THE MEETING.
Notwithstanding Alice’s fears the day had not been a long one to Marian,
who had been so occupied in unpacking her trunks and in going over the
house and grounds, as scarcely to heed the lapse of time, and she was
surprised when, about sunset, she saw John drive from the yard, and knew
he was going for his master. Not till then did she fully realize her
position, and she sought her chamber to compose herself, for the dreaded
trial, which each moment came nearer and nearer.
“Will Frederic know me?” she asked herself a dozen times, and as often
answered no—but Alice, ah, Alice, there was danger to be apprehended
from her, and Marian felt that she would far rather meet the
scrutinizing gaze of Frederic Raymond’s eyes than submit herself to the
touch of the blind girl’s fingers, or trust her voice to the blind
girl’s ear.
That might not have changed. She could not tell if it had, though she
thought it very probable, for six years was a long, long time, and it
was nearly that since she left Redstone Hall. She could not sustain a
feigned voice, she knew, and there was no alternative save to wait the
trial and abide the result of a recognition. She felt a pardonable pride
in wishing to make a good impression upon Frederic, for he could see,
and she spent a much longer time at her toilet than usual. Black was
very becoming to her dazzling complexion, and the thin tissue she wore
fitted her admirably, showing just enough of her neck, while the wide,
loose sleeves displayed the whole of her well-shaped arm, which, from
contrast, looked white and smooth as ivory. Hitherto she had curled her
entire hair, but she did not dare to do so now, and she confined a part
of it with a comb, while the remainder of it was suffered to curl as
usual about her face and behind her ears. This changed her looks
somewhat, but was still becoming, and as she saw in the mirror the
reflection of her sweet young face and deep blue eyes there came a
brighter glow to her cheek, for she knew that the cherished wish of her
early girlhood had been fulfilled, and that Ben Burt was right when he
called her beautiful.
The gas was lighted when she entered the parlor below, and turning it
down a little, she took a book and seated herself somewhat in the shade.
But the volume might as well have been wrong side up for any idea its
contents conveyed to her, so absorbed was she in what was fast
approaching, for she had heard the carriage stop at the gate, and felt
the cold moisture starting out beneath her hair and on her hands.
“I will be calm,” she said, and with one tremendous effort of the will
she quieted the violent throbbings of her heart, and leaning on her
elbow, pretended to be reading, though not a sound escaped her ear. She
heard the little feet come running up the walk, and the heavy, manly
tread following in the rear.
She heard the struggle in the hall between Alice and the cat, and when
the latter bounded into the room and crouched down at her feet, she
thought there was something familiar in that spot between the eyes. But
it could not be, she said, though Alice’s exclamation of “Do, Frederic,
shut the door, so she cannot get away,” seemed to intimate that pussy
was a stranger there. Stooping down, she passed her hand caressingly
over the animal’s back, whispering, in a low tone, “Spotty, darling, is
it you?”
Won by her voice, the cat sprang up on Marian’s lap just as Frederic
glanced hastily in.
“Your pet is safe,” he said to Alice, whom he followed to the sitting
room, waiting there a moment, and then starting to meet Miss Grey.
She knew he was coming, counting every step, and without raising her
eyes from the book she pretended to be reading, knew just when he
crossed the threshold of the door. Removing her hand from her head,
where it had been resting, she gently pushed the cat from her lap, and
half rising to her feet, waited for the first words of greeting.
“Miss Grey, I believe;” and bowing low, Frederic Raymond advanced
towards Marian, who now stood up, so that the blaze of the chandelier
fell full upon her, revealing at once her face and form.
Had her very life depended upon it she could not have spoken then, for
the stormy emotions the name “Miss Grey” called up, mastered her speech
entirely. She knew he would thus address her, but it grated harshly on
her ear to hear him call her so, and her heart yearned for the familiar
name of Marian, though she had no reason to expect it from him.
“You are welcome to Riverside,” he continued; “and I regret that your
first day here should have been so lonely.”
This gave her a little time, and conquering her weakness she extended
her hand to take the one he offered. Hers was cold and clammy, and
trembled like an imprisoned bird, as it lay in his broad, warm palm. For
an instant he held it there, and gazed down into her sweet, childish
face, which did not look wholly unfamiliar to him, while she herself
seemed more like a friend than a total stranger. The tie between them,
which naught but death could sever, and which was bound so closely
around Marian’s heart, brought to his own an answering throb, and when
at last she spoke, assuring him that she had not been lonely in the
least, he started, for there was something in the tone which moved him
as a stranger oft is moved, when hearing in the calm, still night the
air of “Home, Sweet Home.” It carried him back to Redstone Hall, years
and years ago, when in the moonlight he had played with his dusky
companions upon the river brink. But Marian Lindsey had no portion of
his thoughts at that first interview with Marian Grey, who ventured at
last to look into his face just as he was looking into hers. Oh, how
much like the Frederic of old he was, save that in his mature manhood he
was finer, nobler looking, while the proud fire of his eye had given
place to a milder, softer expression, and she felt intuitively that he
was far more worthy of her love than when she knew him before.
Motioning her to a chair, he, too, sat down at a little distance and
conversed with her pleasantly, as friend converses with friend, asking
about her journey, making inquiries after Mrs. Sheldon’s family, and
experiencing a most unaccountable sensation when he saw how she blushed
at the mention of William Gordon! Ben was next talked about, and Marian
was growing eloquent in his praise, when suddenly a sight met her view
which petrified her powers of speech and sent the hot blood ebbing
backward from her cheek and lip. In the hall without and where Frederic
could not see her, the blind girl stood, her hands clasped and slightly
raised, her lips apart, her eyes rolling, her head bent forward, and her
ear turned toward the door, whence came the sound which had arrested her
footsteps and chained her to the spot. She had started for the parlor
and come thus far, when she, too, caught the tone which had affected
even Frederic, and her head grew dizzy with the bewildering sound, for
to her it brought memories of Marian. Had she come? Was she there with
Frederic and Miss Grey? Eagerly she waited to hear the sound repeated,
wondering why Miss Grey, too, did not join in the conversation. It came
again, the old familiar strain, though tuned to a sadder note, for
Marian had suffered much since last she talked with Alice, and it was
perceptible even in her voice. Tighter and tighter the small hands
pressed together—lower and lower bent the head, while a shade of
disappointment flitted over the face of the listening child, for this
time it did not seem quite so natural as at first, and she knew, too,
that ’twas Miss Grey who spoke, for her subject was Ben Butterworth.
“What is it?” asked Frederic, observing that Miss Grey stopped suddenly
in the midst of a remark.
Marian pointed toward the spot where Alice stood, but ere Frederic had
time to step forward, the loud ring of the bell started Alice from an
attitude which, had Frederic Raymond seen it, would surely have led to a
discovery.
“The little girl, she acts so singular,” said Marian, thinking she must
make some explanation.
“She’s blind, you know,” was answered in a low tone, and going toward
the hall, Frederic met with Alice just as a servant opened the outer
door, and a stranger entered, asking for Mr. Raymond.
“In a moment,” said Frederic, and leading Alice up to Marian, he
continued, “Your teacher,” and then left the two together.
For an instant there was perfect silence, and Marian knew the blind girl
could hear the beating of her heart, while she in turn watched the
wonder and perplexity written on the speaking face turned upward toward
her own, the brown eyes riveted upon her, as if for once they had broken
from their prison walls and could discern what was before them.
Oh! how Marian longed to take the little, helpless creature in her arms;
to hug her, to kiss her, to cry over her, and tell her of the love which
had never known one moment’s abatement during the long years of their
separation. But she dared not; and she sat gazing at her to see if she
had changed since the night when she left her sleeping so quietly in
their dear old room at home. She was now nearly thirteen, but her figure
was so slight, and her features so childlike, that few would have
guessed her more than nine, unless they judged by her mature, womanly
mind. To Marian she seemed the same; and when, unable longer to restrain
herself, she drew the child to her, and, kissing her forehead, said to
her kindly,
“You are Alice, my pupil, I am sure. Alice what?”
“Alice Raymond,” and the sightless eyes never moved for an instant from
the questioner’s face.
“Are you very nearly related to Mr. Raymond?” asked Marian; and Alice
replied:
“Second cousin, that’s all. But he has been more than a brother to me
since—since—”
The perplexed, mystified look increased on Alice’s face, and her gaze
grew more intense as she continued: “Since Marian went away.”
There was a moment’s stillness, and then the hand which hitherto had
rested on Marian’s lap was raised until it reached the head, where it
lay lightly, very lightly, though to Marian it seemed like the weight of
a thousand pounds, and she felt every hair prickle at its root when the
blind girl said to her:
“AIN’T YOU MARIAN?”
“Yes, Marian Grey. Didn’t you know my first name?” was the answer,
spoken so deliberately that Marian was astonished at herself.
There was a wavering then in the brown eyes, a quivering of the lids,
and the great tears rolled down Alice’s cheeks, for with this calm
reply, uttered so naturally, the hope she had scarcely dared to cherish
passed away, and she murmured sadly:
“It cannot be her.”
“What makes you cry, darling?” asked Marian, choking back her own tears,
which were just ready to flow, and which did gush forth in torrents,
when Alice answered:
“Oh, I wish I wasn’t blind to-night!”
This surely was a good cause for weeping and pressing the little one to
her bosom, Marian wept over her passionately for a few moments; then,
drying her eyes, she said:
“Why to-night more than any other time?”
“Because I want so much to know how you look,” returned Alice; adding
immediately: “May I feel of your face? It’s the only way I have of
seeing.”
“Certainly,” answered Marian; and the fingers wandered slowly,
cautiously, over every feature, involuntarily caressing the fair, round
cheek, but lingering longest on the hair—the beautiful hair—whose glossy
waves were perceptible even to the touch.
“What color is it?” she asked, winding one of the curls around her
finger.
“Some call it auburn, some chesnut, and some a mixture of both,” was the
reply, and Alice continued her investigations by mentally comparing its
length with a standard she had in her own mind.
The two did not agree, for the curls she remembered were longer and far
more wiry than the silken tresses of Miss Grey.
“How tall are you?” she suddenly asked, and Marian tried to laugh,
although every nerve was thrilling with fear, for she knew she was
passing through a dangerous test.
“Rather tall,” she replied, standing up, “Yes, very tall, some would
say. Put up your hand and see.”
Alice did as she requested, and her tears came faster as she whispered
mournfully. “You’re the tallest.”
“Did you think we had met before?” asked Marian, and then the sobs of
the child burst forth unrestrained.
Burying her face in Marian’s lap, she cried, “Yes—no—I don’t know what I
thought, only you don’t seem to me like I supposed you would. You make
me tremble so, and I keep thinking of somebody we lost long ago. At
first your voice sounded so natural, that I knew most she was here, but
you ain’t even like her. You’re taller and fatter, and handsomer, I
reckon, and yet there is something about you that makes my heart beat so
fast. Oh, I wish I could see what it is. What made God make me blind?”
Never before had Marian heard a murmur from the lips of the unfortunate
child, and it seemed to her cruel not to whisper words of comfort in her
ear. But she could not do it yet, and so she kissed her tenderly,
saying, “Did you love this other one so very much?”
“Yes, very, very much,” was Alice’s reply, “and it hurts me so to think
we cannot find her. I thought we surely should to-day, for we went
there, Frederic and I—went where she used to live, and she wasn’t there.
’Twas a dreary place, and Frederic groaned out loud to think she ever
lived there.”
“Perhaps it didn’t look so then,” suggested Marian, who felt constrained
to say a word in favor of her former home.
“Oh, I know it didn’t,” returned Alice, “for Frederic has been by there,
though he didn’t know it then, and he says it looked real nice, with the
white curtain and the kitten asleep on the window sill. It’s a cat now,
and we brought it home.”
“Her cat?” and Marian started eagerly.
“Yes,” said Alice, “Frederic gave three dollars for it,” and forgetting
her late grief in this new interest, she told how they knew it was
Marian’s, and then as Miss Grey expressed a wish to see it, she started
in quest of it, just as Frederic appeared, telling them tea was ready.
“I am afraid you will think we keep Lent here all the year round,” he
said, apologetically. “I was surprised to find that Mrs. Russell
compelled you to fast until our return.”
“It didn’t matter,” Marian replied; though she had wondered a little at
the non-appearance of supper, for Mrs. Russell, intent upon her dress,
had no idea of “makin’ two fusses,” and she kept her visitor waiting
until the return of Frederic, saying, “the supper would taste all the
better when it did come.”
Very willingly Marian followed Frederic to the dining room, where
everything was indicative of elegance and wealth.
“Mrs. Jones used to sit here; and I now give the place to you,” said
Frederic, motioning to the seat by the tea-tray, and himself sitting
down opposite, with Alice upon his right.
Marian became her new position well, and so Frederic thought, as he saw
how gracefully her snowy fingers handled the silver urn, and how much at
home she seemed. There was a strange fascination about her as she sat
there at the head of his table, with the bright bloom on her cheek, and
the dewy lustre in her beautiful blue eyes, which occasionally wandered
toward the figure opposite, but as often fell beneath the curious gaze
which they encountered. Frederic could not forbear looking at her, even
though he saw that it embarrassed her—she was so fresh, so fair, so
modest—while there was about her an indescribable something which he
could not define, for though a stranger, as he supposed, she seemed near
to him—so near that he almost felt he had a right to pass his arm around
her, and kiss the girlish lips which Will Gordon had likened to a
rose-bud.
“Poor Will,” sighed, “he did lose a prize when he lost Marian Grey.”
Involuntarily his mind went back to Redstone Hall, and to the time when
another Marian sat opposite, and did for him the office this one was
doing. The contrast between the two was great, but, with a nobleness
worthy of the man, he thought “Marian Grey is far more beautiful, ’tis
true, but Marian Lindsey was my wife.”
Then he remembered the day when Isabel first sat at his board, and he
had felt it a sin to look at her in all her queenly beauty. He had grown
hard since then, for he could not think it wicked to look at Marian
Grey, or deem it a wrong to the other one, and he feasted his eyes upon
her until she arose from the table, and went, at Alice’s request, to see
the cat, which was safely confined in a candle box, “by way of taming
her,” Alice said.
“I think there’s no need of that,” returned Marian, stroking her soft
coat. “I am sure she will not run away. What do you propose calling
her?”
“Marian, I reckon, only you might not want her named after _you_, and it
wouldn’t be, for it’s the other one.”
“I haven’t the least objection,” said Miss Grey, laughing, “only Marian
will sound oddly. Suppose you call it ‘Spottie,’ there’s a cunning white
spot between its eyes.”
“Yes, Alice, let that be the name,” said a voice behind them, and
turning, Marian saw Frederic, who had all the time been standing near
and watching them as like two children they knelt together by the candle
box and gave the cat its milk—Marian and Alice, side by side, just as
they used to be of old—just as Frederic had seen them many a time.
The tableau was a familiar one, and so he felt it to be, though he could
not divine the reason. The tall, beautiful girl before him bore no
resemblance to the Marian of Redstone Hall, and still nothing she did
seemed strange or new to him.
“I certainly have dreamed of her,” he said, when lifting up her head she
shook back from her face the clustering curls, and smiled on Alice as
she used to do. “I have dreamed of her just as I sometimes dream of
places, and see them afterward in waking.”
This conclusion was entirely satisfactory, and she returned with the
girls to the parlor, while “Spottie” followed after, hovering near to
Marian, whose low spoken words and gentle caresses had reawakened the
affection which had perhaps been dormant during the last year.
“Will you play for us, Miss Grey?” said Frederic, and without a word of
apology, Marian seated herself at the piano, whose rich, mellow tones
roused her enthusiasm at once, and she played more than usually well,
while Alice stood by listening eagerly, and Frederic looked on, scarce
heeding the stirring notes, so intent was he upon the dimpled hands
which swept the keys so skillfully.
On the third finger there was a little cornelian ring, the first gift of
Ben, and as he looked, he felt certain he had seen that ring and those
hands before. But where? He tried to recall the time and the place.
Stepping forward, he looked into her face, but that gave him no clue,
only the ring and the hands were familiar. Suddenly he started, for he
remembered the when and the where—remembered, too, that Alice, when told
of the girl with the brown vail, had said to him, “Wan’t that our
Marian?”
He had accepted the suggestion as a possible one then, but he doubted it
now, for if that maiden were Marian Grey, it certainly could not have
been Marian Lindsey. The exquisite music ceased, and ere Alice had time
for a word of comment, he asked abruptly: “Miss Grey, did you ever ride
in the cars with me in New York?”
The question was a startling one, but Marian’s face was turned from him,
and he could not see the effort she made to answer him calmly.
“I think it very probable. I have been in the cars a great many times,
and with a great many different people.”
“Yes, but one rainy night, more than four years ago, did I not offer you
a seat between myself and the door? You wore a brown vail, and carried a
willow basket, if it were you. Something about your appearance has
puzzled me all the evening, and I think I must have met you there. It
was on the Third Avenue cars.”
Marian trembled violently, but by constantly turning the leaves of her
music book, she managed to conceal her agitation, and when Frederic
ceased speaking, she answered in her natural tone, “Now that you recall
the circumstances, I believe I do remember something about it, though
you do not look as that man did. I imagined he had been sick, or was in
trouble,” and Marian’s blue eyes turned sideways to witness, if
possible, the effect of her words. But she was disappointed, for she
could not see how white Frederic was for a single instant, but she felt
it in his voice, as he replied:
“You are right. I had been sick, and was in great trouble.”
“Wasn’t that when you were looking for Marian?” Alice asked, and again
the blue eyes sought Frederic’s face, turning this time so that they
could see it.
“Yes, I was hunting for Marian,” was the answer; and the deep sigh which
accompanied the words brought a thrill of joy to the Marian hunted for,
and she knew now, and from his own lips, too, that he had sought for
her, nay, that he was looking for her even then, when in her anger she
censured him for not recognizing her.
Little by little she was learning the truth just as it was; and when at
a late hour she bade Frederic good night, and went to her own chamber,
her heart was almost too full for utterance, for she felt that the long,
dark night was over, and the dawn she had waited for so long was
breaking at last around her. Intuitively, Alice, who had been permitted
to sit up so long as she did, caught something of the same spirit. “It
was almost as nice as if Marian really were there,” she said; and she
came twice to kiss her governess, while on her face was a most satisfied
expression, as she nestled among her pillows and listened to the
footsteps in the adjoining chamber where Marian made her nightly toilet.
“Oh, I wish she’d let me sleep with her,” she thought. “It would be a
heap more like having Marian back.” And, when all was still, she stepped
upon the floor and glided to the bedside of Marian, who was not aware of
her approach until a voice whispered in her ear:
“May I stay here with you? I’ve been making believe that you was
Marian—our Marian, I mean—and I want to sleep with you so much just as I
used to do with her—may I?”
“Yes, darling,” was the answer, as Marian folded her arms lovingly
around the neck of the blind girl, whose soft, warm cheek was pressed
against her own.
And there, just as they were used to do in the old Kentucky home, ere
sorrow had come to either, they lay side by side, Marian and Alice, the
one dreaming sweet dreams of the Marian come back to her again; and the
other, that to her the gates of Paradise were opened, and she saw the
glory shining through, just as in Frederic Raymond’s eyes she had seen
the glimmer of the love-light which was yet to overshadow her and
brighten her future pathway.