THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER.
“Marian,” said Ben, one pleasant April morning, “Frederic’s house is
finished in tip-top style, and if you say so, we’ll go out and take a
look. It will do you good to see the old place once more and know just
how things are fixed.”
“Oh, I’d like it so much,” returned Marian, “but what if I should fall
upon Frederic?”
“No danger,” answered Ben; “the man who has charge of everything told me
he wasn’t comin’ till May, and the old woman who is tendin’ to things
knows I have seen Mr. Raymond, for I told her so, and she won’t think
nothin’; so clap on your clothes in a jiff, for we’ve barely time to
reach the cars.”
Marian did not hesitate long ere deciding to go, and in a few moments
they were in the street. As they were passing the —— Hotel, Ben suddenly
left her, and running up the steps spoke to one of the servants with
whom he was acquainted. Returning ere long, he said, by way of apology,
“I was in there last night to see Jim, and he told me there was a man
took sick with a ravin’ fever, pretty much like you had when you bit
your tongue most in two.”
Marian shuddered involuntarily, and without knowing why, felt a deep
interest in the stranger, thinking how terrible it was to be sick and
alone in a crowded, noisy hotel.
“Is he better?” she asked, and Ben replied, “No, ten times wus—he’ll die
most likely. But hurry up—here’s the omnibus we want,” and in the
excitement of securing a seat, they both forgot the sick man.
The trip to Yonkers was a pleasant one, for to Marian it seemed like
going home, and when, after reaching the station, they entered the
lumbering stage and wound slowly up the long, steep hill, she recognized
many familiar way marks, and drawing her vail over her face, wept
silently as she remembered all she had passed through since the night
when Col. Raymond first took her up that same long hill, and told her by
the way, of his boy Frederic, who would be delighted with a sister. The
fond old man was dead now, and she, the little girl he had loved so
much, was a sad lonely woman, going back to visit the spot which had
been so handsomely fitted up without a thought of her.
The house itself was greatly changed, but the view it commanded of the
river and the scenery beyond was the same, and leaning against a pillar
Marian tried to fancy that she was a child again and listening for the
bold footsteps of the handsome, teasing boy, once her terror and her
pride. But all in vain she listened: the well-remembered foot-fall did
not come: the handsome boy was not there, and even had he been, she
would scarcely have recognized him in the haughty, elegant young man,
her husband. Yes, he was her husband, and she repeated the name to
herself, and when at last Ben touched her on the shoulder, saying, “I
have told Miss Russell my sister was here, and she says you can go over
the house,” she started as if waking from a dream.
“Let us go through the garden first,” she said, as she led the way to
the maple tree where summers before he had built her little play-house,
and where on the bark, just as high as his head then came, the name of
Frederic was cut.
Far below it, and at a point which her red curls had reached, there was
another name—her own—and Frederic’s jack-knife had made that, too, while
she stood by and said to him, “I wish I was Marian Raymond, instead of
Marian Lindsey.”
How distinctly she remembered the characteristic reply:
“If you should happen to be my wife, you would be Marian Raymond; but
pshaw, I shall marry a great deal prettier woman than you will ever be,
and you may live with us if you want to, and take care of the children.
I mean to have a lot!”
She had not thought of this speech in years, but it come back to her
vividly now, as did many other things which had occurred there long ago.
Within the house everything was changed, but they had no trouble in
identifying the different rooms, and she lingered long in the one she
felt sure was intended for Frederic himself, sitting in the chair where
she knew he would often sit, and wondering if, while sitting there, he
would ever think of her. Perhaps he might be afraid of meeting her
accidentally in New York, and so he would seldom come there; or, if he
did, it would be after dark, or when she was not in the street, and thus
she should possibly never see him, as she hoped to do. The thought was a
sad one, and never before had the gulf between herself and Frederic
seemed so utterly impassible as on that April morning when, in his room
and his arm-chair, the girl-wife sat and questioned the dark future of
what it had in store for her.
Once she was half tempted to leave some momento—something which would
tell him she had been there. She spurned the idea as soon as formed. She
would not intrude herself upon him a second time, and rising at last,
she arranged the furniture more to her taste, changed the position of a
picture, moved the mirror into a perfect angle, set Frederic’s chair
before the window looking out, upon the river, and then, standing in the
door, fancied that she saw him, with his handsome face turned to the
light, and his rich brown hair shading his white brow. At his feet, and
not far away was a little stool, and if she could only sit there once,
resting her head upon his knee and hear him speaking to her kindly,
affectionately, she felt that she would gladly die, and leave to another
the caresses she could never hope to receive.
Isabel’s chamber was visited next, and Marian’s would have been less
than a woman’s nature could she have looked, without a pang, upon the
costly furniture and rare ornaments which had been gathered there. In
the disposal of the furniture there was a lack of taste—a decidedly Mrs.
Russell air; but Marian had no wish to interfere. There was something
sickening in the very atmosphere of her rival’s apartment, and with a
long, deep sigh, she turned away. Opening the door of an adjoining
chamber, she stood for a moment motionless, while her lips moved
nervously, for she knew that this was Alice’s room. It was smaller than
the others, and with its neat white furniture, seemed well adapted to
the pure, sinless child who was to occupy it. Here too, she tarried
long, gazing, through blinded tears, upon the little rocking-chair just
fitted to Alice’s form, looping up the soft lace curtains, brushing the
dust from the marble mantle, and patting lovingly the snowy pillows, for
the sake of the fair head which would rest there some night.
“There are no flowers here,” said she, glancing at the tiny vases on the
stand. “Alice is fond of flowers, and though they will be withered ere
she comes, she will be sure to find them, and who knows but their faint
perfume may remind her of me,” and going out into the garden she
gathered some hyacinths and violets which she made into bouquets and
placed them in the vases, and bidding the old woman change the water
every day, until they began to fade, and then leave them to dry until
the blind girl came. “Ben told me of her; he once staid at Redstone Hall
all night,” she said, in answer to the woman’s inquiring look. “He says
she is a sweet young creature, and I thought flowers might please her.”
“Fresh ones would,” returned Mrs. Russell “but them that’s withered
ain’t no use. S’pose I fling ’em away when they get old and put in some
new the day she comes?”
“No, no, not for the world, leave them as they are,” and Marian spoke so
earnestly that the old lady promised compliance with her request.
“Be you that Yankee peddler’s sister,” she asked, as she followed Marian
down the stairs. “If you be, nater cut up a curis caper with one or
t’other of you, for you ain’t no more alike than nothin’.”
“I believe I do not resemble him much,” was Marian’s evasive answer, as
with a farewell glance at the old place, she bade Mrs. Russell good-by
and went with Ben to the gate where the stage was waiting to take them
back to the depot.
It was dark when they reached New York, and as they passed the —— Hotel
a second time, Marian spoke of the sick man, and wondered how he was.
“I might go in and see,” said Ben, “but it’s so late I guess I won’t,
particularly as he’s nothin’ to us.”
“But he’s something to somebody,” returned Marian, and as she followed
on after Ben, her thoughts turned continually upon him, wondering if he
had a mother—a sister—or a wife, and if they knew how sick he was.
While thus reflecting they reached home, where they found Mrs. Burt
entertaining a visitor—a Martha Gibbs, who for some time had been at the
—— Hotel, in the capacity of chamber-maid, but who was to leave there
the next day. Martha’s parents lived in the same New England village
where Mrs. Burt had formerly resided, and the two thus became
acquainted, Martha making Mrs. Burt the depository of all her little
secrets and receiving in return much motherly advice. She was to be
married soon, and though her destination was a log house in the West,
and her bridal _trousseau_ consisted merely of three dresses—a silk, a
delaine and a calico—it was an affair of great consequence to her, and
she had come as usual to talk it over with Mrs. Burt, feeling glad at
the absence of Ben and Marian, the latter of whom she supposed was an
orphan niece of her friend’s husband. The return of the young people
operated as a restraint upon her, and changing the conversation, she
spoke at last of a sick man who was up in the third story in one of the
rooms of which she had the charge.
“He had the typhoid fever,” she said, “and was raving distracted with
his head. They wanted some good experienced person to take care of him,
and had asked her to stay, she seemed so handy, but she couldn’t. John
wouldn’t put their wedding off, she knew, and she must go, though she
did pity the poor young man—he raved and took on so, asking them if
anybody had seen _Marian_, or knew where she was buried!”
Up to this point Marian had listened, because she knew it was the same
man of whom Ben had told her in the morning; but now the pulsations of
her heart stopped, her head grew dizzy, her brain whirled, and she was
conscious of nothing except that Ben made a hurried movement and then
passed his arm around her, while he held a cup of water to her lips,
sprinkling some upon her face, and saying, in a natural voice, “Don’t
you want a drink? My walk made me awful dry.”
It was dark in the room, for the lamp was not yet lighted, and thus
Martha did not see the side-play going on. She only knew that Ben was
offering Marian some water; but Mrs. Burt understood it, and, when sure
that Marian would not faint, she said:
“Where did the young man come from, and what is his name? Do you know?”
“He registered himself as _F. Raymond, Franklin County, Kentucky_,”
returned the girl; “and that’s the bother of it. Nobody knows where to
direct a letter to his friends. But how I have staid. I must go this
minute,” and greatly to the relief of the family, Martha took her leave.
Scarcely had the door closed after her, when Marian was on her knees,
and, with her head in Mrs. Burt’s lap, was begging of her to offer her
services as nurse to Frederic Raymond!
“He must not die there alone,” she cried. “Say you will go, or my heart
will burst. They know Martha for a trusty girl, and they will take you
on her recommendation. Help me, Ben, to persuade her,” she continued,
appealing to the young man, who had not yet spoken upon the subject.
He had been thinking of it, however, and as he could see no particular
objection, he said, at last:
“May as well go, I guess. It won’t do no hurt, any how, and mebby it’ll
be the means of savin’ his life. You can tell Martha how’t you s’pose
he’ll pay a good price for nussin’, and she’ll think it’s the money you
are after.”
This suggestion was so warmly seconded by Marian, that Mrs. Burt finally
consented to seeing Martha, and asking her what she thought of the plan.
Accordingly, early the next morning, she sought an interview with the
young woman, inquiring, first, how the stranger was, and then,
continuing—
“What do you think of my turning nurse awhile and taking care of him? I
am used to such folks, and I presume the gentleman is plenty able to
pay.”
She had dragged this last in rather bunglingly, but it answered every
purpose, for Martha, who knew her thrifty habits, understood at once
that money was the inducement, and she replied, “Of course he is. His
watch is worth two hundred dollars, to say nothing of a diamond pin. I
for one shall be glad to have you come, for I am going away some time
to-day, and there’ll be nobody in particular to take care of him. I’ll
speak about it right away.”
The result of this speaking was that Mrs. Burt’s offered services were
readily accepted, for Martha was known to be an honest, faithful girl,
and any one whom she recommended must, of course, be respectable and
trusty. By some chance, however, there was a misunderstanding about the
name, which was first construed into Burton and then into Merton, and as
Martha, who alone could rectify the error, left that afternoon, the few
who knew of the sick man and his nurse, spoke of the latter as a “Mrs.
Merton, from the country, probably.” So when at night Mrs. Burt appeared
and announce herself as ready to assume her duties, she was surprised at
hearing herself addressed by her new name, and she was about to correct
it when she thought, “It doesn’t matter what I’m called, and perhaps on
the whole, I’d rather not be known by my real name. I don’t believe much
in goin’ out nussin’ any way, and I guess I’ll let ’em call me what they
want to.”
She accordingly made no explanation, but followed the servant girl up
three long flights of stairs, and turning down a narrow hall, stood ere
long at the door of the sick room.