ISABEL HUNTINGTON.
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 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, 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
tell her that the bride had ran 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 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 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 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. “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?”
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 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 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, 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, impatiently, “For the pity’s sake how many more times must I read
it. Can’t you learn anything?”
“Don’t—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 post-mark; 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, 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 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 little,” 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 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.
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.