THE BIRTHDAY.
Mrs. Gordon’s breakfast bell rang several times next morning ere the
young men made their appearance, for, as a natural consequence, the late
hours of the previous night had been followed by protracted slumbers. As
they were making their hasty toilet, Frederic said to Will:
“This is Marian’s twentieth birthday.”
“Is it possible?” returned Will. “It seems but yesterday since I saw
her, a little girl in pantalets, with long curls streaming down her
back. I liked her very much, she seemed so kind, so considerate of every
one’s comfort; and I remember telling you once that she would be a
handsome woman, while you said—‘Never, with that hair!’”
“Neither can she,” rejoined Frederic. “She may be rather pretty. Yes, I
am sure she is pretty, for the face which bent over my pillow was not an
ugly one; but I still insist that a woman with red hair cannot be
handsome.”
“Tastes differ,” returned Will. “Now, I’ll venture to say Miss Grey’s
hair was red when she was a child. It is not very far from it now, in
the sunlight; and everybody speaks of her hair as her crowning beauty.”
“I wish I could see her,” said Frederic; “for, as she will not be your
wife, I suppose she will be Alice’s governess. And it is quite proper
that I should have an interview with her, and talk the matter over. Will
you call with me this evening?”
“Certainly,” returned Will; “for, though it will afford me more pain
than pleasure to meet her, I will not be so foolish as to avoid her.”
Breakfast being over, the young men started for a walk down town, going
by Mrs. Sheldon’s house, of course, although it was entirely out of
their way. But neither thought of this, and they passed it on the
opposite side of the street; so that Will could, unobserved, point out
Marian’s room to Frederic.
“That’s it,” he said—“the one with the blinds thrown open. There she has
often sat, I suppose, thinking of the villain who stands between me and
happiness. The rascal! I tell you, Fred, I wish I had him as near to me
as you are!” and Will Gordon fancied how, in such a case, he would treat
a man who did not love Marian Grey!
Frederic made no answer, for his eyes were fixed intently upon the
window, hoping to catch a glimpse of one who was fast becoming an object
of interest even to him. But he looked in vain, for Marian had not yet
risen. Pale, weary and weak, she reclined among her pillows, her fair
hair falling about her face in beautiful disorder, and her eyes turned
also toward the window, not because she knew that Frederic was looking
in that direction, but because the morning sun was shining there, and
she was watching it as it danced upon the curtain of bright crimson.
“I have seen the suns of twenty years,” she thought, “and I am growing
old so fast. I wonder if Frederic would know me now.”
At this moment, Mrs. Sheldon came in, and advancing toward the window,
looked down into the street. Catching a view of her brother and his
friend, she exclaimed:
“Frederic Raymond! I wonder when he came?”
“What? Where? Who is it?” Marian asked, quickly, at the same time
raising herself upon her elbow, and looking wistfully in the direction
Frederic had gone.
“Mr. Raymond, Will’s friend, from Kentucky,” returned Mrs. Sheldon. “He
must have come last night?” and as little Fred just then called to her
from without, she left the room.
When she was alone, Marian buried her face in the bed-clothes, and
murmured:
“Oh, if I could only see him! I long so to test his powers of
recognition, and see if he would know me.”
She almost hoped he would, and claim her for his wife, as this, she
fancied, might cure Will Gordon sooner than aught else which could be
done. She was sure they would talk of her, for Frederic had bidden Will
propose, and he would naturally ask the result of that proposal. Will
would say she had refused him because she loved another, and would not
something whisper to her husband that “the other” was himself—that
Marian Grey was his Marian—the Marian of Redstone Hall—and he would come
to her that very day, perhaps, and all the morning she waited anxiously
for a step she was certain she would know, though it might not be as
elastic and bounding as of old, ere she had trammeled it with a heavy
weight. She listened nervously for its full, rich tones, asking for her,
in the parlor below. But she listened in vain and the restless
excitement brought on a severe headache, which rendered it impossible
for her to leave the room, even if he came. This Mrs. Sheldon greatly
lamented, for she had invited the young men to tea, and while accepting
her invitation, Will had asked if Miss Grey would not be able to spend a
part of the evening with them.
“She is to be Fred’s governess, you know,” he said, “and he naturally
wishes to make her acquaintance.”
This request Mrs. Sheldon made known to Marian, who asked, eagerly, if
“to-morrow would not do as well?”
“It might,” returned Mrs. Sheldon, “were it not that he leaves on the
early train.”
Marian sighed deeply, and turning upon her pillow tried to sleep, hoping
thus to lose the throbbing pain in her head—but it would not be lost;
and when, as it was growing dark, she heard the sound of feet upon the
gravelled walk, and knew whose feet they were, it ached as it had not
done before during the entire day. She heard them as they entered the
lower hall, and fancied she saw Frederic place his hat and shawl upon
the stand, and pass his fingers through his hair ere he entered the
parlor, which was directly beneath her room. She knew when he was there,
for she heard his well-remembered voice speaking to the children, and
covering her face with her hands she wept aloud to think she should not
see him.
Meantime, in the parlor below, little Fred had climbed into his uncle’s
lap and commenced a rather embarrassing conversation. Somehow Will
reminded him of Marian, for the two were associated together in his
mind; and he said, rather as a piece of news: “Miss Day is sick—up
stairs she is; and when I told her you was comin’ she _vomucked_ and
cried so hard!”
Frederic could not help laughing, and, emboldened by this proof of
appreciation, the child continued: “What made her cry, Uncle Will? I
asked her didn’t she want you to come, and she say yes. Don’t she like
you?”
“I guess not,” said Will, trying himself to laugh, while Frederic,
pitying his embarrassment, strove to divert the little fellow’s mind by
asking about the sled he saw upon the steps as he came in.
This had the desired effect, for a sled was of more consequence to Fred
than Miss Grey’s tears, and he prattled on about it until his nurse came
to take him from the room. After he was gone Mr. Raymond spoke of Miss
Grey, asking if he should not have the pleasure of seeing her.
“She is suffering from a nervous headache,” returned Mrs. Sheldon, “and
cannot come down, for which I am very sorry, as I wish you to hear her
play.”
“I do not care so much for that,” returned Frederic, “as for seeing her,
so as to carry back a good account to Alice. Do tell me, Mrs. Sheldon,
is she really as beautiful, and fascinating, and accomplished as report
would make her out to be?”
“I should say she would fully warrant any praise you may have heard of
her,” returned Mrs. Sheldon, “although her beauty is not of the
brilliant style. She is very modest and gentle in her appearance, and
there is in her eyes and in her smile something so very sad and
plaintive, that I often feel like crying when I look at her, for I know
she must have suffered some great trouble, young as she is.”
Involuntarily Frederic and William glanced at each other, for they knew
what that trouble was, and the latter felt as if he would like to take
vengeance on the man who could be indifferent to love like that of
Marian Grey!
After a moment, Mrs. Sheldon continued:
“There has been something said, I believe, about her going to you next
September, but I warn you now that I shall use every possible effort to
keep her. We sail for Europe in August, you know, and she will be of
invaluable service to me then, as she speaks French and German so
readily. The tour, too, will do her good, and you must not be surprised
to hear that she cannot come to Riverside.”
Mr. Raymond was too polite to oppose Mrs. Sheldon openly, but he had
become too deeply interested in Marian Grey to give her up without a
struggle, and when alone again with Will, in the chamber of the latter,
he broached the subject, asking his companion if he thought there was
any probability of Miss Grey’s disappointing him.
“I mean to write her a note,” he said, and sitting down by Will’s
writing desk he took up a sheet of gilt edged paper and commenced, “My
dear Marian.”
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “what am I thinking about?” and tearing up the
sheet he threw it into the grate and commenced again, addressing her
this time as “Miss Grey.”
He considered her services engaged to himself, he said, and should
expect her at Riverside early in September. She could come sooner if she
liked, for Mrs. Jones was to leave the first of August.
“That European trip may tempt her,” he thought, and he added, “I am glad
to learn from Mrs. Sheldon that you are such a proficient in German and
French, for I have serious thoughts of visiting the Old World myself ere
long, and as Alice, of course, will go with me, we shall prize your
company all the more on account of these accomplishments.”
This note he gave to Will, who said, “Perhaps I shall try again, and if
I succeed, I suppose you will give her up to me.”
“Yes,” answered Frederic, “I’ll give way for Will Gordon’s wife, but for
no one else,” and there the conversation ceased concerning Marian Grey;
nor was it resumed again, for early the next morning he started for New
York, as he intended stopping at Riverside ere he returned to Kentucky.
True to his trust, Will gave the note to Marian the first time that he
met her, after she was well enough to come down stairs as usual.
“It is from Mr. Raymond,” he said, and Marian’s face was scarlet as she
took it and looked into his eye with an eager, searching glance, to see
if he knew her secret.
But he did not, and with spirits which began to ebb, she broke the seal
and read the few brief lines, half smiling as she thought how very
formal and businesslike they were. But it was Frederic’s handwriting,
and when sure Will did not see her she pressed it to her lips.
“What you do that for?” asked little Fred whose sharp eyes saw
everything not intended for them to see.
“Sh—sh,” said Marian; but the child persisted. “Say, what you _tiss_
that letter for?”
Will Gordon was standing with his back to her, but, at this strange
question, he turned quickly and fastened his eyes on Marian’s face, as
if he would fathom her inmost soul.
“There’s something there,” she said, passing the note again over her
lips as if she would brush the “something” away.
This explanation was wholly satisfactory to Fred, who, with childish
simplicity, asked, “Did you get it?”
But Will was not quite certain, and for several days he puzzled his
brain with wondering whether “Marian Grey really did kiss Frederic
Raymond’s note or not.” If so, why did she? She could not be in love
with a man she had never seen. She was not weak enough for that, and at
last rejecting it as an impossibility and accepting the troublesome
“something” as a reality, his mind became at rest upon that subject.