MARIAN RAYMOND.
Very rapidly the Spring passed away, enlivened once by a short visit
from Ben, who, having purchased an entire new suit of clothes for the
occasion, looked and appeared unusually well, talking but little until
he was alone with Marian, when his tongue was loosed, and he told her
all he had come to tell.
He had been to Riverside, he said, and Mrs. Russell, who was still there
and was to be the future housekeeper, was very gracious to him, on
account of his being the adopted brother of their next governess, Miss
Grey.
“She showed me your chamber,” said he, “and it’s the very one they fixed
up so nice for Isabel. Nobody has ever used it, for Miss Jones slep’ in
a little room at the end of the hall. Frederic has had a door cut from
Alice’s chamber into yourn, ’cause he said how’t you and she would want
to be near to each other, he knew. And I’ll tell you what, when you git
there, it seems to me you’ll be as nigh Heaven as you’ll ever git in
this world. Mrs. Huntington has bought a little cottage close by
Frederic’s,” he continued, “and she’s livin’ there with Isabel, who has
got to be an heir——”
“An heiress!” repeated Marian. “Whose, pray?”
“Don’t know,” returned Ben, “only that old man she went to Florida with
is dead, and he willed her some. I don’t know how much, but law she’ll
spend it in no time. Mrs. Russell said her lace curtains cost an awful
sight, though she b’lieved they was bought second-hand, in New York. I
walked by there afoot to see ’em, and between you and me they are
yallerer than saffern. My advice to her is that she bile ’em up in ashes
and water, jest as mother used to bile up my shirts that I wore in the
factory. It’ll whiten ’em quickest of anything, and if I’s you I’d
kinder tell her so—friendly like, you know—’cause it don’t look well for
decent folks to have such dirty things a hangin’ to their winders!”
Marian smiled at Ben’s simplicity, telling him that “the chief value of
the curtains consisted probably in their soiled, yellow appearance.”
“Whew,” whistled Ben, “I wish mother’d had a little more larnin’, for if
she’d known it was genteel to be dirty, mabby she wouldn’t have broke
her back a scrubbin’, when there warn’t no use on’t.”
Isabel’s curtains having been discussed at length, and herself described
as Ben saw her “struttin’ through the streets,” he arose to go, telling
Marian he should not probably see her again until he visited her in the
Autumn at Riverside.
“I guess I wouldn’t let it all out at once,” said he, “but wait and let
Frederic sweat. It’ll do him good, and he isn’t paid yet for all he’s
made you suffer. I ain’t no Universaler, but I do like to see folks
catch it as they go ’long.”
Once Marian thought to tell him of William Gordon’s unfortunate
attachment, particularly as he was loud in his praises of the young man;
but upon second reflections she decided to keep that matter to herself,
hoping that the subject would never be mentioned to her again. And in
this her wishes seemed to be realized, for as the weeks after Ben’s
departure went by, William began to be more like himself than he had
been before since her refusal of him. He came often to Mrs. Sheldon’s,
sang with her sometimes as of old, and she fancied he was losing his
love for her. But she was mistaken, for it was strengthening with each
hour’s interview. The very hopelessness of his passion rendered it more
intense, it would seem, until at last, unable longer to remain where she
was, and know she could never be his, he went from home, nor returned
again until near the middle of August, when he found Mrs. Sheldon’s
house in a state of great confusion. Furniture was being covered or
packed away, rooms shut up, and windows fastened down, while his sister
was in that state of feminine bliss when every chair is filled with new
dresses, save two, and those two are occupied by the makers of said
dresses.
Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon were going to Europe. They would sail in about two
weeks, and as Marian had positively declined to accompany them, they had
engaged another governess, who was to meet them in New York. It was
decided that Marian should remain a few days with Mrs. Gordon, and then
go to Riverside, where her coming was anxiously expected both by
Frederic and Alice. This arrangement was highly satisfactory to Will,
who anticipated much happiness in having her wholly to himself for a
week. There would be no sister Ellen, with curious, prying eyes, for she
was going with Mrs. Sheldon as far as New York—no little girls always in
the way—no funny Fred, to see and tell of everything—nobody, in short,
but his good mother, who he knew would often leave him alone with
Marian.
During his absence from home he had thought much upon the subject, and
had resolved to make one more trial at least. She might be eventually
won, and if so, he should care but little for the efforts made to win
her. With this upon his mind, he felt rather relieved than otherwise
when the family at last were gone, and Marian was an inmate of his
mother’s house. Both Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon had urged him to accompany
them, and he had made arrangements to do so in case he found Marian
still firm in her refusal. They were intending to stop for a few days in
New York, and he could easily join them the day on which the ship was
advertised to sail. He should know his fate before that time, he
thought, and he strove in various ways to obtain an interview with
Marian, who, divining his intention, was unusually reserved in her
demeanor toward him, and if by chance she found herself with him alone,
she invariably formed some excuse to leave the room, so that Will began
at last to lose all hope, and to think seriously of joining his sister
as the surest means of forgetting Marian Grey.
“She does not care for me,” he said to his mother, one night after
Marian had retired. “I believe she rather dislikes me than otherwise. I
think on the whole I shall go, and if so, I must start in the morning,
for the vessel sails to-morrow night.”
To this his mother made no objection, for though she would be very
lonely without him, she was accustomed to rely upon herself, so she
rather encouraged him than otherwise, thinking it would do him good.
Accordingly, next morning, when Marian came down to breakfast, she was
surprised to hear of Will’s intended departure.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, involuntarily, for Will Gordon had a strong
place in her affections, and knew not what danger might befall him on
the deep.
Breakfast being over, there remained to Will but half an hour, and as a
part of this was necessarily spent with the servants, and in
preparations for his journey, he had at the last but a few moments in
which to say his farewell words to Marian. She was in the back parlor,
his mother said, and there he found her weeping, for she felt that her
friends were leaving her one by one, and though in a few days she was
going back to her husband and her home, she knew not what the result
would be. Will’s sudden determination to visit Europe affected her
unpleasantly, for she felt that she was in some way connected with it,
and she was conscious of a feeling of loneliness, such as she had not
experienced before since she first came to Mrs. Sheldon’s.
“Are you weeping?” said Will, when he saw her with her head bowed down
upon the arm of the sofa.
Marian did not answer, and with newly awakened hope Will drew nearer and
seated himself beside her. “It might be that he was mistaken, after
all,” he thought. “Her tears would seem to indicate as much. Girls were
strange beings, everybody said,” and passing his arm around the weeping
Marian, he whispered: “Do you like me, then?”
“Yes, very, very much,” she answered, “and now that you are going away,
and I may never see you again, I am so sorry I ever caused you a
moment’s pain.”
“I needn’t go, Marian,” William said, drawing her close to him. “I will
stay, oh, so gladly, if you bid me do so. But it must be for _you_.
Shall I, Marian? May I stay?” and again Will Gordon poured into her ear
deep burning words of love—entreating her to be his wife—to forget that
other love so unworthy of her, and to give herself to him, who would
cherish her so tenderly. Then he told her how the thought that she did
not love him had made him go away, when he would so much rather remain
where she was, if he could know she wished it. “Answer me, Marian,” he
said, “for time hastens, and if you tell me no again, I must be gone.
Never man loved and, worshipped his wife as I will love and worship you.
Speak and tell me yes.”
Will paused for her reply, and looking into her face, which she had
turned towards him, he thought he read a confirmation of his hopes, but
the first words she uttered wrung his heart with cruel disappointment.
“I cannot be your wife,” she said. “I mean it, Mr. Gordon, I cannot, and
oh, it would be wicked not to tell you. Can I trust you? Will you keep
my secret safe, as I have kept it almost six long years?”
There was some insufferable barrier between them, and William Gordon
felt it, as trembling in every limb, he answered, “Whatever you intrust
to me shall not be betrayed.”
“Then, listen,” she said, “and say if you will bid me marry you. I told
you I was not what I seemed, and I am not. People, perhaps, call me
young, but to myself I seem old, I have suffered so much and all my
womanhood has been wasted, as it were, in tears. I told you once that
before coming here I had given to another the love for which you sued,
and I told you truly; but Mr. Gordon, there was more to tell; that other
one, who loves me not, or who, if he does, has never manifested it to me
by word or deed, is _my own husband_!”
“Oh, Marian, Marian, this indeed is death itself!” groaned Will, for
though he had said there was no hope, it seemed to him now that he had
never believed or realized it, as when he heard the dreadful words, “my
own husband.”
“Do not despise me for deceiving you,” Marian continued. “If I had
thought you could have seen aught to desire in me, a poor, humble girl,
I might, perhaps, have warned you in time, though how could I tell you,
a stranger, that I was an unloved wife?”
“Where is he—that man?” Will asked, for he could not say “your husband,”
and his lip quivered with something akin to the pain one feels when he
hears the cold earth rattling into the grave where he has buried his
fondest pride.
Marian’s confession was a death-blow to all Will had dared to hope, and
he asked for the husband more as a matter of form than because he really
cared to know.
“Mr. Gordon,” said Marian, rising to her feet, and standing with her
face turned fully toward him, “_Must_ I tell you more? I thought I
needed only to speak of a _husband_ and you would guess the rest. Don’t
you know me? Have we never met before?”
Wistfully, anxiously William gazed at her, scanning her features one by
one, while a dim vision of something back in the past floated before
him, but assumed no tangible form, and shaking his head, he answered:
“Never, to my knowledge.”
“Look again. Is not my face a familiar one? Did you never see it before?
Not here—not in New England—but far away, where the Summer comes earlier
and the Winter is not so long. Is there not something about me—something
in my person, or my voice, which carries you back to an old house on the
river where you once met a little curly-haired girl?”
She did not need to say more. Little by little it had come to him, and,
starting to his feet, he caught her hand, exclaiming, “Great Heaven!
_The lost wife of Frederic Raymond!_”
“Yes,” she answered, “the lost Marian of Redstone Hall,” and leaning her
head upon his arm, she burst into tears, for he seemed to her like a
brother now, while she to him—
He could not think of her as a sister yet—he loved her too well for
that; but still his feelings toward her had changed in the great shock
with which he recognized her. She could never be his Marian, he knew,
neither did he desire it. And for a moment he stood speechless, wholly
overwhelmed with astonishment and wonder. Then he said, “Marian Raymond,
why are you here?”
“Why?” she repeated bitterly. “You may well ask why. Hated by him who
should care for me, what could I do but go away into the unknown world,
and throw myself upon its charities, which in my case have not been cold
or selfish. God bless the noble-hearted Ben, and the sainted woman, his
mother, who did not cast me off when I went to them, homeless,
friendless, and heart-broken.”
In her excitement, Marian clasped her hands together, and the blue of
her eye grew deeper, darker, as she paid this tribute of gratitude to
those who had been her friends indeed. Involuntarily, Will Gordon, too,
responded to the words, “God bless the noble-hearted Ben,” for, looking
at the beautiful girl before him, he felt that what she was she owed to
the self-denying, unwearied efforts of the uncultivated but generous
Ben.
“Marian,” he said again, “you must go home. Go to your husband. He is
waiting for you. He has sought for you long; he has expiated his sin.
Go, Marian, go——”
“I am going,” she answered, “and if I only knew he wanted me—wanted his
wife——”
“He does want you,” interrupted Will. “He has told me so many a time.”
Marian was about to reply, when Mrs. Gordon appeared, warning her son
that the carriage was at the door; and with a hurried farewell to Marian
and his mother, Will hastened off, whispering to the former, “I shall
write to you when on the sea—”
“And keep my secret safe. I would rather divulge it myself,” she added.
He nodded in the affirmative, and was soon on his way to the depot, so
bewildered with what he had heard, that he scarcely knew whether it were
reality or a dream. Gradually, however, it became clear to him, and he
remembered many things which confirmed the strange story he had heard.
Greatly he wished to write to Frederic, and tell him that Marian Grey
was his wife, but he would not break his promise, and he was wondering
how he could hasten the discovery, when, as the cars left the depot at
Hartford, a broad hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice which
sounded familiar, said, “Wall, captain, bein’ we’re so full, I guess
you’ll have to make room for me, or else I’ll have to set with that gal
whose hoops take up the hull concern.”
“Ben Butterworth,” Will exclaimed, turning his face toward the speaker,
who recognized him at once.
“Wall,” he began, as he took the seat Will readily shared with him, “I
didn’t ’spose ’twas you. How do you do, and how’s Marian? Has she gone
to Riverside yet?”
“No,” returned Will, and looking Ben directly in the face, he continued,
“How much of Miss Grey’s history do you know?”
“Mor’n I shall tell, I’ll bet. How much do you know?” and Ben set his
hat a little more on one side of his head.
“More than you suppose, perhaps,” returned Will. “And if you, too, are
posted, I’d like to talk the matter over, but if not, I shall betray no
secrets.”
“I swan, I b’lieve you do know,” said Ben. “Did she tell you?”
Will nodded, and Ben continued, “She wrote to me that you knew Mr.
Raymond, and liked him, too; I guess he ain’t a very bad chap after all,
is he?”
The ice was fairly broken now, and both Will and Ben settled themselves
for a long conversation. Will did not think it betrayed Marian’s
confidence to talk of her with one who understood her affairs so much
better than himself, and ere they reached New York, he had heard the
whole story—heard how Ben had stumbled upon her in New York, and taken
her to his home without knowing aught of her, except that she was
friendless and alone—how the mother, now resting in her grave, had cared
for the orphan girl, and how Ben, too, had done for her what he could.
“’Twan’t much anyway,” he said, “and I never minded it an atom, for
’twas a pleasure to arn money for her schoolin’.”
And Ben spoke truly, for it never occurred to him that he had denied
himself as few men would have done—toiling early and late, through
sunshine and storm, wearing the old coat long after it was threadbare,
and sometimes, when peddling, eating but two meals a day, by way of
saving for Marian. Of all this he did not speak to his companion. He did
not even think of it, or, if he did, he felt that he was more than paid
in seeing Marian what she was. Accidentally, he said that his name was
really Ben Burt, and that he should be glad when the time came for him
to be called thus again.
“When will that be?” asked Will, and Ben replied by unfolding to him his
long cherished plan of having Frederic make love to his own wife.
“You might write to him, I s’pose,” he said, “but that would spile all
my fun, and I’d rather let the thing work itself out. He’s bound to fall
in love with her. He can’t help it, and I don’t see how _you_ could.
Mabby you did.” And Ben’s grey eyes looked quizzically at his companion,
who colored deeply as he replied merely to the first part of Ben’s
remark. “I certainly will not interfere in the matter, though before
meeting you I was wondering how I could do so, and not betray Marian’s
confidence. I am sure now it will all come right at last, and you ought
to be permitted to bring it round in your own way, for you have been a
true friend to her, and I dare say she loves you as a brother.”
This was touching Ben on a tender point, for his old affection for
Marian was not quite dead yet, and Will’s last words brought back to him
memories of those dreary winter nights, when in his way he had battled
with the love he knew he must not cherish for Marian Grey. He fidgeted
in his seat, got up and looked under him, sat down again and looked out
of the window, and repeated to himself a part of the multiplication
table, by way of keeping from crying.
“Bless her, she’s an angel,” he managed at last to say, adding, as he,
met the inquiring glance of Will: “It’s my misfortin’ to be oncommon
tender-hearted, and when I git to thinkin’ of somethin’ that concerns
nobody but me, I can’t keep from cryin’ no way you can fix it,” and two
undeniable tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped from the end of his
nose.
“He, too,” sighed Will Gordon, and as he thought how much more the
uncouth man beside him had done for Marian Grey than either Frederic or
himself, and that he really had the greatest claim to her gratitude and
love, his heart warmed toward Yankee Ben as to a long tried friend, and
he resolved to leave for him a substantial token of his regard.
“Why don’t you settle down, as a grocer, in some small country town?” he
asked, as they came near the city.
“I have thought of that,” said Ben, “for I’m gettin’ kinder tired of
travelin’ now that there ain’t no home for me to go to once in so often.
I think I should like to be a grocery man first rate, and weigh out
saleratus and bar soap to the old wimmen. Wouldn’t they flock in,
though, to see me, I’m so odd! But ’taint no use to think on’t for I
hain’t the money now, though, mabby I shall have it bimeby. My expenses
ain’t as great as they was.”
By this time they had reached the depot, and Will, who knew they must
part there, said to him, “How long do you stay in New York?”
“Not long,” returned Ben, “I’ve only come to recruit my stock a little.”
“Go to the Post-Office before you leave,” was Will’s reply, as he
stepped from the platform and was lost in the crowd.
“What did he mean?” thought Ben. “Nobody writes to me but Marian, and I
ain’t expectin’ nothin’ from her, but I guess I may as well go.”
Accordingly, the next night, when Will Gordon, with little Fred in his
arms, was looking out upon the sea, Ben wended his way to the office,
inquiring first for Ben Butterworth and then for Ben Burt. There was a
letter for the latter, and it contained a draft for three hundred
dollars, together with the following lines:
“You and I have suffered alike, and in each of our hearts there is a
hidden grave. I saw it in the tears you shed when talking to me of
Marian Grey. Heaven bless you, Ben Burt, for all you have been to her.
She is one of the fairest, best, of God’s creation, but she was not
meant for you nor me; and we must learn to go our way without her. You
have done for her more, perhaps, than either Mr. Raymond or myself would
have done in the same circumstances, and thus far you are more worthy of
her esteem. You will please accept the inclosed as a token that I
appreciate your self-denying labors for Marian Grey. Use it for that
grocery we talked about, if you choose, or for any purpose you like. If
you have any delicacy just consider it a loan to be paid when you are a
richer man than I am. You cannot return it, of course, for when you
receive it I shall be gone.
“Yours, in haste, WILLIAM GORDON.”
This letter was a mystery to Ben, who read it again and again, dwelling
long upon the words, “You and I suffered alike, and in each of our
hearts there is a hidden grave.”
“That hits me exactly,” he said, “though I never thought of callin’ that
hole in my heart a grave—but ’taint nothin’ else, for I buried somethin’
in it, and the tender brotherly feelin’ I’ve felt for Marian ever since
was the grave stun I set up in memory of what had been. But what does he
know about it, though why shouldn’t he, for no mortal man can look in
Marian’s face and not feel kinder cold and hystericky-like at the pit of
his stomach! Yes, he’s in love with her, and that’s the way she came to
tell who she was. Poor Bill! poor Bill! I know how to pity him to a
dot,” and Ben heaved a deep sigh as he finished this long soliloquy.
The money next diverted his attention, but no puzzling on his part could
explain to him satisfactorily why it had been sent.
“S’posin’ he was grateful,” he said, “he needn’t give me three hundred
dollars for nothin’, but bein’ he has, I may as well use it to start in
business, though I shall pay it back, of course,” and when alone in his
room at the Hotel where he stopped, he wrote upon a bit of paper.
“NEW YORK, August 30 18—
“For vally rec. I promise to pay Bill Gordon, or bearer, the sum of
three hundred dollars with use from date.
“BENJAMIN BURT.”
This note he put carefully away in his old leathern wallet, where it was
as safe and as sure of being paid as if it had been in William Gordon’s
hands instead of his.
Meantime Marian at Mrs. Gordon’s was half regretting that she had told
her secret to William, and greatly lamenting that they had been
interrupted ere she knew just how much Frederic wished to find her. That
his feelings toward her had changed, she was sure, but she would know by
word and deed that he loved her ere she revealed herself to him, and the
dark mystery of that cruel letter must be explained before she could
respect him as she had once done. And now but a few days remained ere
she should see him face to face, for she was going to Riverside very
soon. Some acquaintance of hers were going west by way of New York, and
she decided to accompany them, though by so doing she would reach
Riverside one day earlier than she was expected.
“It would make no difference of course,” she said, and she waited
impatiently for the appointed morning.
It came at last and long before the hour for starting she was ready, the
dancing joy in her eyes, and her apparent eagerness to go being sadly at
variance with the expression of Mrs. Gordon’s face, for the good lady
loved the gentle girl and grieved to part with her.
“I am sorry to leave you,” Marian said, when the last moment came, “but
I am so glad I am going, too, sometime, perhaps, you may know why and
then you will not blame me.”
She could not shed a tear although she had become greatly attached to
her Springfield home, and her excitement continued unabated until she
reached New York, where they stopped for the night. There were several
hours of daylight left, and stealing away from her friends she took a
Third Avenue car and went up to their old house where strangers were
living now. She did not care to go in, for the dingy, uncurtained
windows looked far from inviting, and she passed slowly down the other
side of the street, musing upon all that had passed since the night when
she first climbed those narrow stairs, and asked a mother’s care from
Mrs. Burt. She did not think then that she would ever be as happy as she
was to-day with the uncertainty of meeting Frederic to-morrow. It seemed
a great while to wait, and as Ben had once numbered the weeks in seven
years, so she now counted the hours, which must elapse ere she felt the
pressure of Frederic’s hand—for he would shake hands with her of course,
and he would look into her face, for he had heard much of her both from
Will Gordon and Ben. Would he be disappointed? Would he think her
pretty? Would he know her? And Alice—what would she say? Marian dreaded
this test more than all the rest, for she felt that there was danger in
the instinct of the blind girl. Slowly she retraced her steps and
returning to the Astor, sought her own room, informing her friends that
she was weary and would rest.
“Five hours more,” was her first thought when she awoke next morning
from a sounder sleep than she had supposed it possible to enjoy when
under such excitement. Ere long it was four hours more, then three, then
two, then one, and then the cars stopped at the depot at Yonkers. Two
trunks marked “M. G.” stood upon the platform, and near them a figure in
black, bowing to her friends, who leaned from the car window, and
holding in her hands a satchel, a silk umbrella, two checks, her purse,
and a book, for Marian possessed the weakness of her sex, and in
traveling always carried the usual amount of baggage.
“To Riverside,” she said, when asked where she wished to go, and she
looked around as if half expecting a familiar face.
But she looked in vain, and in a few moments she was comfortably seated
in the lumbering stage, which once before had carried her up that long
hill. Eagerly she strained her eyes to catch the first view of the
house; and when at last it came in sight, she was too intent upon it to
observe the showily-dressed young lady tripping along upon the walk, and
holding her skirts with her thumb and finger so as to show her dainty
slipper.
But if Marian did not see Isabel, Isabel saw her. It was not usual for
the stage to come up at that hour of the day, and as it passed her by,
Isabel turned to see where it was going.
“To Riverside,” she exclaimed, as she saw it draw up to the gate. “It
must be the new governess,” and as there was no house very near, she
stopped to inspect the stranger as well as she could at that distance.
“Black,” she said, as Marian stepped upon the ground; “But I might have
known it, for regular built teachers always wear black, I believe. She
is rather tall, too. An umbrella, of course. I wonder she hasn’t her
blanket shawl and overshoes this hot day. Her bonnet is pretty, and that
hem in her veil very wide. On the whole, she’s quite genteel for a
governess,” and Isabel walked on while Marian went up the graveled walk,
expecting at each step to meet with either Frederic or Alice.
She would rather it should be the latter, for in case of recognition,
she knew she could bind the blind girl to secrecy for a time, but no one
appeared, and about the house there was no sign of life, save a parrot,
which, in its cage beneath a maple tree, screamed out wholly
unintelligible words. The door was shut, and even after the driver had
placed her trunks upon the piazza and gone, Marian stood there ringing
the bell. The window to her right was open, and she knew it was the
window of Frederic’s room, but he was not sitting near it, and after a
little she ventured to approach it and look in. It did not seem to have
been occupied at all that day, for everything was arranged in perfect
order as if broom and duster had recently done service there. Its prim,
neat appearance affected Marian unpleasantly, as if it were the
forerunner of some disappointment, and going back to the door she
resolutely pulled the silver knob. The loud, sharp ring made her heart
beat violently, and when she heard a heavy tread, not unlike a man’s
coming up the basement stairs, she thought, “What if it is Frederic
himself? What shall I say?”
“It is Frederic,” she continued, as the step came nearer, and she was
wishing she could run away and hide, when the door was opened by Mrs.
Russell, her feet encased in a pair of Mr. Raymond’s cast-off shoes,
which accounted for her heavy tread, and herself looking a little
crest-fallen at the sight of her visitor, whom she recognized at once.
“Miss Grey, I b’lieve?” she said, dropping a low curtsy. “We wan’t
expectin’ you till to-morrow; but walk in, and make yourself at home.
You’ll want to go to your room, I ’spose. Traveled all night, didn’t
you? You look pale, and I wouldn’t wonder if you wanted to sleep most of
the day. I never thought of such a thing as your comin’ this mornin’.
Dear me, what shall I do?”
This was said in an under-tone, but it caught the ear of Marian, who,
now that she had a chance to speak, asked for Mr. Raymond, timidly, as
if fearful that with his name her secret might slip out.
“Bless you!” returned Mrs. Russell, “both of ’em went to New York early
this morning, and won’t be home till dark, maybe, and that’s why I feel
so. I don’t know how to entertain you as they do, and Miss Alice has
been reckoning on giving you a good impression. I’m so sorry
you’ve—they’ve gone, I mean. I wan’t expecting to get any dinner to-day,
and was having such a nice time, sewin’ on my new dress;” and, with the
last, the whole cause of the old lady’s uneasiness was divulged.
In the absence of Frederic and Alice, she had counted upon a day of
leisure, which Marian’s arrival had seriously interrupted.
“I beg you not to trouble yourself for me,” said Marian, who readily
understood the matter. “I never care for a regular dinner: indeed, I may
not be hungry at all.”
The old lady’s face brightened perceptibly, and she replied:
“Oh, I don’t mind a cup of tea, and the like o’ that; but to brile or
stew this hot day ain’t so pleasant, when a person is fleshy, as I am.
I’ll get you something, though; and now you go up stairs to your room,
the one at the right hand, with the white furniture, and the silver
jigger, that lets the water into that marble dish. We live in style, I
tell you; and Mr. Raymond is a gentleman, if there ever was one—only he
wants meat three times a day, just as he has in Kentucky. Thinks, I
’spose, it don’t hurt me any more to sweat over the fire, than it does
that Dinah, Alice talks so much about. Yes, that’s the door—right
there;” and Mrs. Russell went back to the making of her dress, while
Marian sought her chamber, feeling rather disappointed at the absence of
both Frederic and Alice, whose object in visiting New York, that day,
will be explained in the succeeding chapter, and will necessarily take
us backward for a little in our story.