frederic lifted up his
head, and taking the child in his arms, kissed her
tenderly, as if he would thus make amends for his
coldness to the lost Marian.
“'Tain't no way to stay here like rocks,” said Uncle
Phil at last. “If Miss Marian's in the river, we 'd
better be a fishin' her out,” and the practical negro
proceeded to make the necessary arrangements.
Before he left the room, however, he would know
if he were working for a certainty, and turning to his
master, said, “Have you jest cause for thinkin' she's
done drownded herself—'case if you hain't, 'tain't no
use huntin' this dark night, and it's gwine to rain,
too. The clouds is gettin' black as pitch.”
Thus appealed to, Frederic answered, “She says in
the letter that she's going away forever, that she shall
not come back again, and she spoke of giving her life
away. You found her handkerchief and glove upon
the bridge, with Bruno watching near, and she is
gone. Do you need more proof?”
Uncle Phil did not, though “he'd jest like to know,
he said, “why a gal should up and dround herself on
the very fust night arter she'd married the richest and
han'somest chap in the county—but thar was no tellin'
what gals would do. Gener'ly, though, you could
calkerlate on thar doin' jest con-tra-ry to what you'd
'spect they would, and if Miss Marian preferred the
river to that twenty-five pound feather-bed that Dinah
spent mor'n an hour in makin' up, 'twas her nater,
and 'twan't for him to say agin it. All he'd got to do
was to work!”
And the old man did work, assisted by the other
negroes and those of the neighbors who lived near to
Redstone Hall. Frederic, too, joined, or rather led
the search. Bareheaded, and utterly regardless of
the rain which, as Uncle Phil had prophesied, began
to fall in torrents, he gave the necessary directions,
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
and when the morning broke, few would have recognized
the elegant bridegroom of the previous day in
the white-faced, weary man, who, with soiled garments
and dripping hair, stood upon the narrow
bridge, and in the grey November morning looked
mournfully down the river as it went rushing on, telling
no secret, if secret, indeed, there were to tell, of the
wild despair which must have filled poor Marian's
heart and maddened her brain ere she sought that
watery grave.
Before coming out he had hurriedly read his father's
letter, and he could well understand how its
contents broke the heart of the wretched girl, and
drove her to the desperate act which he believed she
had committed.
“Poor Marian,” he whispered to himself, “I alone
am the cause of your sad death;” and most gladly
would he then have become a beggar and earned his
bread by the sweat of his brow, could she have come
back again, full of life, of health and hope, just as she
was the day before.
But this could not be, for she was dead, he said,
dead beyond a doubt; and all that remained for him
to do was to find her body and lay it beside his father.
So during that day the search went on, and crowds
of people were gathered on each side of the river, but
no trace of the lost one could be found, and when a
second time the night fell dark and heavy round Redstone
Hall, it found a mournful group assembled there.
To Alice Frederic had read the letter left for her,
and treasuring up each word the child groped her way
into the kitchen, where, holding the note before her
sightless eyes as if she could really see, she repeated
it to the assembled blacks,
“Lor' bless the child,” sobbed Dinah from behind
her woolen apron, “I knowed she would remember
me.”
“And me,” joined in Hetty. “Don't you mind
how I is spoke of, too? She was a lady, every inch
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
of her, Miss Marian was, an' if I said any badness
of her, I want you to forgive me, Dinah. Here's my
hand,” and these two old ladies took each other's
hand in token that they were joined together now in
one common sorrow.
Indeed, for once, the Higginses and Smitherses forgot
their ancient feud and united in extolling the virtues
of the lost one. After reading the letter as many
as three times—for when their grief had somewhat
subsided, the blacks would ask to hear it again, so as
to have fresh cause for tears—Alice returned to the
parlor, where she knew Frederic was sitting. Her
own heart was throbbing with anguish, but she felt
that his was a sorrow different from her own, and
feeling her way to where he sat she wound her little
arms around his neck, and whispered tenderly: “We
must love each other more now that Marian is gone.”
He made no answer except to take her on his lap
and lay her head upon his bosom; but Alice was satisfied
with this, and after a moment she said, “Frederic,
do you know why Marian killed herself?”
“Oh, Alice, Alice,” he groaned. “Don't say those
dreadful words. I cannot endure the thought.”
“But,” persisted the child, “she couldn't have
known what she was doing, and God forgave her.—
Don't you think He did? She asked him to, I am
sure, when she was sinking in the deep water.”
The child's mind had gone further after the lost
one than Frederic's had, and her question inflicted
a keener pang than any he had felt before. He
had ruined Marian, body and soul, and Alice felt his
hot tears dropping on her face as he made her no reply.
Her faith was stronger than his, and putting up
her waxen hand, she wiped his tears away, saying to
him, “We shall meet Marian again, I know, and then
if you did anything naughty which made her go
away, you can tell her you are sorry, and she'll forgive
you, for she loved you very much.”
Alice's words were like arrows to the heart of the
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
young man, and still he felt in the first hours of his
desolation that she was his comforting angel, and he
could not live without her. More than once she
asked him if he knew why Marian went away, and at
last he made her answer, “Yes, Alice, I do know, but
I cannot tell you now. You would not understand it.”
“I think I should,” persisted the child, “and I
should feel so much better if I knew there was a reason.”
Thus importuned, Frederic replied, “I can only tell
you that she thought I did not love her.”
“And did you, Frederic. Did you love her as Marian
ought to be loved?”
The large brown blind eyes looked earnestly into
his face, and with that gaze upon him Frederic Raymond
could not tell a lie, so he was silent, and Alice,
feeling that she was answered, continued, “But you
would love her now if she'd come back.”
He couldn't say yes to that, either, for he knew he
did not love her even then, though he thought of her
as a noble, generous-hearted creature, worthy of a far
different fate than had befallen her—and had she come
back to him, he would have striven hard to make the
love which alone could atone for what she had endured.
But she did not come—and day after day went
by, during which the search was continued at intervals,
and always with the same result—until when a
week was gone and there was still no trace of her
found, people began to suggest that she was not in the
river at all, but had gone off in another direction.—
Frederic, however, was incredulous—she had no money
that he or any one else knew of, or at least but
very little. She had never been away from home
alone, and if she had done so now, somebody would
have seen her ere this, and suspected who it was—for
the papers far and near teemed with the strange event,
each editor commenting upon its cause according to
his own ideas, and all uniting in censuring the husband,
who at last was described as a cruel, unfeeling
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
wretch, capable of driving any woman from his house,
particularly one as beautiful and accomplished as the
unfortunate bride! It was in vain that Frederic
winced under the annoyance—he could not help it—
and the story went the rounds, improving with each
repetition, until at last an Oregon weekly outdid all
the rest by publishing the tale under the heading of
“Supposed Horrible Murder.” So much for newspaper
paragraphs.
Meantime Frederic, too, inserted in the papers advertisements
for the lost one, without any expectation,
however, that they would bring her back. To him she
was dead, even though her body could not be found.
There might be deep, unfathomable sink-holes in the
river, he said, and into one of these she had fallen—
and so, with a crushing weight upon his spirits, and
an intense loathing of himself and the wealth which
was his now beyond a question, he gave her up as
lost and waited for what would come to him next.
Occasionally he found himself thinking of Isabel,
and wondering what she would say to his letter.—
When he last saw her, she was talking of visiting her
mother's half-brother, who lived at Dayton, Ohio, and
he had said to her at parting, “If you come as far as
that, you must surely visit Redstone Hall.”
But he had little faith in her coming—and now he
earnestly hoped she would not, for if he wronged the
living he would be faithful to the dead; and so day
after day he sat there in his desolate home, brooding
over the past, trying to forget the present, and shrinking
from the future, which looked so hopeless now.
Thoughts of Marian haunted him continually, and in
his dreams he often heard again the wailing sound,
which he knew must have been her cry when she
learned how she had been deceived. Gradually, too,
he began to miss her presence—to listen for her girlish
voice, her bounding step and merry laugh, which he
had once thought rude. Her careful forethought for
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
his comfort, too, he missed—confessing in his secret
heart at least that Redstone Hall was nothing without
Marian.
And now, with these influences at work to make
him what he ought to be, we leave him awhile in his
sorrow, and follow the fugitive bride.
-- --
CHAPTER VIII. MARIAN.
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
Onward and onward—faster and faster flew the
night Express, and the wishes of nearly all the passengers
kept pace with the speed. One there was, however,
a pale-faced, blue-eyed girl, who dreaded the
time when the cars would reach their destination, and
she be in New York! How she had come thus far
safely she scarce could tell. She only knew that every
body had been kind to her, and asked her where she
wished to go; until now the last dreadful change was
made—the blue Hudson was crossed—Albany was far
behind, and she was fast nearing New York. Night
and day she had traveled, always with the same dull,
dreary sense of pain—the same idea that to her the
world would never be pleasant, the sunshine bright,
or the flowers sweet again. Nervously she shrank
from observation—and once, when a lady behind her,
who saw that she was weeping, touched her shoulder
and said, “What is the matter, little girl?” she started
with fear, but did not answer until the question
was repeated—then she replied, “Oh, I'm so tired
and sick, and the cars make such a noise!”
“Have you come far?” the lady asked, and Marian
answered, “Yes, very, very far,” adding, as she remembered
with a shudder the din and confusion of the
larger cities, “Is New York a heap noisier than Albany
or Buffalo?”
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
“Why, yes,” returned the lady, smiling at the
strange question. “Have you never been there?”
“Once, when a child,” said Marian, and the lady
continued, “You seem a mere child now. Have you
friends in the city?”
“Yes, all I have in the world, and that is only one,”
sobbed Marian, her tears falling fast at words of sympathy.
The lady was greatly interested in the child, as she
thought her, and had she been going to New York
would have still befriended her, but she left at Newburgh,
and Marian was again alone. She had heard
much of New York, but she had no conception of it—
and when at last she was there, and followed a group
through the depot up to Broadway, her head grew
dizzy and her brain whirled with the deafening roar.
Cincinnati, Louisville, Buffalo and Albany combined
were nothing to this, and in her confusion she would
have fallen upon the pavement had not the crowd
forced her along. Once, as a richly dressed young lady
brushed past her, she raised her eyes meekly and
asked where “Mrs. Daniel Burt lived?”
The question was too preposterous to be heeded,
even if it were heard, and the lady moved on, leaving
Marian as ignorant as ever of Mrs. Burt's whereabouts.
To two or three other ladies the same question
was put, but Mrs. Daniel Burt was evidently not
generally known in New York, for no one paid the
slightest attention—except indeed to hold tighter their
purse-strings, as if there were danger to be apprehended
from the slender little figure which extended its
ungloved hand so imploringly. After a time, a woman
from the country, who had not yet been through
the hardening process, listened to the question—and
finding that Mrs. Daniel Burt was no way connected
with the Burts of Yates county, nor the Blodgetts of
Monroe, replied that she was a stranger in the city,
and knew no such person—but pretty likely Marian
would find it in the Directory—and as a regiment of
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
soldiers just then attracted her attention, she turned
aside, while Marian, discouraged and sick at heart,
kept on her weary way, knowing nothing where she
was going, and, if possible, caring less. When she
came opposite to Trinity Church, she sank down upon
the step, and drawing her vail over her face, half
wished that she might die and be buried there in the
enclosure where she saw the November sunshine
falling on the graves. And then she wondered if the
roar of the great city didn't even penetrate to the
ears of the sleeping dead, and, shudderingly, she said,
“Oh, I would so much rather be buried by the river
at home in dear old Kentucky. It's all so still and
quiet there.”
Gradually, as her weariness began to abate, she
grew interested in watching the passers-by, wondering
what every body was going down that street for, and
why they came back so quick! Then she tried to
count the omnibuses, thinking to herself, “Somebody's
dead up town, and this is the procession.” The
deceased must have been a person of distinction, she
fancied, for the funeral train seemed likely never to
end. And, what was stranger than all, another was
moving up while this was coming down! Poor Marian!
she knew but little of the great Babylon to
which she had so recently come, and she thought it
made up of carts, hacks, omnibuses and people—all
hurrying in every direction as fast as they could go.
It made her feel dizzy and cross-eyed to look at them,
and leaning back against the iron railing, she fell into
a kind of conscious sleep, in which she never forgot
for an instant the roar which troubled her so much,
or lost the gnawing pain at her heart. In this way
she sat for a long time, while hundreds and hundreds
of people went by, some glancing sideways at
her, and thinking she did not look like an ordinary
beggar, while others did not notice her at all.
At last, as the confusion increased, she roused up,
staring about her with a wild, startled gaze. People
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
were going home, and she watched them as they
struggled fiercely and ineffectually to stop some loaded
omnibus, and then rushed higher up to a more favorable
locality.
“The funeral was over,” she said. The omnibusses
were most all returning, and though she had no idea
of the lapse of time, she fancied that it might be coming
night, and the dreadful thought stole over her—
“What shall I do then? Maybe I'll go in the church,
though,” she added. “Nobody, I am sure, will hurt
me there,” and she glanced confidingly at the massive
walls which were to shield her from danger and darkness.
And while she sat there thus, the night shadows
began to fall—the people walked faster and faster—the
omnibus drivers swore louder and longer—the crowd
became greater and greater—and over Marian there
stole a horrid dread of the hour when the uproar
would cease—when Wall street would be empty, the
folks all gone, and she be there alone with the blear-eyed
old woman who had seated herself near by, and
seemed to be watching her.
“I will ask once more,” she thought. “Maybe
some of these people know where she lives.” And,
throwing back her vail, she half rose to her feet, when
a tall, disagreeable looking fellow bent over her and
said—“What can I do for you, my pretty lass?”
For an instant Marian's heart stood still, for there
was something in the rowdy's appearance exceedingly
repulsive, but when he repeated his question, she answered
timidly, “I want to find Mrs. Daniel Burt.”
“Oh, yes, Mrs Daniel Burt. I know the old lady
well—lives just round the corner. Come with me and
I'll show you the way,” and the great red, rough hand
was about to touch the little slender white one resting
on Marian's lap, when a blow from a brawny fist
sent the rascal reeling upon the pavement, while a
round, good-humored face looked into Marian's, and a
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
kindly voice said, “Did the villain insult you, little
girl?”
“Yes—I reckon not—I don't know,” answered Marian,
trembling with fright, while her companion continued,
“'Tis the first time he ever spoke civil to a
woman then. I know the scamp well—but what are
you sittin' here alone for, when everybody else is goin'
hum?”
Marian felt intuitively that he could be trusted, and
she sobbed aloud, “I havn't any home, nor friends,
nor anything.”
“Great Moses!” said the young man, scanning her
closely, “you ain't a beggar—that's as sure as my
name is Ben Burt—and what be you sittin' here for,
any way?”
Marian did not heed his question, so eagerly did
she catch at the name Ben Burt.
“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, grasping his arm, “are
you any way related to Mrs. Daniel Burt, who once
lived with Colonel Raymond at Yonkers?”
“Wall, ra-ally now,” returned the honest-hearted
Yankee, “if this don't beat all. I wouldn't wonder if
I was some connected to Mrs. Daniel Burt, bein' she
brung me up from a little shaver, and has licked me
mor'n a hundred times. She's my mother, and if it's
her you're looking for we may as well be travelin', for
she lives all of three miles from here.”
“Three miles!” repeated Marian, “that other man
said just around the corner. What made him tell
such a lie?”
“Yeu tell,” answered Ben, with a knowing wink,
which however failed to enlighten Marian, who was
too glad with having found a protector to ask many
questions, and unhesitatingly taking Ben's offered arm
she went with him up the street, until she found the
car he wished to take.
When they were comfortably seated and she had
leisure to examine him more closely, she found him to
be a tall, athletic, good-natured looking young man,
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
betraying but little refinement either in personal appearance
or manner, but manifesting in all he did a
kind, noble heart, which won her good opinion at
once. Greatly he wondered who she was and whence
she came, but he refrained asking her any questions,
thinking he should know the whole if he waited. It
seemed to Marian a long, long ride, and she was beginning
to wonder if it would never end, when Ben
touched her arm and signified that they were to
alight.
“Come right down this street a rod or so and we're
there,” said he, and following whither he led, Marian
was soon climbing a long, narrow stairway to the third
story of what seemed to her a not very pleasant block
of buildings.
But if it were dreary without, the sight of a cheerful
blazing fire, which was disclosed to view as Ben opened
a narrow door, raised her spirits at once, and taking
in at a glance the rag carpet, the stuffed rocking
chairs, the chintz-covered lounge, the neat-looking
supper table spread for two, and the neater looking
woman who was making the toast, she felt the pain at
her heart give way a little, just a little, and bounding
toward the woman, she cried, “You don't know me,
I suppose. I am Marian Lindsey, Colonel Raymond's
ward.”
Mrs. Burt, for it was she, came near dropping her
plate of buttered toast in her surprise, and setting it
down upon the hearth, she exclaimed, “The last person
upon earth I expected to see. Where did you
come from, and how happened you to run afoul of
Ben?”
“I ran afoul of her,” answered Ben. “I found her
a cryin' on the pavement in front of Old Trinity, with
that rascal of a Joe Black, makin' b'lieve he was well
acquainted with you, and that you lived jest round
the corner.”
“Mercy me,” ejaculated Mrs. Burt, “but do tell a
body what you're here for—not but I'm glad to see
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
you, but it seems so queer. How is the old Colonel,
and that son I never see—Ferdinand, ain't it—no
Frederic, that's what they call him?”
At the mention of Frederic, Marian gave a choking
sob and replied: “Colonel Raymond is dead, and Frederic—
oh, Mrs. Burt, please don't ask me about him
now, or I shall surely die.”
“There's some bedivilment of some kind, I'll warrant,”
muttered Ben, who was a champion of all woman
kind. “There's been the old Harry to pay, or
she wouldn't be runnin' off here, the villain,” and in
fancy he dealt the unknown Frederic a far heavier
blow than he had given the scapegrace Joe.
“Well, never mind now,” said Mrs. Burt, soothingly.
“Take off your things and have some supper;
you must be hungry, I'm sure. How long is it since
you ate?”
“Oh, I don't know,” answered Marian, a death-like
paleness overspreading her face; “not since yesterday,
I reckon. Where am I? Everything is so
confused!” and overcome with hunger, exhaustion
and her late fright, Marian fainted in her chair.
Taking her in his arms as if she had been an infant,
Ben carried her to the spare room, which, in accordance
with her New England habits, Mrs. Burt always
kept for company, and there on the softest of all soft
beds he laid her down; then, while his mother removed
her bonnet and shawl, he ran for water and
camphor, chafing with his own rough fingers her little
clammy hands, and bathing her forehead until Marian
came back to consciousness.
“There, swaller some cracker and tea, and you'll
feel better directly,” said Mrs. Burt; and, like a very
child, Marian obeyed, feeling that there was something
delicious in being thus cared for after the dreadful
days she had passed. “You needn't talk to us to-night.
There will be time enough to-morrow,” continued
Mrs. Burt, as she saw her about to speak; and
fixing her comfortably in bed, she went back to Ben,
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
to whom she told all that she knew concerning Marian
and the family with whom she had lived.
“There's something that ain't just right, depend
on't,” said Ben, sitting down at the table. “That
Frederic has served her some mean caper, and so
she's run away. But she hit the nail on the head
when she came here.”
By the time supper was over, Marian's soft, regular
breathing told that she was asleep, and taking the
lamp in his hand, the curious Ben stole to see her.
Her face was white as marble, and even in her sleep
the tears dropped from her long eye-lashes, affecting
Ben so strangely that his coat-sleeve was more than
once called in requisition to perform the office of a
handkerchief.
“Poor little baby! You've been misused the wust
kind,” he whispered, as with his great hand he brushed
her tears away, and then went noiselessly out, leaving
her to her slumbers.
It was a deep, dreamless sleep which came to Marian
that night, for her strength was utterly exhausted, and
in the atmosphere of kindness surrounding her, there
was something soothing to her irritated nerves. But
when the morning broke and the roar of the waking
city fell again upon her ear, she started up, and gazing
about the room, thought, “where am I, and what is
it that makes my heart ache so?”
Full soon she remembered what it was, and burying
her face in the pillows, she wept again bitterly, wondering
what they were doing far away at Redstone
Hall, and if anybody but Alice was sorry she had
gone. A moment after Mrs. Burt's kind voice was
heard asking how she was, and bidding her be still
and rest. But this it was impossible for Marian to do.
She could not lie there in that little room and listen
to the din which began to produce upon her the same
dizzy, bewildering effect it had done the previous
day, when she sat on the pavement and saw the omnibuses
go by. She must be up and tell the kind
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
people her story, and then, if they said so, she would
go away—go back to those graves she had seen yesterday,
and lying down in some hollow, where that
horrid man and blear-eyed woman could not find her,
she would die, and Frederic would surely never know
what had become of her. She knew she could trust
both Mrs. Burt and Ben, and when breakfast was
over, she unhesitatingly told them everything, interrupted
occasionally by Ben's characteristic exclamations
of surprise and his mother's ejaculations of
wonder.
Mrs. Burt's first impulse was, that if she were
Marian she would claim her property, though of course
she would not live with Frederic. But Ben said No—
“he'd work his finger-nails off before she should go
back. His mother wanted some one with her when
he was gone, and Marian was sent to them by Providence.
Any way,” said he, “she shall live with us a
while, and we'll see what turns up. Maybe this
Fred'll begin to like her now she's gone. It's nater to
do so, and some day he'll walk in here and claim her.”
This picture was not a displeasing one to Marian,
who through her tears smiled gratefully upon Ben,
mentally resolving that should she ever be mistress of
Redstone Hall she should remember him. And thus
it was arranged that Marian Grey, as she chose to be
called, should remain where she was, for a time at
least, and if no husband came for her, she should stay
there always as the daughter of Mrs. Burt, whose
motherly heart already yearned toward the unfortunate
orphan. Both Mrs. Burt and Ben were noble
types of diamonds in the rough. Neither of them
could boast of much education or refinement, but in
all the great city there were few with warmer hearts
or kindlier feelings than the widow and her son.
Particularly was this true of Ben, who in his treatment
of Marian only acted out the impulse of nature;
if she had been aggrieved, he was the one to defend
her, and if she bade him keep her secret, it was as
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
safe with him as if it had never been breathed into
his ear. Nearly all of Ben's life had been passed in
factories, and though now home on a visit, he was
still connected with one in Ware, Mass. Very carefully
he saved his weekly earnings, and once in three
months carried or sent them to his mother, who, having
spent many years in New York city, preferred it
to the country. Here she lived very comfortably on
her own earnings and those of Ben, whose occasional
visits made the variety of her rather monotonous life.
The other occupants of the block were not people with
whom she cared to associate, and she passed many
lonely hours. But with Marian for company it would
be different, and she welcomed her as warmly as Ben
himself had done.
“You shall be my little girl,” she said, laying her
hand caressingly on the head of Marian, who began
to think the world was not as cheerless as she had
thought it was. Still the old dreary pain was in her
heart—a desolate, home-sick feeling, which kept her
thoughts ever in one place and on one single object—
the place, Redstone Hall, and the object, Frederic
Raymond. And as the days went by, the feeling
grew into an intense, longing desire to see her old
home once more—to look into Frederic's face—to listen
to his voice, and know if he were sorry that she
was gone. This feeling Mrs. Burt did not seek to discourage,
for though she was learning fast to love the
friendless girl, she knew it would be better for her to
be reconciled to Mr. Raymond, and when one day,
nearly four weeks after Marian's arrival, the latter said
to her, “I mean to write to Frederic and ask him to
take me back,” she did not oppose the plan, for she
saw how the great grief was wearing the young girl's
life away, making her haggard and pale, and writing
lines of care upon her childish face.
That night there came to Marian a paper from Ben,
who, having far outstaid his time, had returned the
week before to Ware. Listlessly she tore open the
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
wrapper, and glancing at the first page, was about
throwing it aside, when a marked paragraph arrested
her attention, and, with burning cheeks and fast-beating
heart, she read that “Frederic Raymond would
gladly receive any information of a young girl who
had disappeared mysteriously from Redstone Hall.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet, “I am
going home—back to Frederic. He's sent for me—
see!” and she pointed out to Mrs. Burt the advertisement.
“Can I go to-night?” she continued. “Is
there a train? Oh, I am so glad.”
Mrs. Burt, however, was more moderate in her feelings.
Mr. Raymond could scarcely do less than advertise,
she thought, and to her this did not mean that
he wished the fugitive to return for any love he bore
her. Still, she would not dash Marian's hopes at once,
though she would save her from the cold reception
she felt sure she would meet, should she return to
Redstone Hall, unannounced. So, when the first excitement
of Marian's joy had abated, she said: “I
should write to Mr. Raymond, just as I first thought
of doing. Then he'll know where you are, and he
will come for you, if he wants you, of course.”
That “if he wants you” grated harshly on Marian's
ear; but, after her past experience, she did not care
to thrust herself upon him, unless sure that he wished
it, and concluded to follow Mrs. Burt's advice. So
she sat down and wrote to him a second letter, telling
him where she was, and how she came there, and
asking him in her child-like way, to let her come back
again.
“Oh, I want to come home so much,” she wrote;
“if you'll only let me, you needn't ever call me your
wife, nor make believe I am—at least, not until you
love me, and I get to be a lady. I'll try so hard to
learn. I'll go away to school, and may be, after a good
many years are gone, you won't be ashamed of me,
though I shall never be as beautiful as Isabel. If you
don't want me back, Frederic, you must tell me so. I
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
can't feel any worse than I did that day when I sat
here in the street and wished I could die. I didn't
die then, maybe I shouldn't now, and if you do hate
me, I'll stay away and never write again—never let
you know whether I am alive, or not; and after seven
years, Ben Burt says, you will be free to marry Isabel.
She'll wait for you, I know. She won't be too old
then, will she? I shall be almost twenty-three, but
that is young, and the years will seem so long to me
if you do not let me return. May I, Frederic? Write,
and tell me Yes; but direct to Mrs. Daniel Burt, as I
shall then be more sure to get it. I dare not hope
you'll come for me, but if you only would, and quick,
too, for my heart aches so, and my head is tired and
sick with the dreadful noise. Do say I may come
home. God will bless you if you do, I am sure; and if
you don't, I'll ask Him to bless you just the same.”
The letter closed with another assurance that she
gave to him cheerfully all her fortune—that she neither
blamed his father, nor himself, nor Isabel, nor anybody.
All she asked was to come back!
Poor little Marian! The pain in her heart was not
so intense, and the noise in the street easier to bear
after sending that letter, for hope softened them both,
and whispered to her, “he'll let me come,” and in a
thousand different ways she pictured the meeting between
herself and Frederic. Occasionally the thought
intruded itself upon her, “what if he bids me keep
away,” and then she said, “I'll do it if he does, and
before seven years are gone, maybe I'll be dead. I
hope I shall, for I do not want to think of Isabel's
living there with him!”
She had great faith in the seven years, for Ben had
said so, and Ben, who was very susceptible to female
charms, believed it, too, and the thought of it was like
a ray of sunshine in the dingy, noisome room where
all day he worked, sometimes reckoning up how many
months there were in seven years—then how many
weeks—then how many days, and finally calling
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
himself a fool for caring a thing about it. When the newspaper
article came under his eye, the sunshine left the
dirty room, and after he had sent the paper to Marian
he cared but little how many months or weeks or days
there were in seven years, and he felt angry at himself
for having sweat so hard in making the computation!
And so, while Marian in the city waits and watches
for the message which will, perhaps, bid her come
back, and Ben, in the noisy factory, waits also for a
message which shall say she has gone, and his mother
is again alone, the letter travels on, and one pleasant
afternoon, when the clerk at Cincinnati makes up the
mail for Frankfort, he puts that important missive with
the rest and sends it on its way.
-- --
CHAPTER IX. ISABEL HUNTINGTON.
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
All day and all night it rained with a steady, unrelenting
pour, and when the steamboat which plies between
Cincinnati and Frankfort stopped at the latter
place, two ladies from the lower deck looked drearily
over the city, one frowning impatiently at the mud
and the rain, while the other wished in her heart that
she was safely back in her old home, and had never
consented to this foolish trip. This wish, however, she
dared not express to her companion, who, though calling
her mother, was in reality the mistress—the one
whose word was law, and to whose wishes everything
else must bend.
“This is delightful,” the younger lady exclaimed,
as holding up her fashionable traveling dress, and
glancing ruefully at her thin kid gaiters, she prepared
to walk the plank. “This is charming. I wonder if
they always have such weather in Kentucky.”
“No, Miss, very seldom, 'cept on strordinary 'casions,”
said the polite African, who was holding an
umbrella over her head, and who felt bound to defend
his native State.
The lady tossed her little bonnet proudly, and turning
to her mother, continued: “Have you any idea
how we are to get to Redstone Hall?”
At this question an old gray-haired negro, who, with
several other idlers, was standing near, came forward
and said, “If it's Redstone Hall whar Miss wants to
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
go, I's here with Marster Frederic's carriage. I come
to fotch a man who's been out thar tryin' to buy a
house of marster in Louisville.”
At this announcement the face of both ladies brightened
perceptibly, and pointing out their baggage to
the negro, who was none other than our old friend Uncle
Phil, they went to a public house to wait until the
carriage came round for them.
“What do you suppose Frederic will think when he
sees us?” the mother asked; and the daughter replied,
“He won't think anything, of course. It is perfectly
proper that we should visit our relations, particularly
when we are as near to them as Dayton, and they are
in affliction, too. He would have been displeased if
we had returned without giving him a call.”
From these remarks the reader will readily imagine
that the ladies in question were Mrs. Huntington and
her daughter Isabella. They had decided at last to
visit Dayton, and had started for that city a few days
after the receipt of Frederic's letter announcing his
father's death: consequently they knew nothing of the
marriage, and the fact that Colonel Raymond was dead
only increased Isabel's desire to visit Redstone Hall,
for she rightly guessed that Frederic was now so absorbed
in business that it would be long ere he came
to New Haven again; so she insisted upon coming,
and as she found her Ohio aunt not altogether agreeable,
she had shortened her visit there, and now with
her mother sat waiting at the Mansion House for the
appearance of Phil and the carriage. That Isabel was
beautiful was conceded by every one, and that she was
as treacherous as beautiful was conceded by those who
knew her best. Early in life she had been engaged to
Rudolph McVicar, a man of strong passions, an iron
will and indomitable perseverance. But when young
Raymond came, and she fancied she could win him,
she unhesitatingly broke her engagement with Rudolph,
who, stung to madness by her cold, unfeeling
conduct, swore to be revenged. This threat, however,
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
was little heeded by the proud beauty. If she secured
Frederic Raymond, she would be above all danger,
and she bent every energy to the accomplishment of
her plan. She knew that the Kentuckians were proverbial
for their hospitality, and feeling sure that no
one would think it at all improper for her mother and
herself to visit their cousin, as she called Frederic, she
determined, if possible, to prolong that visit until asked
to stay with him always. He had never directly talked
to her of love, consequently she felt less delicacy
in going to his house and claiming relationship with
him; so when Phil came around with the carriage, she
said to him, quite as a matter of course, “How
is Cousin Frederic since his father's death?”
“Jest tolable, thankee,” returned the negro, at the
same time saying, “Be you marster's kin?”
“Certainly,” answered Isabel, while the negro bowed
low, for any one related to his master was a person
of distinction to him.
Isabel had heard Frederic speak of Marian, and
when they were half way home, she put her head from
the window and said to Phil, “Where is the young
girl who used to live with Colonel Raymond—Marian
was her name, I think?”
“Bless you,” returned the negro, cracking his whip
nervously, “haint you hearn how she done got married
to marster mighty nigh three weeks ago?”
“Married! Frederic Raymond married!” screamed
Isabel; “it is not true. How dare you tell me such a
falsehood?”
“Strue as preachin', and a heap truer than some
on't, for I seen 'em joined with these very eyes,” said
Phil, and, glancing backward at the white face leaning
from the window, he muttered, “'spects mebby she
calkerlated on catchin' him herself. Ki, wouldn't she
and Dinah pull har though. Thar's a heap of Ole Sam
in them black eyes of hern,” and, chirruping to his
horses, Philip drove rapidly on, thinking he wouldn't
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
tell her that the bride had run away—he would let
Frederic do that.
Meantime, Isabel, inside, was choking—gasping—
crying—wringing her hands and insisting that her
mother should ask the negro again if what he had told
them were so.
“Man—sir”—said Mrs. Huntington, putting her
bonnet out into the rain, “is Mr. Frederic Raymond
really married to that girl Marian?”
“Yes, as true as I am sittin' here. Thursday'll be
three weeks since the weddin',” was the reply, and
with another hysterical sob, Isabel laid her head in her
mother's lap.
Nothing could exceed her rage, mortification and
disappointment, except, indeed, her pride, and this
was stronger than all her other emotions and that
which finally roused her to action. She would not
turn back now, she said. She would brave the villain
and show him that she did not care. She would put
herself by the side of his wife and let him see the contrast.
She had surely heard from him that Marian
was plain, and in fancy, she saw how she would overshadow
her rival and make Frederic feel keenly the
difference between them, and then she thought of the
discarded Rudolph. If everything else should fail, she
could win him back—he had some money, and she
would rather be his wife than nobody's!
By this time they had left the highway, for Redstone
Hall was more than a mile from the turnpike, and Isabel
found ample opportunity for venting her ill-nature.
Such a road as that she never saw before, and she'd
like to know if folks in Kentucky lived out in the lots.
“No wonder they were such heathen! you nigger,” she
exclaimed, as Phil drove through a brook; “are you
going to tip us over, or what?”
“Wonder if she 'spects a body is gwine round the
brook,” muttered Phil, and as the carriage wheels were
now safe from the water, he stopped and said to the
indignant lady, “mebby Miss would rather walk the
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
rest of the way. Thar's a heap wus places in the
cornfield, whar we'll be pretty likely to get oversot.”
“Go on,” snapped Isabel, who knew she could not
walk quite as well as the mischievous driver.
Accordingly they went on, and ere long came in
sight of the house which even in that drenching rain
looked beautiful to Isabel, and all the more beautiful
because she felt that she had lost it. On the piazza
little Alice stood, her fair hair blowing over her face,
and her ear turned to catch the first sound which
should tell her if what she hoped were true. Old
Dinah, who saw the carriage in the distance, had said
there was some one in it, and instantly Alice thought
of Marian, and going out upon the piazza, she waited
impatiently until Phil drove up to the door.
“There are four feet,” she said, as the strangers
came up the steps; “four feet, but none are Marian's,”
and she was turning sadly away, when she
accidentally trod upon the long skirt of Isabel, who,
snatching it away, said angrily, “child, what are you
doing—stepping on my dress?”
“I didn't mean to; I'm blind,” answered Alice, her
lip quivering and her eyes filling with tears.
“Never you mind that she dragon,” whispered
Uncle Phil, thrusting into the child's hand a paper of
candy, which had the effect of consoling her somewhat,
both for her disappointment and her late reproof.
“Who is that ar?” asked Dinah, appearing upon
the piazza just as Isabel passed into the hall. “Some
of marster's kin!” she repeated after Uncle Phil.
“For the Lord's sake, what fotched 'em here this rainy
day, when we's gwine to have an ornery dinner—
no briled hen, nor turkey, nor nothin'. Be they
quality, think?”
“'Spects the young one wants to be, if she ain't,”
returned Phil, with a very expressive wink, which
had the effect of enlightening Dinah with regard to
his opinion.
“Some low flung truck, I'll warrant,” said she, as
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
she followed them into the parlor, where Isabel's
stately bearing and glittering black eyes awed her
into a low courtesy, as she said: “You're very welcome
to Redstone Hall, I'm sure. Who shall I tell
marster wants to see him?”
“Two ladies, simply,” was Isabel's haughty answer,
and old Dinah departed, whispering to herself, “Two
ladies simple! She must think I know nothin' 'bout
grarmar to talk in that kind of way, but she's mistakened.
I hain't lived in the fust families for nothin',”
and knocking at Frederic's door, she told him
that “two simple ladies was down in the parlor and
wanted him.”
“Who?” he asked, in some surprise, and Dinah
replied:
“Any way, that's what she said—the tall one, with
great black eyes jest like coals of fire. Phil picked
'em up in Frankford, whar they got off the boat.
They's some o' yer kin they say.”
Frederic did not wish to hear any more, for he suspected
who they were. It was about this time they
had talked of visiting Dayton, and motioning Dinah
from the room, he pressed his hands to his forehead,
and thought, “Must I suffer this, too? Oh, why did
she come to look at me in my misery?” Then, forcing
an unnatural calmness, he started for the parlor,
where, as he had feared, he stood face to face with
Isabel Huntington.
She was very pale, and in her black eyes there was
a hard, dangerous expression, from which he gladly
turned away, addressing first her mother, who, rising
to meet him, said:
“We have accepted your invitation, you see.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied, and he was trying to
stammer out a welcome, when Isabel, who all the time
had been aching to pounce upon him, chimed,
“Where is Mrs. Raymond? I am dying to see my
new cousin” and in the eyes of black there was a
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
reddish gleam, as if they might ere long emit sparks of
living fire.
“Mrs. Raymond!” repeated Frederic, the name
dropping slowly from his lips. “Mrs. Raymond!
Oh! Isabel, don't you know? Havn't you heard?”'
“Certainly I have,” returned the young lady,
watching him as a fierce cat watches his helpless
prey. “Of course I have heard of your marriage, and
have come to congratulate you. Is your wife well?”
Frederic raised his hand to stop the flippant speech,
and when it finished he rejoined: “But havn't you
heard the rest—the saddest part of all? Marian is
dead!—drowned—at least we think she must be, for
she went away on our wedding night, and no trace of
her can be found.”
The fiery gleam was gone from the black eyes—the
color came back to the cheeks—the finger nails ceased
their painful pressure upon the tender flesh—the shadow
of a smile dimpled the corner of the mouth, and
Isabel was herself again.
“Dead! Drowned!” she exclaimed. “How did it
happen? What was the reason? Dreadful, isn't it?”
and going over to where Mr. Raymond stood, she
looked him in the face, with an expression she meant
should say, “I am sorry for you,” but which really
did say something quite the contrary.
“I cannot tell you why she went away,” Frederic
answered, “but there was a reason for it, and it has
cast a shadow over my whole life.”
“Marian was a mere child, I had always supposed,”
suggested Isabel, anxious to get at the reason why he
had so soon forgotten herself.
“Did you get my last letter—the one written to
you?” asked Frederic, and upon Isabel's replying that
she did not, he briefly stated a few facts concerning
his marriage, saying it was his father's dying request,
and he could not well avoid doing as he had done,
even if he disliked Marian. “But I didn't dislike her,”
he continued, and the hot blood rushed into his face.
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
“She was a gentle, generous hearted girl, and had she
lived, I would have made her happy.”
If by this speech Frederic Raymond thought to deceive
Isabel Huntington, he was mistaken, for, looking
into his eyes she read a portion of the truth and knew
there was something back of all—a something between
himself and his father which had driven him
to the marriage. What it was she did not care then
to know. She was satisfied that the bride was gone—
and when Frederic narrated more minutely the particulars
of her going, the artful girl said to herself,
`She is dead beyond a doubt, and when I leave Redstone
Hall, I shall know it, and mother, too!”
It was strange how rapidly Isabel changed from a
hard, defiant woman, to a soft, sparkling, beautiful
creature, and when, in her plaid silk dress of crimson
and brown, with her magnificent hair bound in heavy
braids about her head, she came down to dinner, Aunt
Dinah involuntarily dropped another courtesy, and
whispered under her teeth, “The Lord, if she ain't
quality after all.” Old Hetty, too, who from a side
door looked curiously in at their guests, received a
like impression, pronouncing her more like Miss Beatrice
than any body she had ever seen. To Alice,
Isabel was all gentleness, for she readily saw that the
child was a pet; so she called her darling and dearest,
smoothing her fair hair and kissing her once when
Frederic was looking on. All this, however, did not
deceive the little blind girl, or erase from her mind
the angry words which had been spoken to her, and
that evening, when she went to Frederic to bid him
good night, she climbed into his lap and said: “Is that
Miss Isabel going to stay here always?”
“Why, no,” he answered. “Did you think she
was?”
“I did not know,” returned Alice, “but I hoped
not, for I don't like her at all. She's very grand and
beautiful, Dinah says, but I think she must look like
a snake, and I want her to go away, don't you?”
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
Frederic would not say yes to this question, and he
remained silent. Had he been consulted, he would
rather that she had never come to Redstone Hall, but
now that she was there, he did not wish her away. It
would be inhospitable, he said, and when next morning
she came down to breakfast, bright, fresh and elegant
in her tasteful wrapper, he felt a pang, as he
thought, “had I done right, she might have been the
mistress of Redstone Hall,” but it could not be now, he
said, even if Marian were dead, and all that day he
struggled manfully between his duty and his inclination,
while Isabel dealt out her highest card, ingrafting
herself into the good graces of the Smitherses by
speaking to them pleasant, familiar words, exalting
herself in the estimation of the Higginses by her lofty,
graceful bearing, and winning Dinah's friendship by
praising Victoria Eugenia, and asking if that fine
looking man who drove the carriage was her husband.
Then, in the evening, when the lamps were lighted in
the parlor, she opened the piano and filled the house
with the rich melody of her cultivated voice, singing a
sad, plaintive strain, which reminded Alice of poor,
lost Marian, and carried Frederic back to other days,
when, with a feeling of pride, he had watched her
snowy fingers as they gracefully swept the keys. He
could not look at them now—he dared not look at
her, in her ripe glowing beauty, and he left the room,
going out upon the piazza, where he wiped great
drops of sweat from his face, and almost cursed the
fate which had made it a sin for him to love the dark-haired
Isabel. She knew that he was gone, and rightly
divining the cause, she dashed off into a stirring
dancing tune, which brought the negroes to the door,
where they stood admiring her playing and praising
her queenly form.
“That's somethin' like it,” whispered Hetty, beating
time to the lively strain. “That sounds like Miss Beatrice
did when she done played the pianner. I 'clare
for't, I eenamost wish Marster Frederic had done
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
chose her. 'Case you know t'other one done drowned
herself the fust night,” she added quickly, as she met
Dinah's rebuking glance.
Dinah admired Isabel, but she could not forget Marian;
though like her sex, whether black or brown,
she speculated upon the future, when “Marster Frederic
would be done mournin',” and she wondered if
“old miss,” meaning Mrs. Huntington, would think it
necessary to stay there, too. Thus several days went
by, and so pleasant was it to Frederic to have some
one in the house who could divert him from his
gloomy thoughts, that he began to dread the time
when he would be alone again. But could he have
looked into the heart of the fair lady, he would have
seen no immediate cause of alarm. Isabel did not
intend to leave her present quarters immediately, and
to this end her plans were laid. From what she had
heard she believed Marian Lindsey was dead, and if
so, she would not again trust Frederic away from
her influence. Redstone Hall needed a head—a housekeeper—
and as her mother was an old lady, and also
a relative of Frederic, she was just the one to fill
that post. Their house in New Haven was only rented
until March, and by writing to some friends they
could easily dispose of their furniture until such time
as they might want it. Alice needed a governess, for
she heard Frederic say so; and though the little pest
(this was what she called her, to herself) did not seem
to like her, she could teach her as well as any one. It
would be just as proper for her to be Alice's governess
as for any one else, and a little more so, for her
mother would be with her.
And this arrangement she brought about with the
most consummate skill, first asking Frederic if he
knew of any situation in Kentucky which she could
procure as a teacher. That was one object of her visit,
she said. She must do something for a living, and as
she would rather teach either in a school, or in a private
family, she would be greatly obliged to him if he
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
would assist her a little. Hardly knowing what he
was doing, Frederic said something about Alice's
having needed a governess for a long time; and
quickly catching at it, Isabel rejoined, “Oh! but you
know I couldn't possibly remain here, unless mother
staid with me. Now, if you'll keep her as a kind
of overseer-in-general of the house, I'll gladly undertake
the charge of dear little Alice's education. She
does not fancy me, I think, but I'm sure I can win her
love. I can that of almost any one—children I mean,
of course;” and the beautiful, fascinating eyes looked
out of the window quite indifferently, as if their owner
were utterly oblivious of the fierce struggle in Frederic's
bosom.
He wished her to stay with him—oh, so much! But
was it right? and would he not get to loving her?
No, he would not, he said. He would only think of
her as his cousin—his sister, whose presence would
cheer his solitary home. So he bade her stay, and she
bade her mother stay, urging so many reasons why she
should, and must, that the latter consented at last, and
a letter was dispatched to New Haven, with directions
for having their furniture packed away, and their house
given up to its owner. This arrangement at first
caused some gossip among the neighbors, who began
to predict what the end would be, and, also, to assert
more loudly than ever their belief that Marian was not
dead. Still, there was no reason why Isabel should
not be Alice's governess, particularly as her mother
was with her; and when Agnes Gibson pronounced
her beautiful, accomplished, and just the thing, the
rest followed in the train, and the health of the “northern
beauty” was drunk by more than one fast young
man.
In the kitchen at Redstone Hall there was also a
discussion, in which the Higginses rather had the preference,
inasmuch as the lady in question was after
their manner of thinking. Old Dinah wisely kept silent,
saying to herself, “a new broom sweeps clean,
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
and I'll wait to see what 'tis when it gets a little wore.
One thing is sartin, though, if she goes to put on ars,
and sasses us colored folks, I'll gin her a piece of my
mind. I'll ask her whar she come from, and how many
niggers she owned afore she come from thar.”
It was several days before Alice was told of the arrangement,
and then she rebelled at once. Bursting
into tears, she hid her face in Dinah's lap, and sobbed,
“I can't learn of her. I don't like her. What shall
I do?”
“I wish to goodness I had larning',” answered Dinah,
“and I'd hear you say that foolishness 'bout the
world's turnin' round and makin' us stan' on our heads
half the time, but I hain't, and if I's you I'd make the
best on't. I'll keep my eye on her, and if she makes
you do the fust thing you don't want to, I'll gin her a
piece of my mind. I ain't afraid on her. Why, Gibson's
niggers say how they hearn Miss Agnes say she
used to make her own bed whar she came from, and
wash dishes, too! Think o' that!”
Thus comforted, Alice dried her tears, and hunting
up the books from which she had once recited to Marian,
she declared herself ready for her lessons at any
time.
“Let it be to-morrow, then,” said Isabel, who knew
that Frederic was going to Lexington, and that she
could not see him even if she were not occupied with
Alice.
So, the next morning, after Frederic was gone, Alice
went to the school-room, and drawing her little chair
to Isabel's side, laid her books upon the lady's lap, and
waited for her to begin.
“You must read to me,” she said, “until I know
what 'tis, and then I'll recite it to you.”
But Isabel was never intended for a teacher, and she
found it very tedious reading the same thing over and
over, particularly as Alice seemed inattentive and not
at all inclined to remember. At last she said,
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
impatiently, “For the pity's sake how many more times
must I read it. Can't you learn anything?”
“Dont—don't speak so,” sobbed Alice. “I'm thinking
of Marian, and how she used to be with me. It's
just six weeks to-day since she went away. Oh, I
wish she'd come back. Do you believe she's dead?”
Isabel was interested in anything concerning Marian,
and closing the book, she began to question the child,
asking her among other things, if Marian did not leave
a letter for Mr. Raymond, and if she knew what was
in it.”
“No one knows,” returned the child; “he never
told—but here's mine,” and drawing from her bosom
the soiled note, she passed it to Isabel, who scrutinized
it closely, particularly the handwriting.
“Of course she's dead, or she would have been heard
from ere this,” said she, passing the note back to Alice,
who, not feeling particularly comforted, made but little
progress in her studies that morning, and both
teacher and pupil were glad when the lessons of the
day were over.
Before starting for Lexington, Frederic had sent
Josh on some errand to Frankfort, and just after dinner
the negro returned. Isabel was still alone upon
the piazza when he came up, and as she was expecting
news from New Haven, she asked if he stopped at
the post office.
“Ye-e-us 'm,” began the stuttering negro, “an' I
d-d-d-one got a h-h-eap on 'em, too,” and Josh gave
her six letters—one for herself and five for Frederic.
Hastily breaking the seal of her own letter, she read
that their matters at home were satisfactorily arranged—
a tenant had already been found for their house, and
their furniture would be safely stowed away. Hearing
her mother in the hall, she handed the letter to her
and then went to the library to dispose of Frederic's.
As she was laying them down she glanced at the superscriptions,
carelessly, indifferently, until she came
to the last, the one bearing the New York postmark;
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
then, with a nervous start she caught it up again and
examined it more closely, while a sickening, horrid
fear crept through her flesh—her heart gave one fearful
throb and then lay like some heavy, pulseless
weight within her bosom. Could it be that she had
seen that handwriting before? Had the dead wife returned
to life, and was she coming back to Redstone
Hall? The thought was overwhelming, and for a moment
Isabel Huntington was tempted to break that
seal and read. But she dared not, for her suspicion
might be false; she would see Alice's note again, and
seeking out the child she asked permission to take the
letter which Marian had written. Alice complied
with her request, and darting away to the library Isabel
compared the two. They were the same. There
could be no mistake, and in the intensity of her excitement,
she felt her black hair loosening at its roots.
“It is from her, but he shall never see it, never!”
she exclaimed aloud, and her voice was so unnatural
that she started at the sound, and turning saw Alice
standing in the door with an inquiring look upon her
face, as if asking the meaning of what she had heard.
Isabel quailed beneath the glance of that sightless
child, and then sat perfectly still, while Alice said,
“Miss Huntington, are you here? Was it you who
spoke?”
Isabel made no answer, but trembling in every limb,
shrank farther and farther back in her chair as the little,
groping, outstretched arms came nearer and nearer
to her. Presently, when she saw no escape, she forced
a loud laugh, and said, “Fie, Alice. I tried to frighten
you by feigning a strange voice. You want your letter,
don't you? Here it is. I only wished to see if in
reading it a second time I could get any clue to the
mystery,” and she gave the bit of paper back to Alice,
who, somewhat puzzled to understand what it all
meant, left the room, and Isabel was again alone.
Three times she caught up the letter with the intention
of breaking its seal, and as often threw it down, for,
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
unprincipled as she was, she shrank from that act, and
still, if she did not know the truth, she should go mad,
she said, and pressing her hands to her forehead, she
thought what the result to herself would be were Marian
really alive.
“But she isn't,” she exclaimed. “I won't have it
so. She's dead—she's buried in the river.” But who
was there in New York that wrote so much like her?
She wished she knew, and she might know, too, by
opening the letter. If it was from a stranger, she could
destroy it, and he, thinking it had been lost, would
write again. She should die if she didn't know, and
maybe she should die if she did.
At all events, reality was more endurable than suspense,
and glancing furtively around to make sure
that no blind eyes were near, she snatched the letter
from the table and broke the seal! Even then she
dared not read it, until she reflected that she could not
give it to Frederic in this condition—she might as well
see what it contained; and wiping the cold moisture
from her face she opened it and read, while her flesh
seemed turning to stone, and she could feel the horror
creeping through her veins, freezing her blood and
petrifying her very brain. Marian Lindsey lived!
She was coming back again—back to her husband,
and back to the home which was hers. There was
enough in the letter for her to guess the truth, and she
knew why another had been preferred to herself. For
a moment even her lip curled with scorn at what she
felt was an unmanly act, but this feeling was soon lost
in the terrible thought that Marian might return.
“Can it be? Must it be?” she whispered, as her
hard, black eyes fastened themselves again upon the
page, blotted with Marian's tears. “Seven years—
seven years,” she continued, “I've heard of that before,”
and into the wild tumult of her thoughts there
stole a ray of hope. If she withheld the letter from
Frederic, and she must withhold it now, he would
never know what she knew. Possibly, too, Marian
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
might die, and though she would have repelled the
accusation, Isabel Huntington was guilty of murder in
her heart, as she sat there alone and planned what she
would do. She was almost on the borders of insanity,
for the disappointment to her now would be greater
and more humiliating than before. She had no home
to go to—her arrangements for remaining in Kentucky
were all made, and Redstone Hall seemed so fair that
she would willingly wait twice seven years, if, at the expiration
of that time, she were sure of being its mistress.
It was worth trying for, and though she had
but little hope of success, the beautiful demon bent
her queenly head and tried to devise some means of
effectually silencing Marian, so that if there really
were anything in the seven years the benefit would
accrue to her.
“She's a litle silly fool,” she said, “and this Mrs.
Daniel Burt she talked about is just as silly as herself.
They'll both believe what is told to them. I may never
marry Frederic, it is true, but I'll be revenged on Marian.
What business had she to cross my path, the
little red-headed jade!”
Isabel was growing excited, and as she dared do
anything when angry, she resolved to send the letter
back.
“I can imitate his handwriting,” she thought; “I
can do anything as I feel now,” and going to her room,
she found the letter he had written to her mother.
This she studied and imitated for half an hour, and
at the end of that time wrote on the blank page of
Marian's letter, “Isabel Huntington is now the mistress
of Redstone Hall.”
“That will keep her still, I reckon,” she said, and
taking a fresh envelope, she directed it to “Mrs. Daniel
Burt,” as Marian had bidden Frederic do. “'Twas
a fortunate circumstance, her telling him that, for
`Marian Lindsey' would have been observed at once,”
she thought; and then, lest her resolution should fail
her, she found Josh and bade him take the letter to
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
the post-office at the Forks of Elkhorn not very far
away.
Nothing could suit Josh better than to ride, and
stuttering out something which nobody could understand,
he mounted his rather sorry-looking horse and
was soon galloping out of sight. In the kitchen Mrs.
Huntington heard of Josh's destination, and when next
she met her daughter, she asked to whom she had been
writing.
“To some one, of course,” answered Isabel, at the
same time intimating that she hoped she could have a
correspondent without her mother troubling herself.
The rudeness of this speech was forgotten by Mrs.
Huntington in her alarm at Isabel's pale face, and she
asked anxiously what was the matter?
“Nothing but a wretched headache—teaching don't
agree with me,” was Isabel's reply, and turning away,
she ran up the stairs to her room, where, throwing herself
upon the bed, she tried to fancy it all a dream.
But it was not a dream, and Marian's anguish was
scarcely greater than her own at that moment, when
she began to realize that Frederic and Redstone Hall
were lost to her forever. There might be something
in the seven years, but it was a long, dreary time to
wait, with the ever-haunting fear that Marian might
return, and she half wished she had not opened the
letter. But her regrets were unavailing now, and resolving
to guard her secret carefully and deny what
she had done, if ever accused of it, she began to consider
how she should hereafter demean herself toward
Frederic. It would be terrible to have him making
love to her, she thought, for she would be compelled
to tell him no, and if another should become her rival,
she could not stand quietly by and witness the unlawful
deed.
“Oh, if I or Marian had never been born, this hour
would not have come to me,” she cried, burying her
face in the pillows to shut out the fast increasing darkness
which was so hateful to her.
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
Already was she reaping the fruit of the transgression,
and when an hour later she heard the voice of
Frederic in the hall, she stopped her ears, and, burying
her face still closer in the pillows, wished again
that either Marian or herself had never seen the light
of day.
-- --
CHAPTER X. FREDERIC AND ALICE.
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
All the day long Frederic had thought of Marian—
thought of the little blue-eyed girl, who just six
weeks before went away from him to die. To die.
Many, many times he said that to himself, and as often
as he said it, he thought, “perhaps she is not dead,”
until the belief grew strong in him that somewhere he
should find her, that very day it might be. He wished
he could, and take her back to Redstone Hall, where
she would be a barrier between himself and the beautiful
temptation which it was so hard for him to resist.
Manfully had he struggled against it, going always
from its presence when the eyes of lustrous black
looked softly into his own, and when he heard, as he
often did, the full rich-toned voice singing merry
songs, he stopped his ears lest the sweet music should
touch a chord which he said was hushed forever.
“It might have been,” he thought sometimes to
himself, but the time was past, and even if Marian
were dead, he must not take another to share the
wealth so generously given up. And Marian was dead,
he had always believed until to-day, when she seemed
to be so near, that on his return at night to Redstone
Hall he had a half presentiment that he might find her
there, or at least some tidings of her.
All about the house was dark, but on the piazza a
little figure was standing, and as its dim outline was
revealed to him, he said, involnntarily: “That may be
Marian, and I am glad, or at least I will be glad,” and
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
he was hurrying on, when a light from the hall streamed
out upon the figure, and he saw that it was Alice waiting
for him. Still the impression was so strong that
after kissing her, he asked if no one had been at the
Hall that day.
“No one,” she answered, and with a vague feeling
of disappointment, he led her into the house.
Alice's heart was full that night, for accidentally she
had heard old Hetty and Lyd discussing the probable
result of Isabel's sojourn among them, and the very
idea shocked her, as if they had trampled on Marian's
grave.
“I'll tell Frederic,” said she to herself, “and ask
him is he going to marry her,” and when after his supper
he went into the library to read the letters which
Mrs. Huntington told him were there, she followed
him thither.
It was not Frederic's nature to pet or notice children
much, but in his sorrow he had learned to love
the little helpless girl dearly, and when he saw her
standing beside him with a wistful look upon her face,
he smoothed her soft brown hair and said: “What
does my blind bird want?”
“Take me in your lap,” said Alice, “so I can feel
your heart beat and know if you tell me true.”
He complied with her request, and laying her head
against his bosom, she began, “be we much related?”
“Second cousins, that's all.”
“But you love me, don't you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“And I love you a heap,” returned the little girl.
“I didn't use to, though—till Marian went away.
Frederic, Marian isn't dead!” and, lifting up her head,
Alice looked at him with a truthful, earnest look,
which seemed to say that she believed what she asserted.
Frederic gasped a short, quick breath, and Alice
continued, “wouldn't it be very wicked for you to love
anybody else. I don't mean me—because I'm a little
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
blind girl—but to love somebody and marry them with
Marian alive?”
“Certainly it would be wicked,” he replied; and
Alice continued, “Aunt Hetty said you were going to
marry Isabel, and it almost broke my heart. I never
thought before that Marian wasn't dead, but I knew
it then. I felt her right there with us, and I've felt
her ever since. Dinah, too, said it seemed to her just
like Marian was alive, and that she hoped you wouldn't
make—perhaps I ought not to tell you, but you don't
care for Dinah—she hoped you wouldn't make a fool
of yourself. Frederic, do you love Isabel Huntington?”
“Yes,” dropped in voluntarily from the young man's
lips, for there was something about that old little child
which wrung the truth from him.
“Did you love her before you married Marian?”
“Yes,” he said again, for he could not help himself.
There was silence a moment, and then Alice, who
had been thinking of what he told her once before,
said, interrogatively, “Marian found it out, and that
was why she thought you didn't love her and went
away?”
“That was one reason, but not the principal one.”
“Do you think Isabel as good as Marian?”
“No, not as good—not as good,” and Frederic was
glad that he could pay this tribute to the lost one.
After a moment Alice spoke again:
“Frederic, do you believe Marian is dead?”
“I have always thought so,” he answered, and Alice
replied: “But you don't know for certain; and I want
you to promise that until you do you won't make love
to Isabel, nor marry her, nor anybody else, will you,
Frederic?” and putting both her little hands upon his
forehead, she pushed back his hair and waited for an
answer.
Many times the young man had made that resolution,
but the idea of thus promising to another was
unpleasant, and he hesitated for a time; then he said:
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
“Suppose we never can know for certain—would
you have me live all my life alone?”
“No,” said Alice, “and you needn't, either; but I'd
wait ever so long, ten years, anyway, and before that
time she'll come, I'm sure. Dinah says maybe she
will, and that perhaps we shan't know her, she'll be so
changed—so handsome,” and as if the power of prophecy
were on her, Alice pictured a beautiful woman
who might come to them sometime as their lost Marian,
and Frederic, listening to her, felt more willing
to promise than he had been before.
A glow of hope was kindled within his own bosom,
and when she finished he said to her:
“I will wait, Alice—wait ten years for Marian.”
Blessed Alice! When the mother, whose grave
was grass-grown now and sunken, first knew her only
child was blind, she murmured against the dealings of
Providence, and in the bitterness of her heart asked:
“Why was my baby born? and what good can it
ever do?”
She who had questioned thus was dead, while the
good the little girl was to do was becoming, each day,
more and more apparent. Helpless and blind though
she was, she would keep the strong man from falling,
and when his heart grew faint with hope deferred, her
gentle, earnest words would cheer him on to wait a little
longer. Marian was not dead to her, and so sure
of it did she seem that when the interview was ended,
and Frederic was left alone, he bowed his head reverently
and said:
“If Marian be, indeed, alive, will the good Father
send me some tidings of her, and so keep me from
sin?”
Oh! could the writing desk before him have told
how only that afternoon there had lain upon its velvet
cover a message from the lost one—a sweet, child-like
petition for him to take her back, even though he
could not love her—he would have gone for her then,
and, bringing her to the home which was not his, but
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
hers, he would have placed her between himself and
the temptation, yielding to her all honor and respect
until his heart should say it loved her. But the time
was not yet, and he must suffer longer—must pass
through deeper waters; while Marian, too, must be
molded and changed into a bride who, far better than
the queenly Isabel, could do the honors of Redstone
Hall.
-- 112 --
CHAPTER XI. THE LETTER RECEIVED.
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
It was baking-day at Mrs. Burt's, and the good lady
bustled in and out—her cap strings pinned over her
head, her sleeves tucked up above her shoulders, and
her face, hands and apron covered with flour. Occasionally
as she rolled out the short pie crust, or sliced
the juicy apple, she glanced at the rain-drops pattering
against the window, and said encouragingly, “I
don't care for the rain, for I've get a big umbrella and
the best kind of overshoes;” and as often as she related
the cheering words, they brought a smile to the
thin, white face of the young girl who sat in the large,
stuffed easy-chair, and did not offer to share the labors
of her aunt, as she called her.
Marian was sick. Strong excitement had worn her
strength away, and since she had sent the letter to
Frederic, her restless anxiety for the answer had made
her so weak that she kept her bed nearly all the time,
counting the days which must elapse ere she could
possibly hope to hear, and then, when the full time
was out, bidding Mrs. Burt wait one more day before
she went to the office, so as to be sure and get it. She
had made due allowance for delays, and now she was
certain that it had come. She would sit up that day,
she said, for she felt almost well; and if Frederic told
her to come home, she should start to-morrow and get
there Saturday night, and she fancied how people
would stare at her, and be glad to see her, too, on Sunday,
when she first went into church, for she “should
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
go, any way.” Alice, too, would be delighted, and
kiss her so many times; and then she wondered if
Frederic wouldn't kiss her, too — she thought he
might just once, she'd been so long away, and she said
to herself that “she would draw back a little, and let
him know she wasn't so very anxious.”
Poor Marian, how little was she prepared for the cruel
blow awaiting her! The pies were made at last, as
was the ginger-bread and crispy snaps; the apple dumplings,
Marian's favorite dessert, were steaming on the
stove; the litter was cleared away, the carpet swept,
the oil-cloth washed, the chairs set back; and then
exchanging her work dress for a more respectable delaine,
Mrs. Burt put over the kettle to boil, “for after
her wet walk, she should want a cup of tea,” she said,
and, leaving Marian to watch the pie baking in the
oven, she started on her errand.
“I mean to have the table ready when she gets
back,” said Marian—“for if I don't make her think
I'm well, she won't let me start so soon;” and, exerting
all strength, she set the table for dinner in the
neatest possible manner, even venturing upon the extravagance
of bringing out the best white dishes,
which Mrs. Burt only used on great occasions. “When
I get some, I'll send her a new set with gilt bands,” the
little girl said, as she arranged the cups, and then
stepped back to witness the effect. “Oh! I wish she'd
come,” she continued, glancing at the clock; but it
was not time yet, and, resuming her rocking-chair, she
tried to wait patiently.
But it seemed very long and very tiresome, sitting
there alone, listening to the rain and the ticking of the
clock. It is strange how the most trivial circumstance
will sometimes stamp itself indelibly upon the memory.
The steam from the dumplings, which Marian
thought she should enjoy so much, filled the room with
a sweet, sickly odor, and for many, many years she
remembered now faint it made her feel. But 'twas
a pleasant faintness now; everything was pleasant, for
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
wasn't she going home, back to Redstone Hall—back
to Frederic, who, if he didn't love her now, would
learn to love her, for Mrs. Burt said so; Mrs. Burt, who
knew almost as much as Dinah, and who, even while
she thought of her, was coming up the narrow stairs.
Marian heard her put her dripping umbrella beside
the door, but for her life she could not move. If she
should be disappointed after all, she said, and she
tried to see how many she could count before she
knew for certain.
“A letter—oh, have you a letter for me?” she attempted
to say, when Mrs. Burt came in, but she could
not articulate a word, and the good lady, wishing to
tease her a little, leisurely took off her overshoes,
hung up her shawl, wiped her damp bonnet with a
handkerchief, and looked at the dumplings and then
said, as indifferently as if the happiness of a young life
was not to be crushed by what she had in her pocket,
“it rains awfully down street!”
“I know—but the letter—was there a letter?” and
Marian's blue eyes looked dark with excitement. “Yes,
child, there was, but where it was mailed I don't know.
'Tis directed to me, and is from Kentucky, but I can't
make out the post mark mor'n the dead. It's some
kind of Forks, but the postmaster will never set the
Hudson on fire with his writing.”
“Forks of Elkhorn,” cried Marian, snatching at the
letter. “It's Frederic's superscription, too, and dated
ever so many days ago. Dear Frederic, he didn't
wait a minute before he wrote,” and she pressed to
her lips the handwriting of Isabel Huntington!
The envelope was torn open—the enclosed sheet
was withdrawn, but about it there was a strangely
familiar look. Was there a film before Marian's eyes?
Was she growing blind, or did she recognize her own
letter—the one she had sent to Redstone Hall? It
was the same—for it said “Dear Frederic” at the top,
and “Marian” at the bottom! And he had returned it
to her unanswered—not a word—not a line—nothing
-- 115 --
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
but silence, as cold, as hard and as terrible as the feeling
settling down on Marian's heart. But yes—there
was one line—only one, and it read—oh, horror, could
it be that he would mock her thus—that he would
tear out her bleeding heart and trample it beneath his
feet, by offering her this cruel insult.
“Isabel Huntington is now the mistress of Redstone
Hall.”
This was the drop in the brimming bucket, and if
she had suffered death when the great sorrow came
upon her once before, she suffered more now a hundred
fold. In her ignorance she fancied they were married,
for how else could Isabel be mistress there, and she
comprehended at once the shame—the disgrace such
a proceeding would bring to Frederic, and the wrong,
the dishonor, the insult it brought to her. There was
a look of anguish in her eye and a painful contraction
of the muscles about her mouth. There were purple
spots upon her flesh, which seemed wasting away
while she sat there, and a note of agony, rarely heard
by human ear, was in her voice, as she cried, “No,
no, no—it is too soon—too soon—anything but that,”
and the little Marian who, half an hour before, had
heard the ticking of the clock and listened to the rain,
lay in the arms of Mrs. Burt, a white, motionless thing,
unconscious of pain, unconscious of everything. She
had suffered all she could suffer, and henceforth no
sorrow which could come to her would eat into her
heart's core as this last one had done.
Mrs. Burt thought she was dead, as did those who
came at her loud call, but the old physician said there
was life, adding, as he looked at the blue pinched lips
and shrunken face: “The more's the pity, for she has
had some awful blow, and if she lives she'll probably
be a raving maniac.”
Poor Marian! As time passed on the physician's
words seemed likely to be verified. For days she lay
in the same death-like stupor, and when at last she
roused from it, 'twas only to tear her hair and rave in
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
wild delirium. At first, Mrs. Burt, who had examined
the letter, thought of writing to Frederic and telling
him the result of his cruel message, the truth of which
she did not believe; but she seldom acted without advice,
so she wrote first to Ben, who came quickly, crying
like a very child, and wringing his great rough
hands when he saw the swaying, tossing form upon
the bed and knew that it was Marian.
“No, mother,” he said, “we won't write. It's a lie
the villain told her, but we will let him be till she's
dead. God will find him fast enough, the rascal!” and
Ben struck his fist upon the bureau as if he would like to
take the management of Frederic into his own hands.
It was a long and terrible sickness which came to
Marian, and when the delirium was on, the very elements
of her nature seemed changed. For her hair
she conceived an intense loathing; and clutching at
her long tresses, she would tear them from her head
and shake them from her fingers, whispering scornfully:
“Go, you vile red things! He hates you, and so
do I.”
“Better shave the hull concern and not let her yank
it out like that,” said Ben; and when she became
more and more ungovernable, he passed his arms
around her and held fast her little hands, while her
head was shorn of the locks once so displeasing to
Frederic Raymond.
Ben's taste, however, was different, and putting
them reverently together, he dropped great tears upon
them, and then laid them carefully away, thinking:
“'Twill be something to look at when she's gone. Poor
little picked bird,” he would say as he watched by
her side and listened to her moaning cries for home,
“you'll be out of your misery afore long, and go to
a'nough sight better hum than Red stun Hall; but I
hev my doubts 'bout meetin' him there. Poor little
girl, if you hadn't been born a lady and I hadn't been
born a fool, and we'd been brung up together, mabby
-- 117 --
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
you wouldn't be a lyin' here a biting your tongue and
wringin' your hands, with your head shaved slick and
clean,” and the sweat dropped from Ben's face, as he
thought of what under widely different circumstances
might have been. “But it can't be now,” he said, “for
even if she wan't jined to this villain she loves so
much, she's as far above Ben Burt as the stars in
Heaven.”
This, however, did not lessen Ben's attentions in the
least, or stay his tears when he thought that she would
die. “She should be buried in Greenwood,” he said;
“he'd got more'n two hundred dollars in the bank at
Ware, all arnt honest, with hard work; and if there
was such a thing as a stun forty feet high she should
have it, and he'd get som o' them that scribbled for a
living to write a piece; there should be a big funeral,
too—he could hire carriages as well as the best of
'em—and he'd have a procession so long that folks
would stop and stare, and Frederic Raymond wouldn't
be ashamed on't either, the scalliway—he hoped when
he and Isabel came to die they'd be pitched into the
canal where the water was considerable kind o' dirty,
too!”
This long speech relieved Ben somewhat, and fully
determined to carry out his promise, he staid patiently
by Marian, nor experienced one feeling of regret when
he heard that, owing to his prolonged absence, his
place in Ware had been given to another.
“Nobody cares,” he said, “I can find something to
do if it's nothin' but sawin' wood.”
So he remained at home through all the winter
days, and watched by the sick girl, who talked piteously
of her home, of Alice, and that man who
hated her so. She never spoke his name, but she
sometimes begged of him to come and take her away
where it didn't thunder all the time. The roar of the
city disturbed her, and she frequently besought Ben to
go and stop it so that she could sleep and be better in
the morning; and Ben, had it been in his power,
-- 118 --
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
would have stayed the busy life around them, and let
the weary, worn-out sufferer sleep. But this could
not be, and so, day after day the heavy, incessant roar
came through the curtained window into the darkened
room, where Marian lay moaning in her pain. Once
in her unconsciousness she folded meekly her thin
hands and prayed, “Will God stop that noise and let
me sleep just once?” then with an expression of childish
trust upon her face, she said to those around her,
“He will stop it to-morrow, I reckon.”
And when the winter snows all were fallen, and the
early March sun shone upon the kitchen walls, the
to-morrow so much longed for came, and Marian
woke at last to consciousness. She was out of danger,
the physician said, though it might be long ere her
health was fully restored. To Marian, this announcement
brought but little joy. “She had hoped to die,”
she said, “and thus be out of the way.” and then she
spoke of Redstone Hall, asking if any tidings had
come from there since the dreadful message she had
received. There was none, for Isabel Huntington
guarded her secret well, and Frederic Raymond knew
nothing of the white, emaciated wreck which prayed
each day that he might be happy with the companion
he had chosen.
“If he had only waited,” she said to Mrs. Burt and
Ben, one day when she was able to be bolstered up in
bed, “if he had waited and not taken her so soon, I
shouldn't care so much, but its awful to think of his
living with her after I wrote that letter.”
“Marian,” said Ben, a little impatiently, “I'm naturally
a fool, so every body says, but I've sense
enough to know that Mr. Raymond never went and
married that woman so quick after you came away;
'tain't reasonable at all. Why, they'd mob him—tar
and feather him—for you ain't dead, and he's no business
with two wives.”
Marian's face was whiter than ever when Ben finished
speaking, and a bright red spot burned on her
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
cheek as she gasped, “You didn't,—you can't believe
she's there and not his wife. That would be worse
than everything else.”
“Of course I don't,” returned Ben. “My 'pinion is
that she ain't there at all, and he only writ that to
make a clean finish of you, or 'tany rate, so't you
wouldn't be coming back to bother him. He calkerlates
to have her bimeby. I presume—say in
seven years.”
“Oh, I wish I knew,” said Marian, and Ben replied,
“Would you rest any easier nights if you did?”
“Yes, a heap,” was the answer, and the great, blue
eyes looked wistfully at Ben, as if anxious that he
should clear up the mystery.
“You might write,” suggested Mrs. Burt; but
Marian shook her head, saying, “I wrote once, and
you know my success.”
“You certainly wouldn't go back,” continued Mrs.
Burt; and Marian answered indignantly, “Never! I
am sure he hates me now, and I shall not trouble him
again. Perhaps he thinks me mean because I read
the letter intended for him, and so found it all out.
But I thought it was mine until I read a ways, and
then I could not stop. My eyes wouldn't leave the
paper. Was it wrong in me, do you think?”
It is what anybody would have done,” answered
Mrs. Burt, and, changing the subject entirely, Marian
rejoined, “Oh, I do wish I knew about this Isabel.'
For a time Ben sat thinking; then striking his
hands together, he exclaimed, “I've got it, and it's
jest the thing, too. I don't want no better fun than
that. I've lost my place to Ware, and though I might
get another, I've a notion to turn peddler. I allus
thought I should like travellin' and seein' the world.
I'll buy up a lot of jimcracks and take a bee line for
Redstun Hall, and learn just how the matter stands.
I can put on a little more of the Down East Yankee,
if you think I hain't got enough, and I'll pull the wool
over their eyes. What do you say, wee one?”
-- 120 --
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
“Oh, I wish you would,” said Marian, adding in
the same breath, “what will you do, if you find him
the husband of Isabel?”
“Do!” he repeated. “String 'em both up by the
neck on one string. What do you 'spect I'd do?
Honest, though,” he continued, as he saw her look of
alarm; “if she is his wife, which ain't at all likely,
'tis because he s'posed you're dead, but he knows better
now, and I shall tell the neighbors that you're
alive and breathin', and they can do with him what
they choose—and if they ain't married, nor ain't
nothin', I'll just do what you say.”
“Come back, and don't tell Frederic you ever saw
or heard of me,” said Marian. “I shall not live a
great while, and even if I do, I'd rather not trouble
him. It would only make him hate me worse, and
that I couldn't bear. He knows now where I am, and
if he ever wants me, he will come. Don't tell him,
nor any one, a word of me, Ben, but do go, for I long
to hear from home.”
To Mrs. Burt this project seemed a wild and foolish
one, but she rarely opposed her son, and when se saw
that he was determined, she said nothing, but helped
him all she could.
“You'll be wantin' to send some jimcrack to that
blind gal, I guess,” he said to Marian one day, and she
replied, “I wish I could, but I havn't anything, and
besides you mustn't tell her of me.”
“Don't you worry,” answered Ben. “I've passed
my word, and I never broke it yet. I can manage to
give her somethin' and make it seem natural. What
do you say to makin' her a bracelet out o' them curls
of yourn that we shaved off?”
“That red hair! Frederic would know it at once,”
and Marian shook her head ruefully, but Ben persisted.
“'Twould look real pretty, just like gingerbread when
'twas braided tight,” and bringing out the curls, he
selected the longest one, and hurried off.
The result proved his words correct, for when a few
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
days after he brought home the little bracelet, which
was fastened with a neat golden clasp, Marian exclaimed
with delight at the soft beauty of her hair:
“Darling Alice,” she cried, kissing the tiny ornament,
“I wish she could know that my lips have
touched it—that it once grew on my head—but it
wouldn't be best. She couldn't keep the secret, and
you mustn't tell.”
“Don't worry, I say,” returned Ben. “I've got an
idee in my brains for a wonder, and I'm jest as 'fraid
of tellin' as you be. So cheer up a bit and grow fat,
while I'm gone, for I want you to be well when I come
back, so as to go to school and get to be a great
scholar, that Mr. Raymond won't be ashamed on when
the right time comes,” and Ben spoke as cheerfully as
if within his heart there was no grave where during
the weary nights when he watched with Marian he
buried his love for her, and vowed to think of her only
as a cherished sister.
Marian smiled pleasantly upon him, watching him
with interest as he made up his pack, consisting of
laces, ribbons, muslin, handkerchiefs, combs and jewelry,
a little real, and a good deal brass, “for the niggers,”
he said. Many were the charges she gave him
concerning the blacks, telling him which ones to notice
particularly, so as to report to her.
“Jehosiphat!” he exclaimed at last, “how many is
there? I shall never remember in the world,” and
taking out a piece of paper, he wrote upon it, “Dinah,
Hetty, Lid, Victory, Uncle Phil, Josh, and the big
dog. There!” said he, reading over the list, “if I don't
bring you news of every one, my name ain't Ben
Burt. I'll wiggle myself inter their good feelin's and
get 'em to talkin' of you, see if I don't.”
Marian had the utmost confidence in Ben's success,
and though she knew she should be lonely when he was
gone, she was glad when, at last, the morning came
for him to leave them. Ben, too, was equally
-- 122 --
[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
delighted, for the novelty lent a double charm to the project;
and, bidding his mother and Marian good-by, he gathered
up his large boxes, and whistling a lively tune,
by way of keeping up his spirits, started for Kentucky.
-- --
CHAPTER XII. THE YANKEE PEDDLER.
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
The warm, balmy April day was drawing to a
close, and the rays of the setting sun shone like
burnished gold on the western windows of Redstone
Hall. It was very pleasant there now, for the early
spring flowers were all in biossom, the grass was
growing fresh and green upon the lawn, and the creeping
vines were clinging lovingly to the time-worn pillars,
or climbing up the massive walls of dark red
stone, which gave the place its name. The old negroes
had returned from their labors, and were lounging
about their cabins, while the younger portion looked
wistfully in at the kitchen door, where Dinah and
Hetty were busy in preparing supper. On the back
piazza several dogs were lying, and as their quick
ears caught the sound of a gate in the distance, the
whole pack started up and went tearing down the
avenue, followed by the furious yell of Bruno, who
tried in vain to escape from his confinement.
“Thar's somebody comin',” said Dinah, shading her
eyes with her hand, and looking toward the highway;
“somebody with somethin' on his back. You, Josh,
go after them dogs, afore they skeer him to death.”
Stuttering out some unintelligible speech, Josh
started in the direction the dogs had gone, and soon
came up to a tall six-footer, who, with short pantaloons,
a swallow-tailed coat, stove-pipe hat, sharppointed
collar, red necktie, and two huge boxes on his
-- 124 --
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
back, presented a rather ludicrous appearance to the
boy, and a rather displeasing one to the dogs., who
growled angrily, as if they would pounce upon him at
once. The club, however, with which he had armed
himself kept them at bay, until Josh succeeded in
quieting them down.
“Ra-ally, now,” began our friend Ben, who vainly
imagined it necessary to put on a little, by way of
proving himself a genuine Yankee—“ra-ally, now,
boot-black, what's the use of keepin' sich a 'tarnal lot
o' dogs to worry a decent chap like me.”
It was Josh's misfortune to stammer much more
when at all excited, and to this interrogatory he
began, “Caw-caw-caw-cause ma-ma-mars wa-wa-want—”
“Great Heaven!” interrupted the Yankee, setting
down his pack and eyeing the stuttering negro as if
he had been the last curiosity from Barnum's—“will
you tell a fellow what kind of language you speak.”
“Spe-pe-pe-pects sa-sa-same ye-e-e you do,” returned
the negro, failing wholly to enlighten Ben, who rejoined
indignantly, “You go to grass with your
lingo;” and, gathering up his boxes, he started for the
house, accompanied by Josh and the dogs, the first of
which made several ineffectual attempts at conversation.
“Some nateral born fool,” muttered Ben, thinking
to himself that he would like to examine the boy's
mouth and see what ailed it.
After a few minutes they entered the yard, and
came up to the other blacks, who were curiously
watching the new comer. Seating himself upon the
steps and crossing one leg over the other, Ben swung
his cowhide boot forward and back, and greeted them
with, “wall, uncles, and ants, and cousins, how do you
dew, and how do you find yourselves this afternoon?”
“Jest tolerable, thanky,” answered uncle Phil, and
Ben continued, “wall, health is a great blessing to them
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
that hain't got it. Do you calkerlate that I could stay
here to night? I've got lots o' gewgaws,” pointing to
his boxes—“hankerchers, pins, ear-rings and a red and
yeller gownd that'll jest suit you, old gall,” nodding to
Dinah, who muttered gruffly, “if he calls me old
what'll he say to Hetty?”
Ben saw he had made a mistake, for black women
no more care to be old than their fairer sisters, and he
tried to make amends by complimenting the indignant
lady until she was somewhat mollified, when he
asked again if he could stay all night?
“You, Josh,” said Uncle Phil, “go and tell yer
master to come here.”
“Whew-ew,” whistled Ben, “if you're goin' to send
that stutterin' critter, I may as well be joggin', for no
human can make out his rigmarole.”
But Ben was mistaken. Josh's dialect was well understood
by Frederic, who came as requested, and,
standing in the door, gazed inquisitively at the singular
looking object seated upon his steps, and apparently
oblivious to everything save the sliver he was
trying to extract from his thumb with a large pin, ejaculating
occasionally, “gaul darn the pesky thing.”
Nothing, however, escaped the keen grey eyes
which from time to time peered out from beneath the
stove-pipe hat. Already Ben had seen that Redstone
Hall was a most beautiful spot, and he did not blame
Frederic for disliking to give it up. He had selected
Dinah and Phil from the other blacks, and had said
that the baby, who, with a small white dog, was disputing
its right to a piece of fat bacon and a chicken
bone, was Victoria Eugenia. Josh he identified by his
name, and he was wondering at Marian's taste in caring
to hear from him, when Frederic appeared, and
all else was forgotten in his eagerness to inspect the
man “who could make a gal bite her tongue in two
and yank her hair out by the roots, all for the love of
him.”
Frederic seemed in no hurry to commence a
-- 126 --
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
conversation, and during the minute that he stood there
without speaking, Ben had ample time to take him
in from his brown hair and graceful mustache down to
his polished boots.
“Got up in considerable kind of good style,” was
Ben's mental comment, as he watched the young man
carelessly scraping his finger nail with a pen-knife.
“Did you wish to see me?” Frederic said at last,
and with another thrust at the sliver, Ben stuck his
pin upon his coat sleeve, and reversing the position of
his legs, replied, “wall, if you're the boss, I guess I
dew; I'm Ben Butterworth from down East, and I've
got belated, and bein' there ain't no taverns near I
want to stay all night, and pay in money or notions.
Got a lot on 'em, besides some tip top muslin collars
for your wife, Mrs., what do you call her?” and the
gray eyes glistened themselves upon the face, which
for a single instant was white as marble—then the
hot blood came rushing back, and Frederic replied,
“there is no wife here, sir, but you can stay all night
if you please. Will you walk in?” and he led
the way to the sitting-room, followed by Ben, who had
obtained what to him was the most important information
of all.
The night was chilly, and in the grate a cheerful
coal fire was burning, casting its ruddy light upon the
face of a little girl, who, seated upon a stool, with
her hair combed back from her sweet face, her waxen
hands folded together and her strange brown eyes
fixed upon the coals as if she were looking at something
far beyond them, seemed to Ben what he had
fancied angels in heaven to be. It was not needful for
Mr. Raymond to say, “Alice, here is a peddler come
to stay all night,” for Ben knew it was the blind girl,
and his heart gave a great throb when he saw her sitting
there so beautiful, so helpless, and so lonely, too,
for he almost knew that she was thinking of Marian,
and he longed to take her in his arms and tell her of
the lost one.
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
Motioning him to a chair, Frederic went out, leaving
them together. For some minutes there was perfect
silence, while Ben sat looking at her and trying hard
to keep from crying. It seemed terrible to him that
one so young should be blind, and he wanted to tell
her so, but he dared not, and he sat so still that Alice
began to think she was alone, and, resuming her former
thoughts, whispered softly to herself, “oh, I wish
she would come back.”
“Blessed baby,” Ben had almost ejaculated, but
he checked himself in time, and said instead, “little
gal.”
Alice started, and turning her ear, seemed waiting
for him to speak again, which he did soon.
“Little gal, will you come and sit in my lap?”
His voice was gentle and kind, but Alice did not
care to be thus free with a stranger, so she replied,
“I reckon I won't do that, but I'll sit nearer to you,”
and she moved her stool so close by him that her head
almost rested on his lap.
“You must 'scuse me,” she said, “if I don't act like
other children do—I'm blind.”
Very tenderly he smoothed her silken hair, and as
he did so, she felt something drop upon her forehead.
It was a tear, and wiping it away, she said:
“Man, be you hungry and tired, or what makes you
cry?”
“I'm cryin' for you, poor, unfortunate lamb;” and
the tender-hearted Ben sobbed out aloud.
“Oh, I wouldn't, I wouldn't,” said the distressed
child—“I'm used to it. I don't mind it now.”
The ice was fairly broken, and a bond of sympathy
established between the two.
“He must be a good man,” Alice thought; and
when he began to question her of her home and friends,
she replied to him readily.
“You haven't no mother, nor sister, nor a'nt, nor
nothin', but Mr. Raymond and Dinah,” said Ben, after
-- 128 --
[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
they had talked awhile. “Ain't there no white women
in the house but you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Huntington and Isabel. She's my governess,”
answered Alice; and, conscious of a pang,
Ben continued:
“Mr. Raymond sent for 'em, I s'pose?”
“No,” returned Alice. “They came without sending
for—came to visit, and he hired them to stay. Mrs.
Huntington keeps house.”
At this point in the conversation there was a rustling
of garments in the hall, and a splendid, queenly
creature swept into the room, bringing with her such
and air of superiority that Ben involuntarily hitched
nearer to the wall, as if to get out of sight.
“Je-ru-sa-lem! ain't she a dasher?” was his mental
exclamation; and, in spite of himself, he followed her
movements with an admiring glance.
“Taking a chair, she drew it to the fire, and, without
deigning to notice the stranger, she said, rather
reprovingly,
“Alice, come here.”
The child obeyed, and Ben, determined not to be
ignored entirely, said:
“Pretty well this evenin', miss?”
“How, sir?” and the black eyes flashed haughtily
upon him.
Nothing abashed, he continued: “As't you if you're
pretty well, but no matter, I know you to be by your
looks. I've got a lot of finery that I know you want.”
And on opening his boxes, he spread out upon the
carpet the collars and under-sleeves, which had been
bought with a view to this very night. Very disdainfully
Isabel turned away, saying she never traded with
peddlers.
“I wonder if you don't,” returned Ben, with imperturbable
gravity. “Wall, now, seein' it's me, buy
somethin', dew. Here's a bracelet that can't be beat,”
and he held up to view Marian's soft hair, which, in
the bright firelight, looked singularly beautiful.
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
Isabel did unbend a little now. There was no sham
about that, she knew, and, taking it in her hand, she
tried to clasp it on her round, white arm; but it would
not come together. It was not made for her!
“It isn't large enough,” said she; “it must have
been intended for some child.”
“Shouldn't wonder if you'd hit the nail right on the
head,” returned Ben, and taking the bracelet he continued,
“Mebby 'twas meant for this wee one—who
knows?” and he fastened it on Alice's slender wrist.
“Fits to a T,” said he, “and you have it, too. Them
clasps is little hearts, do you see?”
Frederic now entered the room, and holding up her
arm, Alice said, “Look, is it pretty?”
“Yes, very,” he replied, bending down to examine
it, while Ben watched him narrowly, wondering how
he would feel if he knew from whose tresses that braid
was made.
“Harnsome color, ain't it, Square?” he said, holding
Alice's hand a little more to the light, and continuing,
“Now there's them that don't like red hair,
but I swan I've seen some that wan't so bad. Now
when it curls kinder—wall, like a gimblet, you know.
I've got a gal to hum I call my sister, and her hair's as
nigh this color as two peas, or it was afore 'twas shaved.
She's been awful sick with the heart disorder, and
fever, and I tell you, Square, if you'd o' seen her pitchin'
and divin', and rollin' from one end of the bed to
t'other, bitin' her tongue and yankin' out her hair by
han'fuls, I rather guess you'd felt kinder streaked. It
made a calf of me, though I didn't feel so bad then as
when she got weaker, and lay so still that we held a
feather to her lips to see if she breathed.”
“Oh, did she die?” asked Alice, who had been an
attentive listener.
“No,” answered Ben, “she didn't, and the thankfullest
prayer I ever prayed was the one I made in the
buttery, behind the door, when the doctor said she
would get well.”
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
Supper was announced, and putting up his muslins,
Ben followed his host to the dining-room. Alice, too,
was at the table, the bracelet still upon her wrist, for
she liked the feeling of it. “And she did so wish it
was hers.”
“I shall have to buy it for you, I reckon,” said Frederic,
and he inquired its price.
“Wall, now,” returned Ben, “if 'twas any body but
the little gal, I should say five dollars, but bein' it's
hers, I'd kinder like to give it to her.”
This, however, Frederic would not suffer. Alice
would not keep it, he said, unless he paid for it, and
he put a half eagle into the hand of the child, who
offered it to Ben. For a moment, the latter hesitated,
then thinking to himself, “Darnt it all, what's the use.
If Marian goes to school, as I mean she shall, she'll
need a lot of money, and what I get out o' him is clear
gain,” he pocketed the piece, and the bracelet belonged
to Alice.
After supper, Ben sat down by the fire in the dining-room,
hoping the family would leave him with Alice,
and this they did ere long, Isabel going to the piano,
and Frederic to the library to answer letters, while
Mrs. Huntington gave some directions for breakfast.
These directions were merely nominal, however, for
Dinah, to all intents and purposes, was mistress of the
household, and she came in to see to the supper dishes,
which were soon cleared away, and Ben, as he wished,
was alone with Alice. The bracelet seemed to be a
connecting link between them, for Alice was not in the
least shy of him now, and when he asked her again to
sit in his lap, she did so readily.
“That Miss Isabel is a dreadful han'some gal,” he began;
“I should s'pose Mr. Raymond would fall in love
with her.”
No answer from Alice, whose sightless eyes looked
steadily into the fire.
“Mebby he is in love with her.”
No answer yet, and mentally chiding himself
-- 131 --
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
for his stupidity in not striking the right vein, Ben
continued:
“I wonder he hain't married afore this. He must be
as much as twenty-five or six years old, and so han'
some too!”
“He has been married,” and the little face of the
speaker did not move a muscle.
“Now you don't say it,” returned Ben. “A widower,
hey? How long sence he was married?”
“A few months,” and the long eye-lashes quivered
in the firelight just a little.
“I want to know—died so soon—poor critter. Tell
me about her, dew. You didn't know her long, so I
s'pose you couldn't love her a great sight?”
The brown eyes flashed up into Ben's face, and the
blood rushed to Alice's cheek, as she replied “Me not
love Marian! Oh, I loved her so much!”
The right chord was touched at last, and in her own
way Alice told the sad story—how Marian had left
them on her bridal night, and though they searched
for her everywhere, both in the river and through the
country, no trace of her could be found, and the conviction
was forced upon them that she was dead.
“Je-ru-sa-lem! I never thought of that!” was Ben's
involuntary exclamation; but it conveyed no meaning
to Alice, and when he asked if they still believed her
dead, she answered:
“I don't quite believe Frederic does. I don't, any
way. I used to, though, but now it seems just like she
would come back,” and turning her face more fully
toward him, Alice told how she had loved the lost one,
and how each day she prayed that she might come
home to them again.
“I don't know as she was pretty,” she said, “but
she was so sweet, so good, and I'm so lonesome without
her,” and down Alice's cheeks the big tears rolled,
while Ben's kept company with them and fell upon
her hands.
“Man, don't you cry a heap?” she asked, shaking the
-- 132 --
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
round drops off and wondering why a perfect stranger
should care so much for Marian.
“I'm so plaguy tender-hearted that I can't help
it,” was Ben's apology, as he blew his nose vigorously
upon his blue cotton handkerchief.
For a time longer he talked with her, treasuring up
blessed words of comfort for the distant Marian, and
learning also that Alice was sure Frederic would never
marry again until certain of Marian's death. He might
like Isabel, she admitted, but he would not dare make
her his wife till he knew for true what had become of
Marian.
“And he does know it, the scented up puppy,”
thought Ben. “He jest writ her that last insultin' thing
to kill her out and out; but he didn't come it, and till
he knows he did, he dassent do nothin'.”
This reasoning was very satisfactory to Ben, who,
having learned from Alice all that he could, began to
think it was time to cultivate the negroes, and putting
the child from his knee, he said “he guessed he'd go
out and see the slaves—mebby they'd like to trade a
little, and he must be off in the mornin'.”
Accordingly he started for the kitchen, where his
character had been pretty thoroughly dissected. A
negro from a neighboring plantation had dropped in on
a gossiping visit, and as was very natural, the conversation
had turned upon the peddler, whose peculiar appearance
had attracted much attention at the different
places where he had stopped. Particularly was this the
case at the house the black man Henry lived.
“He done ask a heap of questions about us colored
folks,” said Henry; “how many was there of us, how
old was we, and what was we worth, and when marster
axed him did he want to buy, he said “no, but way off
whar he lived he all us spoke in meetin', and them folks
was mighty tickled to hear suffin' 'bout niggers.' Ole
Miss say now't she done b'lieve he's an abolution come
to run some on us off,' case he look like one o' them
chaps down in the penitentiary.”
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
“Oh, Lord,” ejaculated Dinah, involuntarily hitching
her chair nearer to Victoria Eugenia, who lay in her
cradle.
Old Hetty, too, took alarm at once, and glancing
nervously at her own grandchild Dudley, a little boy
two years of age, who was stretched upon the floor,
“she hoped to goodness he wouldn't carry off Dud.”
“Jest the ones he'll pick for. He could hide a dozen
on em in them big boxes,” said Henry, and feeling
pleased at the interest he had awakened in the two old
ladies he proceeded to relate the stories he had heard
“'bout them fetched Yankees meddlin' with what didn't
consarn 'em,' and he advised Dinah and Hetty both
not to let the peddler get sight of the children for fear
of what might happen.
At this point Ben came out of the house with his huge
boxes. He was first discovered by Josh, who, delighted
with the fun, pointed mysteriously toward him and stuttered,
“Da-da-da 'e co-co-comes.”
“The Lord help us,” said Dinah and quick as thought
she seized the sleeping Victoria Eugenia and thrust
her into the churn as the nearest place of concealment.
The awakened baby gave a screech but Dinah stopped
its mouth with a piece of the licorice she always
carried in her pocket with her tobacco box and pipe.
Meantime Hetty, determined not to be outdone, caught
up Dud, and, opening the meal chest, tumbled him in,
telling him in fierce whispers “not to stir nor wink, for
thar was a man comin' to cotch him.”
Snatching a newspaper which lay on the floor, she
rolled it together and placed it under the lid, so as to
allow the youngster a breathing place. This done, she
resumed her seat just as Ben appeared, who, throwing
down his pack, accosted her with—
“Wall, a'nt, got your chores done? 'Cause if you have
I want to trade a little. I won't be hard on you,” he
continued, as he saw the forbidding expression of her
face. “I'll dicker cheap and take most any kind o'
dud for pay.”
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
Dicker and chores were Greek to old Hetty, but she
fully comprehended the word Dud. He meant her
DUD — the one in the meal chest—and she grasped
the handle of the frying pan, so as to be ready for what
might follow next.
“Let me show you some breastpins,” said Ben, looking
round for a chair.
They were all occupied, and as the mischievous Josh
pointed to the chest, Ben crossed over, and ere Hetty
was aware of his intention, seated himself quite as a
matter of course. But not long, for Hetty's dusky fist
flourished in the air, and, more than all, the smothered
cry of “Granny, granny, he done sot on me,” which
came from beneath him, landed him on the other side
of the room, where he struck against the churn; whereupon,
Victoria Eugenia set up another yell, which sent
him back to the spot where Josh's cowhides were performing
various evolutions by way of showing his delight.
“Thunder!” ejaculated Ben, looking first at the skirts
of his swallow-tail, then at the chest, from which Dud
was emerging, covered with meal, and then at the churn,
over the top of which a pair of little black hands and
a piece of licorice were visible, “what's the meaning
of all this?”
No explanation whatever was vouchsafed, and, to
this day, Ben does not know the reason why those negroes
were stowed away in such novel hiding places.
When the excitement had somewhat subsided, Ben
returned to his first intention, behaving so civilly that
the fears of the negroes gave way, and Dinah was so
well pleased with purchasing a brass pin at half price
that Ben ventured, at last to say:
“That little gal, Alice, has been tellin' me about
Mr. Raymond's marriage. Unluckly, wasn't he?
Shouldn't wonder though, if he had a kind of hankerin'
after that black-eyed miss. She's han'some as a picter.”
Dinah needed but this to loosen her tongue. She
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
had long before made up her mind that “Isabel was no
kind o' 'count;” and once the two had come to open
hostilities, Isabel accusing Dinah of being a “lazy, gossiping
nigger,” while Dinah, in return, had told her
“she warn't no better 'n she should be stickin' 'round
after Mars. Frederic, when nobody knew whether Miss
Marian was dead, or not.”
This indignity was reported to Frederic, who reproved
old Dinah, sharply; whereupon, she turned toward
him, and, to use her favorite expression, “gin him a
piece of her mind.”
After this it was generally understood that between
Dinah and Isabel here existed no very amicable state of
feeling, and when Ben spoke of the latter, the former
exploded at once.
“'Twas a burnin' shame,” she said, “and it mortified
her een-a-most to death to see the trollop a tryin' to
set to marster, when nobody know'd for sartin if his
fust wife was dead,”
“Marster's jest as fast as she,” interposed Hetty,
who seldom agreed with Dinah.
A contemptous sneer curled Dinah's lip as she said
to Ben, in a whisper:
“Don't b'lieve none o' her trash. Them Higginses
allus would lie. I hain't never seen Marster Frederic
do a single thing out o' the way, 'cept to look at her,
jest as Phil used to look at me when he was sparkin'.
I don't think that was very 'spectable in him, to be
sure, but looks don't signify. He dassen't marry her
till he knows for sartin t'other one is dead. He done
told Alice so, and she told me;” and then Dinah launched
out into praises of the lost Marian, exalting her
so highly that Ben tossed into her lap a pair of ear-rings
which she had greatly admired.
“Take them,” said he, “for standin' up for that poor
runaway. I like to hear one woman stick to another.”
Dinah cast an exulting glance at Hetty, who, nothing
daunted, came forward and said:
“Miss Marian was as likely a gal as thar was in
-- 136 --
[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
Kentuck, and she, for one, should be as glad to see her back
as some o' them that made sich a fuss about it.”
“Playin' 'possum,” whispered Dinah. “Them
Higginses in up to that.”
Ben probably thought so too, for he paid no attention
to Hetty, who, highly indignant started for Isabel,
and told her “how Dinah and that fetch-ed peddler
done spilt her character entirely.”
“Leave the room,” was Isabel's haughty answer.
“I am above what a poor negro and an ignorant Yankee
can say.”
“For the dear Lord's sake,” muttered the discomfited
Hetty; “wonder if she ain't a Yankee her own self.
'Spects how she done forgot whar she was raised,” and
Hetty returned to the kitchen a warmer adherent of
Marian than Dinah had ever been.
She, too, was very talkative now, and before nine
o'clock Ben had learned all that he expected to learn,
and much more. He had ascertained that no one had
the slightest suspicion of the reason why Marian went
away; that both Frederic and Isabel seemed unhappy;
that Dinah and Hetty, too, believed “thar was somethin'
warin' on thar minds;” that Frederic was discontented,
and talked seriously of leaving Redstone Hall
in care of an overseer, and moving, in the Autumn to
to his residence on the Hudson; that Hetty hoped he
would, and Dinah hoped he wouldn't, “'case if he did,
it would be next to impossible to get a stroke o' work
out o' them lazy Higginses.”
“I've got all I come for, I b'lieve,” was Ben's mental
comment, as he left the kitchen and returned to the
dining room, where he found Frederic alone. “I'll poke
his ribs a little,” he thought, and helping himself to a
chair, he began:
“Wall, Square, I've been out seein' your niggers.
Got a fine lot on 'em, and I shouldn't wonder if you
was wo'th considerable. Willed to you by your dad,
or was it a kind of a dowry come by your wife?
You're a widower, they say;” and the gray eyes looked
-- 137 --
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
out at their corners, as Ben thought, “That'll make
him squirm, I guess.”
Frederic turned very white, but his voice was natural
as he replied:
“My father was called the richest man in the county,
and I was his only child.”
“Ah, yes, come to you that way,” answered Ben,
continuing after a moment. “There's a big house up
on the Hudson—to Yonkers—that's been shet up and
rented at odd spells for a good while, and somebody
told me it belonged to a Colonel Raymond, who lived
South. Mabby that's yourn?”
“It is,” returned Frederic, “and I expect now to go
there in the Fall.”
“I want to know. I shouldn't s'pose you could be
hired to leave this place.”
“I couldn't be hired to stay. There are too many
sad memories connected with it,” was Frederic's answer,
and he paced the floor hurriedly, while Ben continued:
Mabby you'll be takin' a new wife there?”
Frederic's cheek flushed as he replied:
“If I ever marry again, it will not be in years.
Would you like to go to bed, sir?”
Ben took the hint and replying, “I don't care if I
dew,” followed the negro, who came at Frederic's call,
up to his room, a pleasant, comfortable chamber, overlooking
the river and the surrounding country.
“Golly, this is grand!” said Ben, examining the different
articles of furniture, as if he had never seen anything
like it before.
The negro, who was Lyd's husband, made no reply,
but, hurrying down stairs to his mother-in-law, he told
her, “Thar was somethin' mighty queer about that
man, and if they all found themselves alive in the mornin,
' he should be thankful.”
Unmindful of breast-pin and ear-rings, Dinah became
again alarmed, and, bidding Joe see that Victoria Eugenia
was safe, she gathered up the forks and spoons,
and rolling them in a towel, tucked them inside her
-- 138 --
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
straw tick, saying: “I reckon it'll make him sweat
some to hist me and Phil on to the floor;” which was
quite probable, considering that the united weight
of the worthy couple was somewhat over three hundred!
The morning dawned at last, and, with her fears
abated, Dinah washed the silver, made the coffee,
broiled the steak and fried the corn-meal batter-cakes,
which last were at first respectfully declined by Ben,
who admitted that they “might be fust-rate, but he
didn't b'lieve they'd set well on his stomach.”
Hetty, who was waiting upon the table, quickly divined
the reason, and whispered to him: “Lord bless
you, take some; I done sifted the meal!”
This argument was conclusive, and helping himself
to the light, steaming cakes, Ben thought, “I may as
well eat 'em, for 'taint no wus, nor as bad as them Irish
gals does to hum, only I happened to see it!”
Breakfast being over, he offered to settle his bill,
which he found was nothing.
“Now, ra-ally, Square,” he said, as Frederic refused
to take pay, “I allus hearn that Kentuckians was
mighty free-hearted, but I didn't 'spect you to give me
my livin'. I'm much obleeged to you, though, and I
shall have more left to eddicate that little sister I was
tellin' you 'bout. I mean to give her tip-top larnin',
and mebby sometime she'll come here to teach this
wee one,” and he laid his hand on Alice's hair.
The little girl smiled up in his face, and said, “Come
again and peddle here, won't you?”
“Wouldn't wonder if I turned up amongst you some
day,” was his answer; and bidding the family goodbye,
he went out into Bruno's kennel, for until this
minute he had forgotten that the dog was to be remembered.
“Keep away from dar,” called out Uncle Phil, while
Bruno growled savagely and bounded against the bars
as if anxious to pounce upon the intruder.
“I've seen enough of him,” thought Ben, and
-- 139 --
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
shaking hands with Uncle Phil, he walked rapidly down
the avenue and out into the highway.
Marian, he knew, was anxious to hear of his success,
and not willing to keep her waiting longer than was
necessary, he determined to return at once. Accordingly,
while the unsuspecting inmates of Redstone
Hall were discussing his late visit and singular appearence,
he was on his way to the depot, where he took
the first train for Frankfort, and was soon sailing down
the Kentucky toward home.
-- --
CHAPTER XIII. PLANS.
[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
Marian was sitting by the window of her little room,
looking out into the busy street below, and thinking
how differently New York seemed to her now from
what it did that dreary day when she wandered down
Broadway, and wished that she could die. She was
getting accustomed to the city roar, and the sounds
which annoyed her so much at first did not trouble
her as they once had done. Still there was the same
old pain at her heart—a restless, longing desire to
hear from home, and know if what she feared were
true. She had counted the days of Ben's absence, and
she knew it was almost time for his return. She did
not expect him to-day, however, and she paid no attention
to the heavy footstep upon the stairs, neither
did she hear the creaking of the door; but when Mrs.
Burt exclaimed, “Benjamin Franklin! where did you
come from?” she started, and in an instant held both
his hands in hers.
Wistfully, eagerly she looked up into his face, longing,
yet dreading, to ask the important question.
“Have you been there?” she managed to say at
last; and Ben replied, “Yes, chicken, I have, I've
been to Redstun Hall, and seen the hull tribe on 'em
That Josh is a case. Couldn't understand him no more
than if he spoke a furrin tongue.”
“But Frederic—did you see him, and is he—oh,
Ben, do tell me—what you know I want to hear?” and
Marian trembled with excitement.
-- 141 --
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
“Wall, I will,” answered Ben, dropping into a chair,
and coming to the point at once. “Frederic ain't
married to Isabel, nor ain't a-goin' to be, either.”
“What made him write me that lie?” was Marian's
next question, asked so mournfully that Ben replied:
“A body'd s'pose you was sorry it warn't the truth
he writ.”
“I am glad it is not true,” returned Marian, “but it
hurts me so to lose confidence in one I love. How
does Frederic look?”
“White as a sheet and poor as a crow,” said Ben.
“It's a wearin' on him, depend on't. But she—I tell
you she's a dasher, with the blackest eyes and hair I
ever seen.”
“Who?” fairly screamed Marian. “Who? Not
Isabel? Oh, Ben, is Isabel there?” And Marian grew
as white as Ben had described Frederic to be.
“Yes she is,” returned Ben. “She's pretendin' to
teach that blind gal, but Frederic ain't makin' love to
her—no such thing. So don't go to faintin' away, and
I'll begin at the beginning and tell you the hull story.”
Thus re-assured, Marian composed herself and listened,
while Ben narrated every particular of his recent
visit to Redstone Hall.
“I stopped at some of the houses in the neighborhood,”
said he, “but I never as't a question about the
Raymonds, for fear of bein' mistrusted. Come to
think on't, though, I did inquire the road, and they
sent me through corn fields, and hemp fields, and
mercy knows what; such a way as they have livin' in
the lots? But I kinder like it. Seems like a story,
them big housen way off among the trees, with the
whitewashed cabins round 'em lookin' for all the world
like a camp-meetin' in the woods—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Marian; “but Frederic—
won't you ever reach him?”
“Not till I tell you about the dogs, and that jawbreakin'
chap they call Josh, with his cow hides, big
-- 142 --
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
as a scow-boat, I'll bet,” was Ben's answer; and finding
it useless to hurry him, Marian summoned all her
patience and waited while he waded through his
introduction to the blacks, his attempt to be more of
a Yankee than he really was, his sliver in his thumb,
and, finally his addressing Frederic as Square and inquiring
for his wife!
Marian was all attention now, and held her breath,
lest she should lose a single word. When he
came to Isabel, and described her glowing, sparkling
beauty, she trembled in every joint, and felt as if she
were turning to stone; but when he spoke of Alice,
and the sweet, loving words she had said of the lost
one, the cold, hard feeling passed away, and, covering
her face with her hands, she wept aloud. Everything
which Ben had seen or heard he told, omitting not a
single point, but lengthening out his story with surmises
and suspicions of his own.
“Alice and Dinah both,” said he, “told me Frederic
wouldn't marry till they knew for certain you was
dead, and as he does know for certain, you can calkerlate
on that Isabel's bein' an old maid for all of him.”
“I never supposed they'd think me drowned when
I dropped my glove and handkerchief,” said Marian.
“Did they inquire at the depot.”
“Yes—so Alice said,” returned Ben, “and nobody
knew nothin' of you; so it was nateral they should
think you drownded: but, no matter, it makes it more
like a novel, and now I'll tell you jest what 'tis, wee
one, I don't mean no offense, and you must take it all
in good part. You are a great deal better than Isabel,
I know; but, as fur as looks and manners is concerned,
you can't hold a candle to her, and a body knowin' nothing
about either would naterally say she was most befittin'
Redstun Hall; but, tell 'em to wait a spell. You
hain't got your growth yet, and you are gettin' betterlookin'
every day. That sickness made a wonderful
change in you, and shavin' your hair was jest the
thing. It's comin' out darker, as it always does, and
-- 143 --
[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
in less than a year I'll bet my hat on its bein' a beautiful
auburn. You must chirk up and grow fat, for
I'm goin' to send you to school, and have you take lessons
on the pianner, and learn French and everything,
so that by the time you're twenty you'll be the best
educated and han'somest gal in the city, and then
when the right time comes, if Providence don't contrive
to fetch you two together, Ben Burt will. I shall
keep my eye on him, and if he's gettin' too thick with
Isabel, I'll drop a sly hint in his ear. They're goin'
to move up on to the Hudson to the old place—did I
tell you?—and mebby you'll run afoul of him in the
street some day.”
“Oh, I hope not—at least, not yet—not till the time
you speak of,” said Marian, who had listened eagerly
to Ben's suggestion, and already felt that there was
hope for her in the future. She would study so hard,
she thought, and learn so fast, and if she only could
be thought handsome, or even decent-looking, she
would be satisfied, but that was impossible, she feared.
She did not know that, as Ben had said, the severe
illness through which she had passed had laid the
foundation for a softer, more refined style of beauty
than she would otherwise have reached. Her entire
constitution seemed to have undergone a change, and
now, with hope to buoy her up, she grew stronger,
healthier, and, as a natural consequence, handsomer
each day. She could not erase from her memory the
insult Frederic had offered her, by writing what she
believed he did, but her affection for him was strong
enough to overlook even that, and she was willing to
wait and labor years if at the end of that time she
could hope to win his love.
Whatever Ben undertook he was sure to accomplish
in the shortest possible time, and before starting upon
another peddling excursion, the name of “Marian
Grey” was enrolled among the list of pupils who attended
Madam Harcourt's school. At first she was
subject to many annoyances, for, as was quite natural,
-- 144 --
[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
her companions inquired concerning her standing, and
when they learned that her aunt was a sewing woman,
and that the queer, awkward fellow who came with her
the first day was her cousin and a peddler, they
treated her slightingly, and laughed at her plain dress.
But Marian did not care. One thought—one feeling
alone actuated her; to make herself something of which
Frederic Raymond should not be ashamed was her
aim, and for this she studied early and late, winning
golden laurels in the opinion of her teachers, and coming
ere long to be respected and loved by her companions,
who little suspected that she was the heiress
of untold wealth.
Thus the Summer and a part of the Autumn passed
away, and when the semi-annual examination came,
Marian Grey stood first in all her classes, acquitting
herself so creditably and receiving so much praise,
that Ben, who chanced to be present, was perfectly
overjoyed, and evinced his pleasure by shedding tears,
his usual way of expressing feeling.
From this time forward Marian's progress was rapid,
until even she herself wondered how it were possible
for her to learn so fast when she had formerly cared so
little for books. Hope, and a joyful anticipation of
what would possibly be hers in the future, kept her up
and helped her to endure the mental labors which
might otherwise have overtaxed her strength. Gradually,
too, the old soreness at her heart wore away,
and she recovered in a measure her former light-heartedness,
until at last her merry laugh was often heard
ringing out loud and clear just as it used to do at home
in days gone by. Very anxiously Ben watched her,
and when on his return from his excursions he found
her, as he always did, improved in looks and spirits,
he rubbed his hands together and whispered to himself,
“She'll set up for a beauty, yet, and no mistake.
That hair of hern is growin' a splendid color.”
He did not always express these thoughts to Marian,
but the little mirror which hung on the wall in her
-- 145 --
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
room sometimes whispered to her that the face reflected
there was not the same which had looked at her so
mournfully on that memorable night when she had left
her pillow to see what her points of ugliness were!
The one which she had thought the crowning defect of
all had certainly disappeared. Her red curls were
gone, and in their places was growing a mass of soft
wavy hair, which reminded her of the auburn tress she
had so much admired and prized, because it was her
mother's. She had no means of knowing how nearly
they were alike, for the ringlet was far away, but by
comparing her present short curls with those which
had been shorn from her head, she saw there was a
difference, and she felt a pardonable pride in brushing
and cultivating her young hair, which well repaid her
labor, growing very rapidly and curling anout her
forehead in small, round rings, which were far from
unbecoming.
Toward the last of November, Ben, who found his
peddling profitable, took a trip through Western New
York, and did not return until February, when, somewhat
to his mother's annoyance, he brought a sick
stranger with him. He had taken the cars at Albany,
where he met with the stranger, who offered him a
part of his seat and made himself so generally agreeable
that Ben's susceptible heart warmed toward him
at once, and when at last, as they drew near New
York, the man showed signs of being seriously ill,
Ben's sympathy was roused, and learning that he had
no friends in the city, he urged him so strongly to accompany
him home for the night, at least, that his invition
was accepted, and the more readily, perhaps, as
the stranger's pocket had been picked in Albany, and
he had nothing left except his ticket to New York.
This reason was not very satisfactory to Mrs. Burt, who
from the first had disliked their visitor's appearance.
He was a powerfully built young man, with black
bushy hair, and restless, rolling eyes, which seemed
ever on the alert to discover something not intended
-- 146 --
[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
for them to see. His face wore a hard, dissipated
look; and when Mrs. Burt saw how soon after seating
himself before the warm fie, he fell asleep, she rightly
conjectured that a fit of drunkenness had been the
cause of his illness. Still, he was their guest, and she
would not treat him uncivilly, so she bade her son to
take him to his room, where he lay in the same deep,
stupid sleep, breathing so loudly that he could be
plainly heard in the adjoining room, where Marian and
Ben were talking of the house at Yonkers which was
not finished yet, and would not be ready for the family
until sometime in May.
Suddenly the loud breathing in the bed-room ceased—
the stranger was waking up; but Ben and Marian
paid no heed, and talked on as freely as if there were
no greedy ears drinking in each word they said—no
wild-eyed man leaning on his elbow and putting together,
link by link, the chain of mystery until it was
as clear to him as noonday. The first sentence which
he heard distinctly sobered him at once. It was Marian
who spoke, and the words she said were, “I wonder
if Isabel Huntington will come with Frederic to
Yonkers.”
“Isabel!” the stranger gasped. “What do they
know of her?” and sitting up in bed, he listened until
he learned what they knew of her, and learned, too,
that the young girl whom Ben Burt called his cousin
was the runaway bride from Redstone Hall.
Fiercely the black eyes flashed through the darkness,
and the fists smote angrily together as the
stranger hoarsely whispered:
“The time I've waited for has come at last, and the
proud lady shall be humbled in the very dust!”
It was Rudolph McVicar who thus threatened evil
to Isabel Huntington. He had loved her once, but
her scornful refusal of him, even after she was his
promised wife, had turned his love to hate, and he had
sworn to avenge the wrong should a good chance ever
occur. He knew that she was in Kentucky—a teacher
-- 147 --
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
at Redstone Hall—and for a time he had expected to
hear of her marriage with the heir, but this intelligence
did not come, and weary of New Haven, he at last
made a trip to New Orleans, determining on his way
back to stop for a time in the neighborhood of Redstone
Hall, and if possible learn the reason why Isabel
had not yet succeeded in securing Frederic Raymond.
On the boat in which he took passage on his return
were three or four young people from Franklin county,
and among them Anges Gibson and her brother.
They were a very merry party, and at once attracted
the attention of Rudolph, who, learning that they were
from the vicinity of Frankfort, hovered around them,
hoping that by some chance he might hear them speak
of Isabel. Nor was he disappointed; for one afternoon
when they were assembled upon the upper deck,
one of their number who lived in Lexington, and who
had been absent in California for nearly two years, inquired
after Frederic Raymond, whom he had formerly
known at school.
“Why,” returned the loquacious Agnes, “did no
one write that news to you?” and oblivious entirely
of Rudolph McVicar, who at a little distance was listening
attentively, she told the story of Frederic's
strange marriage and its sad denouement. Isabel, too,
was freely discussed, Miss Agnes saying that Mr.
Raymond would undoubtedly marry her, could he
know that Marian was dead, but as there were some
who entertained doubts upon that point he would
hardly dare take any decisive step until uncertainty
was made sure.
“When Miss Huntington first came to Redstone
Hall,” continued Agnes, “she took no pains whatever
to conceal her preference for Mr. Raymond; but latterly
a change has come over her, and she hardly
appears like the same girl. There seems to be something
on her mind, though what it is I have never been
able to learn, which is a little strange, considering that
she tells me everything.”
-- 148 --
[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]
Not a word of all this story was lost by McVicar.
There was no reason now for his leaving the boat at
Louisville. He knew why Isabel was not a bride, and
secretly exulting as he thought of her weary restlessness,
he kept on his way till he reached Albany, where
a debauch of a few days was succeeded by the sickness
which had awakened the sympathy of the tender-hearted
Ben, and induced the latter to offer him shelter for
the night. He was glad of it, now —glad that he had
met with Ben, for by that means he had discovered the
hiding-place of Frederic Raymond's wife. He did not
know of her fortune, but he knew that she was Marian
Lindsey; that accidentally, as he supposed, she had
stumbled upon Mrs. Burt and Ben, who were keeping
her secret from the world, and that was enough for
him. That Isabel had something to do with her he
was sure, and long after the conversation in the next
room had ceased, he lay awake thinking what use he
should make of his knowledge, and still not betray
those who had befriended him.
Rudolph McVicar was an adept in cunning, and
before the morning dawned he had formed a plan by
which he hoped to crush the haughty Isabel. Assuming
an air of indifference to everything around him,
he sauntered out to breakfast, and pretended to eat,
while his eyes rested almost constantly on Marian.
She was very young, he thought, and far prettier than
Agnes Gibson had represented her to be. She was
changing in her looks, he said, and two or three years
would ripen her into a beautiful woman of whom
Frederic Raymond would be proud. Much he wished
he knew why she had left Redstone Hall, but as this
knowledge was beyond his reach, he contented himself
with knowing who she was, and after breakfast
was over, he thanked his new acquaintances for their
hospitality, and went out into the city, going first to a
pawnbroker's, where he left his watch, receiving in
exchange money enough to defray his expenses in the
city for several days.
-- 149 --
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
That night, in a private room at the St. Nicholas, he
sat alone, bending over a letter, which, when finished,
bore a very fair resemblance to an uneducated woman's
handwriting, and which read as follows:
M. Raymond—I now take my pen in hand to inform
you that A young Woman, calling herself Marian
lindsey has ben staying with me awhile And she said
you was her Husband what she came of and left you
for I don't know and I spose its none of my Biznes all
I have to do is to tell you that she died wun week ago
come sunday with the cankerrash and she made me
Promise to rite and tell you she was ded and that she
forgives you all your Sins and hope you wouldn't wate
long before you marred agen it would of done your
Hart good to hear her taulk like a Sante as she did.
I should of writ soonner only her sicknes hindered me
about gettin reddy for a journey ime goin to take my
only Brother lives in scotland and ime goin out to live
with him i was most reddy when Marian took sick if
she had lived she was coming back to you I bleave
and now that shes ded ime going rite of in the —
which sales tomorrough nite else ide ask you to come
down and see where she died and all about it. i made
her as comfitable as I could and hopin you wouldnt
take it to hard for Deth is the Lot of all i am your
most Humble Servant
Sarah Green.
“There,” soliloquized Rudolph, reading over the
letter. “That covers the whole ground, and still gives
him no clue in case he should come to New York.
The — does sail the very day I have named, and
though `Sarah Green' may not be among her passengers,
it answers my purpose quite as well. I believe
I've steered clear of all doubtful points which
might lead him to suspect it a forgery. He knows
Marian would not attempt to deceive him thus, and he
will, undoubtedly, think old Mrs. Green some good
soul, who dosed the patient with saffron tea, and then
-- 150 --
[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
saw her decently interred! He'll have a nice time
hunting up her grave if he should undertake that. But
he won't—he'll be pleased enough to know that he is
free, for by all accounts he didn't love her much, and
in less than six weeks he'll be engaged to Isabel. But
I'll be on their track. I'll watch them narrowly, and
when the day is set, and the guests are there, one will
go unbidden to the marriage feast, and the story that
uninvited guest can tell will humble the proud beauty
to the dust. He will tell her that this letter was a
forgery, and Sarah Green a myth: that Marian Lindsey
lives, and Frederic Raymond, if he takes another
wife, can be indicated for bigamy; and when he sees
her eyes flash fire, and her cheek grow pale with
rage and disappointment, Rudolph McVicar will be
avenged.”
This, then, was the plan which Rudolph had formed,
and, without wavering for an instant in his purpose,
he sealed the letter, and directing it to Frederic, sent
it on its way, going himself the next morning to New
Haven, where he had some money deposited in the
bank. This he withdrew, and after a few days started
for Lexington, where he intended to remain and watch
the proceedings at Redstone Hall, until the denouement
of his plot.
-- --
CHAPTER XIV. THE EFFECT.
[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]
Not quite one year has passed away since the warm
Spring night when Ben Burt first strolled leisurely up
the long avenue leading to Redstone Hall. It was
April, then, and the early flowers were in bloom, but
now the chill March winds are blowing, and the brown
stocks of the tall rose-tree brush against the window,
from which a single light streams out into the darkness.
It is the window of the little library where we
have seen Frederic before, and where we meet him
once again. He has changed somewhat since we saw
him last, and there is upon his face a sad, thoughtful
expression, as if far down in his heart there were
a haunting memory which would follow him through
all time, and embitter every hour.
Little by little, step by step, he had come to hate
the wealth which had tempted him to sin—to loathe
the beautiful home he once loved so well—and this
had prompted him to leave it and go back to the old
house on the river, where his early boyhood was
passed. There were not so many mournful memories
clustering around that spot, he thought, and if he once
were there, he might perhaps forget the past, and be
happy again. He would open an office in the city, and
if possible earn his own living, so as not to spend more
of Marian's fortune than was necessary. He could not
tell why he wished to save it. He only knew that he
could not bear to use it, and he roused himself at last,
determining to do something for himself. This plan
-- 152 --
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
of moving to the Hudson was opposed by Isabel, who
liked the easy, luxurious life she led at Redstone Hall;
but, for once, Frederic would not listen to her, and he
had made his arrangements to leave Kentucky in May,
at which time his house would be in readiness to receive
him. Isabel would go with him, of course—she
was necessary to him now, though, faithful to the promise
made to little Alice, he had never talked to her
of love. And she was glad that he had not; for, with
the knowledge she possessed, she would not have dared
to listen to his suit, and she often questioned herself
as to what the end would be.
One year or more of the dreary seven was gone, but
the future looked almost hopeless to her, and she was
sometimes tempted to go away and leave the dangerous
game at which she was so hazardously playing.
Still, when she seriously contemplated such a proceeding,
she shrunk from it—for, even though she were
never Frederic's wife, she would rather remain where
she was, and see that no other came to dispute the little
claim she had. All her assurance was gone, and
in her dread lest Frederic should say the words she
must not hear, she assumed toward him a half distant,
half bashful manner, far more attractive than a bolder
course of conduct would have been, and Frederic,
while watching her in this new phase of character,
struggled manfully against the feeling which sometimes
prompted him to break his promise to the blind
girl. She was faulty, he knew—far more so than he
had once imagined—but she was brilliant, beautiful,
accomplished, and he thought that he loved her.
But not of her was he thinking that chill March
night when he sat alone in the library watching the
flickering of the lamp, and listening to the evening
wind, as it shook the bushes beneath his window. It
was Marian's seventeenth birth-day, and he was thinking
of her, wondering what she would have been had
she lived to see this day. She was surely dead,
he thought, or some tidings of her would have come to
-- 153 --
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
him ere this, and when he remembered how gentle,
how pure and self-denying her short life had been, he
said involuntarily, “Poor Marian—she deserved a better
fate, and should she come back to me again I would
prove to her that I am not all unworthy of her love.”
There was a shuffling tread in the hall, and Josh
appeared bringing several letters. One bore the
Louisville post-mark—one was from New Orleans—
one from Lexington, and one from Sarah Green!
“Who writes to me from New York?” was Ferderic's
mental query, and tearing open the wrapper he
drew nearer to him the lamp and read, while there
crept over him a nameless terror as if even while he
was thinking of the lost, the grave had opened at his
feet and shown him where she lay; not in the moaning
river—not in the deep, dark woods, nor on the
western prairies, as he had sometimes feared, but far
away in the great city, where there was no one to pity—
no eye to weep for her save that of the rude woman
who had written him the letter.
There Marian had suffered and died for him. His
Marian—his young girl-wife! He could call her so
now, and he did, saying it softly, reverently, as we
speak always of the departed, while the tears he was
not ashamed to weep, dropped upon the soiled sheet.
He did not think of doubting it. There was no reason
why he should, and his heart went out after the dead
as it had never gone after the living. It seemed to
him so terrible that she should die among strangers, so
far from home; and he wondered much how she ever
chanced to get there. She had remembered him to
the last, “forgiving all his sins,” the woman said, and
knowing how much those few words meant, he said
again, “Poor Marian,” just as the door opened and
Alice came slowly in.
There was a grand party that night at the house of
Lawyer Gibson, and at Isabel's request Alice had come
to ask how long before the carriage would be ready.
Dinah had told her that Frederic was in the library,
-- 154 --
[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
but he sat so still she thought he was not there, and she
said inquiringly, “Frederic?”
“Yes, darling,” was his answer in a tone which
startled the sensitive child, for she detected in it a
sound of tears, and hurrying to his side she passed her
hand over his face to assure herself that she heard
aright.
“Has something dreadful happened?” she asked, as
she felt the moisture on his eye-lids.
Taking her on his lap, and laying his burning cheek
against her cool forehead, Frederic said to her very
tenderly and low:
“Alice, poor Marian is dead! Here is the letter
which came to tell us,” and he placed it in her hand.
There was a sudden upward flashing of the brown
eyes, and then their soft light was quenched in tears,
as, burying her face in the young man's bosom, the
blind girl sobbed, “Oh, no, no, Frederic, no.”
For several minutes she wept passionately, while her
little frame shook with strong emotion. Then lifting
up her head and reaching toward the spot where she
knew the letter lay, she said:
“Read it to me, Frederic,” and he did read, pausing
occasionally as he was interrupted by her low moaning
cry.
“Is that all?” she asked, when he had finished.
“Didn't you leave out a word?”
“Not one,” was his reply, and with quivering lips
the heart-broken child continued, “Marian sent no
message for poor blind Alice to remember—she never
thought of me who loved her so much. Why didn't
she, Frederic?” and the sightless eyes looked beseechingly
at him as if he could explain the mystery.
Poor child! Rudolph McVicar did not know how
strong was the affection between those two young
girls, or he would surely have sent a message to one
who seemed almost a part of Marian herself, and it
was this very omission which finally led the close reasoning
child to doubt the truth of the letter. But she
-- 155 --
[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
did not doubt it now. Marian was really dead to her,
and for a long time she sat with Frederic, saying nothing,
but by her silence manifesting to him how great
was her grief at this sudden bereavement.
At last remembering her errand, she told him why
she had come, and asked what she should say to
Isabel.
“Tell her I shall not go,” he said, “but she need
not remain at home for that. The carriage can be
ready at any time, and Alice will tell her the rest?
You'll do it better than I.”
Alice would rather that some one else should carry
to Isabel tidings which she felt intuitively would be
received with more pleasure than pain, but if Frederic
requested it of her she would do it, and she started to
return. To her the night and the day were the same,
and ordinarily it mattered not whether there were
lamps in the hall or not, but now, as she passed from
the library into the adjoining room, there came over
her a feeling of such utter loneliness and desolation
that she turned back and said to Frederic:
“Will you go with me up the stairs, for now that
Marian is dead, the night is darker than it ever was
before.”
He appreciated her feelings, and taking her by the
hand, led her to the door of Isabel's room. Very impatiently
Isabel had waited for her, wishing to know
what hour Frederic intended starting, and if there
would be time for Luce, her waiting maid, to curl her
long, black hair. Accidentally she had overheard a
gentleman say that if she wore curls she would be the
most beautiful woman in Kentucky, and as he was to
be present at the party she determined to prove his
assertion.
“I hope that young one stays well,” she said, angrily,
as the moments went by, and at last, as Alice did not
come, she bade Luce put the iron in the fire, and commence
her operations.
The negress accordingly obeyed the orders, and six
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
long curls were streaming down the lady's back, while
a seventh was wound around the hissing iron in close
proximity to her ear, when Alice came in, and hurrying
up to her side, began:
“Oh, Miss Huntington, poor, dear Marian wasn't
dead all the time they thought she was. She was in
New York, with Mrs. —”
She did not finish the sentence; for, feeling certain
that her treachery was about to be disclosed, the guilty
Isabel jumped so suddenly as to bring the hot iron
directly across her ear and a portion of her forehead.
Maddened with the pain, and a dread of impending
disgrace, she struck the innocent girl a blow which
sent her reeling across the floor.
“Oh, Lordy!” exclaimed Luce, untwisting the hair
so rapidly that a portion of it was torn from the head—
“oh, Lordy! Miss Isabel, Alice never tached you;”
and, throwing the iron upon the hearth, she hurried to
the prostrate child, who had thrown herself upon the
lounge and was sobbing so loud and hysterically that
Isabel herself was alarmed, and while bathing her
blistered ear, tried to stammer out some apology for
what she had done.
“I supposed you carelessly ran against me,” she
said; “and it hurt me so I didn't know what I was
doing. Pray, don't cry that way. You'll raise the
house;” and she took hold of Alice's shoulder.
“I wish she would,” muttered Luce; and, stooping
down, she whispered: “Screech louder, so as to fotch
Marster Frederic, and tell him jest how she done
sarved you!”
But nothing could be further from Alice's mind than
crying for effect. It was not so much the indignity
she had suffered, nor yet the pain of the blow which
made her weep so bitterly. It was rather the utter
sense of desolation, the feeling that her last hope had
drifted away with the certainty of Marian's death, and
for a time she wept on passionately; while Isabel, with
a hurricane in her bosom, walked the floor, wondering
-- 157 --
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
if her perfidy would ever be discovered, and feeling
that she cared but little now whether it were, or not.
Suspense was terrible, and when the violence of Alice's
sobs had subsided, she said to her:
“Where is Marian, and when is she coming home?”
“Oh, never, never!” answered the child. “She
can't come back, for she's dead now, Marian is;” and
Alice covered her face again with her hands.
“Dead!” exclaimed Isabel, in a far different voice
from that in which she had spoken before. “What do
you mean?” and passing her arm very caressingly
around the little figure lying on the lounge, she continued:
“I am sorry I struck you, Alice. I didn't
know what I was doing, and you must forgive me, will
you, darling? There, dry your eyes, and tell me all
about poor Marian. When did she die, and where?”
As well as she could for her tears, Alice told what
she knew, and satisfied that she was in no way implicated,
Isabel became still more amiable, even speaking
pleasantly to Luce and telling her she might do what
she pleased the remainder of the evening.
“Of course I shouldn't think of attending the party
now, even if I were not so dreadfully burned. Poor
Frederic! how badly he must feel!”
“He does,” said Alice, “and he cried, too.”
Isabel curled her proud lip contemptuously, and dipping
her handkerchief again in the water, she applied
it to her blistered ear, thinking to herself that he
would probably be easily consoled. It would be proper,
too, for her to commence the consoling process at
once, by expressing her sympathy; and leaving Alice
alone she went to the library where Frederic still was
sitting, so absorbed in his own sad reflections that he
did not observe her approach until she said, “Alice
tells me you have heard from Marian,” then he started
suddenly, and turning toward her, answered, “Yes,
you can read what is written here if you like,” and he
passed her McVicar's letter.
It did seem to Isabel that there was something
-- 158 --
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
familiar about the writing, particularly in the formation
of the capitals, but she suspected no fraud, and accepted
the whole as coming from Sarah Green.
“This is some new acquaintance Marian picked
up,” she thought. “The woman speaks of having
known her but a short time. Probably she left Mrs.
Daniel Burt and stumbled upon Sarah Green,” and
with an exultant smile upon her beautiful face, she put
the letter down, and laying her hand very lightly on
Frederic's shoulder, said, “I am sorry for you, Frederic,
though it is better, of course, to know just what
did become of the poor girl.”
Frederic could not tell why it was that Isabel's
words of sympathy grated harshly on his ear. He only
knew that they did, and he was glad when she left him
alone, telling him she should not, of course, attend the
party, and saying in reply to his question as to what
ailed her ear, that Luce, who was curling her hair,
carelessly burned it.
“By the way,” she continued, “when I felt the hot
iron, I jumped and throwing out my hand accidentally
hit Alice on her head, and, if you'll believe me, the
sensitive child thinks I intended it, and has almost
cried herself sick.”
This falsehood she deemed necessary, in case the
truth of the matter should ever reach Frederic through
another channel, and feeling confident that she was
safe in every respect, and that the prize she so much
coveted was nearly won, she left him and sought her
mother's chamber.
In the kitchen the news of Marian's certain death
was received with noisy demonstrations—old Dinah
and Hetty trying hard to outdo each other, and see
which should shed the most and the biggest tears.
The woollen aprons of both were brought into constant
requisition, while Hetty rang so many changes upon
the virtues of the departed that Uncle Phil became
disgusted, and said “for his part he'd hearn enough
'bout dead folks. He liked Miss Marian as well as
-- 159 --
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
anybody, but he did up his mournin' them times that
he wet hisself to the skin a tryin' to fish her out of the
river. He thought his heart would bust then, though
he knew all the time she wasn't thar, and he told 'em
so, too. He knew she'd run away to New York, and
he allus s'posed they'd hear she died summers at the
South. He wan't disappointed. He could tell by his
feelin's when anything was gwine to happen, and for
more'n a week back he'd had it on his mind that Miss
Marian was dead—they couldn't fool him!” and satisfied
that he had impressed his audience with a sense
of his foreknowledge, Uncle Phil pulled off his boots
and started for bed, leaving Dinah and Hetty to discuss
the matter at their leisure and speculate upon the
probable result.
“I can tell you,” said Dinah, “it won't be no time
at all afore Marster'll be settin' to that Isabel, and if
he does, I 'clar for't I'll run away, or hire out, see if I
don't. I ain't a goin' to be sassed by none of yer low
flung truck and hev 'em carryin' the keys. She may
jest go back whar she come from, and I'll tell her so,
too. I'll gin her a piece of my mind.”
“She is gwine back,” suggested Hetty, who, faithful
to the memory of Miss Beatrice, admired Isabel on account
of a fancied resemblance between the two.
“Don't you mind how Marster is a gwine to move up
to somewhar?”
“That's nothin',” returned Dinah. “They'll come
back in the Fall, but I shan't be here. I'll hire myself
out, and you kin be the head a spell.”
This prospect was not an unpleasant one to Hetty,
who looked with a jealous eye upon Dinah's rather
superior position, and as a sure means of attaining the
object of her ambition and becoming in turn the favorite,
she warmly espoused the cause of Isabel, and
waged many a battle of words with Dinah, who took
no pains to conceal her dislike. Thus two or three
weeks went by, and as nothing occurred to cause
Dinah immediate alarm, her fears gradually subsided,
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
until at last she forgot them altogether, while even
Marian ceased to be a daily subject of conversation.
To Frederic reality was more endurable than suspense,
for he could look the future in the face and
think what he would do. He was free to marry Isabel,
he believed; but, as was quite natural, he cared
less about it now than when there was an obstacle in
his way. There was no danger of losing her, he was
sure, and he could wait as long as he pleased! Once
he thought of going to New York to make some
inquiries, and if possible find Marian's grave, but when
he reflected that Sarah Green was on the ocean, even
before her letter reached Kentucky, he decided to defer
the matter until their removal to Yonkers, which
was to take place about the middle of May. Isabel,
too, had her own views upon the subject. There no
longer existed a reason why Frederic should not address
her, and in her estimation nothing could be more
proper than to christen the new home with a bride.
So she bent all her energies to the task, smiling her
sweetest smile, saying her softest words, and playing
the amiable lady to perfection. But it availed her
nothing, and she determined at last upon a bolder
movement.
Finding Frederic alone in the parlor, one day, she
said:
“I suppose it will not affect you materially if
mother and I leave when you remove to Yonkers.
Agnes Gibson, you know, is soon to be married, and
she has invited me to go with her to Florida, where,
she says, I can procure a good situation as music-teacher,
and mother wishes to go back to New Haven.”
The announcement, and the coolness with which it
was made, startled Frederic, and he replied, rather
anxiously:
“I have never contemplated a separation. I shall
need your mother there more than I do here, for I
shall not have Dinah.”
-- 161 --
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
“Perhaps you can persuade her to stay, but I think
it best for me to go,” returned Isabel, delighted with
her success.
Frederic Raymond did not wish Isabel to leave
him, and, after a moment, he said:
“Why must you go, Isabel? Do you wish for a
larger salary? Are you tired of us—of me?” And
the last words were spoken hesitatingly, as if he
doubted the propriety of his saying them.
“Oh, Frederic!” and in the soft, black eyes raised
for an instant to his face, and then modestly withdrawn,
there was certainly a tear! “Oh, Frederic!” was all
she said, and Frederic felt constrained to answer:
“What is it, Isabel? Why do you wish to go?”
“I don't—I don't,” she answered, passionately;
“but respect for myself demands it. People are
already talking about my living here with you; and
now poor Marian is dead and you are a widower, it
will be tenfold worse. I wish they would let us alone,
for I have been so happy here and am so much
attached to Alice. It will almost break my heart to
leave her!”
Isabel Huntington was wondrously beautiful then,
and Frederic Raymond was sorely tempted to bid her
stay, not as Alice's governess, nor yet as the daughter
of his housekeeper, but as his wife and mistress of his
house. Several times he tried to speak, and at last,
crossing over to where she sat, he began—“Isabel, I
have never heard that people were talking of you;
there is no reason why they should, but if they are I
can devise a method of stopping it and still keeping
you with us. I have never spoken to you of—” love,
he was going to say, and the graceful head was already
bent to catch the sound, when a little voice chimed in,
“Please, Frederic, I am here,” and looking up they
saw before them Alice.
She had entered unobserved and was standing just
within the door, where she heard what Frederic said.
Intuitively she felt what would follow next, and
-- 162 --
[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
scarcely knowing what she did, she had apprised them
of her presence.
“The brat!” was Isabel's mental comment, while
Frederic was sensible of a feeling of relief, as if he had
suddenly wakened from a spell, or been saved from
some great peril. For several moments Isabel sat,
hoping Alice would leave the room, but she did not,
and in no very amiable mood the lady was herself constrained
to go, by a call from her mother, who wished
to see her on some trivial matter.
When she was gone, Alice groped her way to the
sofa, and climbing upon it said to Frederic, “Won't
you read me that letter again which Mrs. Green wrote
to you?”
He complied with her request, and when he had finished,
the child continued, “If Marian had really died,
wouldn't she have sent some message to me, and
wouldn't that woman have told us how she happened
to be way off there, and all about it?”
“If Marian really died!” repeated Frederic. “Do
you doubt it?”
“Yes,” returned the child, “Marian loved me most
as well as she did you, and she surely would have
talked of me and sent me some word; then, too, is
there much difference between scarlet fever and canker-rash?
Don't some folks call it by both names?”
“I believe they do,” said Frederic, wondering to what
all this was tending.
“Marian had the scarlet fever, and I, too, just after
I came here,” was Alice's next remark. “You were
at college, but I remember it, and so does Dinah, for I
asked her a little while ago. Can folks have it twice?”
and the blind eyes looked up at Frederic, as if sure
that this last argument at least were proof conclusive
of Marian's existence.
“Sometimes, but not often,” answered Frederic, the
shadow of a doubt creeping into his own mind.
“And if they do,” persisted Alice, who had been
consulting with Dinah—“if they do, they seldom have
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
it hard enough to die, so Dinah says; and I don't believe
that was a good, true letter. Somebody wrote it,
to be wicked. Marian is alive, I almost know.”
“Must you see her dead body, to be convinced?”
asked Frederic, a little impatiently; and Alice rejoined:
“No, no; but somehow it don't seem right for you
to—to—oh, Frederic!” and, bursting into tears, she
came at once to the root of the whole matter.
She had thought a great deal about the letter, wondering
why Marian had failed to speak of her, and at
last rejecting it as an impossibility. Suddenly, too,
she remembered that once, when she and Marian were
sick, she heard some of the neighbors speak of their
disease as scarlet fever, while others called it the canker-rash;
and all united in saying they could have it
but once. This had led to inquiries of Dinah, and had
finally resulted in her conviction that Marian might
possibly be living. Full of this new idea, she had hastened
to Frederic, and accidentally overheard what he
was saying to Isabel. She comprehended it, too, and
knew that but for her unexpected presence he would,
perhaps, have asked the lady to be his wife, and she
felt again as if Marian were there urging her to stand
once more between Frederic and temptation. All this
she told to him, and the proud, haughty man, who
would have spurned a like interference from any other
source, listened patiently to the pleadings of the childish
voice, which said to him so earnestly:
“Don't let Isabel be your wife!”
“What objection have you to her?” he asked; and
when she replied, “She isn't good,” he questioned her
further as to the cause of her dislike—“was there
really a reason, or was it mere prejudice?”
“I try to like her,” said Alice, “and sometimes I do
real well, but she don't act alone with me like she does
when you are round. She'll be just as cross as fury,
and if you come in, she'll smooth my hair and call me
`little pet.”'
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
“Does she ever strike you?” asked Frederic, feeling
a desire to hear Alice's version of that story.
Instantly tears came in Alice's eyes, and she replied,
“Only once—and she said she didn't mean that—but,
Frederic, she did,” and in her own way Alice told the
story, which sounded to Mr. Raymond more like the
truth than the one he had heard from Isabel. Gradually
the conviction was forcing itself upon him that
Isabel was not exactly what she seemed. Still he
could not suddenly shake off the chain which bound
him, and when Alice said to him in her odd, straightforward
way, “Don't finish what you were saying to
Isabel until you've been to New York and found if the
letter is true,” he answered, “Fie, Alice, you are unreasonable
to ask such a thing of me. Marian is dead.
I have no doubt of it, and I am free from the promise
made to you more than a year since.”
“May be she isn't,” was Alice's reply, “and if she
is, we shall both feel better, if you go and see. Go,
Frederic, do. It won't take long, and if you find she
is really dead, I'll never speak another naughty word
of Isabel, but try to love her just as I want to love
your wife. Will you go, Frederic? I heard you say
you ought to see the house before we moved, and
Yonkers is close to New York, isn't it?”
This last argument was more convincing than any
which Alice had offered, for Frederic had left the entire
management of repairs to one whom he knew
understood such matters better than himself, consequently
he had not been there at all, and he had
several times spoken of going up to see that all was
right. Particularly would he wish to do this if he
took thither a bride in May, and to Alice's suggestion
he replied, “I might, perhaps, do that for the sake of
gratifying you.”
“Oh, if you only would!” answered Alice. “You'll
find her somewhere—I know you will—and then you'll
be so glad you went.”
Frederic was not quite so sure of that, but it was
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
safe to go, and while Isabel had been communicating
to her mother what he had been saying to her, and
asking if it were not almost a proposal, he was deciding
to start for New York immediately. Alice's reasons
for doubting the authenticity of the letter seemed more
and more plausible the longer he thought of them,
and at supper that night he astonished both Mrs.
Huntington and daughter by saying that he was going
North in a few days, and he wished the former to see
that his wardrobe was in a proper condition for traveling.
Isabel's face grew dark as night, and the wrathful
expression of her eyes was noticable even to him.
“There is a good deal of temper there,” was his mental
comment, while Isabel feigned some trivial excuse and
left the room to hide the anger she knew was visible
upon her face. He had commenced proposing to her,
she was sure, and he should not leave Redstone Hall
until he explained himself more fully. Still it would
not be proper for her to broach the subject—her
mother must do that. It was a parent's duty to see
that her daughter's feelings were not trifled with, and
by dint of cajolery, entreaties and threats, she induced
the old lady to have a talk with Frederic, and ask him
what his intentions were.
Mrs. Huntington was not very lucid in her remarks, and without exactly knowing what she meant, Frederic
replied at random that he was in earnest in all he had
said to Isabel about her remaining there, that he did
not wish her to go away for she seemed one of the
family, and that he would speak with her further upon
the subject when he came back. This was not very
definite, but Mrs. Huntington brushed it up a little ere
repeating it to Isabel, who readily accepted it as an intimation
that after his return, he intended asking her
directly to be his wife. Accordingly she told Agnes
Gibson confidentially what her expectations were, and
Agnes told it confidentially to several others, who had
each a confidential friend, and so in course of a few
days it was generally understood that Redstone Hall
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
was to have another mistress. Agnes in particular was
very busy disseminating news, hoping by this means
to turn the public gossip from herself and the white-haired
man, or rather the plantation in Florida, which
she was soon to marry. In spite of her protestations
to the contrary people would say that money and not
love actuated her choice, and she was glad of anything
which would give her a little rest. So she repeated
Isabel's story again and again, charging each and every
one never to mention it and consulting between-times
with her bosom friend as to what her arrangements
were, and suggesting that they be married on the same
day and so make the same tour. On the subject of
bridal presents Agnes had a kind of mania, and knowing
this, some of her friends, who lived at a distance
and could not be present at the ceremony, sent their's
in advance—several of them as a matter of course deciding
upon the same thing, so that in Agnes' private
drawer there were now deposited three fish knives and
forks, all of which were the young lady's particular
aversion. She would dispose of one of them at all
hazards, she thought, and receive more than an equivalent
in return, so she began to pave the way for a
costly bridal present from the future Mrs. Frederic
Raymond, by hinting of an elegant fish knife and fork,
which in its satin-lined box would look handsomely
upon the table, and Isabel, though detesting the article
and thinking she should prefer almost anything else,
said she was delighted, and when her friend came
home from the south, she should invite her to dinner
certainly once a week.
This arrangement wae generally understood, as were
many others of a similar nature, until at last even the
bridal dress was selected, and people said it was making
in Lexington, where Frederic was well known,
and where the story of his supposed engagement circulated
rapidly, reaching to the second-rate hotel where
Rudolph McVicar was a boarder. Exultingly his
wild eyes flashed, and when he heard, as he did, that
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
the wedding was fixed for the 20th of May, which he
knew was Isabel's birthday, he counted the hours
which must elapse ere the moment of his triumph
came. And while he waited thus, and rumor, with
her lying tongue, told each day some fresh falsehood
of “that marriage in high life,” Frederic Raymond
went on his way, and with each milestone passed, drew
nearer and nearer to the lost one—the Marian who
would stand between him and Isabel.
-- --
CHAPTER XV. THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER.
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
“Marian,” said Ben, one pleasant April morning,
“Frederic's house is finished in tip-top style, and if
you say so, we'll go out and take a look. It will do
you good to see the old place once more and know
just how things are fixed.”
“Oh, I'd like it so much,” returned Marian, “but
what if I should fall upon Frederic?”
“No danger,” answered Ben; “the man who has
charge of everything told me he wasn't comin' till
May, and the old woman who is tendin' to things
knows I have seen Mr. Raymond, for I told her so,
and she won't think nothin'; so clap on your clothes
in a jiff, for we've barely time to reach the cars.”
Marian did not hesitate long ere deciding to go, and
in a few moments they were in the street. As they
were passing the — Hotel, Ben suddenly left her,
and running up the steps spoke to one of the servants
with whom he was acquainted. Returning ere long,
he said, by way of apology, “I was in there last night
to see Jim, and he told me there was a man took sick
with a ravin' fever, pretty much like you had when you
bit your tongue most in two.”
Marian shuddered involuntarily, and without knowing
why, felt a deep interest in the stranger, thinking
how terrible it was to be sick and alone in a crowded,
noisy hotel.
“Is he better?” she asked, and Ben replied, “No,
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
ten times wus—he'll die most likely. But hurry up—
here's the omnibus we want,” and in the excitement
of securing a seat, they both forgot the sick man.
The trip to Yonkers was a pleasant one, for to Marian
it seemed like going home, and when, after reaching
the station, they entered the lumbering stage and
wound slowly up the long, steep hill, she recognized
many familiar way marks, and drawing her vail over
her face, wept silently as she remembered all she had
passed through since the night when Col. Raymond
first took her up that same long hill, and told her by
the way, of his boy Frederic, who would be delighted
with a sister. The fond old man was dead now, and
she, the little girl he had loved so much, was a sad
lonely woman, going back to visit the spot which had
been so handsomely fitted up without a thought of
her.
The house itself was greatly changed, but the view
it commanded of the river and the scenery beyond
was the same, and leaning against a pillar Marian
tried to fancy that she was a child again and listening
for the bold footsteps of the handsome, teasing boy,
once her terror and her pride. But all in vain she
listened: the well-remembered foot-fall did not come:
the handsome boy was not there, and even had he
been, she would scarcely have recognized him in the
haughty, elegant young man, her husband. Yes, he was
her husband, and she repeated the name to herself, and
when at last Ben touched her on the shoulder, saying,
“I have told Miss Russell my sister was here, and she
says you can go over the house,” she started as if waking
from a dream.
“Let us go through the garden first,” she said, as
she led the way to the maple tree where summers
before che had built her little play-house, and where
on the bark, just as high as his head then came, the
name of Frederic was cut.
Far below it, and at a point which her red curls
had reached, there was another name—her own—and
-- 170 --
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
Frederic's jack-knife had made that, too, while she
stood by and said to him, “I wish I was Marian Raymond,
instead of Marian Lindsey.”
How distinctly she remembered the characteristic
reply:
“If you should happen to be my wife, you would be
Marian Raymond; but pshaw, I shall marry a great
deal prettier woman than you will ever be, and you
may live with us if you want to, and take care of the
children. I mean to have a lot!”
She had not thought of this speech in years, but it
come back to her vividly now, as did many other
things which had occurred there long ago. Within
the house everything was changed, but they had no
trouble in identifying the different rooms, and she lingered
long in the one she felt sure was intended for
Frederic himself, sitting in the chair where she knew
he would often sit, and wondering if, while sitting
there, he would ever think of her. Perhaps he might
be afraid of meeting her accidentally in New York, and
so he would seldom come there; or, if he did, it would
be after dark, or when she was not in the street, and
thus she should possibly never see him, as she hoped
to do. The thought was a sad one, and never before
had the gulf between herself and Frederic seemed so
utterly impassible as on that April morning when, in
his room and his arm chair, the girl-wife sat and questioned
the dark future of what it had in store for her.
Once she was half tempted to leave some momento—
something which would tell him she had been there.
She spurned the idea as soon as formed. She would
not intrude herself upon him a second time, and rising
at last, she arranged the furniture more to her taste,
changed the position of a picture, moved the mirror
into a perfect angle, set Frederic's chair before the
window looking out upon the river, and then, standing
in the door, fancied that she saw him, with his handsome
face turned to the light, and his rich brown hair
shading his white brow. At his feet, and not far away
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
was a little stool, and if she could only sit there once,
resting her head upon his knee and hear him speaking
to her kindly, affectionately, she felt that she would
gladly die, and leave to another the caresses she could
never hope to receive.
Isabel's chamber was visited next, and Marian's
would have been less than a woman's nature could
she have looked, without a pang, upon the costly furniture
and rare ornaments which had been gathered
there. In the disposal of the furniture there was a
lack of taste—a decidedly Mrs. Russell air; but Marian
had no wish to interfere. There was something
sickening in the very atmosphere of her rival's apartment,
and with a long, deep sigh, she turned away.
Opening the door of an adjoining chamber, she stood
for a moment motionless, while her lips moved nervously,
for she knew that this was Alice's room. It
was smaller than the others, and with its neat white furniture,
seemed well adapted to the pure, sinless child
who was to occupy it. Here too, she tarried long,
gazing, through blinded tears, upon the little rocking-chair
just fitted to Alice's form, looping up the soft
lace custains, brushing the dust from the marble mantle,
and patting lovingly the snowy pillows, for the
sake of the fair head which would rest there some
night.
“There are no flowers here,” said she, glancing at
the tiny vases on the stand. “Alice is fond of flowers,
and though they will be withered ere she comes,
she will be sure to find them, and who knows but their
faint perfume may remind her of me,” and going out
into the garden she gathered some hyacinths and violets
which she made into boquets and placed them in
the vases, and bidding the old woman change the
water every day, until they began to fade, and then
leave them to dry until the blind girl came. “Ben
told me of her; he once staid at Redstone Hall all
night,” she said, in answer to the woman's inquiring
-- 172 --
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
look. “He says she is a sweet young creature, and I
thought flowers might please her.”
“Fresh ones would,” returned Mrs. Russell “but
them that's withered ain't no use. S'pose I fling 'em
away when they get old and put in some new the day
she comes?”
“No, no, not for the world, leave them as they are,”
and Marian spoke so earnestly that the old lady promised
compliance with her request.
“Be you that Yankee peddler's sister,” she asked,
as she followed Marian down the stairs. “If you be,
nater cut up a curis caper with one or t'other of you,
for you ain't no more alike than nothin'.”
“I believe I do not resemble him much,” was Marian's
evasive answer, as with a farewell glance at the
old place, she bade Mrs. Russell good-by and went
with Ben to the gate where the stage was waiting to
take them back to the depot.
It was dark when they reached New York, and as
they passed the — Hotel a second time, Marian
spoke of the sick man, and wondered how he was.
“I might go in and see,” said Ben, “but it's so
late I guess I won't, particularly as he's nothin' to us.”
“But he's something to somebody,” returned Marian,
and as she followed on after Ben, her thoughts turned
continually upon him, wondering if he had a mother—
a sister—or a wife, and if they knew how sick he
was.
While thus reflecting they reached home, where
they found Mrs. Burt entertaining a visitor—a Martha
Gibbs, who for some time had been at the — Hotel,
in the capacity of chamber-maid, but who was to
leave there the next day. Martha's parents lived in
the same New England village where Mrs. Burt had
formerly resided, and the two thus became acquainted,
Martha making Mrs. Burt the depository of all her little
secrets and receiving in return much motherly advice.
She was to be married soon, and though her
destination was a log house in the West, and her
-- 173 --
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
bridal trousseau consisted merely of three dresses—a silk,
a delaine and a calico—it was an affair of great consequence
to her, and she had come as usual to talk it
over with Mrs. Burt, feeling glad at the absence of Ben
and Marian, the latter of whom she supposed was an
orphan neice of her friend's husband. The return of
the young people operated as a restraint upon her, and
changing the conversation, she spoke at last of a sick
man who was up in the third story in one of the
rooms of which she had the charge.
“He had the typhoid fever,” she said, “and was
raving distracted with his head. They wanted some
good experienced person to take care of him, and had
asked her to stay, she seemed so handy, but she
couldn't. John wouldn't put their wedding off, she
knew, and she must go, though she did pity the poor
young man—he raved and took on so, asking them if
anybody had seen Marian, or knew where she was
buried!”
Up to this point Marian had listened, because she
knew it was the same man of whom Ben had told her
in the morning; but now the pulsations of her heart
stopped, her head grew dizzy, her brain whirled, and
she was conscious of nothing except that Ben made a
hurried movement and then passed his arm around her,
while he held a cup of water to her lips, sprinkling
some upon her face, and saying, in a natural voice,
“Don't you want a drink? My walk made me awful
dry.”
It was dark in the room, for the lamp was not yet
lighted, and thus Martha did not see the side-play
going on. She only knew that Ben was offering Marian
some water; but Mrs. Burt understood it, and,
when sure that Marian would not faint, she said:
“Where did the young man come from, and what is
his name? Do you know?”
“He registered himself as F. Raymond, Franklin
County, Kentucky,” returned the girl; “and that's the
bother of it. Nobody knows where to direct a letter
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
to his friends. But how I have staid. I must go this
minute,” and greatly to the relief of the family, Martha
took her leave.
Scarcely had the door closed after her, when Marian
was on her knees, and, with her head in Mrs. Burt's
lap, was begging of her to offer her services as nurse
to Frederic Raymond!
“He must not die there alone,” she cried. “Say
you will go, or my heart will burst. They know
Martha for a trusty girl, and they will take you on her
recommendation. Help me, Ben, to persuade her,”
she continued, appealing to the young man, who had
not yet spoken upon the subject.
He had been thinking of it, however, and as he
could see no particular objection, he said, at last:
“May as well go, I guess. It won't do no hurt, any
how, and mebby it'll be the means of savin' his life.
You can tell Martha how't you s'pose he'll pay a good
price for nussin', and she'll think it's the money you
are after.”
This suggestion was so warmly seconded by Marian,
that Mrs. Burt finally consented to seeing Martha,
and asking her what she thought of the plan. Accordingly,
early the next morning, she sought an interview
with the young woman, inquiring, first, how the stranger
was, and then, continuing—
“What do you think of my turning nurse awhile
and taking care of him? I am used to such folks, and
I presume the gentleman is plenty able to pay.”
She had dragged this last in rather bunglingly, but
it answered every purpose, for Martha, who knew her
thrifty habits, understood at once that money was the
inducement, and she replied, “Of course he is. His
watch is worth two hundred dollars, to say nothing of
a diamond pin. I for one shall be glad to have you
come, for I am going away some time to-day, and
there'll be nobody in particular to take care of him.
I'll speak about it right away.”
The result of this speaking was that Mrs. Burt's
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
offered services were readily accepted, for Martha was
known to be an honest, faithful girl, and any one
whom she recommended must, of course, be respectable
and trusty. By some chance, however, there was a
misunderstanding about the name, which was first construed
into Burton and then into Merton, and as Martha,
who alone could rectify the error, left that afternoon,
the few who knew of the sick man and his nurse,
spoke of the latter as a “Mrs. Merton, from the country,
probably.” So when at night Mrs. Burt appeared
and announce herself as ready to assume her duties,
she was surprised at hearing herself addressed by her
new name, and she was about to correct it when she
thought, “It doesn't matter what I'm called, and perhaps
on the whole, I'd rather not be known by my real
name. I don't believe much in goin' out nussin' any
way, and I guess I'll let 'em call me what they
want to.”
She accordingly made no explanation, but followed
the servant girl up three long flights of stairs, and
turning down a narrow hall, stood ere long at the door
of the sick room.
-- --
CHAPTER XVI. THE FEVER.
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
Night and day Frederic Raymond had traveled,
never allowing himself a minute's rest, nor even stopping
at Yonkers, so intent was he upon reaching New
York and finding, if possible, some clue to Marian. It
was a hopeless task, for he had no starting point—
nothing which could guide him in the least, save the
name of Sarah Green, and even that was not in the
Directory, while to inquire for her former place of
residence, was as preposterous as Marian's inquiry for
Mrs. Daniel Burt! Still, whatever he could do he did,
traversing street after street, threading alley after
alley, asking again and again of the squalid heads
thrust from the dingy windows, if Sarah Green had
ever lived in that locality, and receiving always the
same impudent stare and short answer, “No.”
Once, in another and worse part of the city, he fancied
he had found her, and that she had not sailed for
Scotland as she had written, for they had told him
that “Sal Green lived up in the fourth story,” and
climbing the crazy stairs, he knocked at the low, dark
door, shuddering involuntarily and experiencing a
feeling of mortified pride as he thought it possible that
Marian—his wife—had toiled up that weary way to
die. The door was opened by a blear-eyed, hardfaced
woman, who started at sight of the elegant
stranger, and to his civil questions replied rather
gruffly, “Yes, I'm Sal Green, I s'pose, or Sarah, jest
which you choose to call me, but the likes of Marian
Lindsey never came near me,” and glancing around
-- 177 --
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
the dirty, wretched room, Frederic was glad that it
was so. He would rather not find her, or hear tidings
of her, than to know that she had lived and died in
such a place as this, and with a sickening sensation he
was turning away, when the woman, who was blessed
with a remarkable memory and never forgot anything
to which her attention was particularly directed, said
to him, “You say it's a year last Fall sence she left
home.”
“Yes, yes,” he replied eagerly, and she continued,
“You say she dressed in black, and wore a great long
vail?”
“The same, the same,” he cried, advancing into the
room and thrusting a bill into the long hand, “oh, my
good woman, have you seen her, and where is she
now?”
“The Lord knows, mebby, but I don't,” answered
the woman, who was identical with the one who had
so frightened Marian by watching her on that day
when she sat in front of Trinity and wished that she
could die, “I don't know as I ever seen her at all,”
she continued, “but a year ago last November such a
girl as you described, with long curls that looked red
in the sunshine, sat on the steps way down by Trinity
and cried so hard that I noticed her, and knew she
warn't a beggar by her dress. It was gettin' dark, and
I was goin' to speak to her when Joe Black came up
and asked her what ailed her, or somethin'. He ain't
none of the likeliest,” and a grim smile flitted over the
visage of the wrinkled hag.
“Oh, Heaven,” cried Frederic, pressing his hands
to his head, as if to crush the horrid fear. “God save
her from that fate. Is this all you know? Can't you
tell me any more? I'll give you half my fortune if
you'll bring back my poor, lost Marian, just as she was
when she left me.”
The offer was a generous one, and Sal was tempted
for a moment to tell him some big lie, and thus receive
a companion to the bill she clutched so greedily, but
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
the agonizing expression of his white face kindled
a spark of pity within her bosom, and she replied, “I
did not finish tellin' you that while Joe was talking
and had seemingly persuaded her to go with him, a
tall chap that I never seen before knocked him flat,
and took the girl with him, and that's why I remember
it so well.”
“Who was he, this tall man? Where did he go?”
and Frederic wiped from his forehead the great drops
of sweat forced out by terrible fear.
“I told you I never seen him before,” was Sally's
answer, “but he had a good face—a milk and water
face—as if he never plotted no mischief in his life.
She's safe with him, I'm sure. I'd trust my daughter
with him, if I had one, and know he wouldn't harm
her. He spoke to her tender-like, and she looked glad,
I thought.”
Frederic felt that this information was better than
none, for it was certain it was Marian whom the woman
had seen, and, in a measure comforted by her assurance
of Ben Burt's honesty, he bade her good morning, and
walked away.
At last, worn out and discouraged, he returned to
his hotel, where he lay now burning with fever, and,
in his delirium, calling sometimes for Isabel, sometimes
for Alice, and again for faithful Dinah, but never asking
why Marian did not come. She was dead, and he
only begged of those around him to take her away
from Joe Black, or show him where her grave was
made, so he could go home and tell the blind girl he
had seen it. Every ray of light which it was possible
to shut out had been excluded from the room, for he
had complained much of his eyes, and when Mrs.
Burt entered, she could discover only the outline of a
ghastly face resting upon the pillows, scarcely whiter
than itself. It was a serious case, the attending physician
said, and so she thought when she looked into his
wild, bright eyes, and felt his rapid pulse. To her he
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
put the same question he had asked nearly of every
one:
“Do you know where Marian is?”
“Marian!” she repeated, feeling a little uncertain
how to answer.
“Humor him! say you do!” whispered the physician,
who was just taking his leave. And very truthfully
Mrs. Burt replied:
“Yes, I know where she is! She will come to you
to-morrow.”
“No!” he answered mournfully. “The dead never
come back, and it must not be, either. Isabel is coming
then, and the two can't meet together here, for—.
Come nearer, woman, while I tell you I loved Isabel
the best, and that's what made the trouble. She is
beautiful, but Marian was good—and do you know
Marian was the Heiress of Redstone Hall; but I'm
not going to use her money.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Burt, trying to quiet
him, but in vain.
He would talk—sometimes of Marian, and sometimes
of Sarah Green, and the dreary room where he
had been.
“It made Marian tired,” he said, “to climb those
broken stairs—tired, just as he was now. But she was
resting so quietly in Heaven, and the April sun was
shining on her grave. It was a little grave—a child's
grave, as it were—for Marian was not so tall nor so old
as Isabel.”
In this way he rambled on, and it was not until the
morning dawned that he fell into a heavy sleep, and
Mrs. Burt had leisure to reflect upon the novel position
in which she found herself.
“It was foolish in me to give up to them children,”
she said, “but now that I am here, I'll make the best
of it, and do as well as I can. Marian shan't come,
though! It would kill her dead to hear him going
on.”
Mrs. Burt was a little rash in making this assertion,
-- 180 --
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
for even while she spoke, Marian was in the receptionroom
below, inquiring for the woman who took care
of Mr. Raymond. Not once during the long night had
she eyelids closed in sleep, and with the early morning
she had started for the hotel, leaving Ben to get his
breakfast as he could.
“Say Marian Grey wishes to see her,” she said, in
answer to the inquiry as to what name the servant was
to take to No. —
“My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Burt; “why didn't
Ben keep her at home?” and, gliding down the stairs,
she tried to persuade Marian to return.
But when she saw the firm, determined expression
in the young girl's eye, she knew it was useless to reason
with her, and saying, rather pettishly, “You must
expect to hear some cuttin' things,” she bade her follow
up the stairs. Frederic still lay sleeping, his face
turned partly to one side, and his hand resting beneath
his head. His rich brown hair, now damp with heavy
moisture, was pushed back from his white forehead,
which, gleaming through the dusky darkness, first
showed to Marian where he lay. The gas light hurt
his eyes, and the lamp, which was kept continually
burning, was so placed that its dim light did not fall
on him, and a near approach was necessary to tell her
just how he looked. He was fearfully changed, and,
with a bitter moan, she laid her head beside him on
the pillow, so that her short curls mingled with his
darker locks, and she felt his hot breath on her cheek.
“Frederic—dear Frederic!” she said, and at the
sound of her voice he moved uneasily, as if about to
waken.
“Come away, come away,” whispered Mrs. Burt.
“He may know you, and a sudden start would kill
him.”
But Marian was deaf to all else save the whispered
words dropping from the sick man's lips. They were
of home, of Alice, of the library, and oh, joy! could
it be she heard aright—did he speak of her? Was it
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
Marian he said? Yes, it was Marian, and with a cry
of delight, which started Mrs. Burt to her feet, and
penetrated even to the ear of the unconscious Frederic,
she pressed her lips upon the very spot which they
had touched before on that night when she gave him
her first kiss. Slowly his eyes unclosed, but the wildness
was still there, and Mrs. Burt, who stood anxiously
watching him, felt glad that it was so. Slowly
they wandered about the room, resting first upon the
door, then on the chandelier, then on the ceiling
above, and dropping finally lower, until at last they
met and were riveted upon Marian, who, with clasped
hands, stood breathlessly awaiting the result.
“Will he know her? Does he know her?” was the
mental query of Mrs. Burt; while Marian's fast-breathing
heart asked the same question eagerly. There was
a wavering, a fierce struggle between delirium and
reason, and then, with a faint smile, he said:
“Did you kiss me just now?” and he pointed to the
spot upon his forehead.
Marian nodded, for she could not speak, and he continued:
“Marian kissed me there, too! Little Marian, who
went away, and it has burned and burned into my
veins until it set my brain on fire. Nobody has kissed
me since, but Alice. Did you know Alice, girl?”
“Yes,” answered Marian, keen disappointment swelling
within her bosom and forcing the great tears from
her eyes.
She had almost believed he would recognize her,
but he did not; and sinking down by his side, she buried
her face in the bed clothes, and sobbed aloud.
“Don't cry, little girl,” he said, evidently disturbed
at the sight of her tears. “I cried when I thought
Marian was dead, but that seems so long ago.”
“Oh Frederic—” and forgetful of everything, Marian
sprang to her feet. “Oh, Frederic, is it true?
Did you cry for me?”
At the sound of his own name the sick man looked
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
bewildered, while reason seemed struggling again to
assert its rights, and penetrate the misty fog by which
it was enveloped. Very earnestly he looked at the
young girl, who returned his gaze with one in which
was concentrated all the yearning love and tenderness,
she had cherished for him so long.
“Are you Marian?” he asked, and in an instant the
excited girl wound her arms around his neck, and laying
her cheek against his own, replied:
“Yes, Frederic yes. Don't you know me, your
poor lost Marian?”
Very caressingly he passed his hand over her short
silken curls—pushed them back from her forehead—
examined them more closely, and then whispered
mournfully,
“No, you are not Marian. This is not her hair. But
I like you,” he continued, as he felt her tears drop on
his face; “and I wish you to stay with me, and when
the pain comes back charm it away with your soft
hands. They are little hands,” and he took them between
his own, “but not so small as Marian's were
when I held one in my hand and promised I would
love her. It seemed like some tiny rose leaf, and I
could have crushed it easily, but I did not; I only
crushed her heart, and she fled from me forever, for
'twas a lie I told her,” and his voice sunk to a lower
tone. “I didn't love her then—I don't know as I
love her now, for Isabel is so beautiful. Did you ever
see Isabel, girl?”
“Oh, Frederic,” groaned Marian, and wresting her
hands from his gaasp, she tottered to a chair, while he
looked after her wistfully.
“Will she go away?” he said to Mrs. Burt. “Will
she leave me alone, when she knows Alice is not here
nor Isabel? I wish Isabel would come, don't you?”
There was another moan of anguish, and, rolling his
bright eyes in the direction of the arm chair, the poor
man whispered:
“Hark! that's the sound I heard the night Marian
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
went away! I thought then 'twas the wind, but I knew
afterwards that it was she, when her soul parted with
her body, and it's followed me ever since. There is not
a spot at Redstone Hall that is not haunted with that
cry. I've heard it at midnight, at noon-day—in the
storm and in the rushing river—where we thought she
was buried. All but Alice—she knew she wasn't,
and she sent me here to look. She don't like Isabel,
and is afraid I'll marry her. Maybe I shall, sometime!
Who knows?”
And he laughed in delirious glee.
“Heaven keep me, too, from going mad?” cried Marian.
“Oh! why did I come here?”
“I told you not to all the time,” was Mrs. Burt's
consolatory remark; which, however was lost on Marian,
who, seizing her bonnet and shawl, rushed from
the room, unmindful of the out-stretched arms which
seemed imploring her to stay.
The fresh morning air revived her fainting strength,
but did not cool the feverish agony at her heart, and
she sped onward, until she reached her home, where
she surprised Ben at his solitary breakfast, which he
had prepared himself.
“Oh! Ben, Ben!” she cried, coming so suddenly
npon him that he upset the coffee-pot into which he
was pouring some hot water. “Would it be wicked
for you to kill me dead, or for me to kill myself?”
“What's to pay now?” asked Ben, using the skirt
of his coat for a holder in picking up the steaming
coffee-pot.
Very hastily Marian related her adventures in the
sick room, telling how Frederic had talked of marrying
Isabel before her very face.
“Crazy as a loon,” returned Ben. “I shouldn't
think nothin' of that. You say he talked as though he
thought you was dead, and of course he don't know
what he's sayin'. Have they writ to his folks?”
“Yes,” returned Marian, who had made a similar
inquiry of Mrs Burt. “They directed a letter to
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
`Frederic Raymond's friends, Franklin County, Kentucky,
' but that may not reach them in a long time.”
“Wouldn't it be a Christian act,” returned Ben “for
us, who know jest who he is, to telegraph to that critter,
and have her come? By all accounts he wants to
see her, and it may do him good.”
Marian felt that it would be right, and, though it
cost her a pang, she said, at last:
“Yes, Ben, you may telegraph; but what name will
you append?”
“Benjamin Butterworth, of course,” he replied.
“They'll remember the peddler, and think it nateral
I should feel an interest.” And leaving Marian to
take charge of the breakfast table, he started for the
office.
Meantime the sick room was the scene of much excitement—
Frederic raving furiously, and asking for
“the girl with the soft hands and silken hair.” Sometimes
he called her Marian, and begged of them to
bring her back, promising not to make her cry again.
“There is a mystery connected with this Marian he
talks so much about,” said the physician, who was
present, “and he seems to fancy a resemblance between
her and the girl who left here this morning. What
may I call her name?”
“Marian, my daughter,” came involuntarily from
Mrs. Burt, whose mental rejoinder was, “God forgive
me for that lie, if it was one. Names and things is
gettin' so 'twisted up that it takes more than me to
straighten 'em!”
“Well, then,” continued the physician, “suppose
you send for her. It will never do for him to get so
excited. He is wearing out too fast.”
“I will go for her myself,” said Mrs. Burt, who
fancied some persuasion might be necessary ere Marian
could be induced to return.
But she was mistaken, for when told that Frederic's
life depended upon his being kept quiet, and his being
kept quiet depended upon her presence, Marian
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
consented, and nerved herself to hear him talk, as she
knew he would, of her rival.
“If he lives, I will be satisfied,” she thought, “even
though he never did or can love me,” and with a
strong, brave heart, she went back again to the sick
man, who welcomed her joyfully, and folding his feeble
arms around her neck, stroked again her hair, as
he said, “You will not leave me, Marian, till Isabel is
here. Then you may go—back to the grave I cannot
find, and we will go home together.”
Marian could not answer him, neither was it necessary
that she should. He was satisfied to have her
there, and with her sitting at his side, and holding his
hand in hers, he became as gentle as a child. Occasionally
he called her “little girl,” but oftener “Marian,”
and when he said that name, he always smoothed
her hair, as if he pitied her, and knew he had done
her a wrong. And Marian felt each day more and
more that the wound she hoped had partly healed was
bleeding afresh with a new pain, for while he talked
of Marian as a mother talks of an unfortunate child,
he spoke of Isabel with all a lover's pride, and each
word was a dagger to the heart of the patient watcher,
who sat beside him day and night, until her eyes were
heavy, and her cheeks were pale with her unbroken
vigils.
“Do you then love this Isabel so much?” she said
to him one day, and sinking his voice to a whisper he
replied, “Yes, and I love you, too, though not like
her, because I loved her first.”
“And Marian?” questioned the young girl, “Don't
you love her?”
Oh, how eagerly she waited for the answer, which
when it came almost broke her heart.
“Not as I ought to—not as I have prayed that I
might, and not as I should, perhaps, if she hadn't been
to me what she is. Poor child,” he continued, brushing
away the tears which rolled like rain down Marian's
cheeks, “poor child, are you crying for Marian?”
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
“Yes—yes, for Marian—for poor heart-broken me;”
and the wretched girl buried her face in the pillow
beside him, for he held her firmly by the wrist, and
she could not get away.
In this manner several days went by, and over the
intellect so obscured there shone no ray of reason,
while the girlish face grew whiter and whiter each
morning light, and at last the physician said that she
must rest, or her strength would be exhausted.
“Let me stay a little longer,” she pleaded—“stay at
least until Miss Huntington arrives.”
“Miss who?” asked the doctor. “Do you then know
his family?”
“A friend of mine knows them,” answered Marian,
a deep flush stealing over her cheek.
“I hope, then, they will reward you well,” continued
the physician. “The young man would have
died but for you. It is remarkable what control you
have over him.”
But Marian wished for no reward. It was sufficient
for her to know that she had been instrumental in saving
his life, even though she had saved it for Isabel. The
physician said that Frederic was better, and that afternoon,
seated in the large arm-chair, she fell into a
refreshing sleep, from which she was finally aroused
by Mrs. Burt, who bending over her, whispered in her
ear:
“Wake up. She's come—she's here—Miss Huntington!”
There was magic in that name, and it roused the
sleeping girl at once, sending a quiver of pain through
her heart, for her post she knew was to be given to another.
Not both of them could watch by Frederic,
and she, who in all the world had the best right to
stay, must go; but not until she had looked upon her
rival and had seen once the face which Frederic called
so beautiful. This done, she would go away and die, if
it were possible, and stand no longer between Frederic
and the bride he so much desired. She did not
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
understand why he had so often spoken of herself as being
dead, when he knew that she was not. It was a vagary
of his brain, she said—he had had many since she came
there, and she hoped he would sometimes talk of her
to Isabel, just as he had talked of Isabel to her. There
was a hurried consultation between herself and Mrs.
Burt, with regard to their future proceedings, and it
was finally decided that the latter should remain a few
days longer, and so report the progress of affairs to
Marian, who, of course, must go away. This arrangement
being made they sat down and rather impatiently
waited for the coming of Isabel, who was in
her room resting after her tiresome journey.
“Oh how can she wait so long?” thought Marian,
glancing at Frederic, who was sleeping now more
quietly than he had done before for a long time.
She did not know Isabel Huntington, and she could not
begin to guess how thoroughly selfish she was, nor how
that selfishness was manifest in every movement. The
letter, which at last had gone to Frahkfort, was received
the same day with the telegram, and as a natural
consequence, threw the inmates of Redstone Hall
into great excitement. Particularly was this the case
with Isabel, who unmindful of everything, wrang her
hands despairingly, crying out, “Oh! what shall I do
if he dies?”
“Do!” repeated Dinah, forgetting her own grief in
her disgust. “For the Lord's sake, can't you do
what you allus did? Go back whar you come from,
you and your mother, in course.”
Isabel deigned no reply to this remark, but hurried
to her chamber, where she commenced the packing of
her trunk
“Wouldn't it look better for me to go?” suggested
Mrs. Huntington, and Isabel answered:
“Certainly not, the telegram was directed to me. No
one knows me in New York, and I don't care what
folks say here. If he lives I shall be his wife, of course,
else why should he send for me. It's perfectly natural
-- 188 --
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
that I should go.” And thinking to herself that she
would rather Frederic should die than to live for another,
she completed her hasty preparations, and was
on her way to the depot before the household had
time to realize what they were doing.
In passing the house of Lawyer Gibson she could
not forbear stopping a moment to communicate the sad
news to her particular friend, who, while condoling
with her, thought to herself, “He does care more for
her than I supposed, or he would not have not sent for
her.”
“When will you come back?” she asked, and Isabel
replied, “Not until he is better or worse. Oh, Agnes,
what if he should die. Imagine Mr. Rivers at the
point of death and you will know just how I feel.”
“Certainly, very, indeed,” was the meaningless answer
of Agnes, who, as the day of her bridal drew near,
began to fancy that she might be easily consoled in case
anything should come between herself and the white
haired Floridan. “Perhaps you will be married before
you return,” she suggested, and Isabel, who had
thought of the same possibility, replied, “Don't, pray,
speak of such a thing—it seems terrible when Frederic
is so sick.”
“You won't cotch the cars if you ain't keerful,”
chimed in Uncle Phil, and kissing each other a most
affectionate good-by, the young ladies parted, Agnes
thinking to herself, “I reckon I wouldn't go off to
New York after a man who hadn't really proposed—
but then it's just like her,” while Isabel's mental comment
was, “It's time Agnes was married, for she's
really beginning to look old; I wouldn't have my grandfather
though!”
So much for girlish friendships!
Distressed and anxious as Isabel seemed, it was no
part of her intention to travel nights, for that would
give her a sallow, jaded look; so she made the journey
leisurely, and even after her arrival, took time to rest
and beautify ere presenting herself to Frederic. She
-- 189 --
[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
had ascertained that he was better, and had the best
of care, so she remained quietly in her chamber an
hour or so, and it was not until after dark that she
bade the servant show her the way to the sick room.
“I will tell them you are coming,” suggested the
polite attendant, and, going on before her, he said to
Mrs. Burt that “Miss Huntington would like to come
in.”
In the farthest corner in the room, where the shadows
were the deepest, and where she would be the
least observed, sat Marian, her hands clasped tightly
together, her head bent forward, and her eyes fixed intently
upon the door through which her rival would
enter. Frederic was awake, and, missing her from
her post, was about asking for her, when Isabel appeared,
looking so fresh, so glowing, so beautiful, that
for an instant Marian forgot everything in her admiration
of the queenly creature, who, bowing civilly to
Mrs. Burt, glided to the bedside, and sank upon her
knees, gracefully—very gracefully—just as she had
done at a private rehearsal in her own room! Tighter
the little hands were clasped together, and the head
which had dropped before was erect now, as Marian
watched eagerly for what would follow next.
“Dear Frederic,” said Isabel, and over the white
face in the arm-chair the hot blood rushed in torrents
for it seemed almost an insult to hear him thus addressed—
“Dear Frederic, do you know me? I am Isabel:”
and, unmindful of Mrs. Burt, or yet of the motionless
figure sitting near, she kissed his burning forehead,
and said again; “Do you know me?”
The nails were marking dark rings now in the tender
flesh, while the blue eyes flashed until they grew almost
as black as Isabel's, and still Marian did not
move. She could not, until she heard what answer
would be given. As the physician had predicted,
Frederic was better since his refreshing sleep, and
through the misty vail enshrouding his reason a glimmer
of light was shining. The voice was a familiar
-- 190 --
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
one, and though it partly bewildered him, he knew
who it was that bent so fondly over him. It was somebody
from home, and with a thrill of pleasure akin to
what one feels when meeting a fellow countryman far
away on a foreign shore, he twined his arms around her
neck, and said to her joyfully: “You are Isabel, and
you've come to make me well.”
Isabel was about to speak again, when a low sob
startled her, and, turning in the direction from whence
it came, she met a fierce, burning gaze which riveted
her as by some magnetism to the spot, and for a moment
the two looked intently into each other's eyes.
Isabel and Marian, the one stamping indelibly upon
her memory the lineaments of a face which had stolen
and kept a heart which should have been her own,
while the other wondered much at the strange white
face which even through the darkness seemed quivering
with pain.
Purposely Mrs. Burt stepped between them, and
thus the spell was broken, Isabel turning again to
Frederic, while Marian, unlocking her stiff fingers,
grasped her bonnet and glided from the room so silently
that Isabel knew not she was gone until she
turned her head and found the chair empty.
“Who was that?” she said to Mrs. Burt—“that
young girl who just went out?”
“My daughter,” answered Mrs. Burt, again mentally
asking forgiveness for the falsehood told, and
thinking to herself, “Mercy knows it ain't my nater
to lie, but when a body gets mixed up in such a scrape
as this, I'd like to see 'em help it!”
After the first lucid interval, Frederic relapsed again
into his former delirious mood, but did not ask for Marian.
He seemed satisfied that Isabel was there, and
he fell asleep again, resting so quietly that when it
was eleven Isabel arose and said, “He is doing so
well I believe I will retire. I never sat up with a
sick person in my life, and should be very little
-- 191 --
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
assistance to you. That daughter of yours is somewhere
around, I suppose, and will come if you need help.”
Mrs. Burt nodded, thinking how different was this
conduct from that of the unselfish Marian, who had
watched night after night without giving herself the
rest she absolutely needed. Isabel, on the contrary,
had no idea of impairing her beauty, or bringing discomfort
to herself by spending many hours at a time
in that close, unwholesome atmosphere, and while Marian
in her humble apartment was weeping bitterly,
she was dreaming of returning to Kentucky as a bride.
Frederic could scarcely do less than reward her kindness
by marrying her as soon as he was able. She
could take care of him so much better, she thought,
and ere she fell asleep she had arranged it all in her
own mind, and had fancied her mother's surprise at
receiving a letter signed by her new name, “Isabel H.
Raymond.” She would retain the “H,” she said. She
always liked to see it, and she hoped Agnes Gibson, if
she persisted in that foolish fancy of the fish-knife,
would have it marked in this way!
It was long after daylight ere she awoke, and when
she did her first thought was of her pleasant dream
and her second of the girl she had seen the night before.
“How white she was,” she said, as she made
her elaborate toilet, “and how those eyes of hers
glared at me, as if I had no business here. Maybe she
has fallen in love while taking care of him;” and Isabel
laughed aloud at the very idea of a nursing
woman's daughter being in love with the fastidious
Frederic! Once she thought of Mrs. Daniel Burt,
wondering where she lived, and half wishing she could
find her, and, herself unknown, could question her of
Marian.
“Maybe this Mrs. Merton knows something of her,”
she said, and thinking she would ask her if a good opportunity
should occur, she gave an extra brush to her
glossy hair, looked in a small hand mirror to see that
the braids at the back of her head were right, threw
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
open her wrapper a little more to show her flounced
cambric skirt, and then went to the breakfast room,
where three attendants, attracted by her style and the
prospect of a fee, bowed obsequiously and asked what
she would have. This occupied nearly another hour,
and it was almost ten ere she presented herself to Mrs.
Burt, who was growing very faint and weary.
At the physicain's request more light had been admitted
into the room, and Frederic, who was much
better this morning, recognized Isabel at once. He
had a faint remembrance of having seen her the previous
night, but it needed Mrs. Burt's assertion to conconfirm
his conjecture, and he greeted her now as if
meeting her for the first time. Many questions he asked
of the people at home, and how they had learned of his
illness.
“We received a letter and a telegram both,” said Isabel,
continuing, “You remember that booby peddler
who sold Alice the bracelet and frightened the negroes
so? Well, he must have telegraphed, for his name was
signed to the dispatch, `Benjamin Butterworth.”'
Mrs. Burt was very much occupied with something
near the table, and Frederic did not notice her confusion
as he replied, “He was a kind-hearted man, I
thought, but I wonder how he heard of my illness, and
where he is now. Mrs. Merton, has a certain Ben Butterworth
inquired for me since I was sick?”
“I know nobody by that name,” returned Mrs. Burt,
and without stopping to think that her question might
lead to some inquiries from Frederic, Isabel rejoined,
“Well, do you know a Mrs. Daniel Burt?”
“Mrs. Daniel Burt!” repeated Frederic, as if trying
to recall something far back in the past, while the lady
in question started so suddenly as to drop the cup of
hot water she held in her hand.
Stooping down to pick up the cup, she said something
about its having burned her, and added, “I ain't
much acquainted in the city, and never know my next
door neighbors.”
-- 193 --
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
“Mrs. Daniel Burt,” Frederic said again, “I have
surely heard that name before. Who is she, Isabel?”
It was Isabel's turn now to answer evasively; but
being more accustomed to dissimulate than her companion,
she replied, quite as a matter of course, “You
may have heard mother speak of her in New Haven.
I used to know her when I was a little girl, and I believe
she lives in New York. She was a very good,
but common kind of woman, and one with whom I
should not care to associate, though mother, I dare say,
would be glad to hear from her.”
“The impudent trollop,” muttered Mrs. Burt, marvelling
at the conversation, and wondering which was
trying to deceive the other, Frederic or Isabel. “The
former couldn't hoodwink her,” she said, “even if he
did Isabel. She understood it all, and he knew who
Mrs. Daniel Burt was just as well as she did, for even
if he had forgotten that she once lived with his father,
Marian's letter had refreshed his memory, and he was
only `putting on' for the sake of misleading Isabel.
But where in the world did that jade know her!” that
was a puzzle, and settling it in her own mind that
there were two of the same name, she left the room and
went down to her breakfast.
During the day not a word was said of Marian. Isabel
was evidently too much pleased with Frederic's delight
at seeing her to think of anything else, while Mrs.
Burt did not consider it necessary to speak of her. Frederic,
too, for a time had forgotten her, but as the day
drew near its close, he relapsed into a thoughtful mood,
replying to Isabel's frequent remarks either in monosyl-lables
or not at all. As the darkness increased he
seemed to be listening intently, and when a step was
heard upon the stairs or in the hall without, his face
would light up with eager expectation and then be as
suddenly overcast as the footstep passed his door. Gradually
there was creeping into his mind a vague remembrance
of something or somebody, which for many
days had been there with him, gliding so noiselessly
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
about the room that he had almost fancied it trod upon
the air, and he could scarcely tell whether it were a spirit
or a human being like himself. Little by little the
outline so dimly discerned assumed a form, and the
form was that of a young girl—a very fair young
girl, with sweet blue eyes, and soft, baby hands,
which had held his aching head and smoothed his tangled
hair, oh, so many times. Her voice too, was low
and gentle, and reminding him of some sad strain of
music heard long, long ago. It seemed to him, too, that
she called him Frederic, dropping hot tears upon his
face. But where was she now? Why did't she come
again, and who was she—that little blue-eyed girl?
For a time the vision faded and all was confused
again, but the reality came back ere long, and listening
eagerly for something which never came, he
thought and thought until great drops of sweat stood
thickly upon his brow; and Isabel, wiping them away,
became alarmed at the wildness of his eye and the
rapid beating of his pulse. A powerful anodyne was
administered, and he slept at last a fitful feverish sleep,
which however, did him good, and in the morning he
was better than he had been before.
Mrs. Burt, who had watched him carefully, knew
that the danger was past, and that afternoon she left
him with Isabel, while she went home, where she found
Marian seriously ill, with Ben taking care of her in his
kind but awkward manner.
“Did Frederic remember me? Does he know I
have been there?” were Marian's first questions, and
when Mrs. Burt replied in the negative, she turned
away whispering, mournfully, “It is just as well.”
“He is doing well,” said Mrs. Burt, “and as you
need me more than he does now, I shall come home
and let that Isabel take care of him. It wont hur't her
any, the jade. She can telegraph for her mother if
she chooses.”
Accordingly, she returned to the sick-room, where
she found Frederic asleep and Isabel reading a novel.
-- 195 --
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
To her announcement of leaving, the latter made no
objection. She was rather pleased than otherwise, for,
as Frederic grew stronger, the presence of a third person,
and a stranger, too, might be disagreeable. She
would telegraph for her mother, of course, as she did
not think it quite proper to stay there alone. But her
mother was under her control; she could dispose of her
at any time, so she merely stopped her reading long
enough to say, “Very well, you can go if you like.
How much is your charge?”
Mrs. Burt did not hesitate to tell her; and Isabel,
who had taken care of Frederic's purse, paid her, and
then resumed her book, while Mrs. Burt, with a farewell
glance at her patient, went from the room, without
a word of explanation as to where she could be
found in case they wished to find her.
It was dark when Frederic awoke, and it was so
still around him that he believed himself alone.
“They have all left me,” he said; “Mrs. Merton,
Isabel, and that other one, that being of mystery—
who was she—who could she have been?” and shutting
his eyes, he tried to bring her before him just as
he had often seen her bending o'er his pillow.
He knew now that it was not a phantom of his
brain, but a reality. There had been a young girl
there, and when the world without was darkest, and
he was drifting far down the river of death, her voice
had called him back, and her hands had held him
up so that he did not sink in the deep, angry waters.
There were tears many times upon her face, he remembered,
and once he had wiped them away, asking
why she cried. It was a pretty face, he said, a very
pretty face, and the sunny eyes of blue seemed shining
on him even now, while the memory of her gentle acts
was very, very sweet, thrilling him with an undefined
emotion, and awakening within his bosom a germ of
the undying love he was yet to feel for the mysterious
stranger. She had called him Frederic, too, while he
had called her Marian. She had answered to that
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
came, she asked him of Isabel, and—oh, Heaven!” he
cried, starting quickly and clasping both hands upon
his head. Like a thunderbolt it burst upon him, and
for an instant his brain seemed all on fire. “It was
Marian!—it was Marian!” he essayed to say, but his
lips refused to move, and when Isabel, startled by his
sudden movement, struck a light and came to his bedside,
she saw that he had fainted!
In great alarm she summoned help, begging of those
who came to go at once for Mrs. Merton. But no one
knew of the woman's place of residence, and as she
had failed to inquire, it was a hopeless matter. Slowly
Frederic came back to consciousness, and when he was
again alone with Isabel he said to her, “Where is that
woman who took care of me?”
“She is gone,” said Isabel. “Gone to her home.”
“Gone,” he repeated. “When did she go, and
why?”
Isabel told him the particulars of Mrs. Burt's going,
and he continued:
“Was there no one else here when you came? No
young girl with soft blue eyes?” and he looked eagerly
at her.
“Yes,” she replied. “There was a queer acting
thing sitting in the arm-chair the night I first came
in—”
“Who was she, and where is she now?” he asked;
and Isabel answered, “I am sure I don't know where
she is, for she vanished like a ghost.”
“Yes, yes; but who was she? Did she have no name?”
and Frederic clutched Isabel's arm nervously.
“Mrs. Merton told me it was her daughter—that
is all I know,” said Isabel; and in a tone of disappointment
he continued;
“Will you tell me just how she looked, and how
she acted when you first saw her?”
“One would suppose you deeply interested in your
nurse's daughter;” and the glittering black eyes
flashed scornfully upon Frederic, who replied:
-- 197 --
[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
“I am interested, for she saved my life. Tell me,
won't you, how she looked?”
“Well, then,” returned Isabel pettishly, “she was
about fifteen, I think—certainly not older than that.
Her face was very white, with big, blue eyes, which
glared at me like a wild beast's; and what is queerer
than all, she actually sobbed when I, or rather you
kissed me; perhaps you have forgotten that you
did?”
He had forgotten it, for the best of reasons, but he
did not contradict her, so intent was he upon listening
to her story.
“I had not observed her particularly before; but
when I heard that sound I turned to look at her,
while she stared at me as impudently as if I had no
business here. That woman stepped between us purposely
I know, for she seemed excited; and when I saw
the arm-chair again the girl was gone.”
Thus far everything, except the probable age, had
confirmed his suspicions; but there was one question
more—an all-important one—and with trembling eagerness
he asked:
“What of her hair? Did you notice that?”
“It was brown, I think,” said Isabel—“short in
her neck and curly round her forehead. I should say
her hair was rather handsome.”
With a sigh of disappointment Frederic turned upon
his pillow, saying to her:
“That will do—I've heard enough.”
Isabel's last words had brought back to his mind
something which he had forgotten until now—the
girl's hair was short, and he remembered distinctly
twinning the soft rings around his fingers. They were
not long, red curls, like those described by Sally
Green. It wasn't Marian's hair—it wasn't Marian at
all; and in his weakness his tears dropped silently
upon the pillow, for the disappointment was terrible.
All that night and the following day he was haunted
with thoughts of the young girl, and at last,
-- 198 --
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
determining to see her again and know if she were like Marian,
he said to Isabel:
“Send for Mrs. Merton. I wish to talk with her.”
“It is an impossibility,” returned Isabel; “for,
when she left us, I carelessly neglected to ask where
she lived—”
“Inquire below, then,” persisted Frederic. “Somebody
will certainly know, and I must find her.”
Isabel complied with his request, and soon returned
with the information that no one knew aught of Mrs.
Merton's whereabouts, though it was generally believed
that she came from the country, and at the time
of coming to the hotel was visiting friends in the city.
“Find her friends, then,” continued Frederic, growing
more and more excited and impatient.
This, too, was impossible, for everything pertaining
to Mrs. Merton was mere conjecture. No one could
tell where she lived, or whither she had gone; and
the sick man lamented the circumstance so often that
Isabel more than once lost her temper entirely, wondering
why he should be so very anxious about a woman
who had been well paid for her services—“yes, more
than paid, for her price was a most exorbitant one.”
Meantime, Mrs. Huntington, who, on the receipt of
Isabel's telegram, had started immediately, arrived,
laden with trunks, bandboxes, and bags, for the old
lady was rather dressy, and fancied a large hotel a
good place to show her new clothes. On learning that
Frederic was very much better, and that she had been
sent for merely on the score of propriety, she seemed
somewhat out of humor—“Not that she wanted Frederic
to die,” she said, “and she was glad of course that
he was getting well, but she didn't like to be scared
the way she was; a telegram always made her stomach
tremble so that she didn't get over it in a week; she had
traveled day and night to get there, and didn't know
what she could have done if she hadn't met Rudolph
McVicar in Cincinnati.”
-- 199 --
[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
“Rudolph!” exclaimed Isabel. “Pray, where is he
now?”
“Here in this very hotel,” returned her mother.
“He came with me all the way, and seemed greatly
interested in you, asking a thousand questions about
when you expected to be married. Said he supposed
Frederic's illness would postpone it awhile, and when
I told him you wan't even engaged as I knew of,
he looked disappointed. I believe Rudolph has reformed!”
“The wretch!” muttered Isabel, who rightly guessed
that Rudolph's interest was only feigned.
He had heard of her sudden departure for New
York, and had heard also (Agnes Gibson being the
source whence the information came) that she might,
perhaps, be married as soon as Frederic was able to sit
up. Accordingly, he had himself started northward,
stumbling upon Mrs. Huntington in Cincinnati, and
coming with her to New York, where he stopped at
the same hotel, intending to remain there and wait
for the result. He did not care to meet Isabel face to
face, while she was quite as anxious to avoid an interview
with him; and after a few days she ceased to be
troubled about him at all. Frederic absorbed all her
thoughts, he appeared so differently from what he
used to do—talking but little either to herself or her
mother, and lying nearly all the day with his eyes
shut, though she knew he was not asleep; and she
tried in vain to fathom the subject of his reflections.
But he guarded that secret well, and day after day he
thought on, living over again the first weeks of his
sickness in that chamber, until at last the conviction
was fixed upon his mind that, spite of the short hair,
spite of the probable age, spite of the story about Mrs.
Merton's daughter, or yet the letter from Sarah Green,
that young girl who had watched with him so long
and then disappeared so mysteriously, was none other
than Marian—his wife. He did not shudder now when
he repeated that last word to himself. It sounded
-- 200 --
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
pleasantly, for he knew it was connected with the
sweet, womanly love which had saved him from death.
The brown hair which Isabel had mentioned he rejected
as an impossibility. It had undoubtedly looked
dark to her, but it was red still, though worn short in
her neck, for he remembered that distinctly. Sarah
Green's letter was a forgery—Alice's prediction was
true, and Marian still lived.
But where was she now? Why had she left him so
abruptly? and would he ever find her? Yes, he
would, he said. He would spare no time, no pains, no
money in the search; and when he found her he would
love and cherish her as she deserved. He was beginning
to love her now, and he wondered at his infatuation
for Isabel, whose real character was becoming
more and more apparent to him. His changed demeanor
made her cross and fretful; while Alice Gibson's
letter, asking when she was to be married, and
saying people there expected her to return a bride,
only increased her ill-humor, which manifested itself
several times toward her mother, in Frederic's presence.
At last, in a fit of desperation, she wrote to Agnes
Gibson that she never expected to be married—certainly
not to Frederic Raymond—and if every young
lady matrimonially inclined should nurse her intended
husband through a course of fever, she guessed they
would become disgusted with mankind generally, and
that man in particular! This done, Isabel felt better—
so much better indeed that she resolved upon another
trial to bring about her desired object, and one day,
about two weeks after her mother's arrival, she said to
Frederic:
“Now that you are nearly well, I believe I shall go
to New Haven, and, after a little, mother will come,
too. I shall remain there, I think, though mother, I
suppose, will keep house for you this year, as she has
engaged to do.”
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
To this suggestion Frederic did not reply just as she
thought he would.
“It was a good idea,” he said, “for her to visit her
old home, and he presumed she would enjoy it.” Then
he added, very faintly: “Alice will need a teacher
here quite as much as in Kentucky, and you can
retain your situation if you choose.”
Isabel bit her lip, and her black eyes flashed angrily
as she replied:
“I am tired of teaching only one pupil, for there is
nothing to interest me, and I am all worn out, too.”
She did look pale, and, touched with pity, Frederic
said to her, very kindly:
“You do seem weary, Isabel. You have been confined
with me too long, and I think you had better go
at once. I will run down to see you, if possible, before
I return to Kentucky.”
This gave her hope, and, drying her eyes, which
were filled with tears, Isabel chatted pleasantly with
him about his future plans, which had been somewhat
disarranged by his unexpected illness. He could not
now hope to be settled at Riverside, as he called his
new home, until some time in June—perhaps not so
soon—but he would let her know, he said, in time to
meet him there.
A day or two after this conversation, Isabel started
for New Haven, whither in the course of a week she
was followed by both her mother and Rudolph, the
latter of whom was determined not to lose sight of her
until sure that the engagement, which he somewhat
doubted, did not in reality exist.
-- --
CHAPTER XVII. THE SEARCH.
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
When the carriage containing Mrs. Huntington
rolled away from the hotel, Frederic, who was standing
upon the steps, experienced a feeling of relief in
knowing that, as far as personal acquaintances were
concerned, he was now alone and free to commence
his search for Marian. Each day the conviction had
been strengtnened that she was alive—that she had
been with him a few weeks before—and now every energy
should be devoted to finding her. Once he
thought of advertising, but she might not see the paper,
and as he rather shrank from making his affairs
thus public, he abandoned the project, determining,
however, to leave no other means untried; he would
hunt the city over, inquire at every house, and then
scour the surrounding country. It might be months,
or it might be years, ere this were accomplished; but
accomplish it he would, and with a brave, hopeful
heart, he started out, taking first a list of all the Mertons
in the Directory, then searching out and making
of them the most minute inquiries, except, indeed, in
cases where he knew, by the nature of their surroundings,
that none of their household had officiated in the
capacity of nurse. The woman who had taken care of
him was poor and uneducated, and he confined himself
mostly to that class of people.
But all in vain. No familiar face ever came at his
call. Nobody knew her whom he sought—no one had
-- 203 --
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
heard of Marian Lindsey, and at last he thought of
Sally Green, determining to visit her again, and, if possible,
learn something more of the girl she had described.
Perhaps she could direct him to Joe Black,
who might know the tall man last seen with Marian.
The place was easily found, and the dangerous stairs
creaked again to his eager tread. Sal knew him at
once, and tucking her grizzly hair beneath her dirty
cap, waited to hear his errand, which was soon told.
Could she give him any further information of that
young girl, had she ever heard of her since his last
visit there, and would she tell him where to find Joe
Black?—he might know who the man was, and thus
throw some light on the mystery.
“Bless your heart,” answered the woman, “Joe died
three weeks ago with the delirium tremens, so what you
git out of him won't help you much. I told you all I
knew before; or no, come to think on't, I seen 'em go
into a Third avenue car, and that makes me think the
feller lived up town. But law, you may as well hunt
for a needle in a haystack as to hunt for a lost gal in
New York. You may git out all the police you've
a mind to, and then you ain't no better off. Ten to
one they are wus than them that's hidin' her, if they
do wear brass buttons and feel so big,” and Sal shook
her brawny arm threateningly at some imaginary officers
of justice.
With a feeling of disgust, Frederic turned away, and,
retracing his steps, came at last to the Park, where he
entered a Third avenue car, though why he did so he
scarcely knew. He did not expect to find her there,
but he felt a satisfaction in thinking she had once been
over that route—perhaps in that very car—and he
looked curiously in the faces of his fellow-passengers
as they entered and left. Wistfully, too, he glanced
out at the houses they were passing, saying to himself:
“Is it there Marian lives, or there?” and once when
they stopped for some one to alight, his eye wandered
down the opposite street, resting at last upon a window
-- 204 --
[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
high up in a huge block of buildings. There was nothing
peculiar about that window—nothing to attract
attention, unless it were the neat white fringed curtain
which shaded it, or the rose geranium which in its
little earthen pot seemed to indicate that the inmates
of that tenement retained a love for flowers and country
fashions, even amid the smoke and the dust of the city.
Frederic saw the white curtain, and it reminded him of
the one which years ago huug in his bedroom at the
old place on the river. He saw the geranium, too, and
the figure which bent over it to pluck the withered
leaf. Then the car moved on, and to the weary man
sitting in the corner there came no voice to tell how
near he had been to the lost one, for that window was
Mrs. Burt's, and the bending figure—Marian.
He had seen her—he had passed within a few rods of
her and she could have heard him had he shouted aloud,
but for all the good that this did him she might have
been miles and miles away, for he never dreamed of
the truth, and day after day he continued his search,
while the excitement, the fatigue, and the constant disappointment,
told fearfully upon his constitution. Still
he would not give it up, and every morning he went
forth with hope renewed, only to return at night
weary, discouraged, and sometimes almost despairing
of success.
Once, at the close of a rainy afternoon, he entered
again a Third avenue car, which would leave him not
very far from his hotel. It had been a day of unusual
fatigue with him, and utterly exhausted, he sank into
the corner seat, while passenger after passenger crowded
in, their damp overcoats and dripping umbrellas
filling the vehicle with a sickly steam, which affected
him unpleasantly, causing him to lean his aching head
upon his hand, and so shut out what was going on
around him. They were full at last—every seat, every
standing point was taken, and still the conductor said
there was room for another, as he passed in a delicate
young girl, who modestly drew her vail over her face
-- 205 --
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
to avoid the gaze of the men, some of whom stared
rather rudely at her. Just after she came in, Frederic
looked up, but the thick folds of the vail told no tales
of the sudden paling of the lip, the flushing of her
cheek, and the quiver of the eye-lids. Neither did the
violent trembling of her body, nor the quick pressure
of her hand upon her side convey to him other impression
than that she was tired—faint, he thought—
and touching his next neighbor with his elbow, he
compelled him to move along a few inches, while he
did the same, and so made room for the girl between
himself and the door.
“Sit here, Miss,” he said, and he turned partly
toward her, as if to shield her from the crowd, for he
felt intuitively that she was not like them.
Her hands, which chanced to be ungloved and
grasped the handle of her basket, were small, very
small, and about the joints were little laughing dimples,
looking very tempting to Frederic Raymond,
who was a passionate admirer of pretty hands, and
who now felt a strong desire to clasp the tiny snowflakes
just within his reach.
Involuntarily he thought of those which had so lately
held his feverish head; they must have been much
like the little ones holding so fast the basket, and he
wished that chance had brought Marian there instead
of the young girl sitting so still beside him. A strange
sensation thrilled him at the very idea of meeting her
thus, while his heart beat fast, but never said to him
that it was Marian herself! Why didn't it? He
asked himself that question a thousand times in after
years, saying he should know her again, but he had no
suspicion of it now, though when they stopped at the
same street down which he once had looked at the
open window, and when the seat beside him was
empty, he did experience a sense of loneliness—a feeling
as if a part of himself had gone with the young
girl. Suddenly remembering that in his abstraction
he had come higher up than he wished to do, he also
-- 206 --
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
alighted, and standing upon the muddy pavement,
looked after the tripping figure moving so rapidly toward
the window where the geranium was blossoming,
and where a light was shining now. It disappeared
at last, and mentally chiding him for stopping in the
rain to watch a perfect stranger, Frederic turned back
in the direction of his hotel, while the girl, who had
so awakened his interest, rushed up the narrow stairs,
and bounded into the room where Mrs. Burt was sitting,
exclaimed:
“I've seen him! I've sat beside him in the same
car!”
“Why didn't you fetch him home, then?” asked
Ben, who had returned that afternoon from a short excursion
in the country.
Marian's face crimsoned at this question, and in a
hard, unnatural voice she replied:
“He didn't wish to come. He didn't even pretend
to recognize me, though he gave me a seat, and I knew
him so quick.”
“Had that brown dud over your face, I s'pose,” returned
Ben, casting a rueful glance at the vail. “Nobody
can tell who a woman is, now-a-days. Why didn't
you pull it off and claim him for your husband, and
make him pay your fare?”
“Oh, Ben,” said Marian, “you certainly wouldn't
have me degrade myself like that! Frederic knew
who I was, I am sure, for I saw him so plain—but he
does not wish to find me. He never asked for me
since I left his sick room. All he cared for was Isabel,
and I wish it were possible for him to marry her.”
“You don't wish any such thing,” answered Ben, and
in the same cold, hard tone Marian continued:
“I do. I thought so to-night when I sat beside him
and looked into his face. I loved him once as much
as one can love another, and because I loved him thus
I came away, thinking in my ignorance that he might
be happy with Isabel; and when I saw that advertisement,
I wrote, asking if I might go back again. The
-- 207 --
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
result of the letter you know. He insulted me cruelly.
He told me a falsehood, and still I was not cured.
When I thought him dying in the hotel, I went and
staid with him till the other came: but, after I was
gone, he never spoke of me, and he even professed not
to know Mrs. Daniel Burt, asking who she was, when
he knew as well as I, for I told him who she was, and
he directed my letter to her. I never used to think he
was deceitful, but I know it now, and I almost hate
him for it.”
“Tut, tut. No you don't,” chimed in Ben; and Marian
growing still more excited, continued, “Well, if I
don't, I will. I have run after him all I ever shall,
and now if we are reconciled he must make the first
concessions!”
“Whew-ew,” whistled Ben, thinking to himself,
“Ain't the little criter spunky, though!” and feeling
rather amused than otherwise, he watched Marian as
she paced the floor, her blue eyes flashing angrily and
her whole face indicative of strong excitement.
She fully believed that Frederic knew her, simply
because she recognized him, and his failing to acknowledge
the recognition filled her with indignation
and determination to forget him if it were possible.
Ah, little did she dream then of the lonely man, who,
in the same room where she so recently had been, sat
with bowed head, and thought of her until the distant
bells tolled the hour of midnight.
It was now three weeks since he commenced his
search, and he was beginning to despair of success. His
presence he knew was needed in Kentucky, where
Alice had been left alone with the negroes, and where
his arrangements for moving were not yet completed.
His house on the river was waiting for him, the people
wondering why he didn't come, and as he sat thinking
it all over, he resolved at last to go home and bring
Alice to Riverside—to send for Mrs. Huntington as
had previously been arranged, and then begin the
search again. Of Isabel too, he thought, remembering
-- 208 --
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
his hasty promise of going to New Haven, but this he
could not do. So he penned her a few lines, telling
her how it was impossible for him to come, and saying
that on his return to Riverside with Alice, he
should expect to find her mother and herself waiting
to receive him.
“I cannot do less than this,” he said. “Isabel has
been with me a long time, and though I do not feel toward
her as I did, I pity her; for I am afraid she likes
me better than she should. I have given her encouragement,
too; but when I come back, I will talk with
her candidly. I will tell her how it is, and offer her a
home with me as long as she shall choose to stay. I
will be to her a brother; and when Marian is found,
the two shall be like sisters, until some man who has
not a wife already takes Isabel from my hands.”
Thus deciding, Frederic wrote to Alice, telling her
when he should probably be home, and saying he
should stop for a day or so at Yonkers. This done, he
retired to rest, dreaming strange dreams of Marian and
the girl who sat beside him. They were one and the
same, he thought; and he was raising the brown vail
to see, when he awoke to consciousness, and experienced
a feeling of disappointment in finding his dream
untrue.
That morning a vague, uneasy feeling prompted him
to stroll slowly down the street whither the young girl
had gone the previous night. The window in the third
story was open again, and the geranium was standing
there still, its broad leaves growing fresher and greener
in the sunshine which shone warm upon the window
sill, where a beautiful kitten lay, apparently asleep.
Frederic saw it all, and for an instant felt a thrill of
fear lest the cat should fall and be killed on the pavement
below. But a second glance assured him of its
safety—for, half buried in its long, silk fur, was a
small white hand, a hand like Marian's and that of the
girl with the thick brown vail. “Its owner was the
mistress of the kitten,” he said; and the top of her
-- 209 --
[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
head was just visible, for she sat reading upon a little
stool, and utterly unconscious of the stranger who, on
the opposite side in the street, cast many and wistful
glances in that direction, not because he fancied that
she was there, nor yet for any explainable reason, except
that the fringed curtain reminded him of his boyhood;
and he knew the occupant of that room had
once lived in the country, and bleached her linen on
the sweet, clean grass, which grew by the running
brook.
“Marian,” said Mrs. Burt, “who is that tall man going
down the street? He's been looking this way ever
so much. Isn't it—”
She did not need to repeat the name, for Marian
saw who it was, and her fingers buried themselves so
deeply in the fat sides of the kitten that the little animal
fancied the play rather too rude for comfort, and,
spitting at her mistress pertly bounded upon the floor.
“It's Frederic!” cried Marian. “Maybe he's coming
here, for he has crossed the street below, and is
coming up this side.” And in her joy Marian forgot
the harsh things she had said of him only the night before.
But in vain Marian waited for the step upon the
stairs—the loud knock upon the door—neither of them
came, and leaning from the window she watched him
through her tears until he passed from sight.
That afternoon, as Frederic was sauntering leisurely
down the street in the direction of the depot—
ior he intended going to Yonkers that night—he stumbled
upon Ben, whose characteristic exclamation was,
“Wall, Square, glad to see you out agin, but I didn't
b'lieve I ever should when I sent word to that gal. She
come, I s'pose?”
“Yes,” returned Frederic, “and I am grateful to
you for your kindness in telegraphing to my friends.
How did you know I was sick?”
“Oh, I'm allus 'round,” said Ben. “Know one of
them boys at the hotel, and he told me. I s'posed
-- 210 --
[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
you'd die, and I should of come to see you mabby,
only I had to go off peddlin'. Bizness afore pleasure,
you know.”
This remark seemed to imply that Frederic's dying
would have been a source of pleasure to the Yankee,
but the young man knew that he did intend it, and the
two walked on together—Ben plying his companion
with questions, and learning that both Isabel and Mrs.
Huntington were now in New Haven, but would probably
go to Riverside when Frederic returned from
Kentucky.
“That's a grand place,” said Ben; “fixed up in tip-top
style, too. I took my sister out to see it, and she
thought 'twas pretty slick. Wouldn't wonder if you're
goin' to marry that black haired gal, by the looks of
things?” and Ben's gray eyes peered sideways at Frederic,
who replied, “I certainly have no such intentions.”
“You don't say it,” returned Ben. “I shouldn't
of took the trouble to send for her if I hadn't s'posed
you was kinder courtin'. My sister thought you was, and
she or'to know, bein' she's been through the mill!”
Frederic winced under Ben's pointed remarks, and
as a means of changing the conversation, said, “If I
am not mistaken, you spoke of your sister when in
Kentucky, and Alice became quite interested. I've
heard her mention the girl several times. What is her
name?”
“Do look at that hoss—flat on the pavement. He's
a goner,” Ben exclaimed, by way of gaining a little
time.
Frederic's attention was immediately diverted from
Ben, who thought to himself, “I'll try him with half
the truth, and if he's any ways bright he'll guess the
rest.”
So when, to use Ben's words, the noble quadruped
was “safely landed on t'other side of Jordan where
there wan't no omnibus drivers, no cars, no canal boats,
no cartmen, no gals to pound their backs into
-- 211 --
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
pummice, no wimmen, nor ministers to yank their mouths,
nor nothin' but a lot as big as the United States with
the Missippi runnin' through it, and nothin' to do but
kick up their heels and eat clover,” Ben came back to
Frederic's question, and said, “You as't my sister's
name. They tried hard to call her Mary Ann, I
s'pose. My way of thinkin' 'taint neither one nor
t'other, though mabby you'll like it—Marian; 'taint a
common name. Did you ever hear it afore?”
“Marian!” gasped Frederic, turning instantly pale,
while a strange, undefinable feeling swept over him—
a feeling hat he had never been so near finding her as
now.
“Excuse me, Square,” said Ben, whose keen eyes
lost not a single change in the expression of Frederic's
face. “I'm such a blunderin' critter! That little
blind gal told me your fust wife was Marian, and I
or'to known better than harrer your feelings with the
name.”
“Never mind,” returned Frederic, faintly, “but tell
me of your sister—and now I think of it, you said once
you were from down east, which I supposed referred
to one of the New England states, Vermont perhaps?”
“Did use to live in Massachusetts,” replied Ben. “But
can't a feller move?”
Frederic admitted that he could, and Ben continued,
“I or'to told you, I s'pose, that Marian ain't my own
flesh and blood—she's adopted, that's all. But I love
her jest the same. Her name is Marian Grey,” and
Ben looked earnestly at Frederic, thinking to himself,
“Won't he take the hint when he knows, or had or'to
know that her mother was a Grey.”
But hints were lost on Frederic. He had no suspicion
of the truth, and Ben proceeded, “All her kin is
dead, and as mother hadn't no daughter she took this
orphan, and I'm workin' hard to give her a good
schoolin'. She can play the pianner like fury, and
talks the French grammar most as well as I do the
English!”
-- 212 --
[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
This brought a smile to Frederic's face, and he did
not for a moment think of doubting Ben's word.
“You seem very proud of your sister,” he said, at
last, “and as I owe you something for caring for me
and telegraphing to my friends, let me show my gratitude
by giving you something for this Marian Grey.
What shall it be? Is she fond of jewelry? Most
young girls are.”
Ben stuck his hands in his trousers pocket and
seemed to be thinking; then, removing his hands he
replied, “Mabby you'll think it sassy, but there is
somethin' that would please us both. I told her about
you when I came from Kentucky, and she cried like a
baby over that blind gal. Then, when you was sick,
she felt worried agin, beg your pardon, Square, but I
told her you was han'some. Jest give us your picter,
if it ain't bigger than my thumb, and would it be asking
too much for you when you git home to send me
the blind gal's. She's an angel, and I should feel so
good to have her face in my pocket. You can direct
to Ben Butterworth—but law, you won't, I know you
won't.”
“Why not?” asked Frederic, laughing at the novel
request. “Mine you shall surely have, and Alice's
also, if she consents. Come with me now, for we are opposite
a daguerrean gallery.”
The result of this was that in a short time Ben held
in his hand a correct likeness of Frederic, which was
of priceless value to him, because he knew how highly
it would be prized by her for whom alone he had requested
it.
As they passed out into the street again, Frederic
said to him rather abruptly, “Do you know Sarah
Green?”
“No,” answed Ben, and Frederic continued,
“Do you know Mrs. Merton?”
Ben started a little, and then repeating the name
replied, “Ain't acquainted with that name neither.
Who is she?”
-- 213 --
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
“She took care of me,” returned Frederic, “and I
would like to find her, and thank her for her kind
ness.”
“I shouldn't s'pose she could of took care of you
alone, sick as you was,” said Ben, waiting eagerly for
the answer, which, had it been what he desired, might
lead to the unfolding of the mystery.
But Frederic shrank from making Ben his confidant.
“It was hard for her till Miss Huntington came.”
“Blast Miss Huntington,” thought Ben, now thoroughly
satisfied that his companion did not care to discover
Marian, or he would certainly say something
about her.
Both she and his mother were sure that he knew
she had been with him in his sickness, and if he really
wished to find her he would speak of her as well as of
Mrs. Merton.
“But he don't,” thought Ben. “He don't care a
straw for her, and she's right when she says she won't
run after him any more. He don't like Isabel none
too well, and I raally b'lieve the man is crazy.”
This settled the matter satisfactorily with Ben, who
accompanied Frederic to the depot, waiting there until
the departure of the train.
“Give my regrets to that Josh, and the rest of the
niggers, and don't on no account forget the picter,”
were his last words, as he quitted the car, and then
hurried home impatient to show Marian his surprise.
He found her sitting by the open window—a listless,
dreamy look in her blue eyes, and a sad expression
upon her face, which said that her thoughts were far
away in the South-land, where Nature had decked her
beautiful home with all the glories of the merry month
of May and the first bright days of June. Roses were
blooming there now, she knew, and she thought of the
bush she had planted beneath the library window,
wondering if that were in bloom, and if its fragrance
ever reminded the dear ones of her. Did Alice twine
the buds amid her soft hair, just as she used to do,
-- 214 --
[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
and call them Marian's buds, saying they were sweeter
than all the rest?
“Darling Alice,” she murmured, “I shall never
see her again:” and her tears were dropping upon her
lap just as Ben came in, and began:
“Wall, wee one, I've seen the Square, and talked
with him of you.”
“Oh, Ben, Ben!”—and Marian's face was spotted
with her excitement—“what made you? What did
he say? and where is he?”
“Gone home,” answered Ben; “but he had this
took on purpose for you;” and he tossed the picture
into her lap.
“It is—it is Frederic. Oh, Mrs. Burt, it is,” and
Marian's lip touched the glass, from which the face of
Frederic Raymond looked kindly out upon her.
It was thinner than when she used to know it, but
fuller, stronger-looking than when it lay among the
tumbled pillows. The eyes, too, were hollow, and not
so bright, while it seemed to her that the rich brown
hair was not so thrifty as of old. But it was Frederic
still, her Frederic, and she pressed it again to her lips,
while her heart thrilled with the joyful thought that he
remembered her, and had sent her this priceless token.
But why had he gone home without her—why had he
left her there alone if he really cared for finding her?
Slowly, as a cloud obscures a summer sky, a shadow
crept over her face—a shadow of doubt—of distrust.
There was something she had not heard, and with quivering
lip she said to Ben, “What does it mean?
You have not told me why he sent it.”
It was cruel to deceive her as he had done, and so
Ben thought when he saw the heaving of her chest,
the pressure of her hands, and more than all, the
whiteness of her face, as he told her why Frederic
sent to her that picture; that it was not taken for
Marian Lindsey, but rather for Marian Grey, adopted
sister of Benjamin Butterworth.
“He does not wish to find me,” said Marian when
-- 215 --
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
Ben had finished speaking. “We shall never be reconciled,
and it is just as well, perhaps.”
“I think so, too,” rejoined Ben, “or at any rate I'd
let him rest a spell, and learn everything there is in
books for woman-kind to learn. You shall go to college,
if you say so, and bimeby, when the old Nick
himself wouldn't know you, I'll get you a chance to
teach that blind gal, and he'll fall in love with his
own wife; see if he don't,” and Ben stroked the curls
within his reach very caressingly, thinking to himself,
“I won't tell her now 'bout Alice's picter, 'cause it
many not come, but I'll cheer her up the best way that
I can. She grows handsome every day of her life,”
and as this, in Ben's estimation, was the one thing of
all others to be desired by Marian, he could not forbear
complimenting her aloud upon her rapid improvement
in looks.
“Thank you,” she answered, smiling very faintly,
for to her, beauty or accomplishments were of little
avail if in the end Frederic's love were not secured.
Anon, however, hope whispered to her that it might
be, and again she opened the daguerreotype, catching
a glow of encouragement from the eyes which looked
so kindly at her, as if they fain would tell her of the
weary days the original of that picture had spent in
searching for her, or how, even now, amid the noise
and dust of the crowded cars, he sat, wholly unmindful
of what was passing around, never looking at the
beautiful blue river without, or yet at the motley
passengers within, but with his hat drawn over his
eyes and his shawl across his lap, he thought of her
alone, except indeed occasionally when there would
intrude itself upon him the remembrance of the girl
with the brown vail, or a thought of Marian Grey!
-- --
CHAPTER XVIII. HOME AGAIN.
[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
Frederic was coming home again—“Marster Frederic,”
who, as Dinah said, “had been so near to kingdom-come
that he could hear the himes they sung on
Sundays.”
Joyfully the blacks told to each other the glad news,
which was an incentive for them all to bestir themselves
as they had not done before during the whole
period of their master's absence. Old Dinah, whose
mind turned naturally upon eatables, busied herself
in conjuring up some new and harmless relish for the
invalid, while Uncle Phil spent all the whole day in
rubbing down the horses and rubbing up the carriage
with which he intended meeting his master at Frankfort.
Josh, too, caught the general spirit, and remembering
how much his master was wont to chide him
for his slovenly appearance, he cast rueful glances at
his sorry coat and red cowhides, wishing to goodness
he had some “clothes to honor the 'casion with.”
“I m-m-might sh-sh-shine these up a little,” he said,
examining his boots, and, purloining a tallow candle
from Hetty's cupboard, he set himself to the task,
succeeding so well that he was almost certain of commendation.
A coat of uncle Phil's was borrowed next, and
though it hung like a tent cloth about Josh's lank proportions,
the effect was entirely satisfactory to the boy,
-- 217 --
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
who had a consciousness of having done all that could
reasonably be expected of him.
In the house Alice was not idle. From the earliest
dawn she had been up, for there was something on
her mind which kept her wakeful and restless. Frederic's
letters, which were read to her by the wife of
the overseer, who lived near by, had told her of the
blue-eyed girl who had been with him in his sickness,
and in one letter, written ere he had given up the
search, he had said, while referring to the girl: “Darling
Alice, I am so glad you sent me here, for I hope
to bring you a great and joyful surprise.”
Not the least mention did he make of Marian, but
Alice understood at once that he meant her. Marian
and the blue-eyed girl were the same, and he would
bring her back to them again. She was certain of it,
and though in his last letter, dated at Riverside, and
apprising them of his intended return, he had not
alluded to the subject, it made no difference with her.
He wished really to surprise her, she thought, and
seeking out Dinah, she said to her, rather cautiously,
for she would let no one into her secret:
“Supposing Frederic had never been married to
Marian, but had gone now after a bride—I don't mean
Isabel,” she said, as she felt the defiant expression of
Dinah's face—“but somebody else—somebody real
nice. Supposing, I say, he was going to bring her
home, which room do you think he would wish her to
have?”
“The best chamber, in course,” answered Dinah—
“the one whar the 'hogany bedstead and silk quilt is.
You wouldn't go to puttin' Marster Frederic's wife
off with poor truck, I hope. But what made you ask
that question? What have you hearn?”
“Nothing in particular,” answered Alice, “only it
would be nice if he should bring somebody with him,
and I want to fix the room just as though I knew he
would. May Lid sweep and dust it for me?”
For a moment Dinah looked at her as if she thought
-- 218 --
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
her crazy. Then thinking to herself, “it'll 'muse her
a spell any way, and I may as well humor her whim,”
she replied. “Sakes alive, yes, and I'll ar the bed.
Thar haint nobody slep' in't sence Marian run away,
'cept Miss Agnes one night and that trollop, Isabel,
who consulted me by sayin' how't they done clarmbered
onto a table afore they could get inter bed, 'twas
so high. Ain't used to feathers whar she was raised,
I reckon, and if you'll b'lieve it, she said how't she
allus slep' on har afore she come here! Pretty stuff
that must be to lie on; but Lord, them Yankees is
mostly as poor as poverty, and don't know no differ.”
Having relieved herself of this speech, which involved
both her opinion of Yankees in general and Isabel
in particular, the old lady proceeded to business, first
arin' the bed, as she said, and then making it higher,
if possible, than it was made on the night when Isabel
so injured her feelings by laughing at its hight.
Lid's services were next brought into requisition; and
when the chamber was swept and dusted, the arrangement
of the furniture was left entirely to Alice, who
felt that what she did was right, and wished so much
that she could see just how Marian's favorite chair
looked standing by the window, from which the gorgeous
sunsets Marian so much admired could be
plainly seen. Just opposite, and on the other side of
the window, Frederic's easy chair was placed—the one
in which he always sat when tired, and where Alice
fancied he would now delight to sit with Marian, so
near that he could look into her eyes and tell her that
he was glad to have her there. He was beginning to
love her Alice knew by the tone of his letters; and
her heart thrilled with joy as she thought of the happiness
in store for them all. She would not be lonely
now in her own pleasant chamber, for it was so near to
Marian's. She could leave the doors open between,
and that would be so much nicer than having black
Ellen sleeping on the floor.
Dear little Alice! She built bright castles in the air
-- 219 --
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
that summer day, and they were as real to her as if
Frederic had written, “Marian is found, and coming
home with me.”
“She loved a great many flowers around her,” she
said, and groping her way down the stairs and out
into the yard, she gathered from the tree beneath the
library window a profusion of buds and half opened
roses, which she arranged into bouquets, and placed in
vases for Marian, just as Marian had gathered flowers
for her from the garden far away on the river.
It was done at last; and very inviting that pleasant,
airy apartment looked with its handsome furniture, its
bright carpet and muslin curtains of snowy white,
to say nothing of the towering bed. There were flowers
on the mantle, flowers on the table, flowers in the
window, flowers everywhere, and their sweet perfume
filled the air with a delicious fragrance which Dinah
declared was “a heap sight better than that scent
Miss Isabel used to put on her hankercher and fan.
Ugh, that fan!” and Dinah's nose was elevated at the
very thought of Isabel's sandal-wood fan which had
been her special abhorrence.
“Isn't it most time for Uncle Phil to start?” asked
Alice, when Dinah had finished fixing the room.
“Yes, high time,” answered Dinah, “but Phil is so
slow. I'll jest hurry him up,” and followed by Alice
she descended the stairs, meeting in the lower hall with
Lyd, who held in her hand a brown envelope, which
she passed to Alice, saying “One dem letters what
come like lightnin' on the telegraph. A boy done
brung it.”
“A telegram,” cried Alice, feeling at first alarmed.
“Go for Mrs. Warren to read it.”
But the overseer's wife was absent, as was also her
husband, and neither the blacks nor Alice knew what
to do.
“There isn't more than a line and a half,” said Alice,
passing her finger over the paper and feeling the thick
sand which had been sifted upon it. “I presume
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
something has detained Frederic, and he has sent
word that he will not be here to-day.”
“Let me see dat ar,” said Phil, who liked to impress
his companions with a sense of his superior wisdom,
and, adjusting his iron-bowed specs, he took the letter,
which in reality was Greek to him.
After an immense amount of wry faces and loud
whispering he said:
“Yes, honey, you're correct, though Marster Frederic
has sich an onery hand-write that it takes me a
a heap of time to make it out. It reads, `Somethin'
has detained Frederic, and he has sent word
that he'll be here to-morry.”' And, with the utmost
gravity, Phil took off his specs, and was walking away
with the air of one who has done something his companions
could never hope to do, when Hetty called
out:
“Wonder if he 'spects us to swaller dat ar, and
think he kin read, when he jest done said over what
Miss Alice say. Can't fool dis chile.”
This insinuation Uncle Phil felt constrained to
answer, and with an injured air he replied:
“Kin read, too, for don't you mind how't Miss Alice
say. `Won't be here to day,' and it's writ on the
paper, `Comin' to-morry.”' And, fully satisfied that
he had convinced his audience, Uncle Phil hastened
off, ere Hetty had time for further argument. So certain
was Phil that Alice's surmises were correct and
the telegram interpreted aright, and so anxious withal
to prove himself sure, that he would not go to Frankfort,
as he proposed doing.
“There was no use on't,” he said. “Marster
wouldn't be thar till to-morry,” and he whiled away
the afternoon at leisure.
But alas for Uncle Phil. Mrs. Warren had made a
mistake in Frederic's last letter, the young man writing
he should be home on the 15th, whereas she had read
it the 17th; afterward, Frederic had decided to leave
Riverside one day earlier, and he telegraphed from
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
Cincinnati for Phil to meet him. Finding neither
carriage nor servant in waiting, he hired a conveyance,
and about four o'clock P. M. from every cabin door
there came the joyful cry—
“Marster Frederic has come.”
“Told you so,” said Hetty, with an exultant glance
at Uncle Phil, who wisely made no reply, but hastened
with the rest to tell his master, “How d'ye?”
“How is it that some one did not meet me?” Frederic
asked, after the first noisy outbreak had somewhat
subsided. “Didn't you get the despatch?”
The negroes looked at Phil, who stammered out—
“Yes, we done got it, but dem ole iron specs of
mine is mighty nigh wore out—can't see in 'em at all,
and I read `to-morry' instead of `to-day.”'
The loud shout which followed this excuse enlightened
Frederic as to the true state of the case, and he,
too, joined in the laugh, telling the crest-fallen Phil
that “he should surely have a new pair of silver specs
which would read `to-day' instead of `to-morry.”'
“But where is Alice?” he continued. “Why don't
she come to greet me?”
“Sure 'nough,” returned Dinah. “Whar can she
be, when she was so fierce to have you come? Reckon
she's up in the best charmber she's been fixin' up
for somethin', she wouldn't tell what.”
“I'll go and see,” said Frederic, starting in quest
of the little girl, who, as Dinah had conjectured, was
in the front chamber—the one prepared with so much
care for Marian.
She had been sitting by the window when she
heard the sound of wheels coming up the avenue.—
Then the joyful cry of “Marster's comin',” came to
her quick ear, and, starting up, she bent her head to
listen for another voice—a voice she had not heard for
many a weary month. But she listened in vain, for
Marian was not there. Gradually she became convinced
of the fact, and, laying her face on the windowsill,
she was weeping bitterly when Frederic came in.
-- 222 --
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
Pausing for a moment in the door, he glanced around,
first at the well remembered chair, then at the books
upon the table, then at the flowers, and then he knew
why all this had been done.
“I would that it might have been so,” he thought,
and going to the weeping Alice he lifted up her head
and pushing her hair from her forehead, whispered to
her softly, “Darling, was it for Marian you gathered
all these flowers?”
“Yes, Frederic, for Marian,” and Alice sobbed
aloud.
Taking her in his lap, Frederic replied, “Did you
think I would bring her home?”
“Yes, I thought you had found her, and I was so
glad. What made you write me that?”
“Alice I did find her,” returned Frederic; “I have
seen her, I have talked with her. Marian is alive.”
At these words, so decidedly spoken, the blind eyes
flashed up into Frederic's face eagerly, wistfully, as if
they fain would burst their vail of darkness and see if
he told her truly.
“Is it true? Oh, Frederic, you are not deceiving
me? I can't bear any more disappointment,” and
Alice's face and lips were as white as ashes, as she
proceeded further to question Frederic, who told her
of the blue-eyed girl who, just as he was treading the
brink of the river of death, had come to him and called
him back to life by her kind acts and words of love.
“She had a sweet, childish face,” said he, “fairer,
sweeter than Marian's when she went away—but Marian
must have changed; for I knew that this was
she.”
Then he told her of her sudden disappearance when
Isabel came—of his fruitless efforts to find her, and
how while searching for her, he had met another girl,
whose hands reminded him of those which he had felt
so many times upon his brow.
“Wasn't that Marian?” said Alice, who had forgotten
her grief in listening.
-- 223 --
[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
There was a mournful pathos in the tone of his
voice, and it emboldened Alice to ask another question.
“Frederic,” she began, and her little hand played
with his hair, as it always did when she was uncertain
as to how her remarks would be received, “Frederic,
ain't you loving Marian a heap more than you did
when she went away?”
Frederic did not hesitate a moment ere replying,
“Yes, darling, I am, for that young girl crept away
down into my heart where Marian ought to have been,
before I asked her to be my wife; and I shall find her
too. I only stopped long enough to come home for
you. The house is ready at Riverside, and your room
is charming.”
“Will Isabel be there?” was Alice's next inquiry,
and Frederic answered by telling her all he knew of
the matter.
He did not say he was beginning to understand her
and consequently to like her less, but Alice inferred as
much, and with this fear removed from her mind, she
could endure patiently to become again a pupil of Miss
Huntington. For a long time they talked together,
wondering who wrote the letler purporting to have
come from Sarah Green, and why it had been written.
Then Frederic told her of the peddler Ben, and of his
sister, Marian Grey, who, at that moment, had his
daguerreotype in her keeping. Of Marian Grey Alice
did not say to him “She is our Marian,” for she had
not such a thought, but she seemed interested both in
her and in Ben, and when told that the latter had asked
for her picture she consented at once, saying he should
have it as soon as they were settled at Riverside.
“I would not tell any one that Marian was with me,”
said Frederic, as their conversation drew to a close;
“I had rather the subject should not be discussed until
I really find her and bring her home; then we will set
apart a day of general thanksgiving.”
To this suggestion Alice readily assented, and as the
-- 224 --
[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
supper bell just then rang, and the two went together
to the delicious repast, which Dinah had prepared
with unusual care, insisting the while that “thar was
nothin' fit for nobody to eat.”
Frederic, however, whose appetite was increasing
each day, convinced her to the contrary, and while
watching him as he did justice to her viands, the old
negress thought to herself, “'Clar for't, how he does
eat. I should know he come from Yankee land. You
can allus tell 'em, the way they crams, when they get
whar thar is somethin'.”
The news of Frederic's return spread rapidly, and
that night he received calls from several of his neighbors,
together with an invitation to Agnes Gibson's
wedding, which was to take place in a few days. In
the invitation Alice was included, and though Dinah
demurred, saying that “trundle-bed truck or' to stay at
home,” Alice ventured to differ from her, and at the
appointed time went with Frederic to the party, which
was splendid in all its parts, having been got up with
a direct reference to the newspaper articles which were
sure to be published concerning it. Agnes, of course,
was charming in white satin, point lace, orange flowers,
flowing vail, and all other et ceteras which complete
the dress of a fashionable bride. And the bridegroom—
poor old man—looked very well in his new
suit of broadcloth, even if his knees did shake—not
from fear, however, but as one of the guests remarked,
“Because it was a way they'd had for several years!'
The top of his head was bald, it is true, and his hair'
as white as snow, but for every silver thread Agnes
knew there was a golden eagle in his purse, and this
consoled her somewhat, though it did not prevent her
from watching jealously to see if any one was talking
of the palsied man, her husband. Her expected present
from Isabel had never come, and the three fish knives,
ranged in a row, looked as if two of them, at least,
were rather more ornamental than useful, as did also
the four card baskets, and three gold thimbles, which
-- 225 --
[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
occupied a conspicuous plece. To Frederic, Agnes
was especially gracious, asking him numberless questions
concerning her “dear friend,” and saying “she
hoped to meet her in her travels, as they were going
North and were intending to spend the Summer at
Saratoga, Newport, and Nahant. I thought once you
would be taking your bridal tour about this time,” she
said to him, when several were standing near.
“I assure you I had no such idea,” was Frederic's
reply, and Agnes continued, “Indeed I supposed you
were engaged, of course.”
“Then you supposed wrong,” he answered, glad of
this public opportunity to contradict a story he knew
had gained a wide circulation. “I esteem Miss Huntington
as a friend and distant relative, but I certainly
have no intention whatever of making her my wife.”
Frequently, during the evening, he was asked if he
had found any clue to Sarah Green or her letter; and
as he could in all sincerity reply in the negative, no
one guessed that instead of Sarah Green he had found
his wife—only, however to lose her again.
“But he would find her,” he said to himself, and as
he looked at the ill-matched bride and groom, he could
not forebear wishing that it were himself and Marian.
He would stay by her now, he thought, and when it
grew dark in the parlor instead of suffering her to go
away alone and read the fatal letter, he would draw
her to his side, and telling her of its contents, would
sue for her forgiveness, and offer to her love in return
for the fraud imposed upon her.
It was a pleasant picture Frederic drew that night
of what his bridal might have been, and so absorbed
was he in it that when, as they were going home, Alice
with a yawn said to him, “Wasn't it so tiresome hearing
those young folks say such foolish things to each
other, and hearing the old ones talk about their servants?”
he replied, “why no, child, I spent a most delightful
evening.”
“I—don't—see—how you could,” was the drowsy
-- 226 --
[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]
answer, and in a moment more Alice lay upon the carriage
cushions fast asleep!
It was nearly three weeks after this party ere Frederic's
arrangements for leaving Kentucky were entirely
completed, and it was not until the latter part of July
that he finally started for his new home. The lamentations
of the negroes were noisy in the extreme,
though far more moderate than they would have been
if their master had not said that it was very probable he
should return in the Autumn, and merely make Riverside
a Summer residence. If he found Marian he
should come back, of course, he thought, but he did
not deem it best to raise hopes which might never be
realized, so he said nothing of her to the blacks who
supposed of course she was dead.
The parting between Dinah and Alice was a bitter
one, the former hugging the little girl to her bosom
and wondering how “Marster Frederic 'spected a child
what had never waited on itself even to fotch a drop
of water, could get along way off dar whar thar warn't
nary nigger nor nothin' but a pack o' low flung Irish.
Order 'em 'round,” she said to Alice, wiping her eyes
with her checked apron, “order 'em round jist like
they warn't white. Make 'em think you be somebody.
Say your pra'rs evey night—war your white cambric
wrappers in the mornin', and don't on no count catch
any poor folksy's marners 'mong them Yankees for I
shouldn't get my nateral sleep o' nights, till you got
shet of 'em, and—” lowering her voice, “if so be that
you tell any of the quality 'bout us blacks, s'posin you
you kinder set me 'bove Hetty and them Higginses,
bein' that I the same as nussed you.”
To nearly all these requirements Alice promised
compliance, and then, as the carriage was waiting, she
followed Frederic down to the gate, and soon both
were lost to the sight of the tearful group which from
the piazza of Redstone Hall, gazed wistfully after
them.
It was at the close of a sultry Summer day when
-- 227 --
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
the travelers reached Riverside, where they found Mrs.
Huntington waiting to receive them. Frederic had
written, apprising her of the time when he should
probably arrive, and asking her to be there if possible.
Something, too, he had said of Isabel, but that young
lady was not in the most amiable mood, and as she
was comfortably domesticated with another distant
relative, she declined going to Frederic until he came
to some understanding, or at least manifested a greater
desire to have her with him than his recent letters indicated.
Accordingly her mother went alone, and
Frederic was not sorry, while Alice was delighted.
Everything seemed so bright and airy, she said, just as
though a load were taken from them, and like a bird
she flitted about the house, for she needed to pass
through a room but once ere she was familiar with its
location, and could find it easily. With her own cozy
chamber she was especially pleased, and in less than
half an hour her little hands had examined every article
of furniture, even to the vases which held the
withered blossoms gathered so long ago.
“Somebody must have put these here for me,” she
said, and then her mind went back to the morning
when she, too, had gathered flowers for her expected
friend, and she wondered much who had done a similar
service for her.
“It's me,” returned Mrs. Russell, who was still staying
at Riverside. “Now I wonder if you found them
dried-up things so soon,” she continued, advancing into
room. “I should of hove them out, only that the girl
who fixed 'em made me promise to leave 'em till you
came. 'Pears like she b'lieved you'd think more on
'em for knowin' that she picked 'em.”
“Girl! Mrs. Russell. What girl?” and Alice's eyes
lighted up, for she thought at once of Marian, who
would know of course about the house, and as she would
naturally wish to see it, she had come some day and
left these flowers, which would be so dear to her if she
-- 228 --
[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
found her suspicious correct. “Who was the girl?”
she asked again, and Mrs. Russell replied:
“I don't remember her name, but she went all over
the house, fixing things in Mr. Raymond's room, which
I didn't think was very marnerly, bein' that 'twa'n't
none o' hern. Then she come in here and set ever so
long before she picked these posys, which she told me
not to throw away.”
“Yes, it was Marian,” came involuntarily from
Alice's lips, while the woman, catching at the name
rejoined:
“That sounds like what he called her—that tall
spooky chap, her brother—Ben something. She said
he had seen you at the South.”
“Oh, Ben Butterworth. It was his adopted sister;”
and Alice turned away, feeling greatly disappointed
that Marian Grey, and not Marian Lindsey, had arranged
those flowers for her.
This allusion to Ben reminded Alice of his request
for her picture, and one morning, when Frederic was
going to New York, she asked to go with him and sit
for her daguerreotype. There was no reason why she
should not, and in an hour or two, she was listening,
half stunned, to the noise and uproar of the city.
“Oh, Frederic,” she cried, holding fast to his hand,
as they made their way up town—“oh, Frederic, I
wonder Marian didn't get crazy and die. I'm sure I
should. I'm almost distracted now. Where are all
those people and carts going that I hear running by us
so fast, and what makes them keep pushing me so hard.
Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't come!” and as some one just
then jostled her more rudely than usual, Alice began
to cry.
“Never mind,” said Frederic soothingly, “we are
almost there, and we will take a carriage back. Folks
can't push you then;” and in stooping down to comfort
the little girl, he failed to see the graceful figure passing
so near him that the hem of her dress fluttered
against his boot.
-- 229 --
[figure description] Page 229.[end figure description]
They had come upon each other so suddenly that
there was not time for the brown vail to be dropped,
neither was it needful, for so absorbed was Frederic
with his charge that he neither knew nor dreamed how
near to Marian Lindsey he had been.
Alice's tears being dried, they kept on their way,
and when the picture was taken, Frederic did it up
and directing it to Ben Butterworth, sent it to the office,
then calling a carriage, he took Alice, as he had
promised, all over the great city. And Alice enjoyed
it very much, laying back on the soft cushions, and
knowing that no one could touch her of all the noisy
throng she heard so distinctly, but could not see. It
was a day long talked of by the blind girl, and she
asked Mrs. Huntington to write a description of it to
the negroes, who she knew fancied that Louisville was
the largest city in the world.
Not long after this, something which Mrs. Huntington
said about her daughter determined Frederic to
visit her and make the explanation which he felt it his
duty to make, for he knew he had given her some reason
to think he intended asking her to be his wife He
accordingly feigned some excuse for going to New Haven,
and one morning found himself at the door where
Isabel was stopping.
“Give her this,” he said, handing his card to the servant
who carried it at once to the delighted young lady.
“Frederic Raymond,” read Isabel. “Oh, yes. Tell
him I'll be down in a moment,” and she proceeded to
arrange her hair a little more becomingly, and made
several changes in her dress, so that the one minute
was nearly fifteen ere she started for the parlor, where
Frederic was rather dreading her coming, for he scarcely
knew what he wished to say.
Half timidly she greeted him as a bashful maiden is
supposed to meet her lover, and seating herself at a
respectful distance from him, she asked numberless
questions concerning his health, her numberless friends
-- 230 --
[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]
in Kentucky, her mother, and dear little Alice, who,
she presumed, did not miss her much.
“Your mother's presence reminds us of you very often,
of course,” returned Frederic, “but you know we
can get accustomed to almost anything, and Alice
seems very happy.”
“Yes,” sighed Isabel. “You will all forget me, I
suppose, even to mother—but for me I have not been
quite contented since I left Kentucky. I thought it
tiresome to teach, and perhaps was sometimes impatient
and unreasonable, but I have often wished myself
back again. I don't seem to be living for anything
now,” and Isabel's black eyes studied the pattern of
the carpet quite industriously.
This long speech called for a reply, and Frederic
said, “You would not care to come back again, would
you?”
“Why, yes,” returned Isabel; “I would rather do
that than nothing.”
For a time there was silence, while Frederic fidgeted
in his chair and Isabel fidgeted in hers, until at last the
former said:
“I owe you an explanation, Isabel, and I have come
to make it. Do you remember our conversation in the
parlor, and to what it was apparently tending, when
we were interrupted by Alice?”
“Yes,” replied Isabel, “and I have thought of it so
often, wondering if you were in earnest, or if you were
merely trifling with my feelings.”
“I certainly had no intention of trifling with you,”
returned Frederic: “neither do I know as I was really
in earnest. At all events it is fortunate for us both
that Alice came in as she did;” and having said so
much, Frederic could now look calmly upon a face
which changed from a serene Summer sky to a dark,
lightning-laden thunder-cloud as he told her the story
he had came to tell.
In her terrible disappointment, Isabel so far forgot
herself as to lose her temper entirely, and Frederic,
-- 231 --
[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
while listening to her as she railed at him for what she
called his perfidy, wondered how he ever could have
thought her womanly or good.
“It was false that Marian was living, and had taken
care of him when sick,” she said. “He could not impose
that story upon her, and he only wished to do it
because he fancied that he was in some way pledged
to her and wished for an excuse, but he might have
saved himself the trouble, for even had Alice not appeared
she should have told him No. She liked him
once, she would admit, but there was nothing like living
beneath the same roof to make one person tire or
another, and even if she were not disgusted with him
before, she should have become so while taking care
of him in New York, and so she wrote to Agnes Gibson,
who, she heard, had spread the news that she was
engaged, though she had no authority for doing so, but
it was just like the tattling mischief-maker!”
“Are you through?” Frederic coolly asked, when
she had finished speaking. “If you are I will consider
our interview at an end.”
Isabel did not reply and he arose to go, saying to
her as he reached the door, “I did not come here to
quarrel with you, Bell, I wish still to be your friend,
and if you are ever in trouble come to me as to a brother.
Marian will, I trust, be with me then; but she
will be kind to you, for 'tis her nature.”
“Plague on that Marian,” was Isabel's unlady-like
thought as the door closed after Frederic. “I wonder
how many times she's coming to life! How I wanted
to charge him with his meanness in marrying her fortune,
but as that is a secret between the two, he would
have suspected me of treachery. The villain! I believe
I hate him—and only to think how those folks in
Kentucky will laugh. But it's all Agnes' doings.
She inveigled more out of me than there was to tell,
and then repeated it to suit herself. The jade! I
hope she's happy with that old man”—and at this
point Isabel broke down in a flood of tears, in the
-- 232 --
[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
midst of which the door bell rang again, and hurrying
up the stairs she listened to the names, which this time
were “Mr. and Mrs. Rivers,” (Agnes and her husband)
and they asked for her.
Drying her tears, and bathing her eyes until the
redness was gone, Isabel went down to meet the “tattling
mischief-maker,” embracing her very affectionately,
and telling her how delighted she was to see her
again, and how well she was looking.
“Then why do you not embark on the sea of matrimony
yourself, if you think it such a beautifier,” said
Agnes.
“Me?” returned Isabel, with a toss of her head; “I
thought I wrote you that I had given up that foolish
fancy.”
“Indeed, so you did,” said Agnes, “but I had forgotten
it, and when I saw Mr. Raymond at the Tontine,
where we are stopping, I supposed of course he
had come to see you, and I said to Mr. Rivers it really
was too bad, for from what he said at our wedding I
fancied there was nothing in it, and had made up my
mind to take you with us to Florida, as I once talked
of doing. Husband's sister wants a teacher for her
children, don't she, dear?”
Mr. Rivers was about to answer in the affirmative,
but ere he could speak Isabel chimed in, “Oh, you
kind, thoughtful soul. Let me go with you now; do.
Nothing could please me more. I have missed your
society so much, and am so unhappy here!” and in
the black eyes there was certainly a tear, which instantly
touched the heart of the sympathetic old man
who anticipated his wife's reply, by saying, “Certainly
you shall go, if you like. You'll be company for Mrs.
Rivers, and if I am in my dotage, as some say, I've
sense enough to know that she can't be contented all
the time with her grandfather. Eh, Aggie?” and
chucked his bride under the chin.
“Disgusting!” thought Isabel.
“Old fool!” thought Agnes, who was really rather
-- 233 --
[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
pleased with the idea of having Isabel go with her to
her new home, for though she did not love her dear
friend, she rather enjoyed her company, and she felt
that anybody was acceptable who would stand as a
third person between herself and the grandfather she
had chosen.
The more she thought of the plan the better she was
pleased with it, and before parting the whole was amicably
adjusted. Early in October, Isabel was to join
her friend in Kentucky, and go with her from thence
to Florida, where she was either to remain with Mrs.
Rivers, or to teach in the family of Mrs. McGregor,
Mr. Rivers' sister. The former was what Isabel intended
to do, for she thoroughly disliked teaching,
and if she could live without it, she would. Still she
did not so express herself to her visitors, and she appeared
so gracious and so grateful withal, that the
heart of the bridegroom was wholly won, and after his
return to their hotel, he extolled her so highly that
Agnes began to pout, a circumstance which pleased
her fatherly spouse, inasmuch as it angured more
affection for himself than he had supposed her to possess.
The story of Isabel's intended trip to Florida was
not long in reaching Rupolph McVicar, who had been
wondering why something didn't occur, and if he were
really to be disappointed after all.
“I wasted that paper and ink for nothing,” was his
mental comment when he heard from her own lips that
Isabel was going; for, presuming upon his former acquaintance,
he finally ventured to call upon her,
demeaning himself so well that, like her mother, Isabel
began to think he had reformed.
Still there was an expression in his eye which she
did not like, and when at last he left her, she experienced
a feeling of relief, as if a spell had been
removed. After her recent interview with Frederic
she would not go to his house, so her mother went to
New Haven, staying with her daughter a week and
-- 234 --
[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]
then returning to Riverside, while Isabel started for
Kentucky, where, as she had expected, she met with
Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, and was soon on her way to
Florida.
When sure that Isabel was gone, and that Sarah
Green's letter had indeed been written in vain, Rudolph,
who cared nothing now whether Marian were
ever discovered to her husband or not, went to New
York and embarked on a whaling voyage, as he had
long thought of doing, fancying that the roving life of
a seaman would suit his restless nature.
And now, with Rudolph on the sea, with Isabel in
Florida, with Marian at school, and Frederic at Riverside,
we draw a vail over the different characters of
our story, nor lift it again until three years have passed
away, bringing changes to all, but to none a greater
change than to the so-called Marian Grey.
-- --
CHAPTER XIX. THE GOVERNESS.
[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
It was a bright September afternoon, and the dense
foliage of the trees looked as fresh and green as when
watered by the Summer showers, save here and there
a faded leaf came rustling to the ground, whispering
to those at whose feet it fell of the Winter which was
hastening on, and whose breath even now was on the
northern seas. Softly the Autumnal sunlight fell upon
the earth, and the birds sang as gayly in the trees as
if there were no hearts bereaved—no small, low rooms
where all was darkness and gloom—no humble procession
winding slowly through the crowded streets
and out into the country, where, in a new-made grave,
a mother's love was buried, while the mourners, two
in number, a young man and a girl, held each other's
hand in token that they were bound together by a
common sorrow. Not a word was said by either; and
when the solemn burial rite was over, they returned
as silently to the carriage, then were driven back to
their desolate home—the tenement where Frederic
Raymond had watched the curtained window and the
geranium growing there.
For many days that window had been darkened,
just as it was when Marian Grey lay there with the
fever in her veins; but it was open now, and the west
wind came stealing in, purifying the room from the
faint sickening smell of coffins and of death, for the
Destroyer had been there. And when the mourners
-- 236 --
[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
came back from the grave in the country, one threw
himself upon the lounge, and burying his face in the
cushions, sobbed aloud:
“Oh, Marian, it's terrible to be an orphan and have
no mother.”
“Yes, Ben, 'tis terrible,” and Marian's tears dropped
on the hair of the honest-hearted Ben.
Up to this hour he had restrained his grief, but now
that he was alone with Marian, he wept on until the
sun went down and the night shadows were creeping
into the room. Then lifting up his head, he said, “It
is so dark—so dismal now—and the hardest of all is
the givin' up our dear old home where mother lived
so long, and the thinkin' may be you'll forget me when
you live with that grand lady.”
“Forget you! Oh, Ben, I never can forget how
much you have done for me, denying yourself everything
for my sake,” said Marian, while Ben continued,
“Nor won't you be ashamed of me neither, if I should
come sometimes to see you? I should die if I could
not once in a while look into your eyes; and you'll let
me come, won't you, Marian?”
“Of course I will,” she replied, continuing after a
moment, “It is not certain yet that I go to Mrs. Sheldon's.
I have not answered her last letter because—
You know what we talked about before your mother
died!”
“Yes, yes, I know,” returned Ben, “but I had forgot
it—my heart was so full other things. I'll go out
there to-morrow. I'd rather you should teach at
Rverside, even if you'd never heard of Frederic, than
go to that grand lady, who might think, because you
was a governess, that you wan't fit to live in the same
house.”
“I have no fears of that,” said Marian. “Mrs.
Harcourt says she is an estimable woman; but still, I
too, would rather go to Riverside, if I were sure Frederic
would not know me. Do you think there is any
danger?”
-- 237 --
[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
“No,” was Ben's decided answer, and in this opinion
Marian herself concurred, for she knew that she
had changed so much that none who saw her when
first she came to Mrs. Burt's would recognize her now.
About three months before the night of which we
are writing, she had been graduated at Mrs. Harcourt's
school with every possible honor, both as a musician
and a scholar. There had never been her equal there
before, Mrs. Harcourt said, and when her friend, Mrs.
Sheldon, who lived in Springfield Mass, applied to her
for a family pupil, she warmly recommended her favorite
pupil, Marian Grey, frankly stating, however,
that she was of humble origin—that her adopted mother
or aunt was a poor sewing woman, and her
adopted brother a peddler. This, however, made no
difference with Mrs. Sheldon, and several letters had
passed between herself and Marian, who would have
accepted the liberal offer at once, but for a lingering
hope that Ben would carry out his favorite plan, and
procure her a situation as teacher at Riverside. She had
forgotten what she once said about learning to hate
Frederic, and the possibility of living again beneath
the some roof with him made her heart beat faster than
its wont. She had occasionally met him in the street,
and once she was sure his eye had rested upon her in
passing, but she knew by its expression that she was
not recognized, and when Ben suggested offering her
services as Alice's governess she readily consented.
During these years Ben had not lost sight of Frederic's
movements, though it so chanced that they had met but
twice, once just after the receipt of Alice's picture,
which had been greeted by Marian with a shower of
kisses and tears, and once the previous Autumn, when
Frederic was about returning to Kentucky, for, with his
changed feelings toward Marian, Mr. Raymond felt
less delicacy in using her money—less aversion to
Redstone Hall, where his presence was really needed,
for a portion of the year at least, and which he intended
making his Winter residence.
-- 238 --
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
But he was at Riverside now, and Ben was about
going there to see what arrangements could be made,
when his mother's sudden death caused both himself
and Marian to forget the subject until the night after
the burial, when, without a moment forgetting the
dead or the dreary blank her absence made, they talked
together of the future, and decided that on the morrow
Ben should go to Riverside and see if there were room
in Frederic's house for Marian Grey. The morning
came, and at an early hour Ben started, bidding Marian
keep up her spirits as he was sure of bringing her
good tidings.
Frederic was sitting in his arm chair, which stood
near the window, just where Marian had placed it three
years and a half ago. Not that it had never been
moved since that April morning, for, freed from old
Dinah's surveillance, Mrs. Huntington, who was still
at Riverside, proved herself a pattern housekeeper, and
the chair had probably been moved a thousand times
to make room for the broom and brush, but it was in
its old place now, and Frederic was sitting in it, thinking
of Marian and his hitherto fruitless efforts at finding
her. He was beginning to get discouraged, and
still each time he went to the city he thought “perhaps
I may meet her to-day,” and each night, as the
hour for his return drew near, Alice waited upon the
piazza when the weather was fine, and by the window
when it was cold, listening intently for another step
than Frederic's—a step which never came, and then
Alice grew less hopeful, while Marian seemed farther
and farther away as month after month went by bringing
no tidings of her. Frederic knew that she must
necessarily have changed somewhat from the Marian
of old, for she was a woman now, but he should readily
recognise her, he said. He should know her by her
peculiar hair, if by no other token. So when his eye
once rested on a face of surpassing sweetness, shaded
by curls of soft chestnut hair, which in the sunlight
wore a rich red tinge, he felt a glow like that which
-- 239 --
[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
one experiences in gazing for a single instant on some
picture of rare lovelinness; then the picture faded, the
graceful figure glided by, and there was nothing left
to tell how, by stretching forth his hand, he might have
grasped his long lost Marian. Moments there were
when she seemed near to him, almost within his reach,
and such a moment was the one when Mrs. Huntington
announced Ben Butterworth, whom he had not
seen for a long time.
Involuntarily he started up, half expecting his visitor
had come to tell him something of her. But when
he saw the crape upon Ben's hat, and the sorrow on
his face, he forgot Marian in his anxiety to know what
had happened.
“My mother's dead,” said Ben, and the strong man,
six feet high, sobbed like a little child, bringing back
to Frederic's mind the noiseless room, the oddly shaped
box, the still, white face, and tolling bell, which were
all he could distinctly remember of the day when he,
too, said to a boy like himself, “My mother's dead.”
These three words. Alas, how full of anguish is
their utterance, and how their repetition will call up
an answering throb in the heart of every one who has
ever said in bitterness of grief, “My mother's dead.”
Frederic felt it instantly, and it prompted him to
take again the rough hand, which he pressed warmly
in token of his sympathy.
“He is a good man,” thought Ben, wiping his tears
away; and after a few choking coughs and brief explanations
as to how and when, he came at once to the
object of his visit.
“He should peddle now just as he used to do, of
course, but wimmen wan't so lucky, and all Marian
could do was to teach. He had given her a tip-top
larnin', though she had earnt some on't herself by
sewin'. She had got a paper thing, too, with a blue
ribin, from Miss Harcourt, who praised her up to the
skies. In short, if Mr. Raymond had not any teacher
for Alice, wouldn't he take Marian Grey?” and Ben
-- 240 --
[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
twirled his hat nervously, while he waited for the answer.
“I wish you had applied to me sooner,” said Frederic,
“for in that case I would have taken her, but a
Mrs. Jones, from Boston, came on only a week ago,
so you see I am supplied. I am very sorry, for I feel
an interest in Miss Grey, and will use my influence to
procure her a situation.”
“Thank you; there's a place she can have, but I
wanted her to come here,” returned Ben, who was
greatly disappointed and began to cry again.
Frederic was somewhat amused, besides being considerably
disturbed, and after looking at the child-man
for a moment, he continued:
“Mrs. Jones is engaged for one year only, and if at
the end of that time Miss Grey still wishes to come, I
pledge you my word that she shall do so.”
This brought comfort at once. One year was not
very long to wait, and by that time Marian would certainly
be past recognition, and as all Ben's wishes and
plans centered upon one thing, to wit: Mr. Raymond's
falling in love with his unknown wife, he was readily
consoled, and wiping his eyes, he said apologetically,
as it were, “I'm dreadful tender-hearted, and since
I've been an orphan it's ten times wus. So you must
excuse my actin' like a baby. Where's Alice?”
Frederic called the little girl, who, childlike, waited
to put on her bracelet, “so as to show the man that
she still wore it and liked it very much.” She seemed
greatly pleased at meeting Ben again, asking him why
he had not been there before, and if he had received
her picture.
“Yes, wee one,” said he, taking her round white
arm in his hand and touching the bracelet. “I should
have writ, only that ain't in my line much, and I don't
always spell jest right, but we got the picter, and Marian
was so pleased she cried.”
“What made her?” said Alice, wonderingly. “She
don't know me.”
-- 241 --
[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
“But she knows you're blind, for I told her,” was
Ben's quick reply, which was quite satisfactory to
Alice, who by this time had detected a note of sadness
in his voice, and she asked what was the matter.
To her also Ben replied, “My mother's dead,” and
the mature little girl understood at once the dreary
loneliness that a mother's death must bring even to the
heart of a big man like Ben. Immediately, too, she
thought of Marian Grey, and asked “What she would
do?”
“I come out to see if your pa—no, beg your pardon—
to see if the Square didn't want her to hear you say
your lessons,” was Ben's answer, and Alice exclaimed,
“Oh, Frederic. Let her come. I know I shall like
her better than Mrs. Jones, for she's young and pretty,
I am sure. May she come?”
“Alice,” said Frederic, “Mrs. Jones has an aged
mother and two little children dependent upon her
earnings, and, should I send her away, the disappointment
would be very great. Next year, if we all live,
Miss Grey shall come, and with this you must be satisfied.”
Alice saw at once that he was right, and she gave
up the point, merely remarking that “a year was a
heap of a while.”
“No, 'tain't,” said Ben, who each moment was becoming
more and more reconciled to the arrangement.
One year's daily intercourse with fashionable people,
he thought, would be of invaluable service to Marian,
and as he wished her to be perfect both in looks and
manners when he presented her to Frederic Raymond,
he was well satisfied to wait, and he returned to New
York with a light, hopeful heart. Marian, on the contrary,
was slightly disappointed, for like Alice, a year
seemed to her a long, long time. Still there was no
alternative, and she wrote to Mrs. Sheldon that she
would come as early as the first day of October. It
was hard to break up their old home, but it was necessary,
they knew, and with sad hearts they disposed
-- 242 --
[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
of the furniture, gave up the rooms, and then, when
the appointed time came, Marian started for her new
home, accompanied by Ben, who went rather unwillingly.
“We ain't no more alike than ile and water,” he
said, when she first suggested his going, “and they
won't think as much of you for seein' me.”
But Marian insisted, and Ben went with her, mentally
resolving to say but little, as by this means he
fancied “he would be less likely to show how big a
dolt he was!”
-- --
CHAPTER XX. WILL GORDON.
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
Mrs. Sheldon's residence was a most delightful
spot, reminding Marian a little of Redstone Hall, and
as she passed up its nicely graveled walk and stepped
upon its broad piazza, she felt that she could be very
happy there, provided she met with sympathizing
friends. Any doubts she might have had upon this
subject were speedily dispelled by the appearance of
Mrs. Sheldon, in whose face there was something very
familiar; and it was not long ere Marian identified
her as the lady who had spoken so kindly to her in
the car between Albany and New York, asking her
what was the matter, and if she had friends in the city.
This put Marian at once at her ease, and her admiration
for her employer increased each moment, particularly
when she saw how gracious she was to Ben,
who true to his resolution, scarcely spoke except to
answer Mrs. Sheldon's questions and to decline her
invitation to dinner.
“I should never get through that in the world without
some blunder,” he thought, and as the dinner-bell
was ringing, he took his leave, crying like a child when
he parted with Marian, who was scarcely less affected
than himself.
Going to the depot, he sauntered into the ladies'
room, where he found a group of young girls, who were
waiting the arrival of a friend, and who, meantime,
were ready for any fun which might come up. Ben
instantly attracted their attention, and one who seemed
-- 244 --
[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
to be the leader of the party, began to quiz him,
asking “where he lived, and if he had ever been so
far from home before?”
Ben understood the drift of her remarks at once,
and with imperturbable gravity, replied:
“I come from down East, where they raise sich as
me, and this is the fust time I was ever out of Tanton,
which allus was my native town!”
Then, taking his tobacco box from his pocket, he
passed it to an elegant-looking man, whom he readily
divined to be the brother of the girl, saying to him:
“Have a chaw, captain? I'd just as lief you would
as not.”
As he heard the loud laugh which this speech called
forth, he continued, without the shadow of a smile:
“I had—'strue's I live, for I ain't none o' your tight
critters. Nobody ever said that of Ben Bur—Ben
Butterwith,” he added, hastily, for until Marian was
discovered to Frederic, he thought it best to retain
the latter name.
“Ben Butterworth,” repeated the young girl in an
aside to her brother—“Why, Will, didn't sister Mary
tell us that was the adopted brother or cousin of her
new governess? You know Miss Grey mentioned his
name in one of her letters.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ben, ere Will had time to reply.
“If by Mary you mean Miss Sheldon, I'm the chap.
Brought my sister there to-day, to be her schoolma'am,
and I don't want you to run over her neither,
'cause you'll be sorry bimeby. That was all gammon I
told you about never being away from home before,
for I've seen considerable of the world.”
The cars from Boston were by this time rolling in at
the depot, and without replying to Ben's remark, the
young lady went out to look for her friend.
That night, just after dark, Mrs. Sheldon's door bell
rang, and her brother and sister came in, the latter
dressed in the extreme of fashion, and bearing about
her an air which seemed to indicate that she had long
-- 245 --
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
been accustomed to receive the homage of those around
her. Seating herself on the sofa, she began, “Well,
Mary, Will and I have come over to see this wonderful
prodigy. Mother was here, you know, this afternoon,
and she came home half wild on the subject of
Miss Grey, insisting that I should call directly, and so
like a dutiful daughter I have obeyed, though I must
confess that the sight of Ben Butterworth, whom we
met at the depot, did not greatly prepossess me in her
favor.”
“They are not at all alike,” said Mrs. Sheldon, “neither
are they in any way related. Miss Grey is highly
educated, and has the sweetest face I ever saw. She
has some secret trouble, too, I'm sure, and she reminds
me of a beautiful picture over which a vail is thrown,
softening, and at the same time heightening its beauty.”
“Really,” said Will, rousing up, “some romance
connected with her. Do bring her out at once.”
Mrs. Sheldon left the room, and going up to Marian's
chamber, knocked at the door. A low voice bade her
come in, and she entered just in time to see Marian
hide away the daguerreotype of Frederic, at which she
had been looking.
“My brother and sister are in the parlor and have
asked for you,” she said.
“I will come down in a moment,” returned Marian,
who wished a little time to dry her tears, for she had
been weeping over the pictures of Frederic and Alice,
both of which she had in her possession.
Accordingly, when Mrs. Sheldon was gone, she
bathed her face until the stains had disappeared; then
smoothing her collar and brushing her wavy hair, she
descended to the parlor, where Ellen Gordon sat prepared
to criticise, and William Gordon sat prepared
for almost anything, though not for the vision which
greeted his view when Marian Grey appeared before
him. The dazzling purity of her complexion contrasted
well with her black dress, and the natural
bloom upon her cheek was increased by her
-- 246 --
[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
embarrassment, while her eyes dropped modestly beneath
the long-fringed lashes, which Ellen noticed at once,
because they were the one coveted beauty which had
been denied to herself.
“Jupiter!” was Will's mental comment. “Mary
didn't exaggerate in the least, and Nell will have to
yield the palm at once.”
Something like this passed through Ellen's mind,
but though on the whole a frank, right-minded girl,
she was resolved upon finding fault with the stranger,
simply because her mother and sister had said so much
in her praise.
“She is vulgar, I know,” she thought, and she
watched narrowly for something which should betray
her low birth, but she waited in vain.
Marian was perfectly lady-like in her manners; her
language was well chosen; her voice soft and low;
and ere she had been with her half an hour, Ellen secretly
acknowledged her superiority to most of the
young ladies of her acquaintance, and she regretted
that she, too, had not been educated at Mrs. Harcourt's
school, if such manners as Miss Grey's were common
there.
At Mrs. Sheldon's request, Marian took her seat at
the piano, and then Ellen hoped to criticise; but here
again she was at fault, for Marian was a brilliant performer,
keeping perfect time, and playing with the
most exquisite taste.
As she was turning over the leaves of the music
book after the close of the first piece, Will said to his
sister:
“By the way, Nell, I had a letter from Fred to-day
and he says he will be delighted to get you that music
the first time he goes to the city.”
Marian started just as she had done that afternoon
when Mrs. Sheldon called her youngest boy Fred.
Still there was no reason why she should do so. Frederic
was a common name, and she kept on turning the
-- 247 --
[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
leaves, while Ellen replied, “What else did he write,
and when is he going south?”
Marian's hand was stayed now, and she listened
eagerly for the answer, which was “Sometime in November,
and he has invited me to go with him, but I
hardly think I shall. He's lonesome, he says, and can
find no trace of his run away wife. So, there's a
shadow of a chance for you Nell.”
The hand which held the leaf suspended, came
down with a crash upon the keys of the piano, but
Ellen thought it was an accident, if she thought of it
at all; and she replied, “Fie, just as though I would
have a man before I knew for certain that his wife
was dead. I admire Mr. Raymond very much, and if
he had not been so foolish as to marry that child, I
can't say that he would not have made an impression,
for he is the finest looking and most agreeable gentleman
I ever met. Isn't it strange where that girl went,
and what she went for? Hasn't he ever told you anything
that would explain it?”
Up to this point Marian had sat immovable, listening
eagerly and wondering where these people had
known Frederic Raymond. Then, as something far
back in the past flashed upon her mind, she turned,
and looking in the young man's face, knew who he
was and that they had met before. His name had
seemed familiar from the first, and she knew that he
was the Will Gordon who had been Frederic's chum
in college, and had once spent a vacation at Redstone
Hall. He had predicted that she would be a handsome
woman, and Frederic had said she could not with such
hair. She remembered it all distinctly, but any effect
it might then have had upon her was lost in her anxiety
to hear the answer to Ellen's question.
“Fred generally keeps his matters to himself, but
I know as much as this: He didn't love that Miss
Lindsey any too well when he married her, but he has
admitted to me since that his feelings toward her had
undergone a change, and he would give almost
-- 248 --
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
anything to find her. He is certain that she was with him
when he was sick in New York, and since that time he
has sought for her everywhere.”
William Gordon had no idea of the effect his words
produced upon the figure which, on the music stool,
sat as motionless as if it had been a block of marble.
During all the long, dreary years of exile from home
there had not come to her so cheering a ray of hope
as this, and the bright bloom deepened on her cheek,
while the joy which danced in her deep blue eyes
made them look almost black beneath the heavy
lashes. Frederic was beginning to love her—he had
acknowledged as much to Mr. Gordon, and her heart
bounded forward to the time when she should see him
face to face, and hear him tell her so with his own lips.
Little now she heeded Ellen's next remark, “I presume
it would be just the same even if he were to find
her. He is a great admirer of beauty, and she, I believe,
was very ordinary looking.”
“Not remarkably so,” returned Will. “She was
thin-faced and had red hair, but I remember thinking
she might make a handsome woman—”
“With red hair! Oh, Will!” and the blacktressed
Ellen laughed at the very idea.
A sudden movement on Marian's part made Will
recollect her, and he hastened to apologise for his
apparent forgetfulness of her presence.
“You will please excuse us,” he said, “for discussing
an affair in which you, of course, can have no interest.”
“Certainly,” she replied, while around the corners
of her mouth were little laughing dimples, which told
no tales to the young man, who continued: “Will you
give us some more music? I admire your style of playing.”
Marian was in a mood for anything, and turning to
the piano she dashed off into a merry, spirited thing,
to which Will's feet kept time, while Ellen looked on
amazed at the white fingers which flew like lightning
-- 249 --
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
over the keys, seemingly never resting for an instant
upon any one of them, but lighting here and there
with a rapidity she never before seen equalled. It was
the outpouring of Marian's heart, and the tune she
played was a song of jubilee for the glad tidings she
had heard. Ere she had half finished, Will Gordon
was at her side, gazing wonderingly into her face,
which sparkled and glowed with her excitemënt.
“She is strangely beautiful,” he thought, and so he
said to Ellen when they were walking home together.
“She looks very well,” returned Ellen, “but I trust
you will not feel it your duty to fall in love with her
on that account. Wouldn't it be ridiculous though, for
you, who profess never to have felt the least affection
for any woman, to yield at once to Mary's governess?”
“Mary's governess is no ordinary person,” answered
Will. “How like the mischief she made those
fingers go in that last piece. I never saw anything
like it;” and he tried in vain to whistle a few bars of
the lively strain.
That night three men dreamed of Marian—Will
Gordon in his bachelor apartments, which he had said
should never be invaded with a female's wardrobe—
Ben Burt in his room at the Lovejoy Hotel—and Frederic
Raymond in his cheerful home upon the Hudson.
But to Marian, sleeping so quietly in her chamber
there came a thought of only one, and that one Frederic
Raymond, whose picture lay beneath her pillow.
She had never placed it there until to-night, for she
had felt that she had no right to do so. But Mr. Gordon's
words had effected a change. He said that
Frederic was begining to love her at last—that he had
sought for her without success—that he would give
almost anything to find her. It is true she could not
reconcile all this with her preconceived opinion: but
she had no wish to doubt it, and she accepted it as
truth, thinking it was probably a very recent thing
with him, this searching after and loving her.
-- 250 --
[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
Very rapidly and pleasantly to Marian did the first
few weeks of her sojourn with Mrs. Sheldon pass away.
She was interested in her pupils, two bright-faced little
girls, and doubly interested in their brother, the browneyed
Fred, whose real name she learned was Frederic
Raymond, he having been called, Mrs. Sheldon said,
after Williams particular friend, who spent his winters
in Kentucky, and his Summers at Riverside, a delightful
place on the Hudson. Frederic Raymond was a
frequent subject of conversation in Mrs. Sheldon's family,
and once, after Marian had been there four or five
months, and Will, as usual, was spending an evening
there, the matter was discussed at length, while Marian,
sitting partly in the shade, so that the working of
her features could not be seen, dropped stitch after
stitch in the cloud she was crotcheting, and finally
stopped altogether as the conversation proceeded.
“I am positive,” said Mrs. Sheldon, “that I saw Mrs.
Raymond in the cars, between Albany and Newburg.
It was four years ago, last Autumn, and about that
time she came away. There was a very young girl sitting
before me, dressed in black, with long red curls,
and she looked as if she had wept all her tears away,
though they fell like rain when I spoke to her and
asked her what was the matter. I remember her particularly
from her question, `Is New York a heap noisier
than Albany or Buffalo?”'
“That `heap' is purely Southern,” interrupted Will,
while his sister continued:
“She said she had but one friend in the world, and
that one was in New York. I remember, too, that one
of her hands was ungloved. It was so white and
small, and she used it so often to brush her tears away.”
Here Will glanced involuntarily at the beautiful little
hands busy with the cloud. It might have been
fancy, but he thought they trembled, and so he closed
the register and opened a door, thinking the heat of
of the room might have made Miss Grey nervous—and
he was growing very careful of her comfort!
-- 251 --
[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
Poor Will!
Returning to his seat, he replied to his sister's remark,
“That was undoubtedly Marian Lindsey. Did
you speak of it to Frederic?”
“No,” said Mrs. Sheldon, “I have always thought
he disliked talking of her to me, and that makes me
think there is something wrong—that he did her an injury.”
“Every man who marries without love injures the
woman he makes his wife,” said Will, “and Frederic
does not profess to have loved her then. His father
drew him into this match, and for some inexplicable
reason Fred consented, when all the time he loved that
Isabel Huntington. But he has recovered from that
infatuation, and I am glad of it, for I never liked her,
and had the thing been possible, I should say she poisoned
him against this Marian. Why, Miss Grey, you
are actually shivering,” he added, as he saw the violent
trembling of Marian's body, and this time he
opened the register and shut the door, offering to go
for a shawl, and asking where she had taken such a
cold.
“It's only a slight chill—it will soon pass off,” she
said, and as Mrs. Sheldon was just then called from the
room, Will drew his chair a little nearer to Marian and
continued:
“This Raymond affair must be irksome to you, who
know nothing about it.”
“Oh, no,” said Marian faintly. “I am greatly interested,
particularly in the girl-wife. Can't he find
her? Seems as though he might. Perhaps though, he
don't really care.”
“Yes, he does,” interrupted Will. “He disliked
her once, but I believe he feels differently toward her
now. His hobby in college was a handsome wife, but
he has learned that beauty alone is worthless, and he
would gladly take Marian back.”
“Red hair and all?” asked Marian, mischievously,
and Will replied, “Yes, I believe he's even made up
-- 252 --
[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
his mind to the red hair. I didn't object to it myself,
and I once saw this girl.”
“Redstone Hall is a beautiful spot, I believe,” said
Marian, briefly stating thai Ben had once been there
in his travels, and had since met Mr. Raymond in New
York.
“Then you know the family,” said Will, in some
surprise.
“I know of them,” returned Marian, “for Ben was
so much interested in the blind girl that after his return
he talked of little else.”
“You have never seen them yourself, of course,” and
taking this fact for granted, Will proceeded to give her
a most minute description of Redstone Hall, of its master,
and of herself as she was when he visited Kentucky.
Frederic's marriage was then touched upon. Will
telling how angry his chum used to be when he received
a letter on the subject from his father.
“We were studying law together,” he said, “and,
as we were room-mates in college, it was quite natural
that we should confide in each other; so he used to tell
me of his father's project, and almost swear he wouldn't
do it. I never was more astonished than when I heard
he was to be married in a few days. `It's all over
with me,' he wrote, `I can't help it!” and he signed
himself `Your wretched Fred!' But what are you
crying for, Miss Grey? You certainly are. What is
the matter?”
“I am crying for her—for poor Marian Lindsey!”
was the answer; and Marian's tears flowed faster.
Will Gordon was distressed at the sight of woman's
tears, but particularly at the sight of Marian Grey's,
and he tried to console her by saying he was sure Mr.
Raymond would sometime find his wife, and they all
would be the happier for what they both had suffered.
Involuntarily he had touched the right chord, for, in
listening to his predictions of future good, which
should come to Frederic Raymond's wife, Marian Grey
-- 253 --
[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
ceased to weep, and when, ere his departure, Will
asked her for for some music, she gave him one of
those stirring pieces she always played when her heart
was running over with happy anticipations!
Will Gordon was older than Frederic Raymond, and
an examination of the family Bible would have shown
him to be thirty. Quite a bachelor, his sister Ellen
said, and she marveled that he had lived thus long
without taking to himself a wife. But Will was very
fastidious in his ideas of females, and though he had
traveled much, both in Europe and his own country,
he had never seen a face which could hold his fancy
for a moment, until the sunny blue eyes of Marian
Grey shone upon him and thawed the ice which had
laid about his heart so many years. Even then he did
not quite understand the feeling, or know how it was
that night after night he found himself locked out at
home, while morning after morning his sister Ellen
scolded him for staying out so late, wondering what
attraction he could find at Mary's, when he knew as
well as she that he would never disgrace the Gordon
family by marrying a governess, and a peddler's adopted
sister, too! Will hardly thought he should either. He
didn't quite know what ailed him, and in a letter written
to Frederic, who was now in Kentucky, he gave
an analysis of his feelings, after having first told him
that Marian Grey was the adopted sister of a Yankee
peddler, who had once visited Redstone Hall, and
who, he was sure, Frederic would remember for his
oddities.
“I wish you could see this girl,” he wrote, “I'd like
to have your opinion, for I know you are a connoisseur
in everything pertaining to female charms, but I
am sure you never in all your life saw anything like
Marian Grey. I never did, and I have seen the proudest
court beauties in Europe—but nobody like her.
And yet it is not so much the exceeding fairness of
her complexion, or the perfect regularity of her features,
as it is the indescribably fascinating something
-- 254 --
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
which demands your pity as well as your admiration.
There is that about her mouth, and in her smile, which
seems to say that she has suffered as few have ever
done, and that from this suffering she has risen purified,
beautified, and if I may be allowed a term which
my good mother would call wicked in the extreme,
glorified as it were!
“Just picture to yourself a graceful, airy figure, five
feet four inches high—then clothe it in black, and
adapt every article of dress exactly to her form and
style, then imagine a rose-bud face, which I cannot
describe, with the deepest, saddest, brightest, merriest,
sunniest, laughing blue eyes you ever saw. You
see there is a slight contradiction of words, but every
one by turns will apply to her eyes of blue. Then
her hair—oh, Fred, words fail me here. It's a mixture
of everything—brown, black, yellow, and red.
Yes, red—I mean it, for it has decidedly a reddish hue
in the sunshine. By gas-light it is brown, and by daylight
a most beautiful chesnut or auburn—rippling all
over her head in glossy waves, and curling about her
forehead and neck.
“Beautiful—beautiful Marian! Yes, I will call her
Marian here on paper, with no one to see it but you.
'Tis a sweet, feminine name, Fred;—the name, too, of
your lost wife. I told her that story the other night,
and she cried great tears, which looked like pearls
upon her cheek.
“Do write soon, and give me your advice—though
what I want of it is more than I can tell. I only know
that I feel strangely about the region of my waistbands,
and every time I see Miss Grey, I feel a heap
worse, as you folks say. She is of low origin, I know,
and this would make a difference with a man as proud
as you, but I don't care. Marian Grey has bewitched
me, I verily believe, until I am—I don't know what.
“Do write, Fred, and tell me what I am, and what
to do. But pray don't preface your letter with longwinded
remarks about marrying my equal—looking
-- 255 --
[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
higher than a peddler's sister, and all that nonsense, for
it will be lost on me. I never can get higher than
Marian's blue eyes unless indeed I reached her hair,
at which point I should certainly yield, and go over to
the enemy at once.”
This letter reached Frederic one rainy afternoon,
when he had nothing to do but to read it, laugh over
it, reflect upon and answer it. Will Gordon's description
of Marian Grey thrilled him with a strange feeling
of pleasure, imperceptibly sending his thoughts
after another Marian, and involuntarily he said, aloud,
“If she had been like this picture Will has drawn, I
should not be here so lonely and desolate.”
Frederic Raymond was prouder far than Will Gordon,
and his feelings at first rebelled against his friend's
taking for a bride the sister of unpolished, uneducated
Ben. “But it is his own matter,” he said; “I see
plainly that he is in love, so I will write at once and
tell him what is the `trouble”'
Accordingly he commenced a letter, in which after
expressing his happiness that his college friend had
not persisted in shutting his eyes to all female charms,
he wrote:
“I should prefer your wife to be somewhat nearer
your equal in point of family, it is true, but your description
of Marian Grey won my heart entirely, and
you have my consent to offer yourself at once. By so
doing, you will probably deprive Alice of her governess
and me of a pleasant companion, for I had made
an arrangement with Ben to have Miss Grey with us
next year. But no matter for that. Woo and win
her just the same, and Heaven grant you a happier
future than my past has been.
“`Beautiful! beautiful Marian!' you said, and without
knowing why, my heart responded to it. She is
beautiful, I am sure, and your description of her is
just what I would like to apply to my own wife—my
lost Marian! You see I have withdrawn my
-- 256 --
[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
allegiance from black-haired dark-eyed maidens, and gone
over to laughing blue eyes and auburn tresses.
“By the way, speaking of the dark eyed maidens
reminds me that Agnes Gibson's husband is dead, and
she is sole heiress of all his fortune, except a legacy
which he left to Miss Huntington, who lived in his
family at the time of his death. Poor old man! Rumor
says he led a sorry life with both of them, but
at the last his young wife cajoled him into making his
will, and was really kind to him. She is at her father's
now, and Miss Huntington is there also. I called
upon them yesterday, and have hardly recovered yet
from the chilling reception I met with from the latter.
“But pardon me, Will, for this digression, when I
was to write of nothing save Marian Grey. The name
reminded me of my own wife, and that, as a matter of
course, suggested Isabel. Give my compliments to
Miss Grey, and tell her that, under the circumstances,
I release her from her engagement with myself, and
that, if she is a sensible girl, as I suppose she is, she
will not keep you on your knees longer than necessary.
Let me hear of your success or failure, and, on no account,
forget to invite me to the wedding. It is possible
I may be obliged to come North on business, in
the course of a few weeks, and, if so, I shall certainly
call on you for the sake of seeing this wonderful Marian
Grey.
“Yours truly,
“F. Raymond.”
-- --
CHAPTER XXI. WILL'S WOOING.
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
The silver tea-set and damask cloth had been removed
from Mrs. Gordon's supper-table. The heavy
curtains of brocatelle were dropped before the windows;
a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, for
Mrs. Gordon eschewed both furnaces and stoves; the
gas burned brightly in the chandelier, casting a softened
light throughout the room, and rendering more
distinct the gay flowers on the carpet. The ladymother,
a fair type of a thrifty New England woman,
had donned her spectacles, and from a huge pile of
socks was selecting those which needed a near acquaintance
with the needle, and lamenting over her
son's propensity at wearing out his toes!
The son, meantime, half lay, half sat upon the sofa,
listlessly drumming with his fingers, and feeling glad
that Ellen was not there, and wondering how he should
begin to tell his mother what he so much wished her
to know.
“I should suppose she might see it,” he thought—
“might know how much I am in love with Marian,
for I used to be always talking about her, and now I
never mention her, it makes my heart thump so if I
try to speak her name. Nell will make a fuss, perhaps,
for she thinks so much of family: but Marian is
family enough for me. Mary likes her, and I guess
mother does. I mean to ask her.”
“Mother?”
-- 258 --
[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
“What, William?” and the good lady ran her hand
into a sock with a shockingly large rent in the heel.
No woman can be very gracious with such an open
prospect, and, as Will saw the scowl on his mother's
face, he regretted that he had spoken at this inauspicious
moment.
“I'll wait till she finds one not quite as dilapidated
as that,” he thought, and when the question was repeated,
“What, William?” he replied, “Is Nell coming
home to-night?”
“I believe so. I wish she was here now to help me,
for I shall never get these mended. What makes you
wear out your socks so fast?”
“I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's beating time to
Miss Grey's lively music. Don't she play like the
mischief, though?”
Mrs. Gordon did not answer, and Will continued,
“Let me help you mend. I used to in college and in
Europe, too, and if I never marry,”—here Will's voice
trembled a little—“I shall need to know how. Thread
me a darning needle, won't you?”
Mrs. Gordon laughingly compiled with his request,
and the fashionable Will Gordon was soon deep in the
mysteries of sock-darning, an accomplishment in
which he had before had some experience. Very
rapidly his mother's amiability increased, until at last
he ventured to say, “Let me see, how old am I?”
“Thirty, last August, just twenty years younger
than I am.”
“Then, when you were at my age you had a boy
ten years old. I wonder how I should feel in a like
predicament.”
“I'm afraid you'll never know,” and Mrs. Gordon
commenced on a fresh sock.
“Mother, how would you to have me marry and
settle down?” Will continued, after a moment's
silence, and his mother replied, “Well enough, provided
I liked your wife.”
“You don't suppose I'd marry one you didn't like,
-- 259 --
[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
I hope. Just look, can you beat that?” and he held
up what he fancied to be a neatly darned sock, which,
spite of its bungling appearance, received so much
praise, that he felt emboldened to proceed.
Taking Frederic's letter from his pocket he passed
it to his mother, asking her to read it, and give him
her opinion.
“You know I never can make out Mr. Raymond's
writing,” said Mrs. Gordon, “so pray read it yourself.”
But this Will could not do, and he insisted until his
mother took the letter and began to read, while he
forgot to darn, so intent was he upon watching the expression
of her face. At first it turned very red, then
white, and then the great drops of perspiration stood
upon her forehead, for she felt as every mother does,
when they first learn that their only boy is about
yielding to another the love they have claimed so long.
“Have you spoken to Marian?” she asked, giving
him back the letter, but not resuming her work.
“No,” was his answer: and she continued, “Then I
wouldn't.”
“Why not?” he asked, in some alarm; and with a
tremor in her voice, his mother replied, “I've nothing
against Marian, but we are so happy together, and it
would kill me to have you go away.”
“Is that all?” and in his delight Will ran the darning-needle
under his thumb nail; “I needn't go away.
I can bring her home, and you won't have to mend
my socks any more. Those back chambers are seldom
used, and—”
“Back chambers!” exclaimed Mrs. Gordon. “I
guess if you bring a wife here, you'll occupy the parlor
chamber and bedroom. I was going to re-paper
them in the Spring, and I think on the whole I'll refurnish
it entirely, for you might sometimes have calls
up there.”
“You charming woman,” cried Will, kissing his
mother, whose consent he understood to be fully won.
He knew she had always admired Miss Grey, but he
-- 260 --
[figure description] Page 260.[end figure description]
expected more opposition than this, and in his delight
he would have gone to see Marian at once, were it not
that he had heard she was absent that evening. For
an hour or more he talked with his mother of his plans,
and when at last Ellen came in, she, too, was let into
the secret. Of course, she rebelled at first, for her
family pride was very strong, and the peddler Ben,
was a serious objection. But when she saw how earnest
her brother was, and that her mother, too, had
espoused his cause, she condescended to say:
“I suppose you might do worse, though folks will
wonder at your taste in marrying Mary's governess.”
“Let them wonder, then,” said Will. “They dare
not slight my wife, you know,” and then he drew a
pleasing picture of the next Summer, when, with his
mother, Marian and Ellen, he would visit the White
Mountains and Montreal.
“Why not go to Europe?” suggested Ellen. “Mr.
Sheldon talks of going in August, and if you must marry
this girl, you may as well go, too.”
“Well spoken for yourself, little puss,” returned
Will; “but it's a grand idea, and I'll make arrangements
with Tom as soon as I have seen Marian. Maybe
she'll refuse me,” and Will turned pale at the very
idea.
“No danger,” was Ellen's comment, while her mother
thought the same, for in her estimation no one in
their right mind could refuse her noble boy.
It was a long night to Will, and the next day longer
still, for joyful hope and harrowing fears tormented
his mind, and when at last it was dark, and he had
turned his face toward Mr. Sheldon's, he half determined
to go back. But he didn't, and with his usual
easy, off-hand manner, he entered his sister's sitting-room.
Though bound to secrecy, Ellen had told the
news to Mrs. Sheldon, who, of course, had told her
husband; and soon after Will's arrival, the two found
some excuse for leaving him alone with Marian Grey.
Marian liked William Gordon very much—partly
-- 261 --
[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
because he was Frederic's friend, and partly because
she knew him to be a most affectionate brother and
dutiful son—two rare qualities in a traveled and fashionable
man. She was always pleased to see him, and
she welcomed him now as usual, without observing his
evident embarrassment when at last they were alone.
There were no stockings to be darned, and he did not
know how to commence, until he remembered Frederic's
letter. It had helped him with his mother—it
might aid him now—and after fidgeting awhile in his
chair, he said:
“I heard from Mr. Raymond yesterday.”
“Indeed!” and Marian's voice betrayed more interest
than the word would indicate.
“He wrote that you were engaged to him—”
“I engaged to Frederic Raymond!” and Marian
started so suddenly that she pulled her needle out from
the worsted garment she was knitting.
“Engaged to teach, I mean,” returned Will. “I'll
show you what he wrote when you pick up those
stitches. What do you call that queer-shaped thing?”
“A Sontag, or Hug-me-tight,” said Marian, while
Will involuntarily exclaimed, “Oh, I wish I could—
see Fred, he's such a good fellow,” he hastened to add,
as he saw Marian's wondering glance.
But the beginning and end of the sentence were too
far apart to belong to each other, and there was a moment's
awkward silence, which was broken at last by
Marian, who, resolving to take no notice of the strange
speech, said:
“What did Mr. Raymond write of me?”
“I'll show you just a little,” and Will pointed out
the sentence commencing with “Give my respects to
Miss Grey,” etc.
The sight of the well-remembered handwriting affected
Marian sensibly; but when she came to the last
part, and began to understand to what it all was tending,
her head grew dizzy and her brain whirled for a
moment. Then an intense pity for Will Gordon filled
-- 262 --
[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]
her soul, for looking upward she met the glance of his
eyes, and saw therein how much she was beloved.
“No, no, Mr. Gordon!” she cried, putting her
hands to her ears as he began to say: “Dear Marian.”
“You must not call me so; it is wicked for you to do
it—wicked for me to listen. I am not what I seem.”
And she burst into tears, weeping so bitterly that in
his efforts to soothe her, Will well nigh carried out
the wish which had been finished up with “seeing
Frederic Raymond.”
Her not being what she seemed, he fancied might
refer to something connected with her birth, and he
hastened to assure her that no circumstance whatever
could change his feelings, or prevent him from wishing
her to be his wife.
“Won't you, Marian?” he said, holding her in his
arm so she could not escape. “I have never loved
before. I always said I could not, until I saw you;
and then everything was changed. I have told my
mother, darling, and Ellen, too. They are ready to
receive you, if you will go. Look at me, and say you
will come to my home, which will never again be so
bright to me without you. Won't my darling answer
me?” he continued, while she sobbed so violently as
to render speaking impossible. “I am sorry if my
words distressed you so,” he added, resting her head
upon his bosom, and fondly smoothing her hair.
“I am distressed for you,” Marian at last found
voice to say. “Oh, Mr. Gordon, I should be most
wretched if I thought I had encouraged you in this!
But I have not, I am sure. I like you very, very
much, but I cannot be your wife!”
“Marian, are you in earnest?” And on Will Gordon's
manly face was a look never seen there before.
He did not know until now how much he loved the
beautiful young girl he held so closely to his side.
All the affections of his heart had centered themselves,
as it were, upon her, and he could not give her up.
She had been so kind to him—had welcomed him ever
-- 263 --
[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]
with her sweetest smile—had seemed sorry at his departure—
and was not this encouragement? He had
taken it as such, and ere she could reply to the question:
“Are you in earnest?” he added:
“I have thought, from your manner, that I was not
indifferent to you, else I had never told you of my
love. Oh, Marian, if you desert me now, I shall wish
that I could die!”
Marian struggled until she released herself from his
embrace, and, standing before him, she replied:
“I never dreamed that you thought of me, save as
a friend, and if I have encouraged you, it was because—
you reminded me of another. Oh, Mr. Gordon,
must I tell you that long before I came here, I had
learned to love some other man—hopelessly, it is true,
for he does not care for me; but that can make no
difference. Had I never seen him—never known of
him—I might—I would have been your wife, for I
know that you are noble and good; but 'tis too late—
too late!”
He did not need to ask her now if she were in earnest;
for, looking up into her truthful, clear blue eyes,
he knew there was no hope for him, and bowing his
head upon the arm of the sofa, he groaned aloud, while
the heaving of his chest showed how much he suffered,
and how manfully he strove to keep his feelings
down. Mournfully Marian gazed upon him, wishing
she had never come there, if by coming she had
brought this hour of anguish to him. Half timidly
she laid her hand upon his head, for she wished to
comfort him; and, as he felt the touch of her fingers,
he started, while an expression of joy lighted up his
face, only to pass away again as he saw the same unloving
look in her eye.
“If I could comfort you,” she said, “I would gladly
do it; but I cannot. You will forget me in time, Mr.
Gordon, and be as happy as you were before you knew
me.”
He shook his head despairingly. “No one could
-- 264 --
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
forget you; and the man who stands between us must
be a monster not to requite your love. Who is he,
Marian?' or is it not for me to know?”
“I would rather you should not—it can do no good,”
was Marian's reply; and then Will Gordon pleaded
with her to think again ere she told him so decidedly
no. She might outlive that other love. She ought
to, certainly, if 'twere a hopeless one; and if she only
gave him half a heart, he would be content until he
won the whole. They would go to Europe in Autumn;
and beneath the sunny skies of Italy she would learn
to love him, he knew. “Won't you, Marian?” and in
the tone of his voice there was a word of eager, fearful,
yearning love.
“I can't—I can't; it is utterly impossible!” was the
decided answer; and, without another word, Will Gordon
rose and passed, with a breaking heart, from the
room he had entered so full of hope and pleasing anticipations.
The fire burned just as brightly in the grate at home
as it had done the night before; the gas-light fell as
softly on the roses in the carpet, and on his mother's
face there was a placid, expectant look, as he came in.
But it quickly vanished when she saw how he pale he
was, and how he crouched down into his easy chair,
as if he fain would hide from every one the pain gnawing
at his heart. There had never been a secret between
Mrs. Gordon and her son, for in some respects
the man of thirty was as much a child as ever; and
when his mother, coming to his side, parted the damp
hair from his forehead, and looked into his eyes,
saying:
“What is it, William? Has Marian Grey refused
my boy?” he told her all. How Marian Grey had
given her love to another, and that henceforth the
world to him would be a dreary blank.
It was, indeed, a terrible disappointment, and as the
days wore on, it told fearfully upon William's health,
-- 265 --
[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]
until at last the mother sought an interview with Marian
Grey, beseeching her to think again.
“You can be happy with William,” she said, “and I
had prepared myself to love you as a daughter. Do, I
beseech of you, give me some hope to carry back to
my poor boy?”
“I cannot—I cannot!”
And, laying her head in the motherly lap of Mrs.
Gordon, Marian wept bitterly—half tempted, more
than once, to tell her the whole truth.
But this she did not do, and she wept on, while Mrs.
Gordon's tears kept company with her own.
“Don't you like my Willian?” she asked, unconsciously
playing with the bright hair resting on her
lap.
“Yes—very, very much; but I loved another first.”
And this was all the satisfaction Marian could give.
Mrs. Sheldon next tried her powers of persuasion,
pleading for herself quite as much as for her brother,
for she loved the young girl dearly, and would gladly
have called her sister. But naught which she could
say had the least effect, and Ellen determined to see
what she could do. She had been very indignant at
first, to think a poor teacher should refuse her brother,
and something of this spirit manifested itself during
her interview with Marian.
“I am astonished at you,” she said; “for, though
we have ever treated you as our equal, you must know
that in point of family you are not, and my brother
has done what few young men in his standing would
have done. Why, there never was a gentleman in
Springfield whom the girls accounted a better match
than William, unless it were Mr. Raymond from Kentucky,
and they only gave him the preference because
he lives South, and possibly has a wife somewhere.
So they could not get him, if they wished to. Now,
if you were in love with him, and he were not already
married, I should not think so strangely of your conduct,
for he may be Will's superior in some respects;
-- 266 --
[figure description] Page 266.[end figure description]
but I cannot conceive of your refusing him for any
common man such as would be likely to address you.”
Marian did not think it necessary to reply in substance
to this long speech, neither did she, by word or
look, resent Ellen's overbearing manner; but she answered,
as she always did:
“I would marry your brother, if I could; but I cannot.”
“Then I trust you will have a pleasant time teaching
all your days,” said Ellen, as she slammed the door
behind her, and went to report her success.
All this trouble and excitement wore upon Marian,
and after a time she became too ill to leave her room,
where she kept her bed, sometimes fancying it all a
dream—sometimes resolving to tell the people who she
was, and always weeping over the grief she had brought
to William Gordon, who, during her illness, showed
how noble and good he was by caring for her as tenderly
as if she had indeed been his promised bride.
He did not see her, but he made his presence felt in a
thousand different ways, and when they told him how
her tears would drop upon the fresh bouquets he sent
her from the green-house every morning, he would
turn away to keep his own from falling.
One night, toward the last of March, as he sat with
his mother in the same room where he first told her of
his love for Marian Grey, the door-bell rang, and a
moment after, to his great surprise, Frederic Raymond
walked into the room. William had forgotten what
his friend had said about the possibility of his coming
north earlier than usual, and he was so much astonished
that for some moments he did not appear like
himself.
“You know I wrote that business might bring me
to Albany,” said Frederic, “and that if I came so far
I should visit you.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now,” returned William, the
color mounting to his forehead as he recalled the nature
of the last letter written to Frederic, who, from
-- 267 --
[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]
his manner, guessed that something was wrong, and
forbore questioning him until they retired to their
room for the night.
“Fred,” said William, after they had talked awhile
on indifferent subjects, “Fred,” and Will's feet went
up into a chair, for even a man who has been refused
feels better, and can tell it better, with his heels a little
elevated, “Fred, it's all over with me, and it makes
no difference now whether the sun rises in the east or
in the west.”
“I suspected as much,” returned Frederic, “from
your failing to write and from the length of your face.
What is the matter? You didn't coax hard enough, I
reckon, and I shall have to undertake it for you. How
would you like that? I dare say I should be more
successful,” and Frederic's smile was much like the
Frederic of other days, when he and Will were college
friends together.
“I said everything a man could say, but the chief
difficulty is that she don't love me and does love another,”
returned Will, at the same time repeating to
his companion as much of his experience as he thought
proper.
“A discouraging beginning, I confess,” said Frederic;
“but perhaps she will relent.”
“No she won't,” returned Will; “she is just as decided
now as she was that night. I have exhausted all
my persuasion; mother has coaxed, so has Mary, so
has Nell, and all to no purpose. Marian Grey can
never be my wife. If it were not for this other love,
though, I would not give it up.”
“Who is the favored one?” Frederic asked, and his
friend replied, “Some rascal, I dare say, for she says
it is a hopeless attachment on her part, and that makes
it all the worse. Now if I knew the man was worthy
of her, I should not feel so badly. If it were you, for
instance, or somebody like you, I'd try to be satisfied,
knowing she was quite as well off as she would be with
me,” and Will's feet went up to the top of the chair as
-- 268 --
[figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]
he thought how magnanimous he would be were it
Frederic Raymond who was beloved by Marian Grey.
“I am sorry for you,” said Frederic—“sorry that
you, too, must walk under a cloud, as I am doing. We
little thought, when we were boys, that we should both
be called to bear a heavy burden; but thus has it
proved. Mine came sooner than yours, and it seems
to me 'tis the hardest of the two to bear.”
“Fred, you don't know what you are saying. Your
grief cannot be as great as mine, for I love Marian
Grey as man never loved before, and when she told
me `No,' and I knew she meant it, I felt as if she were
tearing out my very heartstrings. You acknowledge
that you never loved your wife; but you married her
for—I don't know what you married for —
“For MONEY!” And the word dropped slowly from
Frederic's lips.
“For money?” repeated Will. “She had no money—
this Marian Lindsey. She was a poor orphan, I always
thought. Will you tell me what you mean?”
“I have never told a living being why I made that
girl my wife,” said Frederic; “but I can trust you, I
know, and I have sometimes thought I might feel better
if some one shared my secret. Still, I would rather
not explain to you how Marian was the heiress of
Redstone Hall, for that concerns the dead; but heiress
she was, not only of all that, but of all the lands and
houses said to belong to the Raymond estate in Kentucky;
not a cent of it was mine; and, rather than give
it up, I married her without one particle of love—
married her, too, when she did not know of her fortune,
but supposed herself dependent upon me.”
“Oh, Frederic, did you thus wrong that girl? I
never thought you capable of such an act. I knew
you did not love her, but the rest —. It hurts me
to think you did it, and that you still live on her
money.”
“Hush, Will!” And Frederic bowed his head for
very shame. “I deserve your censure, I know, but if
-- 269 --
[figure description] Page 269.[end figure description]
my sin was great—great has been my punishment.
Look at me, Will. I am not the light hearted man
you parted with six years ago upon the college green;
for, since that dreadful night when I first knew poor
Marian had fled, and thought she was in the river, I
have not had a single moment of perfect peace or freedom
from remorse. I have not spent more of her
money either than I could help. Bad as I am, I shrink
from that. Redstone Hall grew hateful to me—it was
haunted with so many bitter memories of her, and was,
besides, the place where I sinned against her a second
time by daring to think of another—of Isabel. You
remember her?”
“Fred Raymond!” and in his indignation, Will's
feet came down from the top of the chair, “you did
not aggravate your guilt by talking of love to her?”
“No, no,” groaned Frederic, “I did not, though
Heaven only knows the fierce struggle it cost me to
see her there every day, and know I must not say one
word to her of love. I left Redstone Hall at last, as
you know. Left it because it was Marian's and Riverside
was my father's, before Marian came to us; so
it did not seem quite so much like spending her money,
for I did try to be a man and earn my own living.
They did not get on well without me in Kentucky.
They needed me there a part of the time, at least; and
when, at last, I began to feel differently toward Marian,
I felt less delicacy about her fortune, and I have spent
my winters at Redstone Hall, where the negroes and
the neighbors around all suppose Marian dead, for I
have never told them that she was with me in New
York. Isabel knows it, but for some reason she has
kept it to herself; and I am glad, for I would rather
people should not talk of it until she is really found.
I have sought for her so long and unsuccessfully that
I'm growing discouraged now.”
“If you knew that she was dead, would you marry
Isabel?” asked Will; and Frederic replied,
“Never!'
-- 270 --
[figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]
Then, in a reverent tone, as if speaking of one above
him in purity and innocence, he told how the little
blind girl had stood between him and temptation,
holding up his hands when they were weakest, and
keeping his feet from falling. “But that desire is
over. I can look Isabel Huntington calm in the
face and experience no sensation, save that of relief,
to think I have escaped her. With the legacy left her
by Mr. Rivers, and the little means her mother had,
she has bought a small house near Riverside; so I
shall have them for neighbors every Summer. But I
do not care. I have no love now for Isabel. It all
died out when I was sick, and centered itself upon
that little sweet-faced girl, who, I know, was Marian,
though I cannot find her. If I could, Will, I'd willingly
part with every cent of money I call mine, and
work for my daily bread. Labor would not seem a
hardship, if I knew that when my toil was done, there
was a darling wife waiting for me at home—a wife
like what I hope my Marian is, and like what your
Marian Grey may be.”
“Not mine, Frederic. There is in all the world no
Marian for me,” said Will.
“Nor for me, perhaps,” was the sad response, and
in the dim firelight, the two mournful faces looked
wistfully at each other, as if asking the sympathy neither
had to give.
And there they sat until the clock in the room below,
struck the hour of midnight. Two weary heart-broken
men, in the pride of their early manhood, sat
talking each to the other, one of “My Marian,” and
one of “Mine;” but never, never dreaming that the
beautiful Marian Grey, so much beloved by William
Gordon, was the lost Marian so greatly mourned by
Frederic Raymond.
-- --
CHAPTER XXII. THE BIRTHDAY.
[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
Mrs. Gordon's breakfast bell rang several times
next morning ere the young men made their appearance,
for, as a natural consequence, the late hours of
the previous night had been followed by protracted
slumbers. As they were making their hasty toilet,
Frederic said to Will:
“This is Marian's twentieth birthday.”
“Is it possible?” returned Will. “It seems but
yesterday since I saw her, a little girl in pantalets,
with long curls streaming down her back. I liked her
very much, she seemed so kind, so considerate of every
one's comfort; and I remember telling you once that
she would be a handsome woman, while you said—
`Never, with that hair!”
“Neither can she,” rejoined Frederic. “She may
be rather pretty. Yes, I am sure she is pretty, for the
face which bent over my pillow was not an ugly one;
but I still insist that a woman with red hair cannot be
handsome.”
“Tastes differ,” returned Will. “Now, I'll venture
to say Miss Grey's hair was red when she was a child.
It is not very far from it now, in the sunlight; and
everybody speaks of her hair as her crowning beauty.”
“I wish I could see her,” said Frederic; “for, as
she will not be your wife, I suppose she will be Alice's
governess. And it is quite proper that I should have
an interview with her, and talk the matter over. Will
you call with me this evening?”
-- 272 --
[figure description] Page 272.[end figure description]
“Certainly,” returned Will; “for, though it will
afford me more pain than pleasure to meet her, I will
not be so foolish as to avoid her.”
Breakfast being over, the young men started for a
walk down town, going by Mrs. Sheldon's house, of
course, although it was entirely out of their way. But
neither thought of this, and they passed it on the opposite
side of the street; so that Will could, unobserved,
point out Marian's room to Frederic.
“That's it,” he said—“the one with the blinds
thrown open. There she has often sat, I suppose,
thinking of the villain who stands between me and
happiness. The rascal! I tell you, Fred, I wish I had
him as near to me as you are!” and Will Gordon fancied
how, in such a case, he would treat a man who
did not love Marian Grey!
Frederic made no answer, for his eyes were fixed intently
upon the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of
one who was fast becoming an object of interest even
to him. But he looked in vain, for Marian had not
yet risen. Pale, weary and weak, she reclined among
her pillows, her fair hair falling about her face in
beautiful disorder, and her eyes turned also toward the
window, not because she knew that Frederic was looking
in that direction, but because the morning sun was
shining there, and she was watching it as it danced
upon the curtain of bright crimson.
“I have seen the suns of twenty years,” she
thought, “and I am growing old so fast. I wonder if
Frederic would know me now.”
At this moment, Mrs. Sheldon came in, and advanceing
toward the window, looked down into the street.
Catching a view of her brother and his friend, she exclaimed:
“Frederic Raymond! I wonder when he came?”
“What? Where? Who is it?” Marian asked,
quickly, at the same time raising herself upon her
elbow, and looking wistfully in the direction Frederic
had gone.
-- 273 --
[figure description] Page 273.[end figure description]
“Mr. Raymond, Will's friend, from Kentucky,” returned
Mrs. Sheldon. “He must have come last
night?” and as little Fred just then called to her from
without, she left the room.
When she was alone, Marian buried her face in the
bed-clothes, and murmured:
“Oh, if I could only see him! I long so to test his
powers of recognition, and see if he would know me.”
She almost hoped he would, and claim her for his
wife, as this, she fancied, might cure Will Gordon
sooner than aught else which could be done. She was
sure they would talk of her, for Frederic had bidden
Will propose, and he would naturally ask the result
of that proposal. Will would say she had refused him
because she loved another, and would not something
whisper to her husband that “the other” was himself—
that Marian Grey was his Marian—the Marian of
Redstone Hall—and he would come to her that very
day, perhaps, and all the morning she waited anxiously
for a step she was certain she would know,
though it might not be as elastic and bounding as of
old, ere she had trammeled it with a heavy weight.
She listened nervously for its full, rich tones, asking
for her, in the parlor below. But she listened in vain
and the restless excitement brought on a severe headache,
which rendered it impossible for her to leave the
room, even if he came. This Mrs. Sheldon greatly lamented,
for she had invited the young men to tea, and
while accepting her invitation, Will had asked if Miss
Grey would not be able to spend a part of the evening
with them.
“She is to be Fred's governess, you know,” he said,
“and he naturally wishes to make her acquaintance.”
This request Mrs. Sheldon made known to Marian,
who asked, eagerly, if “to-morrow would not do as
well?”
“It might,” returned Mrs. Sheldon, “were it not
that he leaves on the early train.”
Marian sighed deeply, and turning upon her pillow
-- 274 --
[figure description] Page 274.[end figure description]
tried to sleep, hoping thus to lose the throbbing pain
in her head—but it would not be lost; and when, as it
was growing dark, she heard the sound of feet upon
the gravelled walk, and knew whose feet they were,
it ached as it had not done before during the entire day.
She heard them as they entered the lower hall, and
fancied she saw Frederic place his hat and shawl upon
the stand, and pass his fingers through his hair ere he
entered the parlor, which was directly beneath her
room. She knew when he was there, for she heard his
well-remembered voice speaking to the children, and
covering her face with her hands she wept aloud to
think she should not see him.
Meantime, in the parlor below, little Fred had
climbed into his uncle's lap and commenced a rather
embarrassing conversation. Somehow Will reminded
him of Marian, for the two were associated together
in his mind; and he said, rather as a piece of news:
“Miss Day is sick—up stairs she is; and when I told
her you was comin' she vomucked and cried so hard!”
Frederic could not help laughing, and, emboldened
by this proof of appreciation, the child continued:
“What made her cry, Uncle Will? I asked her didn't
she want you to come, and she say yes. Don't she
like you?”
“I guess not,” said Will, trying himself to laugh,
while Frederic, pitying his embarrassment, strove to
divert the little fellow's mind by asking about the sled
he saw upon the steps as he came in.
This had the desired effect, for a sled was of more
consequence to Fred than Miss Grey's tears, and he
prattled on about it until his nurse came to take him
from the room. After he was gone Mr. Raymond
spoke of Miss Grey, asking if he should not have the
pleasure of seeing her.
“She is suffering from a nervous headache,” returned
Mrs. Sheldon, “and cannot come down, for
which I am very sorry, as I wish you to hear her
play.”
-- 275 --
[figure description] Page 275.[end figure description]
“I do not care so much for that,” returned Frederic,
“as for seeing her, so as to carry back a good account
to Alice. Do tell me, Mrs. Sheldon, is she really as
beautiful, and fascinating, and accomplished as report
would make her out to be?”
“I should say she would fully warrant any praise
you may have heard of her,” returned Mrs. Sheldon,
“although her beauty is not of the brilliant style. She
is very modest and gentle in her appearance, and there
is in her eyes and in her smile something so very sad
and plaintive, that I often feel like crying when I look
at her, for I know she must have suffered some great
trouble, young as she is.”
Involuntarily Frederic and William glanced at each
other, for they knew what that trouble was, and the
latter felt as if he would like to take vengeance on the
man who could be indifferent to love like that of Marian
Grey!
After a moment, Mrs. Sheldon continued:
“There has been something said, I believe, about
her going to you next September, but I warn you now
that I shall use every possible effort to keep her. We
sail for Europe in August, you know, and she will be
of invaluable service to me then, as she speaks French
and German so readily. The tour, too, will do her
good, and you must not be surprised to hear that she
cannot come to Riverside.”
Mr. Raymond was too polite to oppose Mrs. Sheldon
openly, but he had become too deeply interested in
Marian Grey to give her up without a struggle, and
when alone again with Will, in the chamber of the
latter, he broached the subject, asking his companion
if he thought there was any probability of Miss Grey's
disappointing him.
“I mean to write her a note,” he said, and sitting
down by Will's writing desk he took up a sheet of
gilt edged paper and commenced, “My dear Marian.”
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “what am I thinking
about?” and tearing up the sheet he threw it into the
-- 276 --
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
grate and commenced again, addressing her this time
as “Miss Grey.”
He considered her services engaged to himself, he
said, and should expect her at Riverside early in September.
She could come sooner if she liked, for Mrs.
Jones was to leave the first of August.
“That European trip may tempt her,” he thought,
and he added, “I am glad to learn from Mrs. Sheldon
that you are such a proficient in German and French,
for I have serious thoughts of visiting the Old World
myself ere long, and as Alice, of course, will go with
me, we shall prize your company all the more on account
of these accomplishments.”
This note he gave to Will, who said, “Perhaps I
shall try again, and if I succeed, I suppose you will
give her up to me.”
“Yes,” answered Frederic, “I'll give way for Will
Gordon's wife, but for no one else,” and there the conversation
ceased concerning Marian Grey; nor was it
resumed again, for early the next morning he started
for New York, as he intended stopping at Riverside
ere he returned to Kentucky.
True to his trust, Will gave the note to Marian the
first time that he met her, after she was well enough
to come down stairs as usual.
“It is from Mr. Raymond,” he said, and Marian's
face was scarlet as she took it and looked into his eye
with an eager, searching glance, to see if he knew her
secret.”
But he did not, and with spirits which began to ebb,
she broke the seal and read the few brief lines, half
smiling as she thought how very formal and businesslike
they were. But it was Frederic's hand-writing,
and when sure Will did not see her she pressed it to
her lips.
“What you do that for?” asked little Fred, whose
sharp eyes saw everything not intended for them to
see.
-- 277 --
[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]
“Sh—sh,” said Marian; but the child persisted.
“Say, what you tiss that letter for?”
Will Gordon was standing with his back to her, but,
at this strange question, he turned quickly and fastened
his eyes on Marian's face, as if he would fathom
her inmost soul.
“There's something there,” she said, passing the
note again over her lips as if she would brush the
“something” away.
This explanation was wholly satisfactory to Fred,
who, with childish simplicity, asked, “Did you get
it?”
But Will was not quite certain, and for several days
he puzzled his brain with wondering whether “Marian
Grey really did kiss Frederic Raymond's note or not.”
If so, why did she? She could not be in love with a
man she had never seen. She was not weak enough
for that, and at last rejecting it as an impossibility and
accepting the troublesome “something” as a reality,
his mind became at rest upon that subject.
-- --
CHAPTER XXIII. MARIAN RAYMOND.
[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
Very rapidly the Spring passed away, enlivened
once by a short visit from Ben, who, having purchased
an entire new suit of clothes for the occasion, looked
and appeared unusually well, talking but little until he
was alone with Marian, when his tongue was loosed,
and he told her all he had come to tell.
He had been to Riverside, he said, and Mrs. Russell,
who was still there and was to be the future housekeeper,
was very gracious to him, on account of his being
the adopted brother of their next governess, Miss
Grey.
“She showed me your chamber,” said he, “and it's
the very one they fixed up so nice for Isabel. Nobody
has ever used it, for Miss Jones slep' in a little room
at the end of the hall. Frederic has had a door cut
from Alice's chamber into yourn, 'cause he said how't
you and she would want to be near to each other, he
knew. And I'll tell you what, when you git there, it
seems to me you'll be as nigh Heaven as you'll ever git
in this world. Mrs. Huntington has bought a little cottage
close by Frederic's,” he continued, “and she's
livin' there with Isabel, who has got to be an heir—”
“An heiress!” repeated Marian. “Whose, pray?”
“Don't know,” returned Ben, “only that old man
she went to Florida with is dead, and he willed her
some. I don't know how much, but law, she'll spend
it in no time. Mrs. Russell said her lace curtains cost
an awful sight, though she b'lieved they was bought
-- 279 --
[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]
second-hand, in New York. I walked by there afoot
to see 'em, and between you and me they are yallerer
than saffern. My advice to her is that she bile 'em up
in ashes and water, jest as mother used to bile up my
shirts that I wore in the factory. It'll whiten 'em
quickest of anything, and if I's you I'd kinder tell her
so—friendly like, you know—'cause it don't look well
for decent folks to have such dirty things a hangin' to
their winders!”
Marian smiled at Ben's simplicity, telling him that
“the chief value of the curtains consisted probably in
their soiled, yellow appearance.”
“Whew,” whistled Ben, “I wish mother'd had a
little more larnin', for if she'd known it was genteel to
be dirty, mabby she wouldn't have broke her back a
scrubbin', when there warn't no use on't.”
Isabel's curtains having been discussed at length,
and herself described as Ben saw her “struttin' through
the streets,” he arose to go, telling Marian he should
not probably see her again until he visited her in the
Autumn at Riverside.
“I guess I wouldn't let it all out at once,” said he,
“but wait and let Frederic sweat. It'll do him good,
and he isn't paid yet for all he's made you suffer. I
ain't no Universaler, but I do like to see folks catch it
as they go 'long.”
Once Marian thought to tell him of William Gordon's
unfortunate attachment, particularly as he was
loud in his praises of the young man; but upon second
reflections she decided to keep that matter to herself,
hoping that the subject would never be mentioned to
her again. And in this her wishes seemed to be realized,
for as the weeks after Ben's departure went by,
William began to be more like himself than he had
been before since her refusal of him. He came often
to Mrs. Sheldon's, sang with her sometimes as of old,
and she fancied he was losing his love for her. But
she was mistaken, for it was strengthening with each
hour's interview. The very hopelessness of his
-- 280 --
[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]
passion rendered it more intense, it would seem, until at
last, unable longer to remain where she was, and know
she could never be his, he went from home, nor returned
again until near the middle of August, when he
found Mrs. Sheldon's house in a state of great confusion.
Furniture was being covered or packed away,
rooms shut up, and windows fastened down, while his
sister was in that state of feminine bliss when every
chair is filled with new dresses, save two, and those
two are occupied by the makers of said dresses.
Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon were going to Europe. They
would sail in about two weeks, and as Marian had positively
declined to accompany them, they had engaged
another governess, who was to meet them in New
York. It was decided that Marian should remain a few
days with Mrs. Gordon, and then go to Riverside, where
her coming was anxiously expected both by Frederic
and Alice. This arrangement was highly satisfactory
to Will, who anticipated much happiness in having
her wholly to himself for a week. There would be no
sister Ellen, with curious, prying eyes, for she was going
with Mrs. Sheldon as far as New York—no little
girls always in the way—no funny Fred, to see and
tell of everything—nobody, in short, but his good
mother, who he knew would often leave him alone
with Marian.
During his absence from home he had thought
much upon the subject, and had resolved to make one
more trial at least. She might be eventually won, and
if so, he should care but little for the efforts made to
win her. With this upon his mind, he felt rather relieved
than otherwise when the family at last were
gone, and Marian was an inmate of his mother's
house. Both Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon had urged him to
accompany them, and he had made arrangements to
do so in case he found Marian still firm in her refusal.
They were intending to stop for a few days in New
York, and he could easily join them the day on which
the ship was advertised to sail. He should know his
-- 281 --
[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
fate before that time, he thought, and he strove in various
ways to obtain an interview with Marian, who,
divining his intention, was unusually reserved in her
demeanor toward him, and if by chance she found herself
with him alone, she invariably formed some excuse
to leave the room, so that Will began at last to
lose all hope, and to think seriously of joining his sister
as the surest means of forgetting Marian Grey.
“She does not care for me,” he said to his mother, one
night after Marian had retired. “I believe she rather
dislikes me than otherwise. I think on the whole I
shall go, and if so, I must start in the morning, for the
vessel sails to-morrow night.”
To this his mother made no objection for though
she would be very lonely without him, she was accustomed
to rely upon herself, so she rather encouraged
him than otherwise, thinking it would do him good.
Accordingly, next morning, when Marian came down
to breakfast, she was surprised to hear of Will's intended
departure.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, involuntarily, for Will
Gordon had a strong place in her affections, and knew
not what danger might befall him on the deep.
Breakfast being over, there remained to Will but
half an hour, and as a part of this was necessarily
spent with the servants, and in preparations for his journey,
he had at the last but a few moments in which to
say his farewell words to Marian. She was in the back
parlor, his mother said, and there he found her weeping,
for she felt that her friends were leaving her one
by one, and though in a few days she was going back
to her husband and her home, she knew not what the
result would be. Will's sudden determination to visit
Europe affected her unpleasantly, for she felt that she
was in some way connected with it, and she was conscious
of a feeling of loneliness, such as she had not
experienced before since she first came to Mrs. Sheldon's.
-- 282 --
[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]
“Are you weeping?” said Will, when he saw her with
her head bowed down upon the arm of the sofa.
Marian did not answer, and with newly awakened
hope Will drew nearer and seated himself beside
her. “It might be that he was mistaken, after all,”
he thought. “Her tears would seem to indicate as
much. Girls were strange beings, everybody said,”
and passing his arm around the weeping Marian, he
whispered: “Do you like me, then?”
“Yes, very, very much,” she answered, “and now
that you are going away, and I may never see you
again, I am so sorry I ever caused you a moment's
pain.”
“I needn't go, Marian,” William said, drawing her
close to him. “I will stay, oh, so gladly, if you bid
me do so. But it must be for you. Shall I, Marian?
May I stay?” and again Will Gordon poured into her
ear deep burning words of love—entreating her to be
his wife—to forget that other love so unworthy of her,
and to give herself to him, who would cherish her so
tenderly. Then he told her how the thought that she
did not love him had made him go away, when he
would so much rather remain where she was, if he
could know she wished it. “Answer me, Marian,” he
said, “for time hastens, and if you tell me no again, I
must be gone. Never man loved and worshipped his
wife as I will love and worship you. Speak and tell
me yes.”
Will paused for her reply, and looking into her face,
which she had turned towards him, he thought he read
a confirmation of his hopes, but the first words she uttered
wrung his heart with cruel disappointment.
“I cannot be your wife,” she said. “I mean it, Mr.
Gordon, I cannot, and oh, it would be wicked not to
tell you. Can I trust you? Will you keep my secret
safe, as I have kept it almost six long years?”
There was some insufferable barrier between them,
and William Gordon felt it, as trembling in every
-- 283 --
[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
limb, he answered, “Whatever you intrust to me shall
not be betrayed.”
“Then, listen,” she said, “and say if you will bid
me marry you. I told you I was not what I seemed,
and I am not. People, perhaps, call me young, but to
myself I seem old, I have suffered so much and all my
womanhood has been wasted, as it were, in tears. I
told you once that before coming here I had given to
another the love for which you sued, and I told you
truly; but Mr. Gordon, there was more to tell; that
other one, who loves me not, or who, if he does, has
never manifested it to me by word or deed, is my own
husband!”
“Oh, Marian, Marian, this indeed is death itself!”
groaned Will, for though he had said there was no
hope, it seemed to him now that he had never believed
or realized it, as when he heard the dreadful words,
“my own husband.”
“Do not despise me for deceiving you,” Marian continued.
“If I had thought you could have seen aught
to desire in me, a poor, humble girl, I might, perhaps,
have warned you in time, though how could I tell you,
a stranger, that I was an unloved wife?”
“Where is he—that man?” Will asked, for he could
not say “your husband,” and his lip quivered with
something akin to the pain one feels when he hears the
cold earth rattling into the grave where he has buried
his fondest pride.
Marian's confession was a death-blow to all Will had
dared to hope, and he asked for the husband more as a
matter of form than because he really cared to know.
“Mr. Gordon,” said Marian, rising to her feet,
and standing with her face turned fully toward
him, “Must I tell you more? I thought I needed
only to speak of a husband and you would guess the
rest. Don't you know me? Have we never met before?”
Wistfully, anxiously William gazed at her, scanning
her features one by one, while a dim vision of something
-- 284 --
[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
back in the past floated before him, but assumed no
tangible form, and shaking his head, he answered:
“Never, to my knowledge.”
“Look again. Is not my face a familiar one? Did
you never see it before? Not here—not in New
England—but far away, where the Summer comes
earlier and the Winter is not so long. Is there not
something about me—something in my person, or my
voice, which carries you back to an old house on the
river where you once met a little curly-haired girl?”
She did not need to say more. Little by little it had
come to him, and, starting to his feet, he caught her
hand, exclaiming, “Great Heaven! The lost wife of
Frederic Raymond!”
“Yes,” she answered, “the lost Marian of Redstone
Hall,” and leaning her head upon his arm, she burst
into tears, for he seemed to her like a brother now,
while she to him—
He could not think of her as a sister yet—he loved
her too well for that; but still his feelings toward her
had changed in the great shock with which he recognized
her. She could never be his Marian, he knew,
neither did he desire it. And for a moment he stood
speechless, wholly overwhelmed with astonishment and
wonder. Then he said, “Marian Raymond, why are
you here?”
“Why?” she repeated bitterly. “You may well
ask why. Hated by him who should care for me, what
could I do but go away into the unknown world, and
throw myself upon its charities, which in my case have
not been cold or selfish. God bless the noble-hearted
Ben, and the sainted woman, his mother, who did not
cast me off when I went to them, homeless, friendless,
and heart-broken.”
In her excitement, Marian clasped her hands together,
and the blue of her eye grew deeper, darker, as she
paid this tribute of gratitude to those who had been
her friends indeed. Involuntarily, Will Gordon, too,
responded to the words, “God bless the noble-hearted
-- 285 --
[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
Ben,” for, looking at the beautiful girl before him, he
felt that what she was she owed to the self-denying,
unwearied efforts of the uncultivated but generous
Ben.
“Marian,” he said again, “you must go home. Go
to your husband. He is waiting for you. He has
sought for you long; he has expiated his sin. Go, Marian,
go—”
“I am going,” she answered, “and if I only knew
he wanted me—wanted his wife—”
“He does want you,” interrupted Will. “He has
told me so many a time,”
Marian was about to reply, when Mrs. Gordon appeared,
warning her son that the carriage was at the
door; and with a hurried farewell to Marian and his
mother, Will hastened off, whispering to the former,
“I shall write to you when on the sea—”
“And keep my secret safe. I would rather divulge
it myself,” she added.
He nodded in the affirmative, and was soon on his
way to the depot, so bewildered with what he had
heard, that he scarcely knew whether it were reality or
a dream. Gradually, however, it became clear to him,
and he remembered many things which confirmed the
strange story he had heard.
Greatly he wished to write to Frederic, and tell him
that Marian Grey was his wife, but he would not break
his promise, and he was wondering how he could hasten
the discovery, when, as the cars left the depot at Hartford,
a broad hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a
voice which sounded familiar, said, “Wall, captain,
bein' we're so full, I guess you'll have to make room
for me, or else I'll have to set with that gal whose hoops
take up the hull concern.”
“Ben Butterworth,” Will exclaimed, turning his face
toward the speaker, who recognized him at once.
“Wall,” he began, as he took the seat Will readily
shared with him, “I didn't 'spose 'twas you. How do
-- 286 --
[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
you do, and how's Marian? Has she gone to Riverside
yet?”
“No,” returned Will, and looking Ben directly in
the face, he continued, “How much of Miss Grey's
history do you know?”
“Mor'n I shall tell, I'll bet. How much do you
know?” and Ben set his hat a little more on once side
of his head.
“More than you suppose, perhaps,” returned Will.
“And if you, too, are posted, I'd like to talk the matter
over, but if not, I shall betray no secrets.”
“I swan, I b'lieve you do know,” said Ben. “Did
she tell you?”
Will nodded, and Ben continued, “She wrote to me
that you knew Mr. Raymond, and liked him, too; I
guess he ain't a very bad chap after all, is he?”
The ice was fairly broken now, and both Will and
Ben settled themselves for a long conversation. Will
did not think it betrayed Marian's confidence to talk
of her with one who understood her affairs so much
better than himself, and ere they reached New York,
he had heard the whole story—heard how Ben had
stumbled upon her in New York, and taken her to his
home without knowing aught of her, except that she
was friendless and alone—how the mother, now resting
in her grave, had cared for the orphan girl, and how
Ben, too, had done for her what he could.
“'Twan't much any way,” he said, “and I never
minded it an atom, for 'twas a pleasure to arn money
for her schoolin'.”
And Ben spoke truly, for it never occurred to him
that he had denied himself as few men would have
done—toiling early and late, through sunshine and
storm, wearing the old coat long after it was threadbare,
and sometimes, when peddling, eating but two
meals a day, by way of saving for Marian. Of all
this he did not speak to his companion. He did not
even think of it, or, if he did, he felt that he was more
than paid in seeing Marian what she was.
-- 287 --
[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
Accidentally, he said that his name was really Ben Burt, and
that he should be glad when the time came for him to
be called thus again.
“When will that be?” asked Will, and Ben replied
by unfolding to him his long cherished plan of having
Frederic make love to his own wife.
“You might write to him, I s'pose,” he said, “but
that would spile all my fun, and I'd rather let the thing
work itself out. He's bound to fall in love with her.
He can't help it, and I don't see how you could.
Mabby you did.” And Ben's grey eyes looked quizzically
at his companion, who colored deeply as he replied
merely to the first part of Ben's remark. “I
certainly will not interfere in the matter, though before
meeting you I was wondering how I could do so, and
not betray Marian's confidence. I am sure now it will
all come right at last, and you ought to be permitted
to bring it round in your own way, for you have been
a true friend to her, and I dare say she loves you as a
brother.”
This was touching Ben on a tender point, for his old
affection for Marian was not quite dead yet, and Will's
last words brought back to him memories of those
dreary winter nights, when in his way he had battled
with the love he knew he must not cherish for Marian
Grey. He fidgetted in his seat, got up and looked
under him, sat down again and looked out of the window,
and repeated to himself a part of the multiplication
table, by way of keeping from crying.
“Bless her, she's an angel,” he managed at last to
say, adding, as he met the inquiring glance of Will:
“It's my misfortin' to be oncommon tender-hearted,
and when I git to thinkin' of somethin' that concerns
nobody but me, I can't keep from cryin' no way you
can fix it,” and two undeniable tears rolled down his
cheeks and dropped from the end of his nose.
“He, too,” sighed Will Gordon, and as he thought
how much more the uncouth man beside him had done
for Marian Grey than either Frederic or himself, and that
-- 288 --
[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]
he really had the greatest claim to her gratitude and
love, his heart warmed toward Yankee Ben as to a
long tried friend, and he resolved to leave for him a
substantial token of his regard.
“Why don't you settle down, as a grocer, in some
small country town?” he asked, as they came near the
city.
“I have thought of that,” said Ben, “for I'm gettin'
kinder tired of travelin' now that there ain't no home
for me to go to once in so often. I think I should like
to be a grocery man first rate, and weigh out saleratus
and bar soap to the old wimmen. Wouldn't they
flock in, though, to see me, I'm so odd! But 'taint
no use to think on't for I hain't the money now, though,
mabby I shall have it bimeby. My expenses ain't as
great as they was.”
By this time they had reached the depot, and Will,
who knew they must part there, said to him, “How
long do you stay in New York?”
“Not long,” returned Ben, “I've only come to recruit
my stock a little.”
“Go to the Post-Office before you leave,” was Will's
reply, as he stepped from the platform and was lost in
the crowd.
“What did he mean?” thought Ben. “Nobody
writes to me but Marian, and I ain't expectin' nothin'
from her, but I guess I may as well go.”
Accordingly, the next night, when Will Gordon,
with little Fred in his arms, was looking out upon the
sea, Ben wended his way to the office, inquiring first
for Ben Butterworth and then for Ben Burt. There
was a letter for the latter, and it contained a draft for
three hundred dollars, together with the following
lines:
“You and I have suffered alke, and in each of our
hearts there is a hidden grave. I saw it in the tears
you shed when talking to me of Marian Grey. Heaven
bless you, Ben Burt, for all you have been to her.
-- 289 --
[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]
She is one of the fairest, best, of God's creation, but
she was not meant for you nor me; and we must learn
to go our way without her. You have done for her
more, perhaps, than either Mr. Raymond or myself
would have done in the same circumstances, and thus
far you are more worthy of her esteem. You will
please accept the inclosed as a token that I appreciate
your self-denying labors for Marian Grey. Use it
for that grocery we talked about, if you choose, or
for any purpose you like. If you have any delicacy
just consider it a loan to be paid when you are a
richer man than I am. You cannot return it, of
course, for when you receive it I shall be gone.
“Yours, in haste,
William Gordon.”
This letter was a mystery to Ben, who read it again
and again, dwelling long upon the words, “You and
I suffered alike, and in each of our hearts there is a
hidden grave.”
“That hits me exactly,” he said, “though I never
thought of callin' that hole in my heart a grave—
but 'taint nothin' else, for I buried somethin' in it,
and the tender brotherly feelin' I've felt for Marian
ever since was the grave stun I set up in memory of
what had been. But what does he know about it,
though why shouldn't he, for no mortal man can look
in Marian's face and not feel kinder cold and hystericky-like
at the pit of his stomach! Yes, he's in love
with her, and that's the way she came to tell who she
was. Poor Bill! poor Bill! I know how to pity him to
a dot,” and Ben heaved a deep sigh as he finished this
long soliloquy.
The money next diverted his attention, but no puzzling
on his part could explain to him satisfactorily
why it had been sent.
“S'posin' he was grateful,” he said, “he needn't give
me three hundred dollars for nothin', but bein' he has,
I may as well use it to start in business, though I shall
pay it back, of course,” and when alone in his room
-- 290 --
[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]
at the Hotel where he stopped, he wrote upon a bit of
paper.
“New york, August 30 18—
“For vally rec. I promise to pay Bill Gordon, or
bearer, the sum of three hundred dollars with use from
date.
“Benjamin Burt.”
This note he put carefully away in his old leathern
wallet, where it was as safe and as sure of being paid
as if it had been in William Gordon's hands instead of
his.
Meantime Marian at Mrs. Gordon's was half regretting
that she had told her secret to William, and greatly
lamenting that they had been interrupted ere she
knew just how much Frederic wished to find her.
That his feelings toward her had changed, she was
sure, but she would know by word and deed that he
loved her ere she revealed herself to him, and the dark
mystery of that cruel letter must be explained before
she could respect him as she had once done. And now
but a few days remained ere she should see him face
to face, for she was going to Riverside very soon.
Some acquaintance of hers were going west by way of
New York, and she decided to accompany them,
though by soing doing she would reach Riverside one
day earlier than she was expected.
“It would make no difference of course,” she said,
and she waited impatiently for the appointed morning.
It came at last and long before the hour for starting
she was ready, the dancing joy in her eyes, and her
apparent eagerness to go being sadly at variance with
the expression of Mrs. Gordon's face, for the good lady
loved the gentle girl and grieved to part with her.
“I am sorry to leave you,” Marian said, when the
last moment came, “but I am so glad I am going, too,
sometime, perhaps, you may know why and then you
will not blame me.”
-- 291 --
[figure description] Page 291.[end figure description]
She could not shed a tear although she had become
greatly attached to her Springfield home, and her excitement
continued unabated until she reached New
York, where they stopped for the night. There were
several hours of daylight left, and stealing away from
her friends she took a Third Avenue car and went up to
their old house where strangers were living now. She
did not care to go in, for the dingy, uncurtained windows
looked far from inviting, and she passed slowly
down the other side of the street, musing upon all that
had passed since the night when she first climbed those
narrow stairs, and asked a mother's care from Mrs.
Burt. She did not think then that she would ever be
as happy as she was to-day with the uncertainty of
meeting Frederic to-morrow. It seemed a great while
to wait, and as Ben had once numbered the weeks in
seven years, so she now counted the hours, which must
elapse ere she felt the pressure of Frederic's hand—
for he would shake hands with her of course, and he
would look into her face, for he had heard much of
her both from Will Gordon and Ben. Would he be
disappointed? Would he think her pretty? Would
he know her? And Alice—what would she say?
Marian dreaded this test more than all the rest, for she
felt that there was danger in the instinct of the blind
girl. Slowly she retraced her steps and returning to
the Astor, sought her own room, informing her friends
that she was weary and would rest.
“Five hours more,” was her first thought when she
awoke next morning from a sounder sleep than she
had supposed it possible to enjoy when under such excitement.
Ere long it was four hours more, then three,
then two, then one, and then the cars stopped at the
depôt at Yonkers. Two trunks marked “M. G.” stood
upon the platform, and near them a figure in black,
bowing to her friends, who leaned from the car window,
and holding in her hands a satchel, a silk umbrella,
two checks, her purse, and a book, for Marian
-- 292 --
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
possessed the weakness of her sex, and in traveling
always carried the usual amount of baggage.
“To Riverside,” she said, when asked where she
wished to go, and she looked around as if half expecting
a familiar face.
But she looked in vain, and in a few moments she
was comfortably seated in the lumbering stage, which
once before had carried her up that long hill. Eagerly
she strained her eyes to catch the first view of the
house; and when at last it came in sight, she was too
intent upon it to observe the showily-dressed young
lady tripping along upon the walk, and holding her
skirts with her thumb and finger so as to show her
dainty slipper.
But if Marian did not see Isabel, Isabel saw her.
It was not usual for the stage to come up at that hour
of the day, and as it passed her by, Isabel turned to
see where it was going.
“To Riverside,” she exclaimed, as she saw it draw
up to the gate. “It must be the new governess,” and
as there was no house very near, she stopped to inspect
the stranger as well as she could at that distance.
“Black,” she said, as Marian stepped upon the ground;
“But I might have known it, for regular built teachers
always wear black, I believe. She is rather tall,
too. An umbrella, of course. I wonder she hasn't
her blanket shawl and overshoes this hot day. Her
bonnet is pretty, and that hem in her veil very wide.
On the whole, she's quite genteel for a governess,”
and Isabel walked on while Marian went up the graveled
walk, expecting at each step to meet with either
Frederic or Alice.
She would rather it should be the latter, for in case
of recognition, she knew she could bind the blind girl
to secrecy for a time, but no one appeared, and about
the house there was no sign of life, save a parrot, which,
in its cage beneath a maple tree, screamed out wholly
unintelligible words. The door was shut, and even after
the driver had placed her trunks upon the piazza and
-- 293 --
[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]
gone, Marian stood there ringing the bell. The window
to her right was open, and she knew it was the
window of Frederic's room, but he was not sitting near
it, and after a little she ventured to approach it and
look in. It did not seem to have been occupied at all
that day, for everything was arranged in perfect order
as if broom and duster had recently done service there.
Its prim, neat appearance affected Marian unpleasantly,
as if it were the furerunner of some disappointment,
and going back to the door she resolutely pulled
the silver knob. The loud, sharp ring made her heart
beat violently, and when she heard a heavy tread, not
unlike a man's coming up the basement stairs, she
thought, “What if it is Frederic himself? What shall
I say?”
“It is Frederic,” she continued, as the step came
nearer, and she was wishing she could run away and
hide, when the door was opened by Mrs. Russell, her
feet encased in a pair of Mr. Raymond's cast-off shoes,
which accounted for her heavy tread, and herself looking
a little crest-fallen at the sight of her visitor, whom
she recognized at once.
“Miss Grey, I b'lieve?” she said, dropping a low
curtesy. “We wan't expectin' you till to-morrow;
but walk in, and make yourself at home. You'll want
to go to your room, I 'spose. Traveled all night, didn't
you? You look pale, and I wouldn't wonder if you
wanted to sleep most of the day. I never thought of
such a thing as your comin' this mornin'. Dear me,
what shall I do?”
This was said in an under-tone, but it caught the ear
of Marian, who, now that she had a chance to speak,
asked for Mr. Raymond, timidly, as if fearful that with
his name her sacret might slip out.
“Bless you!” returned Mrs. Russell, “both of 'em
went to New York early this morning, and won't be
home till dark, maybe, and that's why I feel so. I
don't know how to entertain you as they do, and Miss
Alice has been reckoning on giving you a good
-- 294 --
[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
impression. I'm so sorry you've—they've gone, I mean.
I wan't expecting to get any dinner to-day, and was
having such a nice time, sewin' on my new dress;”
and, with the last, the whole cause of the old lady's uneasiness
was divulged.
In the absence of Frederic and Alice, she had counted
upon a day of leisure, which Marian's arrival had
seriously interrupted.
“I beg you not to trouble yourself for me,” said
Marian, who readily understood the matter. “I never
care for a regular dinner: indeed, I may not be hungry
at all.”
The old lady's face brightened perceptibly, and she
replied:
“Oh, I don't mind a cup of tea, and the like o' that;
but to brile or stew this hot day ain't so pleasant, when
a person is fleshy, as I am. I'll get you something,
though; and now you go up stairs to your room, the
one at the right hand, with the white furniture, and
the silver jigger, that let's the water into that marble
dish. We live in style, I tell you; and Mr. Raymond
is a gentleman, if there ever was one—only he wants
meat three times a day, just as he has in Kentucky.
Thinks, I 'spose, it don't hurt me any more to sweat over
the fire, than it does that Dinah, Alice talks so much
about. Yes, that's the door—right there;” and Mrs.
Russell went back to the making of her dress, while
Marian sought her chamber, feeling rather disappointed
at the absence of both Frederic and Alice, whose
object in visiting New York, that day, will be explained
in the succeeding chapter, and will necessarily
take us backward for a little in our story.
-- --
CHAPTER XXIII. FREDERIC AND ALICE VISIT MARIAN'S OLD HOME.
[figure description] Page 295.[end figure description]
“Frederic,” said Alice, about six weeks before Marian's
arrival at Riverside, “who hired that Mrs. Merton
to take care of you when you were sick at the
hotel?”
“The proprietor, I suppose,” returned Frederic.
Alice continued:
“But who told him of her?”
“I don't know,” said Frederic. “She was from the
country, I believe.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Alice; “but some person must
have recommended her, and if you can ascertain who
that person was, you may find Mrs. Merton, and learn
something of Marian.”
“I wonder I never thought of that before,” said
Frederic, adding, “that if Alice had her sight he believed
she would have discovered Marian ere this.”
“I know I should,” was her answer; and after a
little further conversation, it was decided that Frederic
should go to New York, and learn, if possible, who
first suggested Mrs. Merton as a nurse.
This was not so easy a matter as he had imagined it
to be, for though Frederic himself was well remembered
at the hotel, where he was now a frequent guest,
scarcely any one could recall Mrs. Merton distinctly,
and no one seemed to know how she came there, until
a servant, who had been in the house a long time,
spoke of Martha Gibbs, and then the proprietor
-- 296 --
[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
suddenly remembered that she had recommended Mrs.
Merton as being a friend of hers.
“But who is Martha Gibbs, and where is she now?”
Frederic asked; and the servant replied that
“Her home used to be in Woodstock, Conn.;” and
with this item of information Frederic wrote to her
friends, inquiring where she was.
To this letter there came ere long an answer, saying
that Mrs. John Jennings lived in —, a small town
in the interior of Iowa. Accordingly the next mail
westward from Yonkers carried a letter to said Mrs.
Jennings, asking where the woman lived who had
nursed Mr. Raymond through that dangerous fever.
This being done, Frederic and Alice waited impatiently
for a reply, which was long in coming, for Mr.
Jennings' log tenement was several miles from the
post-office, where he seldom called, and it was more
than a week ere the letter reached him. Even then it
found him so engrossed in the arrival of his first-born
son and heir, that for two or three days longer it lay
unopened in the clock-case, ere he thought to look at
it.
“I don't know what it means, I'm sure,” he said,
taking it to his wife, who, having never heard of the
death of her old friend, replied, “Why, he wants to
know where Mrs. Burt lives. Just write on a piece of
paper: `East — street, No. —, third story; turn to
your right; door at the head of the stairs.' I wonder
if he's never been there yet?”
John was not an elaborate correspondent, and he
simply wrote down his better half's direction, saying
nothing whatever of Mrs. Burt herself, and thus conveying
to Frederic no idea that Merton was not the
real name.
“A letter from Iowa,” said Frederic to Alice, as he
came in from the office, on the very night when Marian
was walking slowly past what was once her home.
“I have the street and number, and to-morrow I am
going there.”
-- 297 --
[figure description] Page 297.[end figure description]
“And I am going, too,” cried Alice. Won't Marian
be surprised to see us both. I hope she'll come
to the door herself; and Frederic, if she does, you'll
kiss her, won't you, and act like you was glad, for if
you don't, may be she won't come back with us.”
“I will do right,” answered Frederic, adding in a
low tone, “Perhaps she will not be there.”
“Yes, she will,” was Alice's positive reply, “or if
she's not, somebody can tell us where she is. Only to
think, we shall see her to-morrow. I do wish it would
hurry, and I'm glad Miss Grey is not coming until the
day after. It will be so nice to have them both here.
Do you suppose they'll like each other, Marian and
Miss Grey?”
“I dare say they will,” returned Frederic, smiling
at the little girl's enthusiasm, and hoping she might
not be disappointed.
Anon, a shadow clouded Alice's face, and observing
it, Frederic passed his hand over her hair, saying,
“What is it, birdie?”
“Frederic,” said Alice, creeping closely to the side
of the young man, “Isn't Miss Grey very beautiful?”
“Mr. Gordon and Ben say so,” returned Frederic,
and Alice continued:
“Don't be angry with me, but you loved Isabel the
best because she was the handsomest, and now you
won't love Miss Grey better than Marian, will you, and
you'll be Marian's husband right off, won't you?”
“When Marian comes here, it will be as my wife,”
said Frederic, and with this answer Alice was satisfied.
“I wish it would grow dark faster,” she said, for she
could tell when it was night; and Frederic, while listening
to the many different ways she conjured up for
them to meet Marian, became almost as impatient as
herself for the morrow, when his renewed hopes might,
perhaps, be realized.
The breakfast next morning was hurried through, for
neither Alice nor Frederic could eat, and Mrs. Russell,
-- 298 --
[figure description] Page 298.[end figure description]
when she saw how much was left untouched, congratulated
herself upon its answering for the hired man's
dinner, and thus giving her a nice long time for sewing.
“It isn't a bit likely Miss Grey will come to-day,”
said Alice, as she followed Frederic to the carriage;
and, confident of this, they gave Miss Grey no further
thought, but went on their way in search of Marian.
When they reached New York, Frederic, who had
some business to transact, left Alice in the parlor at
the Astor, where she sat with her face to the window,
just as though she could see the passers-by; and, as
she sat there, a party who were leaving glanced hastily
in, all seeing the little figure by the window, and
one thinking to herself, “She wears her hair combed
back, as Alice used to do!”
Then the group passed on, while over the face of the
blind girl there flitted for an instant a wondering, bewildering
expression, for her quick ear had caught the
sound of a voice which, it seemed to her, she had heard
before—not there—not in New York—but far away,
at Redstone Hall. What was it? Who was it? She
bent her head to listen, hoping to hear it again, but it
came no more, for Marian Grey had left the house,
and was passing up Broadway. It was not long ere
Frederic returned, and, taking Alice's hand, he led her
into the street, and entered a Third avenue car.
“We are on the right track, I think,” he said; “for
it was this way she went with the man described by
Sarah Green.”
Alice gave a sigh of relief, and, leaning against
Frederic, rather enjoyed the pleasant motion of the
car, although she wished it would go faster.
“Won't we ever get there?” she asked, as they plodded
slowly on, stopping often to take in a passenger,
or set one down.
“Yes, by and by,” said Frederic, encouragingly.
“I am not quite certain of the street, myself, but I
shall know it when I see the name, of course;” and he
-- 299 --
[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]
looked anxiously out as they passed along. “Here it
is!” he cried, at last; and, seizing Alice's arm, he
rather dragged than led her from the car, and out upon
the crossing. “Why,” he exclaimed, gazing eagerly
around him, “I have been here before—down this
very street;” and his eye wandered involuntarily in
the direction of the window where once the whitefringed
curtain hung.
It was gone now, as was the rose geranium. The
kitten, too, was gone, and the small hand resting on
it; while in their place appeared the heads of two or
three dirty children, looking across the way, and making
wry faces at similar dirty children in the window
opposite. Frederic saw all this, and it affected him
unpleasantly, causing him to feel as if he had parted
from some old friend. But no; where was that? It
must be in this locality; and he wondered how one
accustomed to the luxuries of Redstone Hall could
live in this place so long.
“I've found it!” he said, as his eye caught the number;
and now, that he believed himself near to what
he had sought so long, he was more impatient than
Alice herself.
He could not wait for her uncertain footsteps, and
pale with excitement, he caught her in his arms and
hurried up the narrow stairs, which many a time had
creaked to Marian's tread. The third story was reached
at last, and he stood panting by the door, where Mr.
Jennings had said that he must stop. It was open, and
the greasy, uncarpeted floor, of which he caught a
glimpse, looked cheerless and uninviting, but it did
not keep him back a moment, and he advanced into
the room, which, by the three heads at the window,
he knew was the same where the white curtain once
had hung, and where now the glaring August sunlight
came pouring in, unbroken and unsubdued.
At the sight of a stranger one of the heads turned
toward him and a little voice said:
-- 300 --
[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
“Ma's out washin', she is, and won't be home till
night.”
There was a cold, heavy feeling of disappointment
settling round Frederic's heart, for nothing there seemed
at all like what he remembered of the neat, tidy Mrs.
Merton, but he nerved himself to ask:
“What is your mother's name?”
“Bunce, and my pa is in the Tombs,” was the
reply.
“How long have you lived here?” was the next
question, asked with a colder, heavier heart.
“Next Christmas a year,” said the little girl, and
catching Frederic's arm, Alice whispered,
“Do let's go out into the open air.”
But Frederic did not move—there was a spell upon
him, and for several moments it kept him there in the
very room where Marian had wept so many tears for
him, and where, in her desolation, she had asked that
she might die when the greatest sorrow she had ever
known came upon her—the sorrow brought by Isabel's
cruel letter. There close to where he stood was the
door of the little room where for weeks and months
she had lain, tossing in her feverish pain, while over
her Ben Burt kept his tireless watch, nor asked for
greater reward than to know that she would live. And
was there nothing to tell him of all this—nothing to
whisper that the one he sought had been there once,
but was waiting for him now in his own home! No,
there was nothing but dark, cheerless poverty staring
him in the face, and with a sigh he turned away, and
knocking at other doors, asked for the former occupants
of those front rooms. Nearly all the present
tenants had moved there since Mrs. Burt's death, and
none knew aught of her save one rather decent-looking
woman, who said “she remembered the folks well,
though they held their heads above the likes of her.
She'd seen them comin' in and out and had peeked
into their room, so she knew they was well to do.”
“Was their name Merton? and did a young girl
-- 301 --
[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]
live with them?” asked Frederic; and the woman
replied:
“Merton sounds some like it, though I'd sooner say
'twas Burton, or something like that. I never even
so much as passed the time of day with 'em, for I tell
you they felt above me; but the girl was a jewel—so
trim and genteel like.”
“That was Marian,” whispered Alice; and Frederic
continued:
“Where are they now?”
“Bless you,” returned the woman. “One on 'em
is in Heaven, and the Lord only knows where t'other
one went to.”
Alice's hand, which lay in Frederic's, was clutched
with a painful grasp; and the perspiration gathered
about the young man's white lips as he stammered
out:
“Which one is dead? Not the girl? You dare
not tell me that?”
“I dare if it was so,” returned the woman; “but
'twant; 'twas the old one—the one I took to be the
mother; though I have heard a story about the girl's
comin' here long time ago, before I moved here. I
was away when the woman died, and when I got back
the rooms was empty, and the boy and girl was gone;
nobody knows where; and I haint seen 'em since.”
Frederic was too much interested in Marian to hear
anything else, and he paid no attention to her mention
of a boy. Marian was all he wished to find, but it was
in vain that he questioned and cross-questioned the
woman. She had given all the information she could;
and with an increased feeling of disappointment he
left her, glancing once more into the room where he
was sure Marian had lived. Alice, too, was willing to
stop there now; and when Frederic told her of the
geranium and the kitten he had once seen in the window,
a smile mingled with her tears, and she wished
she had them now, especially the kitten! She did not
know that the matronly-looking cat, which, behind the
-- 302 --
[figure description] Page 302.[end figure description]
broken stove, was purring sleepily, was the same Maltese
kitten Marian had fondled so often. At the time
of leaving she had given it to an acquaintance near
by, but pussy preferred her old haunts, and returning
to them, persisted in remaining there until the arrival
of the new comers, who took her in, and she now daily
shared the meagre fare of the three children by the
window. Intuitively, as it were, she felt that Alice
was a lover of her race, and she came towards her,
purring loudly, and rubbing against her side.
“Lands sake,” exclaimed the woman. “Here's the
very cat the young girl used to tend so much. I know
it by the white spot between its eyes. I found it mewing
and making an awful noise by the door when I
came back; and though I ain't none of your cat
women, I flung it a bone or two till them folks came,
and the children kept it to torment, I 'spect, just as
young ones will. I see one of 'em with a string round
its neck t'other day a chokin' it most to death.”
“Oh, Frederic,” and Alice's face expressed what she
wished to say, while she caught up the animal in her
arms.
Frederic understood her, and speaking to the oldest
of the children, he said, “Will you give me your
cat?”
“No, no,” the three set up at once, and Alice whispered,
“Buy her, Frederic, won't you?”
“Will you let me have her for fifty cents?” he
asked, showing the silver coin.
“No, no,” and the youngest began to cry.
“Give more,” said Alice, and Frederic continued,
“Fifty cents a piece, then. You can buy a great many
cakes and crackers with it”—
“And candy,” suggested Alice.
The youngest began to show signs of relenting, as
did the second, but the third persisted in saying “No.”
“Offer her more,” was whispered in a low voice,
and glancing around the poorly furnished room, Frederic
took out his purse and said, “You shall have a
-- 303 --
[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
dollar a piece, but part of it must be saved for your
mother,—besides that, this little girl is blind,” and he
laid his hand on Alice's head.
This last argument would have been sufficient without
the dollar, for it touched a chord of pity in the
heart of that child of poverty, and coming closer to
Alice she looked at her curiously, saying, “Can't you
see a bit more'n I can with my eyes shut?” and she
closed her own by way of experimenting.
“Not a bit,” returned Alice, “but I love kitty just
the same, because she used to belong to a dear friend
of mine. May I have her?”
“Ye-es,” came half reluctantly from the lips of the
child, as she extended her hand for the money.
“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Alice when they were at a
safe distance from the house. “I was afraid they'd
take it back,” and she held fast to the kitten, which
made no effort to escape, but lay in her arms, singing
occasionally as if well pleased with the exchange.
This, however, Frederic knew would not continue
until they reached home, and stepping into a shop
which they were passing, he bought a covered basket,
in which the cat was placed and the lid secured, a proceeding
not altogether satisfactory to the prisoner.
Alice, too, was equally distressed, and when she learned
that Frederic could not go home until night, she insisted
upon his getting her a room at the Astor, where
she could let her treasure out without fear of its escaping.
Frederic complied with her request, and in her
delight with her new pet, she half forgot how disappointed
she had been in the result of their visit. But
not so with Frederic. He felt it keenly, for never had
his hopes of finding Marian been raised to a higher
pitch than that morning, and even now he could not
give it up. Leaving Alice at the hotel he went back
again to the street and made the most minute inquiries,
but all to no purpose. He could not obtain the least
clue to her, and he retraced his steps with a feeling
-- 304 --
[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]
that she was as really lost to him as if Sarah Green's
letter had been true and Marian resting in her grave.
“Why had that letter been written?” he asked himself
again and again.
Somebody knew of Marian, and there was a mystery
connected with it—a mystery of wrong it might me.
Perhaps she could not come back, even though she
wanted to, and his pulses quickened with painful rapidity
as he thought of all the imaginary terrors which
might surround the lost one. It was indeed a sad reflection,
and his spirits were unusually depressed,
when just before sunset he took Alice by one hand,
the basket in the other, and started for home.
“I didn't think we should come back alone,” said
Alice, when at last they reached the depot at Yonkers,
and she was lifted into the carriage waiting for them.
“It's dreadful we couldn't find her, but I am so glad
we've got the cat;” and she guarded the basket carefully,
as if it had contained the diamonds of India.
Frederic did not care to talk, and folding his arms,
he leaned moodily back in his carriage, evincing no
interest in anything until as they drew near home, the
driver said to Alice:
“Guess who's come?”
“Oh, I don't know—Dinah, may be,” was Alice's
reply, and then Frederic smiled at the preposterous
idea.
“No; guess again,” said the driver. “Somebody
as handsome as a doll.”
“Miss Grey!” cried Alice, almost upsetting her
basket in her delight.
Eagerly she questioned John, and then replied,
“I'm so glad, though I was going to fix her room so
nice to-morrow—but no matter, it's always pleasant
up there. How lonesome she must have been all
day with nothing but the garden, the books, and the
piano.”
“She has been homesick,” I guess,” said John, “for
-- 305 --
[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]
I seen her cryin', I thought, out under a tree in the
garden.”
“Poor thing!” sighed Alice. “She won't be home-sick
any more when we get there; will she, Frederic?
I wonder if she likes cats!” And as by this
time they had stopped at their own gate, the little
girl went running up the walk, shaking the basket
prodigiously, and inciting its contents to such violent
struggles that in the hall the lid came off, and bounding
from its confinement, the cat ran into the parlor,
where, trembling with fright, it crouched as for protection,
at the feet of Marian Grey.
-- --
CHAPTER XXIV. THE MEETING.
[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]
Notwithstanding Alice's fears the day had not been
a long one to Marian, who had been so occupied in unpacking
her trunks and in going over the house and
grounds, as scarcely to heed the lapse of time, and she
was surprised when, about sunset, she saw John drive
from the yard, and knew he was going for his master.
Not till then did she fully realize her position, and she
sought her chamber to compose herself, for the dreaded
trial, which each moment came nearer and nearer.
“Will Frederic know me?” she asked herself a dozen
times, and as often answered no—but Alice, ah, Alice,
there was danger to be apprehended from her, and
Marian felt that she would far rather meet the scrutinizing
gaze of Frederic Raymond's eyes than submit
herself to the touch of the blind girl's fingers, or trust
her voice to the blind girl's ear.
That might not have changed. She could not tell
if it had, though she thought it very probable, for six
years was a long, long time, and it was nearly that
since she left Redstone Hall. She could not sustain a
feigned voice, she knew, and there was no alternative
save to wait the trial and abide the result of a recognition.
She felt a pardonable pride in wishing to
make a good impression upon Frederic, for he could
see, and she spent a much longer time at her toilet
than usual. Black was very becoming to her dazzling
complexion, and the thin tissue she wore fitted her
admirably, showing just enough of her neck, while the
-- 307 --
[figure description] Page 307.[end figure description]
wide, loose sleeves displayed the whole of her wellshaped
arm, which, from contrast, looked white and
smooth as ivory. Hitherto she had curled her entire
hair, but she did not dare to do so now, and she confined
a part of it with a comb, while the remainder
of it was suffered to curl as usual about her face and
behind her ears. This changed her looks somewhat,
but was still becoming, and as she saw in the mirror
the reflection of her sweet young face and deep blue
eyes there came a brighter glow to her cheek, for she
knew that the cherished wish of her early girlhood had
been fulfilled, and that Ben Burt was right when he
called her beautiful.
The gas was lighted when she entered the parlor below,
and turning it down a little, she took a book and
seated herself somewhat in the shade. But the volume
might as well have been wrong side up for any
idea its contents conveyed to her, so absorbed was she
in what was fast approaching, for she had heard the
carriage stop at the gate, and felt the cold moisture
starting out beneath her hair and on her hands.
“I will be calm,” she said, and with one tremendous
effort of the will she quieted the violent throbbings
of her heart, and leaning on her elbow, pretended
to be reading, though not a sound escaped her ear.
She heard the little feet come running up the walk,
and the heavy, manly tread following in the rear.
She heard the struggle in the hall between Alice
and the cat, and when the latter bounded into the room
and crouched down at her feet, she thought there was
something familiar in that spot between the eyes. But
it could not be, she said, though Alice's exclamation of
“Do, Frederic, shut the door, so she cannot get away,”
seemed to intimate that pussy was a stranger there.
Stooping down, she passed her hand caressingly over
the animal's back, whispering, in a low tone, “Spotty,
darling, is it you?”
Won by her voice, the cat sprang up on Marian's
lap just as Frederic glanced hastily in.
-- 308 --
[figure description] Page 308.[end figure description]
“Your pet is safe,” he said to Alice, whom he followed
to the sitting-room, waiting there a moment, and
then starting to meet Miss Grey.
She knew he was coming, counting every step, and
without raising her eyes from the book she pretended
to be reading, knew just when he crossed the threshold
of the door. Removing her hand from her head, where
it had been resting, she gently pushed the cat from her
lap, and half rising to her feet, waited for the first
words of greeting.
“Miss Grey, I believe;” and bowing low, Frederic
Raymond advanced towards Marian, who now stood
up, so that the blaze of the chandelier fell full upon
her, revealing at once her face and form.
Had her very life depended upon it she could not
have spoken then, for the stormy emotions the name
“Miss Grey” called up, mastered her speech entirely.
She knew he would thus address her, but it grated
harshly on her ear to hear him call her so, and her
heart yearned for the familiar name of Marian, though
she had no reason to expect it from him.
“You are welcome to Riverside,” he continued;
“and I regret that your first day here should have
been so lonely.”
This gave her a little time, and conquering her
weakness she extended her hand to take the one he
offered. Hers was cold and clammy, and trembled
like an imprisoned bird, as it lay in his broad, warm
palm. For an instant he held it there, and gazed
down into her sweet, childish face, which did not look
wholly unfamiliar to him, while she herself seemed
more like a friend than a total stranger. The tie between
them, which naught but death could sever, and
which was bound so closely around Marian's heart,
brought to his own an answering throb, and when at
last she spoke, assuring him that she had not been
lonely in the least, he started, for there was something
in the tone which moved him as a stranger off is
moved, when hearing in the calm, still night the air
-- 309 --
[figure description] Page 309.[end figure description]
of “Home, Sweet Home.” It carried him back to
Redstone Hall, years and years ago, when in the moonlight
he had played with his dusky companions upon
the river brink. But Marian Lindsey had no portion
of his thoughts at that first interview with Marian
Grey, who ventured at last to look into his face just as
he was looking into hers. Oh, how much like the
Frederic of old he was, save that in his mature manhood
he was finer, nobler looking, while the proud fire
of his eye had given place to a milder, softer expression,
and she felt intuitively that he was far more worthy
of her love than when she knew him before.
Motioning her to a chair, he, too, sat down at a little
distance and conversed with her pleasantly, as
friend converses with friend, asking about her journey,
making inquiries after Mrs. Sheldon's family, and
experiencing a most unaccountable sensation when he
saw how she blushed at the mention of William Gordon!
Ben was next talked about, and Marian was
growing eloquent in his praise, when suddenly a sight
met her view which pretrified her powers of speech and
sent the hot blood ebbing backward from her cheek
and lip. In the hall without and where Frederic could
not see her, the blind girl stood, her hands clasped and
slightly raised, her lips apart, her eyes rolling, her head
bent forward, and her ear turned toward the door,
whence came the sound which had arrested her footsteps
and chained her to the spot. She had started for
the parlor and come thus far, when she, too, caught
the tone which had affected even Frederic, and her
head grew dizzy with the bewildering sound, for to
her it brought memories of Marian. Had she come?
Was she there with Frederic and Miss Grey? Eagerly
she waited to hear the sound repeated, wondering
why Miss Grey, too, did not join in the conversation.
It came again, the old familiar strain, though tuned to
a sadder note, for Marian had suffered much since last
she talked with Alice, and it was perceptible even in
her voice. Tighter and tighter the small hands pressed
-- 310 --
[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]
together—lower and lower bent the head, while a
shade of disappointment flitted over the face of the
listening child, for this time it did not seem quite so
natural as at first, and she knew, too, that 'twas Miss
Grey who spoke, for her subject was Ben Butterworth.
“What is it?” asked Frederic, observing that Miss
Grey stopped suddenly in the midst of a remark.
Marian pointed toward the spot where Alice stood,
but ere Frederic had time to step forward, the loud
ring of the bell started Alice from an attitude which,
had Frederic Raymond seen it, would surely have led
to a discovery.
“The little girl, she acts so singular,” said Marian,
thinking she must make some explanation.
“She's blind, you know,” was answered in a low
tone, and going toward the hall, Frederic met with
Alice just as a servant opened the outer door, and a
stranger entered, asking for Mr. Raymond.
“In a moment,” said Frederic, and leading Alice up
to Marian, he continued, “Your teacher,” and then
left the two together.
For an instant there was perfect silence, and Marian
knew the blind girl could hear the beating of her
heart, while she in turn watched the wonder and perplexity
written on the speaking face turned upward
toward her own, the brown eyes riveted upon her, as
if for once they had broken from their prison walls
and could discern what was before them.
Oh! how Marian longed to take the little, helpless
creature in her arms; to hug her, to kiss her, to cry
over her, and tell her of the love which had never
known one moment's abatement during the long years
of their separation. But she dared not; and she sat
gazing at her to see if she had changed since the night
when she left her sleeping so quietly in their dear old
room at home. She was now nearly thirteen, but her
figure was so slight, and her features so child like, that
few would have guessed her more than nine, unless
they judged by her mature, womanly mind. To
-- 311 --
[figure description] Page 311.[end figure description]
Marian she seemed the same; and when, unable longer
to restrain herself, she drew the child to her, and, kissing
her forehead, said to her kindly,
“You are Alice, my pupil, I am sure. Alice
what?”
“Alice Raymond,” and the sightless eyes never
moved for an instant from the questioner's face.
“Are you very nearly related to Mr. Raymond?”
asked Marian; and Alice replied:
“Second cousin, that's all. But he has been more
than a brother to me since—since—”
The perplexed, mystified look increased on Alice's
face, and her gaze grew more intense as she continued:
“Since Marian went away.”
There was a moment's stillness, and then the hand
which hitherto had rested on Marian's lap was raised
until it reached the head, where it lay lightly, very
lightly, though to Marian it seemed like the weight of
a thousand pounds, and she felt every hair prickle at
its root when the blind girl said to her:
“Ain't you Marian?”
“Yes, Marian Grey, Didn't you know my first
name?” was the answer, spoken so deliberately that
Marian was astonished at herself.
There was a wavering then in the brown eyes, a quivering
of the lids, and the great tears rolled down
Alice's cheeks, for with this calm reply, uttered so
naturally, the hope she had scarcely dared to cherish
passed away, and she murmured sadly:
“It cannot be her.”
“What makes you cry, darling?” asked Marian,
choking back her own tears, which were just ready to
flow, and which did gush forth in torrents, when Alice
answered:
“Oh, I wish I wasn't blind to-night!”
This surely was a good cause for weeping and pressing
the little one to her bosom, Marian wept over
her passionately for a few moments; then, drying her
eyes, she said:
-- 312 --
[figure description] Page 312.[end figure description]
“Why to-night more than any other time?”
“Because I want so much to know how you look,”
returned Alice; adding immediately: “May I feel of
your face? It's the only way I have of seeing.”
“Certainly,” answered Marian; and the fingers wandered
slowly, cautiously, over every feature, involuntarily
caressing the fair, round cheek, but lingering
longest on the hair—the beautiful hair—whose glossy
waves were perceptible even to the touch.
“What color is it?” she asked, winding one of the
curls around her finger.
“Some call it auburn, some chesnut, and some a
mixture of both,” was the reply, and Alice continued
her investigations by mentally comparing its length
with a standard she had in her own mind.
The two did not agree, for the curls she remembered
were longer and far more wiry than the silken tresses
of Miss Grey.
“How tall are you?” she suddenly asked, and Marian
tried to laugh, although every nerve was thrilling
with fear, for she knew she was passing through a dangerous
test.
“Rather tall,” she replied, standing up, “Yes, very
tall, some would say. Put up your hand and see.”
Alice did as she requested, and her tears came faster
as she whispered mournfully. “You're the tallest.”
“Did you think we had met before?” asked Marian,
and then the sobs of the child burst forth unrestrained.
Burying her face in Marian's lap, she cried, “Yes—
no—I don't know what I thought, only you don't seem
to me like I supposed you would. You make me
tremble so, and I keep thinking of somebody we lost
long ago. At first your voice sounded so natural, that
I knew most she was here, but you ain't even like
her. You're taller and fatter, and handsomer, I reckon,
and yet there is something about you that makes my
heart beat so fast. Oh, I wish I could see what it is.
What made God make me blind?”
Never before had Marian heard a murmur from the
-- 313 --
[figure description] Page 313.[end figure description]
lips of the unfortunate child, and it seemed to her
cruel not to whisper words of comfort in her ear. But
she could not do it yet, and so she kissed her tenderly,
saying, “Did you love this other one so very much?”
“Yes, very, very much,” was Alice's reply, “and it
hurts me so to think we cannot find her. I thought
we surely should to-day, for we went there, Frederic
and I—went where she used to live, and she wasn't
there. 'Twas a dreary place, and Frederic groaned
out loud to think she ever lived there.”
“Perhaps it didn't look so then,” suggested Marian,
who felt constrained to say a word in favor of her former
home.
“Oh, I know it didn't,” returned Alice, “for Frederic
has been by there, though he didn't know it then,
and he says it looked real nice, with the white curtain
and the kitten asleep on the window sill. It's a cat
now, and we brought it home.”
“Her cat?” and Marian started eagerly.
“Yes,” said Alice, “Frederic gave three dollars for
it,” and forgetting her late grief in this new interest,
she told how they knew it was Marian's, and then as
Miss Grey expressed a wish to see it, she started in
quest of it, just as Frederic appeared, telling them tea
was ready.
“I am afraid you will think we keep Lent here all
the year round,” he said, apologetically. “I was surprised
to find that Mrs. Russell compelled you to fast
until our return.”
“It didn't matter,” Marian relpied; though she had
wondered a little at the non-appearance of supper, for
Mrs. Russell, intent upon her dress, had no idea of
“makin' two fusses,” and she kept her visitor waiting
until the return of Frederic, saying, “the supper would
taste all the better when it did come.”
Very willingly Marian followed Frederic to the dining-room,
where everything was indicative of elegance
and wealth.
“Mrs. Jones used to sit here; and I now give the
-- 314 --
[figure description] Page 314.[end figure description]
place to you,” said Frederic, motioning to the seat by
the tea-tray, and himself sitting down opposite, with
Alice upon his right.
Marian became her new position well, and so Frederic
thought, as he saw how gracefully her snowy fingers
handled the silver urn, and how much at home
she seemed. There was a strange fascination about
her as she sat there at the head of his table, with the
bright bloom on her cheek, and the dewy lustre in
her beautiful blue eyes, which occasionally wandered
toward the figure opposite, but as often fell beneath
the curious gaze which they encountered. Frederic
could not forbear looking at her, even though he saw
that it embarrassed her—she was so fresh, so fair, so
modest—while there was about her an indescribable
something which he could not define, for though a
stranger, as he supposed, she seemed near to him—so
near that he almost felt he had a right to pass his arm
around her, and kiss the girlish lips which Will Gordon
had likened to a rose-bud.
“Poor Will,” sighed, “he did lose a prize when he
lost Marian Grey.”
Involuntarily his mind went back to Redstone Hall,
and to the time when another Marian sat opposite, and
did for him the office this one was doing. The contrast
between the two was great, but, with a nobleness
worthy of the man, he thought “Marian Grey is far
more beautiful, 'tis true, but Marian Lindsey was my
wife.”
Then he remembered the day when Isabel first sat
at his board, and he had felt it a sin to look at her in
all her queenly beauty. He had grown hard since
then, for he could not think it wicked to look at Marian
Grey, or deem it a wrong to the other one, and he
feasted his eyes upon her until she arose from the table,
and went, at Alice's request, to see the cat, which was
safely confined in a candle box, “by way of taming
her,” Alice said.
“I think there's no need of that,” returned Marian,
-- 315 --
[figure description] Page 315.[end figure description]
stroking her soft coat. “I am sure she will not run
away. What do you propose calling her?”
“Marian, I reckon, only you might not want her
named after you, and it wouldn't be, for it's the other
one.”
“I haven't the least objection,” said Miss Grey,
laughing, “only Marian will sound oddly. Suppose
you call it `Spottie,' there's a cunning white spot between
its eyes.”
“Yes, Alice, let that be the name,” said a voice behind
them, and turning, Marian saw Frederic, who had
all the time been standing near and watching them as
like two children they knelt together by the candle
box and gave the cat its milk—Marian and Alice, side
by side, just as they used to be of old—just as Frederic
had seen them many a time.
The tableau was a familiar one, and so he felt it to
be, though he could not divine the reason. The tall,
beautiful girl before him bore no resemblance to the
Marian of Redstone Hall, and still nothing she did
seemed strange or new to him.
“I certainly have dreamed of her,” he said, when
lifting up her head she shook back from her face the
clustering curls, and smiled on Alice as she used to do.
“I have dreamed of her just as I sometimes dream of
places, and see them afterward in waking.”
This conclusion was entirely satisfactory, and she returned
with the girls to the parlor, while “Spottie” followed
after, hovering near to Marian, whose low spoken
words and gentle caresses had reawakened the affection
which had perhaps been dormant during the
last year.
“Will you play for us, Miss Grey?” said Frederic,
and without a word of apology, Marian seated herself
at the piano, whose rich, mellow tones roused her enthusiasm
at once, and she played more than usually
well, while Alice stood by listening eagerly, and Frederic
looked on, scarce heeding the stirring notes, so
-- 316 --
[figure description] Page 316.[end figure description]
intent was he upon the dimpled hands which swept the
keys so skillfully.
On the third finger there was a little cornelian ring,
the first gift of Ben, and as he looked, he felt certain
he had seen that ring and those hands before. But
where? He tried to recall the time and the place.
Stepping forward, he looked into her face, but that
gave him no clue, only the ring and the hands were
familiar. Suddenly he started, for he remembered the
when and the where—remembered, too, that Alice,
when told of the girl with the brown vail, had said to
him, “Wan't that our Marian?”
He had accepted the suggestion as a possible one
then, but he doubted it now, for if that maiden were
Marian Grey, it certainly could not have been Marian
Lindsey. The exquisite music ceased, and ere Alice
had time for a word of comment, he asked abruptly:
“Miss Grey, did you ever ride in the cars with me in
New York?”
The question was a startling one, but Marian's face
was turned from him, and he could not see the effort
she made to answer him calmly.
“I think it very probable. I have been in the cars
a great many times, and with a great many different
people.”
“Yes, but one rainy night, more than four years ago,
did I not offer you a seat between myself and the door?
You wore a brown vail, and carried a willow basket, if
it were you. Something about your appearance has
puzzled me all the evening, and I think I must have
met you there. It was on the Third Avenue cars.”
Marian trembled violently, but by constantly turning
the leaves of her music book, she managed to conceal
her agitation, and when Frederic ceased speaking,
she answered in her natural tone, “Now that you recall
the circumstances, I believe I do remember something
about it, though you do not look as that man
did. I imagined he had been sick, or was in trouble,”
and Marian's blue eyes turned sideways to witness, if
-- 317 --
[figure description] Page 317.[end figure description]
possible, the effect of her words. But she was disappointed,
for she could not see how white Frederic was
for a single instant, but she felt it in his voice, as he
replied:
“You are right. I had been sick, and was in great
trouble.”
“Wasn't that when you were looking for Marian?”
Alice asked, and again the blue eye sought Frederic's
face, turning this time so that they could see it.
“Yes, I was hunting for Marian,” was the answer;
and the deep sigh which accompanied the words
brought a thrill of joy to the Marian hunted for, and
she knew now, and from his own lips, too, that he had
sought for her, nay, that he was looking for her even
then, when in her anger she censured him for not recognizing
her.
Little by little she was learning the truth just as it
was; and when at a late hour she bade Frederic good
night, and went to her own chamber, her heart was almost
too full for utterance, for she felt that the long,
dark night was over, and the dawn she had waited for
so long was breaking at last around her. Intuitively,
Alice, who had been permitted to sit up so long as she
did, caught something of the same spirit. “It was almost
as nice as if Marian really were there,” she said; and
she came twice to kiss her governess, while on her face
was a most satisfied expression, as she nestled among
her pillows and listened to the footsteps in the adjoining
chamber where Marian made her nightly toilet.
“Oh, I wish she'd let me sleep with her,” she thought.
“It would be a heap more like having Marian back.”
And, when all was still, she stepped upon the floor and
glided to the bedside of Marian, who was not aware of
her approach until a voice whispered in her ear:
“May I stay here with you? I've been making believe
that you was Marian—our Marian, I mean—and
I want to sleep with you so much just as I used to do
with her—may I?”
“Yes, darling,” was the answer, as Marian folded
-- 318 --
[figure description] Page 318.[end figure description]
her arms lovingly around the neck of the blind girl,
whose soft, warm cheek was pressed against her own.
And there, just as they were used to do in the old
Kentucky home, ere sorrow had come to either, they
lay side by side, Marian and Alice, the one dreaming
sweet dreams of the Marian come back to her again;
and the other, that to her the gates of Paradise were
opened, and she saw the glory shining through, just as
in Frederic Raymond's eyes she had seen the glimmer
of the love-light which was yet to overshadow her and
brighten her future pathway.
-- --
CHAPTER XXV. LIFE AT RIVERSIDE.
[figure description] Page 319.[end figure description]
It was a joyful waking which came to Marian next
morning, and when fresh and glowing from her invigorating
bath she descended to the piazza she was surprised
at finding Frederic there before her, looking
haggard and pale, as if the boon of sleep had been denied
to him. After Marian and Alice had bidden him
good night, he, too, had retired to his room, which was
directly under theirs; and sitting in his arm-chair, he
had listened to the footsteps above, readily distinguishing
one from the other, and experiencing unconsciously a
vague, delicious feeling of comfort in knowing that the
long-talked of Marian Grey had come to him at last,
and that she was even more beautiful than he had imagined
her to be from Will Gordon's glowing description.
He would keep her with him, too, he said, until
the other one was found, if that should ever be: and
then, as the footsteps and the murmur of voices in the
chamber above him ceased, and all about the house
was still, his heart went out after the other one, demanding
of the solitude around to show him where she
was—to lead him to her so that he could bring her
back to the home where each day he was wanting her
more and more. And the solitude thus questioned invariably
carried his thoughts to Marian Grey, whose
delicate, girlish beauty had made so strong an impression
upon his mind. “How would the two compare?”
-- 320 --
[figure description] Page 320.[end figure description]
he asked. “Would not the governess far outshine the
wife? Would not the contrast be a painful one?”
“No, no!” he said; “for, though Marian Lindsey
were not as beautiful as Marian Grey, she was gentle,
pure and good.” And then, as he sought his pillow,
he went back again in fancy to that feverish sick-room,
and the tender love which alone had saved him from
death; while mingled with this remembrance were
confused thoughts of the vailed maiden in the corner
of the car—of the geranium growing in the window,
and of Marian Grey, who seemed a part of every thing—
for, turn which way he would, her blue eyes were
sure to shine upon him; and once, when, for a few moments,
he fell into a troubled sleep, she said to him,
“I am the Marian you seek.”
Then this vision faded, and he saw a little grave, on
whose humble stone was written, “The Heiress of
Redstone Hall,” and with a nervous start he woke,
only to doze and dream again, until at last he was glad
when the dawn came stealing across the misty river,
and looked in at his window. The sun was not yet up
when he arose, and going out upon the broad piazza,
tried by walking to gain the rest the night had failed
to bring. As he walked Spottie came purring to his
side, rubbing against his feet and looking into his face
as if she fain would tell him, if she could, that the lost
one had returned, and was safe beneath his roof.
Frederic Raymond could not be said to care particularly
for cats, but there was a charm connected with
this one gambolling at his feet, and he did not deem it
an unmanly act to stoop down and caress it for the
sake of her who had often had it in her arms.
“Can you tell me nothing of your mistress,” he said,
aloud, for he thought himself alone.
Instantly the cat, whose ear had caught a sound he
did not hear, bounded toward the door where Marian
Grey was standing. Advancing toward her, Frederic
said, “You must excuse me, Miss Grey. I am not
often guilty of petting cats, but this one has a peculiar
-- 321 --
[figure description] Page 321.[end figure description]
attraction for me, inasmuch as it once belonged to—to—
to Mrs. Raymond,” and Frederic felt vastly relieved
to think he had actually spoken of his wife to Marian
Grey, and called her Mrs. Raymond, too! He knew
Will Gordon had told her the story, and when he saw
how the color came and went upon her cheek, he fancied
that it arose from the delicacy she would naturally
feel in talking with him of his runaway wife. He was
glad he had introduced the subject, and she should
continue it or not, as she choose. Marian hardly knew
how to reply, for though she longed to hear what he
had to say of Mrs. Raymond, she scarcely dared trust
herself to question him.
At last, however, she ventured to say, “Yes, Alice
told me that it was once your wife's. She is dead,
isn't she?”
Frederic started, and walking off a few paces, replied,
“Marian dead! not that I know of! Did you
ever hear that she was?” and he came back to Marian,
looking at her so earnestly that she colored deeply, as
she replied:
“Mr. Gordon told me something of her; and I had the
impression that—”
She did not know how to finish the sentence, and she
was glad to hear a little, uncertain step upon the stairs,
as that was an excuse for her to break off abruptly,
and go to Alice, who had come down in quest of her,
expressing much surprise that she should rise so early
and dress so quietly.
“Mrs. Jones used to make such a noise coughing and
sneezing,” she said, “that she always woke me, while
Isabel never got up till breakfast was ready, and sometimes
not then, when we were in Kentucky. Negroes
were made to wait on her, she said. She'll be coming
over here to call and see how you look. I heard her
asking Mrs. Russell last week if you were pretty, and
she said—”
“Never mind what she said,” suggested Marian
adding laughingly, “I have heard of Miss Huntington
-- 322 --
[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]
before. Will Gordon told me of her, and Ben, too.
He saw her in Kentucky, you knew; so you see, I am
tolerably well posted in your affairs;” and she turned
towards Frederic, who was about to answer, when
Alice, who had climbed into a chair, and was standing
with her arm around the young man's neck, chimed
in:
“If Mr. Gordon told you that Frederic liked her, it
isn't so, for he don't; do you, Frederic?”
“I like all the ladies,” was his reply; and the breakfast
bell just then rang, the conversation ceased, and
they entered the house together, Alice holding fast to
Marian's hand, and dancing along like a joyous bird.
“You seem very happy this morning,” said Frederic,
smiling down upon the happy child.
“I am,” she replied. “I'm most as happy as I should
be if we had found Marian yesterday. Wouldn't it
be splendid if this were really Marian, and wouldn't
you be glad?”
Frederic Raymond did not say yes—he did not say
anything; but as he looked at the figure in white presiding
a second time so gracefully at his table, he fancied
that it would not be a hard matter for any man to
be glad if Marian Grey were his wife. Breakfast being
over, Alice assumed the responsibility of showing
her teacher the place.
“You were here once, I know,” she said, “and left
me those flowers, but you hadn't time then to see half.
There's a tree down in the garden, where Frederic's
name is cut in the bark, and Marian Lindsey's, too.
You must see that;” and she led her off to the spot
where John had seen her crying the day before. “I
ain't going to study a bit for ever so long. Frederic
says I needn't,” said Alice. “I'm going to have
a right nice time with you.” And Marian was not
sorry, for nothing could please her better than rambling
with Alice over what was once her home.
Very rapidly the first few days passed away, and ere
a week had gone by, Marian understood tolerably well
-- 323 --
[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]
the place which Marian Lindsey occupied in her husband's
affections, and she needed not the letter received
from William Gordon to tell her that the Frederic
Raymond of to-day was not the same from whose presence
she had once fled with a breaking heart. He
was greatly changed, and if she had loved him in the
early days of her girlhood, her heart clung to him now
with an affection tenfold stronger than she had ever
known before. From Alice, who was very communicative,
she learned many things of which she little
dreamed, when in New York she was hiding from her
husband, and believing that he hated her. Alice liked
nothing better than to talk of Marian, and one afternoon,
when Frederic was in New York, and the two
girls were sitting together in their pleasant chamber,
she told her sad story in her own childish way, accepting
her companion's tears, which fell like rain as tokens
of sympathy for the lost one.
“Frederic cried just like he was a woman,” she said,
“when he came up from the river, cold, and wet, and
sick, and told us they could not find her. I remember,
too, how he groaned when I asked him what made her
kill herself; she didn't, though,” she added quickly, as
she heard Marian's exclamation of horror at the very
idea; “she wasn't even dead, but we thought she was,
and we mourned for her so much. The house was like
a funeral all the time till Isabel came.”
“And how was it then?” Marian asked.
Alice did not reply immediately, and as Marian saw
the shadow which flitted over her face, she pressed her
hands together nervously, for she fancied that she
knew what Redstone Hall was like when Isabel, her
rival, came.
“You were telling me about the house after Miss
Huntington's arrival,” she rejoined, as Alice showed
no signs of continuing the conversation, but sat with
her eyes fixed upon the floor as if she were thinking
of something far back in the past.
-- 324 --
[figure description] Page 324.[end figure description]
At Marian's remark she started, and with the same
dreamy, perplexed look upon her face, replied:
“Perhaps I ought not to tell; but you seem so near
to me that I don't believe Frederic would care. He's
got over it, too, but he loved Isabel,” and Alice's voice
sank to a whisper, as if afraid the walls would hear.
“He loved her a heap better than he did poor dear
Marian, who somehow found it out that night, and
rather than be his wife when he didn't want her, she
ran away, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” gasped Marian, while Alice, little
dreaming how well she knew, continued, “And so
when Isabel came, he couldn't help loving her some, I
suppose, though Dinah thought he could, and she used
to scold mightily when she heard her singing and
playing, as she did all the time, so as to get Frederic
in there,” and Alice's tone and manner were so much
like old Dinah and so highly expressive of her meaning,
that Marian could not forbear smiling. “I talked
to Frederic one night,” said Alice, “and told him I
didn't believe Marian was dead, and I reckon I made
him think so, too, for he promised he would wait for
her ten years.”
“Will he marry then, if he does not find her?” Marian
asked by way of calling out the little girl, who
replied:
“I suppose he won't live all his life alone; at any
rate, he said he wouldn't. Oh, Miss Grey!” and Alice
started so quickly that Marian started, too; “I'd a
heap rather Marian would be his wife than anybody,
because he married her first; but if she don't come
back, can't you guess what I wish would be?” and
Alice wound her arms around the neck of Marian, who
did guess, but could not embody her guessing in
words.
“Did Mr. Raymond never hear from her?” she
asked, and resuming her seat, Alice replied:
“Yes, and that's the mystery. One cold March
night when Isabel was dressing for a party, and was
-- 325 --
[figure description] Page 325.[end figure description]
just as cross as she could be, there came to him a letter
from Sarah Green, saying she was dead and buried
with canker rash.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Marian, starting quickly.
“When? Where?”
“In New York,” answered Alice; and Marian listened
breathlessly to the story of her supposed decease,
wondering, as Frederic had often done, whence the
letter came, and why it had been sent.
“It must have been a plan of Ben's to see what
he would do,” she thought; and she listened again,
with burning cheeks and beating heart, while Alice
told of Frederic's grief when he read that she was
dead.
“I know he cried,” said Alice, “for there were
tears on his face, and he sat so still, and held me so
close to him that I could hear his heart thump so hard,”
and she illustrated by striking her tiny fist upon the
table.
Then she told how sometime after she had interrupted
Frederic in the parlor, just as he was asking Isabel
to be his wife, and had almost convinced him again
of Marian's existence.
“Blessed Alice,” said Marian, involuntarily. “You
have been Miss Lindsey's good angel, and kept her
husband from falling.”
“I couldn't help it,” answered Alice. “I most
knew she was alive; and I was so glad when he
started for New York. I was sure he'd find her; and
he did. She took care of him a few days and his voice
sounded so low and sad when he told me of her, and how
she left him when Isabel came. Your brother Ben—
the nice man who gave me the bracelet—telegraphed
for her to go; and you would suppose she was crazy—
she flew around so, ordering the negroes, and
knocking Dud down flat, because he couldn't run fast
enough to get out of her way. That made Aunt
Hetty, his grandmother, mad, and she yellowed Isabel's
collar that she was ironing. If I hadn't been
-- 326 --
[figure description] Page 326.[end figure description]
blind I should have cried myself so those dreadful days
when we expected to hear Frederic was dead, for
next to Marian I love him the best. He's real good
to me now; and when I asked him once what made
him pet me so much more than he used to, he said,
`Because our dear, lost Marian loved you, and you
loved her.”'
“Did he say that? Did he call her his `dear, lost Marian?”
' and the eyes of the speaker sparkled with delight,
while across her mind there flitted the half-formed
resolution that before the sun had set Frederic
Raymond should know the whole.
Ere Alice could answer this question, there was a
loud ring at the door, and a servant brought to Miss
Grey Isabel Huntington's card.
“I knew she'd call,” said Alice. “She wants to
see how you look; but I don't care, for Frederic says
you're a heap the handsomest; I asked him last night
after you quit playing, and had left the room.”
The knowledge that Frederic Raymond preferred
her face to that of Isabel, rendered Marian far more
self-possessed than she would otherwise have been, as
she went down to meet her visitor, whose call was
prompted from mere curiosity, and not from any
friendliness she felt towards Marian Grey. Isabel had
heard much of Marian's beauty from those who met
her since her arrival at Riverside, and she had come to
see if rumor were correct. During the last three
years she had not improved materially, for her disappointment
in failing to win Frederic Raymond had
soured a disposition never particularly amiable, and
she was now a censorious, fault-finding woman of
twenty-five, on the lookout for a husband, and trembling
lest the dreaded age of thirty should find ner still unmarried.
For Frederic Raymond she affected a feeling
of contempt; insinuating that he was mean—that
his property was not gained honestly; that she knew
something which she could tell but shouldn't—all of
which had but little effect in a place where he was so
-- 327 --
[figure description] Page 327.[end figure description]
much better known than herself. And still, had Frederic
Raymond evinced the slightest interest in her, she
would gladly have met him more than half the way,
for the love she really felt for him once had never
died away. And even now she watched him often
through blinding tears as he passed her cottage
door. The story of Marian's existence she had repudiated
at first and in the excitement of going south,
and the incidents connected with her sojourn there,
she had failed to speak of it even to Mrs. Rivers,
choosing rather to make her friends believe that she
had deliberately refused the owner of Redstone
Hall. Recently, however, and since her arrival at
Riverside, she had indirectly circulated the story, and
Frederic had more than once been questioned as to its
authenticity. Greatly to Isabel's chagrin he took no
pains to conceal the fact, but frankly spoke of Mrs.
Raymond, as a person who had been, and who he hoped
was still a living reality. Very narrowly Isabel watched
the proceedings at Riverside, and when she heard
that Alice's new governess was in some way connected
with the “gawky peddler,” whom she remembered
well, she sneered at her as a person of no refinement,
marvelling greatly at the praises bestowed upon her.
At last, curious to see for herself, she donned her
richest robes, and now in the parlor at Riverside, sat
awaiting the appearance of Miss Grey.
“Let her be what she will, Frederic can't marry
her, and that's some consolation,” she thought, just
as a tripping footstep announced the approach of Marian,
and, assuming her haughtiest manner, she arose,
and bowed to Frederic Raymond's wife.
They had met before, but there was no token of recognition
between them now, and as strangers they
greeted each other, Marian's hand trembling slightly
as she offered it to Isabel—for she knew that this was
not their first meeting. Coldly, inquisitively and almost
impudently, the haughty Isabel scrutinized
the graceful creature, mentally acknowledging that
-- 328 --
[figure description] Page 328.[end figure description]
she was beautiful, and hating her for it. With great
effort Marian concealed her agitation, and answered
carelessly the first few common-place remarks addressed
to her, as to how she liked Riverside, and if
this were her first visit there.
“No,” she answered to this last question—“I came
here once with Ben, who, you remember, was once at
Redstone Hall.”
“I could not well forget him. His odd Yankee
ways furnished gossip for many a day among the negroes.”
And Isabel tossed her head scornfully, as if
Ben Burt were a creature far beneath her notice.
After a little, she spoke of Mr. Raymond, asking
Marian, finally, what she thought of him, and saying
she supposed she knew he was a married man.
“I know he has been married, but is there any certainty
that his wife is still living?” asked Marian, for
the sake of hearing her visitor's remarks.
“Any certainty! Of course there is,” said Isabel,
experiencing at once a pang of jealousy lest the humble
Marian Grey had dared to think of Frederic as a
widower, and hence a marriageable man. “Of course
she's living, though, I must say, he takes no great pains
to find her. He did look for her a little, I believe, after
he was sick in New York; but he did it more to
divert his mind from a very mortifying disappointment
than from any affection he felt for her, and it was
this which prompted him to go to New York at all.”
“What disappointment?” Marian asked, faintly,
and, affecting to be embarrassed, Isabel replied:
“It would be unbecoming in me to say what the
nature of it was, and I referred to it thoughtlessly.
Pray, forget it, Miss Grey;” and she turned the leaves
of a handsomely bound volume lying on the table with
well feigned modesty.
Marian understood her at once, and was glad that
Isabel was too intent upon an engraving to observe
her agitation. Notwithstanding what Alice said,
Frederic had offered himself to Isabel, and her refusal
-- 329 --
[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]
had sent him to New York, where he hoped to forget
his mortification, and where sickness had overtaken
him. In the kindness of her heart, Isabel had come
to him, and the words of affection which she had heard
her speak to Frederic were prompted by pity, rather
than love, as she then supposed. And after Isabel had
left him, he had looked for her merely by way of excitement,
and not because he cared to find her. Such
were the thoughts which flashed upon Marian's mind
and destroyed at once her half-formed resolution of
telling Frederic that night. She did not know Isabel,
and she could not understand why she should be guilty
of a falsehood to her—a perfect stranger.
“He is not learning to love me, after all,” was the
sad cry of her heart; and, when she spoke again, there
was a plaintive tone in her voice, and Isabel wondered
she had not observed before how mournful it was.
And, as they sat talking, there came along the graveled
walk a step familiar to them both, and the color
deepened on their cheeks; while in the kindling light
which shone in the eyes of blue, and flashed from the
eyes of black, there was a spark of jealousy, as if each
were reading the secret thoughts of the other.
Frederic had returned from the city earlier than was
his custom, for he usually spent the entire day; but
there was something now to draw him home besides
the blind girl, and he was conscious of quickening his
footsteps as he drew near his house, and of watching
eagerly for the flutter of a mourning robe, or the sight
of a sunny face, which, he knew, would smile a welcome.
He heard her voice in the parlor, and ere he
was aware of it, he stood in the presence of Isabel.
Narrowly Marian watched him, marvelling somewhat
at his perfect self-possession; for Isabel was to him an
object of such indifference that he experienced far less
emotion in meeting her than in speaking to Marian
Grey, and asking if she had been lonely.
“You men are so vain,” said Isabel, with a toss of
her head, “and think we miss vou so much. Now I'll
-- 330 --
[figure description] Page 330.[end figure description]
venture to say Miss Grey has not thought of you in all
day. Why should she?”
“Why shouldn't she?” asked Frederic, giving to
Marian a smile which sent the hot blood tingling to
her finger tips.
“Why shouldn't she!” returned Isabel—“just as
though we, girls, ever think of married men. By the
way, have you heard anything definite from Mrs. Raymond,
since she left you so suddenly in New York, or
have you given up the search?”
Marian pitied Frederic then, he turned so white;
and she almost hated Isabel, as she saw the malicious
triumph in her eye. Breathlessly, too, she awaited the
answer, which was:
“I shall never abandon the search until I find her,
or know certainly that she is dead. I went to the
place where she used to live, not long ago.”
“Indeed! What did you learn?” and a part of Isable's
assurance left her, for she felt that his searching
for his wife was a reality with him; while Marian's
heart grew hopeful and warm again, as she listened to
Frederic Raymond telling Isabel Huntington of that
dear old room which had been her home so long.
“I can't conceive what made her run away,” said
Isabel, fixing her large, glittering eyes upon Frederic,
who coolly replied, “I can,” and then turning to Marian
he abruptly commenced a conversation upon an
entirely different subject.
Biting her lip with vexation, Isabel arose to go, saying
she should expect to see Miss Grey at her own
house, and that she hoped she would sometimes bring
Mr. Raymond with her.
“You need not be afraid to come,” she continued,
addressing herself to him, “for everybody knows you
have a wife, consequently your coming will create no
scandal concerning yourself and mother!” and with a
hateful laugh she swept haughtily down the walk.
From this time forth Isabel was a frequent visitor at
Riverside, where she always managed to say something
-- 331 --
[figure description] Page 331.[end figure description]
which seriously affected Marian's peace of mind and
led her to distrust the man who was beginning to feel
far more interest in the Marian found than in the Marian
lost. This the quick-sighted Isabel saw and while
her bosom rankled with envy towards her rival, she exulted
in the thought that love her as he might he dared
not tell her of his love, for a barrier the living wife
had built between the two. Though professing the utmost
regard for Miss Grey she did not hesitate to
speak against her when an opportunity occurred, but
her shafts fell harmlessly, for where Marian was known
she was esteemed and the wily woman gave up the
contest at last and waited anxiously to see the end.
Towards the last of October, Ben, who was now a
petty grocer in a New England village, came to Riverside
for the first time since Marian's residence there.
Never before had he appeared so happy, and his
honest face was all aglow with his delight at seeing
Marian at last where she belonged.
“You fit in like an odd scissor,” he said to her when
they were alone. “Ain't it most time to tell?”
“Not yet,” returned Marian. “I would rather
wait until I am back at Redstone Hall. We are going
there next month, and then, too, I wish I knew how
much of Isabel's insinuations to believe.”
“Isabel be hanged,” said Ben. “She lied I know,
and mebby that letter was some of her devilment.
Has she washed them curtains yit?”
Marian replied by telling him of the letter from
Sarah Green and asking if he could explain it. But it
was all a mystery to him, and he puzzled his brain
with it for a long time, deciding at last that it might
have come from some of her Kentucky acquaintance
who chanced to be in New York, and sent it just for
mischief.
“But they overshot the mark,” said he. “You ain't
dead by a great sight, and I b'lieve I'd let the cat out
pretty soon. That makes me think you wrote that
-- 332 --
[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
Spottie was here. Where is the critter? 'Twould be
good for sore eyes to see her again.”
Marian went in quest of her, and on her return
found Alice with Ben, who, in her presence, dared not
manifest all that he felt at sight of his old friend.
Taking the animal on his lap he looked at it for a moment
with quivering chin; then stroking its soft fur,
he said, with a prolongation of each syllable, which
rendered the sound ludicrous, “Gri-mal-kin—poor
gri-mal-kin,” and a tear dropped on its back.
“What!” exclaimed Alice, coming to his side,
“what did you call the kitty?”
“Gri-mal-kin,” answered Ben, adding, by way
of explanation, “that, I b'lieve, is the Latin for
cat.”
Marian could not forbear laughing aloud, and as Ben
joined with her, it served to keep him from crying outright,
as he otherwise might have done.
“What are you going to do with it when you go
South?” he asked, and upon Alice's replying that they
should leave it with Mrs. Russell, he proposed taking
it instead and keeping it until Spring, when he could
return it.
This suggestion was warmly seconded by Marian,
and as Alice finally yielded the point, Ben carried
Spottie off the next morning, promising the little girl
that it should be well cared for in her absence. Alice
shed a few tears at parting with her pet, but they were
like April showers, and soon passed away in her joyful
anticipations of a speedy removal to Kentucky, for
Frederic was going earlier this season than usual, and
the 10th of November was appointed for them to start.
If they met with no delays they would reach Redstone
Hall on the anniversary of Marian's bridal, and to her
it seemed meet that on this day of all others she should
return again to her old home, and she wondered if
Frederic, too, would think of it or send one feeling of
regret after his missing bride. He did remember it,
for the November days were always fraught with me
-- 333 --
[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]
mories of the past. This year, however, there was a
difference, for though he thought much of Marian
Lindsey, it was not as he had thought of her before,
and he was conscious of a most unaccountable sensation
of satisfaction in knowing that even if she could
not go with him to Kentucky, her place would be tolerably
well filled by Marian Grey!
-- --
CHAPTER XXVI. REDSTONE HALL.
[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
News had been received at Redstone Hall, that the
family would be there on the 13th; but Frederic's
coming home was a common occurrence now, and did
not create as great a sensation among his servants as it
once had done. Still it was an event of considerable
importance, particularly as he was to bring with him a
new governess, who, judging from his apparent anxiety
to have everything in order, was a person of more
distinction than the prosy Mrs. Jones, or even the brilliant
Isabel. Old Dinah accordingly worked herself
up to her usual pitch of excitement, and then, long
before it was time, started off her spouse, who was to
meet his master at Big Spring Station, and who waited
there impatiently at least an hour ere the whistle and
smoke in the distance announced the arrival of the
train.
“We are here at last,” said Frederic, when they
stopped before the depot; and he touched the arm of
Marian, who sat leaning against a window, her head
bent down, and her thoughts in such a wild tumult
that she scarcely comprehended what she was doing or
where she was.
During the entire journey she had labored under the
highest excitement, which manifested itself sometimes
in snatches of merry songs, sometimes in laughter
almost hysterical, and again when no one saw her, in
floods of tears, which failed to cool her feverish impatience.
It seemed to her she could not wait, and she
-- 335 --
[figure description] Page 335.[end figure description]
counted every mile-stone, while her breath came faster
and faster as she knew they were almost there. With
a shudder she glanced at the clump of trees under
whose shadow she had hidden six years before, and
those who noticed her face as she passed out marvelled
at its deathly pallor.
“Jest gone with consumption,” was Phil's mental
comment; and he wondered at the eager, curious
glance which she gave to him. “'Spects she never
seen a nigger before,” he muttered; and as by this
time the travelers were comfortably seated in the wide
capacious carriage, he chirrupped to his horses, and
they moved rapidly on toward Redstone Hall.
Marian did not try longer to conceal her delight,
and Frederic watched her wonderingly, as with glowing
cheeks and beaming eyes she looked first from one
window and then from the other, the color deepening
on her face and the pallor increasing about her mouth,
as way-mark after way-mark was passed and recognized.
“You seem very much excited,” he said to her at
last; and, assuming as calm a manner as possible, she
replied:
“For years back the one cherished object of my life
was to visit Kentucky; and now that I am really here,
I am so glad! oh, so glad!” and Frederic could see the
gladness shining in her eyes, and making her so wondrously
beautiful to look upon that he was sorry when
the twilight shadows began to fall, and partially obscured
his vision.
“There is the house,” he said, pointing to the chimneys,
just discernible above the trees.
But Marian had seen them first, and when as they
turned a corner, the entire building came in view, she
sank back upon the cushion, dizzy and sick with the
thoughts which came crowding so fast upon her. The
day had been soft and balmy, and mingled with the
gathering darkness was the yellow, hazy light the sun
of the Indiam summer often leaves upon the hills. The
-- 336 --
[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]
early mist lay white upon the river, while here and
there a shower of leaves came rustling down from the
tall trees, which grew in such profusion around the old
stone house. And Marian saw everything — heard
everything—and when the horses' hoofs struck upon
the bridge, where once they fancied she had stood and
plunged into eternity, an icy chill ran through her
frame, depriving her of the power to speak or move.
Through the dim twilight she saw the dusky forms
gathered expectantly around the cabin doors—saw the
full, rounded figure of Dinah on the piazza—saw the
vine-wreathed pillar where six years ago that very
night, she had leaned with a breaking heart, and wept
her passionate adieu to the man, who, sitting opposite
to her now, little dreamed of what was passing in her
mind. In a distant hempfield she heard the song some
negroes sang returning from their labor, and as she listened
to the plaintive music, her tears began to flow, it
seemed so natural—so much like the olden time.
Suddenly as they drew nearer and the song of the
negroes ceased the stillness was broken by the deafening
yell which Bruno, from his cage, sent up. His voice
had been the last to bid the runaway good bye, and
it was the first to welcome her back again. With a
stifled sob of joy too deep for utterance, she drew her
veil still closer over her face, and when at last they
stopped and the light from the hall shone out upon
her, she sat in the corner of the carriage motionless
and still.
“Come, Miss Grey,” said Frederic, when Alice had
been safely deposited and was folded to Dinah's bosom,
“Come, Miss Grey, are you sleeping?” and he touched
the hand which lay cold and lifeless upon her lap.
“She has fainted,” he cried. “The journey and excitement
have over-taxed her strength,” and, taking
her in his arms as if she had been a little child, he
bore her into the house and up to her own chamber,
for he rightly guessed that she would rather be there
when she returned to consciousness.
-- 337 --
[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]
Laying her upon the lounge, he removed her bonnet
and veil, and then kneeling beside her, looked
wistfully into her face, which in its helplessness seemed
more beautiful than ever.
“Has she come to, yet?” asked the puffing Dinah,
appearing at the door. “It's narves what ailed her, I
reckon, and I told Lyd to put some delirian to the
steep. That'll quiet her soonest of anything.”
Frederic knew that his services were no longer needed,
and after glancing about the room to see that
everything was right, he went down stairs leaving Marian
to the care of Dinah, who, as her patient began
to show signs of returning consciousness, undressed her
as soon as possible and placed her in the bed, herself
sitting by and bathing her face and hands in camphor
and cologne. The fainting fit had passed away, but it
was succeeded by a feeling of such delicious languor
that for a long time Marian lay perfectly still, thinking
how nice it was to be again in her old room with
Dinah sitting by, and once as the hard, black hand
rested on her forehead, she took it between her own,
murmuring involuntarily, “Dear Aunt Dinah, I thank
you so much.”
“Blessed lamb,” whispered the old lady, “they told
her my name, I 'spect. 'Pears like she's nigher to me
than strangers mostly is,” and she smoothed lovingly
the bright hair floating over the pillow.
Twice that evening there came up the stairs a cautious
step which stopped always at the door, and Dinah
as often as she answered the gentle knock, came back
to Marian and said, “It's marster axin' is you any
wus.”
“Tell him I am only tired, not sick,” Marian would
say, and turning on her pillow, she wept great tears
of joy to think that Frederic should thus care for her.
At last, having drank the “delirian tea,” more to
please old Dinah than from any faith she had in its
virtues, she fell into a quiet sleep, which was disturbed
but twice, once when at nine o'clock Bruno was loosed
-- 338 --
[figure description] Page 338.[end figure description]
from his confinement, and with a loud howl went rushing
past the window, and once when Alice crept carefully
to her side, holding her breath lest she should
arouse her, and whispering low her nightly prayer.
Then, indeed, Marian moved as if about to waken,
and the blind girl thought she heard her say, “Darling
Alice,” but she was not sure, and she nestled
down beside her, sleeping ere long the dreamless sleep
which always came to her after a day of unusual
fatigue.
The rosy dawn was just stealing into the room, next
morning, when Marian awoke with a vague, uncertain
feeling as to where she was, or what had happened.
Ere long, however, she remembered it all; and, stepping
upon the floor, she glided to the window, to feast
her eyes once more upon her home. Before her lay
the garden, and though the November frosts had
marred its Summer glory, it was still beautiful to her;
and, hastily dressing herself, she went forth to visit
her olden haunts, strolling leisurely on until she
reached a little Summer-house which had been built
since she was there. Over the door were some pencil
marks, in Frederic's hand writing; and though the
rains had partly washed the letters away, there were
still enough remaining for her to know that “Marian
Lindsey” had been written there.
“He has sometimes thought of me,” she said; and
she was about entering the arbor, when there rose upon
the air a terrific yell, which, had she been an intruder,
would have sent her flying from the spot. But
she did not even tremble, and she awaited fearlessly
the approach of the huge creature, which, bristling
with rage, came tearing down the graveled walk, his
eyeballs glowing like coals of fire, and his head lowered
as if ready for attack.
Bruno was still on guard, and when, in the distance,
he caught a sight of Marian, he started with a lion-like
bound, which soon brought him near to the brave girl,
-- 339 --
[figure description] Page 339.[end figure description]
who calmly watched his coming, and, when he was
close upon her, said to him:
“Good old Bruno! Don't you know me, Bruno?”
At the first sound of her voice, the fire left the mastiff's
eye, for he, too, caught the tone which had once
so startled Alice, and which puzzled Frederic every
day; still, he was not quite assured, and he came rushing
on, while she continued speaking gently to him.
With a bound, half playful, half ferocious, he sprang
upon her, and, catching him around the neck, she
passed her hand caressingly over his shaggy mane, saying
to him, softly,
“I am Marian, Bruno! Don't you know me?”
Then, indeed, he answered her—not with a human
tongue, it is true; but she understood his language
well, and by the low, peculiar cry of joy he gave as he
crouched upon the ground, she knew that she was recognised.
Of all who had loved her at Redstone Hall,
none remembered her save the noble dog, who licked
her face, her hair, her hands, her dress, her feet; while
all the time his body quivered with the intense delight
he could not speak.
At last as she knelt down beside him, and laid her
cheek against his neck, he bent his head, and gave
forth a deep, prolonged howl, which was answered at
a little distance by a cry of horror, and turning quickly
Marian saw Frederic hastening toward the spot,
his face pale as ashes, and his whole appearance indicative
of alarm. He had been roused from sleep by
the yell which Bruno gave when he first caught sight
of Marian, and ere he had time to think what it could
be, Alice knocked at his door, exclaiming:
“Oh, Frederic, Miss Grey, I am sure, has gone into
the garden, and Bruno is not yet secured. I heard
him bark just like he did last year when he mangled
black Andy so. What if he should tear Miss Grey?”
Frederic waited for no more, but dressing himself
quickly he hastened out, sickening with fear, as he
came upon the fresh tracks the dog had made when
-- 340 --
[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]
going down the walk. He saw Marian's dress, and
through the lattice he caught a sight of Bruno.
“He has her down! He is drinking her life-blood!”
he thought; and for an instant the pulsations of his
heart stood still, nor did they resume their wonted beat
even after he saw the attitude of Marian Grey, and his
terrible watch-dog, Bruno.
“Marian!” he began, for he could not be formal
then. “Marian! leave him, I entreat you. He is cruelly
savage with strangers.”
“But I have tamed him, you see,” she answered,
winding her arms still closer around his neck, while
he licked again her face and hair.
Wonderingly Frederic looked on, and all the while
there came to him no thought that the two had met
before—that the hand patting so fondly Bruno's head
had fed him many a time—and that amid all the
changes which six years had made, the sagacious animal
had recognized his mistress and playmate, Marian
Lindsey.
“It must be that you can win all hearts,” he said,
watching her admiringly, and marvelling at her secret
power.
Shaking back her sunny curls, and glancing upward
into his face Marian answered involuntarily:
“No, not all. There is one I would have given
worlds to win, but it cast me off, just when I needed
comfort the most.”
She spoke impulsively, and as she spoke there arose
within her the wish that he, like Bruno, might know
her then and there. But he did not. He only remembered
what Will Gordon had said of her hopeless attachment
and her apparent confession of the same to him,
smote heavily upon his heart, though why he, a married
man, should care he could not tell. He didn't really care,
he thought; he only pitied her, and by way of encouragement
he said, “Even that may yet be won;” and
while he said it, there came over him a sensation of
dreariness, as if the winning of that heart would
-- 341 --
[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]
necessarily take from him something which was becoming
more and more essential to his happiness.
Their conversation was here interrupted by Josh,
who was Bruno's keeper, and had come to chain him
for the day. Marian knew him at once, though he
had changed from the short, thick lad of twelve to the
taller youth of seventeen; and when, as he saw her position
with Bruno, he exclaimed, “Goo-goo-good
Lord!” she turned her beaming face toward him and
answered laughingly, “I have a secret for charming
dogs.”
Involuntarily Josh's old cloth cap came off, while
over his countenance there flitted an expression as if
that voice were not entirely strange to him. Touching
his master's arm, and pointing to the kneeling maiden,
he stammered out:
“Ha-ha-hain't I s-s-seen her afore?”
“I think not,” answered Frederic, and with a doubtful
shake of the head, Josh attempted to lead Bruno
away.
But Bruno would not move, and he clung so obstinately
to Marian that she arose, and patting his side,
said playfully:
“I shall be obliged to go with him, I guess. Lead
the way, boy.”
With eyes protruding like saucers, Josh turned back,
followed by Marian and Bruno, the latter of whom offered
no resistance when his mistress bade him enter
his kennel, though he made woundrous efforts to escape
when he saw that she was leaving him.
“In the name of the Lord,” exclaimed Hetty, shading
her eyes with her hand, to be sure she was right,
“if thar ain't the young lady shettin' up the dog. I
never knowed the like o' that.”
Then as Marian came towards the kitchen, she continued,
“'Pears like I've seen her somewhar.”
“Ye-ye-yes,” chimed in Josh, who had walked faster
than Marian. “Who-o-oo is she, Hetty?”
Marian by this time had reached the door, where
-- 342 --
[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]
she stood smiling pleasantly upon the blacks, but not
daring to call them by name until she saw Dinah, who
curtesied low, and coming forward asked, “Is you better
this mornin'?”
“Yes, quite well, thank you. Are these your companions?”
said Marian, anxious for an opportunity to
talk with her old friends.
“Yes, honey,” answered Dinah. “This is Hetty,
and this is Lyd, and this—”
She didn't finish the sentence, for Hetty, who had
been earnestly scanning Marian's features, grasped her
dress, saying, “Whar was you born?”
“Jest like them Higginses,” muttered Dinah. “In
course, Miss Grey don't want to be twitted with bein'
a Yankee the fust thing.”
But Hetty had no intentions of casting reflections
upon the place of Marian's birth. Like Josh she had
detected something familiar in the young girl's face,
and twice she had swept her hand across her eyes to
clear away the mist and see if possible what it was
which puzzled her so much.
“I was born a great many miles from here,” said
Marian, and ere Hetty could reply, Josh, whose gaze
had all the time been riveted upon her, stuttered out,
“Sh-sh-she is-s-s-s like M-m-m-Miss Marian.”
Yes, this was the likeness they had seen, but Marian
would rather the first recognition should come from
another source, and she hastened to reply, “Oh, Mrs.
Raymond, you mean. Alice noticed it when I first
went to Riverside. You suppose your young mistress
dead, do you not?”
Instantly Dinah's woolen apron was called into use,
while she said, “Yes, poor dear lamb, if thar's any
truth in them Scripter sayin's, she's a burnin' and a
shining light in de kingdom come.” And the old negress
launched forth into a long eulogy, in the midst
of which Frederic appeared in quest of Marian.
“I am listening to praises of your wife,” she said,
and there was a mischievous triumph in her eye as she
-- 343 --
[figure description] Page 343.[end figure description]
saw how his forehead flushed, for he was beginning to
be slightly annoyed when she, as she often did, alluded
to his wife.
Why need she thrust that memory continually upon
him? Was it not enough for him to know that somewhere
in the world there was a wife, and that he would
rather hear any one else speak of her than the brighthaired
Marian Grey.
“Dinah can be very eloquent at times,” he said,
“but come with me to Alice. She has been sadly
frightened on your account,” and he led the way to the
piazza, where the blind girl was waiting for them.
Breakfast being over, Marian and Alice sought the
parlor, where, instead of the old fashioned instrument
which the former remembered as standing there, she
found a new and beautifully carved piano.
“Frederic ordered this on purpose to please you,”
whispered Alice. “He said it was a shame for you to
play on the other rattling thing.”
This was sufficient to call out Marian's wildest strains,
and as a matter of course the entire band of servants
gathered about the door to listen just as they once had
done when the performer was Isabel. As was quite
natural, they yielded their preference to the last comer,
old Hetty acknowledging that even “Miss Beatrice
couldn't beat that.”
It would seem that Marian Grey was destined to
take all hearts by storm, for ere the day was done her
virtues had been discussed in the kitchen and by the
cabin fire, while even the gallant Josh, at his work in
the hemp-field, attempted a song, which he meant to
be laudatory of her charms, but as he was somewhat
lacking in poetical talent, his music ran finally into
the well known ballad of “Mary Ann,” which suited
his purpose quite as well.
Meantime, Marian, stealing away from Alice, quietly
explored every nook and corner of the house, opening
first the little box where she once had kept her mother's
hair. It was just as she had left it, and kissing it
-- 344 --
[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]
reverently she placed it by the side of her silken locks, to
see how they compared. It might be that the tress
of the dead had faded somewhat, for there was certainly
a richer, darker tinge to her own wavy hair, and
bowing her head upon the bureau she dropped tears
of thankfulness that her childhood's prayer had been
more than answered. The library was visited next, and
she seated herself again in the chair where she had sat
when penning her last farewell to Frederic. Where
was that letter now? She wished that she could see
it, though she did not care to read it, and without any
expectation of finding it she pressed what she knew
was the secret spring to a private drawer. It yielded
to her touch—the drawer came open, and there before
her lay the letter—her letter—she knew it by its superscription,
and by its tear-stained, soiled appearance.
She had wept over it herself, but she knew full well
her tears alone had never blurred and blotted it like
this. Frederic's had mingled with them, and her
heart was trembling with joy when another object
caught her eye and quickened her rapid pulsations.
Her glove! the little black kid glove she had dropped
upon the bridge was there, wrapped in a sheet of paper,
and with it the handkerchief!
“Frederic has saved them all,” she whispered, shuddering
involuntarily, for it seemed almost like looking
into the grave, where he had buried these sad remembrances
of her. He had preserved them carefully, she
thought, and she continued her investigation, coming
at last upon a daguerreotype of herself, taken when
she was just fifteen.
“Oh, horror!” she cried, and sinking back in her
chair, she laughed until the tears ran at the forlorn little
face which looked upon her so demurely from the
casing. “Frederic must enjoy looking at you vastly,
and thinking you are his wife,” she said, and she felt a
thrill of pride in knowing that Marian Grey bore
scarcely the slightest resemblance to that daguerreotype.
-- 345 --
[figure description] Page 345.[end figure description]
There was a similarity in the features and in the
way the hair grew around the forehead, while the eyes
were really alike. But the likeness extended no further,
and she did not wonder that none, save Bruno,
had recognized her. Returning the picture to its
place, she was about to leave the room, when Frederic
came in, appearing somewhat surprised to find her
there, sitting in his chair as if she had a perfect right
so to do. At first she was too much confused to apologize,
but she managed at last to say:
“This cozy room attracted me, and I took the liberty
to enter. You have a very fine library, I think;
some of the books must have been your father's.”
It was the books, of course, which she came to see,
and sitting down opposite to her Frederic talked with
her about them until she chanced to spy a portrait,
put away behind the ponderous sofa, with its face
turned to the wall.
“Whose is it?” she asked, directing Frederic's attention
to it. “Whose is it, and why is it hidden there?”
Instantly the young man's face grew dark, and Marian
trembled beneath the glance he bent upon her.
Then the cold, hard look passed away, and he replied:
“It is an unfinished portrait of Mrs. Raymond,
taken from a daguerreotype of her when she was only
fifteen. But the artist did not understand his business,
and it looks even worse than the original.”
This last was spoken bitterly, and Marian felt the
hot blood rising to her cheeks.
“I never even told Alice of it,” he continued, “but
put it away in here, where I hide all my secrets.”
He glanced at the private drawer—so did Marian;
but she was too intent upon seeing a portrait which
could look worse than the daguerreotype to heed
aught else, and she said, entreatingly, “Oh, Mr. Raymond,
please let me see it, won't you? I lived in New
York a long time, you know, and perhaps I may have
met her, or even known her under some other name?
-- 346 --
[figure description] Page 346.[end figure description]
May I see it?” and she was advancing toward the
sofa, when Frederic seized both her hands, and holding
them in his, said, half hesitatingly, half mournfully:
“Miss Grey, you must excuse me for refusing your
request. Poor Marian was far from being handsome,
nay, I sometimes thought her positively ugly. She is
certainly so in the portrait, and a creature as highly
gifted with beauty as you, might laugh at her plain
features, but if you did—” He paused a moment, and
Marian's eyelashes fell beneath his steady gaze—“And
if you did,” he continued, “I never could like you
again, for she was my wife, and as such must be
respected.”
Marian could not tell why it was, but Frederic's
words and manner affected her painfully. She half
feared she had offended him by her eagerness to see the
portrait, while mingled with this was a strange feeling
of pity for poor, plain Marian Lindsey, as she probably
looked upon the canvas, and a deep respect for
Frederic, who would, if possible, protect her from
even the semblance of insult. Her heart was already
full, and, releasing her hands from Frederic's, she resumed
her seat, and leaning her head upon the writing-desk,
burst into tears, while Frederic paced the room,
wondering what, under the circumstances, he was expected
to do. He knew just how to soothe Alice, but
Marian Grey was a different individual. He could
not take her in his lap and kiss away her tears, but he
could at least speak to her; and he did at last, laying
his hand as near the little white one grasping the table
edge as he dared, and saying, very gently:
“If I spoke harshly to you, Miss Grey, I am sorry—
very sorry; I really did not intend to make you cry.
I only felt that I could not bear to hear you, of all
others, laugh at my poor Marian, and so refused your
request. Will you forgive me?”
And by some chance, as he looked another way, his
hand did touch hers, and held it, too! He did not
think that an insult to the portrait at all, nor yet of
-- 347 --
[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]
the supposed original; for there was something in the
way the snowy fingers twined themselves round his,
which drove all other ideas from his mind, and for one
brief instant he was supremely happy.
From the first he had thought of Marian Grey as a
sweet, beautiful young creature, whom some man
would one day delight to call his own; but the possibility
of loving her himself had never occurred to him
until now, when, like a flash of lightning, the conviction
burst upon him that, spite of Marian Lindsey—
spite of his marriage vow—spite of the humble origin
which would once have shocked his pride—and spite
of everything, Marian Grey had won a place in his
heart from which he must dislodge her. But, how?
He could not send her away, for she seemed a part of
himself, and he could not live without her; but he
would stifle his new-born love, he said, and as the best
means of doing so, he would talk to her often of his
wife as a person who certainly had an existence, and
would some day come back to him; so, when Marian
replied: “I feared you were angry with me, Mr. Raymond;
I would not have asked to see the portrait had
I supposed you really cared,” he drew his chair at a
respectful distance and said: “I cannot explain the
matter to you, but if you knew the whole sad story of
my marriage, and the circumstances which led to it,
you would not wonder that I am somewhat sensitive
upon the subject. I used to think beauty the principal
thing I should require in a wife, but poor Marian
had none of that, and were you to see the wretched
likeness, you would receive altogether too unfavorable
an impression of her; for, notwithstanding her plain
face, she was far too good for me.”
“Do you really think so?” was Marian's eager exclamation,
while close behind it was the secret struggling
hard to escape, but she forced it back, until such
time as she should be convinced that Frederic loved
her as Marian Grey, and would hail with delight the
news that she was indeed his wife.
-- 348 --
[figure description] Page 348.[end figure description]
He seemed surprised at her question, but he answered,
unhesitatingly:
“Yes; far too good for me.”
“And do you really wish to find her?” was Marian's
next question, which brought a flush to Frederic's face,
and caused him to hesitate a little ere he replied.
Yesterday he would have said Yes, at once, but since
coming into that library he had discovered that the
finding of his wife would be less desirable than before.
But it should not be so. He would crush every
thought or feeling which detracted in the least from
his late interest in Marian Lindsey, and with a great
effort he said:
“I really wish to find her;” adding, as he saw a peculiar
expression flit over Marian's face; “Wouldn't
you, too, be better pleased if Redstone Hall had a mistress?”
“Yes, provided that mistress were your wife, Marian
Lindsey,” was the ready answer; and, looking into her
face, Frederic was conscious of an uneasy sensation,
for Miss Grey's words would indicate that the presence
of his wife would give her real pleasure.
Of course, then, she did not care for him, as he cared
for her; and why should she? He asked himself this
question many a time after the chair opposite him was
vacant, and she had left him there alone. Why should
she, when she came to him with the knowledge that he
was already bound to another. She might not have
liked him perhaps had he been free, though, in that
case, he could have won her love, and compelled her
to forget the man who did not care for her. Taking
the high-backed chair she had just vacated, he rested
his elbow upon the table, and tried to fancy that Marian
Lindsey had never crossed his path, and Marian
Grey had never loved another. It was a pleasant picture
he drew of himself were Marian Grey his wife,
and his heart fairly bounded as he thought of her stealing
to his side, and placing upon his arm those little
soft white hands of hers, while her blue eyes looked
-- 349 --
[figure description] Page 349.[end figure description]
into his own, and her rose-bud lips called him “Husband!”
and, as he thought, it seemed to him more
and more that it must one day be so. She would be
his at last, and the sun of his domestic bliss would
shine upon him all the brighter for the dreary darkness
which had overshadowed him so long. From this
dream of happiness there came ere long a waking, and
burying his face in his hands he moaned aloud, “It
cannot be, and the hardest part of all to bear is the
wretched thought that but for my dastardly, unmanly
act, it might, perhaps, have been—but now, never!
never! Oh, Marian Grey! Marian Grey! I would
that we had never met!”
“Frederic, didn't you hear me coming? I made a
heap of noise,” said a voice close to his side, and
Alice's arm was thrown across his neck.
She had heard all he was saying, but she did not
comprehend it until he muttered the name of Marian
Grey, and then the truth flashed upon her.
“Poor Frederic,” she said, soothingly, “I pity you
so much, for though it is wicked, I am sure you cannot
help it.”
“Help what?” he asked, rather impatiently, for this
one secret he hoped to bury from the whole world, but
the blind girl had discovered it, and she answered unhesitatingly:
“Can't help loving Marian Grey. I've been fearful
you would,” she continued, as he made no reply. “I
did not see how you could well help it, either, she is so
beautiful and good, and every night I pray that if our
own Marian is really dead God will let us know.”
This was an entire change in Alice. Hitherto she had
pleaded a living Marian—now she suggested one deceased,
but Frederic repelled the thought at once.
“Marian was not dead,” he said, “and though he
admired Miss Grey, he had no right to love her. He
didn't intend to, either, and if Alice had discovered
anything, he trusted she would forget it.”
And this was all the satisfaction he would give the
-- 350 --
[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
little girl, who, feeling that he would rather be alone,
turned away, leaving him again with his unhappy
thoughts.
That night he joined the young girls in the parlor
and compelled himself to listen while Marian made the
old walls echo with her ringing, merry music. But
he would not look at her, nor watch her snowy fingers
sweeping over the keys, lest they should make worse
havoc with his heart-strings than they had already
done. At an early hour he sought his chamber where the
livelong night he fought manfully with the love which,
now that he acknowledged its existence, grew rapidly in
intensity and strength. It was not like the love he had
felt for Isabel—it was deeper, purer, more absorbing,
and what was stranger far than all, he could not feel
that it was wicked, and he trembled when he thought
how hardened he had become.
The next day, which was the Sabbath, he determined
to see as little of Marian as possible, but when at
the breakfast table she asked him in her usual frank,
open-hearted way to go with her to church, he could
not refuse, and he went, feeling a glow of pride at the
sensation he knew she was creating, and wondering
why she should be so excited.
“I cannot keep the secret much longer,” Marian
thought, as she looked upon the familiar faces of her
friends, and longed to hear them call her by her real
name. “I will at least tell Alice who I am, and if she
can convince me that Frederic would be glad, I will
perhaps explain to him.”
When church was out, Mrs. Rivers, who still lived
at her father's, pressed forward for an introduction,
and after it was over, whispered a few words to Frederic,
who replied, “Not in the least,” so decidedly that
Marian heard him, and wondered what Agnes' remark
could have been. She was not long left in doubt, for
as they were riding home, Frederic turned to her and
said: “Mrs. Rivers thinks you look like my wife.”
Marian's cheeks were scarlet, as she replied:
-- 351 --
[figure description] Page 351.[end figure description]
“Josh and Hetty thought so, too, and it is possible
there may be a resemblance,”
“Not the slightest,” returned Frederic, half vexed
that any one should presume to liken the beautiful girl
at his side to one as plain as he had always considered
Marian Lindsey to be.
Leaning back in the carriage, he relapsed into a
thoughtful mood, which was interrupted once by Marian's
asking “if he believed he should know his wife
in case he met her accidentally?”
“Know her? Yes—from all the world!” was the
hasty answer; and, wrapping his shawl still closer
about him, Frederic did not speak again until they
stopped at their own door.
That night, as Marian sat with Alice in their chamber,
she said to the little girl:
“If you could have any wish gratified which you
chose to make, what would it be?”
For an instant Alice hesitated—then her eyes filled
with tears, and, and winding her arms around her
teacher's neck, she whispered:
“At first I thought I'd rather have my sight—but
only for a moment—and then I wished, if Marian were
not dead, she would come back to us, for I'm afraid
Frederic is getting bad again, though he cannot help
it, I'm sure.”
“What do you mean?” Marian asked, and Alice replied:
“Don't you know? Can't you guess? Don't you
hear it in his voice when he speaks to you?”
Marian made no response, and Alice continued:
“Frederic seems determined to love everybody better
than Marian, and though I love you more than I
can tell, I want her to come back so much.”
“And if you knew she were coming, when would
you rather it should be?” asked Marian, and Alice
replied:
“Now—to-night; but as that is impossible, I'd be
satisfied with Christmas. Yes, on the whole, I'd rather
-- 352 --
[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]
it would be then; I should call her our Christmas Gift,
and it would be the dearest, sweetest one that I could
have.”
“Darling Alice,” thought Marian, “your wish shall
be gratified.”
And, kissing the blind girl affectionately, she resolved
that on the coming Christmas, one at least of
the inmates of Redstone Hall should know that Marian
Grey was only another name for the runaway Marian
Lindsey.
-- --
CHAPTER XXVII. TELLING ALICE.
[figure description] Page 353.[end figure description]
One by one the bright November days went by and
the hazy Indian Summer light faded from the Kentucky
hills, where now the December sun was shining
cold and clear. And as the weeks passed away, there
hung over Redstone Hall a dark, portentous cloud,
and they who had waited so eagerly the coming of the
holidays trembled lest the merry Christmas song
should prove a funeral dirge for the pet and darling of
them all. Alice was dying, so the physician said,
while Dinah, too, had prophesied that ere the New
Year came the eyes which never in this world had
looked upon the light would be opened to the glories
of the better land.
For many weary days and nights the fever flame
had burned in the young girl's veins, but it had left
her now, and like a fragile lily she lay among her pillows,
talking of Heaven and the grave as something
very near to her. Noiselessly Marian trod across the
floor, holding back her breath and speaking in soft
whispers, lest she should disturb the little sufferer
whose side she never for a moment left except to take
the rest she absolutely needed. Frederic, too, often
shared her vigils, feeling almost as anxious for one
as for the other. Both were very dear to him, and
Marian, as she witnessed his tender care of Alice, and
his anxiety for herself lest her stength should be overtasked,
felt more aud more that he was worthy of her
love. Alice, too, appreciated his goodness, as she had
-- 354 --
[figure description] Page 354.[end figure description]
never done before, and once when he sat alone with
her, and Marian was asleep, she passed her hand caressingly
over his face and said:
“Dear Frederic, you have been so kind to me, that
I am sure God has some good in store for you.”
Then as she remembered what would probably be
the greatest good to him, she continued, “I know
what's in your heart, and I pity you so much, but
there is light ahead; I've thought strange things, and
dreamed strange dreams since I lay here so sick,
and as I once was certain Marian was alive, so now I'm
almost certain that she's dead.”
“Hush, Alice, hush,” said Frederic, laying his head
upon the pillow beside her, but Alice did not heed
him, and she continued—
“I never saw her in this world, and maybe I shan't
know her right away, though next to mother, I reckon
she'll be the first to welcome me to Heaven, if she's
there, and I know she is, or we should have heard
from her. I shall tell her of her old home, Frederic; tell
her how we mourned for her when we thought that
she was dead. I don't know what it was that made
her go away, but I shall tell her you repented of the
act, and how you looked for her so long, and that if
you had found her you would have loved her, sure.
That will not be a lie, will it, Frederic?”
“No, darling, no,” was the faintly spoken answer,
and Alice continued:
“Then, when I have explained all, I'll steal away
from Heaven, just long enough to come and tell you
she is there. You'll be in the library, maybe, and
I reckon 'twill be dark, though if you'd any rather,
I'll come in the daytime, and when you feel
there's somebody near, somebody you can't see, you
may know that it is me come to say that you are free
to love the other Marian.”
“Don't, Alice, don't,” said Frederic, for it made his
heart bleed afresh to hear her talk of what he had no
hope would ever be.
-- 355 --
[figure description] Page 355.[end figure description]
But Alice's faith was stronger, and to Marian Grey
she sometimes talked in a similar strain, saying “she
knew she should meet the other one in Heaven,” and
Marian, while listening to her, felt that she must undeceive
her. “It may possibly make her better,” she
thought, and when, at last, the Christmas eve had
come, and it was her turn to watch that night, she determined
to tell her, if she fancied that she had
strength to bear it, One by one, the family servants
retired, and when at last they were alone, Marian
drew her chair close beside the bed, wondering how
she should commence, and what effect it would have
upon the little girl, who erelong awoke, and said to
her:
“I've been dreaming of Marian, and I thought she
looked like you do — but she don't of course; and I
wonder how I'll know her from my mother, for she, too,
was young when she died. If it were you, Miss Grey, I
could tell you so easily, for I should look among the
brightest angels there, and the one who sang the sweetest
song and had the fairest face, would certainly be
Marian Grey: but the other Marian—how shall I know
her—think?”
Leaning forward so that her hot cheek touched the
pale one of the sick girl, Marian said:
“Wouldn't you know her by her voice?”
“I'm afraid not,” answered Alice; “I thought you
were she at first when I heard you speak.”
“How is it now, darling?” Marian asked, in a voice
so tremulous that Alice started, and her white face
flushed as she replied: “You are not like her now, except
at times, and then—it's all so queer. There's a
mystery about you, Miss Grey—and seems sometimes
just like I didn't know what to think—you puzzle me
so!”
“Shall I tell you, Alice? Have you strength to hear
who and what I am?” Marian asked; and Alice answered
eagerly;
“Yes—tell me—do?”
-- 356 --
[figure description] Page 356.[end figure description]
“And you'll promise not to faint, nor scream, nor
reveal it to anybody, unless I say you may?”
“It must be something terrible to make me faint or
scream!”
“Not terrible, dearest, but strange!” and sitting
down upon the bed, Marian wound her arm around the
little girl.
It was a hazardous thing the telling that secret then.
but Marian did not realize what she was doing, and in
as calm a voice as she could command, she began:
“People call me Marian Grey, but that is not my
name!”
“Not Marian Grey!” and the brown eyes flashed
wonderingly. “Who are you, then, Marian what?”
Marian did not reply to this question, but said instead:
“I had seen you before that night at Riverside.”
“Seen me where?” and the little fingers trembled
with an indefinable dread of the shock which she instinctively
felt was waiting for her.
“I had seen you many times,” said Marian, “and that
is why my voice is familiar. Put your hand upon my
face again, and maybe you will know it.”
“I can't, I can't! you frighten me so!” gasped Alice,
and Marian continued:
“I must have changed much, for they who used to
know me have never suspected that I am in their
midst again—none but Bruno. Do you remember my
power over him? Bruno and I were playmates together.”
Marian paused and gazed earnestly at the child, who
lay panting in her arms, her face upturned and the
blind eyes fixed upon hers with an intensity she had
never before seen equalled. In the deep stillness of
the room she could hear the loud beating of Alice's
heart, and see the bed-clothes rise and fall with every
throb.
“Alice,” she said at last, “don't you know me now?'
and in her voice there was a world of yearning tenderness
and love.
-- 357 --
[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]
“Yes,” and over the marble face there shone a smile
of almost seraphic sweetness. “You are Marian—
my Marian—Frederic's Marian—Dinah's Marian—
All of us Marian!” and with a low, hysterical cry the
blind girl crept close to the bosom of her long lost
friend.
Stretching out her feeble arms she wound them
round Marian's neck, and raising herself upon her elbow,
kissed her lips, her cheek, her forehead, her hair,
whispering all the time, “Blessed Marian—precious
Marian—beautiful Marian—our Marian—Frederic's,
and mine, and everybody's. Oh, I don't want to go to
heaven now: I'd rather stay with you. Call him—call
Frederic, quick, and tell him? Why haven't you told
him before? Ho, Frederic, come here!” and the feeble
voice raised to its highest pitch, went ringing
through the room and penetrated even to the adjoining
chamber, where, since Alice's illness, Frederic had
slept.
“Alice,” said Marian, “if you love me, you will not
tell him now. I am not ready yet.”
“What if I should die?” Alice asked, and Marian
replied:
“You won't die. I almost know you won't. Promise,
Alice, promise,” she continued, as she heard Frederic's
step in the hall without.
“How can I—how can I? It will choke me to
death!” was Alice's answer, and the next moment
Frederic had crossed the threshold of the door.
“What is it, Miss Grey?” he asked. “Didn't you
call?”
“Alice is rather excited, that's all,” said Marian,
“and you can go back. We do not wish to disturb
you.”
“Frederic,” came a faint whisper from the bedside,
and knowing that farther remonstrance was useless,
Marian stood like a rock, while Frederic advanced toward
the child, who lay with her head thrown back,
the great tears rolling down her cheeks, and the great
-- 358 --
[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]
joy of what she had heard, shining out all over her
little face.
“Did you want me, birdie?” he asked, but ere he
had ceased speaking, Marian was at his side.
Alice knew that she was there, and she pressed both
hands upon her lips to force back the secret she had
been forbidden to divulge.
“Is she delirious?” Frederic asked, and shaking her
head, Alice whispered: “No, no, but happy, so happy.
Oh, Frederic, I don't want to die! Must I? If I take
a heap of Doctor's stuff, will I get well, think?”
“I hope so,” said Frederic, his suspicious of insanity
rapidly increasing.
“Give me your hand,” she continued, “and yours,
too, Miss Grey.”
Both were extended, and joining them together she
said, “Love her, Frederic. Love her all you want to.
You may—you may. It isn't wicked. Oh, Marian,
Marian.”
The last word was a whisper, and as it died away,
Marian seized Frederic's arm, and said, beseechingly:
“Please leave the room, Mr. Raymond. You see she
is excited, and I can quiet her best alone. Will you
go?”
The brown eyes looked reproachfully at her and entreatingly
at him, but neither heeded the expression,
and with a feeling that he scarcely understood what
the whole proceeding meant, and why he had been
called in if he must be summarily dismissed, Frederic
went out, leaving Marian alone with Alice.
“Why didn't you let me tell him?” the latter asked,
and Marian replied, “I shall tell him by and by:
but I am not ready yet, and you must not betray me.”
“I'll try,” said Alice, “but 'tis so hard. I had to
bite my tongue to keep the words from coming. Where
have you beeen? Why didn't you come to us before.
How came you so beautiful—so grand?” Alice asked,
all in the same breath.
But Marian absolutely refused to answer the
-- 359 --
[figure description] Page 359.[end figure description]
question until she had become quiet and been refreshed
with sleep.
“All in good time, dearest,” she said, “but you
must rest now. You are wearing out too fast, and you
know you do not want to die.”
This was the right chord to touch, and it had the desired
effect.
“Let me ask one question, and say one thing,” said
Alice, “and I won't talk another word till morning.
When you are ready may I tell Frederic, if I ain't
dead?”
“Yes, darling,” was the ready answer, and winding
her arms round Marian's neck, the blind girl continued:
“Isn't it almost morning?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And when it is, won't it be Christmas day?”
“Yes, but you have asked three questions, instead of
one.”
“I know—I know; but what I want to say is this:
“I wished my Christmas gift might be Marian, and it
is. Last year it was of a beautiful little pony, but
you are worth ten hundred million ponies. Oh, I'm
so glad—so glad,” and on the childish face there was a
look of perfect happiness.
Even after she shut her eyes and tried to sleep her
lips continued to move, and Marian could hear the
whispered words: “Our own Marian—our blessed
Marian.”
The excitement was too much for Alice, and when
next morning the physician came, he pronounced her
worse than she had been the previous night.
“But I ain't going to die,” said Alice resolutely;
“I can't die now,” and it was this very determination
on her part which did more to save her life than all
the doctor's drugs or Dinah's wonderful tears.
For many days she seemed hovering between life
and death, while Marian never for a moment left her,
and Alice was more quiet when she was sitting by,
holding her feverish hand; she seemed to have lost all
-- 360 --
[figure description] Page 360.[end figure description]
her desire to tell, for she never made any attempt so to
do, though she persisted in calling her teacher Marian,
and a look of pain always flitted over her face when
she heard her addressed as Miss Grey. Sometimes she
would start up, and winding her arms around her neck
would whisper in her ear, “Are you Marian for sure—
our Marian, I mean?”
“Yes, Marian Lindsey, sure,” would be the answer,
and the little girl would fall away again into a half
unconscious state, a smile of joy wreathing her white
lips, and an expression of peace resting on her face.
At last, just as the New Year's morning dawned, she
woke from a deep, unbroken sleep, and Marian and
Frederic, who watched beside her, knew that she was
saved. There were weeks of convalescence, and Dinah
often wondered at Alice's patience in staying so long
and willingly in the chamber where she had suffered so
much. But to Alice that sick room was a second paradise
and Marian the bright angel whose presence made all
the sunlight of her life.
Gradually as she could bear it, Marian told her everything
which had come to her since she left Redstone
Hall, and Alice's eyes grew strangely bright when she
heard that the bracelet she had always prized so much
was made from Marian's hair, and that Ben's visit to
Kentucky was all a plan of his to see if Frederic were
married.—Greatly was she shocked when she heard of
the letter which had almost taken Marian's life.
“Frederic never did that cruel thing,” she knew.
“But 'twas in his hand-writing,” said Marian, “and
until the mystery is cleared away, I cannot forgive
him.”
For a long time Alice sat absorbed in thought, then
suddenly starting forward, she cried: “I know, Marian.
I know now, Isabel did it. I'm sure she did. I
remember it all so plain.
“Isabel,” repeated Marian: “how could she? What
do you mean?”
“Why,” returned Alice, “You say you sent it a
-- 361 --
[figure description] Page 361.[end figure description]
few weeks after you went away, and I remember so
well Frederic's going to Lexington one day, because
that was the time it came to me that you were not
dead. It was the first morning, too, that Isabel heard
my lessons, and she scolded because I didn't remember
quick, when I was thinking all the time of you,
and my heart was aching so. For some reason, I can't
tell what, I showed her that note you left for me. You
remember it; don't you? It read:
“Darling Alice! Precious Alice: If my heart were
not already broken, it would break in leaving you.”
“Yes, yes; I remember,” said Marian, and Alice
continued:
“She said your hand-writing was queer, when she
gave me back the note. That evening, Josh came
back from Frankfort with a heap of letters for Frederic,
and one of them I know was from you. I was
standing out under the big maple tree thinking of you,
when Isabel came and asked to take the note again,
and I let her have it. Ever so long after, I started to
go into the library, for I heard somebody rustling
papers, and I didn't know but Dud was doing mischief.
Just as I got to the door, I heard a voice like Isabel's
only sounded scared like, exclaim, `It is from her,
but he shall never see it, never;' or something like
that, and when I called to her she wouldn't answer me
until I got close to her, and then she laughed as if she
was choked, and said she was trying to frighten me.
Marian, that her was you, and that he was Frederic.
She copied his writing, and sent the letter back because
she wanted Frederic herself.”
“Could she do such a thing,” said Marian more to
herself than to Alice, who replied:
“She can do anything; for Dinah says she's one of
the —, I reckon that I'll skip that word in there, because
it's almost swearing, but it means Satan's unaccountables,”
and Alice's voice dropped to a whisper at
what she fancied to be profanity.
Marian could understand why Isabel should do such
-- 362 --
[figure description] Page 362.[end figure description]
a wicked thing even better than Alice, and after reflecting
upon it for a time, she accepted it as a fact,
and even suggested the possibility of Isabel's having
been the author of the letter from Sarah Green.
“She was! she was!” cried Alice, starting to her
feet! “It's just like her—for she thought Frederic
would surely want to marry her then. I know she
wrote it, and managed to get it to New York somehow;”
and as is often the case poor Isabel was compelled
to bear more than her share of the fraud, for
Marian, too, believed that she had been in some way
implicated with the letter from Sarah Green.
“And I may tell Frederic now—mayn't I?” said
Alice. “Suppose we set to-morrow, when he's in the
library among the letters. He'll wonder what I'm
coming in there for, all wrapped up in shawls. But
he'll know plenty quick, for it will be just like me
to tell it all at once, and he will be so glad. Don't
you wish it was to-morrow now?”
Marian could not say she did, for she had hoped for
more decisive demonstration of affection on Frederic's
part ere she revealed herself to him, but Alice was so
anxious, and had waited so patiently, that she at last
consented, and when at supper she met Frederic as
usual, she was conscious of a different feeling towards
him than she had ever experienced before. He seemed
unusually dejected, though exceedingly kind to her,
talking but little, it is true, but evincing, in various
ways, the interest he felt in her, and even asking her
to sit with him awhile ere returning to Alice's chamber.
There was evidently something on his mind
which he wished to say, but whatever it might have
been, seven o'clock found it still unsaid, and as Alice
retired at that hour, Marian arose to go.
“Must you leave me?” he said, rising too, and accompanying
her to the door. “Yes, you must!” and
Marian little guessed the meaning these three words
implied.
She only felt that she was not indifferent to him—
-- 363 --
[figure description] Page 363.[end figure description]
that the story Alice was to tell him on the morrow
would be received with a quiet kind of happiness at
least—that he would not bid her go away as she once
had done before—and with the little blind girl, she,
too, began to think the morrow would never come.
-- --
CHAPTER XXVIII. TELLING FREDERIC.
[figure description] Page 364.[end figure description]
It was midnight, and from the windows of the
library at Redstone Hall there shone a single light, its
dim rays falling upon the haggard face of the weary
man, who, since parting from Marian in the parlor, had
sat there just as he was sitting now, unmindful of the
lapse of time—unmindful of every thing save the fierce
battle he was waging with himself. Hour by hour—
day by day—week by week, had his love for Marian
Grey increased, until now he could no more control it
than he could stay the mighty torrent in its headlong
course. It was all in vain that he kept or tried to
keep Marian Lindsey continually before his mind, saying
often to himself: “She is my wife—she is alive,
and I must not love another.”
He did not care for Marian Lindsey. He did not
wish to find her now—he almost hoped he never
should, though even that would avail him nothing, unless
he knew to a certainty that she were really dead.
Perhaps he never could know, and as he thought of
the long, dreary years in which he must live on with
that terrible uncertainty forever haunting him, he
pressed his hands upon his burning forehead and cried
aloud: “My punishment is greater than I can bear.
Oh, Marian Grey, can it be that you, who might have
been the angel of my life, were sent to avenge the
wrongs of that other Marian?”
He knew it was wicked, this intense, absorbing passion
for Marian Grey, but he could not feel it so, and
-- 365 --
[figure description] Page 365.[end figure description]
he would have given half his possessions for the sake
of abandoning himself for one brief hour to this love—
for the sake of seeing her eyes of blue meet with the
look he had so often fancied her giving to the man she
loved. And she loved him! He was sure of it! He
saw it those nights when he watched with her by Alice's
bedside; he had seen it since in the sudden flushing
of her cheek and the falling of her eyes when he
approached. And it was this discovery which prompted
him to the act he meditated. Not both of them
could stay there, himself and Marian, for he would not
that she should suffer more than need be. She had
recovered from her first and early love; she would get
over this, and if she were only happy, it didn't matter
how desolate her going would leave him, for she must
go, he said. He had come to that decision, sitting
there alone, and it had wrung great drops of perspiration
from his brow and moans of anguish from his
lips. But it must be—there was no alternative, he
thought, and in the chair where Marian Lindsey once
had written her farewell, he wrote to Marian Lindsey's
rival that Redstone Hall could be her home no longer.
“Think not that you have displeased me,” he said,
“for this is not why I send you from me. Both of us
cannot stay, and though for Alice's sake I would gladly
keep you here, it must not be. I am going to New
Orleans, to be absent three or four weeks, and shall
not expect to find you here on my return. You will
need money, and I enclose a check for a thousand dollars.
Don't refuse to take it, for I give it willingly,
and conduct is sadly at variance with my
words, you must believe me when I say that in all the
world you have not so true a friend, as
“Frederic Raymond.”
Many times he read this letter over, and it was not
until long after midnight that he sought his pillow, only
to toss from side to side with feverish unrest, and he
-- 366 --
[figure description] Page 366.[end figure description]
was glad when at last Josh came in to make the fire,
for by that token he knew it was morning.
“Tell Dinah I will breakfast in my room,” he said,
“and say to Phil that he must have the carriage ready
early, for I am going to New-Orleans, and he will carry
me to Frankfort.”
“Ye-e-es, Sir,” was Josh's answer, as he departed
with the message.
“Marster have breakfast in his room, and a goin' to
New-Orleans? In the Lord's name what's happened
him?” exclaimed Dinah, and when Marian came down
to her solitary meal, she repeated the story to her,
asking if she could explain it.
“Marster's looked desput down in the mouth a long
time back,” she said. “What you 'spect 'tis?”
Marian could not tell; neither did she venture a suggestion,
so fearful was she that Frederic's intended departure
would interfere with the plan of which Alice
had talked incessantly since daylight. Hastily finishing
her breakfast, she hurried back to her chamber,
whither the note had preceded her.
“Luce brought this to you from Frederic,” said
Alice, passing her the letter, “and she says he looks
like he was crazy. Read it and see what he wants.”
Marian accordingly tore open the envelope, and with
blanched cheek and quivering lip read that she must
go again from Redstone Hall, and worse than all, there
was no tangible reason assigned for the cruel mandate.
The check next caught her eye, and with a proud,
haughty look upon her face, she tore it in fragments
and scattered them upon the floor, for it seemed an
idle mockery for him to offer what was already hers.
“What is it, Marian?” asked Alice, and recovering
her composure Marian read to her what Frederic said,
while Alice's face grew white as hers had done before.
“You go away!” she exclaimed, bounding upon the
floor and feeling for the warm shawl which she wore
when sitting up. “You won't do any such thing.
-- 367 --
[figure description] Page 367.[end figure description]
You've as much right here as he has, and I'm going
this minute to tell him so.”
She had groped her way to the door and was just
opening it when Marian held her back, saying:
“You must not go out undressed and barefooted as
you are. The halls are cold. Wait here while I go
and learn the reason of this sudden freak.”
“But I want so much to tell him myself,” said Alice,
and Marian replied, “So you shall, I'll send Dinah
up to dress you and then I will come for you when it's
time.”
This pacified Alice, who already began to feel faint
with her exertions, and she crept back to bed, while
Marian descended the stairs, going first to Dinah as she
had promised, and then with a beating heart turning
her steps toward the library. It was much like facing
the wild beast in its lair, confronting Frederic in his
present savage mood. He felt himself as if his reason
were overturned, for the deliberate giving up of Marian
Grey, and the feeling that he should probably never
look upon her face again, had stirred, as it were, the
very depths of his heart's blood, and in a state of mind
bordering upon distraction, he was making the necessary
preparations for his hasty journey, when a timid
knock was heard outside the door.
“Who's there? I'm very busy,” was his loud, imperious
answer, but Marian was not to be thus baffled,
and turning the knob, she entered without further
ceremony, recoiling back a pace or two when she met
the expression of Frederic's eye.
With his hands full of papers, which he was thrusting
into his pocket, his hair disordered and his face
white as ashes, he turned toward her, saying; “Why
are you here, Miss Grey? Haven't you caused me
pain enough already? Have you received my note?”
“I have,” she answered, advancing still further into
the room. “And I have come to ask you what it
means. You have no right to dismiss me so suddenly
-- 368 --
[figure description] Page 368.[end figure description]
without an explanation. How have I offended? You
must tell me.”
“I said you had not offended,” he replied, “and
further than that I can give no explanation.”
“I shall not leave your house, nor yet this room until
you do,” was her decided answer, and with the air
of one who meant what she said, Marian went so near
to the excited man that he could have touched her had
he chosen.
For an instant the two stood gazing at each other,
Marian never wavering for an instant, while over Frederic's
face there flitted alternately a look of wonder,
admiration, and perplexity. Then that look passed
away and was succeeded by an expression of the deep
love he felt for beautiful girl standing so fearlessly before
him.
“I cannot help it,” he murmured at last, and tottering
to the door, he turned the key; then returning to
Marian, he compelled her to sit down beside him upon
the sofa, and passing his arm around her, so that she
could not escape, he began: “You say you will not
leave the room until you know why I should send you
from me. Be it so, then. It surely cannot be wrong
for me to tell when you thus tempt me to the act; so, for
one brief half-hour, you are mine—mine, Marian, and
no power can save you now from hearing what I have
to say.”
His looks, even more than his manner, frightened
her, and she said imploringly, “Give me the key, Mr.
Raymond. Unlock the door and I will go away without
hearing the reason.”
“I frighten you, then,” he answered, in a gentler
tone, drawing her nearer to him, “and yet, Marian
Grey, I would sell my life inch by inch rather than
harm a hair of your dear head. Oh, Marian, Marian,
I would to Heaven you had never crossed my path, for
then I should not have known what it is to love as madly,
as hopelessly, as wickedly as I now love you.
What made you come to me in all your bright, girlish
-- 369 --
[figure description] Page 369.[end figure description]
beauty, or why did Heaven suffer me to love you as I
do? My punishment was before as great as I could
bear, and now I must suffer this anguish, too. Oh,
Marian Grey, Marian Grey!”
He wound his arms close around her, and she could
feel his feverish breath as his lips almost touched her
burning cheek. In the words “Marian Grey, Marian
Grey,” there was a deep pathos, as if all the loving
tenderness of his nature were centered upon that name,
and it brought the tears in torrents from her eyes. He
saw them, and wiping them away, he said:
“The hardest part of all to me is the knowledge
that you must suffer, too. Forgive me for saying it,
but as I know that I love you, so by similar signs I
know that you love me. Is it not so, darling?”
Involuntarily she laid her head upon his bosom, sobbing:
“I have loved you so long—so long.”
But for her promise to Alice she would then have
told him all, but she must keep her word, and when
he rejoined, “It does, indeed seem long since that
night you came to Riverside,” she did not undeceive
him, but listened while he continued, “Bless you for
telling me of your love. When you are gone it will
be a comfort for me to think that Marian Grey once
loved me. I say once for you must overcome that
love. You must tear it out and trample it beneath
your feet. You can if you try. You are not as hard,
as callous as I am. My heart is like adamant, and
though I know that it is wicked to love you, and to
tell you of my love, I cannot help it. I am a wretch,
and when I tell you, as I must, just what a wretch I
am, it will help you to forget me—to hate me, it may
be. You have heard of my wife. You know she left
me on my bridal night, and I have never known the
joys of wedded bliss—never shall know, for even if
she comes back to me now, I cannot live with her!”
“Oh, Frederic!” And again the hot tears trembled
-- 370 --
[figure description] Page 370.[end figure description]
through the hands which Marian clasped before her
eyes.
“Don't call me thus,” said Frederic, entreatingly,
as he removed her hands, and held them both in his.
“Don't say Frederic, for though it thrills me with
strange joy to hear you, it is not right. Listen, Marian,
while I tell you why I married her who bears your
name, and then I'm sure you'll hate me—nor call me
Frederic again. I have never told but one, and that
one, William Gordon. I had thought never to tell it
again, but it is right that you should know. Marian
Lindsey was, or is, the Heiress of Redstone Hall. All
my boasted wealth is hers—every cent of it is hers.
But she didn't know it, for”—and Frederic's voice was
very low and plaintive now as he told to Marian Grey
how Marian Lindsey was an heiress—told her of his
dead parent's fraud—of his desire to save that parent's
name from disgrace, and his stronger desire to save
him from poverty. “So I made her my wife,” he said.
“I promised to love and cherish her all the time my
heart was longing for another.”
Marian trembled now, as she lay helpless in his
arms, and, observing it, he continued:
“I must confess the whole, and tell you that I loved,
or thought I loved, Isabel Huntington, though how I
could have fancied her is a mystery to me now. My
poor Marian was plain, while Isabel was beautiful, and
naught but Alice kept me from telling her my love.
Alice stayed the act—Alice sent me to New York to
look for Marian —”
“And did you never hear from her? Did she never
send you a letter?” Marian asked, and he replied:
“Never! If she had I should have known where
to find her.”
Then, as briefly as possible, for he knew time was
hastening, he told of his fearful sickness, and of the
little girl who took such care of him—told, too, of his
weary search for her, and of the many dreary nights
-- 371 --
[figure description] Page 371.[end figure description]
he had passed in thinking of her, and her probable
fate.
“Then you came,” he said, “and, struggle as I
would, I could not mourn for Marian Lindsey as I had
done before. I was satisfied to have you here until
the conviction burst upon me, that far greater than
any affection I had thought I could feel for that blue-eyed
girl, and ten-fold greater than any love I had felt
for Isabel Huntington, was my love for you. It has
worn upon me terribly. Look!” And pushing back
his thick brown locks, he showed her where the hair
was turning white beneath. “These are for you,” he
said. “There are furrows upon my face—furrows upon
on my heart—and can you wonder that I bade you go
and so no longer tempt me to sin? And yet, could I
keep you with me, Marian? Could I hold you to my
bosom just as I hold you now, and know that I had a
right so to do?—a right to call you mine—my Marian—
my wife? Not Heaven itself, I'm sure, has greater
happiness in store for those who merit its bliss than
this would be to me! Oh, why is the boon denied to
me? Why must I suffer on through wretched, dreary
years, and know that somewhere in the world there is
a Marian Grey, who might have been my wife?”
“Let me go for Alice,” said Marian, struggling to
release herself. “There is something she would tell
you.”
“Yes, in a moment,” he replied; “but promise me
first one thing. The news may come to me that I am
free, and if it does, and you are still unmarried, will
you then be my wife? Promise that you will, and the
remembrance of that promise will help me to bear a
little longer.”
“I do!” said Marian, standing up before him, and
holding one of his hands in hers. “I promise you,
solemnly, that no other man shall ever call me wife
save you.”
There were tears in Frederic's eyes, and his whole
-- 372 --
[figure description] Page 372.[end figure description]
frame quivered with emotion, as, catching at her
dress, for she was moving toward the door, he added:
“And you will wait for me, darling—wait for me
twenty years, if it needs must be? You will never be
old to me. I shall love you just the same when these
sunny locks are grey,” and he passed his hands caressingly
over her bright hair. There was a world of love
and tenderness in the answering look which Marian
gave to him as he opened the door for her to pass out,
and wringing his hands in anguish, he cried to himself,
“Oh, how can I give her up—beautiful, beautiful
Marian Grey!”
Swift as a bird Marian flew up the stairs in quest of
Alice, who was to tell the wretched man that it was
not a sin for him to love the beautiful Marian Grey.
“Alice, Alice! Go now—go quick!” she exclaimed,
bursting into the room.
“Go whar—for the dear Lord's sake?” said Dinah,
who had that moment come up, and consequently had
made but little progress in dressing Alice. “Go
whar? Not down stairs—'strue as yer born. She'll
cotch her death o' cold!”
“Hurry—do!” cried Alice, standing first on one
foot and then upon the other. “I must tell Frederic
something before he goes away. There, he's going!
Oh, Marian, help!” she fairly screamed, as she heard
the carriage at the door, and Frederic in the hall
below.
Marian was terribly excited, and in her attempts to
assist, she only made matters worse by buttoning the
wrong button, putting both stockings on the same
foot, pulling the shoe-lacing into a hard knot, which
baffled all her nervous efforts, while Dinah worked on
leisurely, insisting that Alice “wasn't gwine down,
and if there was anythin' killin' which marster 'or'to
know, Miss Grey could tell him herself.”
“Yes, Marian, go,” said Alice, in despair, as she heard
Dud bid Frederic good-by, and, scarcely conscious of
what she was about, Marian ran down the stairs, just
-- 373 --
[figure description] Page 373.[end figure description]
as Phil cracked his whip, and the spirited greys
bounded off with a rapidity which left her faint call
of “Stop, Frederic, stop!” far behind.
“I can write to him,” she thought, as she slowly retraced
her steps back to Alice, who was bitterly disappointed,
and who, after Dinah was gone, threw herself
upon the bed, refusing to be comforted.
“Three weeks was forever,” she said, and she suggested
sending Josh after the traveler, who, in a most
unenviable frame of mind, was riding rapidly towards
Frankfort.
“No, no,” said Marian, “I will write immediately,
so he can get the letter as soon almost as he reaches
New Orleans. It won't be three weeks before he returns,”
and she strove to divert the child's mind by repeating
to her as much as she thought proper of her
exciting interview with Frederic.
But Alice could not be comforted, and all that day
she lamented over the mischance which had taken
Frederic away before she could tell him.
“There's Uncle Phil,” she said, when towards night
she heard the carriage drive into the yard; “and
hark, hark!” she exclaimed, turning her quick ear in
the direction of the sound, and rolling her bright eye
around the room; “there's a step on the piazza that
sounds like his—'tis him—'tis him! He's come back!
I knew he would!” and in her weakness and excitement
the little girl sunk exhausted at Marian's feet.
Raising her up, Marian listened breathlessly, but
heard nothing save Phil, talking to his horses as he
drove them to the stable.
“He has not come,” she said, and Alice replied, “I
tell you he has. There—there, don't you hear?” and
Marian's heart gave one great bound as she, too, heard
the well-known footstep upon the threshold and Frederick
speaking to his favorite Dud, who had run to
meet “his mars,” asking for sugar-plums from New
Orleans.
There had been a change in the time-table, and
-- 374 --
[figure description] Page 374.[end figure description]
Frederic did not reach Frankfort until after the tram
he intended to take had gone. His first thought was
to remain in the city, and wait for the next train from
Lexington. Accordingly he gave his parting directions
to Phil, who being in no haste to return, loitered away
the morning and a portion of the afternoon before he
turned his horses homeward. As he was riding up the
long hill which leads from Frankfort into the country
beyond, he unexpectedly met his master, who had
been to the cemetery, and was just returning to the
Capitol Hotel.
All the day Frederic had thought of Marian Grey,
and with each thought it had seemed to him more and
more that he must see her again, if only to hear her
say that she would wait all time for him, and when he
came upon Phil, who he supposed was long ere this at
Redstone Hall, his resolution was taken, and instead
of the reproof he knew he merited, Phil was surprised
at hearing his master say, as he made a motion for him
to stop:
“Phil, I am going home.”
And thus it was that he returned again to Redstone
Hall, where his coming was hailed with eager joy by
Marian and Alice, and created much surprise among
the servants.
“My 'pinion he's a little out of his head,” was all the
satisfaction Phil could give, as he drove the carriage to
the barn, while Frederic, half repenting of his rashness
in returning, and wondering what good excuse he
could render, went to his own room—the one formerly
occupied by his father—where he sat before the glowing
grate, when Alice appeared, covered with shawls,
and her face all aglow with her excitement.
She would not be kept back another moment, lest
he should go off again, so Marian had wrapped her up
and sent her on her mission. Frederic sat with his face
turned toward the fire, and though by the step he knew
who it was that entered the door, he did not turn his
-- 375 --
[figure description] Page 375.[end figure description]
head or evince the least knowledge of her presence until
she stood before him, and said, inquiringly:
“Frederic, are you here?”
“Yes;” was the answer, rather curtly spoken, for he
would rather be alone.
“Frederic!” and the bundle of shawls trembled violently.
“I have come to tell you something about
Marian.”
“I don't wish to hear it,” was his reply; and, nothing
daunted, Alice continued:
“But you must hear me. Her name isn't Miss
Grey. She is a married woman, and has a living husband;
and you—”
She did not finish the sentence, for like a tiger Frederic
started up, and seizing her by the shoulder, exclaimed:
“You dare not tell me that again. Marian
Grey is not married. She never had a husband,” and
as the maddening thought swept over him, that possibly
the blind girl told him truly, he staggered against
the mantel, where he stood panting for breath, and enduring,
as it were, all the agonies of a lingering, painful
death.
“Sit down,” said Alice, and like a child he obeyed,
while she proceeded, “Miss Grey has deceived us all,
and it is strange, too, that none of us should know her—
none but Bruno. Don't you remember how he
wouldn't bite her, just because he knew her when we
didn't? Don't you mind how I told you once maybe
the Marian who went away would come back to us
some day so beautiful we should not know her? You
are listening, ain't you?”
“Yes, yes,” came in a quick, short gasp from the
arm-chair.
“Well, she has come back! She called herself Marian
Grey so we would not guess right off who she was,
but she ain't Marian Grey. She's the other one—she's
MY Marian, Frederic, AND YOUR WIFE—”
As Alice was speaking Frederic had risen to his
feet. Drop by drop every particle of blood receded
-- 376 --
[figure description] Page 376.[end figure description]
from his face, leaving it colorless as ashes. There was
a wild, unnatural light flashing from his eyes—his
hands worked nervously together—his hair seemed
starting from its roots, and with his head bent forward,
he stood transfixed as it were by the dazzling
light which had burst upon him. Then his lips parted
slowly, and more like a wailing cry than a prayer of
thanksgiving, the words “I thank thee, oh, my God,”
issued from them. The next moment the air near
Alice was set in rapid motion—there was a heavy fall,
and Frederic Raymond lay upon the carpet white and
still as a block of marble.
Like lightning Alice flew across the floor, but swift
as were her movements, another was there before her,
and with his head upon her lap was pressing burning
kisses upon his lips and dropping showers of tears upon
his face. Marian had stood without the door, listening
to that dialogue, and when by the fall she knew
that it was ended, she came at once and knelt by the
fainting man, who ere long began to show signs of
consciousness. Alice was first to discover this, and
when sure that he would come back to life, she glided
silently from the room, for she knew that she would
not be needed there.
She might have tarried yet a little longer, for the
shock to Frederic had been so sudden and so great,
that though his lips moved and his fingers clutched
eagerly at the soft hand feeling for his pulse, he did
not seem to heed aught else, until Marian whispered
in his ear:
“My husband—may I call you so?”
Then, indeed, he started from his lethargy, and,
struggling to his feet, clasped her in his arms, weeping
over her passionately, and murmuring as he did
so:
“My wife—my darling—my wife! Is it true that
you have come to me again? Are you my Marian?”
Daylight was fading from the room, for the Winter
sun had set behind the western hills, and leading her
-- 377 --
[figure description] Page 377.[end figure description]
to the window, he turned her face to the light, gazing
rapturously upon it, and saying to her:
“You are mine—all mine! God bless you, Marian!”
He kissed her hands, her neck, her lips, her forehead,
her hair, and she could feel his hot tears falling
amid the shining curls he parted so lovingly from her
brow. They were not hateful to him now—and he
passed his hand caressingly over them, whispering all
the while:
“My own beautiful Marian—my bride—my wife!”
Surely, in this moment of bliss, Marian felt repaid
for all that she had suffered, when at last as thoughts
of the dreadful past came over Frederic, he led her to
the sofa, and said, “Can you forgive me, darling?”
she turned her bright eyes up to his, and by the expression
of perfect happiness resting there, he knew
she had forgotten the cold, heartless words he spoke
to her, when once, at that very hour, and in that very
place, he asked her to be his. That scene had faded
away, leaving no cloud between them. All was sunshine
and gladness, and with her fair head resting on
his bosom — not timidly, as it had lain there in
the morning, but trustingly, confidingly, as if that
were its rightful resting-place—they sat together until
the rose-red tinge faded from the western sky, and the
night shadows had crept into the room.
More than once Alice stole on tiptoe to the door, to
see if it were time for her to enter, but as often as she
heard the low murmur of their voices, she went noiselessly
back, saying to herself: “I won't disturb them
yet.”
At last as she came once she stumbled accidentally,
and this woke Marian from the sweetest dream which
ever had come to her.
“'Tis Alice,” she said; and she called to the little
girl who came gladly, and climbing into Frederic's
lap, twined her arms around his neck and laid a cheek
against his own, without word of comment.
-- 378 --
[figure description] Page 378.[end figure description]
“Blessed Alice, I owe you more than I can repay,”
he said, and Marian, far better than the child, appreciated
the full meaning these words conveyed.
But for the helpless blind girl this hour might never
have come to them, and the strong man felt it so, as
he hugged the little creature closer to him, blessing her
as his own and Marian's good angel. Observing that
she shivered as if with the cold, he arose, and drawing
the sofa directly before the fire, resumed his seat
again, with Marian between himself and Alice, his arm
around her neck and his lips almost constantly meeting
hers. He could not remove his eyes from her, she
seemed to him so beautiful, with the firelight falling on
her sparkling face and shining on her hair. That hair—
how it puzzled him, and winding one of the curls
about his fingers he said, half laughingly, half reluctantly,
“Your hair was not always this color.”
Then the blue eyes flashed up into his, and Marian
replied by telling whence came the change, and reminding
him that she was the same young girl of
whom the Yankee Ben had spoken when he visited
Kentucky.
“And you had almost died, then, for me, my precious
one,” said Frederic, kissing the sunny locks.
Just at this point, old Dinah appeared in the door,
which, like most Kentucky doors, was left ajar. She
saw the position of the parties—saw Frederic kiss Marian
Grey—saw Alice's look of satisfaction as he did
so, and in an instant all the old lady's sense of propriety
was roused to a boiling pitch.
Since Marian had revealed herself to Alice, the little
girl had said to Dinah, by way of preparing her
for the surprise when it should come, that “there was
some doubt concerning the death of Marian—that
Frederic believed she had been with him in New
York, and had taken means to find her.” This story
was, of course, repeated among the servants, some of
whom credited it, while others did not. Among the
latter was Dinah. She wouldn't believe “she had
-- 379 --
[figure description] Page 379.[end figure description]
done all her mournin' for nothin',” and in opposition
to Hetty, she persisted in saying Marian was dead.
When, however, she saw her master's familiarity with
Miss Grey, she accepted of her young mistress's existence
as a reality, and was terribly incensed against the
offending Marian Grey.
“The trollop!” she muttered. “But I'll bring
proof agin her,” and hurrying back to the kitchen, she
told to the astonished blacks, “how't marster done
kissed Miss Grey spang on her har, and on her month,
and hugged her into the bargain, when he didn't know
for certain that t'other one was dead; and if they
didn't b'lieve it, they could go and see for themselves,
provided they went mighty still.”
“Tole you he was crazy,” said Uncle Phil, starting
to see the wonderful sight, and followed by a troop of
negroes, all of whom trod on tiptoe, a precaution
wholly unnecessary, for Frederic and Marian were too
much absorbed in each other to heed the dusky group
assembled round the door, their white eyes growing
larger as they all saw distinctly the arm thrown across
Marian's neck.
“Listen to dat ar, will you?” whispered Hetty, as
Frederic said, “Dear Marian,” while old Dinah chimed
in, “'Clar for't, it makes my blood bile, and he not a
widower nuther!”
“Quit dat!” she exclaimed aloud, as her master
showed signs of repeating the kissing offense; and, in
an instant, Frederic sprang to his feet, an angry flush
mounting to his face when he saw the crowd at the
door.
Then, as he began to comprehend its meaning, the
frown gave place to a good-humored laugh, and taking
Marian's hand, he led her toward the assembled
blacks, saying to them:
“Rejoice with me that the lost one has returned to
us again, for this is Marian Lindsey—my wife and
your mistress—changed, it is true, but the same Marian
who went from us more than six years ago.”
-- 380 --
[figure description] Page 380.[end figure description]
“Wonder if he 'spects us to swallow dat ar?” said
the unbelieving Hetty.
Dinah, on the contrary, had not the shadow of a
doubt, and she dropped on her knees at once, kissing
the very hem of Marian's dress, and exclaiming through
her tears:
“Lord bress you, Miss Marian. You've mightily
altered, to be sure, but ain't none the wus for that.
I'm nothin' but a poor old nigger, and can't say what's
in my heart, but it's full and runnin' over, bless you,
honey.”
Dinah's example was contagious, and more than
one prostrated themselves before their mistress, while
their howling cries of surprise and delight were almost
deafening. Particularly was Josh delighted, and
while the noise went on, he took occasion to “balance
to your partner,” in the hall, with a young yellow
girl, who thought his stammering was music, and his
ungainly figure the most graceful that could be conceived.
When the commotion had in a measure subsided,
and Hetty had gone over to the popular side,
saying, “she knew from the first Marian was somebody,”
Frederic made a few brief explanations as to
where their mistress had been, and then dismissed
them to their several duties, for he preferred being
alone again with his wife and Alice.
Supper was soon announced, but little was eaten by
any one. They were too much excited for that, and as
soon as the meal was over, they returned to Frederic's
room, where, sitting again between her husband and
Alice, Marian told them, as far as possible, everything
which had come to her since leaving Redstone
Hall.
“Can't I ever know what made you go away?”
Alice asked; and Frederic replied:
“Yes, birdie, you shall;” and, without sparing himself
in the least, he told her all.
“Marian an heiress, too!” she exclaimed. “Will
marvels never cease?” and she laid her head which
-- 381 --
[figure description] Page 381.[end figure description]
was beginning to grow weary, upon Marian's lap,
saying, “I never knew till now one half how good
you are. No wonder Frederic thought that he had
killed you. It was wicked in him, very,” and
the brown eyes looked sleepily into the fire, while
Marian replied:
“But is all forgotten now.”
It did seem to be, and in the long conversation
which lasted till almost midnight, there was many a
word of affection exchanged, many a confession made,
many a forgiveness asked, and when, at last they
parted, it was with the belief that each was all the
world to the other.
Like lightning the news spread through the neighborhood
that Frederid Raymond's governess was Frederic
Raymond's wife; and, for many days the house
was thronged with visitors, most of whom remembered
little Marian Lindsey, and all of whom offered their
sincere congratulations to the beautiful Marian Grey,
for so she persisted in being called, until the night of
the 20th of February, when they were to give a bridal
party. Then she would answer to Mrs. Raymond,
she said, but not before, and with this Frederic was
fain to be satisfied. Great were the preparations for
that party, to which all their friends were to be bidden,
and as they were one evening making out the list, Marian
suggested Isabel, more for the sake of seeing
what Frederic would say, than from any desire to
have her present.
“Isabel,” he repeated, “never. I cannot so soon
forget her treachery,” and a frown darkened his handsome
face, but Marian kissed it away as she said:
“You surely will not object to Ben, the best and
truest friend I ever had.”
“Certainly not,” answered Frederic. “I owe Ben
Burt more than I ever can repay, and I mean to keep
him with us. He is just the man I want upon my
farm—your farm, I mean,” he added, smiling
-- 382 --
[figure description] Page 382.[end figure description]
knowingly upon her, and catching in his the little hand
raised to shut his mouth.
But Marian had her revenge by refusing to let him
kiss her until he had promised never to allude to that
again.
“I gave you Redstone Hall,” she said, “that night
I ran away, and I have never taken it back, but have
brought you in instead an incumbrance which may
prove a most expensive one.” And amid such pleasantries
as these Marian wrote the note to Ben, and then
went back to her preparations for the party, which,
together with the strange discovery, was the theme of
the whole country.
-- --
CHAPTER XXIX. BEN.
[figure description] Page 383.[end figure description]
Ben sat among his boxes and barrels cracking hickory
nuts and carrying on a one sided conversation with
the well fed cat and six beautiful kittens, which were
gamboling over the floor, the terror of rats and mice
and the pride of their owner, who found his heart altogether
too tender to destroy any one of them by the
usual means of drowning or decapitation. So he was
literally killing them with kindness, and with his seven
cats and odd ways was the wonder and favorite of the
entire village.
The night was dark and stormy, and fancying he
had dismissed his last customer he had settled himself
before the glowing stove with nearly half a peck of
nuts at his side, when the door opened, and a little boy
came in, his light hair covered with snow, which had
also settled upon other portions of his person.
“Good evenin', Sandy,” was Ben's salutation.
“What brung you here to-night?”
“Got you a letter,” returned Sandy, who was the
chore boy of the Post Master. “It's been a good
while coming, too, for all it says `in haste,”' and passing
the note to Ben, he caught up five or six of the
kittens, while Ben, tearing open the envelope and
snuffing a tallow candle with his fingers read:
“Dear Ben,
“Frederic knows it all, and we are so happy. We
are to have a great party on the 20th, and you must
-- 384 --
[figure description] Page 384.[end figure description]
surely come. Don't fail us, that's a dear, good Ben,
but come as soon as you get this. Then I will tell you
what I can't write now, for Frederic keeps worrying
me with teasing me to kiss him.
Yours truly,
“Marian.
“P. S.—Alice sends her love, so does Frederic, and
so do I, dear Ben.”
“I 'most wish she'd left off that last, and that
about his kissin' her,” said Ben, when, after the boy
Sandy departed he was alone. “It makes me feel so
streaked like. Guy, wouldn't I give all my groceries,
and the six cats into the bargain, to be in Fred Raymond's
boots;” and, taking up the kitten he called
“Marian Grey,” he fondled it tenderly, for the sake
of her whose name it bore. “I shall go to this party,”
he continued, as his mind reverted again to the letter,
“though I'll be as much out of place as a toad in a
sugar bowl; but I can see Marian, and that little
blind girl, and Josh. Wa'n't he a case, though?”
And leaning back in his chair, Ben mentally made the
necessary arrangements for leaving.
These arrangements were next day carried into effect,
and as he must start at once if he would be there
in time for the party, he took the night express for
Albany, having left his feline family to the care of
the boy Sandy. The second night found him on the
train between Buffalo and Cleveland, and as the weather
was very cold and the seat near the stove unoccupied,
he appropriated it to himself, and was just falling
away to sleep, when a lady, wrapped in velvet
and furs, with a thickly dotted vail over her face,
came up to him, and said, rather haughtily:
“Can I have this seat, sir? I prefer it to any other.”
“So do I,” returned Ben; “but bein' you're a woman,
I'll give it up, I guess.”
And he sought another, of which there were plenty,
for it was the last car, and not one-third full.
-- 385 --
[figure description] Page 385.[end figure description]
“Considerable kind o' toppin',” was his mental
comment, as he coiled himself in his shaggy overcoat
for a second time, sleeping ere long so soundly that
nothing disturbed him, until at last, as they turned a
short curve, the car was detached from the others,
and, leaving the track, was precipitated down an embankment,
which, fortunately, was not very steep,
so that none were killed, although several were
wounded, and among them the lady who had so unceremoniously
taken possession of Ben's comfortable
seat.
“Wall, now,” said Ben, crawling out of a window,
and holding fast to his hat, which being new, was his
special care, “if this ain't a little the imperlitest way
of wakin' a feller out of a sound sleep, to pitch him
head over heels in among these blackb'ry bushes and
stuns; but who the plague is that a screechin' so?—a
woman's voice, too!”
And with all his gallantry aroused, Ben went to
the rescue, feeling his way through briars and
grass and broken pieces of the car, until he reached
the human form struggling beneath the ruins, in close
proximity to the hissing stove.
“Easy, now, my gal,” he said, lifting her up. “Haul
your foot out, can't you?”
“No, no, it's crushed;” and Ben's knees shook beneath
him at the cry of pain.
Relief soon came from other sources, and as this
lady seemed more seriously injured than either of the
other passengers, she was carried carefully to a dwelling
near by, and laid upon a bed, before Ben had a
chance to see her features distinctly.
“Pretty well jammed,” said he, examining the bonnet,
which the women of the farm-house had removed.
Supposing he meant herself, the lady moaned,
“Oh, sir, is my face entirely crushed?”
“I meant your bonnet,” returned Ben, “though if I
was to pass judgment on you, I should say some of your
feathers was crumpled a little; but law, beauty ain't
-- 386 --
[figure description] Page 386.[end figure description]
but skin deep. It's good, honest actions that makes
folks liked.”
And taking the lamp, he bent to investigate, discovering
to his utter amazement, that the lady was none
other than Isabel Huntington!
Some weeks before, and ere Marian's identity with
Frederic's wife had heen made known, Mrs. Rivers had
invited her to visit Kentucky, and as there was now
nothing in Yonkers to interest her she had accepted,
with the forlorn hope that spite of Frederic's improbable
story about a living wife, he might eventually be
won back to his old allegiance. Accordingly she had
taken the same train and car with Ben, and by rather
rudely depriving him of his seat near the stove had
been considerably injured, receiving several flesh
wounds, besides breaking her ankle. For this last,
however, she did not care; that would get well again;
but her face—was it so disfigured as to spoil her
boasted beauty? This was her constant thought as she
lay moaning upon her pillows, and when for a few moments
she was alone with Ben, whom she knew to be
the Yankee peddler, and who considered it his duty to
stay with her, she said to him:
“Please, Mr. Butterworth, tell me just how much I
am bruised, and whether I shall probably be a fright
the rest of my days.”
“Wall, now,” returned Ben, taking the lamp a second
time and coming nearer to her, “there's no knowin'
how you will look hereafter, but the fact is you
ain't none too han'some now, with your face swelled
as big as two, and all scratched up with them pesky
briars.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Isabel, “but the swelling
will go down and the scratches will get well. That
isn't all.”
“You're right,” said Ben, peering curiously at her;
“that ain't all. You know, I 'spose, that six of your
front teeth are knocked out.”
“Yes, but false ones will remedy that. I'll have
-- 387 --
[figure description] Page 387.[end figure description]
them made a little uneven so as to look natural; go
on.”
“Wall,” continued Ben, “you've fixed your teeth,
but what are you goin' to do with your broke nose?”
`,Oh!” screamed Isabel, clasping her hand to that
organ, which, from its classic shape had been her special
pride. “Not broken—is it broken, true?”
“Looks mighty like it,” answered Ben, “but law!
doctors can do anything. They'll tinker it up so it
will answer to sneeze out of and smell with as good as
ever; and they'll sew up that ugly gash, too, that runs
like a Virginny fence from your ear up onto your forehead
and part of your cheek. Looks as though there'd
been a scar of some kind there before,” and looking
closer, Ben saw the mark which the hot iron had made
that night when the proud Isabel had given the cruel
blow to the blind girl.
This she had heretofore managed to conceal by combing
over it her hair, but nothing could hide the seam
she knew would always be upon her forehead and
cheek.
“Oh, I wish I could die,” she groaned, “if I must
be so mutilated.”
“Pshaw! no you don't,” returned Ben, now acting
the part of a consoler. “Your eyes ain't damaged,
nor your hair neither, only singed a little with the
stove. There's some white ones, I see, but they must
have been there before. Never used Wood's brimstony
stuff, did you? That'll keep it from turnin.' I
knew a chap once with a broke nose that looked like
the notch in the White Mountains, and nobody thought
of it, he was so good. Maybe your'n ain't so bad.
Perhaps it's only out of jint. The doctor'll know—
here he comes,” and Ben stood back respectfully, while
the physician examined the nature and extent of Isabel's
injuries.
There was nothing serious, he said; nothing from
which she would not recover. She was only stunned
and bruised, besides having a broken ancle. The cut
-- 388 --
[figure description] Page 388.[end figure description]
on the face would probably leave a scar, and the nose
never be straight again, otherwise she would ere long
be as well as ever, but she must of course remain
where she was for two or three weeks, and he asked if
she had friends with her.
“No,” she said, while Ben said: “Yes, I'm her
friend, and though I want to go on the wust way, I'll
stay till her mother comes. We'd better telegraph, I
guess.”
This brought the tears from the heartless Isabel, for
she appreciated Ben's kindness in not deserting her,
and when again they were alone, she thanked him for
so generously staying with her when she heard him say
he wished to go on.
“Were you going to Kentucky?” she asked, and Ben
replied: “Yes, goin' to see how Miss Raymond looks
at the head of a family. You've heard, I s'pose, that
Marian Grey was Fred's run-away wife, and that they
are as happy now as two clams.”
Unmindful of the fierce twinges of pain it gave her
to move, Isabel started up exclaiming, “No, no, how
can that be?”
“Just as easy,” said Ben, proceeding to narrate a
few particulars to his astonished listener, who, when
he had finished, lay back again upon her pillow, weeping
bitterly.
This, then, was the end of all her secret hopes.
Frederic was surely lost to her; the beautiful Marian
Grey was his wife, and what was worse than all, her
treachery was undoubtedly suspected, and what must
they think of her? Poor Isabel, she was in a measure
suffering for her sins, and she continued to weep while
Ben tried in vain to sooth her, talking to her upon
the subject uppermost in his mind, namely, Marian's
happiness and his own joy that it had all come right at
lasi. Isabel would rather have heard of anything else,
but when she saw how kind Ben was, she compelled
herself to listen, even though every word he said of
-- 389 --
[figure description] Page 389.[end figure description]
Marian and Frederic pierced her with a keener pain
than even her bruises produced.
“I shan't be in time for the doin's any way,” thought
Ben, when Mrs. Huntington did not come at the expected
time, and as he fancied it his duty to let Marian
know why he was not there, he telegraphed to
her, “We've had a break down, and Isabel is knocked
into a cocked hat.”
This telegram, which created no little sensation at
the office, was copied verbatim and sent to Frederic,
who read it, while Marian, in her chamber, was dressing
for the party. He could not forbear laughing
heartily, it sounded so much like Ben, but he wisely
determined to keep it from his wife and Alice, as it
might cause them unnecessary anxiety. He accordingly
thrust it in his pocket, and then, when it was
time, went up for Marian, who, in her bridal dress of
satin and lace, with pearls and diamonds woven among
her shining hair, and flashing from her neck and arms,
looked wondrously beautiful to him, and received
many words of commendation from the guests, who
soon began to appear, and who felt that the bride of
Redstone Hall well became her high position. Many
were the pleasant jokes passed at Frederic's expense,
and the clergyman who had officiated at his wedding
more than six years before, laughingly offered to repeat
the ceremony. But Frederic shook his head, saying,
he was satisfied if Marian was, while the look the
beautiful, blushing bride gave to him, was quite as expressive
of her answer as words would have been.
And so, amid smiles and congratulations, the song and
the dance moved on, and all went merry as a marriage
bell, until at last, as the clock told the hour of midnight,
the last guest had departed, and Frederic, with
his arm round Marian, was calling her Mrs. Raymond,
on purpose to see her blush, when there came up the
avenue the sound of rapid wheels, followed by a bound
on the piazza, and the next moment Ben burst into the
-- 390 --
[figure description] Page 390.[end figure description]
room, holding up both hands, as he caught sight of
Marian in her bridal robes.
“My goodness!” he exclaimed. “Ain't she pretty,
though. It's curis how clothes will fix up a woman,”
and the tears came to Ben's eyes in his delight at seeing
Marian so resplendent in jewels and costly lace.
The meeting between Frederic and Ben was like
brother greeting brother, for the former felt that he
almost owed his life to the great-hearted Yankee, and
he grasped his hand warmly, bidding him welcome to
Redstone Hall, and, by his kind, familiar manner,
putting him at once at his ease. Alice, too, did her
part well, and, pressing Ben's hand to her lips, she
said:
“I love you, Ben Burt; love you a heap, for being
so good to Marian.”
“Don't now,” said Ben, whiningly. “Don't set me
to bellerin' the fust thing. I only did what anybody
would have done, unless the milk of human kindness
was all turned to bonny clabber!” Then, as he thought
of Isabel, he continued, “I tried to get here sooner,
but Miss Huntington didn't come till the last minute,
and I couldn't leave Isabel. How she does take on
about her sp'ilt beauty.”
“What do you mean?” asked Marian. “Where is
Isabel?” and as Frederic then passed her the telegram,
she continued to ask questions, until she had learned
the whole.
“Poor girl!” she sighed; “I pity her, and if she
were here, I would so gladly take care of her.”
Instantly there flashed upon Alice's mind an idea
every way worthy of her, but she would not suggest it
then, as it was growing late, and when she heard ere
long a loud yawn from Ben, she thoughtfully rang the
bell, bidding the servant who came “show Mr. Burt
to his room;” then, kissing Frederic and Marian good-night,
she, too, departed, leaving them alone.
Next morning, at the breakfast-table, she said to
Frederic:
-- 391 --
[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]
“Don't folks most always take a bridal tour?”
“Sometimes, when they can't be happy at home,”
returned Frederic. “Where does my blind birdie wish
to go?”
“I don't really wish to go,” answered Alice; “but
wouldn't it be nice to surprise poor Isabel, lying so
bruised and sick in that old farm-house in Ohio?
Maybe she wants money? I heard them say at Yonkers
that she had spent all Mr. Rivers left her, except
the house, and that was mortgaged. I've got ten dollars
that I'll give her.”
“Blessed baby!” said Ben, bringing out his pocket-handkerchief,
which he was pretty sure to need.
This suggestion was warmly seconded by Marian,
and after a little further consultation, it was decided
that they should start the next day for the place where
Isabel lay sick.
“She may confess about the letters,” said Marian,
“and that will make me like her so much better.”
This being settled, Alice's next inquiry was for her
cat, and her brown eyes opened wide with wonder
when told of the six young kittens which had a home
in Ben Burt's grocery, and one of which was called
for her.
“It ought to be blind,” said the little girl, and, with
a quivering chin, Ben answered:
“That's it, though I shouldn't have told you for fear
of hurtin' your feelin's. The little cat is blind, and
when Sandy—that's a boy who lives there—said how
he would kill it for me, it struck to my stomick to
once, for that little critter lies even nigher to my heart
than the handsomest, sleekest one, which I call `Marian
Grey,' and 'tis grey, too, with mottled spots all
over its back, while Alice is white as milk!”
The cat story being satisfactorily concluded, Ben
went out to renew his acquaintance with the negroes,
who vied with each other in paying him marked attention.
Though they did not quite understand it,
they knew that he was in some way connected with
-- 392 --
[figure description] Page 392.[end figure description]
the return of their young mistress, and neither Dinah
nor Hetty made the least objection when, before night,
they saw the two black babies which had usurped the
rights of Dud and Victory, seated upon his lap and
“riding to Boston to buy penny cakes,” at a rate
which bade fair to throw them to the top of the ceiling
at least, if not to land them somewhere in the vicinity
of the bay state capital.
The next morning, Frederic, Marian and Alice started
for Ohio, leaving Ben in charge at Redstone Hall.
“He'd tend to the niggers,” he said, and he bade
the “Square,” as he persisted in calling Frederic,
“not to worry at all about things to hum.”
The family had scarcely been gone an hour when
Dinah came in quest of Ben, whom she found in the
parlor drumming Yankee Doodle upon the piano with
one hand and whistling by way of accompaniment.
“Thar was the queerest actin' man in the dinin'
room,” she said, “and he done ax for marster, and
when I tole him he had gone to the 'Hio with his wife,
he laughed so hateful, and say how't she isn't his wife,
that I come for you, 'case thar's a look in his eye I
don't like.”
“Catch him tellin' me Marian ain't a lawful wife,”
said Ben, starting from the stool and hurrying to the
dining-room, where very much intoxicated, Rudolph
McVicar was sitting.
He had landed not long before at New Orleans, and
coming up the river as far as Louisville had stopped
in that city, where he accidentally heard a young man
speak of Frederic's wedding party, which had taken
place the previous night.
“Who is the bride?” he asked eagerly. “Is it
Miss Huntington?” and the young man who knew
none of the particulars, and who had once heard that
Frederic was to marry a lady of that name, replied:
“Yes, I believe it is, or at all events she was his governess.”
Rudolph waited for no more, but started at once for
-- 393 --
[figure description] Page 393.[end figure description]
Redstone Hall, chuckling with delight as he thought
of the consternation his visit would create. He did
not at first recognize Ben, neither did Ben know him,
so bloated had he become with drink, and so rough
and red with exposure upon the sea.
“Where is the woman they call Mrs. Raymond?”
he asked with a sneer; and Ben replied: “Gone with
her husband to Ohio.”
“Her husband!” repeated Rudolph. “He isn't her
husband. She has no right to be his wife, and I have
come to tell her so.”
“You say that again if you dare!” said Ben, bristling
up in Marian's defense. “You say that Marian
ain't Frederic's lawful wife, and I'll show you the door,
plaguy quick. I'm boss here now.”
As Ben was speaking, Rudolph remembered that
they had met before, but he scarcely heeded that, so
intent was he upon the name which Ben had uttered.
“Marian!” he repeated, a light breaking over him;
“Is not Isabel Huntington the bride?”
“No, sir,” answered Ben, snapping his fingers almost
in the stranger's face. “She didn't come that
game, though she tried it hard enough. But what do
you know about it, any way?”
“I know I've been a fool,” answered Rudolph, explaining,
in a few words, what he once had done.
“So you wrote that letter, you scullion,” returned
Ben. “But it didn't do no good; and the smartest
trick you ever done was to sign yourself green. Ugh!
and Ben's voice was quite expressive of his contempt.
“I don't blame you so much though,” he continued,
“for wantin' to pester that Isabel, but you'd better let
the Lord 'tend to such critters in his own way. He
can fix 'em better'n we can,” and Ben proceeded to
give an account of the accident in which Isabel's
beauty had been seriously impaired.
“I am so glad,” was Rudolph's exclamation, and he
was proceeding further to express his malicious joy,
when Ben cut him short by saying:
-- 394 --
[figure description] Page 394.[end figure description]
“It don't look well to rejoice over anybody's downfall,
though I'm none too friendly to the gal, I shan't
hear her berated, and you may as well quit.”
On ordinary occasions, Rudolph would have resented
any attempt at restraint, but he was too much intoxicated
now fully to realize anything, and staring
vacantly at Ben, he made no reply, but ere long fell
asleep, dozing in his chair for several hours. Then,
with faculties somewhat brightened, he announced his
intention of leaving. With an immense degree of satisfaction
Ben watched him as he went slowly down
the avenue, saying to himself:
“Poor drunken critter, he's disappointed, I s'pose,
in not gettin' revenge his own way; but I don't blame
her much for givin' him the mitten. Wouldn't they
have scratched each other's eyes out, if they'd come
together! Better be as 'tis—she a nervous old maid,
and he in a drunkard's grave, where he will be mighty
soon—the bloat!” and having finished his soliloquy,
Ben returned again to his music.
Meantime, in a most unenviable frame of mind,
Isabel was chiding her mother for doing everything
wrong, and bewailing her own sad fate:
“Oh, why didn't I stay at home,” she said; “and
so not have become the fright I know I am?”
It was in vain that her mother made her feel thankful
that her life was spared. Isabel did not care for
that. She thought only of her lost teeth, her disjointed
nose, and ugly scar, and turning her face to the
wall she was wishing she could die, when the woman
of the house came in, telling her “some friends were
there from Kentucky.”
“Who are they?” she asked; but ere the woman
could reply, a sweet voice said:
“It's me, and all of us;” and Alice's little hands
were tenderly pressed to Isabel's feverish brow.
Then, indeed, the haughty girl wept aloud, for she
knew she did not deserve this kindness either from
Alice or Marian, the latter of whom soon came in,
-- 395 --
[figure description] Page 395.[end figure description]
greeting her as pleasantly as if she had never received
an injury from her hands. Frederic, too, was perfectly
self-possessed, expressing his sympathy for her
misfortune, and with these kind friends to cheer her
sick room, Isabel recovered in a measure her former
cheerfulness. But there was evidently something resting
heavily upon her mind, and that night, when alone
with Frederic and Marian, she confessed to them her
wickedness in opening the letter, and sending it back
with so cruel a message.
“We knew you must have done it,” said Frederic,
at the same time assuring her of his own and Marian's
forgiveness. “It kept us apart for many years,” he
continued, “but I have found her at last, and love her
all the more for what I suffered.”
And Isabel, when she saw the look of deep affection
he gave to his young wife, covered her face with her
hands, and wept silently, until Marian asked “if she
knew aught of the letter from Sarah Green?”
“No, no,” she answered; “I am surely innocent of
that,” and they believed her, wondering all the more
whence it could have come or why it had been sent.
Toward the close of the next day, they took their
leave, cordially inviting Isabel to visit them at Redstone
Hall, should she ever feel inclined so to do.
“We will let bygones be bygones,” said Frederic,
taking her hand at parting. “You and I have both
learned that to deal fairly and openly is the best policy,
and it is to be hoped we will profit by the experience.”
Isabel did not answer, but she pressed his hand, and
returned warmly the kiss which both Marian and Alice
gave to her. As the latter was turning away she
detained her a moment while she whispered in her
ear, “Will you forgive me for that blow I gave you
when I thought I was about to be exposed?”
“Yes, willingly,” was the answer, and thrusting the
golden eagle under the pillow. Alice hurried away.
They found it after she was gone, and when at last
-- 396 --
[figure description] Page 396.[end figure description]
Isabel was able to go home, they found their bills
paid, too, and were at no loss to know to whom they
were indebted for the generous act. “I do not deserve
this from him of all others,” said Isabel, and
drawing her thick, green veil close over her marred
face she entered the carriage which had come to take
them to the depot.
Not once during the journey home did she remove
the veil, but in an obscure corner of the car she sat,
a forlorn, wretched woman, brooding drearily over
the past, and seeing in the future no star to cheer her
pathway. Frederic lost, Redstone Hall lost, her little
fortune wasted,—and worse than all, her boasted beauty
gone forever. Poor, poor Isabel!
-- --
CHAPTER XXX. SUMMING UP.
[figure description] Page 397.[end figure description]
It is early June, and the balmy south wind is blowing
soft and warm round Redstone Hall, which, with
its countless roses in full bloom, and its profusion of
flowering shrubs and vines, looked wondrously beautiful
without, while within, the sunlight of domestic
peace is shining with no cloud to dim its brightness.
Frederic and Marian are perfectly happy, for the dark
night which enshrouded them so long has passed
away, and the day they fancy will never end has
dawned upon them at last.
Ben, too, is there, ostensibly as an overseer, but
really as a valued friend, free to do whatever he
pleases, and greatly esteemed by those whom he worships
with a devotion bordering upon idolatry. Everything
pertaining to the place he calls his, and Frederic
hardly knows whether himself or Ben is the master
of Redstone Hall. The negroes acknowledge them
both, though, as is quite natural, the aristocratic Higginses
give the preference to Frederic, while the democratic
Smitherses, with stammering Josh at their
head, warmly advocate Marster Ben, “as sayin' the
curisest things and singin' the drollest songs.”
There is no spot in the world where Ben could be so
supremely happy as he is at Redstone Hall, with Marian
and Alice; and when Frederic, on his return from
Ohio, suggested his remaining there, he evidence his
delight in his usual way, lamenting the while that his
-- 398 --
[figure description] Page 398.[end figure description]
extremely tender heart would always make him cry
just when he did not wish to.
“I was never cut out for a nigger driver,” he said;
“but I guess I can coax as much out of 'em as that blusterin'
Warren did;” and making his visit short, he
hastened back to New England, where he found no
difficulty of disposing of his grocery, and five of his
numerous family.
These last he bestowed upon different people in the
village, taking great care that none of them should go
where there were children, and numerous were his injunctions
that they should be well cared for, and suffered
to die a natural death. Marian and Alice were
destined for Kentucky, where they were welcomed
joyfully by those whose names they bore. Particularly
was the white one, with its bright, sightless eyes,
the pet of the entire household, negroes and all; while
even Bruno, who, on account of his recognition of Marian,
was now allowed more liberty than before, and
was consequently far less savage, took kindly to the
little creature, tossing it up in his huge paws, licking
its snowy face, and sometimes coaxing it into his kennel,
where it was more than once found by the delighted
Alice, sleeping half hidden under the mastiff's
shaggy mane.
Frequently on bright days could Alice and her kitten
be seen seated in a miniature waggon, which the
Yankee ingenuity of Ben had devised, and in which
he drew his blind pets from field to field, seeking out
for them the shadiest spot and watching all their
movements with a vigilance which told how dear to
him was one of them at least. In all the wide world
there is nothing Ben Burt loves half so well as the
helpless blind girl, Alice—not as he loved Marian
Grey, but with a tender, unselfish devotion, which
would prompt him at any time to lay down his life for
her, if it need must be. All the fairest flowers and
choicest fruits are brought to her. And when he sees
-- 399 --
[figure description] Page 399.[end figure description]
how she enjoys them, and how grateful she is to him,
he murmurs softly:
“Blessed bird, I b'lieve I'd be blind myself, if she
could only see.”
But Alice does not care for sight, except at times,
when she hears the people speak of Mrs. Raymond's
beauty, and she wishes she could look upon the face
whose praises so many ring. Still she is very happy
in Frederic's and Marian's love, and happy, too, with
her faithful friend, around whose neck she often twines
her arms, blessing him for all he was to Marian and
all he is to her.
Once she hoped to improve his peculiar dialect somewhat
by imparting to him a greater knowledge of
books than he already possessed, and Ben, willing to
gratify her, waded industriously through the many
volumes she recommended him to read, among which
was “Watts on the Mind.” But vain were all his efforts
to grasp a single idea, and he returned it to Alice,
saying that “he presumed it was a very excitin'
story to some, but blamed if he could make out a word
of sense from beginnin' to finis.”
“'Taint much use tryin' to make a scholar of me,”
said he, winking slyly at Marian, who was present.
“It's hard enough teachin' old dogs new tricks, and if
I's to read all there is in the Squire's library, I shouldn't
be no better off.”
Marian thought so, too, and she dropped a few welltimed
hints to Alice, who gradually relaxed her efforts
to teach one who, had he been educated, would
certainly not have been the simple-hearted, unselfish
man we now know as Ben Burt.
Away to the northward among the New England
hills there is a forsaken grave, where the inebriated
Rudolph sleeps. His thirst for revenge is over and
the forlorn girl who, in her mother's kitchen washes
the dinner dishes for college students just as she used
to when Frederic Raymond was a boarder there, has
nothing to dread from him. Mrs. Huntington's house
-- 400 --
[figure description] Page 400.[end figure description]
on the river has been sold to cancel the mortgage, and
in the city of Elms she has returned to her old vocation,
and Isabel, with her broken nose and ugly scar,
has scarcely a hope, that among her mother's boarders
there will ever one be found weak enough to offer her
his hand. An humbled, and it is to be hoped, a better
woman, she derives her greatest comfort from the
letters which sometimes come to her from Marian, and
which usually contain a more substantial token of regard
than mere words convey.
One word now of William Gordon and our story is
done. Ben had claimed the privilege of writing the
news to him, and he did it in his charactistic way, first
touching upon the note which, he said, was safe in his
wallet and sure of being paid, then launching out into
glowing descriptions of Marian's happines with Frederic.
This letter was a long time in finding Will, and the
answer did not reach Redstone Hall until the family had
returned from their summer residence at Riverside.
Then it came to them one warm November day, just
as the sun was setting, and its mellow rays fell upon
the group assembled upon the piazza. Frederic, to
whom it was directed, broke the seal and read the sincere
congratulations which his early friend had sent to
him from over the sea,—read, too, that 'mid the vineclad
hills of Bingen, in a cottage looking out upon the
Rhine, there was a fair-haired German girl, with eyes
like Marian Grey, and that when Will came next to
America he would not be alone.
“For this fair-haired German girl,” he wrote, “has
promised to come with me. I have told her of my
former love, and when last night I read to her Ben's
letter, the tears glistened in her lustrous eyes as she
whispered in her broken English tongue, `God bless
sweet Marian Grey,' and I, too, Fred, from a full
heart respond the same, God bless sweet Marian Grey,
the Heiress of Redstone Hall.”
Back matter
-- --
1863.
[figure description] Page 001.[end figure description]
A NEW LIST OF
BOOKS
ISSUED BY
CARLETON, PUBLISHER,
(LATE RUDD & CARLETON,)
413 Broadway,
NEW YORK.
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
NEW BOOKS And New Editions Recently Issued by CARLETON, PUBLISHER, (Late RUDD & CARLETON, ) 413 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
[figure description] Page 003.[end figure description]
N.B.—The Publisher, upon receipt of the price in advance, will send any
of the following Books, by mail, POSTAGE FREE, to any part of the United States.
This convenient and very safe mode may be adopted when the neighboring Booksellers
are not supplied with the desired work. State name and address in full.
Les Miserables.
| Victor Hugo's great novel—the only complete unabridged translation.
Library Edition. Five vols. 12mo. cloth, each, |
$1.00. |
| The same, five vols. 8vo. cloth, $1.00. Paper covers, |
50 cts. |
| The same, (cheap ed.) 1 vol. 8vo. cloth, $1.50. paper, |
$1.00. |
Les Miserables—Illustrations.
| 26 photographic illustrations, by Brion. Elegant quarto, |
$3.00 |
Among the Pines,
| or, Down South in Secession Time. Cloth, $1.00, paper, |
75 cts. |
My Southern Friends.
| By author of “Among the Pines.” Cloth, $1.00. paper, |
75 cts. |
Rutledge.
| A powerful American novel, by an unknown author, |
$1.50. |
The Sutherlands.
| The new novel by the popular author of “Rutledge,” |
$1.50. |
The Habits of Good Society.
| A hand-book for ladies and gentlemen. Best, wittiest, most en
tertaining work on taste and good manners ever printed, |
$1.50 |
The Cloister and the Hearth.
| A magnificent new historical novel, by Charles Reade, author
of “Peg Woffington,” etc., cloth, $1.50, paper covers, |
$1.25. |
Beulah.
| A novel of remarkable power, by Miss A. J. Evans. |
$1.50. |
-- 004 --
[figure description] Page 004.[end figure description]
Artemus Ward, His Book.
| The racy writings of this humorous author. Illustrated, |
$1.25. |
The Old Merchants of New York.
| Entertaining reminiscences of ancient mercantile New York
City, by “Walter Barrett, clerk.” First Series. |
$1.50 each. |
Like and Unlike.
| Novel by A. S. Roe, author of “I've been thinking,” &c. |
$1 50. |
Orpheus C. Kerr Papers.
| Second series of letters by this comic military authority. |
$1.25. |
Marian Grey.
| New domestic novel, by the author of “Lena Rivers,” etc. |
$1.50. |
Lena Rivers.
| A popular American novel, by Mrs. Mary J. Holmes, |
$1.50. |
A Book about Doctors.
| An entertaining volume about the medical profession. |
$1.50. |
The Adventures of Verdant Green.
| Humorous novel of English College life. Illustrated. |
$1.25. |
The Culprit Fay.
| Joseph Rodman Drake's faery poem, elegantly printed, |
50 cts. |
Doctor Antonio.
| A charming love-tale of Italian life, by G. Ruffini, |
$1.50. |
Lavinia.
| A new love-story, by the author of “Doctor Antonio,” |
$1.50. |
Dear Experience.
| An amusing Parisian novel, by author “Doctor Antonio,” |
$1.00. |
The Life of Alexander Von Humboldt.
| A new and popular biography of this savant, including his
travels and labors, with introduction by Bayard Taylor, |
$1.50. |
Love (L'Amour.)
| A remarkable volume, from the French of Michelet. |
$1.25. |
Woman (La Femme.)
| A continuation of “Love (L'Amour),” by same author, |
$1.25. |
The Sea (La Mer.)
| New work by Michelet, author “Love” and “Woman,” |
$1.25. |
The Moral History of Woman.
| Companion to Michelet's “L'Amour,” from the French, |
$1.25 |
Mother Goose for Grown Folks.
| Humorous and satirical rhymes for grown people, |
75 cts. |
The Kelly's and the O'Kelly's.
| Novel by Anthony Trollope, author of “Doctor Thorne,” |
$1.50. |
-- 005 --
[figure description] Page 005.[end figure description]
The Great Tribulation.
| Or, Things coming on the earth, by Rev. John Cumming, D.D.,
author “Apocalyptic Sketches,” etc., two series, each |
$1.00. |
The Great Preparation.
| Or, Redemption draweth nigh, by Rev. John Cumming, D.D.,
author “The Great Tribulation,” etc., two series, each |
$1.00. |
The Great Consummation.
| Sequel “Great Tribulation,” Dr. Cumming, two series, |
$1.00. |
Teach us to Pray.
| A new work on The Lord's Prayer, by Dr. Cumming, |
$1.00. |
The Slave Power.
| By Jas. E. Cairnes, of Dublin University, Lond. ed. |
$1.25. |
