REDSTONE HALL.
News had been received at Redstone Hall, that the family would be there
on the 13th; but Frederic’s coming home was a common occurrence now, and
did not create as great a sensation among his servants as it once had
done. Still it was an event of considerable importance, particularly as
he was to bring with him a new governess, who, judging from his apparent
anxiety to have everything in order, was a person of more distinction
than the prosy Mrs. Jones, or even the brilliant Isabel. Old Dinah
accordingly worked herself up to her usual pitch of excitement, and
then, long before it was time, started off her spouse, who was to meet
his master at Big Spring Station, and who waited there impatiently at
least an hour ere the whistle and smoke in the distance announced the
arrival of the train.
“We are here at last,” said Frederic, when they stopped before the
depot; and he touched the arm of Marian, who sat leaning against a
window, her head bent down, and her thoughts in such a wild tumult that
she scarcely comprehended what she was doing or where she was.
During the entire journey she had labored under the highest excitement,
which manifested itself sometimes in snatches of merry songs, sometimes
in laughter almost hysterical, and again when no one saw her, in floods
of tears, which failed to cool her feverish impatience. It seemed to her
she could not wait, and she counted every milestone, while her breath
came faster and faster as she knew they were almost there. With a
shudder she glanced at the clump of trees under whose shadow she had
hidden six years before, and those who noticed her face as she passed
out marvelled at its deathly pallor.
“Jest gone with consumption,” was Phil’s mental comment; and he wondered
at the eager, curious glance which she gave to him. “’Spects she never
seen a nigger before,” he muttered; and as by this time the travelers
were comfortably seated in the wide capacious carriage, he chirrupped to
his horses, and they moved rapidly on toward Redstone Hall.
Marian did not try longer to conceal her delight, and Frederic watched
her wonderingly, as with glowing cheeks and beaming eyes she looked
first from one window and then from the other, the color deepening on
her face and the pallor increasing about her mouth, as way-mark after
way-mark was passed and recognized.
“You seem very much excited,” he said to her at last; and, assuming as
calm a manner as possible, she replied:
“For years back the one cherished object of my life was to visit
Kentucky; and now that I am really here, I am so glad! oh, so glad!” and
Frederic could see the gladness shining in her eyes, and making her so
wondrously beautiful to look upon that he was sorry when the twilight
shadows began to fall, and partially obscured his vision.
“There is the house,” he said, pointing to the chimneys, just
discernible above the trees.
But Marian had seen them first, and when as they turned a corner, the
entire building came in view, she sank back upon the cushion, dizzy and
sick with the thoughts which came crowding so fast upon her. The day had
been soft and balmy, and mingled with the gathering darkness was the
yellow, hazy light the sun of the Indian summer often leaves upon the
hills. The early mist lay white upon the river, while here and there a
shower of leaves came rustling down from the tall trees, which grew in
such profusion around the old stone house. And Marian saw
everything—heard everything—and when the horses’ hoofs struck upon the
bridge, where once they fancied she had stood and plunged into eternity,
an icy chill ran through her frame, depriving her of the power to speak
or move. Through the dim twilight she saw the dusky forms gathered
expectantly around the cabin doors—saw the full, rounded figure of Dinah
on the piazza—saw the vine-wreathed pillar where six years ago that very
night, she had leaned with a breaking heart, and wept her passionate
adieu to the man, who, sitting opposite to her now, little dreamed of
what was passing in her mind. In a distant hempfield she heard the song
some negroes sang returning from their labor, and as she listened to the
plaintive music, her tears began to flow, it seemed so natural—so much
like the olden time.
Suddenly as they drew nearer and the song of the negroes ceased the
stillness was broken by the deafening yell which Bruno, from his cage,
sent up. His voice had been the last to bid the runaway good bye, and it
was the first to welcome her back again. With a stifled sob of joy too
deep for utterance, she drew her veil still closer over her face, and
when at last they stopped and the light from the hall shone out upon
her, she sat in the corner of the carriage motionless and still.
“Come, Miss Grey,” said Frederic, when Alice had been safely deposited
and was folded to Dinah’s bosom, “Come, Miss Grey, are you sleeping?”
and he touched the hand which lay cold and lifeless upon her lap. “She
has fainted,” he cried. “The journey and excitement have overtaxed her
strength,” and, taking her in his arms as if she had been a little
child, he bore her into the house and up to her own chamber, for he
rightly guessed that she would rather be there when she returned to
consciousness.
Laying her upon the lounge, he removed her bonnet and veil, and then
kneeling beside her, looked wistfully into her face, which in its
helplessness seemed more beautiful than ever.
“Has she come to, yet?” asked the puffing Dinah, appearing at the door.
“It’s narves what ailed her, I reckon, and I told Lyd to put some
delirian to the steep. That’ll quiet her soonest of anything.”
Frederic knew that his services were no longer needed, and after
glancing about the room to see that everything was right, he went down
stairs leaving Marian to the care of Dinah, who, as her patient began to
show signs of returning consciousness, undressed her as soon as possible
and placed her in the bed, herself sitting by and bathing her face and
hands in camphor and cologne. The fainting fit had passed away, but it
was succeeded by a feeling of such delicious languor that for a long
time Marian lay perfectly still, thinking how nice it was to be again in
her old room with Dinah sitting by, and once as the hard, black hand
rested on her forehead, she took it between her own, murmuring
involuntarily, “Dear Aunt Dinah, I thank you so much.”
“Blessed lamb,” whispered the old lady, “they told her my name, I
’spect. ’Pears like she’s nigher to me than strangers mostly is,” and
she smoothed lovingly the bright hair floating over the pillow.
Twice that evening there came up the stairs a cautious step which
stopped always at the door, and Dinah as often as she answered the
gentle knock, came back to Marian and said, “It’s marster axin’ is you
any wus.”
“Tell him I am only tired, not sick,” Marian would say, and turning on
her pillow, she wept great tears of joy to think that Frederic should
thus care for her.
At last, having drank the “delirian tea,” more to please old Dinah than
from any faith she had in its virtues, she fell into a quiet sleep,
which was disturbed but twice, once when at nine o’clock Bruno was
loosed from his confinement, and with a loud howl went rushing past the
window, and once when Alice crept carefully to her side, holding her
breath lest she should arouse her, and whispering low her nightly
prayer. Then, indeed, Marian moved as if about to waken, and the blind
girl thought she heard her say, “Darling Alice,” but she was not sure,
and she nestled down beside her, sleeping ere long the dreamless sleep
which always came to her after a day of unusual fatigue.
The rosy dawn was just stealing into the room, next morning, when Marian
awoke with a vague, uncertain feeling as to where she was, or what had
happened. Ere long, however, she remembered it all; and, stepping upon
the floor, she glided to the window, to feast her eyes once more upon
her home. Before her lay the garden, and though the November frosts had
marred its Summer glory, it was still beautiful to her; and, hastily
dressing herself, she went forth to visit her olden haunts, strolling
leisurely on until she reached a little Summer-house which had been
built since she was there. Over the door were some pencil marks, in
Frederic’s hand writing; and though the rains had partly washed the
letters away, there were still enough remaining for her to know that
“Marian Lindsey” had been written there.
“He has sometimes thought of me,” she said; and she was about entering
the arbor, when there rose upon the air a terrific yell, which, had she
been an intruder, would have sent her flying from the spot. But she did
not even tremble, and she awaited fearlessly the approach of the huge
creature, which, bristling with rage, came tearing down the graveled
walk, his eyeballs glowing like coals of fire, and his head lowered as
if ready for attack.
Bruno was still on guard, and when, in the distance, he caught a sight
of Marian, he started with a lion like bound, which soon brought him
near to the brave girl, who calmly watched his coming, and, when he was
close upon her, said to him:
“Good old Bruno! Don’t you know me, Bruno?”
At the first sound of her voice, the fire left the mastiff’s eye, for
he, too, caught the tone which had once so startled Alice, and which
puzzled Frederic every day; still, he was not quite assured, and he came
rushing on, while she continued speaking gently to him. With a bound,
half playful, half ferocious, he sprang upon her, and, catching him
around the neck, she passed her hand caressingly over his shaggy mane,
saying to him, softly,
“I am Marian, Bruno! Don’t you know me?”
Then, indeed, he answered her—not with a human tongue, it is true; but
she understood his language well, and by the low, peculiar cry of joy he
gave as he crouched upon the ground, she knew that she was recognised.
Of all who had loved her at Redstone Hall, none remembered her save the
noble dog, who licked her face, her hair, her hands, her dress, her
feet; while all the time his body quivered with the intense delight he
could not speak.
At last as she knelt down beside him, and laid her cheek against his
neck, he bent his head, and gave forth a deep, prolonged howl, which was
answered at a little distance by a cry of horror, and turning quickly
Marian saw Frederic hastening toward the spot, his face pale as ashes,
and his whole appearance indicative of alarm. He had been roused from
sleep by the yell which Bruno gave when he first caught sight of Marian,
and ere he had time to think what it could be, Alice knocked at his
door, exclaiming:
“Oh, Frederic, Miss Grey, I am sure, has gone into the garden, and Bruno
is not yet secured. I heard him bark just like he did last year when he
mangled black Andy so. What if he should tear Miss Grey?”
Frederic waited for no more, but dressing himself quickly he hastened
out, sickening with fear, as he came upon the fresh tracks the dog had
made when going down the walk. He saw Marian’s dress, and through the
lattice he caught a sight of Bruno.
“He has her down! He is drinking her life-blood!” he thought; and for an
instant the pulsations of his heart stood still, nor did they resume
their wonted beat even after he saw the attitude of Marian Grey, and his
terrible watch dog, Bruno.
“Marian!” he began, for he could not be formal then. “Marian! leave him,
I entreat you. He is cruelly savage with strangers.”
“But I have tamed him, you see,” she answered, winding her arms still
closer around his neck, while he licked again her face and hair.
Wonderingly Frederic looked on, and all the while there came to him no
thought that the two had met before—that the hand patting so fondly
Bruno’s head had fed him many a time—and that amid all the changes which
six years had made, the sagacious, animal had recognized his mistress
and playmate, Marian Lindsey.
“It must be that you can win all hearts,” he said, watching her
admiringly, and marvelling at her secret power.
Shaking back her sunny curls, and glancing upward into his face Marian
answered involuntarily:
“No, not all. There is one I would have given worlds to win, but it cast
me off, just when I needed comfort the most.”
She spoke impulsively, and as she spoke there arose within her the wish
that he, like Bruno, might know her then and there. But he did not. He
only remembered what Will Gordon had said of her hopeless attachment and
her apparent confession of the same to him, smote heavily upon his
heart, though why he, a married man, should care he could not tell. He
didn’t really care, he thought; he only pitied her, and by way of
encouragement he said, “Even that may yet be won;” and while he said it,
there came over him a sensation of dreariness, as if the winning of that
heart would necessarily take from him something which was becoming more
and more essential to his happiness.
Their conversation was here interrupted by Josh, who was Bruno’s keeper,
and had come to chain him for the day. Marian knew him at once, though
he had changed from the short, thick lad of twelve to the taller youth
of seventeen; and when, as he saw her position with Bruno, he exclaimed,
“Goo-goo-good Lord!” she turned her beaming face toward him and answered
laughingly, “I have a secret for charming dogs.”
Involuntarily Josh’s old cloth cap came off, while over his countenance
there flitted an expression as if that voice were not entirely strange
to him. Touching his master’s arm, and pointing to the kneeling maiden,
he stammered out:
“Ha-ha-hain’t I s-s-seen her afore?”
“I think not,” answered Frederic, and with a doubtful shake of the head,
Josh attempted to lead Bruno away.
But Bruno would not move, and he clung so obstinately to Marian that she
arose, and patting his side, said playfully:
“I shall be obliged to go with him, I guess. Lead the way, boy.”
With eyes protruding like saucers, Josh turned back, followed by Marian
and Bruno, the latter of whom offered no resistance when his mistress
bade him enter his kennel, though he made wondrous efforts to escape
when he saw that she was leaving him.
“In the name of the Lord,” exclaimed Hetty, shading her eyes with her
hand, to be sure she was right, “if thar ain’t the young lady shettin’
up the dog. I never knowed the like o’ that.”
Then as Marian came towards the kitchen, she continued, “’Pears like
I’ve seen her somewhar.”
“Ye-ye-yes,” chimed in Josh, who had walked faster than Marian.
“Who-o-oo is she, Hetty?”
Marian by this time had reached the door, where she stood smiling
pleasantly upon the blacks, but not daring to call them by name until
she saw Dinah, who courtesied low, and coming forward asked, “Is you
better this mornin’?”
“Yes, quite well, thank you. Are these your companions?” said Marian,
anxious for an opportunity to talk with her old friends.
“Yes, honey,” answered Dinah. “This is Hetty, and this is Lyd, and
this——”
She didn’t finish the sentence, for Hetty, who had been earnestly
scanning Marian’s features, grasped her dress, saying, “Whar was you
born?”
“Jest like them Higginses,” muttered Dinah. “In course, Miss Grey don’t
want to be twitted with bein’ a Yankee the fust thing.”
But Hetty had no intentions of casting reflections upon the place of
Marian’s birth. Like Josh she had detected something familiar in the
young girl’s face, and twice she had swept her hand across her eyes to
clear away the mist and see if possible what it was which puzzled her so
much.
“I was born a great many miles from here,” said Marian, and ere Hetty
could reply, Josh, whose gaze had all the time been riveted upon her,
stuttered out, “Sh-sh-she is-s-s-s like M-m-m-Miss Marian.”
Yes, this was the likeness they had seen, but Marian would rather the
first recognition should come from another source, and she hastened to
reply, “Oh, Mrs. Raymond, you mean. Alice noticed it when I first went
to Riverside. You suppose your young mistress dead, do you not?”
Instantly Dinah’s woolen apron was called into use, while she said,
“Yes, poor dear lamb; if thar’s any truth in them Scripter sayin’s,
she’s a burnin’ and a shining light in de kingdom come.” And the old
negress launched forth into a long eulogy, in the midst of which
Frederic appeared in quest of Marian.
“I am listening to praises of your wife,” she said, and there was a
mischievous triumph in her eye as she saw how his forehead flushed, for
he was beginning to be slightly annoyed when she, as she often did,
alluded to his wife.
Why need she thrust that memory continually upon him? Was it not enough
for him to know that somewhere in the world there _was_ a wife, and that
he would rather hear any one else speak of her than the bright-haired
Marian Grey.
“Dinah can be very eloquent at times,” he said, “but come with me to
Alice. She has been sadly frightened on your account,” and he led the
way to the piazza, where the blind girl was waiting for them.
Breakfast being over, Marian and Alice sought the parlor, where, instead
of the old fashioned instrument which the former remembered as standing
there, she found a new and beautifully carved piano.
“Frederic ordered this on purpose to please you,” whispered Alice. “He
said it was a shame for you to play on the other rattling thing.”
This was sufficient to call out Marian’s wildest strains, and as a
matter of course the entire band of servants gathered about the door to
listen just as they once had done when the performer was Isabel. As was
quite natural, they yielded their preference to the last comer, old
Hetty acknowledging that even “Miss Beatrice couldn’t beat that.”
It would seem that Marian Grey was destined to take all hearts by storm,
for ere the day was done her virtues had been discussed in the kitchen
and by the cabin fire, while even the gallant Josh, at his work in the
hempfield, attempted a song, which he meant to be laudatory of her
charms, but as he was somewhat lacking in poetical talent, his music ran
finally into the well known ballad of “Mary Ann,” which suited his
purpose quite as well.
Meantime, Marian, stealing away from Alice, quietly explored every nook
and corner of the house, opening first the little box where she once had
kept her mother’s hair. It was just as she had left it, and kissing it
reverently she placed it by the side of her silken locks, to see how
they compared. It might be that the tress of the dead had faded
somewhat, for there was certainly a richer, darker tinge to her own wavy
hair, and bowing her head upon the bureau she dropped tears of
thankfulness that her childhood’s prayer had been more than answered.
The library was visited next, and she seated herself again in the chair
where she had sat when penning her last farewell to Frederic. Where was
that letter now? She wished that she could see it, though she did not
care to read it, and without any expectation of finding it she pressed
what she knew was the secret spring to a private drawer. It yielded to
her touch—the drawer came open, and there before her lay the letter—her
letter—she knew it by its superscription, and by its tear-stained,
soiled appearance. She had wept over it herself, but she knew full well
her tears alone had never blurred and blotted it like this. Frederic’s
had mingled with them, and her heart was trembling with joy when another
object caught her eye and quickened her rapid pulsations. Her glove! the
little black kid glove she had dropped upon the bridge was there,
wrapped in a sheet of paper, and with it the handkerchief!
“Frederic has saved them all,” she whispered, shuddering involuntarily,
for it seemed almost like looking into the grave, where he had buried
these sad remembrances of her. He had preserved them carefully, she
thought, and she continued her investigation, coming at last upon a
daguerreotype of herself, taken when she was just fifteen.
“Oh, horror!” she cried, and sinking back in her chair, she laughed
until the tears ran at the forlorn little face which looked upon her so
demurely from the casing. “Frederic must enjoy looking at you vastly,
and thinking you are his wife,” she said, and she felt a thrill of pride
in knowing that Marian Grey bore scarcely the slightest resemblance to
that daguerreotype.
There was a similarity in the features and in the way the hair grew
around the forehead, while the eyes were really alike. But the likeness
extended no further, and she did not wonder that none, save Bruno, had
recognized her. Returning the picture to its place, she was about to
leave the room, when Frederic came in, appearing somewhat surprised to
find her there, sitting in his chair as if she had a perfect right so to
do. At first she was too much confused to apologize, but she managed at
last to say:
“This cozy room attracted me, and I took the liberty to enter. You have
a very fine library, I think; some of the books must have been your
father’s.”
It was the books, of course, which she came to see, and sitting down
opposite to her Frederic talked with her about them until she chanced to
spy a portrait, put away behind the ponderous sofa, with its face turned
to the wall.
“Whose is it?” she asked, directing Frederic’s attention to it. “Whose
is it, and why is it hidden there?”
Instantly the young man’s face grew dark, and Marian trembled beneath
the glance he bent upon her. Then the cold, hard look passed away, and
he replied:
“It is an unfinished portrait of Mrs. Raymond, taken from a
daguerreotype of her when she was only fifteen. But the artist did not
understand his business, and it looks even worse than the original.”
This last was spoken bitterly, and Marian felt the hot blood rising to
her cheeks.
“I never even told Alice of it,” he continued, “but put it away in here,
where I hide all my secrets.”
He glanced at the private drawer—so did Marian; but she was too intent
upon seeing a portrait which could look worse than the daguerreotype to
heed aught else, and she said, entreatingly, “Oh, Mr. Raymond, please
let me see it, won’t you? I lived in New York a long time, you know, and
perhaps I may have met her, or even known her under some other name? May
I see it?” and she was advancing toward the sofa, when Frederic seized
both her hands, and holding them in his, said, half hesitatingly, half
mournfully:
“Miss Grey, you must excuse me for refusing your request. Poor Marian
was far from being handsome, nay, I sometimes thought her positively
ugly. She is certainly so in the portrait, and a creature as highly
gifted with beauty as you, might laugh at her plain features, but if you
did—” He paused a moment, and Marian’s eye-lashes fell beneath his
steady gaze—“And if you did,” he continued, “I never could like you
again, for she was my wife, and as such must be respected.”
Marian could not tell why it was, but Frederic’s words and manner
affected her painfully. She half feared she had offended him by her
eagerness to see the portrait, while mingled with this was a strange
feeling of pity for poor, plain Marian Lindsey, as she probably looked
upon the canvas, and a deep respect for Frederic, who would, if
possible, protect her from even the semblance of insult. Her heart was
already full, and, releasing her hands from Frederic’s, she resumed her
seat, and leaning her head upon the writing desk, burst into tears,
while Frederic paced the room, wondering what, under the circumstances,
he was expected to do. He knew just how to soothe Alice, but Marian Grey
was a different individual. He could not take her in his lap and kiss
away her tears, but he could at least speak to her; and he did at last,
laying his hand as near the little white one grasping the table edge as
he dared, and saying, very gently:
“If I spoke harshly to you, Miss Grey, I am sorry—very sorry; I really
did not intend to make you cry. I only felt that I could not bear to
hear you, of all others, laugh at my poor Marian, and so refused your
request. Will you forgive me?”
And by some chance, as he looked another way, his hand did touch hers,
and held it, too! He did not think that an insult to the portrait at
all, nor yet of the supposed original; for there was something in the
way the snowy fingers twined themselves round his, which drove all other
ideas from his mind, and for one brief instant he was supremely happy.
From the first he had thought of Marian Grey as a sweet, beautiful young
creature, whom some man would one day delight to call his own; but the
possibility of loving her himself had never occurred to him until now,
when, like a flash of lightning, the conviction burst upon him that,
spite of Marian Lindsey—spite of his marriage vow—spite of the humble
origin which would once have shocked his pride—and spite of everything,
Marian Grey had won a place in his heart from which he must dislodge
her. But, how? He could not send her away, for she seemed a part of
himself, and he could not live without her; but he would stifle his
new-born love, he said, and as the best means of doing so, he would talk
to her often of his wife as a person who certainly had an existence, and
would some day come back to him; so, when Marian replied:
“I feared you were angry with me, Mr. Raymond; I would not have asked to
see the portrait had I supposed you really cared,” he drew his chair at
a respectful distance and said: “I cannot explain the matter to you, but
if you knew the whole sad story of my marriage, and the circumstances
which led to it, you would not wonder that I am somewhat sensitive upon
the subject. I used to think beauty the principal thing I should require
in a wife, but poor Marian had none of that, and were you to see the
wretched likeness, you would receive altogether too unfavorable an
impression of her; for, notwithstanding her plain face, she was far too
good for me.”
“Do you really think so?” was Marian’s eager exclamation, while close
behind it was the secret struggling hard to escape, but she forced it
back, until such time as she should be convinced that Frederic loved her
as Marian Grey, and would hail with delight the news that she was indeed
his wife.
He seemed surprised at her question, but he answered, unhesitatingly:
“Yes; far too good for me.”
“And do you really wish to find her?” was Marian’s next question, which
brought a flush to Frederic’s face, and caused him to hesitate a little
ere he replied.
Yesterday he would have said Yes, at once, but since coming into that
library he had discovered that the finding of his wife would be less
desirable than before. But it should not be so. He would crush every
thought or feeling which detracted in the least from his late interest
in Marian Lindsey, and with a great effort he said:
“I really wish to find her;” adding, as he saw a peculiar expression
flit over Marian’s face; “Wouldn’t you, too, be better pleased if
Redstone Hall had a mistress?”
“Yes, provided that mistress were your wife, Marian Lindsey,” was the
ready answer; and, looking into her face, Frederic was conscious of an
uneasy sensation, for Miss Grey’s words would indicate that the presence
of his wife would give her real pleasure.
Of course, then, she did not care for him, as he cared for her; and why
should she? He asked himself this question many a time after the chair
opposite him was vacant, and she had left him there alone. Why should
she, when she came to him with the knowledge that he was already bound
to another. She might not have liked him perhaps had he been free,
though, in that case, he could have won her love, and compelled her to
forget the man who did not care for her. Taking the high-backed chair
she had just vacated, he rested his elbow upon the table, and tried to
fancy that Marian Lindsey had never crossed his path, and Marian Grey
had never loved another. It was a pleasant picture he drew of himself
were Marian Grey his wife, and his heart fairly bounded as he thought of
her stealing to his side, and placing upon his arm those little soft
white hands of hers, while her blue eyes looked into his own, and her
rose-bud lips called him “Husband!” and, as he thought, it seemed to him
more and more that it must one day be so. She would be his at last, and
the sun of his domestic bliss would shine upon him all the brighter for
the dreary darkness which had overshadowed him so long. From this dream
of happiness there came ere long a waking, and burying his face in his
hands he moaned aloud, “It cannot be, and the hardest part of all to
bear is the wretched thought that but for my dastardly, unmanly act, it
might, perhaps, have been—but now, never! never! Oh, Marian Grey! Marian
Grey! I would that we had never met!”
“Frederic, didn’t you hear me coming? I made a heap of noise,” said a
voice close to his side, and Alice’s arm was thrown across his neck.
She had heard all he was saying, but she did not comprehend it until he
muttered the name of Marian Grey, and then the truth flashed upon her.
“Poor Frederic,” she said, soothingly, “I pity you so much, for though
it is wicked, I am sure you cannot help it.”
“Help what?” he asked, rather impatiently, for this one secret he hoped
to bury from the whole world, but the blind girl had discovered it, and
she answered unhesitatingly:
“Can’t help loving Marian Grey. I’ve been fearful you would,” she
continued, as he made no reply. “I did not see how you could well help
it, either, she is so beautiful and good, and every night I pray that if
our own Marian is really dead God will let us know.”
This was an entire change in Alice. Hitherto she had pleaded a living
Marian—now she suggested one deceased, but Frederic repelled the thought
at once.
“Marian was not dead,” he said, “and though he admired Miss Grey, he had
no right to love her. He didn’t intend to, either, and if Alice had
discovered anything, he trusted she would forget it.”
And this was all the satisfaction he would give the little girl, who,
feeling that he would rather be alone, turned away, leaving him again
with his unhappy thoughts.
That night he joined the young girls in the parlor and compelled himself
to listen while Marian made the old walls echo with her ringing, merry
music. But he would not look at her, nor watch her snowy fingers
sweeping over the keys, lest they should make worse havoc with his
heartstrings than they had already done. At an early hour he sought his
chamber where the livelong night he fought manfully with the love which,
now that he acknowledged its existence, grew rapidly in intensity and
strength. It was not like the love he had felt for Isabel—it was deeper,
purer, more absorbing, and what was stranger far than all, he could not
feel that it was wicked, and he trembled when he thought how hardened he
had become.
The next day, which was the Sabbath, he determined to see as little of
Marian as possible, but when at the breakfast table she asked him in her
usual frank, open-hearted way to go with her to church, he could not
refuse, and he went, feeling a glow of pride at the sensation he knew
she was creating, and wondering why she should be so excited.
“I cannot keep the secret much longer,” Marian thought, as she looked
upon the familiar faces of her friends, and longed to hear them call her
by her real name. “I will at least tell Alice who I am, and if she can
convince me that Frederic would be glad, I will perhaps explain to him.”
When church was out, Mrs. Rivers, who still lived at her father’s,
pressed forward for an introduction, and after it was over, whispered a
few words to Frederic, who replied, “Not in the least,” so decidedly
that Marian heard him, and wondered what Agnes’ remark could have been.
She was not long left in doubt, for as they were riding home, Frederic
turned to her and said: “Mrs. Rivers thinks you look like my wife.”
Marian’s cheeks were scarlet, as she replied:
“Josh and Hetty thought so, too, and it is possible there may be a
resemblance.”
“Not the slightest,” returned Frederic, half vexed that any one should
presume to liken the beautiful girl at his side to one as plain as he
had always considered Marian Lindsey to be.
Leaning back in the carriage, he relapsed into a thoughtful mood, which
was interrupted once by Marian’s asking “if he believed he should know
his wife in case he met her accidentally?”
“Know her? Yes—from all the world!” was the hasty answer; and, wrapping
his shawl still closer about him, Frederic did not speak again until
they stopped at their own door.
That night, as Marian sat with Alice in their chamber, she said to the
little girl:
“If you could have any wish gratified which you chose to make, what
would it be?”
For an instant Alice hesitated—then her eyes filled with tears, and, and
winding her arms around her teacher’s neck, she whispered:
“At first I thought I’d rather have my sight—but only for a moment—and
then I wished, if Marian were not dead, she would come back to us, for
I’m afraid Frederic is getting bad again, though he cannot help it, I’m
sure.”
“What do you mean?” Marian asked, and Alice replied:
“Don’t you know? Can’t you guess? Don’t you hear it in his voice when he
speaks to you?”
Marian made no response, and Alice continued:
“Frederic seems determined to love everybody better than Marian, and
though I love you more than I can tell, I want her to come back so
much.”
“And if you knew she were coming, when would you rather it should be?”
asked Marian, and Alice replied:
“Now—to-night; but as that is impossible, I’d be satisfied with
Christmas. Yes, on the whole, I’d rather it would be then; I should call
her our Christmas Gift, and it would be the dearest, sweetest one that I
could have.”
“Darling Alice,” thought Marian, “your wish shall be gratified.”
And, kissing the blind girl affectionately, she resolved that on the
coming Christmas, one at least of the inmates of Redstone Hall should
know that Marian Grey was only another name for the runaway Marian
Lindsey.