TELLING FREDERIC.
It was midnight, and from the windows of the library at Redstone Hall
there shone a single light, its dim rays falling upon the haggard face
of the weary man, who, since parting from Marian in the parlor, had sat
there just as he was sitting now, unmindful of the lapse of
time—unmindful of every thing save the fierce battle he was waging with
himself. Hour by hour—day by day—week by week, had his love for Marian
Grey increased, until now he could no more control it than he could stay
the mighty torrent in its headlong course. It was all in vain that he
kept or tried to keep Marian Lindsey continually before his mind, saying
often to himself: “She is my wife—she is alive, and I must not love
another.”
He did not care for Marian Lindsey. He did not wish to find her now—he
almost hoped he never should, though even that would avail him nothing,
unless he knew to a certainty that she were really dead. Perhaps he
never could know, and as he thought of the long, dreary years in which
he must live on with that terrible uncertainty forever haunting him, he
pressed his hands upon his burning forehead and cried aloud: “My
punishment is greater than I can bear. Oh, Marian Grey, can it be that
you, who might have been the angel of my life, were sent to avenge the
wrongs of that other Marian?”
He knew it was wicked, this intense, absorbing passion for Marian Grey,
but he could not feel it so, and he would have given half his
possessions for the sake of abandoning himself for one brief hour to
this love—for the sake of seeing her eyes of blue meet with the look he
had so often fancied her giving to the man she loved. And she loved him!
He was sure of it! He saw it those nights when he watched with her by
Alice’s bedside; he had seen it since in the sudden flushing of her
cheek and the falling of her eyes when he approached. And it was this
discovery which prompted him to the act he meditated. Not both of them
could stay there, himself and Marian, for he would not that she should
suffer more than need be. She had recovered from her first and early
love; she would get over this, and if she were only happy, it didn’t
matter how desolate her going would leave him, for she must go, he said.
He had come to that decision, sitting there alone, and it had wrung
great drops of perspiration from his brow and moans of anguish from his
lips. But it must be—there was no alternative, he thought, and in the
chair where Marian Lindsey once had written her farewell, he wrote to
Marian Lindsey’s rival that Redstone Hall could be her home no longer.
“Think not that you have displeased me,” he said, “for this is not why I
send you from me. Both of us cannot stay, and though for Alice’s sake I
would gladly keep you here, it must not be. I am going to New Orleans,
to be absent three or four weeks, and shall not expect to find you here
on my return. You will need money, and I enclose a check for a thousand
dollars. Don’t refuse to take it, for I give it willingly, and though my
conduct is sadly at variance with my words, you must believe me when I
say that in all the world you have not so true a friend, as
“FREDERIC RAYMOND.”
Many times he read this letter over, and it was not until long after
midnight that he sought his pillow, only to toss from side to side with
feverish unrest, and he was glad when at last Josh came in to make the
fire, for by that token he knew it was morning.
“Tell Dinah I will breakfast in my room,” he said, “and say to Phil that
he must have the carriage ready early, for I am going to New Orleans,
and he will carry me to Frankfort.”
“Ye-e-es, Sir,” was Josh’s answer, as he departed with the message.
“Marster have breakfast in his room, and a goin’ to New Orleans? In the
Lord’s name what’s happened him?” exclaimed Dinah, and when Marian came
down to her solitary meal, she repeated the story to her, asking if she
could explain it.
“Marster’s looked desput down in the mouth a long time back,” she said.
“What you ’spect ’tis?”
Marian could not tell; neither did she venture a suggestion, so fearful
was she that Frederic’s intended departure would interfere with the plan
of which Alice had talked incessantly since daylight. Hastily finishing
her breakfast, she hurried back to her chamber, whither the note had
preceded her.
“Luce brought this to you from Frederic,” said Alice, passing her the
letter, “and she says he looks like he was crazy. Read it and see what
he wants.”
Marian accordingly tore open the envelope, and with blanched cheek and
quivering lip read that she must go again from Redstone Hall, and worse
than all, there was no tangible reason assigned for the cruel mandate.
The check next caught her eye, and with a proud, haughty look upon her
face, she tore it in fragments and scattered them upon the floor, for it
seemed an idle mockery for him to offer what was already hers.
“What is it, Marian?” asked Alice, and recovering her composure Marian
read to her what Frederic said while Alice’s face grew white as hers had
done before.
“You go away!” she exclaimed, bounding upon the floor and feeling for
the warm shawl which she wore when sitting up. “You won’t do any such
thing. You’ve as much right here as he has, and I’m going this minute to
tell him so.”
She had groped her way to the door and was just opening it when Marian
held her back, saying:
“You must not go out undressed and barefooted as you are. The halls are
cold. Wait here while I go and learn the reason of this sudden freak.”
“But I want so much to tell him myself,” said Alice, and Marian replied,
“So you shall, I’ll send Dinah up to dress you and then I will come for
you when it’s time.”
This pacified Alice, who already began to feel faint with her exertions,
and she crept back to bed, while Marian descended the stairs, going
first to Dinah as she had promised, and then with a beating heart
turning her steps toward the library. It was much like facing the wild
beast in its lair, confronting Frederic in his present savage mood. He
felt himself as if his reason were overturned, for the deliberate giving
up of Marian Grey, and the feeling that he should probably never look
upon her face again, had stirred, as it were, the very depths of his
heart’s blood, and in a state of mind bordering upon distraction, he was
making the necessary preparations for his hasty journey, when a timid
knock was heard outside the door.
“Who’s there? I’m very busy,” was his loud, imperious answer, but Marian
was not to be thus baffled, and turning the knob, she entered without
further ceremony, recoiling back a pace or two when she met the
expression of Frederic’s eye.
With his hands full of papers, which he was thrusting into his pocket,
his hair disordered and his face white as ashes, he turned toward her,
saying; “Why are you here, Miss Grey? Haven’t you caused me pain enough
already? Have you received my note?”
“I have,” she answered, advancing still further into the room. “And I
have come to ask you what it means. You have no right to dismiss me so
suddenly without an explanation. How have I offended? You must tell me.”
“I said you had not offended,” he replied, “and further than that I can
give no explanation.”
“I shall not leave your house, nor yet this room until you do,” was her
decided answer, and with the air of one who meant what she said, Marian
went so near to the excited man that he could have touched her had he
chosen.
For an instant the two stood gazing at each other, Marian never wavering
for an instant, while over Frederic’s face there flitted alternately a
look of wonder, admiration, and perplexity. Then that look passed away
and was succeeded by an expression of the deep love he felt for
beautiful girl standing so fearlessly before him.
“I cannot help it,” he murmured at last, and tottering to the door, he
turned the key; then returning to Marian, he compelled her to sit down
beside him upon the sofa, and passing his arm around her, so that she
could not escape, he began: “You say you will not leave the room until
you know why I should send you from me. Be it so, then. It surely cannot
be wrong for me to tell when you thus tempt me to the act; so, for one
brief half-hour, you are mine—mine, Marian, and no power can save you
now from hearing what I have to say.”
His looks, even more than his manner, frightened her, and she said
imploringly, “Give me the key, Mr. Raymond. Unlock the door and I will
go away without hearing the reason.”
“I frighten you, then,” he answered, in a gentler tone, drawing her
nearer to him, “and yet, Marian Grey, I would sell my life inch by inch
rather than harm a hair of your dear head. Oh, Marian, Marian, I would
to Heaven you had never crossed my path, for then I should not have
known what it is to love as madly, as hopelessly, as wickedly as I now
love you. What made you come to me in all your bright, girlish beauty,
or why did Heaven suffer me to love you as I do? My punishment was
before as great as I could bear, and now I must suffer this anguish,
too. Oh, Marian Grey, Marian Grey!”
He wound his arms close around her, and she could feel his feverish
breath as his lips almost touched her burning cheek. In the words
“Marian Grey, Marian Grey,” there was a deep pathos, as if all the
loving tenderness of his nature were centered upon that name, and it
brought the tears in torrents from her eyes. He saw them, and wiping
them away, he said:
“The hardest part of all to me is the knowledge that you must suffer,
too. Forgive me for saying it, but as I know that I love you, so by
similar signs I know that you love me. Is it not so, darling?”
Involuntarily she laid her head upon his bosom, sobbing:
“I have loved you so long—so long.”
But for her promise to Alice she would then have told him all, but she
must keep her word, and when he rejoined, “It does, indeed seem long
since that night you came to Riverside,” she did not undeceive him, but
listened while he continued, “Bless you for telling me of your love.
When you are gone it will be a comfort for me to think that Marian Grey
_once_ loved me. I say _once_ for you must overcome that love. You must
tear it out and trample it beneath your feet. You can if you try. You
are not as hard, as callous as I am. My heart is like adamant, and
though I know that it is wicked to love you, and to tell you of my love,
I cannot help it. I am a wretch, and when I tell you, as I must, just
what a wretch I am, it will help you to forget me—to hate me, it may be.
You have heard of my wife. You know she left me on my bridal night, and
I have never known the joys of wedded bliss—never shall know, for even
if she comes back to me now, _I cannot live with her_!”
“Oh, Frederic!” And again the hot tears trembled through the hands which
Marian clasped before her eyes.
“Don’t call me thus,” said Frederic, entreatingly, as he removed her
hands, and held them both in his. “Don’t say Frederic, for though it
thrills me with strange joy to hear you, it is not right. Listen,
Marian, while I tell you why I married her who bears your name, and then
I’m sure you’ll hate me—nor call me Frederic again. I have never told
but one, and that one, William Gordon. I had thought never to tell it
again, but it is right that you should know. Marian Lindsey was, or is,
the Heiress of Redstone Hall. All my boasted wealth is hers—every cent
of it is hers. But she didn’t know it, for”—and Frederic’s voice was
very low and plaintive now as he told to Marian Grey how Marian Lindsey
was an heiress—told her of his dead parent’s fraud—of his desire to save
that parent’s name from disgrace, and his stronger desire to save him
from poverty. “So I made her my wife,” he said. “I promised to love and
cherish her all the time my heart was longing for another.”
Marian trembled now, as she lay helpless in his arms, and, observing it,
he continued:
“I must confess the whole, and tell you that I loved, or thought I
loved, Isabel Huntington, though how I could have fancied her is a
mystery to me now. My poor Marian was plain, while Isabel was beautiful,
and naught but Alice kept me from telling her my love. Alice stayed the
act—Alice sent me to New York to look for Marian——”
“And did you never hear from her? Did she never send you a letter?”
Marian asked, and he replied:
“Never! If she had I should have known where to find her.”
Then, as briefly as possible, for he knew time was hastening, he told of
his fearful sickness, and of the little girl who took such care of
him—told, too, of his weary search for her, and of the many dreary
nights he had passed in thinking of her, and her probable fate.
“Then _you_ came,” he said, “and, struggle as I would, I could not mourn
for Marian Lindsey as I had done before. I was satisfied to have you
here until the conviction burst upon me, that far greater than any
affection I had thought I could feel for that blue-eyed girl, and
tenfold greater than any love I had felt for Isabel Huntington, was my
love for you. It has worn upon me terribly. Look!” And pushing back his
thick brown locks, he showed her where the hair was turning white
beneath. “These are for you,” he said. “There are furrows upon my
face—furrows upon my heart—and can you wonder that I bade you go, and so
no longer tempt me to sin? And yet, could I keep you with me, Marian?
Could I hold you to my bosom just as I hold you now, and know that I had
a right so to do?—a right to call you mine—my Marian—my wife? Not Heaven
itself, I’m sure, has greater happiness in store for those who merit its
bliss than this would be to me! Oh, why is the boon denied to me? Why
must I suffer on through wretched, dreary years, and know that somewhere
in the world there is a Marian Grey, who might have been my wife?”
“Let me go for Alice,” said Marian, struggling to release herself.
“There is something she would tell you.”
“Yes, in a moment,” he replied; “but promise me first one thing. The
news may come to me that I am free, and if it does, and you are still
unmarried, will you then be my wife? Promise that you will, and the
remembrance of that promise will help me to bear a little longer.”
“I do!” said Marian, standing up before him, and holding one of his
hands in hers. “I promise you, solemnly, that no other man shall ever
call me wife save you.”
There were tears in Frederic’s eyes, and his whole frame quivered with
emotion, as, catching at her dress, for she was moving toward the door,
he added:
“And you will wait for me, darling—wait for me _twenty_ years, if it
needs must be? You will never be old to me. I shall love you just the
same when these sunny locks are grey,” and he passed his hands
caressingly over her bright hair. There was a world of love and
tenderness in the answering look which Marian gave to him as he opened
the door for her to pass out, and wringing his hands in anguish, he
cried to himself, “Oh, how can I give her up—beautiful, beautiful Marian
Grey!”
Swift as a bird Marian flew up the stairs in quest of Alice, who was to
tell the wretched man that it was not a sin for him to love the
beautiful Marian Grey.
“Alice, Alice! Go now—go quick!” she exclaimed, bursting into the room.
“Go whar—for the dear Lord’s sake?” said Dinah, who had that moment come
up, and consequently had made but little progress in dressing Alice. “Go
whar? Not down stairs—’strue as yer born. She’ll cotch her death o’
cold!”
“Hurry—_do_!” cried Alice, standing first on one foot and then upon the
other. “I must tell Frederic something before he goes away. There, he’s
going! Oh, Marian, help!” she fairly screamed, as she heard the carriage
at the door, and Frederic in the hall below.
Marian was terribly excited, and in her attempts to assist, she only
made matters worse by buttoning the wrong button, putting both stockings
on the same foot, pulling the shoe lacing into a hard knot, which
baffled all her nervous efforts, while Dinah worked on leisurely,
insisting that Alice “wasn’t gwine down, and if there was anythin’
killin’ which marster ’or’to know, Miss Grey could tell him herself.”
“Yes, Marian, go,” said Alice, in despair, as she heard Dud bid Frederic
good-by, and, scarcely conscious of what she was about, Marian ran down
the stairs, just as Phil cracked his whip, and the spirited greys
bounded off with a rapidity which left her faint call of “Stop,
Frederic, stop!” far behind.
“I can write to him,” she thought, as she slowly retraced her steps back
to Alice, who was bitterly disappointed, and who, after Dinah was gone,
threw herself upon the bed, refusing to be comforted.
“Three weeks was forever,” she said, and she suggested sending Josh
after the traveler, who, in a most unenviable frame of mind, was riding
rapidly towards Frankfort.
“No, no,” said Marian, “I will write immediately, so he can get the
letter as soon almost as he reaches New Orleans. It won’t be three weeks
before he returns,” and she strove to divert the child’s mind by
repeating to her as much as she thought proper of her exciting interview
with Frederic.
But Alice could not be comforted, and all that day she lamented over the
mischance which had taken Frederic away before she could tell him.
“There’s Uncle Phil,” she said, when towards night she heard the
carriage drive into the yard; “and hark, hark!” she exclaimed, turning
her quick ear in the direction of the sound, and rolling her bright eye
around the room; “there’s a step on the piazza that sounds like his—’tis
him—’tis him! He’s come back! I knew he would!” and in her weakness and
excitement the little girl sunk exhausted at Marian’s feet.
Raising her up, Marian listened breathlessly, but heard nothing save
Phil, talking to his horses as he drove them to the stable.
“He has not come,” she said, and Alice replied, “I tell you he has.
There—there, don’t you hear?” and Marian’s heart gave one great bound as
she, too, heard the well known footstep upon the threshold and Frederick
speaking to his favorite Dud, who had run to meet “his mars,” asking for
sugar-plums from New Orleans.
There had been a change in the time-table, and Frederic did not reach
Frankfort until after the train he intended to take had gone. His first
thought was to remain in the city, and wait for the next train from
Lexington. Accordingly he gave his parting directions to Phil, who being
in no haste to return, loitered away the morning and a portion of the
afternoon before he turned his horses homeward. As he was riding up the
long hill which leads from Frankfort into the country beyond, he
unexpectedly met his master, who had been to the cemetery, and was just
returning to the Capitol Hotel.
All the day Frederic had thought of Marian Grey, and with each thought
it had seemed to him more and more that he must see her again, if only
to hear her say that she would wait all time for him, and when he came
upon Phil, who he supposed was long ere this at Redstone Hall, his
resolution was taken, and instead of the reproof he knew he merited,
Phil was surprised at hearing his master say, as he made a motion for
him to stop:
“Phil, I am going home.”
And thus it was that he returned again to Redstone Hall, where his
coming was hailed with eager joy by Marian and Alice, and created much
surprise among the servants.
“My ’pinion he’s a little out of his head,” was all the satisfaction
Phil could give, as he drove the carriage to the barn, while Frederic,
half repenting of his rashness in returning, and wondering what good
excuse he could render, went to his own room—the one formerly occupied
by his father—where he sat before the glowing grate, when Alice
appeared, covered with shawls, and her face all aglow with her
excitement.
She would not be kept back another moment, lest he should go off again,
so Marian had wrapped her up and sent her on her mission. Frederic sat
with his face turned toward the fire, and though by the step he knew who
it was that entered the door, he did not turn his head or evince the
least knowledge of her presence until she stood before him, and said,
inquiringly:
“Frederic, are you here?”
“Yes;” was the answer, rather curtly spoken, for he would rather be
alone.
“Frederic!” and the bundle of shawls trembled violently. “I have come to
tell you something about Marian.”
“I don’t wish to hear it,” was his reply; and, nothing daunted, Alice
continued:
“But you must hear me. Her name isn’t Miss Grey. She is a married woman,
and has a living husband; and you——”
She did not finish the sentence, for like a tiger Frederic started up,
and seizing her by the shoulder, exclaimed: “You dare not tell me that
again. Marian Grey is not married. She never had a husband,” and as the
maddening thought swept over him, that possibly the blind girl told him
truly, he staggered against the mantel, where he stood panting for
breath, and enduring, as it were, all the agonies of a lingering,
painful death.
“Sit down,” said Alice, and like a child he obeyed, while she proceeded,
“Miss Grey has deceived us all, and it is strange, too, that none of us
should know her—none but Bruno. Don’t you remember how he wouldn’t bite
her, just because he knew her when we didn’t? Don’t you mind how I told
you once maybe the Marian who went away would come back to us some day
so beautiful we should not know her? You are listening, ain’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” came in a quick, short gasp from the arm-chair.
“Well, she has come back! She called herself Marian Grey so we would not
guess right off who she was, but she ain’t Marian Grey. She’s the other
one—she’s MY MARIAN, Frederic, AND YOUR WIFE—”
As Alice was speaking Frederic had risen to his feet. Drop by drop every
particle of blood receded from his face, leaving it colorless as ashes.
There was a wild, unnatural light flashing from his eyes—his hands
worked nervously together—his hair seemed starting from its roots, and
with his head bent forward, he stood transfixed as it were by the
dazzling light which had burst upon him. Then his lips parted slowly,
and more like a wailing cry than a prayer of thanksgiving, the words “I
thank thee, oh, my God,” issued from them. The next moment the air near
Alice was set in rapid motion—there was a heavy fall, and Frederic
Raymond lay upon the carpet white and still as a block of marble.
Like lightning Alice flew across the floor, but swift as were her
movements, another was there before her, and with his head upon her lap
was pressing burning kisses upon his lips and dropping showers of tears
upon his face. Marian had stood without the door, listening to that
dialogue, and when by the fall she knew that it was ended, she came at
once and knelt by the fainting man, who ere long began to show signs of
consciousness. Alice was first to discover this, and when sure that he
would come back to life, she glided silently from the room, for she knew
that she would not be needed there.
She might have tarried yet a little longer, for the shock to Frederic
had been so sudden and so great, that though his lips moved and his
fingers clutched eagerly at the soft hand feeling for his pulse, he did
not seem to heed aught else, until Marian whispered in his ear:
“My husband—may I call you so?”
Then, indeed, he started from his lethargy, and, struggling to his feet,
clasped her in his arms, weeping over her passionately, and murmuring as
he did so:
“My wife—my darling—my wife! Is it true that you have come to me again?
Are you my Marian?”
Daylight was fading from the room, for the Winter sun had set behind the
western hills, and leading her to the window, he turned her face to the
light, gazing rapturously upon it, and saying to her:
“You are mine—all mine! God bless you, Marian!”
He kissed her hands, her neck, her lips, her forehead, her hair, and she
could feel his hot tears falling amid the shining curls he parted so
lovingly from her brow. They were not hateful to him now—and he passed
his hand caressingly over them, whispering all the while:
“My own beautiful Marian—my bride—my wife!”
Surely, in this moment of bliss, Marian felt repaid for all that she had
suffered, when at last as thoughts of the dreadful past came over
Frederic, he led her to the sofa, and said, “Can you forgive me,
darling?” she turned her bright eyes up to his, and by the expression of
perfect happiness resting there, he knew she had forgotten the cold,
heartless words he spoke to her, when once, at that very hour, and in
that very place, he asked her to be his. That scene had faded away,
leaving no cloud between them. All was sunshine and gladness, and with
her fair head resting on his bosom—not timidly, as it had lain there in
the morning, but trustingly, confidingly, as if that were its rightful
resting place—they sat together until the rose-red tinge faded from the
western sky, and the night shadows had crept into the room.
More than once Alice stole on tiptoe to the door, to see if it were time
for her to enter, but as often as she heard the low murmur of their
voices, she went noiselessly back, saying to herself: “I won’t disturb
them yet.”
At last as she came once she stumbled accidentally, and this woke Marian
from the sweetest dream which ever had come to her.
“’Tis Alice,” she said; and she called to the little girl who came
gladly, and climbing into Frederic’s lap, twined her arms around his
neck and laid a cheek against his own, without word of comment.
“Blessed Alice, I owe you more than I can repay,” he said, and Marian,
far better than the child, appreciated the full meaning these words
conveyed.
But for the helpless blind girl this hour might never have come to them,
and the strong man felt it so, as he hugged the little creature closer
to him, blessing her as his own and Marian’s good angel. Observing that
she shivered as if with the cold, he arose, and drawing the sofa
directly before the fire, resumed his seat again, with Marian between
himself and Alice, his arm around her neck and his lips almost
constantly meeting hers. He could not remove his eyes from her, she
seemed to him so beautiful, with the firelight falling on her sparkling
face and shining on her hair. That hair—how it puzzled him, and winding
one of the curls about his fingers he said, half laughingly, half
reluctantly, “Your hair was not always this color.”
Then the blue eyes flashed up into his, and Marian replied by telling
whence came the change, and reminding him that she was the same young
girl of whom the Yankee Ben had spoken when he visited Kentucky.
“And you had almost died, then, for me, my precious one,” said Frederic,
kissing the sunny locks.
Just at this point, old Dinah appeared in the door, which, like most
Kentucky doors, was left ajar. She saw the position of the parties—saw
Frederic kiss Marian Grey—saw Alice’s look of satisfaction as he did so,
and in an instant all the old lady’s sense of propriety was roused to a
boiling pitch.
Since Marian had revealed herself to Alice, the little girl had said to
Dinah, by way of preparing her for the surprise when it should come,
that “there was some doubt concerning the death of Marian—that Frederic
believed she had been with him in New York, and had taken means to find
her.” This story was, of course, repeated among the servants, some of
whom credited it, while others did not. Among the latter was Dinah. She
wouldn’t believe “she had done all her mournin’ for nothin’,” and in
opposition to Hetty, she persisted in saying Marian was dead. When,
however, she saw her master’s familiarity with Miss Grey, she accepted
of her young mistress’s existence as a reality, and was terribly
incensed against the offending Marian Grey.
“The trollop!” she muttered. “But I’ll bring proof agin her,” and
hurrying back to the kitchen, she told to the astonished blacks, “how’t
marster done kissed Miss Grey spang on her har, and on her mouth, and
hugged her into the bargain, when he didn’t know for certain that
t’other one was dead; and if they didn’t b’lieve it, they could go and
see for themselves, provided they went mighty still.”
“Tole you he was crazy,” said Uncle Phil, starting to see the wonderful
sight, and followed by a troop of negroes, all of whom trod on tiptoe, a
precaution wholly unnecessary, for Frederic and Marian were too much
absorbed in each other to heed the dusky group assembled round the door,
their white eyes growing larger as they all saw distinctly the arm
thrown across Marian’s neck.
“Listen to dat ar, will you?” whispered Hetty, as Frederic said, “Dear
Marian,” while old Dinah chimed in, “’Clar for’t, it makes my blood
bile, and he not a widower nuther!”
“Quit dat!” she exclaimed aloud, as her master showed signs of repeating
the kissing offense; and, in an instant, Frederic sprang to his feet, an
angry flush mounting to his face when he saw the crowd at the door.
Then, as he began to comprehend its meaning, the frown gave place to a
good-humored laugh, and taking Marian’s hand, he led her toward the
assembled blacks, saying to them:
“Rejoice with me that the lost one has returned to us again, for this is
_Marian Lindsey_—my wife and your mistress—changed, it is true, but the
same Marian who went from us more than six years ago.”
“Wonder if he ’spects us to swallow dat ar?” said the unbelieving Hetty.
Dinah, on the contrary, had not the shadow of a doubt, and she dropped
on her knees at once, kissing the very hem of Marian’s dress, and
exclaiming through her tears:
“Lord bress you, Miss Marian. You’ve mightily altered, to be sure, but
ain’t none the wus for that. I’m nothin’ but a poor old nigger, and
can’t say what’s in my heart, but it’s full and runnin’ over, bless you,
honey.”
Dinah’s example was contagious, and more than one prostrated themselves
before their mistress, while their howling cries of surprise and delight
were almost deafening. Particularly was Josh delighted, and while the
noise went on, he took occasion to “balance to your partner,” in the
hall, with a young yellow girl, who thought his stammering was music,
and his ungainly figure the most graceful that could be conceived. When
the commotion had in a measure subsided, and Hetty had gone over to the
popular side, saying, “she knew from the first Marian was somebody,”
Frederic made a few brief explanations as to where their mistress had
been, and then dismissed them to their several duties, for he preferred
being alone again with his wife and Alice.
Supper was soon announced, but little was eaten by any one. They were
too much excited for that, and as soon as the meal was over, they
returned to Frederic’s room, where, sitting again between her husband
and Alice, Marian told them, as far as possible, everything which had
come to her since leaving Redstone Hall.
“Can’t I ever know what made you go away?” Alice asked; and Frederic
replied:
“Yes, birdie, you shall;” and, without sparing himself in the least, he
told her all.
“Marian an heiress, too!” she exclaimed. “Will marvels never cease?” and
she laid her head which was beginning to grow weary, upon Marian’s lap,
saying, “I never knew till now one half how good you are. No wonder
Frederic thought that he had killed you. It was wicked in him, very,”
and the brown eyes looked sleepily into the fire, while Marian replied:
“But is all forgotten now.”
It did seem to be, and in the long conversation which lasted till almost
midnight, there was many a word of affection exchanged, many a
confession made, many a forgiveness asked, and when, at last they
parted, it was with the belief that each was all the world to the other.
Like lightning the news spread through the neighborhood that Frederic
Raymond’s governess was Frederic Raymond’s wife; and, for many days the
house was thronged with visitors, most of whom remembered little Marian
Lindsey, and all of whom offered their sincere congratulations to the
beautiful Marian Grey, for so she persisted in being called, until the
night of the 20th of February, when they were to give a bridal party.
Then she would answer to Mrs. Raymond, she said, but not before, and
with this Frederic was fain to be satisfied. Great were the preparations
for that party, to which all their friends were to be bidden, and as
they were one evening making out the list, Marian suggested _Isabel_,
more for the sake of seeing what Frederic would say, than from any
desire to have her present.
“Isabel,” he repeated, “never. I cannot so soon forget her treachery,”
and a frown darkened his handsome face, but Marian kissed it away as she
said:
“You surely will not object to Ben, the best and truest friend I ever
had.”
“Certainly not,” answered Frederic. “I owe Ben Burt more than I ever can
repay, and I mean to keep him with us. He is just the man I want upon my
farm—_your_ farm, I mean,” he added, smiling knowingly upon her, and
catching in his the little hand raised to shut his mouth.
But Marian had her revenge by refusing to let him kiss her until he had
promised never to allude to that again.
“I gave you Redstone Hall,” she said, “that night I ran away, and I have
never taken it back, but have brought you in instead an incumbrance
which may prove a most expensive one.” And amid such pleasantries as
these Marian wrote the note to Ben, and then went back to her
preparations for the party, which, together with the strange discovery,
was the theme of the whole country.