FATHER AND SON.
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 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 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 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 a heightened 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 remarks, 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, 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 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, continuing 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, “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 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 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 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
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 bedroom 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 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 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, laying 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!