MARIAN.
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?”
“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 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 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 omnibuses 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 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?”
“You 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, 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 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 deathlike 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, 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 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 fingernails 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
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, homesick 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
outstayed his time, had returned the week before to Ware. Listlessly she
tore open the 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 childlike 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 maybe, 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 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 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.