KEEPING THE PROMISE.
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
lighthearted 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, 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, 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 continued, “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 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 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 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 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
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 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.”
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
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.
“You Josh—you villain—the Lord spare 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.
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 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.