THE FEVER.
Night and day Frederic Raymond had traveled, never allowing himself a
minute’s rest, nor even stopping at Yonkers, so intent was he upon
reaching New York and finding, if possible, some clue to Marian. It was
a hopeless task, for he had no starting point—nothing which could guide
him in the least, save the name of Sarah Green, and even that was not in
the Directory, while to inquire for her former place of residence, was
as preposterous as Marian’s inquiry for Mrs. Daniel Burt! Still,
whatever he could do he did, traversing street after street, threading
alley after alley, asking again and again of the squalid heads thrust
from the dingy windows, if Sarah Green had ever lived in that locality,
and receiving always the same impudent stare and short answer, “No.”
Once, in another and worse part of the city, he fancied he had found
her, and that she had not sailed for Scotland as she had written, for
they had told him that “Sal Green lived, up in the fourth story,” and
climbing the crazy stairs, he knocked at the low, dark door, shuddering
involuntarily and experiencing a feeling of mortified pride as he
thought it possible that Marian—his wife—had toiled up that weary way to
die. The door was opened by a blear-eyed, hard-faced woman, who started
at sight of the elegant stranger, and to his civil questions replied
rather gruffly, “Yes, I’m Sal Green, I s’pose, or Sarah, jest which you
choose to call me, but the likes of Marian Lindsey never came near me,”
and glancing around the dirty, wretched room, Frederic was glad that it
was so. He would rather not find her, or hear tidings of her, than to
know that she had lived and died in such a place as this, and with a
sickening sensation he was turning away, when the woman, who was blessed
with a remarkable memory and never forgot anything to which her
attention was particularly directed, said to him, “You say it’s a year
last Fall sence she left home.”
“Yes, yes,” he replied eagerly, and she continued, “You say she dressed
in black, and wore a great long vail?”
“The same, the same,” he cried, advancing into the room and thrusting a
bill into the long hand, “oh, my good woman, have you seen her, and
where is she now?”
“The Lord knows, mebby, but I don’t,” answered the woman, who was
identical with the one who had so frightened Marian by watching her on
that day when she sat in front of Trinity and wished that she could die,
“I don’t know as I ever seen her at all,” she continued, “but a year ago
last November such a girl as you described, with long curls that looked
red in the sunshine, sat on the steps way down by Trinity and cried so
hard that I noticed her, and knew she warn’t a beggar by her dress. It
was gettin’ dark, and I was goin’ to speak to her when Joe Black came up
and asked her what ailed her, or somethin’. He ain’t none of the
likeliest,” and a grim smile flitted over the visage of the wrinkled
hag.
“Oh, Heaven,” cried Frederic, pressing his hands to his head, as if to
crush the horrid fear. “God save her from that fate. Is this all you
know? Can’t you tell me any more? I’ll give you half my fortune if
you’ll bring back my poor, lost Marian, just as she was when she left
me.”
The offer was a generous one, and Sal was tempted for a moment to tell
him some big lie, and thus receive a companion to the bill she clutched
so greedily, but the agonizing expression of his white face kindled a
spark of pity within her bosom, and she replied, “I did not finish
tellin’ you that while Joe was talking and had seemingly persuaded her
to go with him, a tall chap that I never seen before knocked him flat,
and took the girl with him, and that’s why I remember it so well.”
“Who was he, this tall man? Where did he go?” and Frederic wiped from
his forehead the great drops of sweat forced out by terrible fear.
“I told you I never seen him before,” was Sally’s answer, “but he had a
good face—a milk and water face—as if he never plotted no mischief in
his life. She’s safe with him, I’m sure. I’d trust my daughter with him,
if I had one, and know he wouldn’t harm her. He spoke to her
tender-like, and she looked glad, I thought.”
Frederic felt that this information was better than none, for it was
certain it was Marian whom the woman had seen, and, in a measure
comforted by her assurance of Ben Burt’s honesty, he bade her good
morning, and walked away.
At last, worn out and discouraged, he returned to his hotel, where he
lay now burning with fever, and, in his delirium, calling sometimes for
Isabel, sometimes for Alice, and again for faithful Dinah, but never
asking why Marian did not come. She was dead, and he only begged of
those around him to take her away from Joe Black, or show him where her
grave was made, so he could go home and tell the blind girl he had seen
it. Every ray of light which it was possible to shut out had been
excluded from the room, for he had complained much of his eyes, and when
Mrs. Burt entered, she could discover only the outline of a ghastly face
resting upon the pillows, scarcely whiter than itself. It was a serious
case, the attending physician said, and so she thought when she looked
into his wild, bright eyes, and felt his rapid pulse. To her he put the
same question he had asked nearly of every one:
“Do you know where Marian is?”
“Marian!” she repeated, feeling a little uncertain how to answer.
“Humor him! say you do!” whispered the physician, who was just taking
his leave. And very truthfully Mrs. Burt replied:
“Yes, I know where she is! She will come to you to-morrow.”
“No!” he answered mournfully. “The dead never come back, and it must not
be, either. Isabel is coming then, and the two can’t meet together here,
for—. Come nearer, woman, while I tell you I loved Isabel the best, and
that’s what made the trouble. She is beautiful, but Marian was good—and
do you know Marian was the Heiress of Redstone Hall; but I’m not going
to use her money.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Burt, trying to quiet him, but in vain.
He would talk—sometimes of Marian, and sometimes of Sarah Green, and the
dreary room where he had been.
“It made Marian tired,” he said, “to climb those broken stairs—tired,
just as he was now. But she was resting so quietly in Heaven, and the
April sun was shining on her grave. It was a little grave—a child’s
grave, as it were—for Marian was not so tall nor so old as Isabel.”
In this way he rambled on, and it was not until the morning dawned that
he fell into a heavy sleep, and Mrs. Burt had leisure to reflect upon
the novel position in which she found herself.
“It was foolish in me to give up to them children,” she said, “but now
that I am here, I’ll make the best of it, and do as well as I can.
Marian shan’t come, though! It would kill her dead to hear him going
on.”
Mrs. Burt was a little rash in making this assertion, for even while she
spoke, Marian was in the reception-room below, inquiring for the woman
who took care of Mr. Raymond. Not once during the long night had her
eye-lids closed in sleep, and with the early morning she had started for
the hotel, leaving Ben to get his breakfast as he could.
“Say Marian Grey wishes to see her,” she said, in answer to the inquiry
as to what name the servant was to take to No. ——.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Burt; “why didn’t Ben keep her at home?”
and, gliding down the stairs, she tried to persuade Marian to return.
But when she saw the firm, determined expression in the young girl’s
eye, she knew it was useless to reason with her, and saying, rather
pettishly, “You must expect to hear some cuttin’ things,” she bade her
follow up the stairs. Frederic still lay sleeping, his face turned
partly to one side, and his hand resting beneath his head. His rich
brown hair, now damp with heavy moisture, was pushed back from his white
forehead, which, gleaming through the dusky darkness, first showed to
Marian where he lay. The gas-light hurt his eyes, and the lamp, which
was kept continually burning, was so placed that its dim light did not
fall on him, and a near approach was necessary to tell her just how he
looked. He was fearfully changed, and, with a bitter moan, she laid her
head beside him on the pillow, so that her short curls mingled with his
darker locks, and she felt his hot breath on her cheek.
“Frederic—dear Frederic!” she said, and at the sound of her voice he
moved uneasily, as if about to waken.
“Come away, come away,” whispered Mrs. Burt. “He may know you, and a
sudden start would kill him.”
But Marian was deaf to all else save the whispered words dropping from
the sick man’s lips. They were of home, of Alice, of the library, and
oh, joy! could it be she heard aright—did he speak of her? Was it
_Marian_ he said? Yes, _it was Marian_, and with a cry of delight, which
started Mrs. Burt to her feet, and penetrated even to the ear of the
unconscious Frederic, she pressed her lips upon the very spot which they
had touched before on that night when she gave him her first kiss.
Slowly his eyes unclosed, but the wildness was still there, and Mrs.
Burt, who stood anxiously watching him, felt glad that it was so. Slowly
they wandered about the room, resting first upon the door, then on the
chandelier, then on the ceiling above, and dropping finally lower, until
at last they met and were riveted upon Marian, who, with clasped hands,
stood breathlessly awaiting the result.
“Will he know her? Does he know her?” was the mental query of Mrs. Burt;
while Marian’s fast-breathing heart asked the same question eagerly.
There was a wavering, a fierce struggle between delirium and reason, and
then, with a faint smile, he said:
“Did you kiss me just now?” and he pointed to the spot upon his
forehead.
Marian nodded, for she could not speak, and he continued:
“Marian kissed me there, too! Little Marian, who went away, and it has
burned and burned into my veins until it set my brain on fire. Nobody
has kissed me since, but Alice. Did you know Alice, girl?”
“Yes,” answered Marian, keen disappointment swelling within her bosom
and forcing the great tears from her eyes.
She had almost believed he would recognize her, but he did not; and
sinking down by his side, she buried her face in the bed-clothes, and
sobbed aloud.
“Don’t cry, little girl,” he said, evidently disturbed at the sight of
her tears. “I cried when I thought Marian was dead, but that seems so
long ago.”
“Oh Frederic—” and forgetful of everything, Marian sprang to her feet.
“Oh, Frederic, is it true? Did you cry for me?”
At the sound of his own name the sick man looked bewildered, while
reason seemed struggling again to assert its rights, and penetrate the
misty fog by which it was enveloped. Very earnestly he looked at the
young girl, who returned his gaze with one in which was concentrated all
the yearning love and tenderness, she had cherished for him so long.
“Are you Marian?” he asked, and in an instant the excited girl wound her
arms around his neck, and laying her cheek against his own, replied:
“Yes, Frederic yes. Don’t you know me, your poor lost Marian?”
Very caressingly he passed his hand over her short silken curls—pushed
them back from her forehead—examined them more closely, and then
whispered mournfully,
“No, you are not Marian. This is not her hair. But I like you,” he
continued, as he felt her tears drop on his face; “and I wish you to
stay with me, and when the pain comes back charm it away with your soft
hands. They are little hands,” and he took them between his own, “but
not so small as Marian’s were when I held one in my hand and promised I
would love her. It seemed like some tiny rose leaf, and I could have
crushed it easily, but I did not; I only crushed her heart, and she fled
from me forever, for ’twas a lie I told her,” and his voice sunk to a
lower tone. “I didn’t love her then—I don’t know as I love her now, for
Isabel is so beautiful. Did you ever see Isabel, girl?”
“Oh, Frederic,” groaned Marian, and wresting her hands from his grasp,
she tottered to a chair, while he looked after her wistfully.
“Will she go away?” he said to Mrs. Burt. “Will she leave me alone, when
she knows Alice is not here nor Isabel? I wish Isabel would come, don’t
you?”
There was another moan of anguish, and, rolling his bright eyes in the
direction of the arm-chair, the poor man whispered:
“Hark! that’s the sound I heard the night Marian went away! I thought
then ’twas the wind, but I knew afterwards that it was she, when her
soul parted with her body, and it’s followed me ever since. There is not
a spot at Redstone Hall that is not haunted with that cry. I’ve heard it
at midnight, at noonday—in the storm and in the rushing river—where we
thought she was buried. All but Alice—she knew she wasn’t, and she sent
me here to look. She don’t like Isabel, and is afraid I’ll marry her.
Maybe I shall, sometime! Who knows?”
And he laughed in delirious glee.
“Heaven keep me, too, from going mad?” cried Marian. “Oh! why did I come
here?”
“I told you not to all the time,” was Mrs. Burt’s consolatory remark;
which, however was lost on Marian, who, seizing her bonnet and shawl,
rushed from the room, unmindful of the outstretched arms which seemed
imploring her to stay.
The fresh morning air revived her fainting strength, but did not cool
the feverish agony at her heart, and she sped onward, until she reached
her home, where she surprised Ben at his solitary breakfast, which he
had prepared himself.
“Oh! Ben, Ben!” she cried, coming so suddenly upon him that he upset the
coffee-pot into which he was pouring some hot water. “Would it be wicked
for you to kill me dead, or for me to kill myself?”
“What’s to pay now?” asked Ben, using the skirt of his coat for a holder
in picking up the steaming coffee-pot.
Very hastily Marian related her adventures in the sick room, telling how
Frederic had talked of marrying Isabel before her very face.
“Crazy as a loon,” returned Ben. “I shouldn’t think nothin’ of that. You
say he talked as though he thought you was dead, and of course he don’t
know what he’s sayin’. Have they writ to his folks?”
“Yes,” returned Marian, who had made a similar inquiry of Mrs. Burt.
“They directed a letter to ‘Frederic Raymond’s friends, Franklin County,
Kentucky,’ but that may not reach them in a long time.”
“Wouldn’t it be a Christian act,” returned Ben “for us, who know jest
who he is, to telegraph to that critter, and have her come? By all
accounts he wants to see her, and it may do him good.”
Marian felt that it would be right, and, though it cost her a pang, she
said, at last:
“Yes, Ben, you may telegraph; but what name will you append?”
“Benjamin Butterworth, of course,” he replied. “They’ll remember the
peddler, and think it nateral I should feel an interest.” And leaving
Marian to take charge of the breakfast table, he started for the office.
Meantime the sick room was the scene of much excitement—Frederic raving
furiously, and asking for “the girl with the soft hands and silken
hair.” Sometimes he called her Marian, and begged of them to bring her
back, promising not to make her cry again.
“There is a mystery connected with this Marian he talks so much about,”
said the physician, who was present, “and he seems to fancy a
resemblance between her and the girl who left here this morning. What
may I call her name?”
“Marian, my daughter,” came involuntarily from Mrs. Burt, whose mental
rejoinder was, “God forgive me for that lie, if it was one. Names and
things is gettin’ so twisted up that it takes more than me to straighten
’em!”
“Well, then,” continued the physician, “suppose you send for her. It
will never do for him to get so excited. He is wearing out too fast.”
“I will go for her myself,” said Mrs. Burt, who fancied some persuasion
might be necessary ere Marian could be induced to return.
But she was mistaken, for when told that Frederic’s life depended upon
his being kept quiet, and his being kept quiet depended upon her
presence, Marian consented, and nerved herself to hear him talk, as she
knew he would, of her rival.
“If he lives, I will be satisfied,” she thought, “even though he never
did or can love me,” and with a strong, brave heart, she went back again
to the sick man, who welcomed her joyfully, and folding his feeble arms
around her neck, stroked again her hair, as he said, “You will not leave
me, Marian, till Isabel is here. Then you may go—back to the grave I
cannot find, and we will go home together.”
Marian could not answer him, neither was it necessary that she should.
He was satisfied to have her there, and with her sitting at his side,
and holding his hand in hers, he became as gentle as a child.
Occasionally he called her “little girl,” but oftener “Marian,” and when
he said that name, he always smoothed her hair, as if he pitied her, and
knew he had done her a wrong. And Marian felt each day more and more
that the wound she hoped had partly healed was bleeding afresh with a
new pain, for while he talked of Marian as a mother talks of an
unfortunate child, he spoke of Isabel with all a lover’s pride, and each
word was a dagger to the heart of the patient watcher, who sat beside
him day and night, until her eyes were heavy, and her cheeks were pale
with her unbroken vigils.
“Do you then love this Isabel so much?” she said to him one day, and
sinking his voice to a whisper he replied, “Yes, and I love you, too,
though not like her, because I loved her first.”
“And Marian?” questioned the young girl, “Don’t you love her?”
Oh, how eagerly she waited for the answer, which when it came almost
broke her heart.
“Not as I ought to—not as I have prayed that I might, and not as I
should, perhaps, if she hadn’t been to me what she is. Poor child,” he
continued, brushing away the tears which rolled like rain down Marian’s
cheeks, “poor child, are you crying for Marian?”
“Yes—yes, for Marian—for poor heart-broken me;” and the wretched girl
buried her face in the pillow beside him, for he held her firmly by the
wrist, and she could not get away.
In this manner several days went by, and over the intellect so obscured
there shone no ray or reason, while the girlish face grew whiter and
whiter each morning light, and at last the physician said that she must
rest, or her strength would be exhausted.
“Let me stay a little longer,” she pleaded—“stay at least until Miss
Huntington arrives.”
“Miss who?” asked the doctor. “Do you then know his family?”
“A friend of mine knows them,” answered Marian, a deep flush stealing
over her cheek.
“I hope, then, they will reward you well,” continued the physician. “The
young man would have died but for you. It is remarkable what control you
have over him.”
But Marian wished for no reward. It was sufficient for her to know that
she had been instrumental in saving his life, even though she had saved
it for Isabel. The physician said that Frederic was better, and that
afternoon, seated in the large arm-chair, she fell into a refreshing
sleep, from which she was finally aroused by Mrs. Burt, who bending over
her, whispered in her ear:
“Wake up. She’s come—she’s here—Miss Huntington!”
There was magic in that name, and it roused the sleeping girl at once,
sending a quiver of pain through her heart, for her post she knew was to
be given to another. Not both of them could watch by Frederic, and she,
who in all the world had the best right to stay, must go; but not until
she had looked upon her rival and had seen once the face which Frederic
called so beautiful. This done, she would go away and die, if it were
possible, and stand no longer between Frederic and the bride he so much
desired. She did not understand why he had so often spoken of herself as
being dead, when he knew that she was not. It was a vagary of his brain,
she said—he had had many since she came there, and she hoped he would
sometimes talk of her to Isabel, just as he had talked of Isabel to her.
There was a hurried consultation between herself and Mrs. Burt, with
regard to their future proceedings, and it was finally decided that the
latter should remain a few days longer, and so report the progress of
affairs to Marian, who, of course, must go away. This arrangement being
made they sat down and rather impatiently waited for the coming of
Isabel, who was in her room resting after her tiresome journey.
“Oh how can she wait so long?” thought Marian, glancing at Frederic, who
was sleeping now more quietly than he had done before for a long time.
She did not know Isabel Huntington, and she could not begin to guess how
thoroughly selfish she was, nor how that selfishness was manifest in
every movement. The letter, which at last had gone to Frankfort, was
received the same day with the telegram, and as a natural consequence,
threw the inmates of Redstone Hall into great excitement. Particularly
was this the case with Isabel, who unmindful of everything, wrang her
hands despairingly, crying out, “Oh! what shall I do if he dies?”
“Do!” repeated Dinah, forgetting her own grief in her disgust. “For the
Lord’s sake, can’t you do what you allus did? Go back whar you come
from, you and your mother, in course.”
Isabel deigned no reply to this remark, but hurried to her chamber,
where she commenced the packing of her trunk.
“Wouldn’t it look better for me to go?” suggested Mrs. Huntington, and
Isabel answered:
“Certainly not, the telegram was directed to me. No one knows me in New
York, and I don’t care what folks say here. If he lives I shall be his
wife, of course, else why should he send for me. It’s perfectly natural
that I should go.” And thinking to herself that she would rather
Frederic should die than to live for another, she completed her hasty
preparations, and was on her way to the depot before the household had
time to realize what they were doing.
In passing the house of Lawyer Gibson she could not forbear stopping a
moment to communicate the sad news to her particular friend, who, while
condoling with her, thought to herself, “He does care more for her than
I supposed, or he would not have not sent for her.”
“When will you come back?” she asked, and Isabel replied, “Not until he
is better or worse. Oh, Agnes; what if he should die. Imagine Mr. Rivers
at the point of death and you will know just how I feel.”
“Certainly, very, indeed,” was the meaningless answer of Agnes, who, as
the day of her bridal drew near, began to fancy that she might be easily
consoled in case anything should come between herself and the white
haired Floridan. “Perhaps you will be married before you return,” she
suggested, and Isabel, who had thought of the same possibility, replied,
“Don’t, pray, speak of such a thing—it seems terrible when Frederic is
so sick.”
“You won’t cotch the cars if you ain’t keerful,” chimed in Uncle Phil,
and kissing each other a most affectionate good-by, the young ladies
parted, Agnes thinking to herself, “I reckon I wouldn’t go off to New
York after a man who hadn’t really proposed—but then it’s just like
her,” while Isabel’s mental comment was, “It’s time Agnes was married,
for she’s really beginning to look old; I wouldn’t have my grandfather
though!”
So much for girlish friendships!
Distressed and anxious as Isabel seemed, it was no part of her intention
to travel nights, for that would give her a sallow, jaded look; so she
made the journey leisurely, and even after her arrival, took time to
rest and beautify ere presenting herself to Frederic. She had
ascertained that he was better, and had the best of care, so she
remained quietly in her chamber an hour or so, and it was not until
after dark that she bade the servant show her the way to the sick room.
“I will tell them you are coming,” suggested the polite attendant, and,
going on before her, he said to Mrs. Burt that “Miss Huntington would
like to come in.”
In the farthest corner in the room, where the shadows were the deepest,
and where she would be the least observed, sat Marian, her hands clasped
tightly together, her head bent forward, and her eyes fixed intently
upon the door through which her rival would enter. Frederic was awake,
and, missing her from her post, was about asking for her, when Isabel
appeared, looking so fresh, so glowing, so beautiful, that for an
instant Marian forgot everything in her admiration of the queenly
creature, who, bowing civilly to Mrs. Burt, glided to the bedside, and
sank upon her knees, gracefully—very gracefully—just as she had done at
a private rehearsal in her own room! Tighter the little hands were
clasped together, and the head which had dropped before was erect now,
as Marian watched eagerly for what would follow next.
“Dear Frederic,” said Isabel, and over the white face in the arm-chair
the hot blood rushed in torrents for it seemed almost an insult to hear
him thus addressed—“Dear Frederic, do you know me? I am Isabel;” and,
unmindful of Mrs. Burt, or yet of the motionless figure sitting near,
she kissed his burning forehead, and said again; “Do you know me?”
The nails were marking dark rings now in the tender flesh, while the
blue eyes flashed until they grew almost as black as Isabel’s, and still
Marian did not move. She could not, until she heard what answer would be
given. As the physician had predicted, Frederic was better since his
refreshing sleep, and through the misty vail enshrouding his reason a
glimmer of light was shining. The voice was a familiar one, and though
it partly bewildered him, he know who it was that bent so fondly over
him. It was somebody from home, and with a thrill of pleasure akin to
what one feels when meeting a fellow countryman far away on a foreign
shore, he twined his arms around her neck, and said to her joyfully:
“You are Isabel, and you’ve come to make me well.”
Isabel was about to speak again, when a low sob startled her, and,
turning in the direction from whence it came, she met a fierce, burning
gaze which riveted her as by some magnetism to the spot, and for a
moment the two looked intently into each other’s eyes. Isabel and
Marian, the one stamping indelibly upon her memory the lineaments of a
face which had stolen and kept a heart which should have been her own,
while the other wondered much at the strange white face which even
through the darkness seemed quivering with pain.
Purposely Mrs. Burt stepped between them, and thus the spell was broken,
Isabel turning again to Frederic, while Marian, unlocking her stiff
fingers, grasped her bonnet and glided from the room so silently that
Isabel knew not she was gone until she turned her head and found the
chair empty.
“Who was that?” she said to Mrs. Burt—“that young girl who just went
out?”
“My daughter,” answered Mrs. Burt, again mentally asking forgiveness for
the falsehood told, and thinking to herself, “Mercy knows it ain’t my
nater to lie, but when a body gets mixed up in such a scrape as this,
I’d like to see ’em help it!”
After the first lucid interval, Frederic relapsed again into his former
delirious mood, but did not ask for Marian. He seemed satisfied that
Isabel was there, and he fell asleep again, resting so quietly that when
it was eleven Isabel arose and said, “He is doing so well I believe I
will retire. I never sat up with a sick person in my life, and should be
very little assistance to you. That daughter of yours is somewhere
around, I suppose, and will come if you need help.”
Mrs. Burt nodded, thinking how different was this conduct from that of
the unselfish Marian, who had watched night after night without giving
herself the rest she absolutely needed. Isabel, on the contrary, had no
idea of impairing her beauty, or bringing discomfort to herself by
spending many hours at a time in that close, unwholesome atmosphere, and
while Marian in her humble apartment was weeping bitterly, she was
dreaming of returning to Kentucky as a bride. Frederic could scarcely do
less than reward her kindness by marrying her as soon as he was able.
She could take care of him so much better, she thought, and ere she fell
asleep she had arranged it all in her own mind, and had fancied her
mother’s surprise at receiving a letter signed by her new name, “Isabel
H. Raymond.” She would retain the “H,” she said. She always liked to see
it, and she hoped Agnes Gibson, if she persisted in that foolish fancy
of the fish knife, would have it marked in this way!
It was long after daylight ere she awoke, and when she did her first
thought was of her pleasant dream and her second of the girl she had
seen the night before. “How white she was,” she said, as she made her
elaborate toilet, “and how those eyes of hers glared at me, as if I had
no business here. Maybe she has fallen in love while taking care of
him;” and Isabel laughed aloud at the very idea of a nursing woman’s
daughter being in love with the fastidious Frederic! Once she thought of
Mrs. Daniel Burt, wondering where she lived, and half wishing she could
find her, and, herself unknown, could question her of Marian.
“Maybe this Mrs. Merton knows something of her,” she said, and thinking
she would ask her if a good opportunity should occur, she gave an extra
brush to her glossy hair, looked in a small hand mirror to see that the
braids at the back of her head were right, threw open her wrapper a
little more to show her flounced cambric skirt, and then went to the
breakfast room, where three attendants, attracted by her style and the
prospect of a fee, bowed obsequiously and asked what she would have.
This occupied nearly another hour, and it was almost ten ere she
presented herself to Mrs. Burt, who was growing very faint and weary.
At the physician’s request more light had been admitted into the room,
and Frederic, who was much better this morning, recognized Isabel at
once. He had a faint remembrance of having seen her the previous night,
but it needed Mrs. Burt’s assertion to confirm his conjecture, and he
greeted her now as if meeting her for the first time. Many questions he
asked of the people at home, and how they had learned of his illness.
“We received a letter and a telegram both,” said Isabel, continuing,
“You remember that booby peddler who sold Alice the bracelet and
frightened the negroes so? Well, he must have telegraphed, for his name
was signed to the dispatch, ‘Benjamin Butterworth.’”
Mrs. Burt was very much occupied with something near the table, and
Frederic did not notice her confusion as he replied, “He was a
kind-hearted man, I thought, but I wonder how he heard of my illness,
and where he is now. Mrs. Merton, has a certain Ben Butterworth inquired
for me since I was sick?”
“I know nobody by that name,” returned Mrs. Burt, and without stopping
to think that her question might lead to some inquiries from Frederic,
Isabel rejoined, “Well, do you know a Mrs. Daniel Burt?”
“Mrs. Daniel Burt!” repeated Frederic, as if trying to recall something
far back in the past, while the lady in question started so suddenly as
to drop the cup of hot water she held in her hand.
Stooping down to pick up the cup, she said something about its having
burned her, and added, “I ain’t much acquainted in the city, and never
know my next door neighbors.”
“Mrs. Daniel Burt,” Frederic said again, “I have surely heard that name
before. Who is she, Isabel?”
It was Isabel’s turn now to answer evasively; but being more accustomed
to dissimulate than her companion, she replied, quite as a matter of
course, “You may have heard mother speak of her in New Haven. I used to
know her when I was a little girl, and I believe she lives in New York.
She was a very good, but common kind of woman, and one with whom I
should not care to associate, though mother, I dare say, would be glad
to hear from her.”
“The impudent trollop,” muttered Mrs. Burt, marvelling at the
conversation, and wondering which was trying to deceive the other,
Frederic or Isabel. “The former couldn’t hoodwink her,” she said, “even
if he did Isabel. She understood it all, and he knew who Mrs. Daniel
Burt was just as well as she did, for even if he had forgotten that she
once lived with his father, Marian’s letter had refreshed his memory,
and he was only ‘putting on’ for the sake of misleading Isabel. But
where in the world did that jade know her!” that was a puzzle, and
settling it in her own mind that there were two of the same name, she
left the room and went down to her breakfast.
During the day not a word was said of Marian. Isabel was evidently too
much pleased with Frederic’s delight at seeing her to think of anything
else, while Mrs. Burt did not consider it necessary to speak of her.
Frederic, too, for a time had forgotten her, but as the day drew near
its close, he relapsed into a thoughtful mood, replying to Isabel’s
frequent remarks either in monosyllables or not at all. As the darkness
increased he seemed to be listening intently, and when a step was heard
upon the stairs or in the hall without, his face would light up with
eager expectation and then be as suddenly overcast as the footstep
passed his door. Gradually there was creeping into his mind a vague
remembrance of something or somebody, which for many days had been there
with him, gliding so noiselessly about the room that he had almost
fancied it trod upon the air, and he could scarcely tell whether it were
a spirit or a human being like himself. Little by little the outline so
dimly discerned assumed a form, and the form was that of a young girl—a
very fair young girl, with sweet blue eyes, and soft, baby hands, which
had held his aching head and smoothed his tangled hair, oh, so many
times. Her voice too, was low and gentle, and reminding him of some sad
strain of music heard long, long ago. It seemed to him, too, that she
called him Frederic, dropping hot tears upon his face. But where was she
now? Why didn’t she come again, and who was she—that little blue-eyed
girl? For a time the vision faded and all was confused again, but the
reality came back ere long, and listening eagerly for something which
never came, he thought and thought until great drops of sweat stood
thickly upon his brow; and Isabel, wiping them away, became alarmed at
the wildness of his eye and the rapid beating of his pulse. A powerful
anodyne was administered, and he slept at last a fitful feverish sleep,
which however, did him good, and in the morning he was better than he
had been before.
Mrs. Burt, who had watched him carefully, knew that the danger was past,
and that afternoon she left him with Isabel, while she went home, where
she found Marian seriously ill, with Ben taking care of her in his kind
but awkward manner.
“Did Frederic remember me? Does he know I have been there?” were
Marian’s first questions, and when Mrs. Burt replied in the negative,
she turned away whispering, mournfully, “It is just as well.”
“He is doing well,” said Mrs. Burt, “and as you need me more than he
does now, I shall come home and let that Isabel take care of him. It
won’t hurt her any, the jade. She can telegraph for her mother if she
chooses.”
Accordingly, she returned to the sick room, where she found Frederic
asleep and Isabel reading a novel.
To her announcement of leaving, the latter made no objection. She was
rather pleased than otherwise, for, as Frederic grew stronger, the
presence of a third person, and a stranger, too, might be disagreeable.
She would telegraph for her mother, of course, as she did not think it
quite proper to stay there alone. But her mother was under her control;
she could dispose of her at any time, so she merely stopped her reading
long enough to say, “Very well, you can go if you like. How much is your
charge?”
Mrs. Burt did not hesitate to tell her; and Isabel, who had taken care
of Frederic’s purse, paid her, and then resumed her book, while Mrs.
Burt, with a farewell glance at her patient, went from the room, without
a word of explanation as to where she could be found in case they wished
to find her.
It was dark when Frederic awoke, and it was so still around him that he
believed himself alone.
“They have all left me,” he said; “Mrs. Merton, Isabel, and that other
one, that being of mystery—who was she—who could she have been?” and
shutting his eyes, he tried to bring her before him just as he had often
seen her bending o’er his pillow.
He knew now that it was not a phantom of his brain, but a reality. There
had been a young girl there, and when the world without was darkest, and
he was drifting far down the river of death, her voice had called him
back, and her hands had held him up so that he did not sink in the deep,
angry waters. There were tears many times upon her face, he remembered,
and once he had wiped them away, asking why she cried. It was a pretty
face, he said, a very pretty face, and the sunny eyes of blue seemed
shining on him even now, while the memory of her gentle acts was very,
very sweet, thrilling him with an undefined emotion, and awakening
within his bosom a germ of the undying love he was yet to feel for the
mysterious stranger. She had called him Frederic, too, while he had
called her Marian. She had answered to that name, she asked him of
Isabel, and—“oh, Heaven!” he cried, starting quickly and clasping both
hands upon his head. Like a thunderbolt it burst upon him, and for an
instant his brain seemed all on fire. “It was Marian!—it was Marian!” he
essayed to say, but his lips refused to move, and when Isabel, startled
by his sudden movement, struck a light and came to his bedside, she saw
that he had fainted!
In great alarm she summoned help, begging of those who came to go at
once for Mrs. Merton. But no one knew of the woman’s place of residence,
and as she had failed to inquire, it was a hopeless matter. Slowly
Frederic came back to consciousness, and when he was again alone with
Isabel he said to her, “Where is that woman who took care of me?”
“She is gone,” said Isabel. “Gone to her home.”
“Gone,” he repeated. “When did she go, and why?”
Isabel told him the particulars of Mrs. Burt’s going, and he continued:
“Was there no one else here when you came? No young girl with soft blue
eyes?” and he looked eagerly at her.
“Yes,” she replied. “There was a queer acting thing sitting in the
arm-chair the night I first came in—”
“Who was she, and where is she now?” he asked and Isabel answered, “I am
sure I don’t know where she is, for she vanished like a ghost.”
“Yes, yes; but who was she? Did she have no name?” and Frederic clutched
Isabel’s arm nervously.
“Mrs. Merton told me it was her daughter—that is all I know,” said
Isabel; and in a tone of disappointment he continued:
“Will you tell me just how she looked, and how she acted when you first
saw her?”
“One would suppose you deeply interested in your nurse’s daughter;” and
the glittering black eyes flashed scornfully upon Frederic, who replied:
“I am interested, for she saved my life. Tell me, won’t you, how she
looked?”
“Well, then,” returned Isabel pettishly, “she was about fifteen, I
think—certainly not older than that. Her face was very white, with big,
blue eyes, which glared at me like a wild beast’s; and what is queerer
than all, she actually sobbed when I, or rather, you kissed me; perhaps
you have forgotten that you did?”
He had forgotten it, for the best of reasons, but he did not contradict
her, so intent was he upon listening to her story.
“I had not observed her particularly before; but when I heard that sound
I turned to look at her, while she stared at me as impudently as if I
had no business here. That woman stepped between us purposely I know,
for she seemed excited; and when I saw the arm-chair again the girl was
gone.”
Thus far everything, except the probable age, had confirmed his
suspicions; but there was one question more—an all-important one—and
with trembling eagerness he asked:
“What of her hair? Did you notice that?”
“It was brown, I think,” said Isabel—“short in her neck and curly round
her forehead. I should say her hair was rather handsome.”
With a sigh of disappointment Frederic turned upon his pillow, saying to
her:
“That will do—I’ve heard enough.”
Isabel’s last words had brought back to his mind something which he had
forgotten until now—the girl’s hair was short, and he remembered
distinctly twining the soft rings around his fingers. They were not
long, red curls, like those described by Sally Green. It wasn’t Marian’s
hair—it wasn’t Marian at all; and in his weakness his tears dropped
silently upon the pillow, for the disappointment was terrible. All that
night and the following day he was haunted with thoughts of the young
girl, and at last, determining to see her again and know if she were
like Marian, he said to Isabel:
“Send for Mrs. Merton. I wish to talk with her.”
“It is an impossibility,” returned Isabel: “for, when she left us, I
carelessly neglected to ask where she lived——”
“Inquire below, then,” persisted Frederic. “Somebody will certainly
know, and I must find her.”
Isabel complied with his request, and soon returned with the information
that no one knew aught of Mrs. Merton’s whereabouts, though it was
generally believed that she came from the country, and at the time of
coming to the hotel was visiting friends in the city.
“Find her friends, then,” continued Frederic, growing more and more
excited and impatient.
This, too, was impossible, for everything pertaining to Mrs. Merton was
mere conjecture. No one could tell where she lived, or whither she had
gone; and the sick man lamented the circumstance so often that Isabel
more than once lost her temper entirely, wondering why he should be so
very anxious about a woman who had been well paid for her services—“yes,
more than paid, for her price was a most exorbitant one.”
Meantime, Mrs. Huntington, who, on the receipt of Isabel’s telegram, had
started immediately, arrived, laden with trunks, bandboxes, and bags,
for the old lady was rather dressy, and fancied a large hotel a good
place to show her new clothes. On learning that Frederic was very much
better, and that she had been sent for merely on the score of propriety,
she seemed somewhat out of humor—“Not that she wanted Frederic to die,”
she said, “and she was glad of course that he was getting well, but she
didn’t like to be scared the way she was; a telegram always made her
stomach tremble so that she didn’t get over it in a week; she had
traveled day and night to get there, and didn’t know what she could have
done if she hadn’t met Rudolph McVicar in Cincinnati.”
“Rudolph!” exclaimed Isabel. “Pray, where is he now?”
“Here in this very hotel,” returned her mother. “He came with me all the
way, and seemed greatly interested in you, asking a thousand questions
about when you expected to be married. Said he supposed Frederic’s
illness would postpone it awhile, and when I told him you wan’t even
engaged as I knew of, he looked disappointed. I believe Rudolph has
reformed!”
“The wretch!” muttered Isabel, who rightly guessed that Rudolph’s
interest was only feigned.
He had heard of her sudden departure for New York, and had heard also
(Agnes Gibson being the source whence the information came) that she
might, perhaps, be married as soon as Frederic was able to sit up.
Accordingly, he had himself started northward, stumbling upon Mrs.
Huntington in Cincinnati, and coming with her to New York, where he
stopped at the same hotel, intending to remain there and wait for the
result. He did not care to meet Isabel face to face, while she was quite
as anxious to avoid an interview with him; and after a few days she
ceased to be troubled about him at all. Frederic absorbed all her
thoughts, he appeared so differently from what he used to do—talking but
little either to herself or her mother, and lying nearly all the day
with his eyes shut, though she knew he was not asleep; and she tried in
vain to fathom the subject of his reflections. But he guarded that
secret well, and day after day he thought on, living over again the
first weeks of his sickness in that chamber, until at last the
conviction was fixed upon his mind that, spite of the short hair, spite
of the probable age, spite of the story about Mrs. Merton’s daughter, or
yet the letter from Sarah Green, that young girl who had watched with
him so long and then disappeared so mysteriously, was none other than
Marian—his wife. He did not shudder now when he repeated that last word
to himself. It sounded pleasantly, for he knew it was connected with the
sweet, womanly love which had saved him from death. The brown hair which
Isabel had mentioned he rejected as an impossibility. It had undoubtedly
looked dark to her, but it was red still, though worn short in her neck,
for he remembered that distinctly. Sarah Green’s letter was a
forgery—Alice’s prediction was true, and Marian still lived.
But where was she now? Why had she left him so abruptly? and would he
ever find her? Yes, he would, he said. He would spare no time, no pains,
no money in the search; and when he found her he would love and cherish
her as she deserved. He was beginning to love her now, and he wondered
at his infatuation for Isabel, whose real character was becoming more
and more apparent to him. His changed demeanor made her cross and
fretful; while Alice Gibson’s letter, asking when she was to be married,
and saying people there expected her to return a bride, only increased
her ill-humor, which manifested itself several times toward her mother,
in Frederic’s presence.
At last, in a fit of desperation, she wrote to Agnes Gibson that she
never expected to be married—certainly not to Frederic Raymond—and if
every young lady matrimonially inclined should nurse her intended
husband through a course of fever, she guessed they would become
disgusted with mankind generally, and that man in particular! This done,
Isabel felt better—so much better indeed that she resolved upon another
trial to bring about her desired object, and one day, about two weeks
after her mother’s arrival, she said to Frederic:
“Now that you are nearly well, I believe I shall go to New Haven, and,
after a little, mother will come, too. I shall remain there, I think,
though mother, I suppose, will keep house for you this year, as she has
engaged to do.”
To this suggestion Frederic did not reply just as she thought he would.
“It was a good idea,” he said, “for her to visit her old home, and he
presumed she would enjoy it.” Then he added, very faintly: “Alice will
need a teacher here quite as much as in Kentucky, and you can retain
your situation if you choose.”
Isabel bit her lip, and her black eyes flashed angrily as she replied:
“I am tired of teaching only one pupil, for there is nothing to interest
me, and I am all worn out, too.”
She did look pale, and, touched with pity, Frederic said to her, very
kindly:
“You do seem weary, Isabel. You have been confined with me too long, and
I think you had better go at once. I will run down to see you, if
possible, before I return to Kentucky.”
This gave her hope, and, drying her eyes, which were filled with tears,
Isabel chatted pleasantly with him about his future plans, which had
been somewhat disarranged by his unexpected illness. He could not now
hope to be settled at Riverside, as he called his new home, until some
time in June—perhaps not so soon—but he would let her know, he said, in
time to meet him there.
A day or two after this conversation, Isabel started for New Haven,
whither in the course of a week she was followed by both her mother and
Rudolph, the latter of whom was determined not to lose sight of her
until sure that the engagement, which he somewhat doubted, did not in
reality exist.