THE SEARCH.
When the carriage containing Mrs. Huntington rolled away from the hotel,
Frederic, who was standing upon the steps, experienced a feeling of
relief in knowing that, as far as personal acquaintances were concerned,
he was now alone and free to commence his search for Marian. Each day
the conviction had been strengthened that she was alive—that she had
been with him a few weeks before—and now every energy should be devoted
to finding her. Once he thought of advertising, but she might not see
the paper, and as he rather shrank from making his affairs thus public,
he abandoned the project, determining, however, to leave no other means
untried; he would hunt the city over, inquire at every house, and then
scour the surrounding country. It might be months, or it might be years,
ere this were accomplished; but accomplish it he would, and with a
brave, hopeful heart, he started out, taking first a list of all the
Mertons in the Directory, then searching out and making of them the most
minute inquiries, except, indeed, in cases where he knew, by the nature
of their surroundings, that none of their household had officiated in
the capacity of nurse. The woman who had taken care of him was poor and
uneducated, and he confined himself mostly to that class of people.
But all in vain. No familiar face ever came at his call. Nobody knew her
whom he sought—no one had heard of Marian Lindsey, and at last he
thought of Sally Green, determining to visit her again, and, if
possible, learn something more of the girl she had described. Perhaps
she could direct him to Joe Black, who might know the tall man last seen
with Marian. The place was easily found, and the dangerous stairs
creaked again to his eager tread. Sal knew him at once, and tucking her
grizzly hair beneath her dirty cap, waited to hear his errand, which was
soon told. Could she give him any further information of that young
girl, had she ever heard of her since his last visit there, and would
she tell him where to find Joe Black?—he might know who the man was, and
thus throw some light on the mystery.
“Bless your heart,” answered the woman, “Joe died three weeks ago with
the delirium tremens, so what you git out of him won’t help you much. I
told you all I knew before; or no, come to think on’t, I seen ’em go
into a Third avenue car, and that makes me think the feller lived up
town. But law, you may as well hunt for a needle in a haystack as to
hunt for a lost gal in New York. You may git out all the police you’ve a
mind to, and then you ain’t no better off. Ten to one they are wus than
them that’s hidin’ her, if they do wear brass buttons and feel so big,”
and Sal shook her brawny arm threateningly at some imaginary officers of
justice.
With a feeling of disgust, Frederic turned away, and, retracing his
steps, came at last to the Park, where he entered a Third avenue car,
though why he did so he scarcely knew. He did not expect to find her
there, but he felt a satisfaction in thinking she had once been over
that route—perhaps in that very car—and he looked curiously in the faces
of his fellow-passengers as they entered and left. Wistfully, too, he
glanced out at the houses they were passing, saying to himself: “Is it
there Marian lives, or there?” and once when they stopped for some one
to alight, his eye wandered down the opposite street, resting at last
upon a window high up in a huge block of buildings. There was nothing
peculiar about that window—nothing to attract attention, unless it were
the neat white fringed curtain which shaded it, or the rose geranium
which in its little earthen pot seemed to indicate that the inmates of
that tenement retained a love for flowers and country fashions, even
amid the smoke and the dust of the city. Frederic saw the white curtain,
and it reminded him of the one which years ago hung in his bedroom at
the old place on the river. He saw the geranium, too, and the figure
which bent over it to pluck the withered leaf. Then the car moved on,
and to the weary man sitting in the corner there came no voice to tell
how near he had been to the lost one, for that window was Mrs. Burt’s,
and the bending figure—Marian.
He had seen her—he had passed within a few rods of her and she could
have heard him had he shouted aloud, but for all the good that this did
him she might have been miles and miles away, for he never dreamed of
the truth, and day after day he continued his search, while the
excitement, the fatigue, and the constant disappointment, told fearfully
upon his constitution. Still he would not give it up, and every morning
he went forth with hope renewed, only to return at night weary,
discouraged, and sometimes almost despairing of success.
Once, at the close of a rainy afternoon, he entered again a Third avenue
car, which would leave him not very far from his hotel. It had been a
day of unusual fatigue with him, and utterly exhausted, he sank into the
corner seat, while passenger after passenger crowded in, their damp
overcoats and dripping umbrellas filling the vehicle with a sickly
steam, which affected him unpleasantly, causing him to lean his aching
head upon his hand, and so shut out what was going on around him. They
were full at last—every seat, every standing point was taken, and still
the conductor said there was room for another, as he passed in a
delicate young girl, who modestly drew her vail over her face to avoid
the gaze of the men, some of whom stared rather rudely at her. Just
after she came in, Frederic looked up, but the thick folds of the vail
told no tales of the sudden paling of the lip, the flushing of her
cheek, and the quiver of the eye-lids. Neither did the violent trembling
of her body, nor the quick pressure of her hand upon her side convey to
him other impression than that she was tired—faint, he thought—and
touching his next neighbor with his elbow, he compelled him to move
along a few inches, while he did the same, and so made room for the girl
between himself and the door.
“Sit here, Miss,” he said, and he turned partly toward her, as if to
shield her from the crowd, for he felt intuitively that she was not like
them.
Her hands, which chanced to be ungloved and grasped the handle of her
basket, were small, very small, and about the joints were little
laughing dimples, looking very tempting to Frederic Raymond, who was a
passionate admirer of pretty hands, and who now felt a strong desire to
clasp the tiny snowflakes just within his reach.
Involuntarily he thought of those which had so lately held his feverish
head; they must have been much like the little ones holding so fast the
basket, and he wished that chance had brought Marian there instead of
the young girl sitting so still beside him. A strange sensation thrilled
him at the very idea of meeting her thus, while his heart beat fast, but
never said to him that it was Marian herself! Why didn’t it? He asked
himself that question a thousand times in after years, saying he should
know her again, but he had no suspicion of it now, though when they
stopped at the same street down which he once had looked at the open
window, and when the seat beside him was empty, he did experience a
sense of loneliness—a feeling as if a part of himself had gone with the
young girl. Suddenly remembering that in his abstraction he had come
higher up than he wished to do, he also alighted, and standing upon the
muddy pavement, looked after the tripping figure moving so rapidly
toward the window where the geranium was blossoming, and where a light
was shining now. It disappeared at last, and mentally chiding him for
stopping in the rain to watch a perfect stranger, Frederic turned back
in the direction of his hotel, while the girl, who had so awakened his
interest, rushed up the narrow stairs, and bounded into the room where
Mrs. Burt was sitting, exclaimed:
“I’ve seen him! I’ve sat beside him in the same car!”
“Why didn’t you fetch him home, then?” asked Ben, who had returned that
afternoon from a short excursion in the country.
Marian’s face crimsoned at this question, and in a hard, unnatural voice
she replied:
“He didn’t wish to come. He didn’t even pretend to recognize me, though
he gave me a seat, and I knew him so quick.”
“Had that brown dud over your face, I s’pose,” returned Ben, casting a
rueful glance at the vail. “Nobody can tell who a woman is, now-a-days.
Why didn’t you pull it off and claim him for your husband, and make him
pay your fare?”
“Oh, Ben,” said Marian, “you certainly wouldn’t have me degrade myself
like that! Frederic knew who I was, I am sure, for I saw him so
plain—but he does not wish to find me. He never asked for me since I
left his sick room. All he cared for was Isabel, and I wish it were
possible for him to marry her.”
“You don’t wish any such thing,” answered Ben, and in the same cold,
hard tone Marian continued:
“I do. I thought so to-night when I sat beside him and looked into his
face. I loved him once as much as one can love another, and because I
loved him thus I came away, thinking in my ignorance that he might be
happy with Isabel; and when I saw that advertisement, I wrote, asking if
I might go back again. The result of the letter you know. He insulted me
cruelly. He told me a falsehood, and still I was not cured. When I
thought him dying in the hotel, I went and staid with him till the other
came: but, after I was gone, he never spoke of me, and he even professed
not to know Mrs. Daniel Burt, asking who she was, when he knew as well
as I, for I told him who she was, and he directed my letter to her. I
never used to think he was deceitful, but I know it now, and I almost
hate him for it.”
“Tut, tut. No you don’t,” chimed in Ben; and Marian growing still more
excited, continued, “Well, if I don’t, I will. I have run after him all
I ever shall, and now if we are reconciled he must make the first
concessions!”
“Whew-ew,” whistled Ben, thinking to himself, “Ain’t the little critter
spunky, though!” and feeling rather amused than otherwise, he watched
Marian as she paced the floor, her blue eyes flashing angrily and her
whole face indicative of strong excitement.
She fully believed that Frederic knew her, simply because she recognized
him, and his failing to acknowledge the recognition filled her with
indignation and determination to forget him if it were possible. Ah,
little did she dream then of the lonely man, who, in the same room where
she so recently had been, sat with bowed head, and thought of her until
the distant bells tolled the hour of midnight.
It was now three weeks since he commenced his search, and he was
beginning to despair of success. His presence he knew was needed in
Kentucky, where Alice had been left alone with the negroes, and where
his arrangements for moving were not yet completed. His house on the
river was waiting for him, the people wondering why he didn’t come, and
as he sat thinking it all over, he resolved at last to go home and bring
Alice to Riverside—to send for Mrs. Huntington as had previously been
arranged, and then begin the search again. Of Isabel too, he thought,
remembering his hasty promise of going to New Haven, but this he could
not do. So he penned her a few lines, telling her how it was impossible
for him to come, and saying that on his return to Riverside with Alice,
he should expect to find her mother and herself waiting to receive him.
“I cannot do less than this,” he said. “Isabel has been with me a long
time, and though I do not feel toward her as I did, I pity her; for I am
afraid she likes me better than she should. I have given her
encouragement, too; but when I come back, I will talk with her candidly.
I will tell her how it is, and offer her a home with me as long as she
shall choose to stay. I will be to her a brother; and when Marian is
found, the two shall be like sisters, until some man who has not a wife
already takes Isabel from my hands.”
Thus deciding, Frederic wrote to Alice, telling her when he should
probably be home, and saying he should stop for a day or so at Yonkers.
This done, he retired to rest, dreaming strange dreams of Marian and the
girl who sat beside him. They were one and the same, he thought; and he
was raising the brown vail to see, when he awoke to consciousness, and
experienced a feeling of disappointment in finding his dream untrue.
That morning a vague, uneasy feeling prompted him to stroll slowly down
the street whither the young girl had gone the previous night. The
window in the third story was open again, and the geranium was standing
there still, its broad leaves growing fresher and greener in the
sunshine which shone warm upon the window sill, where a beautiful kitten
lay, apparently asleep. Frederic saw it all, and for an instant felt a
thrill of fear lest the cat should fall and be killed on the pavement
below. But a second glance assured him of its safety—for, half buried in
its long, silk fur, was a small white hand, a hand like Marian’s and
that of the girl with the thick brown vail. “Its owner was the mistress
of the kitten,” he said; and the top of her head was just visible, for
she sat reading upon a little stool, and utterly unconscious of the
stranger who, on the opposite side in the street, cast many and wistful
glances in that direction, not because he fancied that she was there,
nor yet for any explainable reason, except that the fringed curtain
reminded him of his boyhood; and he knew the occupant of that room had
once lived in the country, and bleached her linen on the sweet, clean
grass, which grew by the running brook.
“Marian,” said Mrs. Burt, “who is that tall man going down the street?
He’s been looking this way ever so much. Isn’t it——”
She did not need to repeat the name, for Marian saw who it was, and her
fingers buried themselves so deeply in the fat sides of the kitten that
the little animal fancied the play rather too rude for comfort, and,
spitting at her mistress pertly bounded upon the floor.
“It’s Frederic!” cried Marian. “Maybe he’s coming here, for he has
crossed the street below, and is coming up this side.” And in her joy
Marian forgot the harsh things she had said of him only the night
before.
But in vain Marian waited for the step upon the stairs—the loud knock
upon the door—neither of them came, and leaning from the window she
watched him through her tears until he passed from sight.
That afternoon, as Frederic was sauntering leisurely down the street in
the direction of the depot—for he intended going to Yonkers that
night—he stumbled upon Ben, whose characteristic exclamation was, “Wall,
Square, glad to see you out agin, but I didn’t b’lieve I ever should
when I sent word to that gal. She come, I s’pose?”
“Yes,” returned Frederic, “and I am grateful to you for your kindness in
telegraphing to my friends. How did you know I was sick?”
“Oh, I’m allus ’round,” said Ben. “Know one of them boys at the hotel,
and he told me. I s’posed you’d die, and I should of come to see you
mabby, only I had to go off peddlin’. Bizness afore pleasure, you know.”
This remark seemed to imply that Frederic’s dying would have been a
source of pleasure to the Yankee, but the young man knew that he did
intend it, and the two walked on together—Ben plying his companion with
questions, an learning that both Isabel and Mrs. Huntington were now in
New Haven, but would probably go to Riverside when Frederic returned
from Kentucky.
“That’s a grand place,” said Ben; “fixed up in tip-top style, too. I
took my sister out to see it, and she thought ’twas pretty slick.
Wouldn’t wonder if you’re goin’ to marry that black haired gal, by the
looks of things?” and Ben’s gray eyes peered sideways at Frederic, who
replied, “I certainly have no such intentions.”
“You don’t say it,” returned Ben. “I shouldn’t of took the trouble to
send for her if I hadn’t s’posed you was kinder courtin’. My sister
thought you was, and she or’to know, bein’ she’s been through the mill!”
Frederic winced under Ben’s pointed remarks, and as a means of changing
the conversation, said, “If I am not mistaken, you spoke of your sister
when in Kentucky, and Alice became quite interested. I’ve heard her
mention the girl several times. What is her name?”
“Do look at that hoss—flat on the pavement. He’s a goner,” Ben
exclaimed, by way of gaining a little time.
Frederic’s attention was immediately diverted from Ben, who thought to
himself, “I’ll try him with half the truth, and if he’s any ways bright
he’ll guess the rest.”
So when, to use Ben’s words, the noble quadruped was “safely landed on
t’other side of Jordan where there wan’t no omnibus drivers, no cars, no
canal boats, no cartmen, no gals to pound their backs into pummice, no
wimmen, nor ministers to yank their mouths, nor nothin’ but a lot as big
as the United States with the Missippi runnin’ through it, and nothin’
to do but kick up their heels and eat clover,” Ben came back to
Frederic’s question, and said, “You as’t my sister’s name. They tried
hard to call her _Mary Ann_, I s’pose. My way of thinkin’ ’taint neither
one nor t’other, though mabby you’ll like it—MARIAN; ’taint a common
name. Did you ever hear it afore?”
“Marian!” gasped Frederic, turning instantly pale, while a strange,
undefinable feeling swept over him—a feeling that he had never been so
near finding her as now.
“Excuse me, Square,” said Ben, whose keen eyes lost not a single change
in the expression of Frederic’s face. “I’m such a blunderin’ critter!
That little blind gal told me your fust wife was Marian, and I or’to
known better than harrer your feelings with the name.”
“Never mind,” returned Frederic, faintly, “but tell me of your
sister—and now I think of it, you said once you were from down east,
which I supposed referred to one of the New England states, Vermont
perhaps?”
“Did use to live in Massachusetts,” replied Ben. “But can’t a feller
move?”
Frederic admitted that he could, and Ben continued, “I or’to told you, I
s’pose, that Marian ain’t my own flesh and blood—she’s adopted, that’s
all. But I love her jest the same. Her name is Marian Grey,” and Ben
looked earnestly at Frederic, thinking to himself, “Won’t he take the
hint when he knows, or had or’to know that her mother was a Grey.”
But hints were lost on Frederic. He had no suspicion of the truth, and
Ben proceeded, “All her kin is dead, and as mother hadn’t no daughter
she took this orphan, and I’m workin’ hard to give her a good schoolin’.
She can play the pianner like fury, and talks the French grammar most as
well as I do the English!”
This brought a smile to Frederic’s face, and he did not for a moment
think of doubting Ben’s word.
“You seem very proud of your sister,” he said, at last, “and as I owe
you something for caring for me and telegraphing to my friends, let me
show my gratitude by giving you something for this Marian Grey. What
shall it be? Is she fond of jewelry? Most young girls are.”
Ben stuck his hands in his trousers pocket and seemed to be thinking;
then, removing his hands he replied, “Mabby you’ll think it sassy, but
there is somethin’ that would please us both. I told her about you when
I came from Kentucky, and she cried like a baby over that blind gal.
Then, when you was sick, she felt worried agin, beg your pardon, Square,
but I told her you was han’some. Jest give us your picter, if it ain’t
bigger than my thumb, and would it be asking too much for you when you
git home to send me the blind gal’s. She’s an angel, and I should feel
so good to have her face in my pocket. You can direct to Ben
Butterworth—but law, you won’t, I know you won’t.”
“Why not?” asked Frederic, laughing at the novel request. “Mine you
shall surely have, and Alice’s also, if she consents. Come with me now,
for we are opposite a daguerrean gallery.”
The result of this was that in a short time Ben held in his hand a
correct likeness of Frederic, which was of priceless value to him,
because he knew how highly it would be prized by her for whom alone he
had requested it.
As they passed out into the street again, Frederic said to him rather
abruptly, “Do you know Sarah Green?”
“No,” answered Ben, and Frederic continued,
“Do you know Mrs. Merton?”
Ben started a little, and then repeating the name replied, “Ain’t
acquainted with that name neither. Who is she?”
“She took care of me,” returned Frederic, “and I would like to find her,
and thank her for her kindness.”
“I shouldn’t s’pose she could of took care of you alone, sick as you
was,” said Ben, waiting eagerly for the answer, which, had it been what
he desired, might lead to the unfolding of the mystery.
But Frederic shrank from making Ben his confidant.
“It was hard for her till Miss Huntington came.”
“Blast Miss Huntington,” thought Ben, now thoroughly satisfied that his
companion did not care to discover Marian, or he would certainly say
something about her.
Both she and his mother were sure that he knew she had been with him in
his sickness, and if he really wished to find her he would speak of her
as well as of Mrs. Merton.
“But he don’t,” thought Ben. “He don’t care a straw for her, and she’s
right when she says she won’t run after him any more. He don’t like
Isabel none too well, and I ra-ally b’lieve the man is crazy.”
This settled the matter satisfactorily with Ben, who accompanied
Frederic to the depot, waiting there until the departure of the train.
“Give my regrets to that Josh, and the rest of the niggers, and don’t on
no account forget the picter,” were his last words, as he quitted the
car, and then hurried home impatient to show Marian his surprise.
He found her sitting by the open window—a listless, dreamy look in her
blue eyes, and a sad expression upon her face, which said that her
thoughts were far away in the South-land, where Nature had decked her
beautiful home with all the glories of the merry month of May and the
first bright days of June. Roses were blooming there now, she knew, and
she thought of the bush she had planted beneath the library window,
wondering if that were in bloom, and if its fragrance ever reminded the
dear ones of her. Did Alice twine the buds amid her soft hair, just as
she used to do, and call them Marian’s buds, saying they were sweeter
than all the rest?
“Darling Alice,” she murmured, “I shall never see her again;” and her
tears were dropping upon her lap just as Ben came in, and began:
“Wall, wee one, I’ve seen the Square, and talked with him of you.”
“Oh, Ben, Ben!”—and Marian’s face was spotted with her excitement—“what
made you? What did he say? and where is he?”
“Gone home,” answered Ben; “but he had this took on purpose for you;”
and he tossed the picture into her lap.
“It is—it is Frederic. Oh, Mrs. Burt, it is,” and Marian’s lip touched
the glass, from which the face of Frederic Raymond looked kindly out
upon her.
It was thinner than when she used to know it, but fuller,
stronger-looking than when it lay among the tumbled pillows. The eyes,
too, were hollow, and not so bright, while it seemed to her that the
rich brown hair was not so thrifty as of old. But it was Frederic still,
her Frederic, and she pressed it again to her lips, while her heart
thrilled with the joyful thought that he remembered her, and had sent
her this priceless token. But why had he gone home without her—why had
he left her there alone if he really cared for finding her? Slowly, as a
cloud obscures a summer sky, a shadow crept over her face—a shadow of
doubt—of distrust. There was something she had not heard, and with
quivering lip she said to Ben, “What does it mean? You have not told me
why he sent it.”
It was cruel to deceive her as he had done, and so Ben thought when he
saw the heaving of her chest, the pressure of her hands, and more than
all, the whiteness of her face, as he told her why Frederic sent to her
that picture; that it was not taken for Marian Lindsey, but rather for
Marian Grey, adopted sister of Benjamin Butterworth.
“He does not wish to find me,” said Marian when Ben had finished
speaking. “We shall never be reconciled, and it is just as well,
perhaps.”
“I think so, too,” rejoined Ben, “or at any rate I’d let him rest a
spell, and learn everything there is in books for woman kind to learn.
You shall go to college, if you say so, and bimeby, when the old Nick
himself wouldn’t know you, I’ll get you a chance to teach that blind
gal, and he’ll fall in love with his own wife; see if he don’t,” and Ben
stroked the curls within his reach very caressingly, thinking to
himself, “I won’t tell her now ’bout Alice’s picter, ’cause it may not
come, but I’ll cheer her up the best way that I can. She grows handsome
every day of her life,” and as this, in Ben’s estimation, was the one
thing of all others to be desired by Marian, he could not forbear
complimenting her aloud upon her rapid improvement in looks.
“Thank you,” she answered, smiling very faintly, for to her, beauty or
accomplishments were of little avail if in the end Frederic’s love were
not secured.
Anon, however, hope whispered to her that it might be, and again she
opened the daguerreotype, catching a glow of encouragement from the eyes
which looked so kindly at her, as if they fain would tell her of the
weary days the original of that picture had spent in searching for her,
or how, even now, amid the noise and dust of the crowded cars, he sat,
wholly unmindful of what was passing around, never looking at the
beautiful blue river without, or yet at the motley passengers within,
but with his hat drawn over his eyes and his shawl across his lap, he
thought of her alone, except indeed occasionally when there would
intrude itself upon him the remembrance of the girl with the brown vail,
or a thought of Marian Grey!