PLANS.
Marian was sitting by the window of her little room, looking out into
the busy street below, and thinking how differently New York seemed to
her now from what it did that dreary day when she wandered down
Broadway, and wished that she could die. She was getting accustomed to
the city roar, and the sounds which annoyed her so much at first did not
trouble her as they once had done. Still there was the same old pain at
her heart—a restless, longing desire to hear from home, and know if what
she feared were true. She had counted the days of Ben’s absence, and she
knew it was almost time for his return. She did not expect him to-day,
however, and she paid no attention to the heavy footstep upon the
stairs, neither did she hear the creaking of the door; but when Mrs.
Burt exclaimed, “Benjamin Franklin! where did you come from?” she
started, and in an instant held both his hands in hers.
Wistfully, eagerly she looked up into his face, longing, yet dreading,
to ask the important question.
“Have you been there?” she managed to say at last; and Ben replied,
“Yes, chicken, I have, I’ve been to Redstun Hall, and seen the hull
tribe on ’em. That Josh is a case. Couldn’t understand him no more than
if he spoke a furrin tongue.”
“But Frederic—did you see him, and is he—oh, Ben, do tell me—what you
know I want to hear?” and Marian trembled with excitement.
“Wall, I will,” answered Ben, dropping into a chair, and coming to the
point at once. “Frederic ain’t married to Isabel, nor ain’t a goin’ to
be, either.”
“What made him write me that lie?” was Marian’s next question, asked so
mournfully that Ben replied:
“A body’d s’pose you was sorry it warn’t the truth he writ.”
“I am glad it is not true,” returned Marian, “but it hurts me so to lose
confidence in one I love. How does Frederic look?”
“White as a sheet and poor as a crow,” said Ben. “It’s a wearin’ on him,
depend on’t. But she—I tell you she’s a dasher, with the blackest eyes
and hair I ever seen.”
“Who?” fairly screamed Marian. “Who? Not Isabel? Oh, Ben, is Isabel
there?” And Marian grew as white as Ben had described Frederic to be.
“Yes she is,” returned Ben. “She’s pretendin’ to teach that blind gal,
but Frederic ain’t makin’ love to her—no such thing. So don’t go to
faintin’ away, and I’ll begin at the beginning and tell you the hull
story.”
Thus re-assured, Marian composed herself and listened, while Ben
narrated every particular of his recent visit to Redstone Hall.
“I stopped at some of the houses in the neighborhood,” said he, “but I
never as’t a question about the Raymonds, for fear of bein’ mistrusted.
Come to think on’t, though, I did inquire the road, and they sent me
through corn fields, and hemp fields, and mercy knows what; such a way
as they have livin’ in the lots? But I kinder like it. Seems like a
story, them big houses way off among the trees, with the whitewashed
cabins round ’em lookin’ for all the world like a camp-meetin’ in the
woods——”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Marian; “but Frederic—won’t you ever reach him?”
“Not till I tell you about the dogs, and that jaw breakin’ chap they
call Josh, with his cow hides, big as a scow-boat, I’ll bet,” was Ben’s
answer; and finding it useless to hurry him, Marian summoned all her
patience and waited while he waded through his introduction to the
blacks, his attempt to be more of a Yankee than he really was, his
sliver in his thumb, and, finally his addressing Frederic as Square and
inquiring for his wife!
Marian was all attention now, and held her breath, lest she should lose
a single word. When he came to Isabel, and described her glowing,
sparkling beauty, she trembled in every joint, and felt as if she were
turning to stone; but when he spoke of Alice, and the sweet, loving
words she had said of the lost one, the cold, hard feeling passed away,
and, covering her face with her hands, she wept aloud. Everything which
Ben had seen or heard he told, omitting not a single point, but
lengthening out his story with surmises and suspicions of his own.
“Alice and Dinah both,” said he, “told me Frederic wouldn’t marry till
they knew for certain you was dead, and as he does know for certain, you
can calkerlate on that Isabel’s bein’ an old maid for all of him.”
“I never supposed they’d think me drowned when I dropped my glove and
handkerchief,” said Marian. “Did they inquire at the depot.”
“Yes—so Alice said,” returned Ben, “and nobody knew’ nothin’ of you; so
it was nateral they should think you drownded: but, no matter, it makes
it more like a novel, and now I’ll tell you jest what ’tis, wee one, I
don’t mean no offense, and you must take it all in good part. You are a
great deal better than Isabel, I know; but, as fur as looks and manners
is concerned, you can’t hold a candle to her, and a body knowin’ nothing
about either would naterally say she was most befittin’ Redstun Hall;
but, tell ’em to wait a spell. You hain’t got your growth yet, and you
are gettin’ better-lookin’ every day. That sickness made a wonderful
change in you, and shavin’ your hair was jest the thing. It’s comin’ out
darker, as it always does, and in less than a year I’ll bet my hat on
its bein’ a beautiful auburn. You must chirk up and grow fat, for I’m
goin’ to send you to school, and have you take lessons on the pianner,
and learn French and everything, so that by the time you’re twenty
you’ll be the best educated and han’somest gal in the city, and then
when the right time comes, if Providence don’t contrive to fetch you two
together, Ben Burt will. I shall keep my eye on him, and if he’s gettin’
too thick with Isabel, I’ll drop a sly hint in his ear. They’re goin’ to
move up on to the Hudson to the old place—did I tell you?—and mebby
you’ll run afoul of him in the street some day.”
“Oh, I hope not—at least, not yet—not till the time you speak of,” said
Marian, who had listened eagerly to Ben’s suggestion, and already felt
that there was hope for her in the future. She would study so hard, she
thought, and learn so fast, and if she only could be thought handsome,
or even decent-looking, she would be satisfied, but that was impossible,
she feared.
She did not know that, as Ben had said, the severe illness through which
she had passed had laid the foundation for a softer, more refined style
of beauty than she would otherwise have reached. Her entire constitution
seemed to have undergone a change, and now, with hope to buoy her up,
she grew stronger, healthier, and, as a natural consequence, handsomer
each day. She could not erase from her memory the insult Frederic had
offered her, by writing what she believed he did, but her affection for
him was strong enough to overlook even that, and she was willing to wait
and labor years if at the end of that time she could hope to win his
love.
Whatever Ben undertook he was sure to accomplish in the shortest
possible time, and before starting upon another peddling excursion, the
name of “MARIAN GREY” was enrolled, among the list of pupils who
attended Madam Harcourt’s school. At first she was subject to many
annoyances, for, as was quite natural, her companions inquired
concerning her standing, and when they learned that her aunt was a
sewing woman, and that the queer, awkward fellow who came with her the
first day was her cousin and a peddler, they treated her slightingly,
and laughed at her plain dress. But Marian did not care. One thought—one
feeling alone actuated her; to make herself something of which Frederic
Raymond should not be ashamed was her aim, and for this she studied
early and late, winning golden laurels in the opinion of her teachers,
and coming ere long to be respected and loved by her companions, who
little suspected that she was the heiress of untold wealth.
Thus the Summer and a part of the Autumn passed away, and when the
semi-annual examination came, Marian Grey stood first in all her
classes, acquitting herself so creditably and receiving so much praise,
that Ben, who chanced to be present, was perfectly overjoyed, and
evinced his pleasure by shedding tears, his usual way of expressing
feeling.
From this time forward Marian’s progress was rapid, until even she
herself wondered how it were possible for her to learn so fast when she
had formerly cared so little for books. Hope, and a joyful anticipation
of what would possibly be hers in the future, kept her up and helped her
to endure the mental labors which might otherwise have overtaxed her
strength. Gradually, too, the old soreness at her heart wore away, and
she recovered in a measure her former light-heartedness, until at last
her merry laugh was often heard ringing out loud and clear just as it
used to do at home in days gone by. Very anxiously Ben watched her, and
when on his return from his excursions he found her, as he always did,
improved in looks and spirits, he rubbed his hands together and
whispered to himself, “She’ll set up for a beauty, yet, and no mistake.
That hair of hern is growin’ a splendid color.”
He did not always express these thoughts to Marian, but the little
mirror which hung on the wall in her room sometimes whispered to her
that the face reflected there was not the same which had looked at her
so mournfully on that memorable night when she had left her pillow to
see what her points of ugliness were! The one which she had thought the
crowning defect of all had certainly disappeared. Her red curls were
gone, and in their places was growing a mass of soft wavy hair, which
reminded her of the auburn tress she had so much admired and prized,
because it was her mother’s. She had no means of knowing how nearly they
were alike, for the ringlet was far away, but by comparing her present
short curls with those which had been shorn from her head, she saw there
was a difference, and she felt a pardonable pride in brushing and
cultivating her young hair, which well repaid her labor, growing very
rapidly and curling about her forehead in small, round rings, which were
far from unbecoming.
Toward the last of November, Ben, who found his peddling profitable,
took a trip through Western New York, and did not return until February,
when, somewhat to his mother’s annoyance, he brought a sick stranger
with him. He had taken the cars at Albany, where he met with the
stranger, who offered him a part of his seat and made himself so
generally agreeable that Ben’s susceptible heart warmed toward him at
once, and when at last, as they drew near New York, the man showed signs
of being seriously ill, Ben’s sympathy was roused, and learning that he
had no friends in the city, he urged him so strongly to accompany him
home for the night, at least, that his invitation was accepted, and the
more readily, perhaps, as the stranger’s pocket had been picked in
Albany, and he had nothing left except his ticket to New York. This
reason was not very satisfactory to Mrs. Burt, who from the first had
disliked their visitor’s appearance. He was a powerfully built young
man, with black bushy hair, and restless, rolling eyes, which seemed
ever on the alert to discover something not intended for them to see.
His face wore a hard, dissipated look; and when Mrs. Burt saw how soon
after seating himself before the warm fire, he fell asleep, she rightly
conjectured that a fit of drunkenness had been the cause of his illness.
Still, he was their guest, and she would not treat him uncivilly, so she
bade her son to take him to his room, where he lay in the same deep,
stupid sleep, breathing so loudly that he could be plainly heard in the
adjoining room, where Marian and Ben were talking of the house at
Yonkers which was not finished yet, and would not be ready for the
family until sometime in May.
Suddenly the loud breathing in the bedroom ceased—the stranger was
waking up; but Ben and Marian paid no heed, and talked on as freely as
if there were no greedy ears drinking in each word they said—no
wild-eyed man leaning on his elbow and putting together, link by link,
the chain of mystery until it was as clear to him as noonday. The first
sentence which he heard distinctly sobered him at once. It was Marian
who spoke, and the words she said were, “I wonder if Isabel Huntington
will come with Frederic to Yonkers.”
“Isabel!” the stranger gasped. “What do they know of her?” and sitting
up in bed, he listened until he learned what they knew of her, and
learned, too, that the young girl whom Ben Burt called his cousin was
the runaway bride from Redstone Hall.
Fiercely the black eyes flashed through the darkness, and the fists
smote angrily together as the stranger hoarsely whispered:
“The time I’ve waited for has come at last, and the proud lady shall be
humbled in the very dust!”
It was Rudolph McVicar who thus threatened evil to Isabel Huntington. He
had loved her once, but her scornful refusal of him, even after she was
his promised wife, had turned his love to hate, and he had sworn to
avenge the wrong should a good chance ever occur. He knew that she was
in Kentucky—a teacher at Redstone Hall—and for a time he had expected to
hear of her marriage with the heir, but this intelligence did not come,
and weary of New Haven, he at last made a trip to New Orleans,
determining on his way back to stop for a time in the neighborhood of
Redstone Hall, and if possible learn the reason why Isabel had not yet
succeeded in securing Frederic Raymond. On the boat in which he took
passage on his return were three or four young people from Franklin
county, and among them Agnes Gibson and her brother. They were a very
merry party, and at once attracted the attention of Rudolph, who,
learning that they were from the vicinity of Frankfort, hovered around
them, hoping that by some chance he might hear them speak of Isabel. Nor
was he disappointed; for one afternoon when they were assembled upon the
upper deck, one of their number who lived in Lexington, and who had been
absent in California for nearly two years, inquired after Frederic
Raymond, whom he had formerly known at school.
“Why,” returned the loquacious Agnes, “did no one write that news to
you?” and oblivious entirely of Rudolph McVicar, who at a little
distance was listening attentively, she told the story of Frederic’s
strange marriage and its sad denouement. Isabel, too, was freely
discussed, Miss Agnes saying that Mr. Raymond would undoubtedly marry
her, could he know that Marian was dead, but as there were some who
entertained doubts upon that point he would hardly dare take any
decisive step until uncertainty was made sure.
“When Miss Huntington first came to Redstone Hall,” continued Agnes,
“she took no pains whatever to conceal her preference for Mr. Raymond;
but latterly a change has come over her, and she hardly appears like the
same girl. There seems to be something on her mind, though what it is I
have never been able to learn, which is a little strange, considering
that she tells me everything.”
Not a word of all this story was lost by McVicar. There was no reason
now for his leaving the boat at Louisville. He knew why Isabel was not a
bride, and secretly exulting as he thought of her weary restlessness, he
kept on his way till he reached Albany, where a debauch of a few days
was succeeded by the sickness which had awakened the sympathy of the
tender-hearted Ben, and induced the latter to offer him shelter for the
night. He was glad of it, now—glad that he had met with Ben, for by that
means he had discovered the hiding place of Frederic Raymond’s wife. He
did not know of her fortune, but he knew that she was Marian Lindsey;
that accidentally, as he supposed, she had stumbled upon Mrs. Burt and
Ben, who were keeping her secret from the world, and that was enough for
him. That Isabel had something to do with her he was sure, and long
after the conversation in the next room had ceased, he lay awake
thinking what use he should make of his knowledge, and still not betray
those who had befriended him.
Rudolph McVicar was an adept in cunning, and before the morning dawned
he had formed a plan by which he hoped to crush the haughty Isabel.
Assuming an air of indifference to everything around him, he sauntered
out to breakfast, and pretended to eat, while his eyes rested almost
constantly on Marian. She was very young, he thought, and far prettier
than Agnes Gibson had represented her to be. She was changing in her
looks, he said, and two or three years would ripen her into a beautiful
woman of whom Frederic Raymond would be proud. Much he wished he knew
why she had left Redstone Hall, but as this knowledge was beyond his
reach, he contented himself with knowing who she was, and after
breakfast was over, he thanked his new acquaintances for their
hospitality, and went out into the city, going first to a pawnbroker’s,
where he left his watch, receiving in exchange money enough to defray
his expenses in the city for several days.
That night, in a private room at the St. Nicholas, he sat alone, bending
over a letter, which, when finished, bore a very fair resemblance to an
uneducated woman’s handwriting, and which read as follows:
M. RAYMOND—I now take my pen in hand to inform you that A young Woman,
calling herself Marian lindsey has ben staying with me awhile And she
said you was her Husband what she came of and left you for I don’t know
and I spose its none of my Biznes all I have to do is to tell you that
she died wun week ago come Sunday with the canker-rash and she made me
Promise to rite and tell you she was ded and that she forgives you all
your Sins and hope you wouldn’t wate long before you marred agen it
would of done your Hart good to hear her taulk like a Sante as she did.
I should of writ soonner only her sicknes hindered me about gettin reddy
for a journey ime goin to take my only Brother lives in Scotland and ime
goin out to live with him i was most reddy when Marian took sick if she
had lived she was coming back to you I bleave and now that shes ded ime
going rite of in the —— which sales tomorrough nite else ide ask you to
come down and see where she died and all about it. i made her as
comfitable as I could and hopin you wouldn’t take it to hard for Deth is
the Lot of all i am your most Humble Servant
SARAH GREEN.
“There,” soliloquized Rudolph, reading over the letter. “That covers the
whole ground, and still gives him no clue in case he should come to New
York. The —— does sail the very day I have named, and though ‘Sarah
Green’ may not be among her passengers, it answers my purpose quite as
well. I believe I’ve steered clear of all doubtful points which might
lead him to suspect it a forgery. He knows Marian would not attempt to
deceive him thus, and he will, undoubtedly, think old Mrs. Green some
good soul, who dosed the patient with saffron tea, and then saw her
decently interred! He’ll have a nice time hunting up her grave if he
should undertake that. But he won’t—he’ll be pleased enough to know that
he is free, for by all accounts he didn’t love her much, and in less
than six weeks he’ll be engaged to Isabel. But I’ll be on their track.
I’ll watch them narrowly, and when the day is set, and the guests are
there, one will go unbidden to the marriage feast, and the story that
uninvited guest can tell will humble the proud beauty to the dust. He
will tell her that this letter was a forgery, and Sarah Green a myth:
that Marian Lindsey lives, and Frederic Raymond, if he takes another
wife, can be indicted for bigamy; and when he sees her eyes flash fire,
and her cheek grow pale with rage and disappointment, Rudolph McVicar
will be avenged.”
This, then, was the plan which Rudolph had formed, and, without wavering
for an instant in his purpose, he sealed the letter, and directing it to
Frederic, sent it on its way, going himself the next morning to New
Haven, where he had some money deposited in the bank. This he withdrew,
and after a few days started for Lexington, where he intended to remain
and watch the proceedings at Redstone Hall, until the denouement of his
plot.