MARIAN.
The deacon and his family had now been residents at Glen’s Creek nearly
three months. Already was the leafy month of June verging into sultry
July, when George Wilder at length found time to carry out a plan long
before formed. It was to visit Marian, and if he found her all which as
a child she had promised to be, he would win her for himself.
Soon after the early sun had touched the hill tops as with a blaze of
fire, George mounted his favourite steed, and taking Jake with him for a
companion, turned into the woods and took the lonely road to Lexington.
Leaving them for a moment, we will press on and see Marian’s home.
It was a large, double log building, over which the flowering
honeysuckle and dark green hop-vine had been trained until they formed
an effectual screen. The yard in front was large, and much taste had
been displayed in the arrangement of the flowers and shrubs which were
scattered through it. Several large forests had been left standing, and
at one end of the yard, under a clump of honey-locusts, a limpid stream
of water, now nearly dry, went dancing over the large flat limestones
which lay at the bottom. In the rear of the house was the garden, which
was very large, and contained several bordered walks, grassy plats, and
handsome flower-beds, besides vegetables of all descriptions. At the end
of the garden, and under the shadows of the woods, was a little
summer-house, over which a wild grape-vine had been taught to twine its
tendrils.
In this summer-house, on the morning of which we are speaking, was a
beautiful young girl, Marian Gorton. We have not described her, neither
do we intend to, for she was not as beautiful as heroines of stories
usually are; but, reader, we will venture that she was as handsome as
any person you have ever seen, for people were handsomer in those days
than they are now—at least our grand-parents tell us so. Neither have we
told her age, although we are sure that we have somewhere said enough on
that point to have you know, by a little calculation, that Marian was
now eighteen.
This morning, as she sits in the summer-house, her brow is resting on
her hand, and a shadow is resting on her brow. Had Marian cause for
sorrow? None except that her cousin Robert, who had recently returned
from England, had that morning offered her his hand and been partially
refused. Yet why should Marian refuse him whom many a proud lady in the
courtly halls of England would not refuse? Did she remember one who,
years ago, in the green old woods of Virginia, awakened within her
childish heart a feeling which, though it might have slumbered since,
was still there in all its freshness? Yes, she did remember him,
although she struggled hard to conquer each feeling that was interwoven
with a thought of him. Nearly three months he had been within twenty
miles of her, and yet no word or message had been received, and Marian’s
heart swelled with resentment toward the young man, whose fleet steed
even then could scarce keep pace with his master’s eager wishes to press
onward.
From her earliest childhood she had looked upon Robert as a brother, and
now that he was offered as a husband, her heart rebelled, although pride
occasionally whispered, “Do it,—marry him,—then see what George Wilder
will say;” but Marian had too much good sense long to listen to the
promptings of pride, and the shadow on her face is occasioned by a fear
that she had remembered so long and so faithfully only to find herself
uncared for and forgotten.
Meantime, the sound of horses’ feet near her father’s house had brought
to the fence half a dozen negroes and half as many dogs, all ready in
their own way to welcome the new-comers. After giving his horse in
charge of the negroes, George proceeded to the house, where he was
cordially received by Mrs. Gorton, who could scarcely recognize the
school-boy George in the tall, fine-looking young man before her. Almost
his first inquiry was for Marian. Mrs. Gorton did not know where she
was, but old Sukey, who had known George in Virginia, now hobbled in,
and after a few tears and a great many “Lor’ bless you’s,” and inquiries
about “old Virginny,” she managed to tell him that Marian was in the
garden, and that she would call her; but George prevented her, saying he
would go himself.
Most of my readers have doubtless either witnessed or experienced
meetings similar to that which took place between George and Marian, so
I shall not describe it, but shall leave it for the imagination, which
will probably do it better justice than can my pen, which comes very
near the _point_ of being used up. We will only say, that when at twelve
o’clock Mr. Gorton and Robert returned from a ride, George and Marian
were still in the summer-house, unmindful of the sun which looked in
upon them as if to tell them of his onward course. But then, the
question that morning asked and answered was of great importance, so
’twas no wonder they were alike deaf and blind to the little darkies who
on tip-toe crept behind the summer-house, eager to know “what the
strange gentleman could be saying to Miss Marian, which made her look so
speckled and roasted like.” These same hopefuls, when at dinner time
they were sent for their young mistress, commenced a general hunt, which
finally terminated in the popping of their woolly heads into the summer
house door, exclaiming between breaths, “Oh, Miss Marian, here you is.
We’ve looked for you everywhar! Come to your dinner.” On their way to
the house they encountered old Sukey, who called out, “Ho, Mas’
George,—’specs mebby you found Miss Marry-em,” at the same time shaking
her sides at her own wit.
Mr. Gorton received his young friend with great cordiality, but there
was a cool haughtiness in the reception which Robert at first gave his
old playmate. He suspected the nature of George’s visit, nor did
Marian’s bright, joyous face tend in the least to allay his suspicions.
But not long could he cherish feelings of resentment toward one whom he
liked so well as he had George Wilder. In the course of an hour his
reserve wore off, and unless George should chance to see this
story,—which is doubtful,—he will probably never know how bitter were
the feelings which his presence for a few moments stirred in the heart
of Robert Hunting. Before George returned home, he asked Marian of her
father, and also won from her a promise that, ere the frosts of winter
came, her home should be with him, and by his own fireside.