CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Thomas G. Helfrick 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1949.H8M33 
 
 Marian Grey / 
 
 3 1924 022 248 193 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tfiis book is in 
 tfie Cornell University Library. 
 
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 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022248193 
 
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 WITH A FAREWELL GLANCE AT THE OLD PLACE SHE BADE 
 
 MRS. RUSSELL GOOD-BYE. — Marian Grey, Page i66. 
 
MARIAN GREY 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY J. HOLMES 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 
 
 DANIEL HOLMES, 
 
 tn the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Northern 
 District of New York. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 189I1 by 
 
 Mrs. MARY J. HOLMES, 
 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C, 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898, by 
 
 Mrs. MARY J. HOLMES, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D, C. 
 
 [all kiqhts ibsbrvbd.] 
 
 Marian Grey, 
 
TO 
 
 N. C. MILLER, 
 
 OF NEW YORK, 
 
 MY MUCH ESTEEMED FRIEND 
 
 AND 
 
 FORMER PUBLISHER, 
 
 THIS STORY OF MARIAN GREY 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE TO THE NEW 
 EDITION. 
 
 When " Marian Grey " first appeared as a serial 
 it added 50,000 new subscribers to the paper for 
 wliich it was written. As a book it has been even 
 more popular ; 126,000 copies have been sold. The 
 plates are now so worn as to render it almost un- 
 readable, yet the sales keep on, and so great is the 
 demand for it that this new edition, with the 
 author's revisions and corrections, is presented to 
 the public with the hope that its former success 
 may continue. Over two million copies of this 
 author's novels have been sold. Her stories are 
 universally read. Her admirers are numberless. 
 She is in many respects without a rival in the world 
 of fiction. Long after the present generation has 
 passed away her books wrill continue in popularity. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 CRAPTBK fjlCB 
 
 I. Guardian and Ward . . . . 1 1 
 
 II. Father and Son 
 
 
 
 • 23 
 
 III. Death at Redstone Hall 
 
 
 
 • 37 
 
 IV. Keeping the Promise 
 
 
 
 . 40 
 
 V. The Bridal Day 
 
 
 
 • 53 
 
 VI. Reading the Letter . 
 
 
 
 59 
 
 VII. The Alarm 
 
 
 
 66 
 
 VIII. Marian 
 
 
 
 75 
 
 IX. Isabel Huntington 
 
 
 
 88 
 
 X. Frederic and Alice 
 
 
 
 105 
 
 XI. The Letter Received 
 
 
 
 109 
 
 XII. The Yankee Peddler 
 
 
 
 119 
 
 XIII. Plans .... 
 
 
 
 136 
 
 XIV. The Effect 
 
 
 
 147 
 
 XV. The House on the River . 
 
 
 
 163 
 
 XVI. The Fever 
 
 
 
 169 
 
 XVII. The Search 
 
 
 
 193 
 
 CVIII. Home Again 
 
 
 
 204 
 
 XIX. The Governess . 
 
 
 
 220 
 
 XX. Will Gordon 
 
 
 
 227 
 
 [9J 
 
10 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Ckaitbk 
 
 Pagb 
 
 XXI. Will's Wooing 
 
 . 240 
 
 XXII. The Birthday .... 
 
 . 253 
 
 XXIII. Marian Raymond . 
 
 . 257 
 
 XXIV. Frederic and Alice Visit Marian 
 
 's 
 
 Old Home 
 
 . 272 
 
 XXV. The Meeting .... 
 
 . 280 
 
 XXVI. Life at Riverside . 
 
 . 289 
 
 XXVII. Redstone Hall 
 
 . 303 
 
 XXVIII. Telling Alice 
 
 • 321 
 
 XXIX. Telling Frederic . 
 
 • 331 
 
 XXX. Ben 
 
 • 349 
 
 XXXI. Summing Up . . . . 
 
 . 363 
 
MARIAN GREY 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GUARDIAN AND WARD. 
 
 The night was dark and the clouds black and 
 heavy which hung over Redstone Hall, whose mas- 
 sive walls loomed up through the darkness like some 
 huge sentinel keeping guard over the spacious 
 grounds by which it was surrounded. Within the 
 house all was still, and without there was no sound 
 to break the silence save the sighing of the wind 
 through the cedar trees, or the roar of the river, 
 which, swollen by the recent heavy rains, went 
 rushing on to meet its twin sister at a point known 
 in Kentucky, as "The Forks of the Elkhorn." 
 From one of the lower windows a light was shin- 
 ing, and its rays fell upon the face of a white-haired 
 man/r»who moaned uneasily in his sleep, as if pur- 
 sued by some torrfienting fear. At last, as the 
 clock struck the hour of twelve, he awoke, and 
 glancing nervously toward the corner, from which 
 the sound proceeded, he whispered, " Have you 
 come again, Ralph Lindsey, to tell me of my sin ?" 
 
 " What is it, Mr. Raymond ?" and a > oung girl 
 
 I"] 
 
12 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 glided to the bedside of the old man, who, taking 
 her hand in his, the better to assure jimself of her 
 presence, said, " Marian, is there nothing in that 
 corner yonder — nothing with silvery hair?" 
 
 " Nothing," Marian answered, " nothing but the 
 lamplight shining on the face of the old clocjc. 
 Did you think there was some one here ?" 
 
 " Yes, no. Marian, do you believe the dead can 
 come back to us again when we have done them 
 a wrong — the dead who are buried in the sea, I 
 mean ?" 
 
 Marian shuddered and cast a timid look toward 
 the shadowy corner, then, conquering her weakness, 
 she answered, " No, the dead cannot come back. 
 But why do you talk so strangely to-night ?" 
 
 The old man hesitated a moment and then replied, 
 " The time has come for me to speak, so that your 
 father can rest in peace. He has been with me 
 more than once in this very room, and to-night I 
 fancied he was here again, asking why I had dealt 
 so falsely with his child." 
 
 " Falsely !" Marian cried, kissing the hand of the 
 only parent she had ever known. " Not falsely, I 
 am sure, for you have been most kind to me." 
 
 " And yet," he said, " I have done you a wrong 
 which has eaten into my very soul and worn my life 
 away. I did not intend to speak of it to-night, but 
 something prompts me to do so, and you must 
 listen. On that night when your father died, and 
 when all in the ship, save ourselves and the watch, 
 were asleep, I laid my hand on his forehead, and 
 swore to be faithful to my trust. Do you hear,JV[a- 
 rian — faithful to my trust. You don't know what 
 that meant, but I know, and I've broken my oath to 
 the dying — and from that grave in the ocean he 
 comes to me sometimes, and with the same look 
 upon his face which it wore that summer afternoon 
 when we laid him in the sea, he asks why justice 
 has not been done to you. Wait, Marian, until 
 
GUARbIA>f AND WARD. I3 
 
 I have finished," he continued, as he saw her about 
 to speak ; " I know I have not long to Hve, and I 
 would make^pmends ; but, Marian, I would rather 
 you should not know the truth until I'm dead. You 
 will forgive'me then, won't you, Marian ? Promise 
 me you will forgive the poor old man who has loved 
 you, if possible, better than he loved his only son." 
 
 He paused for her reply, and half bewildered, 
 Marian answered, " I don't know what you mean — 
 but if, as you say, a wrong has been done, no mat- 
 ter how great that wrong may be, it is freely for- 
 given for the sake of what you've been to me." 
 
 The sick man wound his arm lovingly around 
 her, and bringing her nearer to him, said, " Bless 
 you, Marian, for that. It makes my deathbed easier. 
 I will leave it in writing, my confession. I cannot 
 tell it now, for I could not bear to see upon your 
 face that you despised me. You wrote to Fred- 
 eric, and told him to come quickly ?" 
 
 " Yes," returned Marian, " I said you were very 
 ill, and wished to see him at once." 
 
 For a moment there was silence in the room ; 
 then, removing his arm from the neck of the young 
 girl, the old man raised himself upon his elbow and 
 looking her steadily in the face, said, " Marian, 
 could you love my son Frederic ?" 
 
 The question was a strange one, but Marian 
 Lindsey was accustomed to strange modes of 
 speech in her guardian, and with a slightly 
 heightened color she answered quietly, " I do love 
 him as a brother — " 
 
 " Yes, but I would have you love him as some- 
 thing nearer," returned her guardian. " Ever since 
 I took you for my child it has been the cherished 
 object of my life that you should be his wife." 
 
 There was a nervous start and an increase of 
 color in Marian's face, for the idea, though not al- 
 together disagreeable, was a new one to her, but 
 she made no reply, and her guardian continued, " I 
 
t4 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 am selfish in this wish, though not wholly so. I 
 know you could be happy with him, and in no 
 other way can my good name belmved from dis- 
 grace. Promise me, Marian, that you will be his 
 wife very soon after I am dead, and before all Ken- 
 tucky is talking of my sin. You are not too young. 
 You will be sixteen in a few months, and many 
 marry as early as that." 
 
 " Does he wish it ?" Marian asked timidly ; and 
 her guardian replied, " He has known you but lit- 
 tle of late, but when he sees you here at home, and 
 learns how gentle and good you are, he cannot help 
 loving you as you deserve." 
 
 " Yes, he can," Marian answered. " No man as 
 handsome as Frederic ever loved a girl with an 
 ugly face, and I heard him tell Will Gordon, when 
 he spent a vacation here, that I was a nice little 
 girl, but altogether too freckled, too red-headed, 
 and scrawney, ever to make a handsome woman," 
 and Marian's voice trembled as she recalled a 
 which speech had wrung from her many tears. 
 
 To this remark Colonel Raymond made no re- 
 ply, for he too, had cause to doubt Frederic's will- 
 ingness to marry a girl who boasted so few personal 
 charms as Marian Lindsey. Rumors, too, he had 
 heard, of a peerlessly beautiful creature, who at 
 the north kept his son a captive to her will. But 
 this could not be ; Frederic must marry Marian, 
 for in no other way could the name of Raymond 
 be saved from a disgrace or the vast possessions he 
 called his be kept in the family, and he was about 
 to speak again when a heavy tread in the hall an- 
 nounced the approach of some one, and a moment 
 a,fter. Aunt Dinah, the housekeeper, appeared. 
 " She had come to sit up with ole marster," she said, 
 " and let Miss Marian go to bed, where children 
 like her ought to be." 
 
 At first Marian objected, for though scarcely 
 conscious of it herself, she was well enough pleased 
 
GtARDlAl* AND WAR£>. I$ 
 
 t 
 to sit where she was, and hear her guardian talk of 
 Frederic and of what she had no hope would ever 
 be ; but when Aunt Dinah suggested to her that 
 sitting up so much would make her look yellow 
 and old, she yielded, for Frederic was a passionate 
 admirer of beauty, and she knew that she had 
 none to lose. Kissing her guardian good night, 
 she hurried to her chamber, but not to sleep, for 
 the tumult of thought which her recent conversa- 
 tion had awakened kept her restless and wakeful. 
 Under ordinary circumstances she would have 
 wondered what the wrong could be at which Colonel 
 Raymond had hinted, but now she scarcely remem- 
 bered it, or if it occurred to her at all, she instamtly 
 dismissed it from her mind as some trivial thing 
 which the weak state of her guardian's mind mag- 
 nified into a serious matter. 
 
 Thirteen years before our story opens, Marian 
 had embarked with her father on board a ship 
 which sailed from Liverpool to New York. Of 
 that father she remembered little except that he 
 was very poor, and that he talked of his poverty as 
 if it were something of which he was proud. Pleas- 
 ant memories, though, she had of an American 
 gentleman who used to take her on his lap, 
 and tell her of the land to which she was going ; 
 and when one day her father lay down in his berth, 
 with the fever as they said, she remembered how 
 the kind man h^ cared for him, holding his head 
 and watching bj^ him till he died ; — then, when it 
 was all over, he had told her she was to be his lit- 
 tle girl, and he bade her call him father, telling her 
 how her own dead parent had asked him to care for 
 her. Something, too, she remembered about an 
 old coarse bag, which had troubled her new father 
 very much, and which he had finally put in the bot- 
 tom of his trunk, thowing overboard a few articles 
 of clothing to make room for it. The voyage was 
 long and stormy, but they reached New York at 
 
t6 MAklANf GRfeV. 
 
 last, and he took her to his home, aa humble farm- 
 house on the Hudson, where he had always lived. 
 Frederic was then a dark-haired, handsome boy of 
 eleven, and even now she shuddered as she remem- 
 bered how he used to tease and worry her. Still 
 he liked her, she was sure, and the first real grief 
 which she remembered, was when he bade her 
 good-by and went off to a distant boarding 
 school. 
 
 Colonel Raymond, her guardian, was growing rich, 
 and people said he must have entered into some 
 fortunate speculation while abroad, for, since his 
 return, prosperity had attended every movement ; 
 and when, six months after Frederic's departure, 
 he went to Kentucky and purchased Redstone 
 Hall, Mrs. Burt, his housekeeper, had wondered 
 where all his money came from, when he used to 
 be so poor. They had moved to Kentucky when 
 Marian was five and a half years old, and now, after 
 ten years' improvement, there was not in the whole 
 country so beautiful a spot as Redstone Hall, with 
 its terraced p ounds, its graveled walks, its grand ; 
 old trees, its creeping vines, its flowering shrubs 
 and handsome park in the rear. And this was 
 Marian's home; she had lived a rather secluded 
 life, for only when Frederic was with them did 
 they see much company, and all the knowledge she 
 had of the world was what she gleaned from books 
 or learned from the negress Dinah, who, " having 
 lived with the very first families," frequently enter- 
 tained her young mistress with stories of " the 
 quality," and the dinner parties at which her pres- 
 ence was once so indispensable. And Marian, 
 listening to her glowing descriptions, sometimes 
 wished that she were rich, and could have a taste 
 of fashion. To be sure, her guardian bought her 
 more than she needed — but it was not hers, and 
 without any particular reason why she should do 
 so, she felt that she was a dependent and some* 
 
GUARDIAN AND WARD. 1 7 
 
 thing of an inferior, especially when Frederic came 
 home. He was always polite and kind to Marian, 
 but she felt that there was a gulf between them. 
 He was handsome; she was plain, he was rich; 
 she was poor, he was educated, and she — alas, for 
 Marian's education ; she read a great deal, but had 
 never given herself up to a systematic course of study. 
 Governesses she had in plenty, but she usually 
 coaxed them off into the woods, or down by the 
 river, where she left them to do what they pleased, 
 while she learned many a lesson from the great 
 book of nature spread out so beautifully before 
 her. All this had tended to make and keep her a 
 very child, and it was not until her fourteenth year 
 that anything occurred to develop the genuine 
 womanly qualities which she possessed. 
 
 By the death of a distant relative, a little unfor- 
 tunate blind girl was left to Colonel Raymond's 
 care, and was immediately taken to Redstone Hall, 
 where she became the pet of Marian, who loved 
 nothing in the world as dearly as the poor blind 
 Alice, while to Alice, Marian was the embodiment 
 of everything beautiful, pure and good. Frederic, 
 on the contrary, was a kind of terror to little 
 Alice. " He was so precise and stuck up," she said, 
 " and when he was at home Marian was not a bit 
 like herself." To Marian, however, his occasional 
 visits to Redstone Hall were sources of great plea- 
 sure. To look at his handsome figure, to listen to 
 his voice, to anticipate his slightest wish and min- 
 ister to his wants so quietly that he scarcely knew 
 from whom the attention came, was happiness for 
 her, and when he smiled upon her, as he often did, 
 calling her " a good little girl," she felt repaid for 
 all she had done. Occasionally, since her guard, 
 ian's illness, she had thought of the future, when 
 some fine lady might come to Redstone Hall as its 
 mistress, but the subject was an unpleasant one, and 
 §h^ dismissed it froit) her mine^. In her estimatipij 
 
1 8 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 there were few worthy to be the wife of Frederic — 
 certainly not herself — and when the idea was sug- 
 gested to her by his father, she regarded it as an 
 impossibility. Still it kept her wakeful, and once 
 she said to herself, " I could love him so much if 
 he would let me, and I should be so proud of him." 
 Then, as she remembered the remark she had heard 
 him make to his friend, she covered her face with 
 her hands and whispered, " Oh, I wish I wasn't 
 ugly?' Then there came stealing over her the 
 thought that in the estimation of others she 
 was not as plain as in that of Frederic Raymond. 
 Everybody seemed to like her, and if she were 
 hideous they could not. Alice, who judged by 
 touch alone, declared that she was beautiful, while 
 old Dinah said age would improve her as it did 
 wine, and that in time she would be the hand- 
 somest woman in Kentucky. 
 
 Never before had Marian thought so much of 
 her appearance ; and now, anxious to know exactly 
 what her defects were, she arose, and lighting the 
 lamp, placed it upon her bureau ; then throwing a 
 shawl around her shoulders, she sat down and in- 
 spected the face which Frederic Raymond called 
 homely. The features were regular enough, but 
 the face was thin — " scrawney," Frederic had said, 
 and the cheek bones were plainly perceptible. This 
 might be the result of eating slate-stones ; Dinah, 
 who knew everything, said so, and resolving 
 to abjure everything of the kind, Marian con- 
 tinued her investigations. It did not occur to her 
 that her complexion was very fair, nor that 
 her eyes were of a most beautiful blue, so intent 
 was she upon the freckles which dotted her nose 
 and a portion of her face. Slate-stones surely had 
 nothing to do with these, and she knew of no way 
 of remedying this evil — unless, indeed, poulticing 
 would do it. She would consult Dinah on the sub- 
 ject, and feeling a good deal of confidence in the 
 
GUARDIAN AND WARD. 1 9 
 
 negress' judgment, she passed on to what she con- 
 sidered her crowning point of ugliness — her hair ! 
 It was soft, luxuriant and curly, but was red. 
 Turn which way she would, or hold the lamp in any 
 position she chose, it was still a dark, decided red — 
 and the tears came to Marian's eyes as she recalled 
 the many times when, as a boy, Frederic taunted 
 her with being a " red-head " or a "brick-top," just 
 as the humor suited him. Suddenly she remem- 
 bered that among her treasures was a lock o^ her 
 mother's hair, and opening a rosewood box she 
 took from it a shining tress which she laid upon 
 the top of her bureau, and then bent down to 
 admire its color, a beautiful auburn, such as is 
 ranely seen, and which, when seen, is sure to be ad- 
 mired, 
 
 "And this was my mother's," she whispered, 
 smoothing the silken hair. " I must resemble 
 her more than my father, who my guardian 
 says was dark. I wish I was like her in every- 
 thing, for I believe she was beautiful ;" and into the 
 mind of the orphan girl there crept an image of a 
 bright-haired, sweet-faced woman, whose eyes of 
 blue looked lovingly into her own — and this was 
 her mother. She had seen her thus in fancy 
 many a time, but never so vividly as to-night, 
 and unconsciously she breathed the petition, " Let 
 me look like her some day, and I shall be content." 
 
 The gray morning light was by this time stealing 
 through the window, and overcome with weariness 
 and watching Marian fell asleep, and when, two 
 hours later, old Dinah came in to wake her, she 
 found her sitting before the glass, with the lamp 
 still burning at her side, and her head resting on 
 her arms, which lay upon the low bureau. 
 
 " For the dear Lord's sake, what are you doing?" 
 was Dinah's exclamation, which at once roused 
 I^Jarlan, who unhesjtc^tingly answered, 
 
20 „ MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " I got up to look in the glass and see if I was so 
 very homely." 
 
 "Humbly! Nonsense, child," returned old 
 Dinah. " You look like a picter lyin' thar with 
 the sun a shinin' on yer har, and makin' it look like 
 a piece of crimson satin." 
 
 The compliment was a doubtful one, but Marian 
 knew it was well meant, and without a word in re- 
 ply, commenced her morning toilet. That day, 
 som«what to her disappointment, her guardian did 
 not resume the conversation of the previous night. 
 He was convinced that Marian could be easily won, 
 but he did not think it wise to encourage her until 
 he had talked with his son, whose return he looked 
 for anxiously. But day after day went by, and it 
 was in vain that Alice listened, and Marian watched 
 for the daily stage. It never stopped at the gate ; 
 and each time the old man heard them say it 
 had gone by, he groaned afresh, fearing Frederic 
 would not come until it was too late. 
 
 " I can at least tell him the truth on paper," he 
 said to himself at last, " and it may be he will pay 
 more heed to words which a dead father wrote 
 than to words which a living father spoke." 
 
 Marian was accordingly bidden to bring him his 
 little writing-desk, and then to leave the room, for 
 he would be alone when he wrote his letter of 
 confession. It cost him many a fierce struggle 
 to tell his son a secret which none save him- 
 self and God had ever known — and which none 
 ever need to know if he would have it so — but 
 he would not. The secret had worn his life away, 
 and he must make reparation now. So, with the 
 perspiration dropping from every pore, he wrote ; 
 and, as he wrote, in his disordered imagination 
 there stood beside his pillow the Englishman, 
 watching to see that justice was done at last to 
 Marian. Recently several letters had passed be- 
 tween tlie fattier and his son concerning the mar- 
 
GUARDIAN AND WARD. 21 
 
 riage of the latter with Marian — a marriage every 
 way distasteful to the young man, who, in his an- 
 swer, had said far harsher things of Marian than 
 he really meant, hoping thus to put an end to his 
 father's plan. She was " rough, uncouth, unedu-' 
 cated and ugly," he said, " and.if his father did not 
 give up that foolish fancy, he should positively 
 hate the red-headed fright." 
 
 All this the old man touched upon — quoting the 
 very words his son had used, and whispering to 
 himself, " Poor Marian, it would, break her heart 
 to know he said that, but she never will ;" and then, 
 with the energy of despair, he wrote the reason 
 why she must be the wife of his son, pleading with 
 him as only a dying man can plead, that he would 
 not disregard the wishes of his father, and begging 
 him to forget the dark-haired Isabel, who, though 
 perhaps more beautiful, could not be as pure, as 
 gentle, and as good as Marian. 
 
 The letter was finished, and the old man read it 
 through. 
 
 " Yes, that will do," he said. " Frederic will 
 heed what's written here. He'll marry her or else 
 make restitution ;" and laying it away, he com- 
 menced the last and hardest part of all — the con- 
 fessing to Marian how he had sinned against her. 
 
 Although there was no tie of blood between, 
 them the gentle young orphan had crept down 
 into his heart, where once he treasured a little 
 golden-haired girl, who died before Frederic was 
 born. In the first moments of his bereavement, he 
 had thought his loss could never be repaired, but 
 when, with her arms around his neck, Marian had 
 told hiin how much she loved him, he felt that the 
 child he had lost was restored to him in the little 
 English girl. He knew she believed there was in 
 him no evil, and his heart throbbed with agony as 
 he nerved himself to tell her how for years he had 
 acted a villain's part ; but it was done at last, and 
 
22 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 with a passionate appeal for her forgiveness, h6 
 finished the letter, and folding it up, wrote upon its 
 back, " For Marian ;" then, taking the one intended 
 for Frederic, he attempted to write, " For my Son," 
 but the ink was gone from his pen, there was a blur 
 before his eyes, and though he traced the words he 
 left no impress, and the letter bore no superscrip- 
 tion to tell to whom it belonged. Stepping upon 
 the floor, he went to his hbrary, and placing both 
 letters in his private drawer, retired to his bed, 
 where, utterly exhausted, he fell asleep. 
 
 When at last he awoke, Marian was sitting by 
 his side, and to her he communicated what he had 
 done, telling her where the letters were, and that 
 if he died before Frederic's return, she must give 
 the one bearing the words " For my Son " to him. 
 
 " You will not read it, of course," he said, " or 
 ever seek to know what its contents are." 
 
 Had Marian Lindsey been like many girls, the 
 caution would have insured the reading of the 
 letter at once, but she shrank from anything dis- 
 honorable, and was blessed with but a limited 
 share of woman's curiosity ; consequently, the let- 
 ter was safe in her care, though no one ever came 
 to claim it. All that afternoon she sat by her 
 guardian, and when as usual the stage thundered 
 down the turnpike, leaving no Frederic at the 
 door, she soothed him with the hope that he 
 would be there to-morrow. But the morrow came 
 and went as did other to-morrows, until Colonel 
 .Raymond grew so ill that a telegram was des- 
 patched to the young man, bidding him hasten if 
 he would see his father alive. 
 
 " That will bring him," the old man said, " he'll 
 be here in a few days," and he asked that his bed 
 might be moved near the window, where, propped 
 upon pillows, he watched with childish impatience 
 for the coming of his boy. 
 
tAl*HEk ANt) SON. 23 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 A TELEGRAM from Frederic, who was coming 
 home at last ! He would be there that very day, 
 and the inmates of Redstone Hall were thrown into 
 a state of unusual excitement. Old Dinah in jaunty 
 turban and white apron bustled from the kit- 
 chen to the dining room, and from the dining- 
 room back to the kitchen, jingling her huge bunch 
 of keys with an air of great importance, arid kick- 
 ing from under her feet any luckless black baby 
 which chanced to be in her way, making always an 
 exception in favor of " Victoria Eugenia," who bore 
 a striking resemblance to herself, and would one 
 day call her "gran'mam." Dinah was in her ele- 
 ment, for nothing pleased her better than the get- 
 ting up a "tip-top dinner," and fully believing that 
 Frederic had been half starved in a land where they 
 didn't have hoe-cake and bacon three times a day, 
 she determined to give him one full meal, such as 
 would make his stomach ache for three full hours at 
 least ! 
 
 Mr. Raymond was better than usual to-day, and 
 at his post by the window watched eagerly the 
 distant turn in the road where the stage would first 
 appear. In her chamber, Marian was busy with her 
 toilet, trying the effect of dress after dress, and at 
 Alice's suggestion deciding at last upon a pale blue, 
 which harmonized well with her fair complexion. 
 
 " Frederic likes blue, I know," she thought, as 
 she remembered having heard him admire a dress 
 of that color worn by a young lady who had once 
 visited at Redstone Hall. 
 
 Dinah, when consulted as to the best method of 
 
1^4 MARIAN GREi/. 
 
 making red hair dark, had strongly recommendeci 
 "possum ile and sulphur, scented with some kind 
 of essence ;" but to this dye Marian did not take 
 kindly. She preferred that her hair should retain 
 its natural color, and falling as it did in soft curls 
 around her face and neck, it was-certainly not un- 
 becoming. Her toilet was completed at last — 
 Alice's little hands had decided that it was per- 
 fect — the image reflected by the mirror was far 
 from being ordinary-looking, and secretly wonder- 
 ing if Frederic would not think her tolerably 
 pretty, Marian sat down to await his coming. She 
 had not been seated long when Alice's quick ear 
 caught the sound of the distant stage, and in a few 
 moments Marian, from behind the half-closed shut- 
 ter, was watching the young man as he came slowly 
 up the avenue which led from the highway to the 
 house. His step was usually bounding and rapid, 
 but now he lingered as if unwiUing to reach the 
 door. 
 
 " 'Tis because of his father," thought Marian. 
 " He fears he may be dead." 
 
 But Frederic was not thinking of his father alone. 
 It was not pleasant coming home ; for aside from 
 the fear that his father might die was a dread 
 of what he might ask him to do. For Marian as a 
 sister, he had no dislike, for he knew she possessed 
 many gentle, womanly virtues, but from the thoughts 
 of making her his wife he instinctively shrank. 
 Only one had the shadow of a claim to bear that 
 relation to him, and he was thinking of her as he 
 came up the walk. She was poor, he knew, and the 
 daughter of his landlady, who claimed a distant re- 
 lationship with his father ; but she was beautiful, 
 and a queen might covet her stately bearing, and 
 polished, graceful manner. Into her heart he had 
 never looked, for satisfied with the fair exterior, he 
 failed to see the treachery lurking in her large 
 
f ATHER ANt) SON. ^5 
 
 black eyes, or to detect the fierce, stormy passions 
 which had a home within her breast. 
 
 Isabella Huntington, or " Cousin Bell/' as he 
 called her, was beautiful, accomplished, and artful, 
 and during the year that Frederic Raymond had 
 been an inmate of her mother's family, she had suc- 
 ceeded in so completely infatuating the young man 
 that now there was to him but one face in the 
 world, and that in fancy shone upon him even when 
 it was far away. He had never said to her that he 
 loved her, for though often tempted so to do, some- 
 thing had always interposed between them, bidding 
 him wait until he knew her better. Consequently 
 he was not bound to her by words, but he thought 
 it very probable that she would one day be his 
 wife, and as he drew near to Red Stone Hall, he 
 could not forbear fancying how she would grace 
 that elegant mansion as its mistress. Of Marian, 
 too, he thought — harsh, bitter thoughts, mingled 
 with softer emotions as he reflected that she pos- 
 sibly knew nothing of his father's plan. He pitied 
 her, he said, for if his father died, she would be 
 alone in the world. After what had passed, it 
 would hardly be pleasant for him to. have her there 
 where he could see her every day ; — she might not 
 be agreeable to Isabel either, and he should prob- 
 ably provide for her handsomely and have her live 
 somewhere else — at a fashionable boarding school, 
 perhaps ! 
 
 He was growing very generous, and by the 
 time he reached the long piazza Marian Lind&ey 
 was comfprtably tjisposed of in the third story of 
 some seminary far away from Redstone Hall ! 
 
 The meeting between the father and son was an 
 affecting one — the former sobbing like a child, and 
 asking of the latter, why he had tarried so long. 
 The answer to this question was that Frederic had 
 been absent from New Haven for three weeks, and 
 that Isabel, who took charge of his letters, neg. 
 
26 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 lected to forward the one written by Marian. At 
 the mention of Isabel, the old man's cheek flushed, 
 and he said, impatiently, " the neglect was an un- 
 pardonable one, for it bore on its face ' In haste.' 
 Perhaps, though, she did it purposely, hoping to 
 keep you from me." 
 
 Instantly Frederic warmed up in Isabel's defence, 
 saying she was incapable of a mean act. He 
 doubted whether she had observed the words " In 
 haste " at all, and if she did she only withheld it 
 for the sake of saving him from anxiety as long as 
 possible. 
 
 At this moment there was the sound of little un- 
 certain feet near the door, and Alice groped her 
 way into the room. She was a fair, sweet-faced 
 little child, and taking her upon his knee, Frederic 
 kissed her affectionately, and asked her many ques- 
 tions as to what she had done since he was home 
 six months before. Seldom had he paid her so 
 much attention, and feeling anxious that Marian 
 should be similarly treated, the little girl, after 
 answering his questions, said to him coaxingly : 
 
 "Won't you kiss Marian, too, when she comes 
 down ? She's been ever so long dressing herself 
 and trying to look pretty." 
 
 Instantly the eyes of the father and son met^ — 
 those of the former expressive of entreaty, while 
 those of the latter flashed with defiance. 
 
 " Go for Marian, child, and tell her to come here," 
 said Mr. Raymond. 
 
 Alice obeyed, and as she left the room, Frederic 
 said bitterly, " I see she is leagued with you. I had 
 thought better of her than thaf." 
 
 " No, she isn't," cried the father, fearing that his 
 favorite project was in danger. " I merely sug- 
 gested it to her once — only once." 
 
 Frederic was about to reply, when the rustle of 
 female garn^ents announced Marian's approach. To 
 Colonel Raymond she was handsome then, as with 
 
tATEtfift AND SONf. 2Jf 
 
 a heightened bloom upon her cheek and a bashful 
 light in her eyes, she entered timidly and offered 
 her hand to Frederic. But to the jealous young 
 man she was merely a plain, ordinary country girl, 
 bearing no comparison to Isabel. Still he greeted 
 her kindly, made a few trivial remarks, and then re- 
 sumed his conversation with little Alice, who, feel- 
 ing that matters were going wrong, rolled her eyes 
 often and anxiously toward the spot where she 
 knew Marian was sitting — and when at last the lat- 
 ter left the room, she said to Frederic, " Isn't 
 Marian pretty in her blue dress, with all those 
 curls ? There are twenty of them, for I heard 
 her count them. Say she is pretty, so I can tell 
 her and make her feel good." 
 
 Frederic would not then have admitted that 
 Marian was pretty, even had he thought so, and 
 biting his lip with vexation, he replied, " I do not 
 particularly admire blue, and I detest cork-screw 
 curls." 
 
 Marian was still in the lower hall, and heard both 
 the question and the answer. Darting up the 
 stairs, she flew to her chamber, and throwing her- 
 self upon the bed, burst into a passionate flood of 
 tears. All in vain had she dressed herself for 
 Frederic Raymond's eye — curling her hair in 
 twenty curls, as Alice had said. He hated blue 
 — ^he . hated curls — cork-screw curls particularly. 
 What could he mean ? She never heard the term 
 thus applied before. It must have some reference 
 to their color, and clutching at her long tresses 
 she would have torn them from her head, had not 
 a little childish hand been laid upon hers, and Alice's 
 soothing voice murmured in her ear, " Don't cry, 
 Marian ; I wouldn't care for him. He's just as 
 mean as he can be, and if I owned Redstone Hall, 
 I wouldn't let him live here, would you ?" 
 
 " Yes — no — I don't know," sobbed Marian. " I 
 
28 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 don't own Redstone Hall. I don't own anything, 
 and I wish I was dead." 
 
 Alice was unaccustomed to such a burst of pas- 
 sion, and was trying to frame some reply when the 
 dinner bell rang, and lifting up her head, Marian 
 said, " Go down, Alice, and tell Dinah I can't come, 
 and if she insists, tell her I won't !" 
 
 Alice knew she was in earnest, and going below 
 she delivered the message to Dinah in the presence 
 of Frederic, who silently took his seat at the table. 
 
 " For the dear Lord's sake, what's happened her 
 now ?" said Dinah, casting a rueful glance at 
 Marian's empty chair. 
 
 " She's crying," returned Alice, " and she dis- 
 likes somebody in this room awfully ; 'taint you, 
 Dinah, nor 'taint me," and the blind eyes flashed 
 indignantly at Frederic, who smiled quietly as he 
 replied, " Thank you. Miss Alice." 
 
 Alice made no reply, and the dinner proceeded 
 in silence. After it was over, Frederic returned to 
 his father, who had been nerving himself for the 
 task he had to perform, and which he determined 
 should be done at once. 
 
 " Lock the door, Frederic," he said, " and then 
 sit by me while I say to you what I have so long 
 wished to say." 
 
 Frederic complied, and seating himself near his 
 father, he folded his arms and said, " Go on, I am 
 ready now to hear — but if it is of Marian you would 
 speak, I will spare you that trouble, father," and 
 Frederic's voice was milder in its tone. " I have 
 always liked Marian very much as a sister, and if it 
 so chances that you are taken from us, I will be the 
 best of brothers to her. I will care for her and see 
 that she does not want. Let this satisfy you, for I 
 cannot marry her. I do not love her, for I love 
 another ; one compared to whom Marian is as the 
 night to the day. Let me tell you of Isabel." 
 
 The old man shook his head and answered 
 
FATHER AND SON. 29 
 
 mournfully, " No, Frederic, I do not wish her to ht 
 your wife. I have never told you before, but I 
 once received an anonymous letter concerning this 
 same Isabel, saying she was treacherous and deceit- 
 ful, and would lead you on to ruin." 
 
 " The villain ! It was Rudolph's doings," mut- 
 tered Frederic ; then in a louder tone he said, " I 
 can explain thiat, I think. When Isabel was quite 
 young, she was engaged conditionally to Rudolph 
 McVicar, a worthless fellow whom she has since 
 discarded. He is a jealous, malignant creature, 
 and has sworn to be revenged. He wrote that 
 letter, I am sure. It is like him." 
 
 " It may be," returned the father, " but I dis- 
 trust this Isabel. Her mother, as you are aware, 
 is a distant relative of mine. I know her well, and 
 though I never saw the daughter, I am sure she is 
 selfish, ambitious, deceitful and proud, while 
 Marian is so good." 
 
 " Marian is a mere child," interrupted Frederic. 
 
 "Almost sixteen," rejoined the father, "and 
 before you marry her she will be older still." 
 
 " Yes, much older," Frederic thought, con- 
 tinuing aloud, " Listen to reason, father. I cer- 
 tainly do not love Marian, neither do I suppose 
 that she loves me. Now if you have our mutual 
 good at heart, you<<;annot desire a marriage which 
 would surely result in wretchedness to both." 
 
 " I have thought of all that," returned the father. 
 " A few kind words from you would win Marian's 
 love at once, and when once won she would be to 
 you a faithful, loving wife, whom you would 
 learn to prize. You cannot treat any woman 
 badly, much less Marian. I know you would be 
 happy with her, and should desire the marriage 
 even though it could not save me from dishonor 
 in the eyes of the world." 
 
 " Father," said Frederic, turning slightly pale, 
 " wh9,t do you m^an ? You have in your letters 
 
30 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 hinted of a wrong done to somebody. Was it to 
 Marian ? If so, do not seek to sacrifice my happi- 
 ness, but make amends in some other way. Will 
 money repair the wrong ? If so, give it to her, 
 even to half your fortune, and leave me alone." 
 
 He had touched a tender point, and raising him- 
 self in bed, the old man gasped, " Yes, yes, boy — 
 but you have no money to give Vtdt. Redstone 
 Hall is not mine, not yours, but hers. Those 
 houses in Louisville are hers, not mine nor yours. 
 Everything you see around here is hers — all hers ; 
 and if you refuse her, Frederic — hear me — if you 
 refuse Marian Lindsay, strict restitution must be 
 made, and you will be a beggar as it were. Marry 
 her, and as her husband you will keep it all and 
 save me from disgrace. Choose, Frederic, choose." 
 
 Mr. Raymond was terribly excited, and the great 
 drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead, 
 and trickled from beneath his hair. 
 
 " Is he going mad ?" Frederic thought, his own 
 heart throbbing with a fear of coming evil, but 
 before he could speak his father continued, " Hear 
 my story and you will know how I came by these 
 ill-gotten gains," and he glanced around the richly 
 furnished room. " You know I was sent to Eng- 
 land, or I could not have gone, for I had no means 
 with which to meet the necessary expenses. In the 
 streets of Liverpool I first 5aw Marian's father, and 
 I mistook him for a beggar. , Again I met him on 
 board ship and making his acquaintantance found 
 him to be a man of no ordinary intellect. There was 
 something about him 'which pleased me, and when 
 he became ill I cared for him as for a friend. The 
 night he died we were alone and he confided to me 
 his history. He was an only child, and, orphaned 
 at an early age, became an inmate of one of those 
 dens of cruelty — those schools on the Dotheboys 
 plan. From this bondage he escaped at last, and 
 then for more than thirty years employed hi^ tij^e 
 
FATHER AND SON. 31 
 
 in makiug and saving money. He was a miser in 
 every sense of the word, and, thbugh counting his 
 money by tens of thousands, he starved himself al- 
 most to death. No one suspected his wealth, not 
 even his young wife, Mary Grey, whom he married 
 three years before I met him, and who died when 
 Marian was born. She, too, had been an only 
 child and an filphan ; and as in England there was 
 none to care for him or his, he conceived the idea 
 of emigrating to America, and there lavishing his 
 stores of gold on Marian. She should be a lady, 
 he said, and live in a palace fit for a queen. But 
 death overtook him, and he entrusted his child tome 
 with all his money, some in gold and some in bank 
 notes. And when he was dying he made me swear 
 to b^ faithful to my trust as guardian of his child. 
 For her, and for her alone, the money must be used. 
 But, Frederic, I broke that oath. The Raymonds 
 are noted for their love of gain, and when the Eng- 
 lishman was buried in the sea the tempter whis- 
 pered that the avenue to wealth, which I so long 
 had coveted, was open now — that no one knew or 
 would ever know of the miser's fortune ; and I 
 yielded. I guarded the bag where the treasure was 
 hidden with more than a miser's vigilance, and I 
 chuckled with delight when I found it far more 
 than he had .said." 
 
 " Oh, my father, my father !" Frederic groaned, 
 covering his face with his hands, for he knew now 
 that he was penniless. 
 
 " Don't curse me, boy," the old man said ; 
 " Marian will not. She'll forgive me — but I must 
 hasten. You remember how I grew gradually rich, 
 and people talked of my good luck. Very cau- 
 tiously I used the money at first so as not to excite 
 suspicion, but when I came to Kentucky, where I 
 was not known, I was less fearful, and launched into 
 speculation, until now they say I am the wealthiest 
 man in Frs^nklin gounty. But it's hers— it's Marian's 
 
32 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 — every cent of it is hers. Your education was paid 
 for with her money ; all you have and are you owe 
 to Marian Lindsay, who, by every law of the land 
 is the heiress of Redstone Hall." 
 
 He paused a moment, and trembling with emo- 
 tion, Frederic said, " Is nothing ours, father ? Our 
 old home on the Hudson? That, surely, is not 
 hers ?" t. 
 
 " You are right," returned the father ; " the old 
 shell was mine, but when I brought Marian home, 
 it was not worth a thousand dollars, and it was all 
 I had in the world. Her money has made it what 
 it is. I always intended to tell her when she was 
 old enough to understand, but as time went by I 
 shrank from it, particularly when I saw how much 
 you prized the luxuries which money alone can 
 buy, and how that money kept you in the proud 
 position you occupy. — But it has killed me, Fred- 
 eric, before my time — and now at the last do you 
 wonder that I wish restitution to be made? I 
 would save you from poverty, and my name from 
 disgrace, by marrying you to Marian. She must 
 know the truth, of course, for in no other way can 
 my conscience be satisfied — but the world would 
 still be kept in ignorance." 
 
 "And if I do not marry her, oh, must it come 
 — poverty, disgrace, everything ?" 
 
 The young man's voice was almost heart-broken 
 in its tone, but the old man did not waver as he an- 
 swered — " Yes, Frederic, it must come. If you 
 refuse, I shall deed it all to her. The lawyer, of 
 course, must know the cause of so strange a pro- 
 ceeding, and I have no faith that he would keep 
 the secret, even if Marian should. I left it in writ- 
 ing in case you did not come. But you are here — 
 you have heard my story, and it remains for you 
 to choose. You have never taken care of yourself 
 — have never been taught to think it necessary — 
 and how <;an you struggle with poverty. Would 
 
FATHER AND SON. 33 
 
 Isabel join her destiny with one who had not where 
 to lay his head ?" 
 
 " Stop, father ! in mercy stop !" and starting to 
 his feet Frederic paced the floor distractedly. 
 
 A dark cloud had fallen upon him, and turn 
 which way he would it enveloped him in its dark 
 folds. He knew his father would keep his word, 
 and he desired that he should do so. It was right, 
 and he shrank from any further injustice to Marian, 
 with whom he had suddenly changed places. He 
 was the dependent now, and hers the hand that 
 fed him. — Frederic Raymond was proud, and the 
 remembrance of his father's words, " Her money 
 paid for your education ; all you have and are, you 
 owe to Marian Lindsey," stung him to his inmost 
 soul. Stillhecouldnot make her his wife. It would 
 be a greater wrong than ever his father had done 
 to her. And yet if he had never seen Isabel, he 
 .might, perhaps, have learned to love the girl, 
 Vhose presence, he knew, made the life and light 
 of Redstone Hall. But he could not do it now, 
 and going up to his father, he said hesitatingly, as 
 if it cost a bitter, agonized struggle to give up all 
 his wealth, " I cannot do it, father ; neither would 
 Marian wish it if she knew. Send for her now," he 
 continued, as a new idea flashed upon him, "tell 
 her all, here in my presence, and let her choose 
 for me ; but stay ! he added, quickly, coloring at 
 the unmanly selfishness which had prompted the 
 sending for Marian, a selfishness which whispered 
 that the generous girl would share her fortune with 
 him. " Stay ! we will not send for her. I can de- 
 cide the matter alone." 
 
 " Not now," returned the father. " Wait until 
 to-morrow at nine o'clock. If you do not come to 
 me then, I shall send for Lawyer Gibson, and the 
 writings will be drawn. I give you until that time 
 to decide ; and now leave me, for I must rest." 
 
 He motioned toward the door, and glad to eg. 
 
34 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 cape, Frederic went out into the open air, and Col. 
 Raymond was again alone. His first thought was 
 of the letter intended for his son. He could de- 
 stroy that now — for he would not have Marian 
 know what it contained. She might not be Fred- 
 eric's wife, but he would save her from unneces- 
 sary pain ; and exerting all his strength, he tot- 
 tered to his private drawer, and took the letter 
 in his hand. It was growing very dark in the 
 room, and holding it up to the fading light, the 
 dim-eyed old man thought he read " For my Son." 
 
 "Yes, this is the one," he whispered — "the other 
 reads ' For Marian,' and hastening back to his bed- 
 room he threw upon the fire burning in the grate, 
 the letter, but, alas, the wrong one — for in the 
 drawer still lay the fatal missive which would one 
 day break poor Marian's heart, and drive her forth 
 a wanderer from the home she loved so well. 
 
 That night Frederic did not come down to sup- 
 per. He was weary with his rapid journey, he said, 
 and would rather rest. So Marian, who had dried 
 her tears and half forgotten their cause, sat down to 
 her solitary tea, little dreaming of the scene which 
 the walls of Frederic's chamber looked upon that 
 night. All through the dreary hours he walked the 
 floor, and when the morning came, it found him pale, 
 haggard, and older by many years than he had been 
 the day before. Still he was undecided. " Love 
 in a cottage " with Isabel, looked fair enough in 
 the distance, but where could he get the " cottage ?" 
 To be sure, he was going through the form of 
 studying law, but he had never looked upon the 
 profession as the means of procuring his livelihood, 
 neither did he see any way by which he could pur- 
 sue his studies, unless, indeed, he worked to defray 
 the expense. He might, perhaps, saw wood. Ben 
 Gardiner did in college — Ben with the threadbare 
 coat, cowhide boots, smiling face and best lessons 
 in the class. Ben liked it well enough, and so, per- 
 
FATHER AND SON. 35 
 
 haps, would he ! He held his hands up to the 
 light ; they were soft and white as a girl's. They 
 would blister with the first cut. He couldn't saw 
 wood — he couldn't do anything. And would Isabel 
 love him still when she knew how poor he was. It 
 seemed unjust to doubt her, but he did, and he 
 remembered sundry rumors he had heard of her 
 ambitious, selfish nature. Then there crept into 
 his heart pleasant memories of a little, quiet girl, 
 who had always sought to do him good, and minis- 
 tered to his comfort in a thousand unobtrusive 
 ways. And this was Marian, whom his father 
 would have him marry ; and why didn't he, when 
 the marrying her would insure him all the ele- 
 ■tjances of life to which he had been accustomed, 
 Lind which he prized so highly. She was a child 
 "et ; he could mold her to his will and make her 
 '.vhat he pleased. She might be handsome some 
 ,'ame. There was certainly room for improvement. 
 But he could not marry her, and then he went 
 back to the question, " What shall I do, if I 
 don't ?" 
 
 As his father had said, the Raymonds were 
 lovers of wealth, and this weakness Frederic pos- 
 sessed to a great degree. Indeed, it was the foun- 
 dation of all his other faults, making him selfish and 
 sometimes overbearing. As yet he was not worthy 
 to be the husband of one as gentle and good as 
 Marian, but he was passing through the fire, and 
 the flames which burned so fiercely would purify 
 and make him better. He heard the clock strike 
 eight, and a moment after breakfast was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 " I am not ready yet ; tell Marian not to wait," 
 was the message he gave the servant ; and so an 
 other hour passed by, and he heard the clock strike 
 nine. 
 
 His hour was up, but he could not yet decide. 
 He walked to the window and looked down on his 
 
36 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 home, which never seemed so beautiful before as 
 on that September morning. He could stay there 
 if he chose, for he felt sure he could win Marian's 
 love if he tried. And then he wondered if his life 
 would not be made happier with the knowledge 
 that he had obeyed his father's request, and saved 
 his name from dishonor. There was the sound of 
 horses' feet upon the graveled road. It was the 
 negro Jake, and he was going for Lawyer Gibson. 
 
 Rapidly another hour went by, and then he 
 heard the sound of horses' hoofs again, but this 
 time there werS^two who rode, Jake and the lawyer. 
 In a moment the latter was at the door, and he 
 heard a servant call Marian and say that his father 
 wanted her ; some new idea had entered the sick 
 man's head. He had probably decided to tell her 
 all before he died, but it was not too late to pre- 
 vent it, the young man thought ; he could not be 
 a beggar. He hurried down the stairs, meeting in 
 the hall both Marian and the lawyer. 
 
 " Go back," he whispered to the former, laying 
 his hand upon her shoulder ; " I would see my father 
 first alone." 
 
 Wonderingly Marian looked at his pale face and 
 bloodshot eyes ; then motioning the lawyer into 
 another room, she followed him while Frederic 
 sought his father's bedside and whispered in the ear 
 of the bewildered and half-crazed man that he would 
 marry the Heiress of Redstone Hall ! 
 
DEATH AT REDSTONE HALL. 37 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DEATH AT REDSTONE HALL. 
 
 For two days after the morning of which we 
 have written, Colonel Raymond lay in a kind of 
 stupor from which he would rouse at intervals, 
 and pressing the hand of his son who watched 
 beside him, he would whisper faintly, " God bless 
 you for making your old father so happy. God 
 bless you, my darling boy." 
 
 And Frederic, as often as he heard these words, 
 would lay his aching head upon the pillow and try 
 to force back the thoughts which continually whis- 
 pered to him that a bad promise was better broken 
 than kept, and that at the last he would tell Marian 
 all, and throw himself upon her generosity. Since 
 the morning when he made the fatal promise he 
 had said but little to her, though she had been 
 often in the room, ministering to his father's com- 
 fort — and once in the evening when he looked more 
 than usually pale and weary, she had insisted upon 
 taking his place, or sharing at least in his vigils. 
 But he had declined her offer, and two hours later 
 she had glided noiselessly into the room and placed 
 upon the table behind him a tray, filled with deli- 
 cacies which she knew from experience would be 
 needed before the night was over. He did not turn 
 his head when she came in, but he knew whose 
 step it was ; and in his heart he thanked her for her 
 thoughtfulness, and compelled himself to eat what 
 she had brought because he knew how disappointed 
 she would be if in the morning she found it un- 
 touched. 
 
 And still he was as far from loving her now as he 
 had ever been ; and on the second night, as he sat 
 
38 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 by his father, he resolved, come what might, he 
 would retract the promise made under such excite- 
 ment. " When father wakes, I'll tell him I cannot," 
 he said, and he watched the clock, which pointed 
 at last to midnight. The twelve strokes rang 
 through the silent room, and with a gasp, his father 
 woke. 
 
 " Frederic," he said, and in his voice there was a 
 tone never heard there before. " Frederic, has the 
 light gone out, or why is it so dark? Where are 
 are you, my son? I cannot see." 
 
 " Here, father — here I am," and Frederic took 
 the hand which was cold with approaching death. 
 
 "Frederic, it has come at last, and I am going, 
 from you ; but before I go, lay your hand upon my 
 brow, and say again what you said two days ago. 
 Say you will make Marian your wife, and that until 
 she is your wife she shall not know what I have done, 
 for that might influence her decision. The letter I 
 left for her is in my private drawer, but you can 
 keep the key. — Promise, Frederic — promise both, 
 for I am going very fast." 
 
 Twice Frederic tried to speak, but the words 
 "I cannot," died on his lips, and again the voice 
 — fainter than when it spoke before, said, " Pro- 
 mise, my boy, and save the name of Raymond from 
 dishonor !" 
 
 It was in 'vain he struggled to resist his destiny. 
 — The pleading tones of his dying father prevailed. 
 Isabel Huntington — Marian Lindsey — Redstone 
 Hall — everything seemed as nought compared with 
 that father's wishes, and falling on his knees the 
 young man said, " Heaven helping me, father, I will 
 do both." 1 
 
 " And as you have made me happy, so may you^ 
 be happy and prospered all the days of your life,^ 
 returned the father. " Tell Marian that dying 
 I blessed her with more than a father's blessing, 
 for she is very dear to me. And the little helpless i 
 
t)EATH AT REDSTONE HALL. ^9 
 
 Alice — she has money of her own, but she must 
 live with you and Marian. Be kind to the ser- 
 vants, Frederic. Don't part with a single one — and 
 — and — can you hear me, boy? Keep your pro- 
 mise as you hope for heaven hereafter." 
 
 They were the last words the old man ever spoke 
 — and when at last Frederic raised his head he knew 
 by the white face upon the pillow, that he was with 
 the dead. The household was aroused, and the 
 negroes came crowding round the door, their noisy 
 outcries grating harshly on the ear of the young 
 man, who felt unequal to the task of stopping them. 
 But when Marian came, a few words from her 
 quieted the tumult, and those whose services were 
 not needed dispersed to the kitchen, where, forget- 
 ful of their recent demonstrations of grief, they 
 speculated upon the probable result of their "old 
 marster's death," and wondered if with the new one 
 they would lead as easy a life as they had done 
 heretofore. 
 
 The next morning the news spread rapidly, not 
 only that Colonel Raymond was dead, but also that 
 he had died without a will — this last piece of infor- 
 mation being given by Lawyer Gibson, who, a little 
 disappointed in the result of his late visit to Red- 
 stone Hall, had several times in public expressed 
 his opinion that it was all the work of Frederic, who 
 wanted everything himself, and feared his father 
 would leave something to Marian Lindsey. This 
 seemed very probable ; and in the same breath with 
 which they deplored the loss of Colonel Raymond, 
 the neighbors denounced his son as selfish and ava- 
 ricious. Still he was now the richest man in the 
 county, and it would not be politic to treat him with 
 disrespect— 'SO they caAe about him with words of 
 sympathy and offers of assistance, to all of which 
 he listened abstractedly, and when they asked for 
 some directions as to the arrangements for the 
 burial, he answered, " I do not know — I am not my- 
 
40 Marian gre-^. 
 
 self to-day— but go to Marian. I will abide by her 
 decision." 
 
 So they went to Marian, who told them what 
 she thought her guardian would wish them to do, 
 and next day a long procession wound slowly down 
 the terraced walk, an enclosure near the river, 
 where cedars and firs were growing, and where 
 they buried all that was mortal of Colonel Ray- 
 mond. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 KEEPING THE PROMISE. 
 
 Four weeks had passed since Colonel Ray- 
 mond was laid to rest. The negroes, having fin- 
 ished their mourning at the grave and at church 
 on the Sunday succeeding the funeral, had gone 
 back to their old light-hearted way of living, and 
 outwardly there were no particular signs of grief 
 at Redstone Hall. But there were two who suf- 
 fered keenly, and suffered all the more that neither 
 could speak to the other a word of sympathy. 
 With Alice Marian wept bitterly, feeling that 
 she was homeless and friendless in the world. 
 From Dinah she had heard the story of the 
 will, and remembering the events of that morn- 
 ing when Lawyer Gibson, as she supposed, had 
 come to draw it, she thought it very probable. 
 Still this did not trouble her one half so much as 
 the studied reserve which Frederic manifested 
 toward her. At the funeral he had offered her his 
 arm, walking with her to the grave and back ; but 
 since that night he had seen her only at the table, 
 or when he wished to ask some question which she 
 alone could answer. 
 
kEEfiNG TltE tROMlSfi. 4i 
 
 In the first days of her sorrow she had forgotten 
 the letter which her guardian had left for her, and 
 when she did remember it and go to the private 
 drawer where he said it was, she found the drawer 
 locked. Frederic had the key, of course, and 
 thinking that if a wrong had been done to her, 
 he knew it, she waited in hopes that he would 
 speak of it, and perhaps bring her the letter. But 
 Frederic had sworn to keep the letter from her 
 awhile, and he dared not break his vow. On the 
 night after the burial he, too, had gone to the 
 private drawer, and, taking the undirected missive 
 in his hand, had felt strongly tempted to break its 
 seal and read. But he had no right to do that, he 
 said ; all that was required of him was to keep it 
 from Marian until such time as he was at liberty to 
 let her read it. So he locked the drawer and left 
 the room, feeling that his own destiny was fixed, 
 and that it was worse than useless to struggle 
 against it. He could not write to Isabel yet, but 
 he wrote to her mother, telling her of his father's 
 death, and saying he did not know how long it 
 would be before they saw him again in New 
 Haven. This done, he sat down in a kind of 
 torpor, and waited for circumstances to shape 
 themselves. Marian would seek for her letter, he 
 thought, and missing the key, would come to him, 
 and when she came, he knew he must tell her why 
 it was withheld. 
 
 Meantime, Marian waited day after day, vainly 
 wishing that he would speak to her upon the sub- 
 ject ; but he did not, and at last, four weeks after 
 her guardian's death, she went to the library again, 
 but found the drawer locked as usual. 
 
 "It is unjust to treat me so," she said. "The 
 letter is mine, and I have a right to read it." 
 
 Then, as she recalled the conversation which had 
 passed Ijetween herself and Colonel Raymond on 
 the night when he first hinted of a wrong, she woiv 
 
42 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 dered if he had said anything to Frederic of her. 
 She was almost certain that he had, and this was 
 why Frederic treated her so strangely. " He hates 
 me," she said bitterly, " because he thinks I want 
 him — but he needn't, for I wouldn't have him now, 
 even if he knelt at my feet, and begged me to be 
 his wife ; I'll tell him so, too, the first chance I 
 get," and sinking into the large arm chair Marian 
 laid her head upon the writing desk and cried. 
 
 The day had been rainy and dark, and as she sat 
 there in the gathering night and listened to the low 
 moan of the October wind, she thought with gloomy 
 forebodings of the future, and what it would bring 
 to her. 
 
 " Oh, it is dreadful to be so homeless — so friend- 
 less, so poor," she cried, and in that cry there was 
 a note which touched a chord of pity in the heart 
 of the man who stood on the threshold of the door, 
 watching the young girl as she battled with her 
 stormy grief. 
 
 He did not know why he had come to that room, 
 and he would not have come had he expected to 
 find her there. But it could not now be helped;* 
 and advancing toward her he laid his hand upon her 
 shoulder and said, " Poor child, don't cry so hard." 
 She seemed to him a little girl, and as such he 
 had addressed her; but to the startled Marian it 
 mattered not what he said — there was kindness in 
 his voice, and lifting up her face, she sobbed, "Oh, 
 Frederic, you don't hate me, then ?" 
 
 "Hate you, Marian," he answered, "of course 
 not. What put that idea into your head ?" 
 
 " Because- — because you act so cold and strange, 
 and don't come near me when my heart is aching 
 so hard for your father." 
 
 Frederic made no reply, and resolving to make a 
 clean breast of it, Marian continued, " There's no- 
 body to care for me now, and I wish you to be my 
 brother, just as you used to be, and if your father 
 
KEEPING THE PkOMISfia 43 
 
 said anything else of me to you he didn't mean it, 
 I am sure ; I don't, at any rate, and I want you to 
 forget it and not hate me for it. I'll go away from 
 Redstone Hall if you say so, but you mustn't hate 
 me for what I could not help," and Marian's voice 
 was again choked with tears. 
 
 She had stumbled upon the very subject upper- 
 most in Frederic's mind, and drawing a chair near 
 to her, he said, " I will not profess to be ignorant 
 of what you mean, Marian. My father had some 
 strange fancies at the last, but for these you are not 
 to blame. Did he say nothing to you of a letter ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," answered Marian quickly, "and I've 
 been for it so many times. Will you give it to me 
 now? It's mine, you know." 
 
 Frederic hesitated a moment, and misapprehend- 
 ing the motive of his hesitancy, Marian continued : 
 
 "Do not fear what I may think. H e said a wrong 
 had been done to me, but if it has not affected me 
 heretofore, it surely will not now — and I loved him 
 well enough to forgive anything. Let me have the 
 letter, won't you ?" 
 
 " Marian," and Frederic trembled with strong 
 emotion, " the night my father died, I laid my hand 
 upon his head' and promised that you should not 
 see that letter lifitil you were a bride." 
 
 " A bride !" Marian exclaimed passionately, " I 
 shall never be a bride — certainly not yours !" and 
 her hands worked nervously together, while she 
 continued : "I asked you to forget that whim of 
 your father's. He did not mean it — he would not 
 have it so, and neither would I," and the blue eyes 
 flashed defiantly. 
 
 Man-like he began to feel some interest now that 
 there was opposition, and to her exclamation " nei- 
 ther would I," he replied softly, " Not if I wish it, 
 Marian ?" 
 
 The tone rather than the words affected the 
 young girl, thrilling her with a new-born delight ; 
 
44 kARlAN GREV. 
 
 and laying her hand again upon the desk, she 
 sobbed afresh, not impetuously, this time, but 
 steadily, as if the crying did her good. She hoped 
 he would speak again, but he did not. He was 
 waiting for her ; and drying her tears, she lifted 
 up her face, and in a voice which seemed to de- 
 mand the truth, she said : " Frederic, do you wish 
 it ? Here, almost in the room where your father 
 died, can you say to me truly that you wish me to 
 be your wife ?" 
 
 It was a perplexing question, and Frederic 
 knew that he was dealing falsely with her, but 
 he made to her the only answer he could — " Men 
 seldom ask a woman to marry them unless they 
 wish it." 
 
 "I know," returned Marian, "but — would you 
 have thought of it if your father had not first sug- 
 gested it ?" 
 
 " Marian," said Frederic, " I am much older than 
 yourself, and I might never have thought of marry- 
 ing you. He, however, gave me good reasons why 
 I should wish to have it so, and in all sincerity I ask 
 you to be my wife. Will you, Marian ? It seems 
 soon to talk of these things, but he so desired it." 
 
 In her bewilderment Marian fancied he had said, 
 "I do wish to have it so," but she would know an- 
 other thing, and not daring to put the question to 
 him direct, she said, " Do men ever wish to marry 
 one whom they do not love ?" 
 
 Frederic understood her at once, and for a 
 moment felt tempted to tell her the truth, for in 
 that case he was sure she would refuse to listen 
 to his suit and he would then be free, but his 
 father's presence seemed over and around him, 
 while Redstone Hall was too fair to be exchanged 
 for poverty ; and so he answered, " I have always 
 loved you as a sister, and in time, I will love you 
 as you deserve. I will be kind to you, Marian, and 
 I think I can make you happy." 
 
KEEPING THE PROMISE. 45 
 
 "And suppose I refuse you, what then ?" 
 
 Marian spoke decidedly, and something in her 
 manner startled Frederic, who now that he had 
 gone thus far, did not care to be thwarted. 
 
 " You will not refuse me, I am sure," he said. — 
 "We cannot live together here just as we have 
 done for people would talk." 
 
 " I can go away," said Marian, mournfully, while 
 Frederic replied, 
 
 " No, Marian, if you will not be my wife, I must 
 go away ; Redstone Hall cannot be the home of us 
 both, and if you refuse I shall go — very soon." 
 
 " Won't you ever come back ?" Marian asked, 
 but before Frederic could answer, the door opened 
 and old Dinah appeared, exclaiming as her eye 
 fell upon them, " For the dear Lord's sake, if you 
 two ain't settin' together in the dark, when I've 
 done hunted everywhar for you," and Dinah's face 
 wore a very knowing look, as putting down the 
 candle she departed, muttering something about 
 " when me and Philip was young." 
 
 The spell was broken for Marian, and starting 
 up, she said, " I cannot talk any more to-night. 
 I'll answer you some other time," and she hurried 
 into the hall, where she stumbled upon Dinah, who 
 greeted her with "Ain't you two kinder hankerin' 
 arter each other, 'case if you be, it's the sensiblest 
 thing you ever done. Marster Frederic is the 
 likeliest, trimmest chap in Kefltuck, and you've 
 got an uncommon heap of sense." 
 
 Marian made no reply but darted up the stairs 
 to her room, where she could be alone to think. 
 It seemed to her a dream, and yet she knew it was 
 a reality. Frederic had asked her to be his wife, 
 and though she had said to herself that she would 
 not marry him even if he knelt at her feet, she felt 
 vastly like revoking that decision ! If she were 
 only sure he loved her, or would love her ; and then 
 she recalled every word he had said, wishing she 
 
46 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 could have looked into his face and seen what Its 
 expression was. She did not think of the letter in 
 her excitement. She only thought of Frederic's 
 question, and she longed for some one in whom she 
 could confide. Alice, who always retired early, 
 was already asleep, and as her soft breathing fell 
 on Marian's ear, she said, "Alice is much wiser 
 than children usually are at six and a half. I mean 
 to tell her," and, going to the bedside, she whis- 
 pered, " Alice, Alice, wake up a moment, will 
 J 
 
 Alice turned on her pillow, and when sure she 
 was awake, Marian said impetuously, " If you were 
 I, would you marry Frederic Raymond ?" 
 
 The blind eyes opened wide, as if they doubted 
 the sanity of the speaker ; then quietly replying, 
 " No, indeed, I wouldn't," Alice turned a second 
 time upon her pillow and slept again, while Marian, 
 a good deal piqued at the answer, tormented herself 
 with wondering what the child could mean, and why 
 she, disliked Frederic so much. The next morning 
 it was Alice who awoke Marian and said, " Was it 
 a dream, or did you say something to me last night 
 about marrying Frederic ?" 
 
 £or a moment Marian forgot that the eyes 
 turned so inquiringly toward her could not see, 
 and she covered her face with her hands to hide 
 the blushes she knew were burning there. 
 
 " Say," persisted Alice, " what was it ?" and 
 half willingly, half reluctantly, Marian told of the 
 strange request which Frederic had made, saying 
 nothing, however, of the letter, for if Colonel Ray- 
 mand had done her a wrong, she felt it a duty she 
 owed his memory to keep it to herself. 
 
 The darkened world in which Alice lived had 
 matured her other faculties far beyond her age, 
 and though not yet seven years old, she was in 
 many things scarcely less a child than Marian, 
 whose story puzzled her, for she could hardly 
 
KEEPIlSfft THE PROMISE, 47 
 
 understand how one who had seemed so much her 
 companion could think of being a married woman. 
 Marian soon convinced her, however, that there was 
 a vast difference between almost seven and almost 
 sixteen, and still she was not reconciled. 
 
 " Frederic is well enough," she said, " and I once 
 heard Agnes Gibson say he was the best match in 
 the county, but somehow he don't seem to like you. 
 Isn't he stuck up, and don't he know a heap more 
 than you ?" 
 
 "Yes, but I can learn," Marian answered, sadly 
 thinking with regret of the many hours she had 
 played in the woods when she might have been 
 practising upon the piano, or reading the books 
 which Frederic liked best. " I can in time make a 
 lady, perhaps — and then you know if I don't have 
 him, one of us must go away, for he said so." 
 
 " Oh," exclaimed Alice, catching her breath and 
 drawing nearer to Marian, " wouldn't it be nice for 
 you and me to live here all alone with Dinah, and 
 do just as we're a mind to. Tell him you won't, 
 and let him go back where he came from." 
 
 " No," returned Marian, " if either goes away, it 
 will be I, for I've no right here, and Frederic 
 has." 
 
 •' You go away," repeated Alice. " What could 
 you do without Dinah ?" 
 
 " I don't know," returned Marian, a dim fore- 
 boding as it were of her dark future rising up be- 
 fore her. " I can't sew — I don't know enough to 
 teach, and I couldn't do any anything but die?" 
 
 This settled the point with Alice. She would 
 rather Marian should marry Frederic than go away 
 and die, and so she said, " I'd have him I reckon," 
 adding quickly, " You'll carry the keys, then, won't 
 you, and give me all the preserves and cake I 
 want?" 
 
 Thus the affair was amicably adjusted between 
 the parties and -yvhen at the breakfast-table Marian 
 
48 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 met with Frederic, she was ready to answer his ques- 
 tion ; but she chose to let him broach the subject, 
 and this he did do that evening when he found her 
 alone in his father's room. He had decided that it 
 was useless to struggle with his fate, and he re- 
 solved to make the best of it. How far Redstone 
 Hall bank notes, stock and real estate influenced 
 this decision we cannot say, but he was sincere in 
 his intention of treating Marian well, and when he 
 found her by accident in his father's room, he said 
 to her kindly, " Can you answer me now ?" 
 
 Marian was not yet enough accustomed to the 
 world to conceal whatever she felt, and with the 
 light of a new happiness shining on her childish 
 face, she went up to him, and laying her hand con- 
 fidingly upon his, she said, " I will marry you, 
 Frederic, if you wish me to." 
 
 A strange enigma is hnman nature. When the 
 previous night she had hesitated to answer, Fred- 
 eric was conscious of a vague fear that she might 
 say no — and now that she had said yes, he felt less 
 pleasure than pain, for the die he knew was cast. 
 A more observing eye than Marian's would have 
 seen the dark shadow which flitted over his face, 
 and the sudden paling of his lips, but she did not. 
 Still she was not quite satisfied, and when Fred- 
 eric, fancying he should feel better if the matter 
 were well over, said to her, " There is no reason 
 why we should delay — my father would wish the 
 marriage to take place immediately, and I will 
 speak to Dinah at once," she felt that with him it 
 was a mere form, and said passionately, " You are 
 not obliged to marry me, I certainly did not ask 
 you to." 
 
 For a moment Frederic stood irresolute, and then 
 he replied, " Don't be foolish, Marian, but take a 
 common sense view of the matter. I am not ac- 
 customed to love-making, and the character would 
 not suit me now when my heart is so full of sorrow 
 
KEEPING THE PROMISE. 4g 
 
 for my father. Many a one would gladly take your 
 place, but — " here he paused, uncertain how to 
 proceed and still keep truth upon his side — then, 
 as a bright thought struck him, he added, " but I 
 prefer you to all the girls in Kentucky. Be satis- 
 fied with this and wait patiently for the time when 
 I can show you that I love you." 
 
 His manner both frightened and fascinated Ma- 
 rian, and she answered, " I will be satisfied and 
 wait." 
 
 Frederic knew that Marian was too much of 
 a child to manage the affair, and after his interview 
 with her he went to Dinah, to whom he an- 
 nounced his intentions. 
 
 " There is no need of delay," he said, " and two 
 weeks from to-day is the time appointed. There 
 will be no show — no parade — simply a quiet wed- 
 ding in the presence of a few friends, who will dine 
 with us, of course. The dinner you must see to, 
 and I will attend to the rest." 
 
 Amid ejaculations of surprise and delight old 
 Dinah heard what he had to say — and then hast- 
 ened to the kitchen, where she was soon surrounded 
 by an astonished and listening audience, the various 
 members of which were affected differently, accord- 
 ing to their different ideas of what "marster Fred- 
 eric's" wife ought to be. Among the negroes at 
 Redstone Hall were two distinct parties, one of 
 which having belonged to Mr. Higgins, the former 
 owner of the place, looked rather contemptuously 
 upon the other clique, who had been purchased 
 of Mr. Smithers, a neighboring planter, and were 
 not supposed to have as high blood in their 
 veins as was claimed by their darker rivals. Hence, 
 between the democratic Smitherses and the aristo- 
 cratic Higginses was waged many a fierce battle, 
 which was usually decided by old Dinah, who, 
 having belonged to another family still, thanked 
 tjie J-ord that she was neither a Higginses nof 
 
50 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 a Smi'therses, but was a peg or so above such low. 
 lived truck as them. 
 
 On this occasion the announcement of Master 
 Frederick's expected marriage was received by the 
 Smitherses with loud shouts of joy and hurrahs for 
 Miss Marian. The Higginses, on the contrary, 
 though friendly to Marian, declared she was not 
 high bred enough to keep up the glory of the house, 
 and Aunt Hetty, who led the clan and was a kind 
 of rival to old Dinah, launched forth into a wonder- 
 ful stream of eloquence. 
 
 " Miss Marian would do in her place," she said, 
 " but 'twas a burnin' shame to set such an onery 
 thing over them as had been oncet used to the 
 quality. 'Twas different with the Smitherses, 
 whose old Miss was bed-rid with a spine in her back, 
 and hadn't but one store carpet in the house. But 
 the Higginses, she'd let 'em know, had been 'cus- 
 tomed to sunthin' better. Oh," said she, "you 
 or'to seen Miss Beatrice the fust day Marster 
 brought her home. She looked jest like a queen 
 with that great long switchin' tail to her dress, a 
 wipin' up the walk so clean that I, who was a gal 
 then, didn't have to sweep it for mor'n a week — 
 and them ars she put on when she curchied inter 
 the room and walkin' backards sot down on the 
 rim of the cheer — so — " and holding out her short 
 linsey-woolsey to its widest extent, the old negress 
 proceeded to illustrate. 
 
 But alas for Aunt Hetty — her intention was an- 
 ticipated by stuttering Josh, the most mischievous 
 spirit of all the Smithers clan. Quick as thought 
 the active boy removed the chair where she ex- 
 pected to land, pushing into its place an overflow- 
 ing water-pail, and into this the discomfited old lady 
 plunged amid the execrations of her partisans and 
 the jeers of her opponents. 
 
 " You Josh — you villain— the Lord spar me long 
 enough to break yer sassy neck !" she screamed, as 
 
KEEPING THE PROMISE. 5 1 
 
 with difficulty she extricated herself from her pos- 
 ition and wrung her dripping garments. 
 
 " Sarved you right," said Dinah, shaking her fat 
 sides with delight. " Sarved you right, and the 
 fust one that raises thar voice agin Miss Marian '11 
 catch sunthin' a heap wus than water." 
 
 But Dinah's threat was unnecessary, for with 
 Hetty's downfall the star of the Higginses set, 
 leaving that of the Smitherses in the ascendant. 
 
 Meantime Marian was confiding to Alice the story 
 of her engagement, and wondering if Frederic in- 
 tended taking a bridal tour. She hoped he did, for 
 she wished to see a little of the world, particu- 
 larly New York, of which she had heard such 
 glowing accounts. But nothing could be less in 
 accordance with Frederic's feelings than a bridal 
 tour — and when once Marian ventured to broach 
 the subject, he said that, under the circumstances, it 
 would hardly be right to go oS and enjoy them- 
 selves, so they would stay quietly at home. And 
 this settled the point, for Marian never thought 
 of questioning his decision. If they made no jour- 
 ney, she would not need any additions to her ward- 
 robe, and she was thus saved from the trouble which 
 usually falls to the lot of brides. Still it was not at 
 all in accordance with her ideas — this marrying with- 
 out a single article of finery, and once she resolved 
 to indulge in a new dress at least. She had ample 
 means of her own, for her guardian had been lavish 
 of his money, always giving her far more than she 
 could use, and during the last year she had been, 
 saving a fund for the purpose of surprising Alice 
 and the blacks with handsome Christmas presents. 
 The former was to have a little gold watch, which, 
 she had long desired, because she liked to hear it; 
 tick — but the watch and dress could not both be; 
 bought, and when she considered this, Marian gen-, 
 erously gave up the latter for the sake of pleasing: 
 the blind girl. Among her dresses wasa.uea.6,„whitQ 
 
52 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 muslin given her by Colonel Raymond only the 
 summer previous, and this she decided should be 
 the wedding robe, for black was gloomy, she said, 
 and would seem ominous of evil. 
 
 And so the childish bride elect made her simple 
 arrangements, unassisted by any one save Dinah 
 and little Alice, the latter of whom was really 
 of the most service, for old Dinah spent the greater 
 portion of her time in grumbling because " Marster 
 Frederic didn't act more lover-like to his wife that 
 was to be." 
 
 Marian, too, felt this keenly, but she would not 
 admit it, and she said to Dinah, " You can't expect 
 him to be like himself when he's mourning for his 
 father." 
 
 " Mournin' for his father," returned Dinah, " and 
 what if he is ? Can't a fellow kiss a gal and mourn 
 a plenty too ? 'Taint no way to do to mope from 
 mornin' till night like you wus goin' to the gallus. 
 Me and Phil didn't act that way when he was settin' 
 to me — but I 'pect they've done got some new- 
 fangled way of courtin' jest as they hev for every- 
 thing else — but I'm satisfied with the old fashion, 
 and I wi.sh them fetch-ed Yankees would mind thar 
 own business and let well 'nough alone." 
 
 Dinah felt considerably relieved after this long 
 speech, particularly as she had that very morning 
 made it in substance to Frederic — and when that 
 evening she saw the young couple seated upon the 
 same sofa, and tolerably near to each other, she was 
 sure she had done some good by " ginnen 'em a 
 piece of her mind." 
 
 Among the neighbors there was a great deal of 
 talk, and occasionally a few of them called at Red- 
 stone Hall, but these only came to go away again, 
 and comment on Frederic's strange taste in marry- 
 ing one so young, and so wholly unlike himself. It 
 could not be, they said, that he had really cared 
 ^bout the will, else why had he so soon t^ken Ma- 
 
THE BRIDAL DAV. 53 
 
 rian to share his fortune with him ? But Frederic 
 kept his own counsel, and once when questioned 
 on the subject of his marriage and asked if it were 
 not a sudden thing, he answered haughtily, " Of 
 course not — it was decided years ago, when Marian 
 first came to live with us." 
 
 And so amid the speculation of friends, the gos- 
 sip of Dinah, the joyous anticipations of Marian, 
 and the harrowing doubts of Frederic, the two 
 weeks passed away, bringing at last the eventful 
 day when Redstone Hall was to have a mistress. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BRIDAL DAY. 
 
 " It was the veriest farce in all the world, the 
 marriage of Frederic Raymond with a child of 
 fifteen," at least so said Agnes Gibson of twenty- 
 five, and so said sundry other guests who at the ap- 
 pointed hour assembled in the parlor of Redstone 
 Hall, to witness the sacrifice — not of Frederic as 
 they imagined, but of the unsuspecting Marian. 
 
 He knew what he did, and why he did it, while 
 she, blindfolded as it were, was about to leap into 
 the uncertain future. No such gloomy thoughts as 
 these, however, intruded themselves upon her mind 
 as she stood before her mirror and with trembling 
 fingers made her simple bridal toilet. When first 
 the idea of marrying Frederic was suggested to her, 
 nearly as much pride as love had mingled in her 
 thoughts, for Marian was not without her ambition, 
 and the honor of being the mistress of Redstone 
 
g4 Marian grey. 
 
 Hall had influenced her decision. But during the 
 two weeks since her engagement, her heart had gone 
 out toward him with a deep, absorbing love, and 
 had he no.v been the poorest man in all the world 
 and she a royal princess, she would have spurned 
 the wealth that kept' her from him, or gladly have 
 la^d it at his feet for rtie sake of staying with him 
 and knowing that he wished it. And this was the 
 girl whom Frederic Raymond was about to wrong 
 by making her his wife when he knew he did not 
 love her. But she should never know it, he said — 
 should never suspect that nothing but his hand and 
 name went with the words he was so soon to utter, 
 and he determined to be true to her and faithful to 
 his marriage vow. 
 
 Some doubt he had as to the effect his father's 
 letter might have upon her, and once he resolved 
 that she should never see it; but this thought was 
 not to be harbored for a moment. He had told 
 her, when she asked him for it the last time, that 
 she should have it on her bridal day ; and he would 
 keep his word. He had written to Isabel at the 
 
 ^ry last, for though he was not bound to her by a 
 
 promise he knew an explanation of his conduct was 
 due to her, and he forced himself to write it. He said 
 nothing against Marian, but he gave her to under- 
 'jsand that but for his father the match would never 
 h^ve been made — that circumstances over which 
 • -* had no control compelled him to do what he 
 ■*as doing. He should never forget the pleasant 
 hours spent in her society, he said, and he closed 
 toy asking her to visit the future Mrs. Raymond at 
 Redstone Hall. It cost him a bitter struggle to 
 write thus indifferently to one he loved so well, but 
 it was right, he said, and when the letter was fin- 
 ished he felt that the last tie which bound him to 
 Isabel was sundered, and there was nothing for him 
 now but to make the best of Marian. So when on 
 their bridal morning she came to him and asked his 
 
THE BRII)AL bAY. ,/ : gj 
 
 ivishes concerning her dress, he answered her very 
 kindly, " As you are in mourning you had better 
 make no change, besides I think black very becom- 
 ing to your fair complexion." 
 
 This was the first compliment he had ever paid 
 her and her heart thrilled with delight, but when, as 
 she was leaving the room he called her back and said, 
 " Would you as soon wear your hair plain ? I do 
 not quite fancy ringlets," her eyes filled with tears, 
 for she remembered the corkscrew curls, and glan- 
 cing in the mirror at her wavy hair she wished it 
 were possible to remedy the defect. 
 
 " I will do the best I can," she said, and return- 
 ing to her room, she commenced her operations, 
 but it was a long, tedious process, for her hair was 
 tenacious of its rights, and even when she thought 
 it subdued and let go the end, it rolled up about 
 her forehead, as if spurning alike both water and 
 brush. 
 
 " I'd like to see the man what could make me 
 yank out my wool like that," muttered Dinah, who 
 was watching the straightening process with a low- 
 ering brow, inasmuch as it reflected dishonor upon 
 her own crisped locks. " If the Lord made yer har 
 to curl, war it so, and not mind every freak of his'n. 
 Fust you know, he'll be a-wantin' you to war yer 
 face on t'other side of yer head, but 'taint no way 
 to do. You must begin as you can hold out. In 
 a few hours you'll have as much right here as he 
 has, and I'd show it, too, by pitchin' inter us nig- 
 gers and jawin' to kill. I shall know you don't 
 mean nothin' and shan't keer. Come to think on't, 
 though, I reckon you'd better let me and the 
 Smitherses be and begin with them Higginses. I'd 
 give it to old Hetty good — she 'sarves to be took 
 down a button hole lower, if ever a nigger did, for 
 she said a heap o' stuff about you." 
 
 Marian smiled a quiet happy smile and went 
 on with her task, which was finished at last, 
 
56 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 and her luxuriant hair was bound at the back of 
 of her head in a large flat knot. The effect was 
 not becoming and she knew it, but if Frederic liked 
 it she was satisfied, even if Dinah did demur, tell- 
 ing her she looked like " a cat whose ears had been 
 boxed." Frederic did not like it, but after the 
 pains she had taken he would not tell her so, and 
 when she said to him, " I am ready," he offered 
 her his arm and went silently down the stairs to 
 the parlor, where guests and clergymen were wait- 
 ing. 
 
 The day was bright and beautiful, for the light 
 of a glorious Indian summer sun was resting 
 on the Kentucky hills, and through the open win- 
 dow the murmuring ripple of the Elkhorn came, 
 while the balmy breath of the south wind swept 
 over the white face of the bride, and lifted from 
 her neck the few stray locks which, escaping from 
 their confinement, curled naturally in their accus- 
 tomed place. But to the assembled guests there 
 seemed in all a note of sadness, a warning voice 
 which said the time for this bridal was not yet ; 
 and years after, when the beautiful mistress of 
 Redstone Hall rode by in her handsome carriage, 
 Agnes Gibson told her little sister how on that 
 November day the cheeks of both bride and bride- 
 groom grew pale when the words were spoken 
 which made them one. 
 
 Whether it were the newness of her position, or 
 a presentiment of coming evil Marian could not 
 tell, but into her heart there crept a chill as she 
 glanced timidly at the man who stood so silently 
 beside her, and thought, " He is my husband." It 
 was, indeed, a sombre wedding — " more like a 
 funeral," the guests declared, as immediately after 
 dinner they took their leave and commented 
 upon the affair as people always will. Fred- 
 eric longed yet dreaded to have them go. He 
 could not endure their congratulations, which to 
 
THE BRIDAL DAY. 57 
 
 him were meaningless, and he had no wish to be 
 alone. He was recovering from his apathy, and 
 could yesterday have been his again, he believed 
 he would have broken his promise. But yesterday 
 had gone and to-morrow had come — it was to-tfay, 
 now, with him, and Marian was his wife. Turn 
 which way he would, the reality was the same, and 
 with an intense loathing of himself and a deep 
 pity for her, he feigned some trivial excuse and 
 went away to his room, where, with the gathering 
 darkness and his own wretched thoughts, he would 
 be alone. 
 
 With strange unrest Marian wandered from 
 room to room, wondering if Frederic had so soon 
 grown weary of her presence, and sometimes half 
 wishing that she were Marian Lindsey again, and 
 that the new name by which they called her 
 belonged to some one else. At last, when it was 
 really dark and the lamps were lighted in the 
 parlor and Alice had wept a bitter, passionate 
 good-night in her arms and gone to sleep, she 
 thought her of the letter. She could read it 
 now. She had complied with all the stipulations, 
 and there was no longer a reason why it should be 
 withheld. She went to Frederic's door ; but he 
 was not there, and a servant passing in the hall 
 said he had returned to the parlor while she was 
 busy with AHce. So Marian went to the parlor, 
 finding him sitting unemployed and wrapped in 
 gloomy thought. He heard her step upon the 
 carpet, but standing in the shadow as she did, she 
 could not see the look of pain which came over 
 his face at her approach. 
 
 " Frederic," she said, " I may read the letter 
 now — will you give me the key ?" 
 
 He did as she desired, and then with a slightly 
 uneasy feeling as to the effect the letter might 
 have upon her, he went back to his reflections, 
 while she started to leave the room. When she 
 
58 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 reached the door she paused a moment and looked 
 back. In giving her the key he had changed his 
 position, and she could see the expression of his 
 face. Quickly returning to his side, she said anxi- 
 ously, " Are you ill ?" 
 
 " Nothing but a headache. You know I am 
 accustomed to that," he replied. 
 
 Marian hesitated a moment — then parting the 
 hair from off his forehead she kissed him timidly 
 and left the room. Involuntarily Frederic raised 
 his hand to wipe the spot away, but something 
 stayed the act and whispered to him that a wife's 
 first kiss was a holy thing and could never be re- 
 peated ! 
 
 Though the hall Marian sped until she stood 
 in her late guardian's room, and there she stopped, 
 for the atmosphere seemed oppressive and laden 
 with terror. 
 
 " 'Tis because it's so dark," she said, and going 
 out into the hall, she took a lamp from the table 
 and then returned. 
 
 But the feeling was with her still, as if she were 
 treading some fearful gulf, and she was half tempted 
 to turn back and ask Frederic to come with her 
 while she read the letter. 
 
 " I will not be so foolish, though," she said, and 
 opening the library door she walked boldly in ; but 
 the same Marian who entered there never came out 
 again ! 
 
'tlEADllSfG THE LETTER. J^ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 READING THE LETTER. 
 
 Oh, how Still it was in that room, and the click of 
 the key as it turned the slender bolt echoed through 
 the silent apartment, causing Marian to start as if 
 a living presence had been near. The drawer was 
 opened, and she held the letter in her hand. It 
 bore no superscription, but it was for her of course, 
 and fixing herself in a comfortable position, she 
 broke the seal and read : 
 
 " My dear Child" 
 
 There was nothing in those three words sugges- 
 tive of a mistake — and Marian read on till, with a 
 quick, nervous start, she glanced forward, then 
 backward — and then read on and on, until at last 
 not even the fear of death itself could have stopped 
 her from that reading. That letter was never in- 
 tended for her eye — she knew that now, but had 
 the cold hand of her guardian been interposed to 
 wrest it fr im her, she would have held it fast until 
 she learned the whole. Like coals of fire, the 
 words burned into her soul, and when the letter 
 was finished she fell upon her face, with a cry so 
 full of agony and horror that Frederic heard it 
 and started to his feet wondering whence it came. 
 
 With the setting of the sun the November wind 
 had risen, and as the young man listened it swept 
 moaning past the window, seeming not unlike the 
 sound he had first heard. " It was the wind," he 
 said, and he resumed his seat, while Marian came 
 back to consciousness, and crouching on the floor, 
 prayed that she might die. She understood it now 
 — how she had been deceived, betrayed, and cruelly 
 wronged. She knew, too, that she was the heiress 
 
6o MARIAN GREY. 
 
 of untold wealth, and for a single moment her heart 
 beat with a gratified pride, but the surprise was too 
 great to be realized at once, and the feeling was 
 soon absorbed in the reason why Fredric Raymond 
 had made her his wife. It was not herself he had 
 married, but her fortune — her money — Redstone 
 Hall. She was merely a necessary incumbrance, 
 which he would rather should have been omitted 
 in the bargain. The thought was maddening, and, 
 stretching out her arms, she asked that she might 
 die. 
 
 " Oh, why didn't he come to me," she cried, " and 
 tell me ? I would gladly have given him half my 
 fortune — yes, all — rather than be the wretched thing 
 I am, and he would have been free to love and 
 marry this — " 
 
 She could not at first speak the name of her 
 rival — but she said it at last, and the sound of it 
 wrung her heart with a new and torturing pain. 
 She had never heard of Isabel Huntington before, 
 and as she thought how beautiful and grand she 
 was, she whispered to herself, " Why didn't he go 
 back to her, and leave me, the red-headed fright, 
 alone ? Yes, that was what he wrote to his father. 
 Let me look at it again," and the tone cf her voice 
 was bitter and the expression of her face hard and 
 stony, as taking up the letter she read for the sec- 
 ond time that " she was uncouth, uneducated and 
 ugly," and if his father did not give up that foolish 
 fancy, Frederic would positively " hate the red- 
 headed fright." Her guardian had not given up 
 the foolish fancy, consequently there was but one 
 inference to be drawn. 
 
 In her excitement she did not consider that Fred- 
 eric had probably written of her harsher things 
 than he really meant. She only thought, " He 
 loathes me — he daepises me — he wishes I was 
 dead — and I dared to kiss him too," she added. 
 " How he hated me for that, but 'twas the first, and 
 
READING THE LETTER. 6t 
 
 it shall be the last, for I will go away forever and 
 leave him Redstone Hall, the bride he married a 
 few hours ago," and laying her face upon the chair 
 Marian thought long and earnestly of the future. 
 She had come into that room a happy, simple- 
 hearted, confiding child, but she had lived years 
 since, and she sat there now a crushed but self- 
 reliant woman, ready to go out and contend with 
 the world alone. Gradually her thoughts and pur- 
 poses took a definite form. She was ignorant of 
 the knotty points of law, and she did not know but 
 Frederic could get her a divorce, but from this pub- 
 licity she shrank. She could not be pointed at as 
 a discarded wife. She would rather go away where 
 Frederic would never see nor hear of her again, and 
 she fancied that by so doing he would after a time, 
 at least, be free to marry Isabel. She had not wept 
 before, for her tears seemed scorched with pain, 
 but at the thought of another coming to take the 
 place she had hoped to fill, they rained in torrents 
 over her face, and clasping her hands together she 
 cried — " How can I give him up when I love him 
 so much — so much ?" 
 
 Gradually there stole over her the noble, unself- 
 ish thought, that because she loved him so much 
 she would willingly sacrifice herself and all she had 
 for the sake of making him happy — and then she 
 grew calm again and began to decide where she 
 would go. Instinctively her mind turned toward 
 New York city as the great hiding place from the 
 world. Mrs. Burt, the woman who had lived with 
 them in Yonkers, and who had always been so kind 
 to her, was in New York, she knew, for she had 
 written to Colonel Raymond not long before his 
 death, asking if there was anything in Kentucky for 
 her son Ben to do. This letter her guardian had 
 answered and then destroyed with many others, 
 which he said were of no consequence and only 
 lumbered up his drawer. Consequently there w^§ 
 
62 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 no possibility that this letter would suggest Mrs. 
 Burt to Frederic, who had never seen her, she hav- 
 ing come and gone while he was away at school, 
 and thus far the project was a safe one. But she 
 might some time be recognized by her name, 
 and remembering that her mother's maiden name 
 was Mary Grey, and that Frederic, even if he had 
 ever known it, which was doubtful, had probably 
 forgotten it, she resolved upon being henceforth 
 Marian Grey, and she repeated it aloud, feeling 
 that the change was well, for she was no longer the 
 same girl she used to know as Marian Lindsey. 
 Once she said softly to herself, " Marian Raymond," 
 but the sound grated harshly for she felt that she 
 had no right to bear that name. 
 
 This settled, she turned her thoughts upon the 
 means by which New York was to be reached, and 
 she was glad that she had not bought the dress, for 
 now she had ample funds with which to meet the 
 expense, and she would go that very night before 
 her resolution failed her. Redstone Hall was only 
 two miles from the station, and as the evening 
 train passed at half-past nine, there would be time 
 to reach it and write a farewell letter to Fred- 
 eric, for she must tell him how, though it broke her 
 heart to do it, she willingly gave him everything, 
 and hoped he would be happy when she was gone 
 forever. 
 
 "Frederic, dear Frederic," she began, "may I 
 say my husband just once — and I'll never insult 
 you with that name again. 
 
 " I am going away forever, and when you are ; 
 reading this I shall not be at Redstone Hall, 
 nor anywhere around it. Do not try to find me. 
 It is better you should not. Your father's letter, 
 which was intended for you and by mistake has 
 come to me, will tell you why I go. I forgive 
 your father, Frederic, but you — oh, Frederic, why 
 did yoi| deceive me so cruelly. If ygu had tolcj 
 
READING THE LETTER. 63 
 
 me all I would gladly have shared my fortune 
 with you. I would have given you more than half, 
 and when you brought that beautiful Isabel home, 
 I would have loved her as a sister. 
 
 " Why didn't you, Frederic ? What made you 
 treat me so ? What made you break my heart 
 when you could have helped it ? It aches so hard 
 now as I write, and the hardest pain of all is the 
 loss of faith in you. I thought you so noble, so 
 good, and I may confess to you here on paper I 
 love you so much, how much you will never know, 
 for I shall never come back to tell you. 
 
 "And I kissed you, too. Forgive me for that, 
 I didn't know then how you hated me. Wash the 
 stain from your forehead and don't lay it up against 
 me. If I thought I could make you love me I 
 would stay. I would endure torture for years if 
 I knew the light was shining beyond, but it can 
 not be. The sight of me would make you hate me 
 more. So I give everything I have to you and 
 Isabel. You'll marry her at a suitable time, and 
 when you see how well she becomes your home 
 you will be glad I went away. If you must tell her 
 of me, and I suppose you must, speak kindly of 
 me, won't you ? You needn't talk of me often, but 
 sometimes, when you are all alone and you are sure 
 she will not know, think of poor little Marian who 
 gave her life away that one she loved the best in 
 all the world might have wealth and happiness. 
 
 " Farewell, Frederic, farewell. Death itself can- 
 not be harder than bidding you good-by, and 
 knowing it is for ever." 
 
 Folding up the letter and directing it to Frederic, 
 Marian took another sheet and wrote to the bhnd 
 girl: 
 
 " Precious little Alice. If my heart was not 
 already broken, it would break at leaving you. 
 Ppn't mourii for me, darling, Tell Dinah and 
 
64 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 Hetty and the other blacks, not to cry ; and if I've 
 ever been cross to them, they must forget it now 
 that I am gone. God bless you all. Goodby, 
 goodby." 
 
 The letters finished, she left them upon the desk 
 where they could not help being seen by the first one 
 who should enter the room. Then going up the 
 stairs to the closet at the extremity of the hall, she 
 put on her hat, vail and shawl, and started for her 
 purse, which was in the chamber where Alice was 
 asleep. The purse was obtained, as was also a 
 daguerreotype of her guardian which lay in the 
 same drawer, and then for a moment she stood gaz- 
 ing at the little girl, and longing to give her one 
 more kiss, but she dared not, and glancing hur- 
 riedly around the room which had been hers so long, 
 she hastened down stairs and out upon the piazza. 
 She could see the light from the parlor window 
 streaming out into the darkness, and drawing near 
 she looked through blinding tears upon the solitary 
 man, who, sitting there alone, little dreamed of 
 the whispered blessings breathed for him but a few 
 yards away. It seemed to Marian in that moment 
 of agony that her very life was going out, and she 
 leaned against a pillar to keep herself from falling. 
 
 " Oh, can I leave him ?" she thought. " Can I 
 go away forever, and never see his face again or 
 listen to his voice ?" and looking up into the sky 
 she prayed that if in heaven they should meet 
 again, he might know and love her there for what 
 she suffered here. 
 
 On the grass near by there was a sound as if some 
 one was coming, and Marian drew back for fear of 
 being seen, but it was only Bruno, the large watch 
 dog. He had just been released from his kennel, 
 and he came tearing up the walk, and with a low 
 growl sprang toward the spot where Marjaq wa? 
 hiding. 
 
READING THE LETTER. 6$ 
 
 " Bruno, good Bruno," she whispered, and in an 
 instant the fierce mastiff crouched at her feet and 
 licked her hand with a whining sound, as if he sus- 
 pected something wrong. 
 
 One more glance at Frederic — one more look 
 at her old home, and Marian walked rapidly down 
 the avenue, followed by Bruno, who could neither 
 be coaxed nor driven back. It was all in vain that 
 Marian stamped her foot or wound her arms round 
 his shaggy neck, bidding him return ; he only an- 
 swered with a faint whine quite as expressive of ob- 
 stinacy as words could have been. He knew Marian 
 had no business to be abroad at that hour of the 
 night, and, with the faithfulness of his race, was de- 
 termined to follow. At length, as she was beginning 
 to despair of getting rid of him, she remembered how 
 pertinaciously he would guard any article which he 
 knew belonged to the family ; and on the bridge 
 which crossed the Elkhorn, she purposely dropped 
 her glove and handkerchief, the latter of which 
 bore her name in full. The ruse was successful, 
 for after vainly attempting to make her know that 
 she had lost something, the dog turned back, and, 
 with a loud mournful howl, which Marian accepted 
 as his farewell, he laid down by the handkerchief 
 and glove, turning his head occasionally in the 
 direction Marian had gone, and uttering low plain- 
 tive howls when he saw she did not return. 
 
 Meantime Marian kept on her way, striking out 
 into the fields so as not to be observed, and at last, 
 just as the cars sounded in the distance, she came 
 to a clump of trees growing a little to the left, 
 and on the opposite side of the road from that on 
 which the depot stood. By getting in here no one 
 would see her at the station, and when the train 
 stopped she came out from her concealment, and 
 entered the rear car unobserved. As the passengers 
 were sitting with their backs toward her, but one 
 or two noticed her when ghe came jn, and these 
 
66 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 scarcely gave her a thought, as she sank Into the 
 seat nearest to the door, drawing her vail over her 
 face lest she should be recognized. But her fears 
 were vain, for no one there had ever seen or heard 
 of her, and in a moment more the train was mov- 
 ing on, and she, heart-broken and alone, was taking 
 her bridal tour ! 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE ALARM. 
 
 In her solitary bed little Alice slumbered on, 
 moaning occasionally in her sleep, and at last when 
 the clock struck nine, starting up and calling 
 " Marian, Marian, where are you ?" Then, remem- 
 bering that Marian could not come to her that 
 night, she puzzled her little brain with the great 
 mystery, and cried herself to sleep for the second 
 time. 
 
 In the kitchen old Dinah was busy with various 
 household matters. With Frederic she had heard 
 the bitter moan which Marian made when she learned 
 how she had been deceived, and like him she had 
 wondered what the sound could be — then as a baby's 
 cry came from a cabin near by, she had said to her- 
 self, " some of them Higgins brats, I'll warrant. 
 They're alius a squalHn'," and, satisfied with this 
 conclusion, she had resumed her work. Once or 
 twice after that she was in the house, feeling a good 
 deal disturbed at seeing Frederic sitting alone 
 without his bride, who, she rightly supposed, " was 
 some whar. But 'tain't no way," she muttered; 
 " Phil and mo didn't dg Jjke that ;" then reflecting 
 
THE ALARM. 67 
 
 that "white folks wasn't like niggers," she returned 
 to the kitchen just as Bruno set up his first loud 
 howl. With Dinah the howl of a dog was a sure sign 
 of death, and dropping her candle in her fright, she 
 exclaimed — " for the Lord's sake who's gwine to 
 die now ? I hope to goodness 'taint me, nor Phil, 
 nor Lid, nor Victory Eugeny," and turning to 
 Aunt Hetty, who was troubled with vertigo, she 
 asked if "she'd felt any signs of an afterplax fit 
 lately?" 
 
 " The Lord," exclaimed old Hetty, " I hain't had 
 a drap o' blood in me this six month, and if Bruno's 
 howlin' for me, he may as well save his breath ;" 
 but in spite of this self-assurance, the old negress, 
 when no one saw her, dipped her head in a bucket 
 of water by way of warding off the danger. 
 
 Thus the evening wore away until at last Dinah 
 heard the whistle of the train as it passed the Big 
 Spring station. 
 
 " Who s'posed 'twashalf-past nine," she exclaimed. 
 " I'll go this minit and see if Miss Marian wants 
 me." 
 
 Just then another loud howl from Bruno, who was 
 growing impatient, arrested her movements. 
 
 " What can ail the critter," she said — " and he's 
 down on the bridge, too, I believe." 
 
 The other negroes also heard the cry, which was 
 succeeded by another and another, and became at 
 last one prolonged yell, which echoed down the 
 river and over the hills, startling Frederic from his 
 reverie and bringing him to the piazza, where the 
 blacks had assembled in a body. 
 
 " 'Spects mebbe Bruno's done cotched somethin' 
 or somebody down thar," suggested Philip, the 
 most courageous of the group. 
 
 " Suppose you go and see," said Frederic, and 
 lighting his old lantern Philip sallied out, followed 
 I)y all his comrades, who, by accusing each other of 
 
68 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 being "skeered to death," managed to keep up 
 their own courage. 
 
 The bridge was reached, and in a tremor of de- 
 light Bruno bounded upon Phil, upsetting the old 
 man and extinguishing the light, so that they were 
 in total darkness. The white handkerchief, how- 
 ever, caught Dinah's eye, and in picking it up she 
 felt the glove, which was lying near it. But this 
 did not explain the mystery, and after search- 
 ing in vain for man, beast or hobgoblin, the party 
 returned to the house, where their master awaited 
 them. 
 
 " Thar warn't nothin' thar 'cept this yer rag and 
 glove," said Dinah, passing the articles to him. 
 
 He took them, and going to the light saw the 
 name upon the handkerchief, " Marian Lindsey." 
 The glove, too, he recognized as belonging to her, 
 and with a fear of impending evil, he asked where 
 they were found. 
 
 "On the bridge," answered Dinah ; " somebody 
 must have drapped 'em. That handkercher looks 
 mighty like Miss Marian's hem-stitched one." 
 
 " It is hers," returned Frederic, " do you know 
 where she is ?" 
 
 " You is the one who orto know that, I reckon," 
 answered Dinah, adding that she " hadn't seen her 
 sense jest after dark, when she went up stairs with 
 Ahce." 
 
 Frederic was interested now. In his abstraction 
 he had not noticed the lapse of time, though he 
 wondered where Marian was, and once feeling 
 anxious to know what she would say to the letter, 
 he was tempted to go in quest of her. But he did 
 not, and now, with a presentiment that all was not 
 right, he went to Alice's chamber, but found no 
 Marian there. Neither was she in any of the 
 chambers, nor in the hall, nor in the dining-room, 
 nor in his father's room, and he stood at last in the 
 library door, The writing-de§k was open, and on 
 
THE ALARM. 69 
 
 it lay three letters, one for Alice, one for him, the 
 other undirected. He took the one intended for 
 himself, and tearing it open, read it through. When 
 Marian wrote that " she gave her life away," she 
 had no thought of deceiving him, for her giving 
 him up was giving her very life. But he did not 90 
 understand it, and he gasped, " Marian is dead !" 
 while his face grew livid and his heart sick with the 
 horrid fear. 
 
 "Dead, Marster Frederic," shrieked old Dinah. 
 " Who dars tell me my chile is dead !" and bound- 
 ing forward like a tiger, she grasped his arm, ex- 
 claiming, " Whar is she dead ? and what is she 
 dead for ? and what's that she's writ that makes 
 yer face as white as a piece of paper ? Read, and 
 let us hear." 
 
 " I can't, I can't," he moaned. "Oh, Marian, 
 Marian, won't somebody bring her back ?" 
 
 " If marster '11 tell me whar to look, I'll find her, 
 so help me, Lord," said uncle Phil, the tears rolling 
 down his dusky cheeks. 
 
 " You found her handkerchief upon the bridge," 
 returned Frederic, "and Bruno has been. howling 
 there, don't you see ? She's in the river ! She's 
 drowned ! Oh, Marian, I've killed her, but God 
 knows I did not mean to ;" and in the very spot 
 where not long before Marian had fallen on her 
 face, the wretched man now lay on his, and suffered 
 in part what she had suffered there. 
 
 It was a striking group. The bowed man, con- 
 vulsed with strong emotion, and clutching with 
 one hand the letter which had done the fearful work ; 
 the blacks gathered round, some weeping bitterly 
 and all petrified with terror ; while into their midst, 
 when the storm was at its height, little Alice groped 
 her way, her hair falling over her white night dress, 
 her blind eyes rolling round the room, and her 
 quick ear turned to catch any sound which might 
 explain the strange proceedings. She had been 
 
70 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 roused from sleep by the confusion, and hearing the 
 uproar in the hall and library had felt her way to 
 the latter spot, where in the doorway she stood 
 asking for Marian. 
 
 " Bless you, honey. Miss Marian's dead — drown- 
 ded," said Dinah, and AHce's shriek mingled with 
 the general din. 
 
 " Where's Frederic ?" the little girl asked, feeling 
 intuitively that he was the one who needed the 
 most sympathy. 
 
 At the sound of his name Frederic lifted up his 
 head, and taking the child in his arms kissed her 
 tenderly, as if he would thus make amends for his 
 coldness to Marian. 
 
 " 'Tain't no way to stay here like rocks," said uncle 
 Phil at last. " If Miss Marian 'sin the river, we'd bet- 
 ter be afishing her out," and the practical negro 
 proceeded to make the necessary arrangements. 
 
 Before he left the room, however, he would know 
 if he were working for a certainty, and turning to 
 his master he said, " Have you jest cause for thinkin' 
 she's done drownded herself — 'case if you hain't, 
 'tain't no use huntin' this dark night, and it's gwine 
 to rain, too. The clouds is gettin' black as pitch." 
 
 Thus appealed to, Frederic answered, " She says 
 in the letter that she is going away forever, that she 
 will not come back again, and she spoke of giving 
 her life away. You found her handkerchief and 
 glove upon the bridge, with Bruno watching near, 
 and she is gone. Do you need more proof .''" 
 
 Uncle Phil did not, though " he'd jest like to 
 know," he said, " why a gal should up and dround 
 herself on the very fust night arter she'd married 
 the richest and han'somest chap in the county, but 
 thar was no tellin' what gals would do. Gener'ly, 
 though, you could calkerate on thar doin' jest con- 
 tra-ry to what you'd 'spect they would, and if Miss 
 Marian preferred the river to that twenty-five 
 pound feather bed that Dinah spent more'n an hour 
 
THE ALARM. 71 
 
 in makin' up, 'twas her nater, and 'twant for him 
 to say agin' it. All he'd got to do was to work !" 
 
 And the old man did work, assisted by the other 
 negroes and those of the neighbors who lived near 
 Redstone Hall. Frederic, too, joined, or rather 
 led the search. Bareheaded, and utterly regardless 
 of the rain which, as Uncle Phil had prophesied, 
 began to fall, he gave the necessary directions, and 
 when the morning broke, few would have recognized 
 the elegant bridegroom of the previous day in the 
 white-faced, weary man, who, with soiled garments 
 and dripping hair, stood upon the narrow bridge, 
 and looked down the river as it went rushing on, 
 telling no secret, if secret there was to tell, of the 
 wild despair which must have filled poor Marian's 
 heart and maddened her brain when she sought 
 that watery grave. 
 
 Before coming out he had hurriedly read his 
 father's letter, and he could well understand how 
 its contents broke the heart of the wretched girl, 
 and drove her to the desperate act which he be- 
 lieved she had committed. 
 
 "Poor Marian," he whispered to himself, "I 
 alone am the cause of your sad death ;" and most 
 gladly would he then have become a beggar and 
 earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, could 
 she have come back again, full of life, of health and 
 hope, just as she was the day before. 
 
 But this could not be, for she was dead, he said, 
 dead beyond a doubt ; and all that remained for 
 him to do was to find her body and lay it beside 
 his father. So during that day the search went on, 
 and crowds of people were gathered on each side 
 of the river, but no trace of the lost one could be 
 found, and when a second time the night fell 
 round Redstone Hall, it found a mournful group 
 assembled there. 
 
 To Alice Frederic had read the letter left for 
 her, and treasuring up each word the child groped 
 
7* MARIAN GREY. 
 
 her way into the kitchen, where, holding the note 
 before her eyes as if she could really see, she re 
 peated it to the assembled blacks. 
 
 " Lor' bless the child," sobbed Dinah from be- 
 hind her apron, " I knowed she would remember 
 me." 
 
 " And me," joined in Hetty. " Don't you mind 
 how I is spoke of, too ? She was a lady every inch 
 of her, Miss Marian was, an' if I said any badness 
 of her, I want you to forgive me, Dinah. Here's 
 my hand," and the two old ladies took each 
 other's hand in token that they were joined to- 
 gether now in one common sorrow. 
 
 Indeed, for once, the Higginses and Smitherses 
 forgot their ancient feud and united in extolling the 
 virtues of the lost one. After reading the letter as 
 many as three times, for when their grief had 
 somewhat subsided, the blacks would ask to hear 
 it again, so as to have fresh cause for tears, Alice 
 returned to the parlor, where she knew Frederic 
 was sitting. Her own heart was throbbing with 
 anguish, but she felt that his was a sorrow different 
 from her own, and feeling her way to where he sat 
 she wound her arms around his neck, and whis- 
 pered : " We must love each other more now that 
 Marian is gone." 
 
 He made no answer except to take her on his 
 lap ; but Alice was satisfied with this, and after a 
 moment she said, "Frederic, do you know why 
 Marian killed herself ?" 
 
 " Oh, Alice," he groaned. " Don't say those 
 dreadful words. I cannot endure the thought." 
 
 " But," persisted' the child, "she couldn't have 
 known what she was doing, and God forgave her — 
 Don't you think He did ? She asked him to, I am 
 sure, when she was sinking in the deep water." 
 
 The child's mind had gone further after the lost 
 one than Frederic's had, and her question inflict- 
 ed a keener pang than any he had felt before. 
 
THE Alarm. f3 
 
 He had ruined Marian, body and soul, and Alice 
 felt his tears dropping on her face as he made her 
 no reply. Her faith was stronger than his, and put- 
 ting up her hand, she wiped his tears away, saying 
 to him, " We shall meet Marian again, I know, and 
 then if you did anything naughty which made her 
 go away, you can tell her you are sorry, and she'll 
 forgive you, for she loved you very much." 
 
 More than once Alice asked him if he knew why 
 Marian went away, and at last he said, " Yes, Alice, 
 I do know, but I cannot tell you now. You would 
 not understand it." 
 
 " I think I should," persisted the child, " and 
 should feel so much better if I knew there was a 
 reason." 
 
 Thus importuned, Frederic replied, " I can only 
 tell you that she thought I did not love her." 
 
 " And did you, Frederic. Did you love her as 
 Marian ought to be loved ?" 
 
 The blind eyes looked earnestly into his face, and 
 with that gaze upon him Frederic Raymond could 
 not tell a lie, so he was silent, and Alice feeling 
 that she was answered, continued, " But you would 
 love her now if she'd come back." 
 
 He couldn't say yes to that, either, for he knew he 
 did not love her even then, though he thought of her 
 as a noble, generous-hearted creature, worthy of a 
 far different fate than had befallen her, and had she 
 come back to him, he would have striven hard to 
 make the love which alone could atone for what 
 she had endured. But she did not come, and day 
 after day went by, during which the search was 
 continued at intervals, and always with the same 
 result, until when a week was gone and there was 
 still no trace of her found, people began to suggest 
 that she was not in the river at all, but had gone 
 off in another direction. Frederic, however, was 
 incredulous. She had no money that he or any one 
 else knew of, or at least but very little. She had 
 
74 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 never been away from home alonCj and if she had 
 done so now, somebody would have seen her, 
 and suspected who it was, for the papers far and 
 near teemed with the strange event, each editor 
 commenting upon its cause according to his own- 
 ideas, and all uniting in censuring the husband, 
 who at last was described as a cruel, unfeeling 
 wretch, capable of driving any woman from his 
 house, particularly one as beautiful and accom- 
 plished as the unfortunate bride I It was in vain 
 that Frederic winced under the annoyance, he 
 could not help it, and the story went the rounds, 
 improving with each repetition, until at last an 
 Oregon weekly outdid all the rest by publishing 
 the tale under the heading of, " Supposed Hor- 
 rible Murder." 
 
 Meantime Frederic, too, inserted in the papers 
 advertisements for the lost one, without any expec- 
 tation, however, that they would bring her back. 
 To him she was dead, even though her body could 
 not be found. There might be deep sink-holes in 
 the river, he said, and into one of these she had 
 fallen, and with a crushing weight upon his spirits, 
 and an intense loathing of himself and the wealth 
 which was his now beyond a question, he gave her 
 up as lost and waited for what would come to him 
 next. 
 
 Occasionally he found himself thinking of Isabel, 
 and wondering what she would say to his letter. 
 When he last saw her, she was talking of visiting 
 her mother's half-brother, who lived at Dayton, 
 Ohio, and he had said to her at parting, " If you 
 come as far as that, you must surely visit Redstone 
 Hall." 
 
 But he had little faith in her coming, and now 
 he earnestly hoped she would not, for if he wronged 
 the living he would be faithful to the dead ; and 
 so day after day he sat in his desolate home, 
 brooding over the past, trying to forget the pres- 
 
MARIA^f. 7^ 
 
 ftnt, and shrinking from the future, which looked 
 so hopeless now. Thoughts of Marian haunted 
 him continually, and in his dreams he often heard 
 again the sound, which he knew must have 
 been her cry when she learned how she had been 
 deceived. Gradually, too, he began to miss her 
 and to listen for her girlish voice, her bound- 
 ing step and merry laugh, which he had once 
 thought rude. Her careful forethought for his 
 comfort, too, he missed, confessing in his secret 
 heart, at least, that Redstone Hall was nothing 
 without Marian. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MARIAN. 
 
 Onward and onward, faster and faster flew the 
 night Express, and the wishes of nearly all the pas- 
 sengers kept pace with the speed. But Marian 
 dreaded the time when the cars would reach their 
 destination, and she be in New York ! How she had 
 come thus far safely she scarce could tell. She only 
 knew that everybody had been kind to her, and 
 asked her where she wished to go ; until now 
 the last dreadful change was made, the Hudson 
 was crossed, Albany was far behind, and she was 
 fast nearing New York. Night and day she had 
 traveled, always with the same dull, dreary sense 
 of pain, the same idea that to her the world would 
 never be pleasant, the sunshine bright, or the flow- 
 ers sweet again. Nervously she shrank from obser- 
 vation, and once, when a lady behind her, who saw 
 that she was weeping, touched her shoulder, and 
 
7^ MARIAN GREY. 
 
 said, " What is the matter, httle girl ?'* she started 
 with fear, but did not answer until the question was 
 repeated ; then she replied, "Oh, I'm so tired and 
 sick, and the cars make such a noise !" 
 
 " Have you come far ?" the lady asked, and 
 Marian answered, " Yes, very, very far," adding, as 
 she remembered with a shudder the din and con- 
 fusion of the larger cities, " Is New York a heap 
 noisier than Albany?" 
 
 "Why, yes," returned the lady, smiling at the 
 strange question. " Have you never been there ?" 
 
 "Once, when a child," said Marian, and the lady 
 continued, " You seem a mere child now. Have 
 you friends in the city ?" 
 
 " Yes, all I have in the world, and that is only 
 one," replied Marian. 
 
 The lady was greatly interested in the child, as 
 she thought her, and had she been going to New 
 York would have befriended her, but she left at 
 Newburgh, and Marian was again alone. She had 
 heard much of New York, but she had no concep- 
 tion of it, and when at last she was there, and on 
 Broadway, her head grew dizzy and her brain 
 whirled with the deafening roar. Cincinnati, Lou- 
 isville and Albany combined were nothing to this, 
 and in her confusion she would have fallen upon 
 the pavement had not the crowd forced her along. 
 Once, as a richly dressed young lady brushed past 
 her, she meekly asked where " Mrs. Daniel Burt 
 lived." 
 
 The question was too preposterous to be heeded 
 even if it were heard, and the lady moved on leav- 
 ing Marian as ignorant as ever of.Mrs. Burt's where-, 
 abouts. To two or three other ladies the same 
 question was put, but Mrs. Daniel Burt was evi- 
 dently not generally known in New York, for no 
 one paid the slightest attention, except to hold 
 tighter their purse-strings, as if there were danger 
 
MARIAN. 77 
 
 to be apprehended from the forlorn little figure. 
 After a time a woman from the country who had 
 not yet been through the hardening process, list- 
 tened to the question, and finding that Mrs. Daniel 
 Burt was no way connected with the Burts of Yates 
 county, nor the Blodgetts of Monroe, replied that 
 she was a stranger in the city, and knew no such 
 person, but pretty likely Marian would find it in the 
 directory, and as a regiment of soldiers just then 
 attracted her attention, she turned aside, while 
 Marian, discouraged and sick at heart, kept on her 
 weary way, knowing nothing where she was going, 
 and, if possible, caring less. When she came op- 
 posite to Trinity Church she sank down upon the 
 step, and drawing her veil over her face, half wished 
 that she might die and be buried there in the en- 
 closure where she saw the November sunshine fall- 
 ing on the graves. And then she wondered if the 
 roar of the great city didn't even penetrate to the 
 ears of the sleeping dead, and, shudderingly, she 
 said, " Oh, I would so much rather be buried by 
 the river at home in dear old Kentucky. It's all so 
 still and quiet there." 
 
 Gradually, as her weariness began to abate, she 
 grew interested in watching the passers-by, wonder- 
 ing what everybody was going down that street for, 
 and why they came back so quick ! Then she tried 
 to count the omnibuses, thinking to herself, "Some- 
 body's dead up town, and this is the procession." 
 The deceased must have been a person of distinc- 
 tion, she fancied, for the funeral train seemed likely 
 never to end. And, what was stranger than all, 
 another was moving up while this was coming 
 down. She knew but little of the great Babylon 
 to which she had so recently come, and she thought 
 it made up of carts, hacks, omnibuses and people, 
 all hurrying in every direction as fast as they could 
 go. It made her feel dizzy and cross-eyed to look 
 at them, and leaning back against the iron railing, 
 
78 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 she fell into a kind of conscious sleep, in which she 
 never forgot for an instant the roar which troubled 
 her so much, or lost the gnawing pain at her heart. 
 In this way she sat for a long time, while hundreds 
 and hundreds of people went by, some glancing 
 sideways at her, and thinking she did not look like 
 an ordinary beggar, while others did not notice her 
 at all. 
 
 At last, as the confusion increased, she roused 
 up, staring about her with a wild startled gaze. 
 People were going home, and she watched them as 
 they struggled fiercely and ineffectually to stop 
 some omnibus, and then rushed higher up to a 
 more favorable locality. 
 
 " The funeral is over," she said. The omni- 
 busses were returning, and though she »had no 
 idea of the lapse of time, she fancied that it 
 might be coming night, and the dreadful thought 
 stole over her, " What shall I do then ? Maybe 
 I'll go in the church, though," she added. " No- 
 body, I am sure, will hurt me there," and she 
 glanced confidingly at the massive walls which 
 weje to shield her from danger and darkness. 
 
 And while she sat there thus, the night shadows 
 began to fall, the people walked faster and faster, 
 the crowd became greater and greater — and over 
 Marian there stole a horrid dread of the hour when 
 the uproar would cease, when Wall street would 
 be empty, the folks all gone, and she be there alone 
 with the blear-eyed old woman who had seated her- 
 self near by, and seemed to be watching her. 
 
 " I will ask once more," she thought. " Maybe 
 some of these people know where she lives." And, 
 she half rose to her feet, when a tall, disagreeable 
 looking fellow bent over itier and said, " What can 
 I do for you, my pretty lass ?" 
 
 For an instant Marian's heart stood still, for 
 there was something in the rowdy's appearance ex- 
 ceedingly repulsive, but when he repeated his ques- 
 
MARIAN. 79 
 
 tion, she answered, " I want to find Mrs. Daniel 
 Burt." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mrs. Daniel Burt. I know the old 
 lady well, lives just around the corner. Come 
 with me and I'll show you the way," and the great 
 red, rough hand was about to touch the slender 
 white one resting on Marian's lap, when a blow 
 from a brawny fist sent the rascal reeling upon the 
 pavement, while a good-humored face looked into 
 Marian's, and a kindly voice said, " Did the villain 
 insult you, little girl ?" 
 
 " Yes, I reckon not, I don't know," answered 
 Marian, trembling with fright, while her compan- 
 ion continued, " 'Tis the first time he ever spoke 
 civil to a woman then. I know the scamp well, 
 but what are you sittin' here alone for, when every- 
 body else is goin' hum ?" 
 
 Marian felt intuitively that he could be trusted, 
 and said, " I haven't any home, nor friends, nor 
 anything." 
 
 "Great Moses!" said the young man, scanning 
 her closely, " you ain't a beggar, that's as sure as 
 my name is Ben Burt, and what be you sittin' here 
 for, any way ?" 
 
 Marian did not heed his question, so eagerly did 
 she catch at the name Ben Burt. 
 
 " Oh, sir," she exclaimed, grasping his arm, " are 
 you anyway related to Mrs. Daniel Burt, who once 
 lived with Colonel Raymond at Yonkers ?" 
 
 " Wall, ra-ally now," returned the honest-hearted 
 Yankee, " if this don't beat all. I wouldn't wonder 
 if I was some connected to Mrs. Daniel Burt, bein' 
 she brung me up from a little shaver, and has 
 licked me mor'n a hundred times. She's my 
 mother, and if it's her you're looking for we may as 
 well be travelin', for she lives all of three miles 
 from here." 
 
 " Xhr^e miles !" repeated Marian, " that othe? 
 
8o MARIAN GREY. 
 
 man said just around the corner. What made him 
 tell such a lie ?" 
 
 " You tell," answered Ben, with a knowing wink, 
 which however failed to enlighten Marian, who was 
 too glad with having found a protector to ask many 
 questions, and unhesitatingly taking Ben's offered 
 arm she went with him up the street, until he 
 found the car he wished to take. 
 
 When they were comfortably seated and she had 
 leisure to examine him more closely, she found him 
 to be a tall, athletic, good-natured looking young 
 man, betraying but little refinement either in per- 
 sonal appearance or manner, but manifesting in all 
 he did a kind, noble heart, which won her good 
 opinion at once. Greatly he wondered who she 
 was, but he refrained from asking her any ques- 
 tions, thinking he should know the whole if he 
 waited. It seemed to Marian a long, long ride, 
 and she was beginning to wonder if it would never 
 end, when Ben touched her arm and signified that 
 they were to alight. 
 
 " Come right down this street a rod or so and 
 we're there," he said, and Marian was soon climb- 
 ing a long, narrow stairway to the third story of 
 what seemed to her a not very pleasant block of 
 buildings. 
 
 But if it were dreary without, the sight of a cheer- 
 ful fire, as Ben opened a narrow door, raised her 
 spirits at once, and taking in at a glance the rag 
 carpet, the stuffed rocking chairs, the chintz-cov- 
 ered lounge, the neat-looking supper table spread 
 for two, and the neater looking woman who was 
 making the toast, she felt the pain at her heart give 
 way a httle, and bounding toward the woman, she 
 cried, "You don't know me, I suppose. I am 
 Marian Lindsey, Colonel Raymond's ward." 
 
 Mrs. Burt came near dropping her plate of but- 
 tered toast in her surprise, and setting it down upon 
 the hearth, she exclaimed, " The last person upon 
 
MARIAN. 8 1 
 
 earth I expected to see. Where did you come from, 
 and how happened you to run afoul of Ben ?" 
 
 " I ran afoul of her," answered Ben. " I found 
 her a cryin' on the pavement in front of Old Trinity, 
 with that rascal of a Joe Black, makin' b'lieve he 
 was well acquainted with you, and that you lived 
 jest round the corner." 
 
 " Mercy me," ejaculated Mrs. Burt, " but do tell 
 a body what you're here for, not but I'm glad to 
 see you, but it seems so queer. How is the old 
 Colonel, and that son I never see, Ferdinand, ain't 
 it, no, Frederic, that's what they call him ?" 
 
 At the mention of Frederic, Marian gave a chok- 
 ing sob and replied : " Colonel Raymond is dead, 
 and Frederic, oh, Mrs. Burt, please don't ask me 
 about him now, or I shall die." 
 
 " There's some bedivilment of some kind, I'll 
 warrant," muttered Ben, who was a champion of 
 all woman kind. " There's been the old Harry to 
 pay, or she wouldn't be runnin' off here, the vil- 
 lain," and in fancy he dealt the unknown Frederic 
 a far heavier blow than he had given the scapegrace 
 Joe. 
 
 " Well, never mind now," said Mrs. Burt, sooth- 
 ingly. " Take off your things and have some sup- 
 per ; you must be hungry, I'm sure. How long is 
 it since you ate ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," Marian answered, a death- 
 like paleness overspreading her face ; " not since 
 yesterday, I reckon. Where am I ? Everything 
 is so confused !" and overcome with hunger, ex- 
 haustion and her late fright, Marian fainted in her 
 chair. 
 
 Taking her in his arms, Ben carried her to the 
 spare room, which, in accordance with her New 
 England habits, Mrs. Burt always kept for com- 
 pany, and there on the softest of all soft beds he 
 laid her down ; then, while his mother removed her 
 hat and shawj, he ran for water apd camphor, ch^f- 
 
82 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 ing with his own rough fingers her hands, and bath- 
 ing her forehead until she came back to conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 " There, swaller some cracker and tea, and you'll 
 feel better directly," said Mrs. Burt ; and, like a 
 child, Marian obeyed, feeling that there was some 
 thing delicious in being thus cared for after the 
 dreadful days she had passed. "You needn't talk 
 to us to-night. There will be time enough to-mor- 
 row," continued Mrs. Burt, as she saw her about to 
 speak ; and fixing her comfortably in bed, she went 
 back to Ben to whom she told all that she knew 
 concerning Marian and the family with whom she 
 had lived. 
 
 "There's something that ain't just right, depend 
 on't," said Ben, sitting down at the table. " That 
 Frederic has served her some mean caper, and so 
 she's run away. But she hit the nail on the head 
 when she came here." 
 
 By the time supper was over, Marian's regular 
 breathing told that she was asleep, and taking the 
 lamp in his hand, the curious Ben stole in to see 
 her. Her face was white as marble, and even in 
 her sleep the tears dropped from her long eye- 
 lashes, affecting Ben so strangely that his coat- 
 sleeve was more than once called in requisition to 
 perform the office of a handkerchief. 
 
 "Poor little baby! You've been misused the 
 wust kind," he whispered, as he went noiselessly 
 from the room. 
 
 It was a deep, dreamless sleep which came to 
 Marian that night, for her strength was utterly ex- 
 hausted, and in the atmosphere of kindness sur- 
 rounding her, there was something soothing to her 
 irritated nerves. But when the morning broke and 
 the roar of the great city fell again upon her ear, 
 she started up and gazing about the room, thought, 
 " where am I and what is it that makes my heart 
 ^ghe so ?" 
 
MARIAN. 83 
 
 Then she remembered what it was, and burying 
 her face in the pillows, she wept again bitterly, 
 wondering what they were doing at Redstone Hall, 
 and if anybody but Alice was sorry she had gone. 
 A moment after Mrs. Burt's kind voice was heard 
 asking how she was, and bidding her to be still and 
 rest. But this was impossible for Marian to do. 
 She could not lie there and listen to the din which 
 began to produce upon her the same dizzy, be- 
 wildering effect it had done the previous day, when 
 she sat on the pavement and saw the omnibuses go 
 by. She must be up and tell the kind people her 
 story, and then, if they said so, she would go back 
 to those graves she had seen yesterday, and lying 
 down in some hollow, where that horrid man and 
 blear-eyed woman could not find her, she would 
 die, and Frederic would surely never know what 
 had become of her. She knew she could trust 
 both Mrs. Burt and Ben, and when breakfast was 
 over, she told them everything, interrupted occa- 
 sionally by Ben's characteristic exclamations of 
 surprise and his mother's ejaculations of wonder. 
 
 Mrs. Burt's first impulse was, that if she were 
 Marian she would claim her property, though of 
 course she would not live with Frederic. But Ben 
 said No — " he'd work his finger-nails off before she 
 should go back. His mother wanted some one 
 with her when he was gone, and Marian was sent 
 to them by Providence. Any way," said he, "she 
 shall live with us a while, and we'll see what turns 
 up. Maybe this Fred'll begin to like her now 
 she's gone. It's nater to do so, and some day he'H 
 walk in here and claim her." 
 
 This picture was not a displeasing one to Marian, 
 who smiled gratefully upon Ben, mentally resolv- 
 ing that should she be ever mistress of Redstone 
 Hall she would remember him. And so it was 
 arranged that Marian Grey, as she chose to be 
 galled, should remain where she was, for z, time at 
 
84 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 least, and if no husband came for her, she would 
 stay there always as the daughter of Mrs. Burt, 
 whose motherly heart already yearned toward the 
 unfortunate orphan. Both Mrs. Burt and Ben 
 were noble types of diamonds in the rough. 
 Neither of them could boast of much education or 
 refinement, but in all the great city there were few 
 with warmer hearts or kindlier feehngs than the 
 widow and her son. Particularly was this true of 
 Ben, who in his treatment of Marian only acted 
 out of the impulse of his nature ; if she had been 
 aggrieved he was the one to defend her, and if she 
 bade him keep her secret, it was as safe with him 
 as if it had never been breathed into his ear. 
 Nearly all of Ben's life had been passed in factor- 
 ies, and though now home on a visit, he was still 
 connected with one in Ware, Mass. Very care- 
 fully he saved his weekly earnings, and once in 
 three months carried or sent them to his mother, 
 who, having spent many years in New York city, 
 preferred it to the country. Here she lived very 
 comfortably on her own earnings and those of 
 Ben, whose occasional visits made the variety of 
 her rather monotonous life. The other occupants 
 of the block were not people with whom she cared 
 to associate, and she passed many lonely hours. 
 But with Marian for company it would be different, 
 and she welcomed her as warmly as Ben himself 
 had done. 
 
 " You shall be my little girl," she said, to Marian, 
 who began to think the world was not as cheerless 
 as she had thought it was. Still the old dreary 
 pain was in her heart, a desolate, home-sick feeling, 
 which kept her thoughts ever in one place and on 
 one single object ; the place, Redstone Hall, and 
 the object, Frederic Raymond. And as the days 
 went by, the feeling grew into an intense, longing 
 desire to see her old home once more, to look into 
 frederic's face^ to listen to his voice, and knovy if 
 
MARIAN, 8$ 
 
 he were sorry that she was gone. This feeling Mrs. 
 Burt did not try to discourage, for though she was 
 learning to love the friendless girl, she knew it 
 would be better for her to be reconciled to Mr. 
 Raymond, and when one day, nearly four weeks 
 after Marian's arrival, the latter said to her, " I 
 mean to write to Frederic and ask him to take me 
 back," she did not oppose the plan, for she saw how 
 the great grief was wearing the young girl's life 
 away. 
 
 That night there came a paper from Ben, who, 
 having far outstaid his time, had returned the week 
 before to Ware. Listlessly she tore open the 
 wrapper, and glancing at the first page, was about 
 throwing it aside, when a marked paragraph 
 arrested her attention, and she read that " Frederic 
 Raymond would gladly receive any information of 
 a young girl who had disappeared mysteriously 
 from Redstone Hall." 
 
 " Oh !" she exclaimed, springing to her feet, " I 
 am going home, to Frederic. He's sent for me — ■ 
 see !" and she pointed out to Mrs. Burt the adver- 
 tisement. " Can I go to-night .?" she continued. 
 " Is there a train ? Oh, I am so glad." 
 
 Mrs. Burt, was more moderate in her feelings. 
 Mr. Raymond could scarcely do less than adver- 
 tise, she thought, and to her this did not mean that 
 he wished the fugitive to return for any love he 
 bore her. Still, she would not dash Marian's hopes 
 at once, though she would save her from the cold 
 reception she might meet, should she return to Red- 
 stone Hall, unannounced. So, when the first 
 excitement of Marian's joy had abated, she said : 
 " I should write to Mr. Raymond, just as I first 
 thought of doing. Then he'll know where you are, 
 and he will come for you, if he wants you, of 
 course." 
 
 That " if he wants you " grated harshly on Mar- 
 ian's ear ; but, after her past experience, she did 
 
86' MARIAN GREY. 
 
 not care to thrust herself upon hirrl, unless slire 
 that he wished it, and she concluded to follow Mrs. 
 Burt's advice. So she sat down and wrote a second 
 letter, telling him where she was, and how she 
 came there, and asking him to let her come back 
 again. 
 
 " Oh, I want to come home so much," she wrote, 
 " if you'll only let me, you needn't ever call me 
 your wife, nor make believe I am, at least, not 
 until you love me, and I get to be a lady. I'll try 
 so hard to learn. I'll go away to school, and 
 maybe, after a good many years are gone, you 
 won't be ashamed of me, though I shall never be 
 as beautiful as Isabel. If you don't want me back, 
 Frederic, you must tell me so. I can't feel any 
 worse than I did that day when I sat here in the 
 street and wished I could die. I didn't die then, 
 maybe I shouldn't now, and if you do hate me, I'll 
 stay away and never write again, never let you 
 know whether I am alive, or not ; and after seven 
 years, Ben Burt says, you will be free to marry 
 Isabel. She'll wait for you, I know. She won't 
 be too old then, will she ? I shall be almost 
 twenty-three, but that is young, and the years will 
 seem so long to me if you do not let me return. 
 May I, Frederic? Write, and tell me Yes; but 
 direct to Mrs. Daniel Burt, as I shall then be more 
 sure to get it. I dare not hope you'll come for 
 me, but if you only would, and quick, too, for my 
 heart aches so, and my head is tried and sick with 
 the dreadful noise. Do say I may come home. 
 God will bless you if you do, I am sure ; and if 
 you don't I'll ask Him to bless you just the same." 
 
 The letter closed with another assurance that she 
 gave him cheerfully all her fortune, that she neither 
 blamed his father nor himself, nor Isabel, nor any- 
 body. All she asked was to come back ! 
 
 The pain in her heart was not so great, and the 
 noise in the street easier to bear after sending that 
 
MariaU. §7 
 
 letter, for hope softened them both, and whispered 
 to her, " he'll let me come," and in a thousand dif- 
 ferent ways she pictured the meeting between her- 
 self and Frederic. Occasionally the thought in- 
 truded itself upon her, " what if he tells me to keep 
 away," and then she said, " I'll do it if he does, and 
 before seven years are gone, maybe I'll be dead. I 
 hope I shall, for I do not want to think of Isabel's 
 living there with him !" 
 
 She had great faith in the seven years, for Ben 
 had said so, and Ben believed it, too, and the 
 thought of it was like a ray of sunshine in the dingy, 
 noisome room where he worked, sometimes reckon- 
 ing up how many months there were in seven years ; 
 then how many weeks — then how many days, and 
 finally calling himself a fool for caring a thing about 
 it. When the newspaper article came under his 
 eye, the sunshine left the dingy room, and after he 
 had sent the paper to Marian he cared but little 
 how many months or weeks or days there were in 
 seven years, and he felt angry at himself for having 
 sweat so hard in making the computation. 
 
 And so while Marian in the city waits and 
 watches for the message which will, perhaps, bid 
 her come back, and Ben in the noisome factory waits 
 also for a message which shall say she has gone, the 
 letter travels on, and one pleasant afternoon, when 
 the clerk at Cincinnati makes up the mail for Frank- 
 fort, he puts that important missive with the rest 
 and sends it on its way. 
 
88 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 ISABEL HUNTINGTON. 
 
 All day and all night it rained with a steady, un- 
 relenting pour, and when the steamboat which plies 
 between Cincinnati and Frankfort stopped at the 
 latter place, two ladies from the lower deck looked 
 drearily over the city, one frowning impatiently at 
 the mud and the rain, while the other wished that 
 she was safely back in her old home, and had never 
 consented to this foolish trip. This wish, however, 
 she dared not express to her companion, who, 
 though calling her mother, was in reality the mis- 
 tress, the one whose word was law, and to whose 
 wishes everything else must bend. 
 
 " This is delightful," the younger lady exclaimed, 
 as holding up her traveling dress, and glancing at 
 her thin boots, she prepared to walk the plank. 
 " This is charming. I wonder if they always have 
 such weather in Kentucky." 
 
 " No, Miss, very seldom, 'cept on 'strodinary 'ca- 
 sions," said the polite African, who was holding an 
 umbrella over her head, and who felt bound to de- 
 fend his native State. 
 
 The lady tossed her head proudly, and turning 
 to her mother, continued : " Have you any idea 
 how we are to get to Redstone Hall?" 
 
 At this question an old gray-haired negro, who, 
 with several other idlers, was standing near, came 
 forward and said : " If it's Redstone Hall whar 
 Miss wants to go, I's here with Marster Frederic's 
 carriage. I come to fotch a man who's been out 
 thar tryin' to buy a house of marster in Louis- 
 ville." 
 
 At this announcement the face of both ladies 
 
ISABEL HUNTINGTON. 89 
 
 brightened, and pointing out their baggage to 
 Uncle Phil, they went to a public house to wait 
 until the carriage came round for them. 
 
 " What do you suppose Frederic will think when 
 he sees us ?" the mother asked ; and the daughter 
 repHed, " He won't think anything, of course. It 
 is perfectly proper that we should visit our rela- 
 tions, particularly when we are as near to them as 
 Dayton, and they are in affliction, too. He would 
 have been displeased if we had returned without 
 giving him a call." 
 
 Mrs. Huntington and her daughter Isabella had 
 decided at last to visit Dayton, and had started for 
 that city a few days after the receipt of Frederic's 
 letter announcing his father's death ; consequently 
 they knew nothing of the marriage, and the fact 
 that Colonel Raymond was dead only increased 
 Isabel's desire to visit Redstone Hall, for she 
 guessed that Frederic was now so absorbed in bus- 
 iness that it would be long before he came to New 
 Haven again ; so she insisted upon coming, and as 
 she found her Ohio aunt not altogether agreeable, 
 she had shortened her visit there, and now, with her 
 mother, sat waiting at the Mansion House for the 
 appearance of Phil and the carriage. That Isabel 
 was beautiful was conceded by every one, and that 
 she was as treacherous as beautiful was conceded 
 by those who knew her best. Early in life she had 
 been engaged to Rudolph McVicar, a man of strong 
 passions, an iron will and indomitable perseverance. 
 But when young Raymond came, and she fancied 
 she could win him, she unhesitatingly broke her 
 engagement with Rudolph, who, stung to madness 
 by her cold, unfeeling conduct, swore to be re- 
 venged. This threat, however, was little heeded 
 by the proud beauty. If she secured Frederic 
 Raymond she would be above all danger, and she 
 bent every energy to the accomplishment of her 
 plan. She knew that the Kentuckians were pro- 
 
00 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 verbial for their hospitality, and feeling sure that 
 no one would think it at all improper for her 
 mother and herself to visit their cousin, as she 
 called Frederic, she determined, if possible, to pro- 
 long that visit until asked to stay with him always. 
 He had never directly talked to her of love, conse- 
 quently she felt less delicacy in going to his house 
 and claiming relationship with him ; so when Phil 
 Came around with the carriage, she said to him, 
 quite as a matter of course, " How is Cousin Fred- 
 eric since his father's death ?" 
 
 " Jest tolable, thankee," returned the negro, at 
 the same time saying, " Be you marster's kin ?" 
 
 " Certainly," answered Isabel, while the negro 
 bowed low, for any one related to his master was a 
 person of distinction to him. 
 
 Isabel had heard Frederic speak of Marian, and 
 when they were half way home she put her head 
 from the window and said to Phil, " Where is the 
 young girl who used to live with Colonel Raymond, 
 Marian was her name, I think ?" 
 
 "Bless you," returned the negro, "hain't you 
 hearn how she done got married to marster mighty 
 nigh three weeks ago ?" 
 
 " Married ! Frederic Raymond married !" Isabel 
 screamed : " It is not true. How dare you tell me 
 such a falsehood ?" 
 
 " ' Strue as preachin', and a heap truer than some 
 on't' for I seen 'em joined with these very eyes," 
 said Phil, and, glancing back at the white face 
 leaning from the window, he muttered, " 'spects 
 mebby she calkerlated on catchin' him herself. Ki, 
 wouldn't she and Dinah pull har, though. Thar's 
 a heap of Ole Sam in them black eyes of hern," and, 
 chirruping to his horses, Philip drove rapidly on, 
 thinking he wouldn't tellherthat the bride had run 
 away, he would let his master do that. 
 
 Meantime Isabel, inside, was wringing her hands 
 
Isabel ttDi^TtNGtoN. ^t 
 
 artd insisting that her mother should ask the negro 
 again if what he had told them were so. 
 
 " Man, sir ;" said Mrs. Huntington, putting her 
 bonnet out into the rain, " Is Mr. Frederic Ray- 
 mond really married to that girl Marian ?" 
 
 " Yes, as true as I am sittin' here. Thursday'U 
 be three weeks since the weddin," was the reply. 
 
 Nothing could exceed Isabel's rage, mortification 
 and disappointment, except, indeed, her pride, and 
 this was stronger than all her other emotions, and 
 that which finally roused her to action. She would 
 not turn back now, she said. She would brave the 
 villain and show him that she did not care. She 
 would put herself by the side of his wife and let 
 him see the contrast. She had surely heard from 
 him that Marian was plain, and in fancy she saw 
 how she would overshadow her rival and make 
 Frederic feel keenly the difference between them. 
 
 By this time they had left the highway, for Red- 
 stone Hall was more than a mile from the turnpike, 
 and Isabel found ample opportunity for venting 
 her ill-nature. Such a road as that she never saw 
 before, and she'd like to know if folks in Kentucky 
 lived out in the lots. " No wonder they were such 
 heathen ! You nigger," she exclaimed, as Phil 
 drove through a brook, " are you going to tip us 
 over or what ?" 
 
 " Wonder if she 'spects a body is gwine round 
 the brook," muttered Phil, and as the carriage 
 wheels were now safe from the water, he stopped 
 and said to the indignant lady, " mebby Miss would 
 rather walk the rest of the way. Thar's a heap wus 
 places in the cornfield, whar we'll be pretty likely 
 to got oversot." 
 
 " Go on," snapped Isabel, who knew she could 
 not walk quite as well as the mischievous driver. 
 
 Accordingly they went on, and before long came 
 in sight of the house, which even in that drenching 
 rain looked beautiful to Isabel, and all the more 
 
92 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 beautiful because she felt that she had lost it. On 
 the piazza little Alice stood, her hair blowing over 
 her face, and her ear turned to catch the first sound 
 which should tell her if what she hoped were true. 
 Old Dinah, who saw tlie carriage in the distance, 
 had said there was some one in it, and instantly 
 Alice thought of Marian, and going out upon the 
 piazza, waited impatiently until Phil drove up to 
 the door. 
 
 " There are four feet," she said, as the strangers 
 came up the steps ; " four feet, but none are Ma- 
 rian's," and she was turning away, when she acci- 
 dentally trod upon the long skirt of Isabel, who, 
 snatching it away, said angrily, " Child, what are 
 you doing, stepping on my dress ?" 
 
 " I didn't mean to ; I'm blind," Alice answered, 
 her lip quivering and her eyes filling with tears. 
 
 " Never you mind that she dragon," whispered 
 Uncle Phil, thrusting into the child's hand a paper 
 of candy, which had the effect of consoling her 
 somewhat, both for her disappointment and her late 
 reproof. 
 
 " Who is that ar ?" Dinah asked, appearing upon 
 the piazza just as Isabel passed into the hall. 
 " Some of marster's kin !" she repeated after Un- 
 cle Phil. " For the Lord's sake, what fotched 'em 
 here this rainy day, when we's gwine to have an 
 ornery dinner, no briled hen, norturkey, nor nothin'. 
 Be they quality, think ?" 
 
 " 'Spects the young one wants to be, if she ain't," 
 returned Phil, with a very expressive wink, which 
 had the effect of enlightening Dinah with regard to 
 his opinion. 
 
 " Some low flung truck, I'll warrant," she said as 
 she followed them into the parlor, where Isabel's 
 stately bearing and big black eyes awed her into a 
 low courtesy, as she said : " You're very welcome 
 to Redstone Hall, I'm sure. Who shall I tell mars- 
 ter wants to see him ?" 
 
ISABEL HUNTINGTON. 93 
 
 "Two ladies, simply," was Isabel's haughty an- 
 swer, and old Dinah departed, whispering to her- 
 self, " Two ladies simple ! She must think I know 
 nothin' 'bout grarmar to talk in that kind of way, 
 but she's mistakened. I hain't lived in the fust 
 families for nothin'," and knocking at Frederic's 
 door, she told him that "two simple ladies was 
 down in the parlor and wanted him." 
 
 " Who ?" he asked, in some surprise, and Dinah 
 replied : 
 
 " Any way, that's what she said ; the tall one, 
 with great black eyes jest like coals of fire. Phil 
 picked 'em up in Frankford, whar they got off the 
 boat. They's some o' yer kin, they say." 
 
 Frederic did not wish to hear any more, for he 
 suspected who they were. It was about this time 
 they had talked of visiting Dayton, and motioning 
 Dinah from the room, he pressed his hands to his 
 forehead, and thought, " Must I suffer this, too ? 
 Oh, why did she come to look at me in my misery ?" 
 Then, forcing an unnatural calmness, he started for 
 the parlor, where, as he had feared, he stood face 
 to face with Isabel Huntington. 
 
 She was very pale, and in her eyes there was a 
 hard, dangerous expression, frqm which he gladly 
 turned away, addressing first her mother, who, ris- 
 ing to meet him, said : 
 
 " We have accepted your invitation, you see." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," he replied, and he was trying to 
 stammer out a welcome, when Isabel, who all 
 the time had been aching to pounce upon him, 
 chimed in: 
 
 " Where is Mrs. Raymond ? I am dying to see 
 my new cousin." 
 
 " Mrs. Raymond !" repeated Frederic, the name 
 dropping slowly from his lips. " Mrs. Raymond ! 
 Oh ! Isabel, don't you know ? Havn't you heard." 
 
 " Certainly I have," returned the young lady, 
 ^y^tching him as a fierce cat watches his helpless 
 
94 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 prey. " Of course I have heard of your marriage, 
 and have come to congratulate you. Is your wife 
 well ?" 
 
 Frederic raised hi^ hand to stop the flippant 
 speech, and when it was finished he rejoined : " But 
 haven't you heard the rest, the saddest part of all.? 
 Marian is dead ! — drowned, at least we think she 
 must be, for she went away on our wedding night, 
 and no trace of her can be found." 
 
 The shadow of a smile dimpled the corner of 
 Isabel's mouth, and she was herself again. 
 
 " Dead ! Drowned !" she exclaimed. " How 
 did it happen ? What was the reason ? Dreadful, 
 isn't it.?" and going to Mr. Raymond she looked 
 him in the face, with an expression she meant 
 should say, " I am sorry for you," but which really 
 did say something quite contrary. 
 
 " I cannot tell you why she went away,'' Frederic 
 answered, " but there was a reason for it, and it 
 has cast a shadow over my whole life." 
 
 " Marian was a mere child, I had always sup- 
 posed," suggested Isabel, anxious to get at the 
 reason why he had so soon forgotten herself. 
 
 " Did you get my last letter ?" Frederic, asked ; 
 and upon Isabel's^replying that she did not, he 
 briefly stated a few facts concerning his marriage, 
 saying it was his father's dying request, and he 
 could not well avoid doing as he had done, even if 
 he disliked Marian. " But I didn't dislike her," he 
 continued, and the hot blood rushed into his face. 
 " She was a gentle, generous hearted girl, and had 
 she lived, I would have made her happy." 
 
 If by this speech Frederic Raymond thought to 
 deceive Isabel Huntington, he was mistaken, for, 
 looking into his eyes she read a portion of the 
 truth, and knew there was something between him- 
 self and his father which had driven him to the 
 marriage. What it was she did not care then to 
 know, §he was satisfied that the bride was gone, 
 
ISABEL HUNTINGTON. 95 
 
 and when Frederic narrated more minutely the 
 particulars of her going, the artful girl said to her- 
 self. " She is dead beyond a doubt, and when I 
 leave Redstone Hall, I shall know it, and mother, 
 too!" 
 
 It was strange how rapidly Isabel changed from 
 a hard, defiant woman, to a soft, sparkling, beauti- 
 ful creature, and when, in her dress of crimson silk, 
 with her hair bound in heavy braids about her 
 head, she came down to dinner. Aunt Dinah invol- 
 untarily dropped another courtesy, and whispered 
 under her teeth, " The Lord, if she ain't quality 
 after all." Old Hetty, too, who from a side door 
 looked curiously in at their guests, received a }ike 
 impression, pronouncing her more like Miss Bea- 
 trice than any body she had ever seen. To Alice, 
 Isabel was all gentleness, for she readily saw that 
 the child was a pet ; so she called her darling and 
 dearest, smoothing her hair and kissing her when 
 Frederic was looking on. All this, however, did 
 not deceive the little blind girl, or erase from her 
 mind the angry words which had been spoken to 
 her, and that evening, when she went to Frederic 
 to bid him good night, she said : " Is that Miss 
 Isabel going to stay here always?" 
 
 " Why, no," he answered. " Did you think she 
 was?" 
 
 " I did not know," returned Alice, " but I hoped 
 not, for I don't like her. She's very grand and 
 beautiful, Dinah says, but I think she must look 
 like a snake, and I want her to go away, don't you ?" 
 
 Frederic could not say yes to this question, and 
 he remained silent. Had he been consulted he 
 would rather she had never come to Redstone Hall, 
 but now she was there, he did not wish her away. 
 It would be inhospitable, he said, and when next 
 morning she came down to breakfast, bright, fresh 
 and elegant, he felt a pang as he tdiought, " had I 
 (^one right she might have been the mistress pf 
 
96 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 Redstone Hall," but it could not be now, even if 
 Marian were dead, and all that day he struggled 
 between his duty and his inclination, while Isabel 
 dealt out her highest card, ingrafting herself into 
 the good graces of the Smitherses by speaking to 
 them pleasant, familiar words, exalting herself In 
 the estimation of the Higginses by her graceful 
 bearing, and winning Dinah's friendship by praising 
 Victoria Eugenia, and asking if that fine-looking 
 man who drove the carriage was her husband. In 
 the evening, when the lamps were lighted in the 
 parlor, she opened the piano and filled the hou.se 
 with the rich melody of her cultivated voice, sing- 
 ing a sad, plaintive strain, which reminded Alice of 
 poor, lost Marian, and carried Frederic back to 
 other days, when, with a feeHng of pride he had 
 watched her fingers as they gracefully swept the 
 keys. He could not look at them now, he dared 
 not look at her, in her ripe, glowing beauty, and he 
 left the room, going out upon the piazza, where he 
 cursed the fate which had made it a sin for him to 
 love the dark-haired Isabel. She knew that he was 
 gone, and divining the cause, dashed off into astir- 
 ring dancing tune, which brought the negroes to 
 the door, where Hjey stood admiring her playing 
 and praising her queenly form. 
 
 " That's somethin' like it," whispered Hetty, beat- 
 ing time to the lively strain. " That sounds like 
 Miss Beatrice did when she done played the 
 planner. I 'clare for't, I eenamost wish Marster 
 Frederic had done chose her. 'Case you know 
 t'other one done drowned herself the fust night," 
 she added quickly, as she met Dinah's rebuking 
 glance. 
 
 Dinah admired Isabel, and like her sex, whether 
 black or brow<n, she speculated upon the future, 
 when " Marster Frederic would be done mournin'," 
 and she wondered if " old miss," meaning Mrs. 
 Huntington, would think it necessary^ to stay th^re^ 
 
ISABEL HUNTINGTON. 97 
 
 too. Thus several days went by, and so pleasant 
 was it to Frederic to have some one in the house 
 who could divert him from his gloomy thoughts, 
 that he began to dread the time when he would be 
 alone again. But there was no immediate cause of 
 alarm. Isabel did not intend to leave her present 
 quarters immediately, and to this end her plans 
 were laid. From what she had heard she believed 
 Marian Lindsey was dead, and if so, she would not 
 again trust Frederic away from her influence. 
 Redstone Hall needed a head, and as her mother 
 was an old lady, and also a relative of Frederic, she 
 was just the one to fill that post. Their house in 
 New Haven was only rented until March, and by 
 writing to some friends they could easily dispose 
 of their furniture until such time as they might 
 want it. Alice needed a governess, for she heard 
 Frederic say so ; and though the little pest (this 
 was what she called her to herself) did not seem to 
 like her, she could teach her as well as any one. It 
 would be just as proper for her to be Alice's gov- 
 erness as for any one else, and a little more so, for 
 her mother would be with her. 
 
 This arrangement she brought about with the 
 most consummate skill, first asking Frederic if he 
 knew of any situation in Kentucky which she could 
 procure as a teacher. That was one object of her 
 visit, she said. She must do something for a liv- 
 ing, and as she would rather teach either in a school 
 or in a private family, she would be greatly obliged 
 to him if he would assist her a little. Hardly 
 knowing what he was doing, Frederic said some- 
 thing about Alice's having needed a governess for a 
 long time, and quickly catching at it, Isabel re- 
 joined, " Oh ! but you know I couldn't possibly 
 remain here unless mother stayed with me. Now, 
 if you'll keep her as a kind of overseer-iii-general 
 of the house I'll gladly undertake the charge of 
 dear little Alice's education. She does not fancy 
 
98 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 me, I think, but I'm sure I can win her love. I 
 can that of almost any one, children, I mean, of 
 course," and the beautiful eyes looked out of the 
 window quite indifferently, as if their owner were 
 utterly oblivious of the fierce struggle in Frederic's 
 bosom. 
 
 He wished her to stay ! But was it right ? and 
 would he not get to loving her? No, he would 
 not, he said. He would only think of her as his 
 cousin, his sister, whose presence would cheer his 
 solitary home. So he bade her stay, and she bade 
 her mother stay, urging so many reasons why she 
 should, and must, that the latter consented at last, 
 and a letter was dispatched to New Haven, with 
 directions for having their furniture packed away, 
 and their house given up to its owner. This ar- 
 rangement at first caused some gossip among the 
 neighbors, who began to predict what the end 
 would be, and also, to assert more loudly than ever 
 their belief that Marian was not dead. Still, there 
 was no reason why Isabel should not be Alice's 
 governess, particularly as her mother was with her ; 
 and when Agnes Gibson pronounced her beautiful, 
 accomplished, the rest followed in the train, and 
 the health of the " northern beauty " was drunk by 
 more than one young man. 
 
 In the kitchen at Redstone Hall there was also 
 a discussion, in which the Higginses rather had the 
 preference, inasmuch as the lady in question was 
 after their manner of thinking. Old Dinah wisely 
 kept silent, saying to herself, " a new broom sweeps 
 clean, and I'll wait to see what 'tis when it gets a 
 little wore. One thing is sartin, though, if she 
 goes to put on ars, and sasses us colored folks, I'll 
 gin her a piece of my mind. I'll ask her whar she 
 come from, and how many niggers she owned afore 
 she come from thar." 
 
 It was several days before Alice was told of the 
 arrangement, and then ?he rebelled at once. 
 
ISABEL HUNTINGTON. 99 
 
 Bursting Into tears, she hid her face in Dinah's lap, 
 and sobbed, " I can't learn of her. I don't like 
 her. What shall I do ?" 
 
 " I wish to goodness I had larning," answered 
 Dinah, " and I'd hear you say that foolishness 
 'bout the world's turnin' round and makin' usstan' 
 on our heads half the time, but I hain't, and if I's 
 you I'd make the best on't. I'll keep my eye on 
 her, and if she makes you do the fust thing you 
 don't want to, I'll gin her a piece of my mind. I 
 ain't afraid on her. Why, Gibson's niggers say 
 how they hearn Miss Agnes say she used to make 
 her own bed whar she came from, and wash dishes, 
 too ! Think o' that !" 
 
 Thus comforted, Alice dried her tears, and hunt- 
 ing up the books from which she had once recited 
 to Marian, she declared herself ready for her les- 
 sons at any time. 
 
 " Let it be to-morrow, then," said Isabel, who 
 knew that Frederic was going to Lexington, and 
 that she could not see him even if she were not 
 occupied with Alice. 
 
 So, the next morning, after Frederic was gone, 
 Alice went to the school-room, and drawing her 
 chair to Isabel's side, laid her books upon the 
 lady's lap, and waited for her to begin. 
 
 " You must read to me," she said, " until I know 
 what it is, and then I'll recite it to you." 
 
 But Isabel was never intended for a teacher, and 
 she found it very tedious reading the same thing 
 over and over, particularly as Alice seemed inatten- 
 tive, and not at all inclined to remember. At last 
 she said, impatiently, " For the pity's sake how 
 many more times must I read it ? Can't you learn 
 anything?" 
 
 " Don't — don't speak so," Alice sobbed. " I'm 
 thinking of Marian, and how she used to be with 
 me- It's just six weeks to-day since she went 
 
lOO MARIAN GREY. 
 
 away. Oh, I wish she'd come back. Do you be- 
 lieve she's dead ?" 
 
 Isabel was interested in anything concerning 
 Marian, and closing the book she began to ques- 
 tion the child, asking her among other things, if 
 Marian did not leave a letter for Mr. Raymond, and 
 if she knew what was in it. 
 
 " No one knows," returned the child ; "he never 
 told, but here's mine," and drawing from her bosom 
 the soiled note, she passed it to Isabel, who scruti- 
 nized it closely, particularly the handwriting. 
 
 " Of course she's dead, or she would have been 
 heard from before this," she said, passing the note 
 back to Alice, who, not feeling particularly com- 
 forted, made but little progress in her studies that 
 morning, and both teacher and pupil were glad 
 when the lessons of the day were over. 
 
 Before starting for Lexington, Frederic had sent 
 Josh on some errand to Frankfort, and just after 
 dinner the negro returned. Isabel was alone upon 
 the piazza when he came up, and as she was expect- 
 ing news from New Haven, she asked if he stopped 
 at the post-office. 
 
 " Ye-e-us 'm, "began the stuttering negro, " an' I 
 d-d-d-one got a h-h-eap on 'em, too," and Josh gave 
 her six letters, one for herself .and five for Fred- 
 eric. 
 
 Hastily breaking the seal of her own letter, she 
 read that their matters at home were satisfactorily 
 arranged — a tenant had already been found for 
 their house, and their furniture would be safely 
 stowed away. Hearing her mother in the hall, she 
 handed the letter to her and then went to the li- 
 brary to dispose of Frederic's. As she was laying 
 them down she glanced at the superscriptions, care- 
 lessly, indifferently, until she came to the last, the 
 one bearing the New York postmark, then, with a 
 nervous start she caught it up again and examined 
 it more closely, while her heart gave one fearful 
 
tSAfiEL Huntington, loi 
 
 throb and then lay hke some heavy weight within 
 her bosom. Could it be that she had seen that 
 handwriting before ? Had the dead wife returned 
 to life, and was she coming back to Redstone Hall ? 
 The thought was overwhelming, and for a moment 
 Isabel was tempted to break the seal. But she 
 dared not, for her suspicion might be false ; she 
 would see Alice's note again, and seeking out the 
 child she asked permission to take the letter which 
 Marian had written. Alice complied with her re- 
 quest, and returning to the library Isabel compared 
 the two. They were the same. There could be 
 no mistake, and in the intensity of her excitement, 
 she felt her hair loosening at its roots. 
 
 " It is from her, but he shall never see it !" she 
 exclaimed aloud, and her voice was so unnatural 
 that she started at the sound, and turning saw 
 Alice standing in the door with an inquiring look 
 upon her face, as if asking the meaning of what she 
 had heard. 
 
 Isabel quailed beneath the glance of that sight- 
 less child, and then sat perfectly still, while Alice 
 said : " Miss Huntington, are you here ? Was it 
 you who spoke ?" 
 
 Isabel made no answer, but trembling in every 
 limb, shrank farther and farther back in her chair 
 as the groping, outstretched arms came nearer and 
 nearer to her. Presently, when she saw no escape, 
 she forced a loud laugh, and said, " Fie, Alice, I 
 tried to frighten you by feigning a strange voice. 
 You want your letter, don't you ? Here it is. I 
 only wished to see if in reading it a second time I 
 could get any clue to the mystery," and she gave 
 the paper back to Alice, who, somewhat puzzled to 
 understand what it all meant, left the room, and 
 Isabel was again alone. Three times she caught 
 up the letter with the intention of breaking the 
 seal, and as often threw it down, for, unprincipled 
 as she was, she shrank from that act ; and still, i( 
 
102 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 she did not know the truth, she should go mad, she 
 said, as she tried to think what the result to herself 
 would be were Marian really alive. 
 
 " But she isn't," she exclaimed. " She's dead ; 
 she's buried in the river." But who was there in 
 New York that wrote so much like her? She 
 wished she knew, and she might know by opening 
 the letter. If it was from a stranger, she could 
 destroy it, and he, thinking it had been lost, would 
 write again. She should die if she didn't know, and 
 maybe she should die if she did. 
 
 At all events, reality was more endurable than 
 suspense, and glancing around to make sure that 
 no eyes were near, she snatched the letter from the 
 table and broke the seal ! Even then she dared 
 not read it, until she reflected that as she could not 
 give it to Frederic in this condition, she might as 
 well see what it contained ; and wiping the mois- 
 ture from her face she opened it and read, while her 
 flesh seemed turning to stone, and she could feel 
 the horror creeping through her veins and petrify- 
 ing her very brain. Marian was coming back to her 
 husband, and the home which was hers. There 
 was enough in the letter for her to guess the truth, 
 and she knew why another had been preferred to 
 herself. For a moment even her lip curled with 
 scorn at what she felt was an unmanly act, but this 
 feeling was soon lost in the terrible thought that 
 Marian might return. 
 
 " Must it be ?" she whispered, as her eyes fast- 
 ened themselves again upon the page, blotted with 
 Marian's tears. " Seven years," she continued, 
 " I've heard of that before," and into the wild 
 tumult of her thoughts there stole a ray of hope. 
 If she withheld the letter from Frederic, and she 
 must withhold it now, he would never know what 
 she knew. Possibly, too, Marian might die, and 
 though she would have repelled the accusation, 
 Isabel Huntington was guilty of murder in her 
 
ISABEL HUNTINGTON. I03 
 
 heart, as she sat there alone and planned what she 
 would do. She was almost on the borders of in- 
 sanity, for the disappointment to her now would be 
 greater and more humiliating than before. She 
 had no home to go to, her arrangements for remain- 
 ing in Kentucky were all made, and Redstone Hall 
 seemed so fair that she would willingly wait twice 
 seven years, if, at the expiration of that time, she 
 were sure of being its mistress. It was worth try- 
 ing for, and though she had but little hope of suc- 
 cess, she tried to devise some means of effectually 
 silencing Marian, so that if there really were any- 
 thing in the seven years the benefit would accrue 
 to her. 
 
 " She's a little silly fool," she said, " and this Mrs. 
 Daniel Burt is just as silly as herself. They'll both 
 believe what is told them. I may never marry 
 Frederic, it is true, but I'll be revenged on Marian. 
 What business had she to cross my path, the little 
 red-headed jade !" 
 
 Isabel was growing excited, and as she dared do 
 anything when angry, she resolved to send the let- 
 ter back. 
 
 " I can imitate his handwriting," she thought ; 
 " I can do anything as I feel now," and going to her 
 room, she found a letter he had written to her 
 mother. 
 
 This she studied and imitated for half an hour, 
 and at the end of that time wrote on the blank page 
 of Marian's letter, " Isabel Huntington is now the 
 mistress of Redstone Hall." 
 
 " That will keep her still, I reckon," she said, and 
 taking a fresh envelope, she directed it to " Mrs. 
 Daniel Burt," as Marian had bidden Frederic do. 
 " It was a fortunate circumstance, her teUing him 
 that, for ' Marian Lindsey ' would have been ob- 
 served at once," she thought ; and then, lest her 
 resolution should fail her, she found Josh and bade 
 
164 MAblAN GREY. 
 
 him take the letter to the post-office at the Forks 
 of Elkhorn not very far away. 
 
 Nothing could suit Josh better than to ride, and 
 stuttering out something which nobody could 
 understand, he mounted his horse and was soon 
 galloping out of sight. In the kitchen Mrs. Hunt- 
 ington heard of Josh's destination, and when next 
 she met her daughter, she asked to whom she had 
 been writing. 
 
 " To some one, of course," Isabel, answered, at 
 the same time intimating that she hoped she could 
 have a correspondent without her mother troub- 
 ling herself. 
 
 The rudeness of this speech was forgotten by 
 Mrs. Huntington in her alarm at Isabel's pale face, 
 and she asked anxiously what was the matter ? 
 
 " Nothing but a wretched headache, teaching 
 don't agree with me," was Isabel's reply, and 
 turning away she ran up stairs to her room, where, 
 throwing herself upon the bed, she tried to fancy 
 it all a dream. 
 
 But it was not a dream, and Marian's anguish 
 was scarcely greater than her own at that moment, 
 when she began to realize that Frederic and Red- 
 stone Hall were lost to her forever. There might 
 be something in the seven years, but it was a long, 
 dreary time to wait, with the ever-haunting fear 
 that Marian might return, and she half wished she 
 had not opened the letter. But her regrets were 
 unavailing now, and, resolving to guard her secret 
 carefully and deny what she had done, if ever 
 accused of it, she began to consider how she should 
 hereafter demean herself toward Frederic. It 
 would be terrible to have him making love to her, 
 she thought, for she would be compelled to tell 
 him no, and if another should become her rival, she 
 could not stand quietly by and witness the unlaw- 
 ful deed. 
 
 " Oh, if I or Marian had never been born, this 
 
FREDERIC AXrt) ALICE. 10$ 
 
 hour would not have come to me," she cried, bury- 
 ing her face in the pillows to shut out the fast in- 
 creasing darkness which was so hateful to her. 
 
 Already was she reaping the fruit of the trangres- 
 sion and when'an hour later she heard the voice of 
 Frederic in the hall, she stopped her ears, and bury- 
 ing her face still closer in the pillows, wished 
 again that either Marian or herself had never seen 
 the light of day. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 FREDERIC AND ALICE. 
 
 All day long Frederic had thought of Marian, 
 who just six weeks before went away from him to 
 die. Many times he said that to himself, and as 
 often as he said it, he thought, " perhaps she is not 
 dead," until the belief grew strong in him that' 
 somewhere he should find her, that very day it 
 might be. He wished he could, and take her back 
 to Redstone Hall, where she would be a barrier 
 between himself and the beautiful temptation which 
 it was so hard for him to resist. Manfully had he 
 struggled against it, going always from its presence 
 when the eyes looked softly into his own, and 
 when he heard the rich-toned voice singing merry 
 songs, he stopped his ears lest the music should 
 touch a chord which he said was hushed forever. 
 
 " It might have been," he thought sometimes to 
 himself, but the time was past, and even if Marian 
 were dead, he must not take another to share the 
 wealth so generously given up. And Marian was 
 dead, he had always believed until to-day, when she 
 seemed to be so near, that on his return at night to 
 
lo6 • MARIAN GREY. 
 
 Redstone Hall he had a half presentiment that he 
 might find her there, or at least some tidings of her. 
 
 All about the house was dark, but on the piazza 
 a little figure was standing, and as its dim outline 
 was revealed to him, he said involuntarily : " That 
 may be Marian, and I am glad, or at least I will be 
 glad," and he was hurrying on, when a light from 
 the hall streamed out upon the figure, and he saw 
 that it was Alice waiting for him. Still the impres- 
 sion was so strong that after kissing her, he asked 
 if no one had been at the Hall that day. 
 
 " No one," she answered, and with a feeling of 
 disappointment he led her into the house. 
 
 Alice's heart was full that night, for accidentally 
 she had heard old Hetty and Lyd discussing the 
 probable result of Isabel's sojourn among them, 
 and the very idea shocked her, as if they had tram- 
 pled on Marian's grave. 
 
 " I'll tell Frederic," said she to herself, "and ask 
 him is he going to marry her," and when after his 
 supper he went into the library to read the letters 
 which Mrs. Huntington told him were there, she 
 followed him. 
 
 It was not Frederic's nature to pet or notice 
 children much, but in his sorrow he had learned to 
 love the little girl dearly, and when he saw her 
 standing beside him with a wistful look upon her 
 face he said : 
 
 " What does my blind bird want ?" 
 
 "Take me in your lap," Alice said, "so I can 
 feel your heart beat and know if you tell me true." 
 
 He complied with her request, and laying her 
 head against his bosom, she began, " Are we much 
 related ?" 
 
 " Second cousins, that's all." 
 
 " But you love me, don't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, very much." 
 
 "And I love you a heap," returned the little 
 girl. " I didn't use to, though, till Marian went 
 
tREDERlC ANt) ALlCfi. I07 
 
 away. Frederic, Marian isn't dead !" and, lifting 
 up her head, Alice looked at him with a look which 
 seemed to say that she believed what she asserted. 
 
 Frederic gasped, and Alice continued, " Wouldn't 
 it be very wicked for you to love anybody else. I 
 don't mean me, because I'm a little bHnd girl, but 
 to love some one and marry her, with Marian 
 alive ?" 
 
 " Certainly it would be wicked," he replied ; and 
 Alice continued : 
 
 " Aunt Hetty said you were going to marry Isa- 
 bel, and it almost broke my heart. I never thought 
 before that Marian wasn't dead, but I knew it then. 
 I felt her right there with us, and I've felt her ever 
 since. Dinah, too, said it seemed to her just like 
 Marian was alive, and that she hoped you wouldn't 
 make — perhaps I ought not to tell you, but you 
 don't care for Dinah — she hoped you wouldn't 
 make a fool of yourself, Frederic, do you love Isa- 
 bel Huntington ?" 
 
 "Yes," dropped involuntarily from the young 
 man's lips, for there was something about that Httle 
 child which wrung the truth from him. 
 
 " Did you love her before you married Marian ?" 
 
 "Yes," he said again, for he could not help him- 
 self. 
 
 There was silence a moment, and then Alice who 
 had been thinking of what he had told her once 
 before, said interrogatively, " Marian found it out, 
 and that was why she thought you didn't love her 
 and went away ?" 
 
 •' That was one reason, but not the principal 
 one." 
 
 " Do you think Isabel as good as Marian ?" 
 
 " No," and Frederic was glad that he could pay 
 this tribute to the lost one. 
 
 After a moment Alice spoke again : 
 
 " Frederic, do you believe Marian is dead ?" 
 
I08 MARIAN GRfiY. 
 
 " I have always thought so," he answered, and 
 Alice replied : 
 
 " But you don't know for certain ; and I want 
 you to promise that until you do you won't make 
 love to Isabel, nor marry her, nor anybody else, 
 will you, Frederic ?" and putting both her hands 
 upon his forehead, she pushed back his hair and 
 waited for an answer. 
 
 Many times the young man had made that reso- 
 lution, but the idea of thus promising to another 
 was unpleasant, and he hesitated for a time ; then 
 he said : 
 
 " Suppose we never can know for certain, would 
 you have me live all my life alone ?" 
 
 " No," said Alice, " and you needn't, either; but 
 I'd wait ever so long, ten years, anyway, and before 
 that time she'll come, I'm sure. Dinah says maybe 
 she will, and that perhaps we shan't know her, she'll 
 be so changed, so handsome," and as if the power 
 of prophecy were on her, Alice pictured a beautiful 
 woman who might come to them sometime as their 
 lost Marian, and Frederic listening to her, felt 
 more willing to promise than he had been before. 
 
 A glow of hope was kindled in his own bosom, 
 and when she finished he said to her : 
 
 " I will wait ten years for Marian." 
 
THE LETTER RECEIVBD, 1 09 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE LETTER RECEIVED. 
 
 It was baking day at Mrs. Burt's, and the good 
 lady bustled in and out, her cap-strings pinned over 
 her head, her sleeves tucked up above her shoul- 
 ders, and her face, hands and apron covered with 
 flour. Occasionally as she rolled out the short pie 
 crust or sliced the juicy apple, she glanced at the 
 raindrops pattering against the window, and said, 
 encouragingly, " I don't care for the rain for I've 
 got a big umbrella and the best kind of overshoes ;" 
 and as often as she repeated the cheering words, 
 they brought a smile to the face of the young girl 
 who sat in the large easy-chair, and did not offer to 
 share the labors of her aunt, as she called her. 
 
 Marian was ill. Strong excitement had worn her 
 strength away, and since she had sent the letter to 
 Frederic, her restless anxiety for the answer had 
 made her so weak that she kept her bed nearly all 
 the time, counting the days which must elapse ere 
 she could possibly hope to hear and then, when the 
 full time was out, bidding Mrs. Burt wait one more 
 day before she went to the office, so as to be sure 
 and get it. In her letter to Frederic, Marian had 
 told him to direct to Mrs. Daniel Burt without giv- 
 ing the number, and as Mrs. Burt had said she 
 must inquire at the general office for the expected 
 letter, Marian had made due allowance for delays, 
 and now she was certain that it had come. She 
 would sit up that day, she said, for she felt almost 
 well ; and if Frederic told her to come home, she 
 should start to-morrow and get there Saturday 
 night, and she fancied how people would stare at 
 her and be glad to see her on Sunday when she 
 
no MARIAN GREY. 
 
 first went into church. Alice, too, would be de- 
 lighted, and kiss her so many times ; and then she 
 wondered if Frederic wouldn't kiss her, too ; she 
 thought he might, she'd been so long away. 
 
 The pies were made at last, as was the ginger- 
 bread and crispy snaps ; the apple dumplings, 
 Marian's favorite dessert, were steaming on the 
 stove ; the carpet swept, the oilcloth washed ; 
 and then exchanging her work-dress for a more re- 
 spectable delaine, Mrs. Burt put over the kettle 
 to boil, " for after her wet walk, she should want a 
 cup of tea," she said, and, leaving Marian to watch 
 the pie baking in the oven, she started on her er- 
 rand. 
 
 " I mean to have the table ready when she gets 
 back," Marian said, " for if I don't make her think 
 I'm well she won't let me start so soon ;" and, ex- 
 erting all strength, she set the table for dinner in the 
 neatest possible manner, even venturing upon the 
 extravagance of bringing out the best white dishes, 
 which Mrs. Burt used only on great occasions. 
 '■ When I get home I'll send her a new set with gilt 
 bands," she said, as she arranged the cups, and then 
 stepped back to witness the effect. " Oh, I wish 
 she'd come," she continued, glancing at the clock, 
 but it was not time yet, and, resuming her rocking- 
 chair, she tried to wait patiently. 
 
 But it seemed very long and very tiresome sitting 
 there alone, listening to the rain and the ticking of 
 the clock. It is strange how the most trivial cir- 
 cumstance will sometimes stamp itself indelibly 
 upon the memory. The steam from the dumplings 
 which Marian thought she should enjoy so much, 
 filled the room with a sweet, sickly odor, and for 
 many, many years she remembered how faint it 
 made her feel. But it was a pleasant faintness 
 now ; everything was pleasant, for wasn't she going 
 home, back to Frederic, who, if he didn't love her 
 now, would learn to love her, for Mrs. Burt said so ; 
 
THE LETTER RECEIVED. Ill 
 
 Mrs. Burt, who knew almost as much as Dinah, and 
 who, even while she thought of her, was coming up 
 the stairs. Marian heard her put her dripping 
 umbrella beside the door, but she could not move. 
 "If I should be disappointed after all," she thought, 
 and she tried to see how many she could count be- 
 fore she knew for certain. 
 
 " Oh, have you a letter for me ?" she tried to say 
 when Mrs. Burt came in, but she could not articu- 
 late a word, and the good lady, wishing to tease 
 her a little, leisurely took off her overshoes, hung 
 up her shawl, wiped her damp bonnet with a hand- 
 kerchief, and looked at the dumplings and then 
 said as indifferently as if the happiness of a young 
 life was not to be crushed by what she had in her 
 pocket, " it rains awfully down street!" 
 
 " I know, but was there a letter ?" and Marian's 
 blue eyes looked dark with excitement. "Yes, 
 child, there was, but where it was mailed I don't 
 know. "Tis directed to me, and is from Kentucky, 
 but I can't make out the postmark mor'n the dead. 
 It's some kind of Forks, but the postmaster will 
 never set the Hudson on fire with his writing." 
 
 " Forks of Elkhorn !" Marian cried, snatching at 
 the letter. " It's Frederic's superscription, too, 
 and dated ever so many days ago. Dear Frederic, 
 he didn't wait a minute before he wrote." 
 
 The envelope was torn open — the enclosed sheet 
 was withdrawn, but about it there was a strangely 
 familiar look. Was there a film before Marian's 
 eyes ? Was she growing blind, or did she recog- 
 nize her own letter, the one she had sent to Red- 
 stone Hall ? It was the same, for it said " Dear 
 Frederic " at the top, and " Marian " at the bottom. 
 And he had returned it to her unanswered, not a 
 word, not a line — nothing but silence, as cold, as 
 hard, and as terrible as the feeling settling down on 
 Marian's heart. But, yes, there was one line, an4 
 
112 tU^U-N GiiEF. 
 
 it read, oh, horror, could it be that he would mc^ 
 her by offering her this cruel insult ? " 
 
 " Isabel Huntington is now the mistress of Red- 
 stone Hall." 
 
 This was the drop in the brimming bucket, and if 
 she had suffered death when the great sorrow came 
 upon her, she suffered more now a hundred fold. 
 In her ignorance she fancied he was married, for 
 how else could Isabel be mistress there, and she 
 comprehended at once the disgrace such a proceed- 
 ing would bring to Frederic, and the wrong, the 
 dishonor, the insult it brought to her. There was 
 a look of anguish in her eyes and a contraction of 
 the muscles about her mouth. There were purple 
 spots upon her flesh, and a note of agony in her 
 voice, as she cried, " No, no, no — it is too soon ; 
 anything but that." The next moment she lay in 
 the arms of Mrs. Burt, unconscious of pain, uncon- 
 scious of everything. She had suffered all she 
 could suffer, and henceforth no sorrow which could 
 come to her would eat into her heart's core as this 
 last one had done. 
 
 Mrs. Burt thought she was dead, as did those who 
 came at her loud call, but the old physician said 
 there was life, adding, as he looked at the blue 
 pinched lips and shrunken face : " The more's the 
 pity, for she has had some awful blow, and if she 
 lives she'll probably be a raving maniac." 
 
 As time passed on the physician's words seemed 
 likely to be verified. For days she lay in the same 
 death-like stupor, and when at last she roused from 
 it, it was only to tear her hair and rave in wild de- 
 lirium. At first, Mrs. Burt, who had examined the 
 letter, thought of writing to Frederic and telling 
 him the result of his cruel message, the truth of 
 which she did not believe ; but she seldom acted 
 without advice, so she wrote first to Ben, who came 
 quickly, crying like a child, and wringing his great 
 
THE LETTER RfdEIVED. I13 
 
 rough hands when he saw the tossing form upon 
 the bed and knew that it was Marian. 
 
 " No, mother," he said, "we won't write. It's a 
 lie the villain told her, but we will let him be till 
 she's dead. God will find him fast enough, the ras- 
 cal !" and Ben struck his fist upon the bureau as if 
 he would like to take the management of Frederic 
 into his own hands. 
 
 It was a long and terrible sickness which came to 
 Marian, and when the delirium was on, the very- 
 elements of her nature seemed changed. For her 
 hair she conceived an intense loathing ; and clutch- 
 ing at her long tresses, she would tear them from 
 her head and shake them from her fingers, whisper- 
 ing scornfully : 
 
 " Go, you vile red things ! He hates you, and so 
 do I." 
 
 " Better shave the hull concern and not let her 
 yank it out like that," Ben said ; and when she be- 
 came more and more ungovernable, he passed his 
 arms around her and held her hands, while her head 
 was shorn of the locks so displeasing to Frederic 
 Raymond. 
 
 Ben's taste, however, was different, and putting 
 them reverently together, he dropped great tears 
 upon them, and then laid them carefully away, 
 thinking : " 'Twill be something to look at when 
 she's gone. Poor little picked bird," he would say 
 as he watched by her side and listened to her moan- 
 ing cries for home, " you'll be out of your misery 
 afore long, and go to a 'nough sight better hum 
 than Redstun Hall ; but I hev my doubts 'bout 
 meetin' him there. Poor little girl, if you hadn't 
 been born a lady and I hadn't been born a fool, and 
 we'd been brung up together, mabby you wouldn't 
 be a lyin' here a biting your tongue and wringin' 
 your hands, with your head shaved slick and clean," 
 and the sweat dropped from Ben's face, as he 
 Ihought of what wnder widely different circuniT 
 
114 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 stances might have been. " But it can't be now," 
 he said, " for even if she wan't jined to this villain 
 she loves so much, she's as far above Ben Burt as 
 the stars in Heaven." 
 
 This, however, did not lessen Ben's attentions in 
 the least, or stay his tears when he thought that 
 she would die. " She should be buried in Green- 
 wood," he said; "he'd got more'n two hundred 
 dollars in the bank at Ware, all arnt honest, 
 with hard work ; and if there was such a thing as a 
 stun forty feet high she should have it, and he'd 
 get som o' them that scribbled for a living to write 
 a piece; there should be a big funeral, too, he 
 could hire carriages as well as the best of 'em — and 
 he'd have a procession so long that folks would 
 stop and stare, and Frederic Raymond wouldn't be 
 ashamed on't either, the scalliwag' — he hoped when 
 he and Isabel came to die they'd be pitched into 
 the canal, where the water was considerable kind o' 
 dirty, too !" 
 
 This long speech relieved Ben somewhat, and 
 fully determined to carry out his promise, he staid 
 patiently by Marian, nor experienced one feeling 
 of regret when he heard that, owing to his pro- 
 longed absence, his place in Ware had been given 
 to another. 
 
 " Nobody cares," he said, " I can find something 
 to do if it's nothin' but sawin' wood." 
 
 So he remained at home through the winter days, 
 and watched by the sick girl, who talked piteously 
 of her home, of Alice, and that man who hated her 
 so. She never spoke his name, but she sometimes 
 begged of him to come and take her away where it 
 didn't thunder all the time. The roar of- the city 
 disturbed her, and she frequently besought Ben to 
 go and stop it so that she could sleep and be better 
 in the morning ; and had it been in his power, Ben 
 would have stayed the busy life around them, and 
 let th? weary, worn-out sufferer sleep. But thi§ 
 
THE LETTER RECEIVED. lij 
 
 could not be, and so, day after day the heavy, in- 
 cessant roar came through the curtained window 
 into the darkened room, where Marian lay moaning 
 in her pain. Once in her unconsciousness she 
 folded her thin hands and prayed, " Will God stop 
 that noise and let me sleep just once ?" then with 
 an expression of childish trust upon her face, she 
 said to those around her, " He will stop it to-mor- 
 row, I reckon." 
 
 When the winter snows were gone and the early 
 March sun shone upon the kitchen walls, the to- 
 morrow so much longed for came, and Marian 
 woke to consciousness. She was out of danger, 
 the physician said, though it might be long before 
 her health was fully restored. To Marian, this 
 announcement brought but little joy. " She had 
 hoped to die," she said, " and thus be out of the 
 way," and then she spoke of Redstone Hall, asking 
 if any tidings had come from there since the dread- 
 ful message she had received. There was none, for 
 Isabel Huntington guarded her secret well, and 
 Frederic Raymond knew nothing of the emaciated 
 wreck which prayed each day that he might be 
 happy with the companion he had chosen. 
 
 " If he had only waited," she said to Mrs. Burt 
 and Ben, one day, " if he had waited and not taken 
 her so soon, I shouldn't care so much, but it's awful 
 to think of his living with her after I wrote that 
 letter." 
 
 " Marian," said Ben, a little impatiently, " I'm 
 naturally a fool, so every body says, but I've sense 
 enough to know that Mr. Raymond never went 
 and married that woman so quick after you came 
 away ; 'tain't reasonable at all. Why, they'd mob 
 him — tar and feather him — for you ain't dead, and 
 he's no business with two wives." 
 
 Marian's face was whiter than ever when Ben 
 finished speaking, and a bright red spot burned 
 on her cheek as she gasped, " You don't believQ 
 
Il6 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 she's there and not his wife. That would be wors«- 
 than everything else." 
 
 " Of course I don't," returned Ben. " My 'pinion 
 is that she ain't there at all, and he only writ that 
 to make a clean finish of you, or 't any rate, so't 
 you wouldn't be coming back to bother him. He 
 calkerlates to have her bimeby. I presume — say 
 in seven years." 
 
 " Oh, I wish I knew," Marian said, and Ben re- 
 plied, " Would you rest any easier nights if you 
 did ?" 
 
 " Yes, a heap," was the answer. 
 
 " You might write," Mrs. Burt suggested ; but 
 Marian shook her head, saying, " I wrote once, and 
 you know my success." 
 
 " You certainly wouldn't go back," Mrs. Burt 
 continued ; and Marian answered^ indignantly, 
 " Never ! I am sure he hates me now, and I shall 
 not trouble him again. Perhaps he thinks me 
 mean because I read the letter intended for him, 
 and so found it all out. But I thought it was 
 mine until I read a ways, and then I could not stop. 
 My eyes wouldn't leave the paper. Was it wrong 
 in me, do you think?" 
 
 " It is what anybody would have done," Mrs. 
 Burt answered, and, changing the subject entirely, 
 Marian rejoined, " Oh, I do wish I knew about this 
 Isabel." 
 
 For a time Ben sat thinking ; then striking his 
 hands together, he exclaimed, " I've got it, and it's 
 jest the thing, too. I don't want no better fun 
 than that. I've lost my place to Ware, and though 
 I might get another, I've a notion to turn peddler. 
 I alius thought I should like travellin' and seein' 
 the world. I'll buy up a lot of jimcracks and take 
 a bee-line for Redstun Hall, and learn just how the 
 matter stands. I can put on a little more of the 
 Pown East Yankee, if you think I hain't got 
 
The letter received. 117 
 
 enough, and I'll put the wool over their eyes. 
 What do you say, wee one ?" 
 
 " Oh, I wish you would," Marian said, adding 
 " what will you do, if you find him the husband of 
 Isabel ?" 
 
 " Do !" he repeated. " String 'em both up by 
 the neck on one string. What do you 'spect I'd 
 do ? Honest, though," he continued, as he saw 
 her look of alarm ; " if she is his wife, which ain't 
 at all likely, 'tis because he s'posed you're dead, 
 but he knows better now, and I shall tell the neigh- 
 bors that you're alive and breathin,' and they can 
 do with him what they choose — and if they ain't 
 married, nor ain't nothin', I'll just do what you 
 say." 
 
 " Come back, and don't tell Frederic you ever 
 saw or heard of me," said Marian. " I shall not 
 live a great while, and even if I do, I'd rather not 
 trouble him. It would only make him hate me 
 worse, and that I couldn't bear. He knows now 
 where I am, and if he ever wants me, he will come. 
 Don't tell him, nor any one, a word of me, Ben, 
 but do go, for I long to hear from home." 
 
 To Mrs. Burt this project seemed a wild and 
 foolish one, but she rarely opposed her son, and 
 when she saw that he was determined, she said 
 nothing, but helped him all she could. 
 
 "You'll be wantin' to send some jimcrack to 
 that blind gal, I guess," he said to Marian, and she 
 replied, " I wish I could, but I haven't anything, 
 and besides you mustn't tell her of me." 
 
 " Don't you worry," answered Ben. " I've 
 passed my word, and I never broke it yet. I can 
 manage to give her somethin' and make it seem 
 natural. What do you say to makin' her a brace- 
 let out o' them curls of yourn that we shaved 
 off?" 
 
 " That red hair ! Frederic would know it at 
 once," and Marian shook her head, but Ben per- 
 
ii8 Marian greV. 
 
 sisted. " 'Twould look real pretty, just like ginger- 
 bread when 'twas braided tight," and bringing out 
 the curls, he selected the longest one, and hurried 
 off. 
 
 The result proved his words correct, for when a 
 few days after he brought home the bracelet, 
 which was fastened with a golden clasp, Marian 
 exclaimed with delight at the beauty of her hair : 
 
 " Darling Alice," she cried, kissing the ornament, 
 " I wish she could know that my lips have touched 
 it — that it once grew on my head — but it wouldn't 
 be best. She couldn't keep the secret, and you 
 mustn't tell." 
 
 " Don't worry, I say," returned Ben. " I've got 
 an idee in my brains for a wonder, and I'm jest as 
 'fraid of tellin' as you be. So cheer up a bit and 
 grow fat, while I'm gone, for I want you to be 
 well when I come back, so as to go to school and 
 get to be a great scholar, that Mr. Raymond won't 
 be ashamed on when the right time comes," and 
 Ben spoke as cheerfully as if in his heart there was 
 no grave where during the weary nights when he 
 watched with Marian he buried his love for her, 
 and vowed to think of her only as a cherished 
 sister. 
 
 Marian smiled pleasantly upon him, watching 
 him with interest as he made up his pack, consist- 
 ing of laces, ribbons, muslin, handkerchiefs, combs 
 and jewelry, a little real, and a good deal brass, 
 " for the niggers," he said. Many were the charges 
 she gave him concerning the blacks, telling him 
 which ones to notice particularly, so as to report 
 to her. 
 
 " Jehosaphat !" he exclaimed at last, " how many 
 is there ? I shall never remember in the world," 
 and taking out a piece of paper, he wrote upon it, 
 " Dinah, Hetty, Lid, Victory, Uncle Phil, Josh, 
 and the big dog. There !" said he, reading over 
 the list, " if I don't bring you news of every one, 
 
The YANKEE PECDLEB. ti^ 
 
 iTiy name ain't Ben Burt. I'll wiggle myself into 
 their good feelin's and get 'em to talkin' of you, 
 see if I don't." 
 
 Marian had the utmost confidence in Ben's suc- 
 cess, and though she knew she should be lonely 
 when he was gone, she was glad when, at last, the 
 morning came for him to leave them. Ben, too, 
 was equally delighted, for the novelty lent a double 
 charm to the project and, bidding his mother and 
 Marian good-by, he gathered up his large boxes, 
 and whistling a lively tune by way of keeping up 
 his spirits, started for Kentucky. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 THE YANKEE PEDDLER. 
 
 The warm, April day was drawing to a close, and 
 the rays of the setting sun shone like burnished gold 
 on the western windows of Redstone Hall. It was 
 very pleasant there now, for the early spring flow- 
 ers were all in blossom, the grass was growing fresh 
 and green upon the lawn, and the creeping vines 
 were clinging to the time-worn pillars, or climbing 
 up the massive walls of dark red stone, which gave 
 the place its name. The old negroes had returned 
 from their labors, and were lounging about their 
 cabins, while the younger portion looked wistfully 
 in at the kitchen door, where Dinah and Hetty 
 were busy in preparing supper. On the back piazza 
 several dogs were lying, and as their quick ears 
 caught the sound of a gate in the distance, the 
 whole pack started up and went tearing down the 
 avenue, followed by the furious yell of Bruno, who 
 tried in vain to escape from his confinement. 
 
120 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 " Thar's somebody comin'," Dinah said, shading 
 her eyes with her hand, and looking toward the 
 highway ; " somebody with somethin' on his back. 
 You, Josh, go after them dogs, afore they skeer 
 him to death." 
 
 Stuttering out some unintelligible speech, Josh 
 started in the direction the dogs had gone, and soon 
 came up to a tall six-footer, who, with short panta- 
 loons, a swallow-tailed coat, stove-pipe hat, sharp- 
 pointed collar, red necktie, and two huge boxes on 
 his back, presented a rather ludicrous appearance 
 to the boy, and a rather displeasing one to the dogs, 
 who growled angrily, as if they would pounce upon 
 him at once. The club, however, with which he 
 had armed himself kept them at bay, until Josh suc- 
 ceeded in quieting them down. 
 
 " Ra-ally, now," began our friend Ben, who vainly 
 imagined it necessary to put on a little, by way of 
 proving himself a genuine Yankee — " ra-ally, now, 
 boot-black, what's the use of keepin' sich a 'tarnal 
 lot o' dogs to worry a decent chap like me." 
 
 It was Josh's misfortune to stammer much more 
 when at all excited, and to this interrogatory he 
 began, " Caw-caw-caw-cause ma-ma-mars wa-wa- 
 want " 
 
 "Great Heaven!" interrupted the Yankee, set- 
 ting down his pack and eyeing the stuttering negro 
 as if he had been the last curiosity from Barnum's 
 — " will you tell a fellow what kind of language 
 you speak." 
 
 " Spe-pe-pe-pects sa-sa-same ye-e-e you do," re- 
 turned the negro, failing wholly to enlighten Ben, 
 who rejoined indignantly, " You go to grass with 
 your lingo ;" and, gathering up his boxes, he started 
 for the house, accompanied by Josh and the dogs, 
 the first of whom made several ineffectual attempts 
 at conversation. 
 
 " Some nateral-born fool," muttered Ben, think- 
 
THE YANKEE PEDDLER. 121 
 
 ing to himself that he would like to examine the 
 boy's mouth and see what ailed it. 
 
 After a few minutes they entered the yard, and 
 came up to the other blacks, who were curiously 
 watching the new comer. Seating himself upon 
 the steps and crossing one leg over the other, Ben 
 swung his cowhide boot forward and back, and 
 greeted them with, "Wall, uncles, and ants, and 
 cousins, how do you dew, and how do you find 
 yourselves this afternoon ?" 
 
 " Jest tolerable, thanky," answered Uncle Phil, 
 and Ben continued, " Wall, health is a great bless- 
 ing to them that hain't got it. Do you calkerlate 
 that I could stay here to-night ? I've got lots o' 
 gewgaws," pointing to his boxes — •" hankerchers, 
 pins, ear-rings and a red and yellow gownd that'll 
 jest suit you, old gall," nodding to Dinah, who mut- 
 tered gruffly, " if he calls me old what'll he say to 
 Hetty ?" 
 
 Ben saw he had made a mistake, for black women 
 no more care to be old than their fairer sisters, and 
 he tried to make amends by complimenting the 
 indignant lady until she was somewhat mollified, 
 when he asked again if he could stay all night ? 
 
 " You, Josh," said Uncle Phil, " go and tell yer 
 master to come here." 
 
 "Whew-ew," whistled Ben, "if you're goin' to 
 send that stutterin' critter, I may as well be 
 joggin', for no human can make out his rigmarole." 
 
 But Ben was mistaken. Josh's dialect was well 
 understood by Frederic, who came as requested, 
 and, standing in the door, gazed inquisitively at the 
 singular looking object seated upon his steps, and 
 apparently oblivious to everything save the sliver 
 he was trying to extract from his thumb with a 
 large pin, ejaculating occasionally, " gaul darn the 
 pesky thing." 
 
 Nothing, however, escaped the keen grey eyes 
 which from time to time peered out from beneath 
 
122 Marian GREV. 
 
 the stove-pipe hat. Already Ben had seen that 
 Redstone Hall was a most beautiful spot, and he 
 did not blame Frederic for disliking to give it up. 
 He had selected Dinah and Phil from the other 
 blacks, and had said that the baby, who, with a 
 small white dog, was disputing its right to a piece 
 of fat bacon and a chicken bone, was Victoria 
 Eugenia. Josh he identified by his name, and he 
 was wondering at Marian's taste in caring to hear 
 from him, when Frederic appeared, and all else was 
 forgotten in his eagerness to inspect the man " who 
 could make a gal bite her tongue in two and yank 
 her hair out by the roots, all for the love of him." 
 
 Frederic seemed in no hurry to commence a con- 
 versation, and during the minute that he stood 
 there without speaking, Ben had ample time to take 
 him in from his brown hair and graceful mustache 
 down to his polished boots. 
 
 " Got up in considerable kind of good style," was 
 Ben's mental comment, as he watched the young 
 man carelessly scraping his finger nail with a pen- 
 knife. 
 
 " Did you wish to see me ?" Frederic said at 
 last,jand, with another thrust at the sliver, Ben stuck 
 his pin upon his coat sleeve, and reversing the posi- 
 tion of his legs, replied, " Wall, if you're the boss, I 
 guess I dew ; I'm Ben Butterworth from down 
 East, and I've got belated, and bein' there ain't no 
 taverns near I want to stay all night, and pay in 
 money or notions. Got a lot on 'em besides some 
 tip-top muslin collars for your wife, Mrs., what do 
 you call her ?" and the gray eyes fastened them- 
 selves upon the face, which for a single instant was 
 white as marble, then the blood came rushing back 
 and Frederic replied, " there is no wife here, sir, 
 but you can stay all night if you please. Will you 
 walk in ?" and he led the way to the sitting-room, 
 followed by Ben, who had obtained what to him 
 was the most important information of all. 
 
The YAl^KEE PEDDLER. 12^ 
 
 The night was chilly, and in the gratd a Cheerful 
 coal fire was burning, casting its ruddy light upon 
 the face of a little girl, who, seated upon a st6ol, 
 with her hair combed back from her face, her hands 
 folded together and her brown eyes fixed upon the 
 coals as if she were looking at something far beyond 
 them, seemed to Ben what he had fancied angels in 
 heaven to be. It was not needful for Mr. Ray- 
 mond to say, "Alice, here is a peddler come to stay 
 all night," for Ben knew it was the blind girl, and 
 his heart gave a great throb when he saw her sit- 
 ting there so helpless, and so lonely, too, for he 
 almost knew that she was thinking of Marian and 
 he longed to take her in his arms and tell her of 
 the lost one. 
 
 Motioning him to a chair, Frederic went out, 
 leaving the two together. For some minutes there 
 was perfect silence, while Ben sat looking at her 
 and trying to keep from crying. It seemed terrible 
 to him that one so young should be Wind, and he 
 wanted to tell her so but he dared not, and he sat 
 so still that Alice began to think she was alone, 
 and resuming her former thoughts, whispered to 
 herself, " Oh, I wish she would come back." 
 
 " Blessed baby," Ben had almost ejaculated, but 
 he checked himself in time, and said instead, " little 
 gal." 
 
 AHce started, and turning her ear, seemed wait- 
 ing for him to speak again, which he soon did. 
 
 " Little gal, will you come and sit in my lap ?' 
 
 His voice was gentle and kind, but Alice did not 
 care to be thus free with a stranger, so she replied, 
 " I reckon I won't do that, but I'll sit nearer to 
 you," and she moved her stool so close by him that 
 her head almost rested on his lap. 
 
 " You must 'scuse me," she said, " if I don't act 
 like other children do, I'm bHnd." 
 
 Very tenderly he smoothed her hair, and as he 
 
124 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 did so, she felt something drop upon her forehead. 
 It was a tear, and wiping it away she said : 
 
 " Man, be you hungry and tired, or what makes 
 you cry ?" 
 
 "I'm cryin' for you, poor, unfortunate lamb;" 
 and the tender hearted Ben sobbed out aloud. 
 
 " Oh, I wouldn't, I wouldn't," said the distressed 
 child, "I'm used to it. I don't mind it now." 
 
 The ice was fairly broken, and a bond of sympa- 
 thy established between the two. 
 
 " He must be a good man," Alice thought ; and 
 when he began to question her of her home and 
 friends, she replied to him readily. 
 
 "You haven't no mother, nor sister, nor a'nt,nor 
 nothin', but Mr. Raymond and Dinah," said Ben, 
 after they had talked awhile. " Ain't there no white 
 women in the house but you ?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Huntington and Isabel. She's my 
 governess," Alice answered ; and Ben continued : 
 
 " Mr. Raymond sent for 'em, I s'pose ?" 
 
 " No," returned Alice. " They came without 
 sending for — came to visit and he hired them to 
 stay. Mrs. Huntington keeps house." 
 
 At this point in the conversation there was a 
 rustling of garments in the hall, and a queenly 
 creature swept into the room, bringing with her 
 such an air of superiority that Ben involuntarily 
 hitched nearer to the wall, as if to get out of sight. 
 
 " Je-ru-sa-lem !" ain't she a dasher ?" was his men- 
 tal exclamation ; and, in spite of himself, he fol- 
 lowed her movements with an admiring glance. 
 
 Taking a chair she drew it to the fire, and with- 
 out deigning to notice the stranger, she said, rather 
 reprovingly, 
 
 " Alice, come here." 
 
 The child obeyed, and Ben, determined not to 
 be ignored entirely, said : 
 
 " Pretty well this evenin', miss ?" 
 
THE YANKEE PEDDLER 125 
 
 " How, sir ?" and the black eyes flashed haught- 
 ily upon him. 
 
 Nothing abashed, he continued : " As't if you're 
 pretty well, but no matter, I know you be by your 
 looks. I've got a lot of finery that I know you 
 want." And opening Ms boxes, he spread out 
 upon the carpet the collars and laces which had 
 been bought with a view to this very night. Isabel 
 turned away disdainfully, saying she never traded 
 with peddlers. 
 
 " I wonder if you don't," returned Ben, with im- 
 perturbable gravity. " Wal, now, seein' it's me, 
 buy somethin', dew. Here's a bracelet that can't 
 be beat," and he held up Marian's hair, which, in 
 the firelight, looked singularly beautiful. 
 
 Isabel did unbend a little now. There was no 
 sham about that, she knew, and, taking it in her 
 hand, she tried to clasp it on her arm ; but it would 
 not come together. 
 
 " It isn't large enough," she said, " it must have 
 been intended for some child." 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder if you'd hit the nail on the 
 head," returned Ben, and taking the bracelet he 
 continued, " Mebby 'twas meant for this wee one 
 — who knows ?" and he fastened it on Alice's slender 
 wrist. " Fits to a T," he said, " and you must have 
 it, too. Them clasps is little hearts, do you see ?" 
 
 Frederic now entered the room, and holding up 
 her arm, Alice said, " Look, is it pretty?" 
 
 " Yes, very," he replied, bending down to 
 examine it, while Ben watched him, wondering how 
 he would feel if he knew from whose hair that 
 braid was made. 
 
 " Harnsome color, ain't it. Square ?" he said, 
 holding Alice's hand a Httle more to the light, and 
 continuing, " Now there's them that don't like red 
 hair, but I swan I've seen some that wan't so bad. 
 Now when it curls kinder — wall, like a gimblet, 
 yow koQVir, I've got a gal to hum I call my sister, 
 
126 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 and her hair's as nigh this color as two peas, or it 
 was afore 'twas shaved. She's been awful sick with 
 the heart disorder, and fever, and I tell you, Square, 
 if you'd o' seen her pitchin' and divin' and rollin' 
 from one end of the bed to t'other, bitin' her 
 tongue and yankin' out her hair by han'fuls, I 
 rather guess you'd felt kinder streaked. It made a 
 calf of me, though I didn't feel so bad then as 
 when she got weaker, and lay so still that we held 
 a feather to her lips to see if she breathed." 
 
 " Oh, did she die .?" Alice asked. 
 
 " No," answered Ben, " she didn't, and the 
 thankfuUest prayer I ever prayed was the one I 
 made in the buttery, behind the door, when the 
 doctor said she would get well." 
 
 Supper was announced, and putting up his 
 muslins, Ben followed his host to the dining-room. 
 Alice, too, was at the table, the bracelet still upon 
 her wrist, for she liked the feeling of it. 
 
 " I shall have to buy it for you, I reckon," Fred- 
 eric said, and he inquired its price. 
 
 " Wall, now," returned Ben, " if 'twas any body 
 but the little gal, I should say five dollars, but 
 bein' it's hers, I'd kinder like to give it to her." 
 
 This, however, Frederic would not suffer. Alice 
 would not keep it, he said, unless he paid for it, 
 and he put a half eagle into the hand of the child, 
 who offered it to Ben. For a moment, the latter 
 hesitated, then thinking to himself, " Darn it all, 
 what's the use. If Marian goes to school, as I mean 
 she shall, she'll need a lot of money, and what I 
 get out o' him is clear gain," he pocketed the piece, 
 and the bracelet belonged to Alice. 
 
 After supper, Ben sat down by the fire in the 
 dining-room, hoping the family would leave him 
 with Alice, and this they did ere long, Isabel going 
 to the piano, and Frederic to the library to answer 
 letters, while Mrs. Huntington gave some direc- 
 tions for breakfast. Thgse direction? were merely 
 
THE YANKEE PEDDLER. 12/ 
 
 nominal, however, for Dinah, to all intents and 
 purposes, was mistress of the household, and she 
 game in to see to the supper dishes, which were 
 soon cleared away, and Ben, as he wished, was 
 alone with Alice. The bracelet seemed to be a 
 connecting link between them, for Alice was not 
 in the least shy of him now, and when he asked her 
 again to sit in his lap, she did so readily. 
 
 "That Miss Isabel is a dreadful han'some gal," 
 he began ; " I should s'pose Mr. Raymond would 
 fall in love with her." 
 
 There was no answer from Alice, whose eyes 
 looked steadily into the fire. 
 
 " Mebby he is in love with her." 
 
 No answer yet, and mentally chiding himself for 
 his stupidity in not striking the right vein, Ben con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " I wonder he hain't married afore this. He 
 must be as much as twenty-five or six years old, 
 and so handsome too !" 
 
 " He has been married," and the little face of the 
 speaker did not move a muscle. 
 
 " Now you don't say it," returned Ben. " A 
 widower, hey ? How long sence he was mar- 
 ried ?" 
 
 " A few months," and the long eye-lashes began 
 to quiver. 
 
 " I want to know — died so soon — poor critter. 
 Tell me about her, dew. You didn't know her 
 long, so I s'pose you couldn't love her a great 
 sight ?" 
 
 The brown eyes flashed up into Ben's face, and 
 the blood rushed to Alice's cheek, as she replied, 
 " Me not love Marian ! Oh, I loved her so much!" 
 
 The right chord was touched at last, and in her 
 own way Alice told how Marian had left them on 
 her bridal night, and though they searched for her 
 everywhere, both in the river and through the 
 country, no tr^ce of her ?oilId t>? found, and th§ 
 
128 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 conviction was forced upon them that she was 
 dead. 
 
 " Je-ru-sa-lem ! I never thought of that !" was 
 Ben's involuntary exclamation ; but it conveyed n6 
 meaning to Alice, and when he asked if they still 
 believed her dead, she answered : 
 
 " I don't quite believe Frederic does. I don't, 
 any way. I used to, though, but now it seems just 
 like she would come back," and turning her face 
 more fully toward him, Alice told how she had 
 loved the lost one, and how each day she prayed 
 that she might come home to them again. 
 
 " I don't know as she was pretty," she said, " but 
 she was so sweet, so good, and I'm so lonesome 
 without her," and down Alice's cheeks the big 
 tears rolled, while Ben's kept company with them, 
 and fell upon her hands. 
 
 " Man, don't you cry again," she said, shaking 
 the drops off and wondering why a perfect stran- 
 ger should care so much for Marian. 
 
 " I'm so plaguy tender-hearted that I can't help 
 it," was Ben's apology, as he blew his nose upon 
 his blue cotton handkerchief. 
 
 For a time longer he talked with her, treasuring 
 up blessed words of comfort for the distant Marian, 
 and learning also that Alice was sure Frederic 
 would never marry again until certain of Marian's 
 death. He might like Isabel, she admitted, but he 
 would not dare make her his wife till he knew for 
 true what had become of Marian. 
 
 " And he does know it, the scented-up puppy," 
 thought Ben. " He jest writ her that last insul- 
 tin' thing to kill her out and out ; but he didn't 
 come it, and till he knows he did, he dasserit do 
 nothin'." 
 
 This reasoning was very satisfactory to Ben, who, 
 having learned from Alice all he could, began to 
 think it was time to cultivate the negroes, and put- 
 ting th? child froin his Jcnee, he said " he ^uess?^ 
 
THE YANKEE PEDDLER. 1 29 
 
 he'd go out and see the slaves — mebby they'd 
 like to trade a little, and he must be off in the 
 mornin'." 
 
 Accordingly he started for the kitchen, where 
 his character had been pretty thoroughly dissected. 
 A negro from a neighboring plantation had dropped 
 in on a gossiping visit, and as was very natural, 
 the conversation had turned upon the peddler, 
 whose peculiar appearance had attracted much 
 attention at the different places where he had 
 stopped. Particularly was this the case at the 
 house where the black man Henry lived. 
 
 " He done ask a heap of questions about us col- 
 ored folks," said Henry ; " how many was there of 
 us, how old was we, and what was we worth, and 
 when marster axed him did he want to buy, he 
 said. No, but 'way off whar he lived he alius spoke 
 in meetin' and them folks was mighty tickled to 
 hear suffin 'bout niggers. Ole Miss say how't she 
 done b'lieve he's an abolution come to run some 
 on us off, 'case he look like one o' them chaps 
 down in the penitentiary." 
 
 " Oh, Lord," ejaculated Dinah, involuntarily 
 hitching her chair nearer to Victoria Eugenia, who 
 lay in her cradle. 
 
 Old Hetty, too, took alarm at once, and glancing 
 nervously at her grandchild Dudley, a little boy 
 two years of age, who was stretched upon the 
 floor, " she hoped to goodness he wouldn't carry off 
 Dud." 
 
 " Jest the ones he'll pick for. He could hide a 
 dozen on 'em in them big boxes," said Henry, and 
 feeling pleased at the interest he had awakened in 
 the two old ladies he proceeded to relate the stories 
 he had heard " 'bout them fetched Yankees med- 
 dlin' with what didn't consarn 'em," and he advised 
 Dinah and Hetty both not to let the peddler get 
 sight of the children for fear of what might hap-, 
 pen. 
 
130 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 At this point Ben came out of the house with his 
 boxes. He was first discovered by Josh, who, de- 
 lighted with the fun, pointed mysteriously toward 
 him and stuttered, " Da-da-da 'e co-co-comes." 
 
 " The Lord help us," said Dinah, and quick as 
 thought she seized the sleeping Victoria Eugenia 
 and thrust her into the churn as the nearest place 
 of concealment. 
 
 The awakened baby gave a screech, but Dinah 
 stopped its mouth with a piece of the licorice she 
 always carried in her pocket with her tobacco-box 
 and pipe. Meantime Hetty, determined not to be 
 outdone, caught up Dud, and opening the meal 
 chest, tumbled him in, telling him in fierce whispers 
 " not to stir nor wink, for thar was a man comin' 
 to cotch him." 
 
 Snatching a newspaper which lay on the floor, 
 she rolled it together and placed it under the lid, 
 so as to allow the youngster a breathing place. 
 This done, she resumed her seat just as Ben ap- 
 peared, and throwing down his pack accosted her 
 with — 
 
 " Wall, a'nt, got your chores done ? 'Cause if 
 you have I want to trade a little. I won't be hard 
 on you," he continued, as he saw the forbidding 
 expression of her face. " I'll dicker cheap and 
 take most any kind o' dud for pay." 
 
 Dicker and chores were Greek to old Hetty, but 
 she fully comprehended the word Dud. He meant 
 her DUD — the one in the meal chest — and she 
 grasped the handle of the frying pan, so as to be 
 ready for what might follow next. 
 
 *' Let me show you some breastpins," said Ben, 
 looking round for a chair. 
 
 They were all occupied, and as the mischievous 
 Josh pointed to the chest, Ben crossed over, and 
 before Hetty was aware of his intention seated 
 himself quite as a matter of course. But not long, 
 for Hetty's dusky fist, and, more than all, the 
 
THE YANKEE PEDDLER. I31 
 
 smothered cry of " Granny, granny, he done sot on 
 me," which came from beneath him, landed him on 
 the other side of the rooin, where he struck against 
 the churn ; whereupon, Victoria Eugenia set up 
 another yell, which sent Jhim to the spot where 
 Josh's cowhides were performing various evolutions 
 by way of showing his delight. 
 
 " Thunder !" ejaculated Ben, looking first at the 
 skirts of his swallow-tail, then at the chest from 
 which Dud was emerging, covered with meal, and 
 then at the churn, over the top of which a pair of 
 little black hands and a piece oflicorice were visible, 
 " what's the meaning of all this ?" 
 
 No explanation whatever was vouchsafed, and, 
 to this day, Ben does not know the reason why 
 those negroes were stowed away in such novel hid- 
 ing places. 
 
 When the excitement had somewhat subsided, 
 Ben returned to his first intention, behaving so 
 civilly that the fears of the negroes gave way, and 
 Dinah was so well pleased with purchasing a brass 
 pin at half price that Ben ventured at last to say: 
 
 " That little gal, Alice, has been tellin' me aboyt 
 Mr. Raymond's marriage. Unlucky, wasn't he ? 
 Shouldn't wonder though, if he had a kind of hank- 
 erin' after that black-eyed miss. She's han'some." 
 
 Dinah needed but this to loosen her tongue. She 
 had long before made up her mind that " Isabel 
 was no kind o' 'count ;" and once the two had come 
 to open hostilities, Isabel accusing Dinah of being 
 a "lazy, gossipping nigger," while Dinah in re- 
 turn had told her " she warn't no better 'n she 
 should be stickin' round after Mars Frederic when 
 .nobody knew whether Miss Marian was dead or 
 not." 
 
 The indignity was reported to Frederic, who re- 
 proved old Dinah sharply; whereupon she turned 
 upon him, and, to use her favorite expression, "gin 
 him a piece of her mind." 
 
132 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 > 
 
 After this it was generally understood that be- 
 tween Dinah and Isabel there existed no very 
 amicable state of feeling, and when Ben spoke of 
 the latter, the former exploded at once. 
 
 'Twas a burnin' shame, she said, and it morti- 
 fied her een-a-most to death to see the trollop a 
 tryin' to set to marster when nobody know'd for 
 sartin if his fust wife was dead. 
 
 " Marster's jest as fast as she," interposed Hetty, 
 who seldom agreed with Dinah. 
 
 A contemptuous sneer curled Dinah's lip as she 
 said to Ben, in a whisper : 
 
 " Don't b'lieve none o' her trash. Them Hig- 
 ginses alius would lie. I hain't never seen Marster 
 Frederic do a single thing out o' the way, 'cept to 
 look at her, jest as Phil used to look at me when 
 he was sparkin'. I don't think that was very 'spect- 
 able in him, to be sure, but looks don't signify. He 
 dassen't marry her till he knows for sartin t'other 
 one is dead. He done told Alice so, and she told 
 me ;" and then Dinah launched out into praises of 
 the lost Marian, exalting her so highly that Ben 
 tossed into her lap a pair of ear-rings which she had 
 greatly admired. 
 
 " Take them," said he, " for standin' up for that 
 poor runaway. I like to hear one woman stick to 
 another." 
 
 Dinah cast an exulting glance at Hetty, who, 
 nothing daunted, came forward and said : 
 
 " Miss Marian was as likely a gal as thar was in 
 Kentuck, and she, for one, should be as glad to see 
 her back as some o' them that made sich a fuss 
 about it." 
 
 " Playin' possum," whispered Dinah. " Them 
 Higginses is up to that." 
 
 Ben probably thought so too, for he paid no at- 
 tention to Hetty, who, highly indignant, .started for 
 Isabel and told her " how Dinah and that fetch-ed 
 peddler done spilt her character entirely." 
 
THE YANKEE PEDDLER. 133 
 
 " Leave the room," was Isabel's haughty answer. 
 " I am above what a poor negro and an ignorant 
 Yankee can say." 
 
 " For the dear Lord's sake," muttered the dis- 
 comfited Hetty, " wonder if she ain't a Yankee her 
 own self. 'Spects how she done forgot whar she 
 was raised," and Hetty returned to the kitchen a 
 warmer adherent of Marian than Dinah had ever 
 been. 
 
 She, too, was very talkative now, and before nine 
 o'clock Ben had learned all that he expected to 
 learn, and much more. He had ascertained that 
 no one had the slightest suspicion of the reason why 
 Marian went away ; that both Frederic and Isabel 
 seemed unhappy ; that Dinah and Hetty, too, be- 
 lieved " thar was somethin' warin' on thar minds ;" 
 that Frederic was discontented, and talked seri- 
 ously of leaving Redstone Hall in care of an over- 
 seer, and moving in the autumn to his residence on 
 the Hudson ; that Hetty hoped he would, and Di- 
 nah hoped he wouldn't, " 'case if he did it would be 
 next to impossible to get a stroke o' work out o' 
 them lazy Higginses." 
 
 " I've got all I come for, I b'lieve," was Ben's 
 mental comment, as he left the kitchen and re- 
 turned to the dining-room, where he found Frederic 
 alone. " I'll poke his ribs a little," he thought, and 
 helping himself to a chair, he began : 
 
 " Wall, Square, I've been out seein' your niggers. 
 Got a fine lot on 'em, and I shouldn't wonder if you 
 was wo'th considerable. Willed to you by your 
 dad, or was it a kind of a dowry come by your 
 wife ? You're a widower, they say ;" and the gray 
 eyes looked out at their corners, as Ben thought, 
 " That'll make him squirm, I guess." 
 
 Frederic turned very white, but his voice was 
 natural as he replied : 
 
 " My father was called the richest man in the 
 country, and I was his only child." 
 
134 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " Ah, yes, come to you that way," answered Ben, 
 continuing after a moment. " There's a big house 
 up on the Hudson — to Yonkers — that's been shet 
 up and rented at odd spells for a good while, and 
 somebody told me it belonged to a Colonel Ray- 
 mond, who lived South. Mabby that's yourn ?" 
 
 " It is," returned Frederic, " and I expect to go 
 there in the Fall." 
 
 " I want to know. I shouldn't s'pose you could 
 be hired to leave this place." 
 
 " I couldn't be hired to stay. There are too 
 many sad memories connected with it," was Fred- 
 eric's answer, and he paced the floor hurriedly, 
 while Ben continued : 
 
 " Mabby you'll be takin' a new wife there ?" 
 
 Frederic's cheek flushed as he replied : 
 
 " If I ever marry again, it will not be in years. 
 Would you like to go to bed, sir ?" 
 
 Ben took the hint and replying, " I don't care if 
 I dew," followed the negro, who came at Frederic's 
 call, up to his room, a pleasant, comfortable cham- 
 ber, overlooking the river and the surrounding 
 country. 
 
 " Golly, this is grand 1" said Ben, examining the 
 different articles of furniture, as if he had never 
 seen anything like it before. 
 
 The negro, who was Lyd's husband, made no re- 
 ply ; but, hurrying down stairs to his mother-in-law, 
 he told her, " Thar was somethin' mighty queer 
 about that man, and if they all found themselves 
 alive in the mornin', he should be thankful." 
 
 Unmindful of breast-pin and ear-rings, Dinah be- 
 came again alarmed, and, bidding Joe see that Vic- 
 toria Eugenia was safe, she gathered up the forks 
 and spoons, and rolling them in a towel, tucked 
 them inside her straw tick, saying : " I reckon it'll 
 make him sweat some to hist me and Phil on to the 
 floor ;" which was quite probable, considering that 
 
tHE YANKEE PEDDLER. ij^ 
 
 the United weight of the worthy couple was some- 
 what over three hundred ! 
 
 The morning dawned at last, andj with her fears 
 abated, Dinah washed the silver, made the coffee, 
 broiled the steak, and fried the corn-meal batter- 
 cakes, which last were at first respectfully declined 
 by Ben, who admitted that they " might be fust- 
 rate, but he didn't b'lieve they'd set well on his 
 stomach." 
 
 Hetty, who was waiting upon the table, quickly 
 divined the reason, and whispered to him :, " Lord 
 bless you, take some ; I done sifted the meal !" 
 
 This argument was conclusive, and helping him- 
 self to the light, steaming cakes, Ben thought, " I 
 may as well eat 'em, for 'taint no wus, nor as bad 
 as them Irish gals does to hum, only I happened to 
 see it!" 
 
 Breakfast being over, he offered to settle his bill, 
 which he found was nothing. 
 
 " Now, ra-ally. Square," he said, as Frederic re- 
 fused to take pay, " I alius hearn that Kentuckians 
 was mighty free-hearted, but I didn't 'spect you to 
 give me my livin'. I'm much obleeged to you, 
 though, and I shall have more left to eddicate that 
 little sister I was tellin' you 'bout. I mean to give 
 her tip-top larnin', and mebby sometime she'll come 
 here to teach this wee one," and he laid his hand 
 on Alice's hair. 
 
 The little girl smiled up in his face, and said, 
 " Come again and peddle here, won't you }" 
 
 " Wouldn't wonder if I turned up amongst you 
 some day," was his answer ; and bidding the family 
 good-bye, he went out into Bruno's kennel, for un- 
 til this minute he had forgotten that the dog was 
 to be remembered. 
 
 " Keep away from dar," called out Uncle Phil, 
 while Bruno growled savagely and bounded against 
 the bars as if anxious to pounce upon the intruder. 
 
 " I've seen enough of him," thought Ben, and 
 
136 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 shaking hands with Uncle Phil, he walked down the 
 avenue and out into the highway. 
 
 Marian, he knew, was anxious to hear of his suc- 
 cess, and not willing to keep her waiting longer 
 than was necessary, he determined to return at 
 once. Accordingly, while the unsuspecting inmates 
 of Redstone Hall were discussing his late visit and 
 singular appearance, he was on his way to the de- 
 pot, where he took the first train for Frankfort, 
 and was soon sailing down the Kentucky toward 
 home. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 PLANS. 
 
 Marian was sitting by the window of her little 
 room, looking out into the busy street below, and 
 thinking how differently New York seemed to her 
 now from what it did that dreary day when she 
 wandered down Broadway, and wished that she 
 could die. She was getting accustomed to the city 
 roar, and the sounds which annoyed her so much 
 at first did not trouble her now. Still there was 
 the same old pain at her heart — a restless, longing 
 desire to hear from home, and know if what she 
 feared were true. She had counted the days of 
 Ben's absence, and she knew it was almost time 
 for his return. She did not expect him to-day, 
 however, and she paid no attention to the heavy 
 footstep upon the stairs, neither did she hear the 
 creaking of the door ; but when Mrs. Burt ex- 
 claimed, " Benjamin Franklin ! where did you come 
 from ?" she started, and in an instant held both his 
 hands in hers, longing, yet dreading, to ask the im- 
 portant question. 
 
^ANS. r3j> 
 
 " Have you been there ?" she managed to say at 
 last; and Ben replied, "Yes, I have, I've been to 
 Redstun Hall, and seen the hull tribe on 'em. 
 That Josh is a case. Couldn't understand him no 
 more than if he spoke a furrin tongue." 
 
 " But Frederic — did you see him, and is he — oh, 
 Ben, do tell me — what you know I want to hear ?" 
 and Marian trembled with excitement. 
 
 " Wall, I will," answered Ben, dropping into a 
 chair, and coming to the point at once. " Fred- 
 eric ain't married to Isabel, nor ain't a-goin' to be, 
 either." 
 
 " What made him write me that lie ?" was 
 Marian's next question, asked so mournfully that 
 Ben replied : 
 
 " A body'd s'pose you was sorry it warn't the 
 truth he writ." 
 
 " I am glad it is not true," returned Marian, 
 " but it hurts me to lose confidence in one I love. 
 How does Frederic look ?" 
 
 " White as a sheet and poor as a crow," said 
 Ben. " It's a wearin' on him, depend on't. But I 
 tell you she's a dasher, with the blackest eyes and 
 hair I ever seen.'" 
 
 " Oh, Ben, is Isabel there ?" And Marian grew 
 as white as Ben had described Frederic to be. 
 
 " Yes, she is," returned Ben. " She's pretendin' 
 to teach that blind gal, but Frederic ain't makin' 
 love to her, — no such thing. So don't go to 
 faintin' away, and I'll begin at the beginning and 
 tell you the hull story." 
 
 Thus reassured, Marian composed herself and 
 listened, while Ben narrated every particular of his 
 visit to Redstone Hall. 
 
 " I stopped at some of the houses in the neigh- 
 borhood," said he, " but I never as't a question 
 about the Raymonds, for fear of bein' mistrusted. 
 Come to think on't, though, I did inquire the road, 
 and they sent me through corn fields, and hemp 
 
138 MARIAN GREY, 
 
 fields, and mefcy knows what ; sueh a way as they 
 have livin' in the lots ! But I kinder like it. Seems 
 like a story, them big housen 'way off among the 
 trees, with the white-washed cabins 'round 'em, 
 lookin' for all the world hke a camp-meetin' in the 
 woods " 
 
 " Yes, yes," interrupted Marian ; " but Frederic 
 — won't you ever reach him ?" 
 
 "Not till I tell you about the dogs, and that 
 jaw-breakin' chap they call Josh, with his cow- 
 hides, big as a scow-boat, I'll bet," was Ben's an- 
 swer ; and finding it useless to hurry him, Marian 
 summoned all her patience and waited while he 
 waded through his introduction to the blacks, his 
 attempt to be more of a Yankee than he really 
 was, his sliver in his thumb, and, finally his address- 
 ing Frederic as Square and inquiring for his wife ! 
 
 Marian was all attention now, and held her 
 breath, lest she should lose a single word. When 
 he came to Isabel, she felt as if she were turning 
 to stone ; but when he spoke of Alice, and the 
 sweet, loving words she had said of the lost one, 
 the cold, hard feeling passed away, and, covering 
 her face with her hands, she wept aloud. Every- 
 thing which Ben had seen or heard he told, omit- 
 ting not a single point, but lengthening out his 
 story with surmises and suspicions of his own. 
 
 "Alice and Dinah both," said he, "told me 
 Frederic wouldn't marry till they knew for certain 
 you was dead, and as he does know for certain, 
 you can calkerlate on that Isabel's bein' an old 
 maid for all of him." 
 
 " I never supposed they'd think me drowned 
 when I dropped my glove and handkerchief," 
 Marian said. " Did they inquire at the station ?" 
 
 "Yes, so Alice said," returned Ben, "and nobody 
 knew nothin' of you ; so it was nateral they should 
 think you drownded ; but, no matter, it makes it 
 more like a novel, and now I'll tell you jest what 
 
I-LANS. 139 
 
 'tis, wee one, I don't mean lio offense, and you 
 must take it all in good part. You are a great deal 
 better than Isabel, I know ; but, as fur as looks 
 and manners is concerned, you can't hold a candle 
 to her, and a body knowin' nothing about either 
 would naterally say she was most befittin' Redsturi 
 Hall ; but, tell 'em to wait a spell. You hain't got 
 your growth yet, and you are gettin' better lookin' 
 every day. That sickness made a wonderful 
 change in you, and shavin' your hair was jest the 
 thing. It's comin' out darker, as it always does, 
 and in less than a year I'll bet my hat on it's bein' 
 a beautiful auburn. You must chirk up and grow 
 fat, for I'm goin' to send you to school, and have 
 you take lessons on the planner, and learn French 
 and everything, so that by the time you're twenty 
 you'll be the best educated and han'somest gal in 
 the city, and then when the right time comes, if 
 Providence don't contrive to fetch you two to- 
 gether, Ben Burt will. I shall keep my eye on 
 him, and if he's gettin' too thick with Isabel, I'll 
 drop a sly point in his ear. They're goin' to move 
 up on the Hudson to the old place, did I tell you ? 
 ■ — and mebby you'll run afoul of him in the street 
 some day." 
 
 " Oh, I hope not, at least not yet, not till the 
 time you speak of," Marian said. She had listened 
 eagerly to Ben's suggestion, and already felt that 
 there was hope for her in the future. She would 
 study so hard, she thought, and learn so fast, and 
 if she could only be thought handsome, or even 
 decent-looking, she would be satisfied, but that was 
 impossible, she feared. 
 
 She did not know that, as Ben had said, the 
 severe illness through which she had passed had 
 laid the foundation for a softer, more refined style 
 of beauty than she would otherwise have reached. 
 Her entire constitution seemed to have undergone 
 a change, and now, with hope to buoy her up, she 
 
146 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 grew stronger, healthier, and, as a natural conse- 
 quence, handsomer each day. She could not erase 
 from her memory the insult Frederic had offered 
 her by writing what she believed he did, but her 
 affection for him was strong enough to overlook 
 even that, and she was willing to wait and labor 
 years, if at the end of that time she could hope to 
 win his love. 
 
 Whatever Ben undertook he was sure to accom- 
 plish in the shortest possible time, and before start- 
 ing upon another peddling excursion, the name of 
 " Marian Grey " was enrolled among the hst of 
 pupils who attended Madam Harcourt's school. 
 At first she was subject to many annoyances, for, as 
 was quite natural, her companions inquired con- 
 cerning her standing, and when they learned that 
 her aunt was a sewing woman, and that the queer, 
 awkward fellow who came with her the first day 
 was her cousin and a peddler, they treated her 
 slightingly, and laughed at her plain dress. But 
 Marian did not care. One thought — one feeUng 
 alone actuated her ; to make herself something of 
 which Frederic Raymond should not be ashamed 
 was her aim, and for this she studied early and late, 
 winning golden laurels in the opinion of her 
 teachers, and coming ere long to be respected and 
 loved by her companions. 
 
 Thus the Summer and a part of the Autumn 
 passed away, and when the semi-annual examina- 
 tion came, Marian Grey stood first in all her classes, 
 acquitting herself so creditably and receiving so 
 much praise, that Ben, who chanced to be present, 
 was overjoyed, and evinced his pleasure by shed- 
 ding tears, his usual way of expressing feeling. 
 
 From this time forward Marian's progress was 
 rapid, until even she herself wondered how it were 
 possible for her to learn so fast, when she had 
 formerly cared so little for books. Hope, and a 
 joyful anticipation of what would possibly be hers 
 
PLANS. 141 
 
 in the future, kept her up and helped her to endure 
 the mental labors which might otherwise have 
 overtaxed her strength. Gradually, too, the old 
 soreness at her heart wore away, and she recovered 
 in a measure her former light-heartedness, until at 
 last her merry laugh was often heard ringing out 
 loud and clear just as it used to do at home in days 
 gone by. Very anxiously Ben watched her, and 
 when on his return from his excursions he found 
 her, as he always did, improved in looks and spirits, 
 he rubbed his hands together and whispered to 
 himself, " She'll set up for a beauty, yet, and no 
 mistake. That hair of hern is growin' a splendid 
 color." 
 
 He did not always express these thoughts to 
 Marian, but the little mirror which hung on the 
 wall in her room sometimes whispered to her that 
 the face reflected there was not the same which 
 had looked at her on that memorable night when 
 she had left her pillow to see what her points of 
 ugliness were ! The one which she had thought 
 the crowning defect of all had certainly disappeared. 
 Her red curls were gone, and in their place was 
 growing a mass of soft wavy hair, which reminded 
 her of the auburn tress she had so much admired 
 and prized, because it was her mother's. She had 
 no means of knowing how nearly they were alike, 
 for the ringlet was far away, but by comparing her 
 present short curls with those which had been 
 shorn from her head, she saw there was a difference, 
 and she felt a pardonable pride in brushing and 
 cultivating her young hair, which well repaid her 
 labor. 
 
 Toward the last of November, Ben, who found 
 his peddling profitable, took a trip through West- 
 ern New York, and did not return until February, 
 when, somewhat to his mother's annoyance, he 
 brought a sick stranger with him. He had taken 
 the cars at Albany, where he met with the stranger, 
 
142 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 who offered him a part of his seat, and made himself 
 so generally agreeable that Ben's susceptible heart 
 warmed toward him at once, and when at last, as 
 they drew near New York, the man showed signs 
 of being seriously ill, Ben's sympathy was roused, 
 and learning that he had no friends in the city, he 
 urged him so strongly to accompany him home for 
 the night, at least, that his invitation was accepted, 
 and the more readily, perhaps, as the stranger's 
 pocket had been picked in Albany, and he had no- 
 thing left except his ticket to New York. This 
 reason was not very satisfactory to Mrs. Burt, who 
 from the first had disliked their visitor's appearance. 
 He was a powerfully built young man, with black 
 hair, and restless, rolling eyes, which seemed ever 
 on the alert to discover something not intended for 
 them to see. His face wore a hard, dissipated look ; 
 and when Mrs. Burt saw how soon after seating 
 himself before the warm fire, he fell asleep, she 
 rightly conjectured that a fit of drunkenness had 
 been the cause of his illness. Still, he was their 
 guest, and she could not treat him uncivilly, so she 
 bade her son take him to his room, where he lay in 
 the same deep, stupid sleep, breathing so loudly 
 that he could be plainly heard in the adjoining 
 room, where Marian and Ben were talking of the 
 house at Yonkers which was not finished yet, and 
 would not be ready for the family until sometime 
 in May. 
 
 Suddenly the loud breathing in the bedroom 
 ceased — ^the stranger was waking up ; but Ben and 
 Marian talked on as freeiyas if there were no greedy 
 ears drinking in each word they said, and putting 
 together, link by link, the chain of mystery until it 
 was as clear to him as noonday. The first sentence 
 which he heard distinctly sobered him at once. . It 
 was Marian who spoke, and the words she said were, 
 "I wonder if Isabel Ktentington will come with 
 Frederic to Yonkers ?" 
 
PLANS. 143 
 
 " Isabel !" the stranger gasped. " What do they 
 know of her ?" and sitting up in bed he hstened 
 until he learned what they knew of her, and learned 
 too, that the young girl whom Ben Burt called his 
 cousin was the runaway bride from Redstone 
 Hall. 
 
 The black eyes flashed, and the fists smote 
 angrily together as the stranger whispered : 
 
 "The time I've waited for has come at last, and 
 the proud lady shall be humbled in the very 
 dust !" 
 
 It was Rudolph McVicar who threatened evil to 
 Isabel Huntington. He had loved her once, but 
 her scornful refusal of him, even after she was his 
 promised wife, had turned his love to hate, and he 
 had sworn to avenge the wrong should a good 
 chance ever occur. He knew that she was in Ken- 
 tucky — a teacher at Redstone Hall — and for a time 
 he had expected to hear of her marriage with the 
 heir, but this intelligence did not come, and weary 
 of New Haven, he at last made a trip to New Or- 
 leans, determining on his way back to stop for a 
 time in the neighborhood of Redstone Hall, and if 
 possible learn the reason why Isabel had not yet 
 succeeded in securing Frederic Raymond. On the 
 boat in which he took passage on his return were 
 three or four young people from Franklin county, 
 and among them Agnes Gibson and her brother. 
 They were a very merry party, and at once at- 
 tracted the attention of Rudolph, who, learning 
 that they were from the vicinity of Frankfort, hov- 
 ered around them, hoping that by some chance he 
 might hear them speak of Isabel. Nor was he dis- 
 appointed ; for one afternoon when they were as- 
 sembled upon the upper deck, one of their number 
 who lived in Lexington, and who had been absent 
 in California for nearly two years, inquired after 
 Frederic Raymond, whom he had formerly knowq 
 ^t school. 
 
144 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " Why," returned Agnes, " did no one write that 
 news to you ?" and she told the story of Frederic's 
 marriage and its sad denouement. Isabel, too, was 
 freely discussed. Miss Agnes saying that Mr. Ray- 
 mond would undoubtedly marry her, could he 
 know that Marian was dead, but as there were 
 some who entertained doubts upon that point, he 
 would hardly dare take any decisive step until un- 
 certainty was made sure. 
 
 " When Miss Huntington first came to Redstone 
 Hall," continued Agnes, " she took no pains what- 
 ever to conceal her preference for Mr. Raymond ; 
 but latterly a change has come over her, and she 
 hardly appears like the same girl. There seems to 
 be something on her mind, though what it is I 
 have never been able to learn, which is a little 
 strange, cousidering that she tells me everything." 
 
 Not a word of this story was lost by McVicar. 
 There was no reason now for his leaving the boat 
 at Louisville. He knew why Isabel was not a 
 bride, and he kept on his way till he reached Al- 
 bany, where a debauch of a few days was succeeded 
 by the sickness which had awakened the sympathy 
 of the tender-hearted Ben, and induced the latter 
 to offer him shelter for the night. He was glad 
 that he had met with Ben, for by that means he had 
 discovered the hiding-place of Frederic Raymond's 
 wife. He did not know of her fortune, but he knew 
 that she was Marian Lindsey ; that accidentally, as 
 he supposed, she had stumbled upon Mrs. Bnrt and 
 Ben who were keeping her secret from the world, 
 and that was enough for him. That Isabel had 
 something to do with her he was sure, and long af- 
 ter the conversation in the next room had ceased, 
 he lay awake thinking what use he could make of 
 his knowledge, and still not betray those who had 
 befriended him. 
 
 Rudolph McVicar was an adept in cunning, and 
 before the morning dawned he had formed a plan 
 
PLANS. 145 
 
 by which he hoped to crush the haughty Isabel. 
 Assuming an air of indifference to everything 
 around him he sauntered out to breakfast, and pre- 
 tended to eat, while his eyes rested almost con- 
 stantly on Marian. She was very young, he 
 thought, and far prettier than Agnes Gibson had 
 represented her to be. She was changing in her 
 looks, he said, and two or three years would ripen 
 her into a beautiful woman of whom Frederic Ray- 
 mond would be proud. He wished he knew why 
 she had left Redstone Hall, but as this knowledge 
 was beyond his reach, he contented himself with 
 knowing who she was, and after breakfast was over 
 he thanked his new acquaintances for their hospi- 
 tality, and went out into the city, going first to a 
 pawnbroker's, where he left his watch, receiving in 
 exchange money enough to defray his expenses in 
 the city for several days. 
 
 That night, in a private room at the St. Nicholas, 
 he sat alone, bending over a letter, which, when 
 finished, bore a very fair resemblance to an unedu- 
 cated woman's handwriting, and which read as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 M. Raymond — I now take my pen in hand to in- 
 form you that A young Woman, calling herself 
 Marian lindsey has ben staying with me awhile And 
 she said you was her Husband what she came of 
 and left you for I don't know and I spose its none 
 of my Biznes all I have to do is to tell you that she 
 died wun week ago come sunday with the canker- 
 rash and she made me Promise to rite and tell you 
 she was ded and that she forgives you all your Sins 
 and hope you wonldn't wate long before you mar- 
 red agen it would of done your Hart good to hear 
 her taulk like a Sante as she did. I should of writ 
 soonner only her sicknes hindered me about gettin 
 reddy for a journey ime goin to take my only 
 Brother lives in scotlapd and jme goin out tP Jiv? 
 
146 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 with him i was most reddy when Marian took sick 
 if she had lived she was coming back to you I 
 bleave and now that shes ded ime going rite of in 
 
 the which sales tomorrough nite else ide ask 
 
 you to come down and see where she died and all 
 about it. i made her as comfitable as I could and 
 hopin you wouldnt take it to hard for Deth is the 
 Lot of all i am your most Humble Servant 
 
 Sarah Green. 
 
 ' There," soliloquized Rudolph, reading over the 
 letter. " That covers the whole ground, and still 
 gives him no clue in case he should come to New 
 
 York. The ■ does sail the very day I have 
 
 named, and though ' Sarah Green ' may not be 
 among her passengers, it answers my purpose quite 
 as well. I believe I've steered clear of all doubtful 
 points which might lead him to suspect it a forgery. 
 He knows Marian would not attempt to deceive 
 him, and he will, undoubtedly, think old Mrs. Green 
 some good soul, who dosed the patient with saffron 
 tea, and then saw her decently interred ! He'll 
 have a nice time hunting up her grave if he should 
 undertake that. But he won't — he'll be pleased 
 enough to know that he is free, for by all accounts 
 he didn't love her much, and in less than six weeks 
 he'll be engaged to Isabel. But I'll be on their 
 track, I'll watch them narrowly, and when the day 
 is set, and the guests are there, one will go unbid- 
 den to the marriage feast, and the story that unin- 
 vited guest can tell will humble the proud beauty 
 to the dust. He will tell her this letter was a for- 
 gery, and Sarah Green a myth : that Marian Lind- 
 sey lives, and Frederic Raymond, if he takes another 
 wife, can be indicted for bigamy ; and when he sees 
 her eyes flash fire, and her cheek grow pale with 
 rage and disappointment, Rudolph McVicar will be 
 avenged." 
 
 This was the plan which Rudolph had formed, 
 
THE EFFECT, 147 
 
 and, without wavering for an instant in his purpose, 
 he sealed the letter, and directing it to Frederic, 
 sent it on its way, going himself the next morning 
 to New Haven, where he had some money depos- 
 ited in the bank. This he withdrew, and after a few 
 days started for Lexington, where he intended to 
 remain and watch the proceedings at Redstone 
 Hall, until the denouement of his plot. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE EFFECT. 
 
 Not quite a year had passed since the night 
 when Ben Burt first strolled leisurely up the long 
 avenue leading to Redstone Hall. It was April 
 then, and the early flowers were in bloom, but now 
 the chill March winds are blowing, and the brown 
 stalks of the tall rose-tree brush against the window 
 from which a light streams out into the darkness. 
 It is the window of the library where we have seen 
 Frederic before, and where we meet him again. 
 He has changed somewhat since we saw him last, 
 and there is upon his face an expression as if in his 
 heart there was a haunting memory which would 
 follow him through all time, and embitter every 
 hour. 
 
 Little by little he had come to hate the wealth 
 which had tempted him to sin — to loathe the beau- 
 tiful home he once loved so well — and this had 
 prompted him to leave it and go back to the old 
 house on the river, where his early boyhood was 
 passed. There were not so many mournful memo- 
 ries clustering around that spot, he thought, and if 
 
148 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 he once weire there he might perhaps forget the 
 past, and be happy again. He would open an of- 
 fice in the city, and if possible earn his own living, 
 so as not to spend more of Marian's fortune than 
 was necessary. He could not tell why he wished 
 to save it. He only knew that he could not bear to 
 use it, cind he roused himself at last, determining 
 to do something for himself. This plan of moving 
 to the Hudson was opposed by Isabel, who liked 
 the easy, luxurious life she led at Redstone Hall ; 
 but for once, Frederic would not listen to her, and 
 he had made his arrangements to leave Kentucky 
 in May, at which time his house would be in readi- 
 ness to receive him. Isabel would go with him, of 
 course — she was necessary to him now, though faith- 
 ful to the promise made to little Alice, he had 
 never talked to her of love. And she was glad that 
 he had not ; for, with the knowledge she possessed, 
 she would not have dared to listen to his suit, 
 and she often questioned herself as to what the end 
 would be. 
 
 One year more of the dreary seven was gone, 
 but the future looked almost hopeless to her, and 
 she was sometimes tempted to go away and leave 
 the dangerous game at which she was so hazard- 
 ously playing. Still, when she seriously contem- 
 plated such a proceeding, she shrunk from it — for, 
 though she were never Frederic's wife, she would 
 rather remain where she was, and see that no other 
 came to dispute the little claim she had. All her 
 assurance was gone, and in her dread lest Frederic 
 should say the words she must not hear, she as- 
 sumed toward him a half distant, half bashful man- 
 ner, far more attractive than a bolder course of 
 conduct would have been, and Frederic, while 
 watching her in this new phase of character, strug- 
 gled manfully against the feeling which sometimes 
 prompted him to break his promise to the blind 
 girl. She ^Ya? faulty he knew — far naore §0 th^i; h? 
 
THE EFFECT. T49 
 
 had once imagined — but she was brilliant, beauti- 
 ful, accomplished, and he thought that he loved 
 her. 
 
 But he was not thinking of her that chill March 
 night, when he sat alone in the library watching 
 the flickering of the lamp, and listening to the 
 evening wind, as it shook the bushes beneath his 
 window. It was Marian's seventeenth birthday, 
 and he was thinking of her, wondering what she 
 would have been had she lived to see this day. 
 She was surely dead, he thought, or some tidings 
 of her would have come to him ere this, and when 
 he remembered how gentle, how pure and self- 
 denying her short life had been, he said, involun- 
 tarily : 
 
 " Poor Marian — she deserved a better fate, and 
 could she come back to me again I would prove to 
 her that I am not unworthy of her love." 
 
 There was a shuffling tread in the hall, and Josh 
 appeared bringing several letters. One bore the 
 Louisville post-mark — one was from New Orleans 
 — one from Lexington, and one from Sarah 
 Green ! 
 
 " Who writes to me from New York ?" was 
 Frederic's mental query, and tearing open the 
 envelope he read the scrawl, while there crept over 
 him a nameless terror as if while he was thinking 
 of Marian, the grave had opened at his feet and 
 shown him where she lay ; not in the moaning 
 river — not in the deep, dark woods, nor on the 
 western prairies, as he had sometimes feared, but 
 far away in the great city, where there was no one 
 to pity — no eye to weep for her, save that of the 
 rude woman who had written him the letter. 
 
 There Marian had suffered and died for him. 
 His young girl-wife ! He could call her so now, 
 and he did, saying it softly, reverently, as we speak 
 always of the departed, while the tears he was not 
 ashamed to shed, dropped upon the soiled sheet. 
 
I50 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 He did n'ot think of doubting it. There was no 
 reason why he should, and his heart went out after 
 the dead as it had never gone after the living. It 
 seemed to him so terrible that she should die 
 among strangers, so far from home ; and he won- 
 dered how she ever chanced to get there. She had 
 remembered him to the last, " forgiving all his sin," 
 the woman said, and knowing how much those few 
 words meant, he said aloud, " Poor Marian," just 
 as the door opened and Alice came slowly in. 
 
 There was a grand party that night at the house 
 of Lawyer Gibson, and at Isabel's request Alice 
 had come to ask how long before the carriage 
 would be ready. Dinah had told her that Fred- 
 eric was in the library, but he sat so still she 
 thought he was not there, and she said inquiringly, 
 " Frederic ?" 
 
 " Yes, darling," was his answer in a tone which 
 startled the sensitive child, for she detected in it a 
 sound of tears, and hurrying to his side she passed 
 her hand over his face to assure herself that she 
 had heard aright. 
 
 " Has something dreadful happened ?" she asked, 
 as she felt the moisture on his eye-lids. 
 
 Taking her on his lap, Frederic said to her : 
 
 " Alice, Marian is dead ! Here is the letter 
 which came to tell us," and he placed it in her 
 hand. There was a sudden upward flashing of the 
 brown eyes, and then their light was quenched in 
 tears, as, burying her face in the young man's 
 bosom, Alice sobbed, " Oh, no, no, Frederic, no." 
 
 For several minutes she wept passionately. 
 Then lifting up her head, she said : 
 
 " Read the letter, Frederic." 
 
 " Is that all ?" she asked, when he had finished. 
 " Didn't you leave out a word ?" 
 
 " Not one," was his reply, and with quivering 
 lips the heart-broken child continued, " Marian 
 ,sent no message to me, she never thought of me 
 
THE EFFECT. Igt 
 
 who loved her so much. Why didn't she, Fred- 
 eric ?" and the sightless eyes looked at him as if he 
 could explain the mystery. 
 
 Rudolph McVicar did not know how strong was 
 the affection between those two young girls, or he 
 would have sent a message to one who seemed 
 almost a part of Marian herself, and it was this 
 very omission which finally led the close reasoning 
 child to doubt the truth of the letter. But she did 
 not doubt it now. Marian was dead, and for a 
 long time she sat with Frederic, saying nothing, 
 but by her silence manifesting to him how great 
 was her grief at this sudden bereavement. 
 
 At last remembering her errand, she told him 
 why she had come, and asked what she should say 
 to Isabel. 
 
 " Tell her I shall not go," he said, " but she need 
 not remain at home for that. The carriage can be 
 ready at any time, and, Alice, tell her the rest. 
 You'll do it better than I." 
 
 Alice would rather that some one else should 
 carry to lsab«l tidings which she felt intuitively 
 would be received with more pleasure than pain, 
 but if Frederic requested it of her she would do it, 
 and she started to return. To her the night and 
 the day were the same, and ordinarily it mattered 
 not whether there were lamps in the hall or not, 
 but now, as she passed from the library into the 
 adjoining room, there came over her a feeling of 
 such utter loneliness and desolation that she turned 
 back and said to Frederic : 
 
 " Will you go with me up the stairs, for now that 
 Marian is dead, the night is darker than it ever was 
 before." 
 
 He appreciated her feelings, and taking her by 
 the hand, led her to the door of Isabel's room. 
 Isabel had waited impatiently for her, wishing to 
 know what hour Frederic intended starting, and if 
 there would be time for Luce, her waiting maid, to 
 
tS2 MARIAN GREY, 
 
 curl her hair. Accidentally she had overheard d. 
 gentleman say that if she wore curls she would be 
 the most beautiful woman in Kentucky, and as he 
 was to be present at the party she determined to 
 prove his assertion. 
 
 " I hope that young one stays well," she said, 
 angrily, as the moments went by, and at last, as 
 Alice did not come, she bade Luce put the iron in 
 the fire, and commence her operations. 
 
 The negress accordingly obeyed the orders, and 
 six long curls were streaming down the lady's back, 
 while a seventh was wound around the iron in close 
 proximity to her ear, when Alice came in, and hur- 
 rying to her side, began : 
 
 " Oh, Miss Huntington, poor, dear Marian wasn't 
 dead all the time they thought she was. She was 
 in New York, with Mrs. " 
 
 She did not finish the sentence ; for, feeling cer- 
 tain that her treachery was about to be disclosed, 
 Isabel jumped so suddenly as to bring the hot iron 
 directly across her ear and a portion of her fore- 
 head. Maddened with the pain, and a dread of 
 impending disgrace, she struck the innocent girl a 
 blow which sent her reeling across the floor. 
 
 " Oh, Lordy !" exclaimed Luce, untwisting the 
 hair so rapidly that a portion of it was torn from 
 the head — " oh,- Lordy ! Miss Isabel, Alice never 
 tached you ;" and, throwing the iron upon the 
 hearth, she hurried to the prostrate child, who had 
 thrown herself upon the lounge and was sobbing so 
 loud and hysterically that Isabel herself was 
 alarmed, and while bathing her blistered ear, tried 
 to stammer out some apology for what she had 
 done. 
 
 " I supposed you carelessly ran against me," she 
 said ; " and it hurt me so I didn't know what I was 
 doing. Pray, don't cry that way. You'll raise the 
 house;" and she took hold of Alice's shoulder. 
 
 " I wish she would," muttered Luce ; and, stoop. 
 
THE EFFECT. 153 
 
 ing down, she whispered : " Screech louder, so as to 
 fotch Marster Frederic, and tell him jest how she 
 done sarved you !" 
 
 But nothing could be further from Alice's mind 
 than crying for effect. It was not so much the in- 
 dignity she had suffered, nor the pain of the blow 
 which made her weep so bitterly. It was the utter 
 sense of desolation, the feeling that her last hope 
 had drifted away with the certainty of Marian's 
 death, and for a time she wept on passionately ; 
 while Isabel, with a hurricane in her bosom, walked 
 the floor, wondering if her perfidy would ever be 
 discovered, and feeling that she cared but little now 
 whether it were, or not. Suspense was terrible, and 
 when the violence of Alice's sobs had subsided, she 
 said to her : 
 
 " Where is Marian, and when is she coming 
 home ?" 
 
 " Oh, never, never !" answered the child. " She 
 can't come back, for she's dead." 
 
 " Dead !" Isabel exclaimed, in a far different 
 voice from that in which she had spoken before. 
 " What do you mean ?" and passing her arm very 
 caressingly around Alice, she continued : " I am 
 sorry I struck you. I didn't know what I was do- 
 ing, and you must forgive me, will you, darling ? 
 There, dry your eyes, and tell me all about poor 
 Marian. When did she die, and where ?" 
 
 As well as she could for her tears, Alice told 
 what she knew, and satisfied that she was in no way 
 implicated, Isabel became still more amiable, even 
 speaking pleasantly to Luce and telling her she 
 might do what she pleased the remainder of the 
 evening. 
 
 " Of course I shouldn't think of attending the 
 party now, even if I were not so dreadfully burned. 
 Poor Frederic ! how badly he must feel !" 
 
 " He does," said Alice, " and he cried, too." 
 
 Isabel curled her proud lip contemptuously, and 
 
iS4 MARtAN GRfeY. 
 
 dipping her handkerchief again in the water, she 
 applied it to her blistered ear, thinking to herself 
 that he would probably be easily consoled. It 
 would be proper, too, for her to commence the 
 consoling process at once, by expressing her sym- 
 pathy ; and leaving Alice alone she went to the 
 library where Frederic was still sitting, so absorbed 
 in his own reflections that he did not observe her 
 approach until she said, "Alice tells me you have 
 heard from Marian ;" then he started suddenly, and 
 turning toward her, answered, 'Yes, you can read 
 what is written here if you like," and he passed her 
 McVicar's letter. 
 
 It seemed to Isabel tnat there was something fa- 
 miliar about the writing, particularly in the forma- 
 tion of the capitals, but she suspected no fraud, and 
 accepted the whole as coming from Sarah Green. 
 
 " This is some new acquaintance Marian picked 
 up," she thought. "The woman speaks of havint;- 
 known her but a short time. Probably she left 
 Mrs. Daniel Burt and stumbled upon Sarah Green," 
 and with an exultant smile upon her face, she put 
 the letter down, and laying her hand on Frederic's 
 shoulder, said, " I am sorry for you, Frederic, 
 though it is better, of course, to know just what did 
 become of the poor girl." 
 
 Frederic could not tell why it was that Isabel's 
 words of sympathy grated harshly on his ear. He 
 only knew that they did, and he was glad when she 
 left him alone, telling him she should not attend 
 the party, and saying in reply to his question as to 
 what ailed her ear, that Luce, who was curling her 
 hair, carelessly burned it. 
 
 "By the way," she continued, " when I felt the 
 hot iron, I jumped and throwing out my hand acci- 
 dentally hit Alice on her head, and, if you'll believe 
 me, the sensitive child thinks I intended it, and has 
 almost cried herself sick." 
 
 This falsehood she thought necessary, in case the 
 
THE EFFfiCT, 15^ 
 
 truth of the matter should ever reach Frederic 
 through another channel, and feeling confident that 
 she was safe in every respect, and that the prize she 
 so much coveted was nearly won, she left him and 
 sought her mother's chamber. 
 
 In the kitchen the news of Marian's certain 
 death was received with noisy demonstrations — old 
 Dinah and Hetty trying hard to outdo each other, 
 and see which should shed the most tears. The 
 woollen aprons of both were brought into con- 
 stant requisition, while Hetty rang so many changes 
 upon the virtues of the departed that Uncle Phil 
 became disgusted, and said " for hfs part he'd hearn 
 enough 'bout dead folks. He liked Miss Marian as 
 well as anybody, but he did up his mournin' them 
 times that he wet hisself to the skin a tryin' to fish 
 her out of the river. He thought his heart would 
 bust then, though he knew all the time she wasn't 
 thar, and he told 'em so, too. He knew she'd run 
 away to New York, and he alius s'posed they'd hear 
 she died summers at the South. He wasn't disap- 
 pointed. He could tell by his feelin's when any- 
 thing was gwine to happen, and for more'n a week 
 back he'd had it on his mind that Miss Marian was 
 dead — they couldn't fool him !" and satisfied that 
 he had impressed his audience with a sense of his 
 foreknowledge, Uncle Phil pulled off his boots and 
 started for bed, leaving Dinah and Hetty to dis- 
 cuss the matter at their leisure and speculate upon 
 the probable result. 
 
 " I can tell you," said Dinah, " it won't be no 
 time at all afore Marster'll be settin' to that Isabel, 
 and if he does, I 'clar for't I'll run away, or hire out, 
 see if I don't. I ain't a goin' to be sassed by none 
 of yer low flung truck and hev 'em carryin' the 
 keys. She may jest go back whar she come from, 
 and I'll tell her so, too. I'll gin her a piece of my 
 mind." 
 
 "She's gwine back," suggested Hetty, who, faith- 
 
156 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 ful to the memory of Miss Beatice, admired Isabel 
 on account of a fancied resemblance between the 
 two. " Don't you mind how Marster is a gwine to 
 move up to somewhar?" 
 
 " That's nothin'," returned Dinah. " They'll 
 come back in the fall, but I shan't be here. I'll 
 hire myself out, and you kin be the head a spell." 
 
 This prospect was not an unpleasant one to 
 Hetty, who looked with a jealous eye upon Dinah's 
 superior position, and as a sure means of attaining 
 the object of her ambition and becoming in turn 
 the favorite, she warmly espoused the cause of Isa- 
 bel, and waged many a battle of words with Dinah, 
 who took no pains to conceal her dislike. Thus 
 two or three weeks went by, and as nothing oc- 
 curred to cause Dinah immediate alarm, her fears 
 gradually subsided, until at last she forgot them 
 altogether, while even Marian ceased to be a daily 
 subject of conversation. 
 
 To Frederic reality was more endurable than 
 suspense, for he could look the future in the face 
 and think what he would do. He was free to 
 marry Isabel, he believed ; but, as .vas quite natu- 
 ral, he cared less about it now than when there was 
 an obstacle in his way. There was no danger of 
 losing her, and he could wait as long as he pleased. 
 Once he thought of going to New York to make 
 some inquiries, and if possible, find Marian's grave, 
 but when he reflected that Sarah Green was on the 
 ocean, he decided to defer the matter until their 
 removal to Yonkers, which was to take place about 
 the middle of May. Isabel, too, had her own 
 views upon the subject. There no longer existed 
 a reason why Frederic should not address her, and 
 in her estimation nothing could be more proper 
 than to christen the new home with a bride. So 
 she bent all her energies to the task, smiling her 
 sweetest smile, saying her softest words, and play- 
 ing the amiable lady to perfection. But it availed 
 
THE EFFECT. 1 57 
 
 her nothing, and she determined at last upon a 
 bolder movement. 
 
 Finding Frederic alone in the parlor one day she 
 said : 
 
 " I suppose it will not affect you materially if 
 mother and I leave when you remove to Yonkers. 
 Agnes Gibson, you know, is soon to be married, 
 and she has invited me to go with her to Florida, 
 where, she says, I can procure a good situation as 
 music teacher, and mother wishes to go back to 
 New Haven." 
 
 The announcement, and the coolness with which 
 it was made, startled Frederic, and he replied, 
 rather anxiously : 
 
 " I have never contemplated a separation. I 
 shall need your mother there more than I do here, 
 for I shall not have Dinah." 
 
 " Perhaps you can persuade her to stay, but I 
 think it best for me to go," returned Isabel, de- 
 lighted with her success. 
 
 Frederic did not wish Isabel to leave him, and, 
 after a moment, he said : 
 
 " Why must you go, Isabel ? Do you wish for a 
 larger salary? Are you tired of us — of me?" 
 And the last words were spoken hesitatingly, as if 
 he doubted the propriety of his saying them. 
 
 "Oh, Frederic !" and in the eyes raised for an 
 instant to his face, and then modestly withdrawn, 
 there was certainly a tear ! " Oh, Frederic !" was 
 all she said, and Frederic felt constrained to an- 
 swer : " What is it, Isabel ? Why do you wish to 
 go?" 
 
 " I don't — I don't," she answered, passionately ; 
 " but respect for myself demands it. People are 
 already talking about my living here with you ; 
 and now poor Marian is dead it will be tenfold 
 worse. I wish they would let us alone, for I have 
 been so happy here and am so much attached to 
 Alice, It will almost break my heart to lea^ve her !" 
 
IS8 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 For a moment Frederic was tempted to bid her 
 stay, not as Alice's governess, but as his wife and 
 mistress of his house. Several times he tried to 
 speak, and at last, he began — " Isabel, I have never 
 heard that people were talking of you. There is 
 no reason why they should, but if they are I can 
 devise a method of stopping it and still keeping 
 you with us. I have never spoken to you of — " 
 love he was going to say, when a little voice 
 chimed in : " Please, Frederic, I am here," and 
 looking up they saw Alice. 
 
 She had entered unobserved and was standing 
 just within the door where she heard what Fred- 
 eric said. Intuitively she felt what would follow 
 next, and scarcely knowing what she did, she had 
 apprised them of her presence. 
 
 " The brat !" was Isabel's mental comment, while 
 Frederic was sensible of a feeling of relief, as if he 
 had suddenly wakened from a spell, or been saved 
 from some great peril. For several moments Isabel 
 sat, hoping Alice would leave the room, but she did 
 not, and in no very amiable mood the lady was 
 herself constrained to go, by a call from her 
 mother, who wished to see her on some trivial 
 matter. 
 
 When she was gone, Alice said to Frederic, 
 " Won't you read me that letter again which Mrs. 
 Green wrote to you ?" 
 
 He complied with her request, and when he had 
 finished, the child continued, " If Marian had really 
 died, wouldn't she have gent some message to me, 
 and wouldn't that woman have told us how she 
 happened to be way off there, and all about it ?" 
 
 "7/" Marian really died!" Frederic repeated. 
 " Do you doubt it ?" 
 
 " Yes," returned the child, " Marian loved me 
 most as well as she did you, and she surely would 
 have talked of me and sent me some word ; then. 
 tpo, is there piuch difference between scarlet fever 
 
THE EFFECT. I5g 
 
 and canker-rash ? Don't some folks call it by both 
 names?" 
 
 " I believe they do," said Frederic, wondering to 
 where all this was tending. 
 
 " Marian had the scarlet fever, and I, too, just 
 after I came here," was Alice's next remark. " You 
 were at college, but I remember it, and so does 
 Dinah, for I asked her a little while ago. Can 
 folks have it twice ?" and the blind eyes looked up 
 at Frederic, as if sure that this last argument at 
 least were proof conclusive of Marian's existence. 
 
 " Sometimes, but not often," Frederic answered, 
 the shadow of a doubt creeping into his own 
 mind. 
 
 " And if they do," persisted Alice, who had been 
 consulting with Dinah — " if they do, they seldom 
 have it hard enough to die, so Dinah says ; and I 
 don't beheve that was a good, true letter. Some- 
 body wrote it, to be wicked. Marian is alive, I 
 almost know." 
 
 " Must you see her dead body to be convinced ?" 
 Frederic asked a little impatiently ; and Alice re- 
 joined : 
 
 " No; but somehow it don't seem right for you 
 to — to — oh, Frederic !" and, bursting into tears 
 she came at once to the root of the whole matter. 
 
 She had thought a great deal about the letter, 
 wondering why Marian had failed to speak of her, 
 and at last rejecting it as an impossibility. Sud- 
 denly, too, she remembered that once, when she 
 and Marian were sick, she heard some of the neigh- 
 bors speak of their disease as scarlet fever, while 
 others called it the canker-rash ; and all united in say- 
 ing they could have it but once. This had led to 
 inquiries of Dinah, and had finally resulted in her 
 conviction that Marian might possibly be living. 
 Full of this new idea, she had hastened to Frederic 
 and accidentally overheard what he was saying to 
 Isabel. She comprehended jt, too, and kn^w that 
 
l6o MARIAN GREY. 
 
 but for her unexpected presence he would, perhaps, 
 have asked the lady to be his wife, and she felt 
 again as if Marian were there urging her to stand 
 once more between Frederic and temptation. All 
 this she told him, and the haughty man, who would 
 have spurned a like interference from any other 
 source, listened patiently to the pleadings of the 
 childish voice, which said to him so earnestly : 
 " Don't let Isabel be your wife !" 
 "What objection have you to her ?" he asked, 
 and when she replied : 
 
 " She isn' good," he questioned her further as 
 to the cause of her dislike — 
 
 " Was there really a reason or was it mere pre- 
 judice?" 
 
 " I try to like her," said Alice, "and sometimes I 
 do, but she don't act alone with me like she does 
 when you are round. She'll be just as cross as 
 fury, and if you come in, she'll smooth my hair and 
 call me ' little pet.' " 
 
 " Does she ever strike you ?" asked Frederic, 
 feeling a desire to hear Alice's version of that story. 
 Instantly tears came in Alice's eyes, and she re- 
 plied, " Only once — and she said she didn't mean 
 that — but Frederic, she did," and in her own way 
 Alice told the story, which sounded to Mr. Ray- 
 mond more like the truth than the one he had 
 heard from Isabel. Gradually the conviction was 
 forcing itself upon him that Isabel was not exactly 
 what she seemed. Still he could not suddenly 
 shake off the chain which bound him, and when 
 Alice said to him in her odd, straightforward way, 
 ." Don't finish what you were saying to Isabel until 
 /you've been to New York and found if the letter 
 is true," he answered : 
 
 " Fie, Alice, you are unreasonable to ask such 
 a thing of me. Marian is dead. I have no doubt 
 of it, and I am free from the promise made to you 
 more than a j^ear ago." 
 
THE EFFECT. l6l 
 
 " Maybe she isn't," was Alice's reply, " and if 
 she is, we shall both feel better if you go and see. 
 Go, Frederic, do. It won't take long, and if you 
 find that she is really dead, I'll never speak another 
 naughty word of Isabel, but try to love her just as 
 I want to love your wife. I heard you say you 
 ought to see the house before we moved, and 
 Yonkers is close to New York, isn't it ?" 
 
 The last argument was more convincing than any 
 which Alice had yet offered, for Frederic had left 
 the entire management of repairs to one who he 
 knew understood such matters better than himself, 
 consequently he had not been there at all, and he 
 had several times spoken of going up to see that all 
 was right. Particularly would he wish to do this 
 if he took thither a bride in May, and to Alice's 
 suggestion he replied, " I might, perhaps, do that 
 for the sake of gratifying you." 
 
 " Oh, if you only would !" answered Ahce. 
 "You'll find her somewhere — I know you will — 
 and then you'll be so glad you went." 
 
 Frederic was not quite so sure of that, but it was 
 safe to go, and while Isabel had been communicat- 
 ing to her mother what he had been saying to her, 
 and asking if it were not almost a proposal, he was 
 deciding to start for New York immediately. 
 Alice's reasons for doubting the authenticity of the 
 letter seemed more and more plausible the longer 
 he thought of them, and at supper that night he 
 astonished both Mrs. Huntington and daughter by 
 saying that he was going North in a few days, and 
 he wished the former to see that his wardrobe was 
 in a proper condition for traveling. Isabel's face 
 grew dark and the wrathful expression of her eyes 
 was noticeable even to him. " There is a good deal 
 of temper there," was his mental comment, while 
 Isabel feigned some trivial excuse and left the 
 room to hide her anger. He had commenced pro- 
 posing to her, she was sure, and he should not leavq 
 
1 62 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 Redstone Hall until he explained himself more fully. 
 Still it would not be proper for her to broach the 
 subject — her mother must do that. It was a par- 
 ent's duty to see that her daughter's feelings were 
 not trifled with, and by dint of cajolery, entreaties 
 and threats, she induced the old lady to have a 
 talk with Frederic, and ask him what his intentions 
 were. 
 
 Mrs. Huntington was not very lucid in her re- 
 marks, and without exactly knowing what she 
 meant, Frederic replied at random that he was in 
 earnest in all he had said to Isabel about her re- 
 maining there, that he did not wish her to go away, 
 for she seemed one of the family, and that he would 
 speak with her further upon the subject when he 
 came back. This was not very definite, but Mrs. 
 Huntington brushed it up a little before repeating 
 it to Isabel, who readily accepted it as an intima- 
 tion that after his return he intended asking her 
 directly to be his wife. Accordingly she told 
 Agnes Gibson confidentially what her expectations 
 were, and Agnes told it confidentially to several 
 others, who had each a confidential friend, and so 
 in course of a few days it was generally understood 
 that Redstone Hall was to have another mistress. 
 
 The story spread rapidly, increasing as it spread, 
 until at last it was reported that the bridal dress 
 was making in Lexington, where Frederic was 
 well known, and where the story of his supposed 
 engagement reached the second-rate hotel where 
 Rudolph McVicar was a boarder. The wedding 
 he heard was fixed for the 20th of May, which he 
 knew was Isabel's birthday, and he counted the 
 hours which mu^t elapse before the moment of his 
 triumph came. 
 
THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER. 163 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER. 
 
 " Marian," Ben said, one pleasant April morn- 
 ing, " Frederic's house is finished in tip-top style, 
 and if you say so, we'll go out and take a look. It 
 will do you good to see the old place once more 
 and know just how things are fixed." 
 
 " Oh, I'd like it so much," returned Marian, 
 " but what if I should fall upon Frederic ?" 
 
 " No danger," Ben answered, " the man who has 
 charge of everything told me he wasn't comin' till 
 May, and the old woman who is tendin' to things 
 knows I have seen Mr. Raymond, for I told her so, 
 and she won't think nothin'; so clap on your clothes 
 in a jiff, for we've barely time to reach the cars." 
 
 Marian did not hesitate long and in a few 
 moments they were in the street. As they were 
 
 passing the Hotel, Ben suddenly left her, 
 
 and running up the steps spoke to one of the ser- 
 vants with whom he was acquainted. Returning 
 he said, by way of apology, " I was in there last 
 night to see Jim, and he told me there was a man 
 took sick with a ravin' fever, pretty much like you 
 had when you bit your tongue most in two." 
 
 "Is he better?" Marian asked, and Ben replied, 
 " No, ten times wus — he'll die most likely. But 
 hurry up — here's the omnibus we want," and in the 
 excitement of securing a seat they both forgot the 
 sick man. 
 
 The trip to Yonkers was a pleasant one, for to 
 Marian it seemed like going home, and when, after 
 reaching the station, they entered the lumbering 
 stage and wound slowly up the long, steep hill, she 
 recognized many familiar way marks, 
 
164 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 The house itself was greatly changed, but the 
 view it commanded of the river and the scenery 
 beyond was the same, and leaning against a pillar, 
 Marian tried to fancy that she was a child again, 
 and listening for the footsteps of the handsome, 
 teasing boy, once her terror and her pride. But 
 the well-remembered footfall did not come ; the 
 handsome boy was not there, and it was Ben who 
 roused her from her reverie by saying : 
 
 " I have told Miss Russell my sister was here, 
 and she says you can go over the house." 
 
 " Let us go through the garden first," she said, 
 as she led the way to the maple tree where she had 
 built her play-house, and where on the bark, just 
 as high as his head then came the name of Frederic 
 was cut. 
 
 Far below it, and at a point which hers had 
 reached, there was her own name, which Frederic 
 had cut, while she stood by and said to him, " I 
 wish I was Marian Raymond instead of Marian 
 Lindsey." 
 
 How distinctly she remembered the characteristic 
 reply : 
 
 " If you should happen to be my wife, you would 
 be Marian Raymond ; but I shall marry a great 
 deal prettier woman than you will ever be, and you 
 may live with us if you want to, and take care of 
 the children !" 
 
 She had not thought of this speech in years, but 
 it came back to her now, as did' many other things 
 which had occurred there long ago. Within the 
 house everything was changed, but she had no 
 trouble in identifying the different rooms, and she 
 lingered long in the one she felt sure was intended 
 for Frederic, sitting in the chair where she knew 
 he would often sit, and wondering if, while sitting 
 there, he would ever think of her. 
 
 Once she was half tempted to leave something 
 which would tell him she had been there. But sh$ 
 
THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER. 165 
 
 Spurned the idea as soon as formed. She would not 
 intrude herself upon him a second time, and rising at 
 last, she arranged the furniture more to her taste, 
 changed the position of a picture, moved the mirror 
 into a perfect angle, set Frederic's chair before the 
 window looking out upon the river, and then left 
 the room. 
 
 Isabel's chamber was visited next, and Marian's 
 would have been less than a woman's nature could 
 she have looked without a pang upon the costly 
 furniture and rare ornaments which had been gath- 
 ered there. In the disposal of the furniture there 
 was a lack of taste — a decidedly Mrs. Russell air ; 
 but Marian had no wish to interfere. There was 
 something sickening in the very atmosphere of her 
 rival's apartment, and with a deep sigh, she turned 
 away. Opening the door of an adjoining chamber 
 she knew she was in Alice's room. It was smaller 
 than the others, and with its neat, white furniture, 
 seemed well adapted to the child who was to oc- 
 cupy it. Here, too, she staid a long time, looping 
 up the lace curtains, brushing the dust from the 
 marble mantel, and patting lovingly the snowy pil- 
 lows, for the sake of the fair head which would rest 
 there some night. 
 
 "There are no flowers here," she said, glancing 
 at the vases on the stand. " Alice is fond of flowers, 
 and though they will be withered before she comes, 
 she will be sure to find them, and who knows but 
 their faint perfume may remind her of me." Go- 
 ing into the garden she gathered some hyacinths 
 and violets which she made into bouquets and placed 
 in the vases, and bidding the woman change the 
 water every day until they began to fade, and then 
 leave them to dry until the blind girl came. " Ben 
 told me of her ; he once staid at Redstone Hall all 
 night," she said, in answer to the woman's inquiring 
 look. " He says she is a sweet young creature, and 
 I thought flowers might please her," 
 
l66 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " Fresh ones would," returned Mrs. Russell, "but 
 them that's withered ain't no use. S'pose I fling 
 'em away when they get old and put in some new 
 the day she comes ?" 
 
 " No, no, not for the world, leave them as they 
 are," and Marian spoke so earnestly that the woman 
 promised compliance with her request. 
 
 " Be you that Yankee peddler's sister," she asked, 
 as she followed Marian down the stair. " If you be, 
 nater cut up a curis caper with one or t'other of 
 you, for you ain't no more alike than nothin'." 
 
 " I believe I do not resemble him much," was 
 Marian's answer, as with a farewell glance at the old 
 place, she bade Mrs. Russell good-bye and went 
 with Ben to the gate where the stage was waiting 
 to take them to the depot. 
 
 It was dark when they reached New York, and 
 as they passed the Hotel a' second time, Ma- 
 rian spoke of the sick man, and wondered how he 
 was. 
 
 " I might go in and see," Ben said, " but it's so 
 late I guess I won't, particularly as he's nothin' to 
 us." 
 
 " But he's something to somebody," returned 
 Marian, and as she followed on after Ben, her 
 thoughts turned continually upon him, wondering 
 if he had a mother — a sister — or a wife, and if they 
 knew how sick he was. 
 
 When they reached home, they found Mrs. Burt 
 entertaining a visitor, a Martha Gibbs, who for 
 some time had been at the Hotel, in the capa- 
 city of chambermaid, but who was to leave there 
 the next day. Martha's parents lived in the same 
 New England village where Mrs. Burt had formerly 
 resided, and the two thus became acquainted, 
 Martha making Burt the depository of all her little 
 secrets and receiving in return much motherly ad- 
 vice. She was to be married soon, and though her 
 destination was a log house in the West, and her 
 
THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER. 167 
 
 bridal trousseau consisted merely of three dresses 
 ■ — a silk, a delaine and a calico — it was an affair of 
 great consequence to her, and she had come as us- 
 ual to talk it over with Mrs. Burt, feeling glad at 
 the absence of Ben and Marian, the latter of whom 
 she supposed was an orphan niece of her friend's 
 husband. The return of the young people oper- 
 ated as a restraint upon her, and changing the con- 
 versation, she spoke at last of a sick man who was 
 up in the third story in one of the rooms of which 
 she had the charge. 
 
 " He had the typhoid fever," she said, "and was 
 raving distracted with his head. They wanted some 
 good experienced person to take care of him, and 
 had asked her to stay, she seemed so handy, but 
 she couldn't. John wouldn't put their wedding off, 
 she knew, and she must go, though she did pity the 
 poor young man — he raved and took on so, asking 
 them if anybody had seen Marian, or knew where 
 she was buried." 
 
 Up to this point Marian had listened, because 
 she knew it was. the same man of whom Ben had 
 told her in the morning ; but now the pulsations of 
 her heart stopped, her head grew dizzy, her brain 
 whirled, and she was conscious of nothing except 
 that Ben made a hurried movement and passed his 
 arm around her, while he held a cup of water to her 
 lips, sprinkling some upon her face, and saying in a 
 natural voice, " Don't you want a drink ? My 
 walk made me awful dry." 
 
 It was dark in the room, for the lamp was not 
 lighted, and thus Martha did not see the side-play 
 going on. She only knew that Ben was offering 
 Marian some water ; but Mrs. Burt understood it, 
 and when sure that Marian would not faint, she 
 said : 
 
 " Where did the young man come from, and what 
 is his name ? Do you know ?" 
 
 " He registered himself as F, Raymond, Franklin 
 
1 68 MARIAN GREY, 
 
 County, Kentucky" returned the girl, "and that's 
 the bother of it. Nobody knows where to direct 
 a letter to his friends. But how I have stayed. I 
 must go this minute," and greatly to the relief of 
 the family, Martha took her leave. 
 
 Scarcely had the door closed after her when Ma- 
 rian was begging Mrs. Burt to offer her services as 
 nurse to Frederic Raymond. 
 
 " He must not die there alone," she said. "They 
 know Martha for a trusty girl, and they will take 
 you on her recommendation. Help me, Ben, to 
 persuade her," she continued, appealing to the 
 young man, who had not yet spoken upon the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 He had been thinking of it, however, and as he 
 could see no particular objection, he said, at last : 
 
 " May as well go, I guess. It won't do no hurt, 
 anyhow, and mebby it'll be the means of savin' his 
 life. You can tell Martha how't you s'pose he'll 
 pay a good price for nussin', and she'll think it's 
 the money you are after.' 
 
 This suggestfon was so warmly seconded by Ma- 
 rian, that Mrs. Burt finally consented to seeing 
 Martha, and asking her what she thought of the 
 plan. Accordingly, early the next morning she 
 sought an interview with the young woman, inquir- 
 ing, first, how the stranger was, and then continu- 
 ing: 
 
 " What do you think of my turning nurse awhile 
 and taking care of him ? I am used to sick folks, 
 and I presume the gentleman is plenty able to 
 pay." 
 
 She had dragged this last in rather bunglingly, 
 but it answered every purpose, for Martha, who 
 knew her thrifty habits and understood that money 
 was the inducement, " Of course he is," she replied. 
 I for one shall be glad to have you come, for I am 
 going away some time to-day and I'll speak about 
 it right away. 
 
tHE FEVER. 169 
 
 'The result of this speaking was that Mrs. Burt's 
 services were readily accepted, for Martha was 
 known to be an honest faithful girl, and any one 
 whom she recommended must, of course, be re- 
 spectable and trusty. By some chance, however, 
 there was a misunderstanding about the name, 
 which was first construed into Burton and then into 
 Merton, and as Martha, who alone could rectify 
 the error, left that afternoon, the few who knew of 
 the sick man and his nurse spoke of the latter as a 
 " Mrs. Merton, from the country, probably." So 
 when at night Mrs. Burt appeared and announced 
 herself as ready to assume her duties she was sur- 
 prised at hearing herself addressed by her new 
 name, and she was about to correct it when she 
 thought, " It doesn't matter what I' m called, and 
 perhaps on the whole, I'd rather not be known by 
 my real name. I don't believe much in goin' out 
 nussin' any way, and I guess I'll let 'em call me 
 what they want to." 
 
 She accordingly made no explanation, but fol- 
 lowed a servant girl to the sick room. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 THE FEVER. 
 
 She knew Frederic had traveled night and day, 
 never allowing himself a minute's rest, nor stopping 
 at Yonkers, so intent was he upon reaching New 
 York and finding, if possible, some clue to Marian. 
 It was a hopeless task for he had no starting point, 
 or nothing which could guide him in the least, ex- 
 cept the name of Sarah Green, and that was not in 
 
170 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 the Directory, while to inquire for her former place 
 of residence, was as preposterous as Marian's in- 
 quiry for Mrs. Daniel Burt! Still, whatever he 
 could do he did, traversing street after street, 
 threading alley after alley, asking again and again 
 of the heads thrust from the windows, if Sarah 
 Green had ever lived in that locality, and receiving 
 always the same impudent stare and short answer, 
 " No." 
 
 Once he fancied he had found her, and that she 
 had not sailed for Scotland as she had written, for 
 they told him that " Sal Green lived up in the fourth 
 story ;" and climbing the crazy stairs, he knocked 
 at the door, shuddering involuntarily and experi- 
 encing a feehng of mortified pride as he thought it 
 possible that his wife had toiled up that weary way 
 to die. The door was opened by a hard-faced wo- 
 man, who started at sight of him, and to his civil 
 questions replied rather gruffly, " Yes, I'm Sal 
 Green, I s'pose, or Sarah, jest which you choose to 
 call me, but the likes of Marian Lindsey never came 
 near me," and glancing around the wretched room, 
 Frederic was glad that it was so. He would rather 
 not find.her, or hear tidings of her, than to know 
 that she had died in such a place as this, and with 
 a sickening sensation he was turning away, when 
 the woman, who was blessed with a remarkable 
 memory and never forgot anything to which her 
 attention was particularly directed, said to him, 
 " You say it's a year last fall sence she left home." 
 
 " Yes," he replied eagerly, and she continued, 
 " You say she dressed in black, and wore a great 
 long veil on her hat." 
 
 " The same," he cried, advancing into the room 
 and thrusting a bill into her hand, " oh, my good 
 woman, have you seen her, and where is she now ?" 
 
 " The Lord knows, mebby, but I don't," an- 
 swered the woipan, who was identical with the one 
 who had frightened Marian by watching her on the 
 
THE FEVER. i;;^t 
 
 day when she sat in front of Trinity and wished 
 that she could die, " I don't know as I ever seen 
 her at all," she continued, " but a year ago last 
 November such a girl as you describe, with long 
 curls that looked red in the sunshine, sat on the 
 steps way down by Trinity and cried so hard that 
 I noticed her, and knew she warn't a beggar by her 
 dress. It was gettin' dark, and I was goin' to speak 
 to her when Joe Black came up and asked her what 
 ailed her, or somethin'. He ain't none of the like- 
 liest," and a smile flitted over the visage of the 
 wrinkled hag. 
 
 " Oh, Heaven," cried Frederic, pressing his hands 
 to his head, as if to crush the horrid fear. " God 
 save her from that fate. Is this all you know ? 
 Can't you tell me anymore ? I'll give you half my 
 fortune if you'll brii;ig back my poor, lost Marian, 
 just as she was when she left me." 
 
 The offer was a generous one, and Sal was tempted 
 for a moment to tell him some big lie, and thus re- 
 ceive a companion to the bill she clutched so greed- 
 ily, but the expression of his face kindled a spark 
 of pity within her bosom, and she replied, " I did 
 not finish tellin' you that while Joe was talking and 
 had seemingly persuaded her to go with him, a tall 
 chap, that I never seen before knocked him flat, 
 and took the girl with him, and that's why I re- 
 member it so well." 
 
 " Who was this tall man ? Where did he go ?" 
 
 " I told you I never seen him before," was Sally's 
 answer, " but he had a good face, a milk and water 
 face, as if he never plotted no mischief in his life. 
 She's safe with him. I'd trust my daughter with 
 him, if I had one, and know he wouldn't harm her. 
 He spoke to her tender-like, and she looked glad I 
 thought." 
 
 Frederic felt that this information was better than 
 none, for it was certain it was Marian whom the 
 woman had seen, and, in a measure comforted by 
 
i^'Z MARIAN GREV. 
 
 her assurance of Ben Burt's honesty, he bade hef 
 good morning, and walked away. 
 
 At last, worn out and discouraged, he returned 
 to his hotel, where he lay now burning with fever, 
 and, in his delirium, calling sometimes for Isabel, 
 sometimes for Alice, and again for Dinah, but never 
 asking why Marian did not come. She was dead, 
 and he only begged of those around him to take her 
 away from Joe Black, or show him where her grave 
 was made, so he could go home and tell the blind 
 girl he had seen it. Every ray of light which it 
 was possible to shut out had been excluded from 
 the room, for he had complained of his eyes, and 
 when Mrs. Burt entered, she could discover only 
 the outline of a face resting upon the pillows, 
 scarcely whiter than itself. It was a serious case, 
 the physician said, and so she thought when she 
 looked into his eyes, and felt his rapid pulse. To 
 her he put the same question he had asked of every 
 one : 
 
 " Do you know where Marian is ?" 
 
 " Marian !" she repeated, feeling a little uncer- 
 tain how to answer. 
 
 " Humor him ! say you do !" whispered the 
 physician, who was just taking his leave. And 
 very truthfully Mrs. Burt replied : 
 
 " Yes, I know where she is ! She will come to 
 you to-morrow." 
 
 "No!" he answered mournfully. "The dead 
 never come back, and it must not be, either. Isa- 
 bel is coming then, and the two can't meet together 
 here, for — . Come nearer, woman, while I tell you 
 I loved Isabel the best, and that's what made the 
 trouble. She is beautiful, but Marian was good — 
 and do you know Marian was the Heiress of Red- 
 stone Hall ; but I'm not going to use her money." 
 
 " Yes, I know," returned Mrs. Burt, trying to 
 quiet him, but in vain. 
 
 He would talk — sometimes of Marian, and some- 
 
THE FEVER. 1 73 
 
 times of Sarah Green, and the dreary room where 
 he had been. 
 
 " It made Marian tired," he said, " to climb those 
 broken stairs. But she was resting so quietly in 
 Heaven, and the April sun was shining on her 
 grave. It was a little grave — a child's grave, for 
 Marian was not so tall nor so old as Isabel." 
 
 In this way he rambled on, and it was not until 
 the morning dawned that he fell into a heavy sleep, 
 and Mrs. Burt had leisure to reflect upon the novel 
 position in which she found herself. 
 
 " It was foolish in me to give up to them chil- 
 dren," she said, " but now that I am here, I'll make 
 the best of it, and do as well as I can. Marian 
 shan't come, though ! It would kill her to hear 
 him going on." 
 
 But while she spoke, Marian was [in the recep- 
 tion room below, inquiring for the woman who 
 took care of Mr. Raymond. She had not slept, 
 and with the early morning had started for the 
 hotel, leaving Ben to get his breakfast as he could. 
 
 " Say Marian Grey wishes to see her," she said, 
 in answer to the inquiry as to what name the ser- 
 vant was to take to No. — 
 
 " My goodness !" Mrs. Burt exclaimed, " why 
 didn't Ben keep her at home ?" and, going down 
 stairs, she tried to persuade Marian to return. 
 
 It was useless to reason with her, and saying, 
 rather pettishly, " You must expect to hear some 
 cuttin' things," she bade her follow her up the 
 stairs. Frederic still lay sleeping, his face turned 
 partly to one side, and his hand resting beneath 
 his head. The gas light hurt his eyes, and the 
 lamp, which was kept continually burning, was so 
 placed that its light did not fall on him, and a near 
 approach was necessary to tell her just how he 
 looked. He was fearfully changed, and, with a 
 cry, she laid her head beside him on the pillow. 
 
 " Frederic — dear Frederic !" she said, and at the 
 
174 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 sound of her voice he moved uneasily, as if about 
 to waken. 
 
 " Come away, come away," whispered Mrs. Burt. 
 " He may know you, and a sudden start would kill 
 him." 
 
 But Marian was deaf to everything except the 
 whispered words dropping from the sick man's lips. 
 They were of home, of Alice, of the library, and at 
 last of her, and with a cry of delight, which started 
 Mrs. Burt to her feet, and penetrated even to the 
 ear of the unconscious Frederic, she pressed her lips 
 upon the very spot which they had touched before 
 on that night when she gave him her first kiss. 
 Slowly his eyes unclosed, and wandered about the 
 room, resting first upon the door, then on the chan- 
 delier, tlien on the ceiling above, and dropping 
 finally lower, until at last they were riveted upon 
 Marian, who stood breathlessly awaiting the result. 
 
 There was a struggle between delirium and rea- 
 son, and then, with a faint smile, he said : 
 
 " Did you kiss me just now?" and he pointed to 
 the spot upon his forehead. 
 
 Marian nodded, for she could not speak, and he 
 continued : 
 
 " Marian kissed me there, too, and it has burned 
 and burned into my veins until it set my brains 
 on fire. Nobody has kissed me since, but Alice. 
 Did you know Alice, girl ?" 
 
 " Yes," Marian answered, keen disappointment 
 swelling within her bosom and forcing the tears 
 from her eyes. 
 
 She had believed he would recognize her, but he 
 did not ; and sinking down by his side, she buried 
 her face in the bed-clothes, and sobbed aloud. 
 
 " Don't cry, httle girl," he said, evidently dis- 
 turbed at the sight of her tears. " I cried when I 
 thought Marian was dead, but that seems so long 
 &go." 
 
 " Oh, Frederic — " and forgetful of everything 
 
THE FEVER. : 17S 
 
 Marian sprang to her feet. " Oh, Frederic, is it 
 true ? Did you cry for me ?" 
 
 At the sound of his own name the sick man 
 looked bewildered, while reason seemed struggling 
 again to assert its rights, and penetrate the misty 
 fog by which it was enveloped. Very earnestly he 
 looked at the young girl, who returned his gaze 
 with one in which was concentrated all the yearn- 
 ing love and tenderness she had cherished for him 
 so long. 
 
 " Are you Marian ?" he asked, and in an instant 
 the excited girl wound her arms around his neck, 
 and laying her cheek against his, replied : 
 
 " Yes, Frederic. Don't you know me, your poor 
 lost Marian ?" 
 
 He passed his hand over her short curls — pushed 
 them back from her forehead, examined them 
 closely, and then said : 
 
 " No, you are not Marian. This is not her hair. 
 But I like you," he continued ; " and I wish you 
 to stay with me, and when the pain comes back 
 charm it away with your soft hands. They are 
 little hands," and he took them between his own, 
 "but not so small as Marian's were when I held 
 one in mine and promised I would love her. It 
 seemed like some tiny rose leaf, and I could have 
 crushed it easily, but I did not ; I only crushed her 
 heart, and she fled from me forever, for it was a 
 lie I told her, I didn't love her then — I don't know 
 as I love her now, for Isabel is so beautiful. Did 
 you ever see Isabel ?" 
 
 " Oh, Frederic !" Marian groaned, and wrenching 
 her hands from his grasp, she tottered to a chair, 
 while he looked after her wistfully. 
 
 "Will she go away?" he said to Mrs. Burt. 
 " Will she leave me alone, when she knows Alice is 
 not here, nor Isabel ! I wish Isabel would come, 
 don't you ?" 
 
176 , MARIAN GREY. 
 
 There was another moan of anguish, and Fred- 
 eric whispered : 
 
 "Hark ! that's the sound I heard the night Ma- 
 rian went away ! I thought then it was the 
 wind, but I knew afterwards that it was she, when 
 her soul parted with her body, and it's followed me 
 ever since. There is not a spot at Redstone Hall 
 that is not haunted with that cry. I've heard it at 
 midnight, at noon-day — in the storm and in the 
 rushing river — where we thought she was buried. 
 All but Alice — she knew she wasn't, and she sent 
 me here to look. She don't like Isabel, and is 
 afraid I'll marry her. Maybe I shall, sometime ! 
 Who knows?" 
 
 " Heaven keep me from going mad !" Marian 
 cried. " Oh, why did I come here ?" 
 
 " I told you not to all the time," was Mrs. Burt's 
 consolatory remark ; which, howeve*, was lost on 
 Marian, who, seizing her hat and shawl, rushed 
 from the room. 
 
 The fresh morning air revived her, but did not 
 cool the feverish agony of her heart, and she sped 
 onward, until she reached her home, where she 
 surprised Ben at his solitary breakfast, which he 
 had prepared himself. 
 
 " Oh ! Ben, Ben !" she cried, coming so suddenly 
 upon him that he upset the coffee-pot into which 
 he was pouring some hot water. " Would it be 
 wicked for you to kill me dead, or for me to kill 
 myself ?" 
 
 " What's to pay now ?" asked Ben, using the 
 skirt of his coat for a holder in picking up the 
 steaming coffee-pot. 
 
 Very hastily Marian related her adventures in 
 the sick room, telling how Frederic had talked of 
 marrying Isabel before her very face. 
 
 " Crazy as a loon," returned Ben. " I shouldn't 
 think nothin' of that. You say he talked as though 
 
THE FEVER. 1 77 
 
 he thought you was dead, and of course he don't 
 know what he's sayin', Have they writ to his 
 folks ?" 
 
 " Yes," returned Marian, who had made a sim- 
 ilar inquiry of Mrs. Burt. " They directed a letter 
 to ' Frederic Raymond's friends, Franklin County, 
 Kentucky,' but that may not reach them in a long 
 time." 
 
 " Wouldn't it be a Christian act," returned Ben, 
 " for us, who know jest who he is, to telegraph to 
 that critter, and have her come ? By all accounts 
 he wants to see her, and it may do him good." 
 
 Marian felt that it would be right, and, though 
 it cost her a pang, she said, at last : 
 
 " Yes, Boti, you may telegraph ; but what name 
 will you Append ?" 
 
 " Benjamin Butterworth, of course," he replied. 
 " They'll renrember the peddler, and think it nat- 
 eral I should feel an interest." And leaving Ma- 
 rian to take charge of the breakfast table, he started 
 for the office. 
 
 Meantime the sick room was the scene of much 
 excitement — Frederic raving furiously, and asking 
 for " the girl with the soft hands and silken hair." 
 Sometimes he called her Marian, and begged of 
 them to bring her back, promising not to make her 
 cry again. 
 
 " There is a mystery connected with this Marian 
 he talks so much about," said the physician, who 
 was present, " and he seems to fancy a resemblance 
 between her and the girl who left here this morn- 
 ing. What may I call her name ?" 
 
 " Marian, my daughter," came involuntarily 
 from Mrs. Burt, whose mental rejoinder was " God 
 forgive me for that lie, if it was one. Names and 
 things is gettin' so twisted up that it takes more 
 than me to straighten 'em." 
 
 " W^ll, then," continued the physician, " suppose 
 
178 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 you send for her. It will never do for him to get 
 so excited. He is wearing out too fast." 
 
 " I will go for her myself," said Mrs. Burt, who 
 fancied some persuasion might be necessary before 
 Marian could be induced to return. 
 
 But she was mistaken, for when told that Fred- 
 eric's life depended upon his being kept quiet, and 
 his being kept quiet depended upon her presence, 
 Marian consented, and nerved herself to hear him 
 talk, as she knew he would, of her rival. 
 
 "If he lives, I will be satisfied," she thought, 
 " even though he never did or can love me," and 
 with a strong, brave heart, she went back again to 
 the sick man, who welcomed her joyfully, and said, 
 " You will not leave me till Isabel is here. Then 
 you may go back to the grave I cannot ' find, and 
 we will go home together." 
 
 Marian could not answer him, neither was it 
 necessary that she should. He was satisfied to 
 have her there, and with her sitting at his side, and 
 holding his hand in hers, he became as gentle as a 
 child. Occasionally he called her " little girl," but 
 oftener " Marian," and when he said that name, he 
 always smoothed her hair, as if he pitied her, and 
 knew he had done her a wrong. And Marian felt 
 each day more and more that the wound she 
 hoped had partly healed was bleeding afresh with 
 a new pain, for while he talked of Marian as a 
 mother talks of an unfortunate child, he spoke of 
 Isabel with all a lover's pride, and each word was 
 a dagger to the heart of the patient watcher, who 
 sat beside him day and night, until her eyes were 
 heavy, and her cheeks were pale with her unbroken 
 vigils. 
 
 " Do you love this Isabel so much ?" she said to 
 him one day, and he replied : 
 
 " Yes, and I love you, too, though not like her, 
 t)ec^use I loyed her first." 
 
THE FEVER. 1 79 
 
 " And Marian ?" questioned the young girl 
 " Don't you love her?" 
 
 " Not as I ought to — not as I have prayed that 
 I might, and not as I should, perhaps, if she hadn't 
 been to me what she was. Poor child," he con- 
 tinued, " are you crying for Marian ?" 
 
 " Yes, for Marian, for poor, heart-broken me ;" 
 and the wretched girl buried her face in the pillow 
 beside him, for he held her by the wrist, and she 
 could not get away. 
 
 In this manner several days went by, and over 
 the intellect so obscure there shone no ray of rea- 
 son, while Marian's face grew whiter and whiter 
 until at last the physician said that she must rest, 
 or her strength would be exhausted. 
 
 " Let me stay a little longer," she pleaded — 
 " stay at least until Miss Huntington arrives." 
 
 " Miss who ?" asked the doctor. " Do you then 
 know his family ?" 
 
 "A friend of mine knows them," Marian an- 
 swered. 
 
 " I hope then they will reward you well," con, 
 tinned the physician. " The young man would 
 have died but for you. It is remarkable what con- 
 trol you have over him." 
 
 But Marian wished for no reward. It was suffi- 
 cient for her to know that she had been instru- 
 mental in saving his life, even though she had saved 
 it for Isabel. The physician said that Frederic was 
 better, and that afternoon, seated in the large arm- 
 chair, she fell into a refreshing sleep, from which 
 she was finally aroused by Mrs. Burt, who whis- 
 pered in her ear : 
 
 "Wake up. She's come — she's here — Miss 
 Huntington !" 
 
 The name roused Marian at once, and sent a 
 throb of pain through her heart, for her post she 
 knew was to be given to another. Not both of 
 them could watch by Frederic, and she must go ; 
 
l8o MARIAN GREY. 
 
 but not until she had looked upon her rival. This 
 done, she would go away and die, if it were possi- 
 ble, and stand no longer between Frederic and the 
 bride he so much desired. She did not understand 
 why he had so often spoken of herself as being 
 dead, when he knew that she was not. It was a 
 vagary of his brain, she said — he had had many 
 since she came there, and she hoped he would 
 sometimes talk of her to Isabel, just as he had 
 talked of Isabel to her. There was a hurried con- 
 sultation between herself and Mrs. Burt, with re- 
 gard to their future proceedings, and it was finally 
 decided that the latter should remain a few days 
 longer, and report the progress of affairs to Marian, 
 who, of course, must go away. This arrangement 
 being made, they sat down and rather impatiently 
 waited for Isabel, who was in her room, resting after 
 her journey. 
 
 " Oh how can she wait so long ?" Marian 
 thought, glancing at Frederic, who was sleeping 
 now more quietly than he had done before for a 
 long time. 
 
 She did not know Isabel, and she could not 
 begin to guess how thoroughly selfish she was, nor 
 how that selfishness was manifest in every move- 
 ment. The letter, which at last had gone to Frank- 
 fort, was received the same day with the telegram, 
 and as a natural consequence, threw the inmates of 
 Redstone Hall into great excitement. Particularly 
 was this the case with Isabel, who unmindful of 
 everything, wrung her hands despairingly, crying 
 ■Diit, " Oh ! what shall I do if he dies ?" 
 
 " Do !" repeated Dinah, forgetting her own grief 
 in her disgust. "For the Lord's sake, can't you 
 do what you alius did ? Go back whar you come 
 from, you and your mother, in course." 
 
 Isabel made no reply to this remark, but hurried 
 to her chamber, where she commenced the packing 
 of her trunH. 
 
THE FEVER. f l8l 
 
 " Wouldn't it look better for me to go ?" sug- 
 gested Mrs. Huntington, and Isabel answered : 
 
 " Certainly not, the telegram was directed to 
 me. No one knows me in New York, and I don't 
 care what folks say here. If he lives I shall be his 
 wife, of course, else why should he send for me. 
 It's perfectly natural that I should go." And 
 thinking to herself that she would rather Frederic 
 should die than to live for another, she completed 
 her hasty preparations, and was on her way to the 
 station before the household had time to realize 
 what they were doing. 
 
 Distressed and anxious as Isabel seemed, it was 
 no part of her intention to travel nights, for that 
 would give her a sallow, jaded look; so she made 
 the journey leisurely, and after her arrival, took 
 time to rest and beautify before presenting her- 
 self to Frederic. She had learned that he was bet- 
 ter, and had the best of care, so she remained 
 quietly in her chamber an hour or so, and it was 
 not until after dark that she bade the servant show 
 her the way to the sick room. 
 
 " I will tell them you are coming," suggested the 
 polite attendant, and, going on before her, he said 
 to Mrs. Burt that " Miss Huntington would like to 
 come in." 
 
 In a corner in the room, where she would be the 
 least observed, Marian sat, her hands clasped to- 
 gether, her head bent forward, and her eyes fixed 
 upon the door through which her rival would enter. 
 Frederic was awake, and, missing her from her post, 
 was about asking for her, when Isabel appeared, 
 looking so fresh and beautiful, that for an instant 
 Marian forgot everything in her admiration of the 
 queenly woman, who, bowing civilly to Mrs. Burt, 
 went to the bedside, and sank upon her knees very 
 gracefully, just as she had done at a private re- 
 hearsal in her own room. 
 
 " Dear Frederic," said she, and over Marian's 
 
182 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 face the hot blood rushed in torrents for it seemed 
 almost an insult to hear him thus addressed — 
 " Dear Frederic, do you know me ? I am Isabel ;" 
 and, unmindful of Mrs. Burt, she kissed his fore- 
 head, and said again : " Do you know me ?" 
 
 As the physician had predicted, Fredei-ic was bet- 
 ter since his refreshing sleep, and through the misty 
 vail enshrouding his reason a glimmer of light was 
 shining. The voice was a familiar one, and though 
 it partly bewildered him, he knew who it was that 
 bent over him. It was somebody from home, and 
 with a thrill of pleasure akin to what one feels when 
 meeting a fellow-countryman far away on a foreign 
 shore, he stretched his arms toward her, and said to 
 her joyfully : " You are Isabel, and you've come to 
 make me well." 
 
 Isabel was about to speak again, when a low sob 
 startled her, and, turning in the direction from 
 whence it came, she met Marian's eyes riveted upon 
 her, and for a moment the two girls looked intently 
 at each other, the one stamping indelibly upon her 
 memory the lineaments of a face which had stolen 
 and kept a heart which should have been her own, 
 while the other wondered who it was that seemed 
 so agitated. 
 
 Mrs. Burt stepped between them, while Isabel 
 turned again to Frederic, and Marian left the room 
 so silently that Isabel did not know she was gone 
 until she turned her head and found the chair 
 empty. 
 
 " Who was that ?" she said to Mrs. Burt. 
 
 " My daughter," Mrs. Burt replied, again men- 
 tally asking forgiveness for the falsehood told, and 
 thinking to herself, " Mercy knows it ain't my nater 
 to lie, but when a body gets mixed up in such a 
 scrape as this, I'd like to see 'em help it !" 
 
 After the first lucid interval, Frederic relapsed 
 again into his former delirious mood, but did not 
 ask for Marian. He seemed satisfied that Isabel 
 
THE FEVER. 183 
 
 Was there, and he fell asleep again, resting so quietly 
 that when it was eleven Isabel said, " He is doing 
 so well I believe I will retire. I never sat up with 
 a sick person in my life, and should be very little 
 assistance to you. That daughter of yours is some- 
 where around, I suppose, and will come if you need 
 help." 
 
 Mrs. Burt nodded, thinking how different was 
 this conduct from that of the unselfish Marian, who 
 had watched night after night without giving her- 
 self the rest she absolutely needed. Isabel, on the 
 contrary, had no idea of impairing her beauty, or 
 bringing discomfort to herself by spending many 
 hours at a time in that close atmosphere, and while 
 Marian was weeping bitterly, she was dreaming of 
 returning to Kentucky as a bride. Frederic could 
 scarcely do less than reward her kindness by mar- 
 rying her as soon as he was able. She could take 
 care of him so much better, she thought, and be- 
 fore she fell asleep she had arranged it all in her 
 own mind, and had fancied her mother's surprise 
 at receiving a letter signed by her new name, 
 " Isabel H. Raymond." 
 
 It was long after daylight before she awoke, 
 and when she did her first thought was of her 
 pleasant dream, and her second of the girl she had 
 seen the night before. " How white she was," she 
 said, as she made her elaborate toilet, " and how 
 her eyes glared at me, as if I had no business here. 
 Maybe she has fallen in love while taking care of 
 him ;" and Isabel laughed at the idea of a nursing 
 woman's daughter being in love with the fastidious 
 Frederic ! Once she thought of Mrs. Daniel Burt, 
 wondering where she lived, and half wishing she 
 could find her, and, herself unknown, could ques- 
 tion her of Marian. 
 
 Her toilet and breakfast took so much time that 
 it was almost ten when she presented herself to 
 Mrs. Burt, who was growing very faint and tired. 
 
1 84 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 At the physician's request more light had been 
 admitted into the room, and Frederic, who was 
 much better this morning, recognized Isabel at 
 once. He had a faint remembrance of having seen 
 her the previous night, but it needed Mrs. Burt's 
 assertion to confirm his conjecture, and he greeted 
 her now as if meeting her for the first time, asking 
 many questions of the people at home, and how 
 they had learned of his illness. 
 
 " We received a letter and a telegram both," Isa- 
 bel said, continuing, " You remember that peddler 
 who sold Alice the bracelet and frightened the 
 negroes so ? Well, he must have telegraphed, for 
 his name was signed to the dispatch, ' Benjamin 
 Butterworth.' " 
 
 Mrs. Burt was very much occupied with some- 
 thing near the table, and Frederic did not notice 
 her confusion as he replied," He was a kind-hearted 
 man, I thought, but I wonder how he heard of my 
 illness, and where he is now. Mrs. Merton, has a 
 certain Ben Butterworth inquired for me since I 
 was sick ?" 
 
 " I know nobody by that name," returned Mrs. 
 Burt, and without stopping to think that her ques- 
 tion might lead to some inquiries from Frederic, 
 Isabel rejoined : 
 
 " Well, do you know a Mrs. Daniel Burt ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Daniel Burt !" Frederic repeated, as if try- 
 ing to recall something far back in the past, while 
 the lady in question started so suddenly as to drop 
 the cup of hot water she held in her hand. 
 
 Stooping down to pick up the cup, she said some- 
 thing about its having burned her, and added, " I 
 ain't much acquainted in the city, and never know 
 my next door neighbors." 
 
 " Mrs. Daniel Burt," Frederic said again, " I 
 have surely heard that name before. Who is she, 
 Isabel ?'•' 
 
 It was Isabel's turn now to answer evasively; but 
 
The fever. 185 
 
 being more accustomed to dissimulate than her 
 companion, she replied, quite as a matter of course, 
 " You may have heard mother speak of her in New 
 Haven. I used to know her when I was a little 
 girl, and I believe she lives in New York. She 
 was a very good, but common kind of woman ; 
 mother, I dare say, would be glad to hear from 
 her." 
 
 " The impudent trollop," muttered Mrs. Burt, 
 wondering which was trying to deceive the other, 
 Frederic or Isabel. " The former could't hood- 
 wink her," she said, " even if he did Isabel. He 
 knew who Mrs. Daniel Burt was just as well as she 
 did, for even if he had forgotten that she once lived 
 with his father, Marian's letter had refreshed his 
 memory, and he was only ' putting on ' for the sake 
 of misleading Isabel. But where in the world did 
 that jade know her !" that was a puzzle, and set- 
 tling it in her own mind that there were two of the 
 same name, she left the room and went down to 
 her breakfast. 
 
 During the day not a word was said of Marian. 
 Isabel was evidently too much pleased with Fred- 
 eric's delight at seeing her to think of anything 
 else, while Mrs. Burt did not consider it necessary 
 to speak of her. Frederic, too, for a time had for- 
 gotten her, but as the day drew near its close, he 
 relapsed into a thoughtful mood, replying to Isa- 
 bel's frequent remarks either in monosyllables or 
 not at all. As the darkness increased he seemed 
 to be listening intently, and when a step was heard 
 upon the stairs or in the hall without, his face 
 would light up with eager expectation and then be 
 as suddenly overcast as the footstep passed his door. 
 Gradually there was creeping into his mind a vague 
 remembrance of somebody, who for many days 
 had been there with him, gliding so noiselessly 
 about the room that he had almost fancied she 
 trod upon the air, and he could scarcely tell 
 
I §6 marIam grev. 
 
 whether it were a spirit or a human being like hind- 
 self. Little by little the outline so dimly discerned 
 assumed the form of a young girl with blue eyes 
 and soft hands, which had held his aching head 
 and smoothed his hair, many times. It seemed to 
 him, too, that she called him Frederic. But where 
 was she now ? Why didn't she come again, and who 
 was she ? he thought, while great drops of sweat 
 stood upon his forehead ; and Isabel became 
 alarmed at his flushed face and the rapid beating 
 of his pulse. A powerful anodyne was adminstered, 
 and he slept at last a feverish sleep, which, however, 
 did him good, and in the morning he was better 
 than he had been before. 
 
 Mrs. Burt, who had watched him carefully, knew 
 that the danger was past, and that afternoon she 
 left him with Isabel, while she went home, where 
 she found Marian seriously ill, with Ben taking care 
 of her in his kind but awkward manner. 
 
 " Did Frederic remember me ? Does he know I 
 have been there ?" were Marian's first questions, 
 and when Mrs. Burt replied in the negative, she 
 answered, " It is just as well." 
 
 " He is doing well," said Mrs. Burt, " and as you 
 need me more than he does now, I shall come 
 home and let that Isabel take care of him. She 
 can telegraph for her mother if she chooses, or get 
 another nurse." 
 
 Accordingly, she returned to the sick-room, 
 where she found Frederic asleep and Isabel read- 
 ing a novel. 
 
 To her announcement of leaving, the latter made 
 no objection. She was rather pleased than other- 
 wise, for, as Frederic grew stronger the presence of 
 a stranger might be disagreeable. She would tele- 
 graph for her mother, of course. But her mother 
 was under her control ; she could dispose of her 
 at any time, so she merely stopped her reading 
 
TH^ FEVER. 187 
 
 long enough to say, " Very well, you can go if 
 you like. How much is your charge ?" 
 
 Mrs. Burt did not hesitate to tell her ; and Isabel 
 who had taken care of Frederic's purse, paid her, 
 and then resumed her book, while Mrs. Burt went 
 from the room without a word as to where she 
 could be found in case they wished to find her. 
 
 It was dark when Frederic awoke, and it was so 
 still around him that he believed himself alone. 
 
 " They have all left me," he said, " Mrs. Merton, 
 Isabel, and that other one, who was she — who could 
 she have been ?" 
 
 He knew now that it was not a phantom of his 
 brain, but a reality. There had been a young girl 
 there, and she had called him Frederic, while he 
 had called her Marian. She had answered to that 
 name, she asked him of Isabel, and — oh. Heaven !" 
 he cried, starting quickly and clasping both hands 
 upon his head. Like a thunderbolt it burst upon 
 him, and for an instant his brain seemed on fire. 
 " It was Marian ! it was Marian !" he tried to say, 
 but his lips refused to move, and when Isabel, 
 startled by his sudden movement, struck a light and 
 came to' his bedside, she saw that he had fainted. 
 
 In great alarm she summoned help, begging of 
 those who came to go at once for Mrs. Merton. 
 But no one knew of the woman's place of residence, 
 and as she had failed to inquire, it was a hopeless 
 matter. Slowly Frederic came back to conscious- 
 ness, and when he was again alone with Isabel he 
 said to her, " Where is that woman who took care 
 of me ?" 
 
 " She is gone," Isabel said. 
 
 " Gone ?" he repeated. " When did she go, and 
 why ?" 
 
 Isabel told him the particulars of Mrs. Burt's go- 
 ing, and he continued : 
 
 " Was there no one else here when you came ? 
 
l88 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 No young girl with blue eyes ?" and he looked 
 eagerly at her. 
 
 "Yes," she replied, " there was a queer-acting 
 thing sitting in the arm-chair the night I first came 
 in " 
 
 " Who was she, and where is she now ?" he asked, 
 and Isabel answered, " I am sure I don't know 
 where she is, for she vanished like a ghost." 
 
 " Yes ; but who was she ? Did she have no 
 name ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Merton told me it was her daughter, that 
 is all I know," Isabel said ; and in a tone of disap- 
 pointment he continued : 
 
 " Will you tell me how she looked, and how she 
 acted when you first saw her ?" 
 
 " One would suppose you deeply interested in 
 your nurse's daughter," and Isabel's eyes flashed 
 scornfully upon Frederic, who replied : 
 
 " I am interested, for she saved my life. Tell 
 me how she looked ?" 
 
 "Well, then," Isabel returned pettishly, "she 
 was about fifteen, I think — certainly not older than 
 that. Her face was very white, with big, blue 
 eyes, which glared at me like a wild beast's ; and 
 what is queerer than all, she actually sobbed when 
 you kissed me ; perhaps you have forgotten that 
 you did?" 
 
 He had forgotten it, for the best of reasons, but 
 he did not contradict her, so intent was he upon 
 listening to her story. 
 
 " I had not observed her particularly before ; 
 but when I heard the sob I turned to look at her, 
 while she stared at me as impudently as if I had 
 no business here. That woman stepped between 
 us purposely I know, for she seemed excited ; and 
 when I saw the arm-chair again the girl was 
 gone." 
 
 Thus far everything, except the probable age, 
 had confirmed his suspicions ; but there was one 
 
THE FEVER. 1 89 
 
 question more, an all-important one — and he 
 asked : 
 
 " What of her hair ? Did you notice that ?" 
 
 "It was brown, I think," said Isabel — "short in 
 her neck and curly round her forehead." 
 
 With a sigh of disappointment Frederic turned 
 upon his pillow, saying to her : 
 
 " That will do — I've heard enough." 
 
 Isabel's last words had brought back to his mind 
 something which he had forgotten until now — the 
 girl's hair was short, he remembered distinctly. 
 She had not long, red curls, like those described by 
 Sally Green. It wasn't Marian at all ; and the 
 disappointment was terrible. All that night and 
 the following day he was haunted with thoughts of 
 the young girl, and at last determining to see her 
 again and know if she were like Marian, he said to 
 Isabel : 
 
 " Send for Mrs. Merton. I wish to talk with her." 
 
 " It is an impossibility," returned Isabel ; " for 
 when she left us, I neglected to ask where she 
 lived " 
 
 " Inquire below, then," persisted Frederic. 
 " Somebody will know, and I must find her." 
 
 Isabel complied with his request, and soon re- 
 turned with the information that no one knew of 
 Mrs. Merton's whereabouts, though it was gener- 
 ally believed that she came from the country, and 
 at the time of coming to the hotel was visiting 
 friends in the city. 
 
 " Find her friends, then," continued Frederic, 
 growing more and more excited and impatient. 
 
 This, too, was impossible, for everything pertain- 
 ing to Mrs. Merton was mere conjecture. No one 
 could tell where she lived, or whither she had 
 gone ; and Frederic lamented the circumstance so 
 often that Isabel more than once lost her temper 
 entirely, wondering why he should be 5Q anjcioug 
 
190 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 about a woman who had been well paid for her 
 services. 
 
 Meantime, Mrs. Huntington, who, on the receipt 
 of Isabel's telegram had started immediately, ar- 
 rived, laden with trunks, bandboxes, and bags, for 
 she was rather dressy, and fancied a large hotel a 
 good place to show her new clothes. On learning 
 that Frederic was very much better, and that she 
 had been sent for merely on the score of propriety, 
 she seemed somewhat out of humor — " Not that 
 she wanted Frederic to die," she said, " and she 
 was glad of course that he was getting well, but 
 she didn't like to be scared the way she was ; a 
 telegram always made her stomach tremble so that 
 she didn't get over it in a week; she had traveled 
 day and night to get there, and didn't know what 
 she could have done if she hadn't met Rudolph 
 McVicar in Cincinnati." 
 
 " Rudolph !" exclaimed Isabel. " Pray, where is 
 he now ?" 
 
 " Here in this very hotel," returned her mother. 
 " He came with me all the way, and seemed greatly 
 interested in you, asking a thousand questions 
 abont when you expected to be married. Said he 
 supposed Frederic's sickness would postpone it 
 awhile, and when I told him you wan't even en- 
 gaged as I knew of he looked disappointed. I be- 
 lieve Rudolph has reformed !" 
 
 " The wretch !" muttered Isabel, who rightly 
 guessed that Rudolph's interest was only feigned. 
 
 He had heard of her sudden departure for New 
 York, and had heard also that she might, perhaps, 
 be married as soon as Frederick was able to sit up. 
 Accordingly, he had himself started northward, 
 stumbling upon Mrs. Huntington in Cincinnati, and 
 coming with her to New York, where he stopped 
 at the same hotel, intending to remain there and 
 wait for the result. He did not care to meet Isabel 
 fa?e to fa(;e, while she was quite as anxious to avoitj 
 
THE FEVER. igl 
 
 an interview with him ; and after a few days she 
 ceased to be troubled about him at all. Frederic 
 absorbed all her thoughts, he appeared so differ- 
 ently from what he had done — talking but little 
 either to herself or her mother, and lying nearly all 
 the day with his eyes shut, though she knew he 
 was not asleep ; and she tried in vain to fathom the 
 subject of his reflections. But he guarded that 
 secret well, and day after day he thought on, living 
 over again the first weeks of his sickness, until the 
 conviction was fixed upon his mind that spite of 
 the short hair and the probable age, spite of the 
 story about Mrs. Merton's daughter, or the letter 
 from Sarah Green, the young girl who had watched 
 with him so long and then disappeared so mysteri- 
 ously was Marian — his wife. The brown hair he re- 
 jected as an impossibility. It had undoubtedly looked 
 dark to Isabel, but it was red still, though worn 
 short in her neck, for he remembered that distinctly. 
 Sarah Green's letter was a forgery — Alice's predic- 
 tion was true, and Marian still lived. 
 
 But where was she now ? Why had she left him 
 so abruptly ? and would he ever find her ? Yes, 
 he would, he said. He would spare no time, no 
 pains, no money in the search ; and when he 
 found her he would love and cherish her as she 
 deserved. He was beginning to love her now, and 
 he wondered at his infatuation for Isabel, whose 
 real character was becoming more and more ap- 
 parent to him. His changed demeanor made her 
 cross and fretful ; while Agnes Gibson's letter, ask- 
 ing when she was to be married, and saying people 
 there expected her to return a bride, only increased 
 her ill-humor, which manifested itself several times 
 toward her mother in Frederic's presence. 
 
 At last, in a fit of desperation, she wrote to Ag- 
 nes Gibson that she never expected to be married 
 — certainly not to Frederic Raymond — and if every 
 young lady matrimonially inqUqed should nvr§9 
 
192 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 her intended husband through a course of fever, 
 she guessed she would become disgusted with man- 
 kind generally, and that man in particular ! This 
 done, Isabel felt so much better that she resolved 
 upon another trial to bring about her desired ob- 
 ject, and one day about two weeks after her moth- 
 er's arrival, she said to Frederic : 
 
 " Now that you are nearly well, I believe I shall 
 go to New Haven, and after a little, mother will 
 come, too. I shall remain there, I think, though 
 mother, I suppose, will keep house for you this 
 year, as she has engaged to do." 
 
 To this suggestion Frederic did not reply just as 
 she thought he would. 
 
 " It was a good idea," he said, " for her to visit 
 her old home, and he presumed she would enjoy 
 it." Then he added, very faintly : "Alice will need 
 a teacher here quite as much as in Kentucky, and 
 you can retain your situation if you choose." 
 
 Isabel's eyes flashed angrily as she replied : 
 
 " I am tired of teaching, and I am all worn out, 
 too." 
 
 She did look pale, and, touched with pity, Fred- 
 eric said to her, very kindly : 
 
 " You do seem tired, Isabel. You have been con- 
 fined with me too long, and I think you had better 
 go at once. I will run down to see you, if possible, 
 before I return to Kentucky." 
 
 This gave her hope, and, drying her eyes, which 
 were filled with tears, Isabel chatted pleasantly 
 with him about his future plans, which had been 
 somewhat disarranged by his unexpected illness. 
 He could not now hope to be settled at Riverside, 
 as he called his new home, until some time in June 
 — perhaps not so soon — but he would let her know, 
 he said, in time to meet him there. 
 
 A day or two after this conversation, Isabel 
 started for New Haven, whither, in the course of a 
 weekj sh^ was followed by both her mother ftn4 
 
THE SEARCH. I93 
 
 Rudolph, the latter of whom was determined not to 
 lose sight of her until sure that the engagement, 
 which he doubted, did not in reality exist. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 When the carriage containing Mrs. Huntington 
 rolled away from the hotel, Frederic, who was stand- 
 ing upon the steps, experienced a feeling of relief 
 in knowing that, as far as personal acquaintances 
 were concerned, he was now alone and free to com- 
 mence his search for Marian. Each day the con- 
 viction had been strengthened that she was alive — 
 that she had been with him, and every energy should 
 be devoted to finding her. Once he thought of ad- 
 vertising, but she might not see the paper, and as 
 he shrank from making his affairs public, he aban- 
 doned the project, determining, however, to leave 
 no other means untried ; he would hunt the city 
 over, inquire at every house, and then scour the 
 surrounding country. It might be months, or it 
 might be years before this was accomplished ; but 
 accomplish it he would, and with a brave, hopeful 
 heart, he started out, taking first a list of all the 
 Mertons in the directory, then searching them out 
 and making of them the most minute inquiries, ex- 
 cept, indeed, in cases where he knew by the nature 
 of their surroundings, that none of their household 
 had oiificiated in the capacity of nurse. The wo- 
 man who had taken care of him was poor and un- 
 educated, and he confined himself mostly to that 
 class of people, 
 
194 „ . MARIAN GREV. 
 
 But all in vain. No one had heard of Marian 
 Lindsey, and at last he thought of Sally Green, de- 
 termining to visit her again, and, if possible, learn 
 something more of the girl she had described. Per- 
 haps she could direct him to Joe Black, who might 
 know the tall man last seen with Marian. The 
 place was easily found, and the dangerous stairs 
 creaked again to his eager tread. Sal knew him at 
 once, and tucking her hair beneath her dirty cap, 
 waited to hear his errand, which was soon told. 
 Could she give him any further information of that 
 young girl, had she ever heard of her since his last 
 visit there, and would she tell him where to find Joe 
 Black ? — he might know who the man was, and thus 
 throw some light on the mystery. 
 
 " Bless your heart," answered the woman, " Joe 
 died three weeks ago with the delirium tremens, so 
 what you get out of him won't help you much. I 
 told you all I knew before ; or no, come to think 
 on't I seen 'em go into a Third avenue car, and 
 that makes me think the feller lives up town. But 
 law, you may as well hunt for a needle in a hay- 
 stack as to hunt for a lost gal in New York. You 
 may git out all the police you've a mind to, and 
 then you ain't no better off. Ten to one they are 
 wus than them that's hidin' her, if they do wear 
 brass buttons and feel so big," and Sal shook her 
 arm threateningly at some imaginary officers of 
 justice. 
 
 With a feeling of disgust, Frederic turned away, 
 and retracing his steps, came at last to the Park, 
 where he entered a Third avenue car, though why 
 he did so he scarcely knew. He did not expect to 
 find her there, but he felt a satisfaction in thinking 
 she had once been over that route — perhaps in that 
 very car — and he looked curiously in the faces of 
 his fellow-passengers as they entered and left. 
 Wistfully, too, he glanced out at the houses they 
 were passing, saying to himself, " Is it there Marian 
 
THE SEARCH. I95 
 
 lives, or there ?" and once when they stopped for 
 . some one to alight, his eye wandered down the op- 
 posite street, resting at last upon a window high up 
 in a huge block of buildings. There was nothing 
 peculiar about that window — nothing to attract at- 
 tention unless it were the white-fringed curtain 
 which shaded it, or the rose geranium, which in its 
 little earthen pot seemed to indicate that the in- 
 mates of that tenement retained a love for flowers 
 and the country amid the smoke and the dust of 
 the city. Frederic saw the white curtain, and it 
 reminded him of the one which years ago hung in 
 his bedroom at the old place on the river. He saw 
 the geranium, too, and the figure which bent over 
 it to pluck the withered leaf. Then the car moved 
 on, and nothing told him that the window was Mrs. 
 Burt's, and the figure- — Marian. 
 
 He had passed within a few rods of her, and she 
 could have heard him had he shouted aloud, but 
 for all the good that this did him she might have 
 been miles and miles away, for he never dreamed 
 of the truth, and day after day he continued his 
 search, while the excitement, the fatigue and the 
 constant disappointment told fearfully upon his 
 constitution. Still he would not give it up, and 
 every morning he went forth with hope renewed, 
 only to return at night weary, discouraged, and 
 sometimes almost despairing of success. 
 
 Once, at the close of a rainy afternoon, he en- 
 tered again a Third avenue car, which would leave 
 him not very far from his hotel. It had been a day 
 of unusual fatigue with him, and utterly exhausted, 
 he sank into the corner seat, while passenger after 
 passenger crowded in, their damp overcoats and 
 dripping umbrellas filling the car with a sickly 
 steam which affected him unpleasantly, causing him 
 to lean his head upon his hand, and so shut out 
 what was going on around him. They were full at 
 last ; every seat, every standing point was taken, 
 
196 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 and still the conductor said there was room for an- 
 other, as he passed in a young girl who drew her 
 veil over her face to avoid the gaze of the men, some 
 of whom stared rather rudely at her. Just after she 
 came in Frederic looked up, but the veil told no 
 tales of the sudden paling of the lip, the flushing 
 of her cheek, and the quiver of the eyelids. Nei- 
 ther did the violent trembling of her body, nor 
 the quick pressure of her hand upon her side con- 
 vey to him other impression than that she was tired, 
 faint, he thought, and touching his next neighbor 
 with his elbow, he compelled him to move along a 
 few inches, while he did the same, and so made 
 room for the girl between himself and the door. 
 
 " Sit here. Miss," he said, and he turned partly 
 toward her, as if to shield her from the crowd, for 
 he felt intuitively that she was not like them. 
 
 He had no suspicion who she was, but when they 
 stopped at the same street down which he once had 
 looked at the open window, and when the seat 
 beside him was empty, he experienced a sense of 
 loneliness, as if a part of himself had gone with the 
 young girl. Suddenly remembering that he had 
 come higher up than he wished to do, he also 
 alighted, and standing upon the muddy pavement 
 looked after the figure moving so rapidly toward 
 the window where the geranium was blossoming, 
 and where a light was shining now. It disappeared 
 at last, and mentally chiding himself for stopping in 
 the rain to watch a perfect stranger, Frederic 
 turned back in the direction of his hotel, while the 
 girl who had so awakened his interest, rushed up 
 the stairs, and bounding into the room where Mrs. 
 Burt was sitting, exclaimed : 
 
 " I've seen him ! I've sat beside him in the 
 
 same car 
 
 " Why didn't you fetch him home, then?" asked 
 Ben, who had returned that afternoon from a short 
 excursion in the country. 
 
THE SEARCH. I97 
 
 Marian's face crimsoned at this question, and in 
 a hard, unnatural voice she replied : 
 
 " He didn't wish to come. He didn't even pre- 
 tend to recognize me, though he gave me a seat, 
 and I knew him so quick." 
 
 " Had that brown dud over your face, I s'pose," 
 returned Ren, casting a rueful glance at the veil. 
 " Nobody can tell who a woman is, now-a-days. 
 Why didn't you pull it off and claim him for your 
 husband, and make him pay your fare ?" 
 
 " Oh, Ben," said Marian, "you certainly wouldn't 
 have me degrade myself like that ! Frederic knew 
 who I was, I am sure, for I saw him so plain — but 
 he does not wish to find me. He never asked for 
 me since I left his sick room. AH he cared for 
 was Isabel, and I wish it were possible for him to 
 marry her." 
 
 " You don't wish any such thing," answered Ben, 
 and in the same cold, hard tone Marian continued: 
 
 " I do. I thought so to-night when I sat beside 
 him and looked into his face. I loved him once as 
 much as one can love another, and because I 
 loved him thus I came away, thinking, in my ignor- 
 ance, that he might be happy with Isabel ; and 
 when I saw that advertisement, I wrote, asking if I 
 might go back again. The result of the letter you 
 know. He insulted me cruelly. He told me a 
 falsehood, and still I was not cured. When I 
 thought him dying in the hotel, I went and staid 
 with him till the other came ; but, after I was gone, 
 he never spoke of me, and he even professed not 
 to know Mrs. Daniel Burt, asking who she was, 
 when he knew as well as I, ifor I told him who she 
 was, and he directed my letter to her. I never 
 used to think he was deceitful, but I know it now, 
 and I hate him for it." . 
 
 "Tut, tut. No, you don't," chimed in Ben ; and 
 Marian, growing still more excited, continued, 
 " Well, if I don't, I will. I have run after him all 
 
198 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 I ever shall, and now if we are reconciled he must 
 make the first concessions !" 
 
 " Whew-ew," whistled Ben, thinking to himself, 
 " Ain't the little critter spunky, though :" and 
 feeling rather amused than otherwise, he watched 
 Marian as she paced the floor, her eyes flashing 
 angrily, and her whole face indicative of strong ex- 
 citement. 
 
 She fully believed that Frederic knew her, simply 
 because she recognized him, and his failing to ac- 
 knowledge the recognition filled her with indigna- 
 tion and determination to forget him if it were pos- 
 sible. 
 
 It was now three weeks since Frederic had com- 
 menced his search, and he was beginning to despair 
 of success. His presence was needed in Kentucky, 
 where Alice had been left alone with the ne- 
 groes, and where his arrangements for moving were 
 not yet completed. His house on the river was 
 waiting for him, and as he sat thinking it over, after 
 that ride in the car, he resolved to go home and 
 bring Alice to Riverside — to send for Mrs. Hunt- 
 ington as had previously been arranged, and then 
 begin the search again. Remembering his hasty 
 promise to Isabel, of going to New Haven, he 
 wrote her a few lines, telling her how it was impos- 
 sible for him to come, and saying that on his re- 
 turn to Riverside with Alice, he should expect to 
 find her mother and herself waiting to receive him. 
 
 " I cannot do less than this," he said. " Isabel 
 has been with me a long time, and though I do not 
 feel toward her as I did, I pity her ; for I am afraid 
 she likes me better than she should. I have given 
 her encouragement, too ; but when I come back, I 
 will talk with her candidly. I will tell her how it 
 is, and offer her a home with me as long as she 
 chooses to stay," 
 
THE SEARCH. I99 
 
 Thus deciding, Frederic wrote to Alice, telling 
 her when he should probably be home, and saying 
 he should stop for a day or so at Yonkers. 
 
 That afternoon, as Frederic was going down 
 Broadway he stumbled upon Ben, whose character- 
 istic exclamation was, " Wall, Square, glad to see 
 you out agin, but I didn't believe I ever should 
 when I sent word to that gal. She come, I s'pose ?" 
 
 "Yes," returned Frederic, "and I'm grateful to 
 you for your kindness in telegraphing to my friends. 
 How did you know I was sick ?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm alius 'round," said Ben. "Know one 
 of them boys at the hotel, and he told me. I 
 s'posed you'd die, and I should of come to see you 
 only I had to go off peddlin'. Biziness afore pleas- 
 ure, you know." 
 
 This remark seemed to imply that Frederic's dy- 
 ing would have been a source of pleasure to the 
 Yankee, but the young man knew that he did not 
 intend it, and the two walked on together — Ben 
 plying his companion with questions, and learning 
 that both Isabel and Mrs. Huntington were now in 
 New Haven, but would probably go to Riverside 
 when Frederic returned from Kentucky. 
 
 "That's a grand place," said Ben ; "fixed up in 
 tip-top style, too. I took my sister out to see it 
 and she thought 'twas pretty slick. Wouldn't 
 wonder if you're going to marry that black-haired 
 gal by the looks of things ?" and Ben's eyes peered 
 sideways at Frederic, who replied : 
 
 "I certainly have no such intentions." 
 
 "You don't say it," returned Ben. " I shouldn't 
 of took the trouble to send for her if I hadn't 
 s'posed you was kinder courtin'. My sister thought 
 you was, and she or' to know, bein' she's been 
 through the mill!" 
 
 Frederic winced under Ben's pointed remarks, 
 and as a means of changing the conversation, said, 
 " If I am not mistaken, you spoke of your sister 
 
20O - MARtAN GREY. 
 
 when in Kentucky, and Alice became quite inter- 
 ested in her. I've heard her mention the girl sev- 
 eral times. What is her name ?" 
 
 " Do look at that hoss — flat on the pavement. 
 He's a goner," Ben exclaimed, by way of gaining 
 a little time. 
 
 Frederic's attention was immediately diverted 
 from Ben, who thought to himself, " I'll try him 
 with half the truth, and if he's anyways bright he'll 
 guess the rest." 
 
 So when, to use Ben's words, the noble quadru- 
 ped was " safely landed on t'other side of Jordan, 
 where there wan't no omnibus drivers, no cars, no 
 canal boats, no cartmen, no gals to pound their 
 backs into pummice, no wimmen, nor ministers to 
 work their mouths, nor nothin' but a lot as big as 
 the United States with the Mississippi runnin' 
 through it, and nothin' to do but kick up their heels 
 and eat clover," Ben came back to Frederic's ques- 
 tion, and said, " You ast my sister's name. They 
 tried hard to call her Mary Ann, I s'pose. My way 
 of thinkin' 'tain't one nor 'tother, though maybe 
 you'll like it — Marian ; 'tain't a common name. 
 Did you ever hear it afore ?" 
 
 " Marian !" Frederic gasped, turning pale, while 
 a feeling swept over him that he had never been so 
 near finding her as now. 
 
 " Excuse me. Square," said Ben, whose keen eyes 
 lost not a single change in the expression of Fred- 
 eric's face. "I'm such a blunderin' critter ! That 
 little blind gal told me your fust wife was Marian, 
 and I or'to know better than to harrer your feelings 
 with the name." 
 
 "Never mind," returned Frederic, faintly, "but 
 tell me of your sister — and now I think of it, you 
 said once you were from down east, which I sup- 
 posed referred to one of the New England States, 
 Vermont, perhaps ?" 
 
THE SEAkCM. 20t 
 
 " Did use to live in Massachussetts,'* Ben replied. 
 
 " But can't a feller move ?" 
 
 Frederic admitted that he could, and Ben con- 
 tinued, " I or' to told you, I s'pose, that Marian 
 ain't my own flesh and blood — she's adopted, that's 
 all. But I love her jest the same. Her name is 
 Marian Grey," and Ben looked at Frederic, think- 
 ing to himself, " Won't he take the hint when he 
 knows, or had or' to know that her mother was a 
 Grey." 
 
 But hints were lost on Frederic. He had no 
 suspicion of the truth, and Ben proceeded, " All 
 her kin is dead, and as mother hadn't no daughter 
 she took this orphan, and I'm workin' hard to give 
 her a good schoolin'. She can play the planner 
 like fury, and talk the French grammar most as 
 well as I do the English !" 
 
 This brought a smile to Frederic's face, and he 
 did not for a moment think of doubting Ben's 
 word. 
 
 " You seem very proud of your sister," he said, 
 at last, " and as I owe you something for caring for 
 me and telegraphing to my friends, let me show my 
 gratitude by giving you something for this Marian 
 Grey. What shall it be ? Is she fond of jewelry ? 
 Most young girls are." 
 
 Ben stuck his hands in his trousers pocket and 
 seemed to be thinking ; then removing his hands 
 he replied, " Mabby you'll think it sassy, but there 
 is somethin' that would please us both. I told her 
 about you when I came from Kentucky, and she 
 cried like a baby over that blind gal. Then when 
 you was sick, she felt worried agin, beg your par- 
 don. Square, but I told her you was handsome. 
 Jest give us your picter, if it ain't bigger than my 
 thumb, and would it be asking too much for you 
 when you git home to send me the blind gal's. 
 You can direct to Ben Butterworth — but law, you 
 won't, I know you won't." 
 
202 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 "Why not?" Frederic asked, laughing at the 
 novel request. " Mine you shall surely have, and 
 Alice's also, if she consents. Come with me now, 
 fof we are opposite a gallery." 
 
 The result of this was that in a short time Ben 
 held in his hand a correct likeness of Frederic, 
 which was of priceless value to him, because he 
 knew how highly it would be prized by Marian. 
 
 As they passed into the street again, Frederic 
 said to him rather abruptly, " Do you know Sarah 
 Green ?" 
 
 "No," Ben answered, and Frederic continued: 
 
 " Do you know Mrs. Merton ?" 
 
 Ben started and then repeating the name replied, 
 " Ain't acquainted with her neither. Who is she ?" 
 
 " She took care of me," returned Frederic, " and 
 I would like to find her, and thank her for her kind- 
 ness." 
 
 " I shouldn't s'pose she could of took care of you 
 alone, sick as you was," Ben said, waiting eagerly 
 for the answer, which, had it been what he desired, 
 might lead to the unfolding of the mystery. 
 
 But Frederic shrank from making Ben his confi- 
 dant, and replied, " It was hard for her till Miss 
 Huntington came." 
 
 " Blast Miss Huntington," Ben thought, now 
 thoroughly satisfied that his companion did not 
 care to discover Marian, or he would certainly say 
 something about her. 
 
 Both she and his mother were sure that he knew 
 she had been with him in his sickness, and if he 
 really wished to find her he would speak of her as 
 well as of Mrs. Merton. 
 
 " But he don't," thought Ben. " He don't care 
 a straw for her, and she's right when she says she 
 won't run after him any more. He don't like Isa- 
 bel none too well, and I raally b'lieve the man is 
 crazy." 
 
 This settled the matter satisfactorily with Ben, 
 
TEfi SEARCH. i203 
 
 who bidding Frederic good-bye, hurried h6me, im- 
 patient to show Marian his surprise. 
 
 " Wall,weeone,"he began," I've seen the Square, 
 and talked with him of you." 
 
 " Oh, Ben !" — and Marian's face was spotted with 
 her excitement — " what made you ? What did he 
 say ? and where is he ?" 
 
 " Gone home," answered Ben ; " but he had this 
 took on purpose for you ;" and he tossed the pic- 
 ture into her lap. 
 
 " It is — it is Frederic. Oh, Mrs. Burt, it is," and 
 Marian's lip touched the face which looked kindly 
 up at her. 
 
 It was thinner than when she used to know it, but 
 fuller, stronger-looking than when it lay among the 
 tumbled pillows. The eyes, too, were hollow, and 
 not so bright, while it seemed to her that the rich 
 brown hair was not so thrifty as of old. But it was 
 Frederic, and her heart thrilled with the joyful 
 thought that he remembered her, and had sent her 
 this priceless token. But why had he gone home 
 without her — why had he left her there alone if he 
 really cared to find her ? There was something she 
 had not heard, and she said to Ben, " What does it 
 mean ? You have not told me why he sent it." 
 
 It was cruel to deceive her as he had done, and 
 so Ben thought when he saw the effect it had upon 
 her when he told her why Frederic sent to her that 
 picture ; that it was not taken for Marian Lindsey, 
 but for Marian Grey, adopted sister of Benjamin 
 Butterworth. 
 
 " He does not wish to find me," she said, " We 
 shall never be reconciled, and it is just as well, per- 
 haps." 
 
 " I think so, too," rejoined Ben, " or at any rate 
 I'd let him rest a spell, and learn everything there 
 is in books for womankind to learn. You shall go 
 to college, if you say so, and bimeby, when the old 
 Nick himself wouldn't know you, I'll get you a 
 
504 IrfARIAN GREV. 
 
 chance to teach that blind gal, and he'll fall in love 
 with his own wife ; see if he don't," and Ben 
 stroked the curls within his reach very caressingly, 
 thinking to himself, " I won't tell her now 'bout 
 Alice's picter, 'cause it may not come, but I'll cheer 
 her up the best way that I can. She grows hand- 
 some every day of her life," and as this, in Ben's 
 estimation, was the one thing of all others to be 
 desired by Marian, he could not forbear compli- 
 menting her aloud upon her rapid improvement in 
 looks. 
 
 " Thank you," she answered, smiling very faintly, 
 for to her beauty or accomplishments were of little 
 avail if in the end Frederic's love were not 
 secured. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 Frederic was coming home again — " Marster 
 Frederic," who, as Dinah said, "had been so near 
 to kingdom-come that he could hear the himes 
 they sung on Sunday." 
 
 Joyfully the blacks told each other the glad news, 
 which was an incentive for them to bestir them- 
 selves as they had not done before during the 
 whole period of their master's absence. Old 
 Dinah, whose mind turned naturally upon eatables, 
 busied herself in conjuring up some new and harm- 
 less relish for the invalid, while Uncle Phil spent 
 the whole day in rubbing down the horses and rub- 
 bing up the carriage with which he intended meet- 
 ing his master at Frankfort. Josh, too, caught the 
 general spirit, and remembering how much his 
 master used to chide him for his slovenly appear- 
 
HOME AGAIN. 205 
 
 ance, he cast rueful glances at his sorry coat and 
 red cowhides, wishing he had some " clothes to 
 honor the 'casion with." 
 
 "I m-m-might sh-sh-shine these up a little," he 
 said, examining his boots ; and, purloining a tallow 
 candle from Hetty's cupboard, he set himself to the 
 task, succeeding so well that he was almost certain 
 of commendation. 
 
 A coat of uncle Phil's was borrowed next, and 
 though it hung like a tent cloth about Josh's lank 
 proportions, the eflect was entirely satisfactory to 
 the boy, who had a consciousness of having done 
 all that could reasonably be expected of him. 
 
 In the house Alice was not idle. From the ear- 
 liest dawn she had been up, for there was some- 
 thing on her mind which kept her wakeful and 
 restless. Frederic's letters, which were read to her 
 by the wife of the overseer, who lived nearby, had 
 told her of the blue-eyed girl who had been with 
 him in his, sickness, and in one letter, written before 
 he had given up the search, he had said, while re- 
 ferring to the girl : " Darling Alice, I am so glad 
 you sent me here, for I hope to bring you a great 
 and joyful surprise." 
 
 Not the least mention did he make of Marian, 
 but Alice understood that he meant her. Marian 
 and the blue-eyed girl were the same, and he 
 would bring her back to them again. - She was cer- 
 tain of it, and though in his last letter, dated at 
 Riverside, and apprising them of his intended re- 
 turn, he had not alluded to the subject, it made no 
 difference with her. He wished to surprise her, 
 she thought, and going to Dinah, she said to her : 
 
 " Supposing Frederic had never been married to 
 Marian, but had gone after a bride — I don't mean 
 Isabel, but somebody real nice. Supposing, I say, 
 he was going to bring her home, which room do 
 you think he would wish her to have ?" 
 
 " The best chamber, in course," answered Dinah 
 
206 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 — " the one whar the 'hogany bedstead and silk 
 quilt is. You wouldn't go to puttin' Marster Fred- 
 eric's wife off with poor truck, I hope. But what 
 made you ask that question ? What have you 
 hearn ?" 
 
 " Nothing in particular," Alice answered, " only 
 it would be nice if he should bring somebody with 
 him, and I want to fix the room just as though I 
 knew he would. May Lid sweep and dust it for 
 me ?" 
 
 For a moment Dinah looked at her as if she 
 thought her crazy. Then thinking to herself, " it'l 
 'muse her a spell any way, and I may as well 
 humor her whim," she replied. " Sakes alive, yes, 
 and I'll ar the bed. Thar hain't nobody slep' in't 
 sence Marian run away 'cept Miss Agnes one night 
 and that trollop, Isabel, who consulted me by sayin' 
 how't they done clarmbered onto a table afore 
 they could get inter bed, 'twas so high. Ain't 
 used to feathers whar she was raised, I reckon, and 
 if you'll b'lieve it, she said how't she alius slep' on 
 har afore she come here ! Pretty stuff that must 
 be to lie on ; but Lord, them Yankees is mostly as 
 poor as poverty, and don't know no differ." 
 
 Having relieved herself of this speech, which in- 
 volved both her opinion of Yankees in general and 
 Isabel in particular, the old lady proceeded to bus- 
 iness, first arin' the bed, and then making it 
 higher, if possible, than it was made on the night 
 when Isabel so injured her feelings by laughing at 
 its height. Lid's services were next brought into 
 requisition ; and when the chamber was swept and 
 dusted, the arrangement of the furniture was left 
 entirely to Alice, who wished so much that she 
 could see just how Marian's favorite chair looked 
 standing by the window, from which the gorgeous 
 sunsets Marian so much admired could be seen. 
 Just opposite, and on the other side of the window, 
 Frederic's easy chair was placed — the one in which 
 
HOME AGAIN. 20/ 
 
 he always sat when tired, and where Alice fancied 
 he would now delight to sit with Marian, so near 
 that he could look into her eyes and tell her that 
 he was glad to have her there. He was beginning 
 to love her Alice knew by the tone of his letters ; 
 and her heart thrilled with joy as she thought of 
 the happiness in store for them all. She would 
 not be lonely now in her own chamber, for it was 
 so near to Marian's. She could leave the doors 
 open between, and that would be much nicer than 
 having black Ellen sleeping on the floor. 
 
 " She loved a great many flowers around her," 
 she said, and groping her way down the stairs and 
 out into the yard, she gathered from the tree be- 
 neath the library window a profusion of buds and 
 half opened roses, which she arranged into bouquets, 
 and placed in vases for Marian, just as Marian had 
 gathered flowers for her from the garden far away 
 on the river. 
 
 There were flowers on the mantle, flowers on the 
 table, flowers in the window, flowers everywhere, 
 and their sweet perfume filled the air with a deli- 
 cious fragrance which Dinah declared was " a heap 
 sight better than that scent Miss Isabel used to put 
 on her hankercher and fan. Ugh, that fan !" and 
 Dinah's nose was elevated at the very thought of 
 Isabel's sandal-wood fan, which had been her special 
 abhorrence. 
 
 " Isn't it most time for Uncle Phil to start ?" 
 asked Alice, when Dinah had finished fixing the 
 room. 
 
 " Yes, high time," answered Dinah, " but Phil is 
 so slow. I'll hurry him up," and followed by Alice 
 she descended the stairs, meeting in the lower hall 
 with Lyd, who held in her hand a brown envelope, 
 which she passed to Alice, saying, " One dem let- 
 ters what come like lightnin' on the telegraph. A 
 boy done brung it." 
 
208 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " A telegram ," Alice cried, feeling at first alarmed. 
 " Go for Mrs. Warren to read it." 
 
 But the overseer's wife was absent, and neither 
 the blacks nor Alice knew what to do. 
 
 " There isn't more than a line and a half," said 
 Alice, passing her finger over the paper and feeling 
 the thick sand which had been sifted upon it. " I 
 presume something has detained Frederic, and he 
 has sent word that he will not be here to-day." 
 
 " Let me see dat ar," said Phil, who liked to im- 
 press his companions with a sense of his superior 
 wisdom, and, adjusting his iron-bowed specs, he 
 took the letter, which in reality was Greek to him. 
 
 After an immense amount of wry faces and loud 
 whispering he said : 
 
 "Yes, honey, you're correct, though Marster, 
 Frederic has sich an onery hand-write that it takes 
 me a heap of time to make it out. It reads, ' Some- 
 thin' has detained Frederic, and he has sent word 
 that he'll be here to-morry.' " And, with the ut- 
 most gravity, Phil took off his specs, and was walk- 
 ing away with the air of one who has done some- 
 thing his companions could never hope to do, when 
 Hetty called out : 
 
 " Wonder if he 'spects us to swaller dat ar, and 
 think he kin read, when he jest done said over what 
 Miss Alice say. Can't fool dis chile." 
 
 This insinuation Uncle Phil felt constrained to 
 answer, and with an injured air he replied : 
 
 " Kin read, too, for don't you mind how't Miss 
 Alice say, ' Won't be here to-day,' and it's writ on 
 the paper, ' Comin' to-morry.' " And, fully satisfied 
 that he had convinced his audience. Uncle Phil has- 
 tened away off, before Hetty had time for further 
 argument. So certain was Phil that Alice's sur- 
 mises were correct and the telegram interpreted 
 aright, and so anxious withal to prove himself sure, 
 that he would not go to Frankfort, as he proposed 
 doing. 
 
HOME AGAIN. 209 
 
 " There was no use on't," he said. " Marster 
 wouldn't be thar till to-morry," and he whiled away 
 the afternoon at leisure. 
 
 But alas for Uncle Phil. Mrs. Warren had made 
 a mistake in Frederic's last letter, the young man 
 writing he should be home on the fifteenth, whereas 
 she had read it the seventeenth ; afterward, Fred- 
 eric had decided to leave Riverside one day earlier, 
 and he telegraphed from Cincinnati for Phil to meet 
 him. Finding neither carriage nor servant in wait- 
 ing, he hired a conveyance, and about four o'clock 
 P. M. from every cabin door there came the joyful 
 cry 
 
 " Marster Frederic has come." 
 
 " Told you so," said Hetty, with an exultant 
 glance at Uncle Phil, who wisely made no reply, 
 but hastened with the rest to tell his master, " How 
 d'ye ?" 
 
 " How is it that some one did not meet me ?" 
 Frederic asked, after the first noisy outbreak had 
 somewhat subsided. " Didn't you get the des- 
 patch ?" 
 
 The negroes looked at Phil, who stammered 
 out — 
 
 " Yes, we done got it, but dem ole iron specs of 
 mine is mighty nigh wore out — can't see in 'em at 
 all and I read ' to-morry' instead of ' to-day.' " 
 
 The loud shout which followed this excuse 
 enlightened Frederic as to the true state of the 
 case, and he, too, joined in the laugh, telling the 
 crest-fallen Phil that "he should surely have a new 
 pair of silver specs which would read ' to-day ' in- 
 stead of ' to-morry.' " 
 
 " But where is Alice ?" he continued. " Why 
 don't she come to meet me ?" 
 
 "Sure 'nough," returned Dinah. " Whar can 
 she be, when she was so fierce to have you come ? 
 Reckon she's up in the best chamber she's been 
 fixin' up for somethjn', sh? wouldr}'^ t^}\ wh^t." 
 
210 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " I'll go and see," said Frederic, starting in quest 
 of the little girl, who, as Dinah had conjectured, 
 was in the chamber prepared with so much care for 
 Marian. 
 
 She had been sitting by the window when she 
 heard the sound of wheels coming up the avenue. 
 Then the joyful cry of " Marster's comin'," came 
 to her quick ear, and, starting up, she bent her 
 head to listen for another voice. But she listened 
 in vain, for Marian was not there. Gradually she 
 became convinced of the fact, and, laying her face 
 on the window sill, she was weeping bitterly when 
 Frederic came in. Pausing for a moment in the 
 door, he glanced around, first at the well remem- 
 bered chair, then at the books upon the table, then 
 at the flowers, and then he knew why all this had 
 been done. 
 
 " I wish it might have been so," he thought, and 
 going to Alice he lifted up her head and said to 
 her, " Darling, was it for Marian you gathered all 
 these flowers ?" 
 
 "Yes, Frederic, for Marian, I thought you had 
 found her, and I was so glad. What made you 
 write me that ?" 
 
 " Alice, I did find her," returned Frederic; "I 
 have seen her, I have talked with her. Marian is 
 alive." 
 
 At these words, so decidedly spoken, the blind 
 eyes flashed up into Frederic's face eagerly, as if 
 they would burst their vail of darkness and see if 
 he told her truly. 
 
 " Is it true ? Oh, Frederic, you are not deceiv- 
 ing me ? I can't bear any more disappointment," 
 and Alice's face and lips were as white as ashes, as 
 she proceeded further to question Frederic, who 
 told her of the girl who had called him back to life 
 by her kind acts and words of love. 
 
 f §he h^d a sweet face, ' he said, " fairer, sweeter 
 
HOME AGAIN. 211 
 
 than Marian's when she went away, but I knew that 
 this was she." 
 
 Then he told her of her sudden disappearance 
 when Isabel came and of his fruitless efforts to 
 find her. 
 
 There was a pathos in the tone of his voice, which 
 emboldened Alice to say : 
 
 " Frederic, ain't you loving Marian a heap more 
 than you did when she went away ?" 
 
 Frederic did not hesitate a moment before reply- 
 ing, " Yes, I am ; and I shall find her too. I only 
 stopped long enough to come home for you. The 
 house is ready at Riverside, and your room is 
 charming." 
 
 "Will Isabel be there ?" was Alice's next inquiry, 
 and Frederic answered by telling her all he knew 
 of the matter. 
 
 He did not say he was beginning to understand 
 her, and consequently to like her less, but Alice in- 
 ferred as much, and with this fear removed from her 
 mind, she could endure patiently to become again 
 a pupil of Miss Huntington. For a long time they 
 talked together, wondering who wrote the letter 
 purporting to have come from Sarah Green, and 
 why it had been written. Then Frederic told her 
 of the peddler Ben, and of his sister, Marian Grey. 
 Of her, Alice did not say to him " She is our 
 Marian," for she had not such a thought, but she 
 seemed interested both in her and in Ben, and when 
 told that the latter had asked for her picture she 
 consented at once, saying he should have it as soon 
 as they were settled at Riverside. 
 
 " I would not tell any one about Marian," Fred- 
 eric said, as their conversation drew to a close ; " I 
 had rather the subject should not be discussed un- 
 til I really find her and bring her home ; then we 
 will set apart a day of general thanksgiving." 
 
 To this suggestion Alice readily assented, and as 
 the supper bell just then ran^, the two went to- 
 
212 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 gether to the delicious repast, which Dinah had pre- 
 pared with unusual care, insisting the while that 
 " thar was nothin' fit for nobody to eat." 
 
 Frederic, however, whose appetite was increasing 
 each day, convinced her to the contrary, and while 
 watching him as he did justice to her viands, the 
 old negress thought to herself, " 'Clar for't, how he 
 does eat. I should know he come from Yankee 
 land. You can alius tell 'em, the way they crams, 
 when they get whar thar is somethin'." 
 
 The news of Frederic's return spread rapidly, and 
 that night he received calls from several of his 
 neighbors, together with an invitation to Agnes 
 Gibson's wedding, which was to take place in a few 
 days. In the invitation Alice was included, and 
 though Dinah demurred, saying that " trundle-bed 
 truck or'to stay at home," Alice ventured to differ 
 from her, and at the appointed time went with 
 Frederic to the wedding, which was splendid in all 
 its parts, having been gotten up with a direct refer- 
 ence to the newspaper articles which were sure to 
 be published concerning it. Agnes asked Frederic 
 numberless questions concerning Isabel, saying 
 " she hoped to meet her in her travels, as they were 
 going North and were intending to spend the sum- 
 mer at Saratoga, Newport, and Nahant. I thought 
 once you would be taking your bridal tour about 
 this time," she said to him, when several were stand- 
 ing near. 
 
 " I assure you I had no such idea," was Fred- 
 eric's reply, and Agnes continued, " Indeed, I sup- 
 posed you were engaged." 
 
 " Then you supposed wrong," he answered, glad 
 of this public opportunity to contradict a story he 
 knew had gained a wide circulation. " I esteem 
 Miss Huntington as a friend and distant relative, 
 but I certainly have no intention whatever of mak- 
 ing her my wife." 
 
 Jt was nearly three weel^s ftfter thj? wadding be- 
 
HOME AGAIN. 213 
 
 /or-2 Frederic's arrangements for leaving Kentucky 
 were completed, and it was not until the latter 
 part of July that he finally started for his new 
 home. The lamentations of the negroes were 
 noisy in the extreme, though far more moderate 
 than they would have been if their master had not 
 said that it was very probable he should return in 
 the autumn, and merely make Riverside a sum- 
 mer residence. If he found Marian he should 
 come back, of course, he thought, but he did not 
 think it best to raise hopes which might never be 
 realized, so he said nothing of her, to the blacks, 
 who supposed she was dead. 
 
 The parting between Dinah and Alice was a bit- 
 ter one, the former hugging the little girl to her 
 bosom and wondering how " Marster Frederic 
 'spected a child what had never waited on itself 
 even to fotch a drop of water, could get along 'way 
 off dar whar thar warn't nary nigger nor nothin' but 
 a pack o' low flung Irish. Order 'em 'round," she 
 said to Alice, wiping her eyes with her checked 
 apron, "order 'em round jist like they warn't 
 white. Make 'em think you be somebody. Say 
 your pra'rs every night — war your white cambric 
 wrappers in the mornin', and don't on no count 
 catch any poor folksy's marners 'mong them Yan- 
 kees, for I shouldn't get my nateral sleep o' 
 nights till you got shet of 'em, and — " lowering her 
 voice, " if so be that you tell any of the quality 
 'bout us blacks, s'posin you kinder set me 'bove 
 Hetty and them Higginses, bein' that I the same 
 as nussed you." 
 
 To nearly all these requirements Alice promised 
 compliance, and then, as the carriage was waiting, 
 she followed Frederic down to the gate, and soon 
 both were lost to the sight of the tearful group 
 which, from the piazza of Redstone Hall, gazed 
 after them. 
 
 It was at the close of a summer sultry day when 
 
214 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 the travelers reached Riverside, where they found 
 Mrs. Huntington waiting to receive them. Frederic 
 had written, apprising her of the time when he 
 should probably arrive, and asking her to be there 
 if possible. Something, too, he had said of Isabel, 
 but that young lady was not in the most amiable 
 mood, and as she was comfortably domesticated 
 with another distant relative, she declined going 
 to Frederic until he manifested a greater desire to 
 have her with him than his recent letters indicated. 
 Accordingly her mother went alone, and Frederic 
 was not sorry, while Alice was delighted. Every- 
 thing seemed so bright and airy, she said, just as 
 though a load were taken from them, and like a bird 
 she flitted about the house, for she needed to pass 
 through a room but once before she was familiar 
 with its location, and could find it easily. With 
 her own chamber she was especially pleased, and 
 in less than half an hour her hands had examined 
 every article of furniture, even to the vases which 
 held the withered blossoms gathered so long ago. 
 
 " Somebody must have put these here for me," 
 she said, and then her mind went back to the morn- 
 ing when she, too, had gathered flowers for her ex- 
 pected friend, and she wondered who had done a 
 similar service for her. 
 
 Mrs. Russell, who was still staying at Riverside, 
 replied : 
 
 " Now I wonder if you found them dried-up 
 things so soon. I should of thrown them out, only 
 that the girl who fixed 'em made me promise to 
 leave 'em till you came. 'Pears like she b'lieved 
 you'd think more on 'em for knowin' that she 
 picked 'em." 
 
 " Girl ! Mrs. Russell. What girl ?" and Alice's 
 eyes lighted up, for she thought at once of Marian, 
 who would know of course about the house, and as 
 she would naturally wish to see it, she had come 
 some day and left these flowers, which would be so 
 
HOME AGAll*. 21^ 
 
 dear to her if she found her suspicions correct. 
 " Who was the girl ?" she asked again, and Mrs. 
 Russell replied : 
 
 " I don't remember her name, but she went aiA 
 over the house, fixing things in Mr. Raymond's 
 room, which I didn't think was very mannerly, 
 bein' that 'twan't none o' hern. Then she come iu 
 here and set ever so long before she picked these 
 flowers, which she told me not to throw away." 
 
 "Yes, it was Manan," came involuntarily from 
 Alice's lips, while the woman, catching at the name 
 rejoined : 
 
 " That sounds like what he called her — that tall, 
 spooky chap, her brother — Ben something. She 
 said he had seen you at the South." 
 
 " Oh, Ben Butterworth. It was his adopted sis- 
 ter ;" and Alice turned away, greatly disappointed 
 that Marian Grey, and not Marian Lindsey had ar- 
 ranged those flowers for her. 
 
 This allusion to Ben reminded AHce of his re- 
 quest for her picture, and one morning when Fred- 
 eric was going to New York, she asked to go with 
 him and sit for it. There was no reason why she 
 should not, and in an hour or two she was listen- 
 ing, half-stunned, to the noise and uproar of the 
 city. 
 
 "Oh, Frederic," she cried, holding fast to his 
 hand, " oh, Frederic, I wonder Marian didn't get 
 crazy and die. I'm sure I should. I'm most dis- 
 tracted now. Where are all those people and carts 
 going that I hear running by us so fast, and what 
 makes them keep pushing me so hard. Oh, dear, 
 I wish I hadn't come !" and as some one just then 
 jostled her more rudely than usual, Alice began to 
 cry. 
 
 " Never mind," said Frederic soothingly, "we are 
 almost there, and we will take a carriage back. 
 Folks can't push you then." 
 
 Alice's tears being dried, they kept on their way, 
 
2l6 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 and when the picture was taken, Frederic caiiea a 
 carriage and took Alice, as he had promised, all 
 over the city. And Alice enjoyed it very much, 
 knowing that no one could touch her of all the 
 noisy throng she heard so distinctly, but could not 
 see. It was a day long talked of by the blind girl, 
 and she asked Mrs. Huntington to write a descrip- 
 tion of it to the negroes, who she knew fancied that 
 Louisville was the largest city in the world. 
 
 Not long after this, something which Mrs. Hunt- 
 ington said about her daughter determined Fred- 
 erick to visit her, and make the explanation which 
 he felt it his duty to make, for he knew that he had 
 given her some reason to think he intended asking 
 her to be his wife. He accordingly made some ex- 
 cuse for going to New Haven, and one morning 
 found himself at the door where Isabel was stop- 
 ping. 
 
 " Give her this," he said, handing his card to the 
 servant who carried it at once to the delighted 
 young lady. 
 
 " Frederic Raymond," Isabel read. " Oh, yes. 
 Tell him I'll be down in a moment," and she pro- 
 ceeded to arrange her hair a little more becomingly, 
 and made several changes in her dress, so that the 
 one minute was nearly fifteen before she started for 
 the parlor, where Frederic was dreading her com- 
 ing, for he scarcely knew what he wished to say. 
 
 She greeted him as a bashful maiden is supposed, 
 to meet her lover, and seating herself at a respect- 
 ful distance from him, she asked many questions 
 concerning his health, her friends in Kentucky, her 
 mother, and Alice, who she presumed did not miss 
 her much. 
 
 " Your mother's presence reminds us of you very 
 often, of course," returned Frederic, "but you 
 know we can get accustomed to almost anything, 
 and Alice seems very happy." 
 
 " Yes," sighed Isabel. " You will all forget me, 
 
HOME AGAIN. 21^ 
 
 I suppose, even to mother — but I have not been 
 quite contented since I left Kentucky. I thought 
 it tiresome to teach, and perhaps was sometimes 
 impatient and unreasonable, but I have often wished 
 myself back again. I don't seem to be living for 
 anything now," and Isabel's eyes studied the pat- 
 tern of the carpet quite industriously. 
 
 This long speech called, for a reply, and Frederic 
 said, " You would not care to come back again, 
 would you ?" 
 
 "Why, yes," returned Isabel; "I would rather 
 do that than nothing." 
 
 For a time there was silence, while Frederic 
 fidgeted in his chair and Isabel fidgeted in hers, 
 until at last the former said : 
 
 " I owe you an explanation, Isabel, and I have 
 come to make it. Do you remember our conver- 
 sation in the parlor, and to what it was apparently 
 tending, when we were interrupted by Alice ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Isabel, " and I have thought of it 
 so often, wondering if you were in earnest, or if 
 you were merely trifling with my feelings." 
 
 "I certainly had no intention of trifling with 
 you," returned Frederic ; " neither do I know as I 
 was really in earnest. At all events it is fortunate 
 for us both that Alice came in as she did ;" and 
 having said so much, Frederic could now look 
 calmly upon a face which changed from a serene 
 Summer sky to a dark, lightning-laden thunder- 
 cloud as he told her the story he had come to tell. 
 
 In her terrible disappointment, Isabel so far for- 
 got herself as to lose her temper entirely, and Fred- 
 eric, while listening to her, as she railed at him for 
 what she called his perfidy, wondered how he ever 
 could have thought her womanly or good. 
 
 " It was false that Marian was living, and had 
 taken care of him when sick," she said. " He 
 could not impose that story upon her, and he only 
 wished to do it because he fancied that he was in 
 
2 1 8^ MARlAIf GREV. 
 
 some way pledged to her and wished for an excus6, 
 but he might have saved himself the trouble, for 
 even had Alice not appeared she would have told 
 him No. She liked him once, she would admit, 
 but there was nothing like living beneath the same 
 roof to make one person tire of another, and even 
 if she were not disgusted with him before, she 
 should have become so while taking care of him in 
 New York, and so she wrote to Agnes Gibson, who, 
 she heard, had spread the news that she was en- 
 gaged, though she had no authority for doing so, 
 but it was just like the tattling mischief-maker !" 
 
 " Are you through ?" Frederic coolly asked, when 
 she had finished speaking. " If you are I will con- 
 sider our interview at an end." 
 
 Isabel did not reply and he arose to go, saying 
 to her as he reached the door, " I did not come 
 here to quarrel with you ; I wish still to be your 
 friend, and if you are ever in trouble come to me 
 as to a brother." 
 
 " The villain ! I believe I hate him — and o-nly 
 to think how those folks in Kentucky will laugh," 
 Isabel thought when she was alone. " But it's all 
 Agnes' doings. She inveigled more out of me than 
 there was to tell, and then repeated it to suit her- 
 self. The jade !" — and at this point Isabel broke 
 down in a flood of tears, in the midst of which the 
 door-bell rang again, and hurrying to the stairs she 
 listened to the names, which this time were " Mr. 
 and Mrs. Rivers " (Agnes and her husband), and 
 they asked for her. 
 
 Drying her tears, and bathing her eyes until the 
 redness was gone, Isabel went down to meet the 
 "jade," embracing her very affectionately, and tell- 
 ing her how delighted she was to see her again, and 
 how well she was looking. 
 
 " Then why do you not embark on the sea of 
 matrimony yourself, if you think it such a beauti- 
 fier," said Agnes. 
 
HOME AGAIN. 2l$ 
 
 " Me ?" returned Isabel, with a toss of her head ; 
 " I thought I wrote you that I had given up that 
 foolish fancy." 
 
 " Indeed, so you did," said Agnes, " but I had 
 forgotten it, and when I saw Mr. Raymond at the 
 Tontine, where we are stopping, I supposed, of 
 course, he had come to see you, and I said to Mr. 
 Rivers it really was too bad, for, from what he said 
 at our wedding, I fancied there was nothing in it, 
 and had made up my mind to take you with us to 
 Florida, as I once talked of doing. Husband's sis- 
 ter wants a teacher for her children, don't she, 
 dear ?" 
 
 Mr. Rivers was about to answer in the afifirma. 
 tive, but before he could speak Isabel chimed in : 
 " Oh, you kind, thoughtful soul. Let me go with 
 you ; do. Nothing could please me more. I have 
 missed your society so much, and am so unhappy 
 here !" 
 
 Agnes was pleased with the idea of having Isabel 
 go with her to her new home. And before parting 
 it was arranged that in October Isabel was to join 
 her friend in Kentucky, and go with her from 
 thence to Florida, where she was either to remain 
 with Mrs. Rivers, or teach in the family of Mr. 
 Rivers' sister. 
 
 The story of Isabel's intended trip to Florida 
 was not long in reaching Rudolph McVicar, who 
 had been wondering why sonriething didn't occur, 
 and if he were to be disappointed after all. 
 
 " I wasted that paper and ink for nothing," was 
 his mental comment when he heard from her own 
 lips that Isabel was going ; for, he finally ventured 
 to call upon her, demeaning himself so well that, 
 like her mother, Isabel began to think he had re- 
 formed. 
 
 Still there was an expression in his eye which she 
 did not like, and when at last he left her, she 
 experienced a feeling of relief, as if a spell had been 
 
2i6 MARIAN GkEV. 
 
 removed. After her recent interview with Frederic 
 she would not go to his house, so her mother went 
 to New Haven, staying with her daughter a week, 
 and then returning to Riverside, while Isabel 
 started for Kentucky, where, as she had expected, 
 she met with Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, and was soon on 
 her way to Florida. 
 
 When sure that Isabel was gone, and that Sarah 
 Green's letter had indeed been written in vain, 
 Rudolph, who cared nothing now whether Marian 
 were ever discovered to her husband or not, went 
 to New York and embarked on a whaling voyage, 
 as he had long thought of doing, fancying that the 
 roving life of a seaman would suit his restless 
 nature. 
 
 And now, with Rudolph on the sea, with Isabel 
 in Florida, with Marian at school, and Frederic at 
 Riverside, we draw a vail over the different char- 
 acters of our story, until three years have passed 
 away, bringing changes to all, but to none a greater 
 change than to Marian Grey. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE GOVERNESS. 
 
 It was a bright September afternoon, and the 
 dense foliage of the trees looked as fresh and green 
 as when watered by the Summer showers, save 
 here and there where a faded leaf came rustling to 
 the ground, whispering of the Winter which was 
 hastening on. Softly the Autumnal sunlight fell 
 upon the earth, and the birds sang as gayly as if 
 there were no hearts bereaved, no humble proces- 
 sion winding through the crowded streets and out 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 221 
 
 into the country, where, in a new-made grave, a 
 mother's love was buried, while the mourners, a 
 young man and a girl, held each other's hand, in 
 token that they were bound together by a common 
 sorrow. Not a word was said by either ; and when 
 the burial rite was over, they returned to the car- 
 riage, and were driven back to their desolate home, 
 where the young man threw himself upon the 
 lounge, and burying his face in the cushions, sobbed 
 aloud : 
 
 " Oh, Marian, it's terrible to be an orphan and 
 have no mother." 
 
 Up to this hour he had restrained his grief, but 
 now that he was alone with Marian, he wept on, 
 until the sun went down and the night shadows 
 were creeping into the room. Then lifting up his 
 head, he said, " It is so dark — so dismal now — and 
 the hardest of all is the givin' up our dear old home 
 where mother lived so long, and the thinkin' maybe 
 you'll forget me when you live with that grand 
 lady." 
 
 " Forget you ! Oh, Ben, I never can forget how 
 much you have done for me, denying yourself 
 everything for my sake," Marian said, while Ben 
 continued, " Nor won't you be ashamed of me 
 neither, if I should come sometimes to see you ? 
 I should die if I could not once a while look into 
 your eyes ; and you'll let me come, won't you, 
 Marian ?" 
 
 " Of course I will," she replied, continuing after 
 z. moment, " It is not certain yet that I go to Mrs. 
 Sheldon's. I have not answered her last letter 
 because — You know what we talked about before 
 your mother died!" 
 
 " Yes, I know," returned Ben, " but I had forgot 
 it — my heart was so full of other things. I'll go out 
 there to-morrow. I'd rather you should teach at 
 Riverside, even if you'd never heard of Frederic, 
 \'k^n go to that gr^iici lady, wh9 niight thtnl?, 
 
222 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 because you was a governess, that you wan't fit to 
 live in the same house." 
 
 " I have no fears of that," said Marian. " Mrs. 
 Harcourt says she is an estimable woman ; but 
 still, I would rather go to Riverside, if I were sure 
 Frederic would not know me. Do you think there 
 is any danger?" 
 
 " No," was Ben's decided answer, and in this 
 opinion Marian herself concurred, for she knew 
 that she had changed so much that none who saw 
 her when first she came to Mrs. Burt's would re- 
 cognize her now. 
 
 About three months before the night of which 
 we are writing, she had been graduated at Mrs. 
 Harcourt's school with every possible honor, both 
 as a musician and a scholar. There had never 
 been her equal there before, Mrs. Harcourt said, 
 and when her friend, Mrs. Sheldon, who lived in 
 Springfield, Mass., applied to her for a family 
 pupil, she warmly recommended her favorite pupil, 
 Marian Grey, frankly stating, however, that she 
 was of humble origin — that her adopted mother or 
 aunt was a poor sewing woman, and her adopted 
 brother a peddler. This, however, made no differ- 
 ence with Mrs. Sheldon, and several letters had 
 passed between herself and Marian, who would 
 have accepted the liberal offer at once, but for a 
 lingering hope that Ben would carry out his favor- 
 ite plan, and procure her a situation as teacher at 
 Riverside. She had occasionally met Frederic in 
 the street, and once she was sure his eye had rested 
 upon her in passing, but she knew by its expres- 
 sion that she was not recognized, and when Ben 
 suggested offering her services as Alice's governess, 
 she readily consented. 
 
 During these years, Ben had not lost sight of 
 Frederic's movements, though it so chanced that 
 they had met but twice, once just after the receipt 
 of Alice's picture, and once the previous autumn. 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 223 
 
 when Frederic was about returning to Kentucky, 
 for, with his changed feelings toward Marian, he 
 felt less delicacy in using her money — less aversion 
 to Redstone Hall, where his presence was really 
 needed, for a portion of the year at least. 
 
 But he was at Riverside now, and Ben was about 
 going there to see what arrangements could be 
 made, when his mother's sudden death caused 
 both himself and Marian to forget the subject until 
 the night after the burial, when they talked of the 
 future, and decided that on the morrow Ben shonld 
 go to Riverside and see if there were room in 
 Frederic's house for Marian Grey. The morning 
 came, and at an early hour Ben started, bidding 
 Marian keep up her spirits, as he was sure of bring- 
 ing her good tidings. 
 
 Frederic was sitting in his chair, which stood 
 near the window, and thinking of Marian and his 
 hitherto fruitless efforts to find her. He was be- 
 ginning to get discouraged, and still, each time he 
 went to the city, he thought " perhaps I may meet 
 her to-day," and each night as the hour for his 
 return drew near, Alice waited upon the piazza 
 when the weather was fine, and by the window 
 when it was cold, listening for a step which never 
 came, until she grew less hopeful, and Marian 
 seemed farther and farther away as month after 
 month went by bringing no tidings of her. Fred- 
 eric knew that she must necessarily have changed 
 from the Marian of old, for she was a woman now, 
 but he should readily recognize her, he said. He 
 should know her by her peculiar hair, if by no 
 other token. So when his eye once rested on a 
 face of surpassing sweetness, shaded by curls of 
 soft chestnut hair, which in the sunlight wore a 
 rich red tinge he felt a glow like that which one 
 experiences in gazing for a single instant on some 
 picture of rare loveliness ; then the picture faded, 
 the figure glided \ty, and there was nothing left to 
 
224 MARIAN GREY, 
 
 tell how, by stretching forth his hand, he might 
 have touched his long-lost Marian. Moments there 
 were when she seemed near to him, almost within 
 his reach, and such a moment was the one when 
 Mrs. Huntington annonnced Ben Butterworth, 
 whom he had not seen for a long time. 
 
 Involuntarily he started up, half expecting his 
 visitor had come to tell him something of her. 
 But when he saw the crape upon Ben's hat, and the 
 sorrow on his face, he forgot Marian in his anxiety 
 to know what had happened. 
 
 "My mother's dead," Ben said, and the strong 
 man, six feet high, sobbed like a little child, bring- 
 ing back to Frederic's mind the noiseless room, the 
 still, white face, and tolling bell, which were all he 
 could distinctly remember of the day when he, too, 
 said to a boy like himself, " My mother's dead." 
 
 Taking Ben's hand, he pressed it warmly in token 
 of his sympathy. 
 
 " He is a good man," Ben thought, wiping his 
 tears "away: and after a few choking coughs and 
 brief explanations he came at once to the object of 
 his visit. 
 
 He should peddle now just as he used to do, of 
 course, but wimmen wan't so lucky, and all Marian 
 could do was to teach. He had given her a tip-top 
 larnin', though she had earnt some on't herself 
 by sewin'. She had got a paper thing, too, with a 
 blue ribin, from Miss Harcourt, who praised her up 
 to the skies. In short, if Mr. Raymond had not 
 any teacher for Alice, wouldn't he take Marian 
 Grey ? And Ben twirled his hat nervously, while 
 he waited for the answer. 
 
 " I wish you had applied to me sooner," said 
 Frederic, " for in that case I would have taken her, 
 but a Mrs. Jones, from Boston, came only a week 
 ago, so you see I am supplied. I am very sorry, 
 for I feel an interest in Miss Grey, and will use tny 
 Ipfllu^nc? to progwr? her ^ situatioii," 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 22$ 
 
 "Thank you ; there's a place she can have, but I 
 wanted her to come here," returned Ben, who was 
 greatly disappointed, and began to cry again. 
 
 Frederic was somewhat amused, besides being 
 considerably disturbed, and after looking at the 
 child-man for a moment, he continued : 
 
 " Mrs. Jones is engaged for one year only, and 
 if at the end of that time Miss Grey still wishes to 
 come, I pledge you my word that she shall do so." 
 
 This brought comfort at once. One year was 
 not very long to wait, and by that time Marian 
 would certainly be past recognition, and as all Ben's 
 wishes and plans centered upon Mr. Raymond's 
 falling in love with his unknown wife, he was readily 
 consoled, and wiping his eyes, he said apologeti- 
 cally, " I'm dreadfully tender-hearted, and since 
 I've been an orphan it's ten times wus. So you 
 must excuse my actin' like a baby. Where's 
 Alice ?" 
 
 Frederic called the little girl, who, childlike, 
 waited to put on her bracelet, so as to show the 
 man that she still wore it and liked it very much. 
 She seemed greatly pleased at meeting Ben again, 
 asking him why he had not been there before, and 
 if he had received her picture. 
 
 " Yes, wee one," he said. " I should have writ, 
 only that ain't in my line much, and I don't always 
 ipell jest right, but we got the picter, and Marian 
 ivas so pleased she cried." 
 
 "What made her?" said Alice, wonderingly. 
 " She don't know me." 
 
 " But she knows you're blind, for I told her," was 
 Ben's quick reply, which was quite satisfactory to 
 Alice, who by this time had detected a note of sad- 
 ness in his voice, and she asked what was the mat- 
 ter. 
 
 To her also Ben replied, " My mother's dead," 
 and the mature little girl understood at once the 
 dreary loneliness that a mother's de^th niust brin^ 
 
226 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 even to the heart of a big man like Ben. Immedi- 
 ately, too, she thought of Marian Grey, and asked 
 " What she would do ?" 
 
 " I come on to seeif yourpa — no, beg your pardon 
 — to see if the Square didn't want her to hear you 
 say your lessons," was Ben's answer, and Alice ex- 
 claimed, " Oh, Frederic. Let her come. I know I 
 shall like her better than Mrs. Jones, for she's 
 young and pretty, I am sure. May she come ?" 
 
 " Alice," said Frederic, " Mrs. Jones has an aged 
 mother and two little children dependent upon her 
 earnings, and, should I send her away, the disap- 
 pointment would be very great. Next year, if we 
 all live, Miss Grey shall come, and with this you 
 must be satisfied." 
 
 Alice saw at once that he was right, and she gave 
 up the point, merely remarking that " a year was a 
 heap of a while." 
 
 " No, 'tain't," said Ben, who each moment was 
 becoming more and more reconciled to the arrange- 
 ment. 
 
 One year's daily intercourse with fashionable peo- 
 ple, he thought, would be of invaluable service to 
 Marian, and as he wished her to be perfect, both in 
 looks and manners, when he presented her to Fred- 
 eric Raymond, he was well satisfied to wait, and he 
 returned to New York with a light, hopeful heart. 
 Marian, on the contrary, was slightly disappointed, 
 for like Alice, a year seemed to her a long, long 
 time. Still there was no alternative, and she wrote 
 to Mrs. Sheldon that she would come as early as 
 the first day of October. It was hard to break up 
 their old home, but it was necessary, they knew, 
 and with sad hearts they disposed of the furniture, 
 gave up the rooms, and then, when the appointed 
 time came, Marian started for her new home, ac- 
 companied by Ben, who went rather unwillingly. 
 
 " We ain"t no more alike than ile and water," he 
 
WILL GORDON. 22/ 
 
 said, when she first suggested his going, 'and they 
 won't think as much of you for seein' me." 
 
 But Marian insisted, and Ben went with her, men- 
 tally resolving to say but little, as by this means he 
 fancied " he would be less likely to show how big a 
 dolt he was I" 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 WILL GORDON. 
 
 Mrs. Sheldon's residence was a most delightful 
 spot, reminding Marian a little of Redstone Hall, 
 and she felt that she could be very happy there, 
 provided she met with sympathizing friends. Any 
 doubts she might have had upon this subject were 
 speedily dispelled by the appearance of Mrs. Shel- 
 don, in whose face there was something very famil- 
 iar ; and it was not long before Marian identified 
 her as the lady who had spoken so kindly to her in 
 the car between Albany and New York, asking her 
 what was the matter, and if she had friends in the 
 city. This put Marian at once at her ease, and her 
 admiration for her employer increased each mo- 
 ment, particularly when she saw how gracious she 
 was to Ben, who, true to his resolution, scarcely 
 spoke except to answer Mrs. Sheldon's questions, 
 and to decline her invitation to dinner. 
 
 " L should never get through that in the world 
 without some blunder," he thought, and as the din- 
 ner-bell was ringing, he took his leave, crying like 
 a child when he parted with Marian, who was 
 scarcely less affected than himself. 
 
 Qoing to the gtfition, he sauntered into the ladies' 
 
228 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 room, where he found a group of young girls, who 
 were waiting the arrival of a friend, and who, mean- 
 time, were ready for any fun which might come up. 
 Ben instantlyattracted their attention, and one, who 
 seemed to be the leader of the party, began to quiz 
 him, asking " where he lived, and if he had ever 
 been so far from home before ?" 
 
 Ben understood the drift of her remarks at once, 
 and with imperturbable gravity, replied : 
 
 " I come from down East, where they raise sich 
 as me, and this is the fust time I was ever out of 
 Tanton, which alius was my native town !" 
 
 Then, taking his tobacco box from his pocket, he 
 passed it to an elegant-looking man, whom he read- 
 ily divined to be the brother of the girl, saying to 
 him : 
 
 " Have a chaw, captain ? I'd just as lief you 
 would as not." 
 
 As he heard the loud laugh which this speech 
 called forth, he continued, without the shadow of a 
 smile : 
 
 " I had — 'strue's I live, for I ain't none o' your 
 tight critters. Nobody ever said that of Ben Bur — 
 Ben Butterwith," he added, hastily, for until Marian 
 was discovered to Frederic, he thought it best to 
 retain the latter name. 
 
 " Ben Butterworth," repeated the young girl in 
 an aside to her brother — " Why, Will, didn't sister 
 Mary tell us that was the brother or cousin of her 
 new governess ? You know Miss Grey mentioned 
 his name in one of her letters." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Ben, before Will had time to re- 
 ply. " If by Mary, you mean Miss Sheldon, I'm the 
 chap. Brought my sister there to-day, to bp her 
 school-ma'am, and I don't want you to run over 
 her neither, 'cause you'll be sorry bimeby. That 
 was all gammon I told you about never being away 
 from home before, for I've seen considerable of the 
 world." 
 
WILL GORDON, 229 
 
 The cars from Boston were by this time rolling 
 in at the depot, and without replying to Ben's re- 
 mark, the young lady went out to look for her 
 friend. 
 
 That night, just after dark, Mrs. Sheldon's door 
 bell rang, and her brother and sister came in, the 
 latter dressed in the extreme of fashion, and bear- 
 ing about her an air which seemed to indicate that 
 she had long been accustomed to receive the hom- 
 age of those around her. Seating herself on the 
 sofa, she began, " Well, Mary, Will and I have come 
 over to see this wonderful prodigy. Mother was 
 here, you know, this afternoon, and she came home 
 half wild on the subject of Miss Grey, insisting that 
 I should call directly, and so like a dutiful daughter 
 I have obeyed, though I must confess that the 
 sight of Ben Butterworth, whom we met at the sta- 
 tion, did not greatly prepossess me in her favor." 
 
 "They are not at all alike," said Mrs. Sheldon, 
 " neither are they in any way related. Miss Grey 
 is highly educated, and has the sweetest face I ever 
 saw. She has some secret trouble, too, I'm sure, 
 and she reminds me of a beautiful picture over 
 which a vail is thrown, softening, and at the same 
 time heightening its beauty." 
 
 " Really," said Will, rousing up, "some romance 
 connected with her. Do bring her out at once." 
 
 Mrs. Sheldon left the room, and going up to 
 Marian's chamber, knocked at the door. 
 
 " My brother and sister are in the parlor and 
 have asked for you," she said. 
 
 " I will come down in a moment," Marian re- 
 turned. 
 
 And smoothing her collar and brushing her hair, 
 she descended to the parlor, where Ellen Gordon 
 sat prepared to criticise, and William Gordon sat 
 prepared for almost anything, though not for the 
 vision which greeted his view when Murian Grey 
 appeared before him. The dazzling purity of her 
 
230 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 complexion contrasted well with her black dress, 
 and the natural bloom upon her cheek was in- 
 creased by her embarrassment, while her eyes 
 dropped modestly beneath the long-fringed lashes, 
 which Ellen noticed at once, because they were the 
 one coveted beauty which had been denied to her- 
 self. 
 
 " Jupiter !" was Will's mental comment. " Mary 
 didn't exaggerate in the least, and Nell will have 
 to yield the palm at once." 
 
 Something like this passed through Ellen's mind, 
 but though on the whole a frank, right-minded girl, 
 she was resolved upon finding fault with the stran- 
 ger, simply because her mother and sister had said 
 so much in her praise. 
 
 " She is vulgar, I know," she thought, and she 
 watched narrowly for something which should be- 
 tray her low birth, but she waited in vain. 
 
 Marian was perfectly lady-like in her manners ; 
 her language was well chosen ; her voice soft and 
 low ; and before she had been with her half an 
 hour Ellen secretly acknowledged her superiority 
 to most of the young ladies of her acquaintance, 
 and regretted that she, too, had not been educated 
 at Mrs. Harcourt's school, if such manners as Miss 
 Grey's were common there. 
 
 At Mrs. Sheldon's request Marian took her seat 
 at the piano, and then Ellen hoped to criticise ; but 
 here again she was at fault, for Marian was a bril- 
 liant performer, keeping perfect time, and playing 
 with the most exquisite taste. 
 
 As she was turning over the leaves of the music- 
 book, after the close of the first piece. Will said to 
 his sister : 
 
 " By the way, Nell, I had a letter from Fred to- 
 day, and he says he will be delighted to get you 
 that music the first time he goes to the city." 
 
 Marian started just as she had done that after- 
 noon, when Mrs. Sheldon called her youngest boy 
 
WILL GORDON. 23 1 
 
 Ffed. Still there was no reason why she should 
 do so. Frederic was a common name, and she 
 kept on turning the leaves, while Ellen replied^ 
 " What else did he write, and when is he going 
 south ? 
 
 Marian listened eagerly for the answer, which 
 was " Sometime in November, and he has invited 
 me to go with him, but I hardly think I shall. 
 He's lonesome, he says, and can find no trace of 
 his run-away wife. So, there's a shadow of a 
 chance for you, Nell." 
 
 Marian's hand came down with a crash upon the 
 keys of the piano, but Ellen thought it was an ac- 
 cident, if she thought of it at all ; and she replied : 
 "Fie, just as though I would have a man before I 
 knew for certain that his wife was dead. I admire 
 Mr. Raymond very much, and if he had not been 
 so foolish as to marry that child, I can't say that 
 he would not have made an impression, for he is 
 the finest looking and most agreeable gentleman I 
 ever met. Isn't it strange where that girl went, 
 and what she went for .? Hasn't he ever told you 
 anything that would explain it?' 
 
 Up to this point Marian had sat listening eagerly, 
 and wondering where these people had known 
 Frederic Raymond. Then, as something far back 
 in the past flashed upon her mind, she turned, and 
 looking in the young man's face, knew who he was, 
 and that they had met before. His name had 
 seemed familiar from the first, and she knew that 
 he was the Will Gordon who had been Frederic's 
 chum in college, and had once spent a vacation at 
 Redstone Hall. He had predicted that she would 
 be a handsome woman, and Frederic had said she 
 could not with such hair. She remembered it all 
 distinctly, but any effect it might then have had 
 upon her was lost in her anxiety to hear the an- 
 swer to Ellen's question. 
 
 " Fred generally keeps his matters to himself, 
 
i^i kARlAM GREV. 
 
 but I know as much as this : He didn't love that 
 Miss Lindsay any too well when he married her, 
 but he has admitted to me since that his feelings 
 toward her had undergone a change, and he would 
 give almost anything to find her. He is certain 
 that she was with him when he was sick in New 
 York, and since that time he has sought for her 
 everywhere." 
 
 William Gordon had no idea of the effect his 
 words produced upon the figure which, sat as 
 motionless on the music stool, as if it had been a 
 block of marble. During all the long, dreary years 
 of exile from home there had not come to her so 
 cheering a ray of hope as this, and the bright bloom 
 deepened on her cheek, while the joy which danced 
 in her blue eyes made them look almost black be- 
 neath the heavy lashes. Frederic was beginning 
 to love her — he had acknowledged as much to Mr. 
 Gordon, and her heart bounded forward to the 
 time when she should see him face to face, and hear 
 him tell her so with his own lips. Ellen's next re- 
 mark was : 
 
 " I presume it would be just the same even if he 
 were to find her. He is a great admirer of beauty, 
 and she, I believe was very ordinary looking." 
 
 " Not remarkably so," returned Will. " She was 
 thin-faced and had red hair, but I remember think- 
 ing she might make a handsome woman " 
 
 " Red hair ! Oh, Will !" and Ellen laughed at 
 the idea. 
 
 A sudden movement on Marian's part made Will 
 recollect her, and he hastened to apologize for his 
 apparent forgetfulness of her presence. 
 
 " You will please excuse us," he said, " for dis- 
 cussing an affair in which you, of course, have no 
 interest." 
 
 " Certainly," she replied, while the young man 
 continued : 
 
WILL GORDON. 233 
 
 " Will you give us some more music ? I admire 
 your style of playing." 
 
 Marian was in a mood for anything, and turning 
 to the piano she dashed off a merry, spirited thing, 
 to which Will's feet kept time, while Ellen looked 
 on amazed at the white fingers which flew like 
 lightning over the keys, seemingly never resting for 
 an instant upon any one of them, but lighting here 
 and there with a rapidity she had never before 
 seen equalled. It was the outpouring of Marian's 
 heart, and the tune she played was a song of jubilee 
 for the glad tidings she had heard. Before she 
 had half finished. Will Gordon was at her side, 
 gazing into her face, which sparkled and glowed 
 with her excitement. 
 
 " She is strangely beautiful," he thought, and so 
 he said to Ellen when they were walking home 
 together. 
 
 " She looks very well," returned Ellen, " but I 
 trust you will not feel it your duty to fall in love 
 with her on that account. Wouldn't it be ridicu- 
 lous for you, who profess never to have felt the 
 least affection for any woman, to yield at once to 
 Mary's governess ?" 
 
 " Mary's governess is no ordinary person," an- 
 swered Will. " How like the mischief she made 
 those fingers go in that last piece. I never saw 
 anything like it ;" and he tried to whistle a few bars 
 of the lively strain. 
 
 That night three men dreamed of Marian — Will 
 Gordon in his bachelor apartments, which he had 
 said should never be invaded with a female's ward- 
 robe — Ben Burt in his room at the Lovejoy Hotel 
 — and Frederic Raymond in his home upon the 
 Hudson. But to Marian, sleeping so quietly in her 
 chamber, there came a thought of only one, and 
 that one Frederic Raymond, whose picture lay 
 beneath her pillow. She had never placed it there 
 until to-night, for she had felt that she had no right 
 
234 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 to do SO. But Mr. Gordon's words had affected a 
 change. He said that Frederic was beginning to 
 love her at last — that he had sought for her with- 
 out success — that he would give almost anything 
 to find her. It is true she could not reconcile all 
 this with her preconceived opinion : but she had no 
 wish to doubt it, and she accepted it as truth, think- 
 ing it was probably a very recent thing with him, 
 searching after and loving her. 
 
 Very rapidly and pleasantly the first few weeks 
 of her sojourn with Mrs. Sheldon passed away. 
 She was interested in her pupils, two bright-faced 
 little girls, and doubly interested in their brother, 
 Fred, whose real name she learned was Frederic 
 Raymond, he having been called, Mrs. Sheldon 
 said, after William's particular friend. Frederic 
 Raymond was a frequent subject of conversation 
 in Mrs. Sheldon's family, and once, after Marian 
 had been there four or five months, and Will was 
 spending an evening there, the matter was dis- 
 cussed at length, while Marian, dropped stitch after 
 stitch in the cloud she was crotcheting, and finally 
 stopped altogether as the conversation proceeded. 
 
 " I am positive," said Mrs. Sheldon, " that I saw 
 Mrs. Raymond in the cars, between Albany and 
 Newburg. It was four years ago, last Autumn, 
 and about that time she came away. There was a 
 very young girl sitting before me, dressed in black, 
 with long red curls, and she looked as if she had 
 wept all her tears away, though they fell like rain 
 when I spoke to her and asked her what was the 
 matter. I remember her particularly from her ques- 
 tion, ' Is New York a heap noisier than Albany or 
 Buffalo?'" 
 
 " That ' heap ' is purely Southern," interrupted 
 Will, while his sister continued : 
 
 " She said she had but one friend in the world, 
 and that one was in New York." 
 
 Here Will glanced involuntarily at Marian who 
 
WILL GORDON. 235 
 
 he thought looked flushed and red, and so he closed 
 the register and opened a door, thinking the heat 
 of the room might have affected her. 
 
 Returning to his seat, he replied to his sister's 
 remark, " That was undoubtedly Marian Lindsey. 
 Did you speak of it to Frederic ?" 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Sheldon, " I have always 
 thought he disliked talking of her to me, and that 
 makes me think there is something wrong — that he 
 did her an injury." 
 
 " Every man who marries without love injures 
 the woman he makes his wife," said Will, " and 
 Frederic does not profess to have loved her then. 
 His father drew him into this match, and for some 
 inexplicable reason Fred consented, when all the 
 time he loved Isabel Huntington. But he has re- 
 covered from that infatuation, and I am glad of it, 
 for I never liked her, and had the thing been pos- 
 sible, I should say she poisoned him against Ma- 
 rian. Why, Miss Grey, you are actually shiver- 
 ing," he added, as he saw the trembling of Marian's 
 body, and this time he opened the register and 
 shut the door, offering to go for a shawl, and ask- 
 ing where she had taken such a cold. 
 
 " It's only a slight chill — it will soon pass off," 
 she said, and as Mrs. Sheldon was just then called 
 from the room. Will drew his chair a little nearer 
 to Marian and continued : 
 
 " This Raymond affair must be irksome to you, 
 who know nothing about it." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Marian faintly. "I am greatly 
 interested, particularly in the girl-wife. Can't he 
 find her? Perhaps though, he don't really care." 
 
 "Yes, he does," interrupted Will. " He disliked 
 her once, but I believe he feels differently toward 
 her now. His hobby in college was a handsome 
 wife, but he has learned that beauty alone is worth- 
 less, and he would gladly take Marian back." 
 
 " Red hair and all ?" Marian asked mischievously, 
 
23^ MARIAN GREY. 
 
 and Will replied, " Yes, I believe he's made up his 
 mind to the red hair. I didn't object to it myself, 
 and I once saw this girl." And Will proceeded to 
 give a most minute description of Redstone Hall, 
 of its master, and of herself, as she was when he 
 visited Kentucky. 
 
 Frederic's marriage was then touched upon. 
 Will telling how angry his chum used to be when 
 he received a letter on the subject from his father. 
 
 " We were studying law together," he said, " and 
 as we were room-mates in college, it was quite nat- 
 ural that we should confide in each other ; so he 
 used to tell me of his father's project, and almost 
 swear he wouldn't do it. I never was more aston- 
 ished than when I heard he was to be married in a 
 few days. ' It's all over with me,' he wrote, ' I 
 can't help it !" and he signed himself ' Your 
 wretched Fred !' But what are you crying for. 
 Miss Grey ? What is the matter?" 
 
 " I am crying for poor Marian Lindsey !" was 
 the answer ; and Marian's tears flowed faster. 
 
 Will Gordon was distressed at the sight of any 
 woman's tears, but particularly at the sight of 
 Marian Grey's, and he tried to console her by say- 
 ing he was sure Mr. Raymond would sometime 
 find his wife, and they would be the happier for 
 what they had suffered. 
 
 Will Gordon was older than Frederic Raymond. 
 Quite a bachelor, his sister Ellen said, and she 
 wondered that he had lived so long without taking 
 a wife. But Will was very fastidious in his ideas 
 of females, and though he had traveled much, both 
 in Europe and his own country, he had never seen 
 a face which could hold his fancy for a moment, 
 until the sunny blue eyes of Marian Grey shone 
 upon him, and thawed the ice which had laid about 
 his heart so many years. Even then he did not 
 quite understand the feeling, or know how it was 
 that night after night he found himself locked out 
 
WILL GORDON. 237 
 
 at home, while morning after morning his sister 
 Ellen scolded him for staying out so late, wonder- 
 ing what attraction he could find at Mary's, when 
 he knew that he would never disgrace the Gordon 
 family by marrying a governess, and a peddler's 
 adopted sister, too! Will hardly thought he 
 should, either. He didn't quite know what ailed 
 him, and in a letter written to Frederic, who was 
 now in Kentucky, he gave an analysis of his feel- 
 ings, after having first told him that Marian Grey 
 was the adopted sister of a Yankee peddler, who 
 had once visited Redstone Hall, and who, he was 
 sure, Frederick would remember for his oddities. 
 
 "I wish you could see this girl," he wrote, " I'd 
 like to have your opinion, for I know you are a 
 connoisseur in everything pertaining to female 
 charms, but I am sure you never in all your life saw 
 anything like Marian Grey. I never did. And 
 yet it is not so much the fairness of her conplexion, 
 or the perfect regularity of her features, as it is the 
 indescribably fascinating something which demands 
 your pity as well as your admiration. There is 
 that about her mouth and in her smile which seems 
 to say that she has suffered as few have ever done, 
 and that from this suffering she has risen purified, 
 beautified, and if I may be allowed a term which 
 my good mother would call wicked in the extreme, 
 glorified as it were ! 
 
 " Just picture to yourself a graceful, airy figure, 
 five feet four inches high — then clothe it in black, 
 and adapt every article of .dress exactly to her 
 form and style, then imagine a face, which I can 
 not describe, with the deepest, saddest, brightest, 
 merriest, sunniest, laughing blue eyes you ever saw. 
 You see there is a slight contradiction of words, but 
 every one by turns will apply to her eyes. Then 
 her hair — oh, Fred, words fall me here. It's a mix- 
 ture of everything — brown, black, yellow and red. 
 By gaslight it is brown, and by daylight a most 
 
238 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 beautiful chestnut or auburn — rippling all over her 
 head in waves, and curling about her forehead and 
 neck. 
 
 " Beautiful Marian ! Yes, I will call her Marian 
 here on paper, with no one to see it but you. 'Tis 
 a sweet name, Fred ; the name, too, of your lost 
 wife. I told her that story the other night, and 
 she actually cried. 
 
 " Do write soon, and give me your advice, though 
 what I want of it ics more than I can tell. I only 
 know that I feel strangely about the region of my 
 waistbands, and every time I see Miss Grey I feel 
 a heap worse, as you folks say. She is of low ori- 
 gin, I know, and this would make a difference with 
 a man as proud as you, but I don't care. Marian 
 Grey has bewitched me, I verily believe, until I am 
 — I don't know what. 
 
 " Do write, Fred, and tell me what I am, and 
 what to do. But pray don't preface your letter 
 with long-winded remarks about marrying my equal 
 — looking higher than a peddler's sister, and all 
 that nonsense, for it will be lost on me. I never 
 can get higher than Marian's eyes, unless, indeed, I 
 reached her hair, at which point I should certainly 
 yield, and go over to the enemy at once." 
 
 This letter reached Frederic one rainy afternoon 
 when he had nothing to do but to read it, laugh 
 over it, reflect upon and answer it. 
 
 Frederic Raymond was prouder than Will Gor- 
 don, and at first rebelled against his friend's taking 
 for a bride the sister of unpolished, uneducated 
 Ben. " But it is his own matter," he said ; " I see 
 plainly that he is in love, so I will write at once 
 and tell him what is the ' trouble.' " 
 
 Accordingly he commenced a letter, in which, 
 after expressing his happiness that his college friend 
 had not persisted in shutting his eyes to all female 
 charms, he wrote ; 
 
WILL GORDON. 239 
 
 " I should prefer your wife to be somewhat 
 nearer your equal in point of family, it is true, but 
 your description of Marian Grey won my heart 
 eriiirely, and you have my consent to offer yourself 
 at once. By so doing, you will probably deprive 
 Alice of her governess, and me of a pleasant com- 
 panion, for I had made an arrangement with Ben 
 to have Miss Grey with us next year. But no 
 matter for that. Woo and win her, just the same, 
 snd Heaven grant you a happier future than my 
 past has been. 
 
 '• ' Beautiful Marian !' you said, and without 
 knowing why, my heart responded to it. She is 
 beautiful, I am sure, and your description of her is 
 just what I would like to apply to my own wife — 
 my lost Marian. You see I have withdrawn my 
 allegiance from dark-eyed maidens, and gone over 
 to blue eyes and auburn tresses. 
 
 " By the way, speaking of the dark-eyed maidens 
 reminds me that Agnes Gibson's husband is dead, 
 and she is sole heiress of all his fortune, except a 
 legacy which he left to Miss Huntington, who lived 
 in his family at the time of his death. Rumor says 
 he led a sorry life with both of them, but at the 
 last his wife cajoled him into making his will, and 
 was really kind to him. She is at her father's now, 
 and Miss Huntington is there also. I called upon 
 them yesterday, and have hardly recovered yet 
 from the chilling reception I met from the latter. 
 
 " But pardon me. Will, for this digression, when 
 I was to write of nothing bi^ Marian Grey. The 
 name reminded me of my own wife, and that, as a 
 matter of course, suggested Isabel. Give my com- 
 pliments to Miss Grey, and tell her that, under the 
 circumstances, I release her from her engagement 
 with myself, and that, if she is a sensible girl, as I 
 suppose she is, she will not keep you on your knees 
 longer than necessary. Let me hear of your suc- 
 cess or failure, and, on no account, forget to invitq 
 
240 
 
 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 me to the wedding. It is possible I may be obliged 
 to come North on business, in the course of a few 
 weeks, and, if so, I shall certainly call on you for 
 the sake of seeing Marian Grey. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " F. Raymond." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI, 
 will's wooing. 
 
 The silver tea-set and damask cloth had been 
 removed from Mrs. Gordon's supper-table. The 
 heavy curtains of brocatelle were dropped before 
 the windows ; a cheerful fire was burning in the 
 grate, the gas burned brightly in the chandelier, 
 casting a softened light throughout the room, and 
 rendering more distinct the gay flowers on the car- 
 pet. The lady-mother, a fair type of a thrifty New 
 England woman, had donned her spectacles, and 
 from a huge pile of socks was selecting those which 
 needed a near acquaintance with the needle, and 
 lamenting over her son's propensity at wearing out 
 his toes ! 
 
 The son, meantime, half lay, half sat upon the 
 sofa, listlessly drumtping with his fingers, and 
 feeling glad that Ellen was not there, and wonder- 
 ing how he should begin to tell his mother what he 
 so much wished her to know. 
 
 " I should suppose she might see it," he thought 
 — " might know how much I am in love with Ma- 
 rian, for I used to be always talking about her, and 
 now I never mention her, it makes my heart thump 
 so if I try to speak her name, Nell will make a 
 
WILL'S WOOING. 241 
 
 fuss, perhaps, for she thinks so much of family ; 
 but Marian is family enough for me. Mary likes 
 her, and I guess mother does. I mean to ask 
 her. 
 
 " Mother !" 
 
 " What, WilHam ?" and the good lady ran her 
 hand into a sock with a shockingly large rent in 
 the heel. 
 
 No woman can be very gracious with such an 
 open prospect, and, as Will saw the scowl on his 
 mother's face, he regretted that he had spoken at this 
 inauspicious moment. 
 
 "I'll wait till she finds one not quite as dilapi- 
 dated as that," he thought, and when the question 
 was repeated : 
 
 " What, William ?" he replied : 
 
 " Is Nell coming home to-night ?" 
 
 " I believe so. I wish she was here now to help 
 me, for I shall never get these mended. What 
 makes you wear out your socks so fast ?" 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's beating time 
 to Miss Grey's lively music. Don't she play like 
 the mischief, though ?" 
 
 Mrs. Gordon did not answer, and Will continued, 
 " Let me help you mend. I used to in college, and 
 in Europe, too. Thread me a darning needle, 
 won't you ?" 
 
 Mrs. Gordon laughingly complied with his re- 
 quest, and Will was soon deep in the mysteries of 
 sock-darning, an accomplishment in which he had 
 before had some experience. Very rapidly his 
 mother's amiability increased, until at last he ven- 
 tured to say, " Let me see, how old am I ?" 
 
 " Thirty last August, just twenty years younger 
 than I am." 
 
 " Then, when you were at my age you had a boy 
 ten years old. I wonder how J should feel in a like 
 predicament," 
 
242 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " I'm afraid you'll never know," and Mrs. Gordon 
 commenced on a fresh sock. 
 
 " Mother, how would you like to have me marry 
 and settle down ?" Will continued, after a mo- 
 ment's silence, and his mother replied : 
 
 " Well enough, provided I liked your wife." 
 
 "You don't suppose I'd marry one you didn't like, 
 I hope. Just look, can you beat that ?" and he 
 held up what he fancied to be a neatly darned 
 sock, which, spite of its bungling appearance, re- 
 ceived so much praise, that he felt emboldened to 
 proceed. 
 
 Taking Frederic's letter from his pocket he passed 
 it to his mother, asking her to read it, and give him 
 her opinion. 
 
 " You know I never can make out Mr. Ray- 
 mond's writing," Mrs. Gordon said, " so pray read 
 it yourself." 
 
 But this Will could not do, and he insisted until 
 his mother took the letter and began to read, while 
 he forgot to darn, so intent was he upon watching 
 the expression of her face. At first it turned very 
 red, then white, for she felt as every mother does 
 when she first learns that her only boy is about 
 yielding to another the love she has claimed so long. 
 
 " Have you spoken to Marian ?" she asked, giv- 
 ing him back the letter, but not resuming her work. 
 
 " No," was his answer ; and she continued, 
 " Then I wouldn't." 
 
 " Why not ?" he asked, in some alarm ; and his 
 mother replied, " I've nothing against Marian, but 
 we are so happy together, and it would kill me to 
 have you go away." 
 
 " Is that all ?" and in his delight Will ran the 
 darning-needle under his thumb nail ; " I needn't 
 go away. I can bring her home, and you won't 
 have to mend my socks any more. Those back 
 chambers are seldom used, and — " 
 
 " Back chambers !" Mrs. Gordon exclaimed. " I 
 
will's wooing. 343 
 
 guess if you bring a wife here, you'll occupy the 
 parlor chamber and bedroom. I was going to re- 
 paper them in the Spring, and I think on the whole 
 I'll refurnish them entirely, for you might some- 
 times have calls up there." 
 
 " You charming woman," cried Will, kissing his 
 mother, whose consent he understood to be fully 
 won. 
 
 He knew she had always admired Miss Grey, but 
 he expected more opposition than this, and in his 
 delight he would have gone to see Marian at once, 
 were it not that he had heard she was absent that 
 evening. For an hour or more he talked with his 
 mother of his plans, and when at last Ellen came 
 in, she, too, was let into the secret. Of course, she 
 rebelled at first, for her family pride was very 
 strong, and the peddler Ben was a serious objec- 
 tion. But when she saw how earnest her brother 
 was, and that her mother had espoused his cause, 
 she condescended to say : 
 
 " I suppose you might do worse, though folks 
 will wonder at your taste in marrying Mary's gov- 
 erness." 
 
 " Let them wonder, then," said Will. " They 
 dare not slight my wife, you know," and then he 
 drew a pleasing picture of the next Summer, when, 
 with his mother, Marian and Ellen, he would visit 
 the White Mountains and Montreal. 
 
 " Why not go to Europe ?" suggested Ellen. 
 " Mr. Sheldon talks of going in August, and if you 
 must marry this girl, you may as well go, too." 
 
 " Well spoken for yourself," returned Will ; " but 
 it's a grand idea, and I'll make arrangements with 
 Tom as soon as I have seen Marian. Maybe she'll 
 refuse me !" 
 
 " No danger," was Ellen's comment, while her 
 mother thought the same, for in her estimation no 
 one in their right mind could refuse her noble boy. 
 
 Jt w^s a long night to Will, and the next daj: 
 
244> MARIAN GREY^ 
 
 longer still, for joyful hope and harrowing fears 
 tormented his mind, and when at last it was dark, 
 and he had turned his face toward Mr. Sheldon's, 
 he half determined to go back. But he didn't, and 
 with his usual easy, off-hand manner, he entered his 
 sister's sitting room. Though bound to secrecy, 
 Ellen had told the news to Mrs. Sheldon, who, had 
 told her husband ; and soon after Will's arrival, the 
 two found some excuse for leaving him alone with 
 Marian Grey. 
 
 Marian liked William Gordon very much — partly 
 because he was Frederic's friend, and partly because 
 she knew him to be a most affectionate brother and 
 dutiful son — two rare qualities in a traveled and 
 fashionable man. She was always pleased to see 
 him, and she welcomed him now as usual, without 
 observing his evident embarrassment when at last 
 they were alone. There were no stockings to be 
 darned, and he did not know how to commence, 
 until he remembered Frederic's letter. It had 
 helped him with his mother — it might aid him now 
 — and after fidgeting awhile in his chair, he said : 
 
 " I heard from Mr. Raymond yesterday." 
 
 " Indeed !" and Marian's voice betrayed more 
 interest than the word would indicate. 
 
 " He wrote something about you." 
 
 "About me!" and Marian started so suddenly 
 that she pulled her needle out from the worsted 
 garment she was knitting. 
 
 " What did Mr. Raymond write of me ?" 
 
 " I'll show you just a little," and Will pointed 
 out the sentence commencing with " Give my 
 respects to Miss Grey," etc. 
 
 The sight of the well-remembered handwriting 
 affected Marian sensibly ; but when she came to the 
 last part, and began to understand to what it all was 
 tending, her head grew dizzy and her brain whirled 
 for a moment. Then an intense pity for Will Gor- 
 don filled her soul, for looking up she met the 
 
WILL' S WOOING. 245 
 
 glance of his eyes, and saw how much she was 
 beloved. 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Gordon !" she cried, putting her 
 hands to her ears as he began to say : " Dear 
 Marian." " You must not call me so ; it is wicked 
 for you to do it, wicked for me to listen. I am not 
 what I seem." 
 
 Her not being what she seemed. Will fancied 
 might refer to something connected with her birth, 
 and he hastened to assure her that no circumstance 
 whatever could change his feelings, or prevent him 
 from wishing her to be his wife. 
 
 " Won't you, Marian ?" he said, holding her in 
 his arm so she could not escape. " I have never 
 loved before. I always said I could not, until I saw 
 you ; and then everything was changed. I have 
 told my mother, and Ellen, too. They are ready 
 to receive you. Look at me, and say you will 
 come to my home, which will never again be so 
 bright to me without you. Won't you answer 
 me .''" he continued, while she sobbed so violently 
 as to render speaking impossible. " I am sorry if 
 my words distressed you so," he continued. 
 
 " I am distressed for you," Marian at last found 
 voice to say. " Oh, Mr. Gordon, I should be most 
 wretched if I thought I had encouraged you in this ! 
 But I have not, I am sure. I like you very, very 
 much, but I cannot be your wife I" 
 
 " Marian, are you in earnest ?" And on Will 
 Gordon's face was a look never seen there before. 
 
 He did not know until now how much he loved 
 the beautiful young girl. All the affections of his 
 heart had centered themselves upon her, and he 
 could not give her up. She had been so kind to 
 him — had welcomed him with her sweetest smile — 
 had seemed sorry at his departure — and was not 
 this encouragement ? He had taken it as such, 
 and before she could reply to the question : " Are 
 you in earnest ?" he added : 
 
246 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " I have thought, from your manner, that I was 
 not indifferent to you, else I had never told you of 
 my love. Oh, Marian, if you desert me now, I 
 shall wish that I could die !" 
 
 Marian released herself from his arm, and, stand- 
 ing before him, replied : 
 
 " I never dreamed that you thought of me save 
 as a friend, and if I have encouraged you, it was 
 because — you reminded me of another. Oh, Mr. 
 Gordon, must I tell you that long before I came 
 here I had learned to love some other man — hope- 
 lessly, it is true ; but that can make no difference. 
 Had I never seen him — never known of him — I 
 might, I would have been your wife, for I know 
 that you are noble and good ; but it is too late — 
 too late !" 
 
 He did not need to ask her now if she were in 
 earnest ; he knew she was, and bowing his head 
 upon the arm of the sofa he groaned aloud. Half 
 timidly Marian laid her hand upon his head, and, 
 as he felt the touch of her fingers, he started, while 
 an expression of joy lighted up his face, only to 
 pass away again as he saw the same unloving look 
 in her eye. 
 
 " If I could comfort you," she said, " I would 
 gladly do it ; but I cannot. You will forget me in 
 time, Mr. Gordon, and be as happy as you were 
 before you knew me." 
 
 He shook his head despairingly. " No one could 
 forget you ; and the man who stands between us 
 must be a monster not to requite your love. Who 
 is he, Marian ? or is it not for me to know ?" 
 
 " I would rather you should not — it can do no 
 good," was Marian's reply; and then Will Gordon 
 pleaded with her to think again before she told him 
 no so decidedly. She might outlive that other 
 love. She ought to, certainly, if it were a hopeless 
 one ; and if she only gave him half a heart he would 
 be content until he won the whole. They would 
 
will's wooing. ^4/ 
 
 ^o to Europe in Autumn, and beneath the sunny 
 skies of Italy she would learn to love him, he knew. 
 "Won't you, Marian?" and in the tone of his voice 
 there was a world of eager, yearning love. 
 
 " I can't ; it is utterly impossible !" was the de- 
 cided answer ; and, without another word, Will 
 Gordon rose and went, with a breaking heart, from 
 the room he had entered so full of hope and pleas- 
 ing anticipations. 
 
 The fire burned just as brightly in the grate at 
 home as it had done the night before ; the gas-light 
 fell as softly on the roses in the carpet, and on his 
 mother's face there was a placid, expectant look as 
 he came in. But it quickly vanished when she saw 
 how pale he was, and how he sunk down into his 
 easy-chair as if he would hide from everyone his 
 pain. There had never been a secret between Mrs. 
 Gordon and her son, for in some respects the man 
 of thirty was as much a child as ever ; and when 
 she said : 
 
 " What is it, William ? Has Marian Grey refused 
 my boy ?" he told her all, and that henceforth the 
 world to him would be a dreary blank. 
 
 It was a terrible disappointment, and as the days 
 wore on, it told upon William's health, until at last 
 his mother sought an interview with Marian Grey, 
 begging her to think again. 
 
 "You can be happy with William," she said, 
 " and I had prepared myself to love you as a 
 daughter. Do, I beseech of you, give me some 
 hope to carry back to my poor boy ?" 
 
 " I cannot — I cannot !" was Marian's reply. 
 
 " Don't you like my William ?" asked Mrs. Gor- 
 don. 
 
 " Yes — very, very much ; but I loved another 
 first." And this was all the satisfaction Marian 
 could give. 
 
 Mrs. Sheldon next tried her powers of persua- 
 sion, pleading for herself, quite as much as for her 
 
248 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 brother, for she loved the young girl dearly, and 
 would gladly have called her sister. But nothing 
 she could say had the least effect, and Ellen deter- 
 mined to see what she could do. She had been 
 very indignant at first, to think a poor teacher 
 should refuse her brother, and something of this 
 spirit manifested itself during her interview with 
 Marian. 
 
 " I am astonished at you," she said ; " for, 
 though we have treated you as our equal, you 
 must know that in point of family you are not, and 
 my brother has done what few young men in his 
 standing would have done. Why, there never was 
 a gentleman in Springfield whom the girls ac- 
 counted a better match than William, unless it 
 were Mr. Raymond from Kentucky, and they only 
 gave him the preference becauses he lives south, 
 and possibly has a wife somewhere. So they 
 could not get him, if they wished to. Now if you 
 were in love with him, and he were not already 
 married, I should not think so strangely of your 
 conduct, for he may be Will's superior in some 
 respects; but I cannot conceive of your refusing 
 him for any common man, such as would be likely 
 to address you." 
 
 Marian did not think it necessary to reply in 
 substance to this long speech, neither did she re- 
 sent Ellen's overbearing manner ; but she answered, 
 as she always did : 
 
 " I would marry your brother, if I could ; but I 
 cannot." 
 
 " Then I trust you will have a pleasant time 
 teaching all your days," said Ellen, as she slammed 
 the door behind her, and went to report her suc- 
 cess. 
 
 All this trouble and excitement wore upon 
 Marian, and after a time she became too ill to leave 
 her room, but kept her bed, sometimes fancying it 
 all a dream — sometimes resolving to tell the people 
 
Will's wootiJG. ±4^ 
 
 who she was, and always regretting the sorrow she 
 had brought to William Gordon. 
 
 One night, toward the last of March, as he sat 
 with his mother in the room where he first told her 
 of his love for Marian Grey, the door-bell rang, and 
 a moment after, to his great surprise, Frederic 
 Raymond walked into the room. William had for- 
 gotten what his friend had said about the possibil- 
 ity of his coming north earlier than usual, and he 
 was so much astonished that for some moments he 
 did not appear like himself. 
 
 "You know I wrote that business might bring 
 me to Albany," said Frederic, "and that if I came 
 so far I should visit you." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I remember now," returned William, 
 the color mounting to his forehead as he recalled 
 the nature of the last letter written to Frederic, 
 who, from his manner, guessed that something was 
 wrong, and forebore questioning him until they 
 retired to their room for the night. 
 
 " Fred," said William, after they had talked 
 awhile on indifferent subjects, " Fred," and Will's 
 feet went up into a chair, for even a man who has 
 been refused feels better, and can tell it better, with 
 his heels a little elevated, " Fred, it's all over with 
 me, and it makes no difference now whether the 
 sun rises in the east or in the west." 
 
 " I suspected as much," returned Frederic, " from 
 your failing to write and from the length of your 
 face. What is the matter ? You didn't coax hard 
 enough, I reckon, and I shall have to undertake it 
 for you. How would you like that ? I dare say I 
 should be more successful," and Frederic's smile 
 was much like that of the Frederic of other days, 
 when he and Will were college friends together. 
 
 " I said everything a man could say, but the chief 
 difficulty is that she don't love me and does love an- 
 other," returned Will, at the same time repeating 
 
i56 MARtAN GRteV. 
 
 to his companion as much of his experience as he 
 thought proper. 
 
 "A discouraging beginning, I confess," said Fred- 
 eric ; " but perhaps she will relent." 
 
 " No, she won't," returned Will ; " she is just as 
 decided now as she was that night. I have ex- 
 hausted all my persuasion ; mother has coaxed, so 
 has Mary, so has Nell, and all to no purpose. 
 Marian Grey can never be my wife. If it were not 
 for this other love, though, I would not give it up." 
 
 " Who is the favored one ?" Frederic asked, and 
 his friend replied, " Some rascal, I dare say, for she 
 says it is a hopeless attachment on her part, and 
 that makes it all the worse. Now if I knew the 
 man was worthy of her, I should not feel so badly." 
 
 " I am sorry for you," said Frederic. " We little 
 thought, when we were boys, that we should both 
 be called to bear a heavy burden. Mine came 
 sooner than yours, and it seems to me it is the 
 harder of the two to bear." 
 
 " Fred, you don't know what you are saying. 
 Your grief cannot be as great as mine, for I love 
 Marian Grey as man never loved before, and when 
 she told me ' No,' and I knew she meant it, I felt 
 as if she were tearing out my very heartstrings. 
 You acknowledge that you never loved your wife ; 
 but you married her for — I don't know what you 
 married for — " 
 
 " For MONEY !" And the word dropped slowly 
 from Frederic's lips. 
 
 " For money f" repeated Will. " She had no 
 money. She was a poor orphan, I always thought. 
 Will you tell me what you mean ?" 
 
 " I have never told a living being why I made 
 that girl my wife," said Frederic ; '" but I can trust 
 you, I know, and I have sometimes thought I might 
 feel better if some one shared my .secret. Still, I 
 would rather not explain to you how Marian was 
 the heiress of Redstone Hall, for that concerns the 
 
will's wooing. 2^i 
 
 dead ; but heiress she was, not only of that, but of 
 all the lands and houses said to belong to the Ray- 
 mond estate in Kentucky ; not a cent of it was 
 mine ; and, rather than give it up, I married her 
 without one particle of love — married her, too, 
 when she did not know of her fortune, but supposed 
 herself dependent upon me." 
 
 " Oh, Frederic, I never thought you capable of 
 such an act. I knew you did not love her, but the 
 rest — . It hurts me to think you did it, and that 
 you still live on her money." 
 
 " Hush, Will !" and Frederic bowed his head for 
 shame. " I deserve your censure, I know, but if 
 my sin was great — great has been my punishment. 
 Look at me, Will. I am not the light-hearted man 
 you parted with six years ago upon the college 
 green ; for, since that dreadful night when I first 
 knew Marian had fled, and I thought she was in the 
 river, I have not had a single moment of perfect 
 peace or freedom from remorse. I have not spent 
 more of her money either than I could help. Bad 
 as I am, I shrink from that. Redstone Hall grew 
 hateful to me — it was haunted with so many bitter 
 memories of her, and was, besides, the place where 
 I sinned against her a second time by daring to 
 think of Isabel." 
 
 " Fred Raymond !" and in his indignation. Will's 
 feet came down from the chair, " you did not aggra- 
 vate your guilt by talking of love to ker f" 
 
 " No, I did not, though Heaven only knows the 
 fierce struggle it cost me to see her every day, and 
 know I must not say one word to her of love. I 
 left Redstone Hall at last, as you know. Left it 
 because it was Marian's, and Riverside was my 
 father's, before Marian came to us ; so it did not 
 seem quite so much like spending her money, for I 
 did try to be a man and earn my own living. They 
 did not get on well without me in Kentucky. They 
 
252 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 needed me there a part of the time, at least ; and 
 when, at last, I began to feel differently toward 
 Marian, I felt less delicacy about her fortune, and 
 I have spent my winters at Redstone Hall, where 
 the negroes and the neighbors around all suppose 
 Marian dead, for I have never told them that she 
 was with me in New York. Isabel knows it, but for 
 some reason she has kept it to herself ; and I am 
 glad, for I would rather people should not talk of 
 it until she is really found. I have sought for her 
 so long and unsuccessfully that I'm growing dis- 
 couraged now." 
 
 " If you knew that she was dead, would you 
 marry Isabel ?" asked Will ; and Frederic replied, 
 
 " Never!" 
 
 Then, he told how the little blind girl had stood 
 between him and temptation, holding up his hands 
 when tliey were weakest, and keeping his feet from 
 falling. " But that desire is over. I can look 
 Isabel Huntington in the face, and experience no 
 sensation save that of relief to think I have 
 escaped her. With the legacy left her by Mr. 
 Rivers, and the little means her mother had, she 
 has bought a small house near Riverside ; so I shall 
 have them for neighbors every Summer. But I do 
 not care. I have no love now for Isabel. It died 
 out when I was sick, and centered itself upon the 
 girl, who, I know, was Marian, though I cannot find 
 her. If I could. Will, I'd willingly part with every 
 cent of money I call mine, and work for my daily 
 bread. Labor would not seem a hardship, if I 
 knew that when my toil was done, there was a wife 
 waiting for me at home — a wife like what I hope 
 my Marian is, and like what your Marian Grey 
 may be." 
 
 " Not mine, Frederic. There is no Marian for 
 me," said Will. 
 
 *' Nor for me, perhaps," was the sad response, 
 
THE BIRTHDAY. 253 
 
 and in the dim firelight, the two mournful faces 
 looked at each other, as if asking the sympathy 
 neither had to give. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 THE BIRTHDAY. 
 
 The next morning, as the young men were mak- 
 ing their toilet, Frederic said to Will : 
 
 ■' This is Marian's twentieth birthday." 
 
 " Is it possible ?" returned Will. " It seems but 
 yesterday since I saw her, a little girl with long 
 curls streaming down her back. I liked her very 
 much, she seemed so kind, so considerate of every 
 one's comfort ; and I remember telling you once 
 that she would be a handsome woman, while you 
 said — ' Never, with that hair !' " 
 
 " Neither can she," rejoined Frederic. " She 
 may be rather pretty, but I still insist that a 
 woman with red hair cannot be handsome." 
 
 "Tastes differ," returned Will. "Now, I'll 
 venture to say Miss Grey's hair was red when she 
 was a child. It is not very far from it now, in the 
 sunlight ; and everybody speaks of her hair as her 
 crowning beauty." 
 
 " I wish I could see her," said Frederic ; " for, as 
 she will not be your wife, I suppose she will be 
 Alice's governess. And it is quite proper that I 
 should have an interview with her, and talk the 
 matter over. Will you call with me this even- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Certainly," returned Will ; " for, though it will 
 afford me more pain than pleasure to meet her, I 
 will not be so foolish as to avoid her," 
 
254 MARIAN GREY, 
 
 Breakfast being over, the young men started for 
 a walk down town, going by Mrs. Sheldon's house, 
 of course, although it was entirely out of their way. 
 But neither thought of this, and they passed it on 
 the opposite side of the street ; so that Will could 
 point out Marian's room to Frederic. 
 
 " That's it," he said—" the one with the blinds 
 thrown open. There she has often sat, I suppose, 
 thinking of the villain who stands between me and 
 happiness. The rascal ! I tell you, Fred, I wish I 
 had him as near to me as you are !" and Will Gor- 
 don fancied how, in such a case, he would treat a 
 man who did not love Marian Grey ! 
 
 It was at this moment that Mrs. Sheldon entered 
 Marian's room, and advancing toward the window, 
 looked down the street. Catching a view of her 
 brother and his friend, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Frederic Raymond ! I wonder when he came ?" 
 
 " What ? Where ?" Marian asked, quickly, at 
 the same time raising herself upon her elbow and 
 looking in the direction Frederic had gone. 
 
 " Mr. Raymond, Will's friend from Kentucky," 
 returned Mrs. Sheldon. " He must have come last 
 night ?" and as little Fred just then called to her 
 from without, she left the room. 
 
 When she was alone, Marian buried her face in 
 the bed-clothes, and murmured : 
 
 " Oh, if I could only see him ! I long to test his 
 power of recognition, and see if he would know me.. 
 I hope he will call here." 
 
 She was greatly excited, and the excitement 
 brought on a severe headache, which rendered it 
 impossible for her to leave the room, even if he 
 came. This Mrs. Sheldon lamented, for she had 
 invited the young men to tea, and while accepting 
 her invitation. Will had asked if Miss Grey would not 
 be able to spend a part of the evening with them." 
 
 " She is to be Fred's governess, you know," he 
 
THE BIRTHDAY. 
 
 255 
 
 said, " and he naturally wishes to make her ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 This request Mrs. Sheldon took to Marian, who 
 asked, if " to-morrow would not do as well?" 
 
 " It might," returned Mrs. Sheldon, "were it not 
 that he leaves on the early train." 
 
 Turning upon her pillow, Marian tried to sleep, 
 hoping to lose the pain in her head — but it would 
 not be lost ; and when, as it was growing dark, she 
 heard the sound of voices in the parlor, which was 
 directly beneath her room, and knew Frederic was 
 there, she covered her face with her hands and 
 wept aloud to think she should not see him. 
 
 After tea was over and she did not appear, Mr. 
 Raymond spoke of her, asking if he should not 
 have the pleasure of seeing her. 
 
 " She is suffering from a nervous headache," Mrs. 
 Sheldon said, " and cannot come down, for which 
 I am very sorry, as I wished you to hear her 
 play." After a moment she continued: "There 
 had been something said, I believe, about her going 
 to you next September, but I warn you now that 
 I shall use every possible effort to keep her. We 
 sail for Europe in August, and she will be of invalu- 
 able service to me then, as she speaks French and 
 German so readily. The tour, too, will do her 
 good, and you must not be surprised to hear that 
 shq, cannot come to Riverside." 
 
 >Mr. Raymond was too polite to oppose Mrs. 
 Sheldon openly, but he had become too deeply in- 
 'terested in Marian Grey to give her up without a 
 struggle, and when alone again with Will, in the 
 chamber of the latter, he broached the subject, ask- 
 ing his companion if he thought there was any pro- 
 bability of Miss Grey's disappointing him. 
 
 " I mean to write her a note," he said, and sitting 
 down by Will's writing desk he took up a sheet of 
 paper and commenced, " My dear Marian." 
 *' Psh^w !" J;e ej{;glainied, " wji^t am I thipking 
 
256 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 about?" and tearing up the sheet he threw it into 
 the grate and commenced again, addressing her 
 this time as " Miss Grey." 
 
 He considered her services engaged to liimself, 
 he said, and should expect her in Riverside early 
 in September. She could come sooner if she liked, 
 for Mrs. Jones was to leave the first of August. 
 
 "That European trip may tempt her," he thought, 
 and he added, "I am glad to learn from Mrs. Shel- 
 don that you are such a proficient in German and 
 French, for I have serious thoughts of visiting the 
 Old World myself before long, and as Alice, of 
 course, w^ill go with me, we shall prize your com- 
 pany all the more on account of these accomplish- 
 ments." 
 
 This note he intrusted to Will, who gave the note 
 to Marian the first time that he met her, after she 
 was well enough to come down stairs as usual. 
 
 " It is from Mr. Raymond," he said, and Marian's 
 face was scarlet as she took it and looked at him 
 to see if he knew her secret. 
 
 But he did not, and with spirits which began to 
 ebb she broke the seal and read the few brief lines, 
 half smiling as she thought how very formal and 
 business-like they were. But it was Frederic's 
 handwriting, and when sure Will did not see her 
 she pressed it to her lips. 
 
 "What you do that for?" asked Httle Fred, 
 whose sharp eyes saw everything not intended for 
 them to see. * 
 
 " Sh-sh," said Marian ; but the child persisted.; 
 " Say, what you tiss that letter for ?" 
 
 Will Gordon was standing with his back to her, 
 but at this question he turned quickly and looked 
 at her. 
 
 " There's something there," she said, passing the 
 note again over her lips as if she would brqsh th§ 
 " something " away. 
 
MARIAN RAYMOND. 25/ 
 
 This explanation was satisfactory to Fred, who 
 asked, " Did you get it ?" 
 
 But Will was not quite certain, and for several 
 days he puzzled his brain with wondering whether 
 " Marian Grey really did kiss Frederic Raymond's 
 note or not." If so, why did she .? She could not 
 be in love with a man she had never seen. She 
 was not weak enough for that, and at last rejecting 
 it as an impossibility, and accepting the trouble- 
 some " something " as a reality, his mind became 
 at rest upon that subject. 
 
 ..« •<» 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 MARIAN ItAYMOND. 
 
 Spring passed rapidly 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 gov- 
 erness. Miss Grey. 
 
 " She showed me your chamber," he said, " 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 woyld wa.nt tP be neaf 
 
2S8 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 to each other. 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 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." 
 
 Isabel's curtains having been discussed, and her- 
 self 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. Shel- 
 don'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, 
 
MARIAN RAYMOND. 259 
 
 until at last, unable longer to remain where she 
 was, and know she could never be his, he went 
 from home and did not return again until near the 
 middle of August, when he found Mrs. Sheldon's 
 house in a state of great confusion. 
 
 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 anx- 
 iously expected 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. 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 moth- 
 er's house. Both Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon had urged 
 him to accompany them, and he had made arrange- 
 ments to do so, in case he found Marian still firm 
 in her refusal. T^ey 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 would 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 
 
26o MARIAN GREY 
 
 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." 
 
 Accordingly, next morning, when Marian came 
 down, she was surprised to hear of Will's intended 
 departure. 
 
 Breakfast being over, there remained to him 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 farewell to Marian. She was in the 
 back parlor, his mother said, and there he found 
 her crying. 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 crying ?" Will said, 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 Marian, he whis- 
 pered : " Do you like me, then ?" 
 
 "Yes, very, very much," she answered, "and 
 now that you are going away, and I may never see 
 
MARIAN RAYMOND. 261 
 
 you again, I am so sorry I ever caused you a mo- 
 ment's pain." 
 
 " I needn't go, Marian," Will said, drawing her 
 close to him. " I will stay, so gladly, if you bid 
 me do so. But it must be for you. Shall I Ma- 
 rian ? Shall I stay ?" 
 
 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 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 years ?" 
 
 There was some insuperable barrier between 
 them, and Will Gordon felt it, as he answered : 
 " Whatsoever you intrust to me shall not be be- 
 trayed." 
 
 "Then, listen," she said. " I told you I was not 
 what I seemed, and I am not. People call me 
 young, but to myself I seem old, I have suffered so 
 much. I told you 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, is my own husband l" 
 
 " Oh, 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 words, 
 " my own husband." 
 
 "Do not despise me for deceiving you," Marian 
 continued. " If I had thought you could have 
 seen anything to desire in me, I might, perhaps, 
 have warned you in time, though how could I tell 
 you, that I was an unloved wife?" 
 
 " Where is he— that man ?" Will asked, for he 
 could not say "your husband." 
 
 Marian's confession was a death-blow to all he 
 had dared to hope, and he asked for the husband 
 
262 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 more as a matter of form than because he really 
 cared to know. 
 
 " Mr. Gordon," Marian said, rising to her feet, 
 and standing with her face turned fully towards 
 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 ?" 
 
 " Never to my knowledge," he answered. 
 
 " Look again. Is not my face a familiar one ? 
 Did you never see it before ? Not here — not in 
 New England — but far away. Is there not some- 
 thing in my person, or my voice, which carries you 
 back to an old house on the river where you once 
 met a little red-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, 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 
 towards her had changed in the great shock with 
 which he recognized her. She could never be his 
 he knew, neither did he desire it. And for a mo- 
 ment 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." 
 
 Involuntarily, Will Gordon, too, responded to 
 
MARIAN RAYMOND. i^^ 
 
 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 gener- 
 ous Ben. 
 
 " Marian," he said again, " you must go to your 
 husband. He is waiting for you. He has sought 
 for you long ; he has expiated his sin. Go, Ma- 
 rian, go " 
 
 " I am going," she answered, " and if I only knew 
 he really wanted me " 
 
 " 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 di- 
 vulge it myself," she added. 
 
 He nodded in the affirmative, and was soon on 
 his way to the station, 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. 
 
 He wished he might 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 fa- 
 mihar, said, " Wall, captain, bein' we're so full, I 
 guess you'll have to make room for me." 
 
 " 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 
 
264 MARIAJt GR£y. 
 
 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 before they 
 reached New York, he had heard the whole story 
 — how Ben had stumbled upon her in New York, 
 and taken her to his home without knowing any- 
 thing of her, except that she was friendless and 
 alone — how the mother had cared for the orphan 
 girl, and how Ben, had done for her what he could. 
 
 " 'Twan't much any way," 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 
 
MAktAN kA-S^MOKlJ. ^jj 
 
 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 he should be glad when the time 
 came for him to be called that again. 
 
 "When will that be?" Will asked, and Ben replied 
 by unfolding to him his long cherished plan of hav- 
 ing 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 j/ou could. Mabby you did." And Ben looked 
 quizzically at his companion, who colored as he re- 
 plied 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 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 fidgetted 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 §,n angel," he managed at last 
 to say, adding, as he met the inquiring glance of 
 Will : " It's my misfortin' to be uncommon 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 
 
'26& MARIAN GRfiir. 
 
 tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped from the 
 end of his nose. 
 
 " He, too," sighed Will, and as he thought how 
 much more the uncouth man beside him had done 
 for Marian 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 get- 
 tin' 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 'tain't 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 ?" Ben thought. " Nobody 
 writes to me but Marian, and I ain't expectin' no- 
 thin' from her, but I guess I may as well go." 
 
 Accordingly, the next night, when Will Gordon 
 was looking out upon the sea, Ben went to the of- 
 fice, 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 : 
 
MARIAN RAYMOND. ^6;; 
 
 "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. 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 have 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 tain 't 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 satisfac- 
 torily why it had been sent. 
 
 " S'posin' he was grateful," he said, " he needn't 
 give me three hundred dollars for nothin', but be- 
 
S6g MARIAN GREY. 
 
 in' he has, I may as well use it to start in busine&s, 
 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 William Gor- 
 don, or bearer, the sum of three hundred dollars 
 with use from date. 
 
 "Benjamin Burt." 
 
 This note he put 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 re- 
 gretting that she had told her secret to William, 
 and greatly lamenting that she had been inter- 
 rupted before 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 before: 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 before she should see him face to 
 face, for she was going to Riverside very soon. 
 Some acquaintances of hers were going west by 
 way of New York, and she decided to accompany 
 them, though by doing so she would reach River- 
 side 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 start- 
 ing she was ready, 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. 
 
MARIAN RAYMOND. 269 
 
 " I am sftrry to leave you," Marian said, when the 
 last moment came, " but I am glad I am going. 
 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 her old house, 
 where strangers were living now. She did not care 
 to go in, and she passed slowly down the other side 
 of the street, thinking of all that had passed since 
 the night when she first climbed those 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 certainty of meeting Fred- 
 eric to-morrow. It seemed a great while to wait, 
 and as Ben had once counted 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 Hotel went to her room, tell- 
 ing her friends that she was tired and must 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 under such 
 excitement. Before long it was four hours more, 
 then three, then two, then one, and then the cars 
 stopped at the station at Yonkers. 
 
 " To Riverside," she said, when asked where she 
 
270 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 wished to go, and in a few moments she was com- 
 fortably seated in the lumbering stage, which once 
 before had carried her up that long hill. Very 
 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 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 gover- 
 ness," 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 
 shawl and overshoes this hot day. Her bonnet is 
 pretty. On the whole, she's quite genteel for a 
 governess," and Isabel walked on while Marian 
 went up the 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 ap- 
 peared, and about the house there was no sign of 
 life. The door was shut, and after the driver had 
 placed her trunks upon the piazza and gone, Marian 
 stood ringing the bell. The loud, sharp ring made 
 her heart beat violently, and when she heard a 
 heavy tread, not unhke a man's, coming up the 
 basement stairs, she thought, " What if it is Fred- 
 eric himself ? What shall I say ?" 
 
 " It is Frederic," she continued, as the step came 
 
MARIAN RAYMOND. 2^1 
 
 nearer, and she was wishing she could run away and 
 hide, when the door was opened by Mrs. Russell, 
 who was cook and housekeeper both, and she looked 
 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 
 curtesy. " We wan't expectin' you till to-morrow ; 
 but walk in, and make yourself at home. 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. 
 
 "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, I warn't ex- 
 pecting 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 un- 
 easiness was divulged. 
 
 In the absence of Frederic and Alice, she had 
 counted upon a day of leisure, which Marian's ar- 
 rival 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 I'll get you 
 something, and now you go up stairs to your room, 
 the one at.the right hand, with the white furniture. 
 Yes, that's the door — right there ;" and Mrs. Rus- 
 sell went back to the making of her dress, while 
 Marian entered her chamber, feeling rather disap- 
 pointed i^t the absence of both Alice and Frederic, 
 
272 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 FREDERIC AND ALICE VISIT MARIAN'S OLD HOME. 
 
 " Frederic," Alice had said, about six weeks 
 befoi-e Marian's arrival at Riverside, " who hired 
 Mrs. Merton to take care of you when you were 
 sick at the hotel?" 
 
 " The proprietor, I suppose," returned Frederic, 
 and Alice continued : 
 
 " But who told him of her ?" 
 
 " I don't know," Frederic said. " She was from 
 the country, I believe." 
 
 " Yes," returned Alice ; " but some person must 
 have recommended her, and if you can ascertain 
 who that person was, you may find Mrs. Merton, 
 and learn something of Marian." 
 
 "I wonder I never thought of that before," said 
 Frederic, adding, that if Alice had her sight he be- 
 lieved she would have discovered Marian before 
 this. 
 
 " I know I should," was her answer ; and after a 
 little further conversation, it was decided that Fred- 
 eric should go to New York, and learn, if possible, 
 who first suggested Mrs. Merton as a nurse. 
 
 This was not so easy a matter as he had imagined 
 it to be, for though Frederic himself was well re- 
 membered at the hotel, where he was now a fre- 
 quent guest, scarcely any one could recall Mrs. 
 Merton distinctly, and no one seemed to know how 
 ^he came there, until a servant, who had been in 
 the house a long time, spoke of Martha Gibbs, and 
 then the proprietor suddenly remembered that she 
 had recommended Mrs. Merton as a friend of hers. 
 
 " But who is Martha Gibbs, and where is she 
 now ?" Frederic asked ; and the servant replied 
 that: 
 
FREDERIC AND ALICE VISIT MARIAN'S HOME. 2/3 
 
 " Her home used to be in Woodstock, Conn. ;" 
 and with this item of information Frederic wrote to 
 her friends, inquiring where she was. 
 
 To this letter there came an answer, saying Mrs. 
 
 John Jennings lived in , a small town in the 
 
 interior of Iowa. Accordingly, the next mail west- 
 ward from Yonkers carried a letter to Mrs. Jen- 
 nings, asking where the woman lived who had 
 nursed Mr. Raymond through that dangerous 
 fever. This being done, Frederic and Alice waited 
 impatiently for a reply, which was long in coming, 
 for Mr. Jennings' house was several miles from the 
 post-office, where he seldom called, and it was more 
 than a week before the letter reached him, and then 
 it found him so engrossed in the arrival of a son, 
 that for two or three days longer it lay unopened 
 before he thought to look at it. 
 
 " I don't know what it means, I'm sure," he said, 
 taking it to his wife, who, having never heard of 
 the death of her old friend, replied, " Why, he 
 wants to know where Mrs. Burt lives. Just write 
 
 on a piece of paper : ' East street. No. — , 
 
 third story ; turn to your right ; door at the head 
 of the stairs,' I wonder if he's never been there 
 yet ?" 
 
 John was not an elaborate correspondent, and he 
 simply wrote down his better half's direction, say- 
 ing nothing whatever of Mrs. Burt herself, and thus 
 conveying to Frederic no idea that Merton was not 
 the real name. 
 
 " A letter from Iowa," Frederic said to Alice, as 
 he came in from the ofifice, on the night when Ma- 
 rian was walking past what was once her home. 
 " I have the street and number, and to-morrow I 
 am going there." 
 
 " And I am going, too," Alice cried. " I do 
 wish to-morrow would hurry, and I'm glad Miss 
 Grey is npt goming until the day ^fter. It will be 
 
274 MARIAN GREY. ' 
 
 so nice to have them both here. Do you suppose 
 they'll like each other, Marian and Miss Grey ?" 
 
 " I dare say they will," Frederic returned, smiling 
 at the little girl's enthusiasm, and hoping she might 
 not be disappointed. 
 
 " I wish it would grow dark, faster," she contin- 
 ued, and Frederic, while listening to the many dif- 
 ferent ways she conjured up for them to meet 
 Marian, became almost as impatient as herself for 
 the morrow, when his renewed hopes might, per- 
 haps, be realized. 
 
 The breakfast next morning was hurried through, 
 and Alice and Frederic were soon on their way to 
 New York, where Frederic, who had some business 
 to transact, left Alice at a hotel. 
 
 Returning in an hour, and taking her hand, he 
 led her into the street and entered a Third avenue 
 car. 
 
 " We are on the right track, I think," he said ; 
 " for it was this way she went with the man de- 
 scribed by Sarah Green." 
 
 Alice gave a sigh of relief, and rather enjoyed 
 the pleasant motion of the car, although she wished 
 it would go faster. 
 
 " Won't we ever get there ?" she asked, as they 
 plodded slowly on, stopping often to take in a 
 passenger or set one down. 
 
 " Yes, by and by," said Frederic, encouragingly, 
 " I am not quite certain of the street, myself, but 
 I shall know it when I see the name, of course ;" 
 and he looked anxiously out as they passed along. 
 " Here it is," he cried, at last ; and, seizing Alice's 
 arm, he rather dragged than led her from the car, 
 and out upon the crossing. "Why," he exclaimed, 
 gazing eagerly around him, " I have been here be- 
 fore — down this very street ;" and his eye wan- 
 dered involuntarily in the direction of the window 
 where once the white-fringed curtain hung. 
 
 Jt was gone now, while in its pUce appeared th? 
 
FREDERIC AND ALICE VISIT MARIAN'S HOME. 27$ 
 
 heads of two or three dirty children, looking across 
 the way, and making wry faces at similar dirty 
 children in the window opposite. Frederic saw all 
 this, and it affected him unpleasantly, causing him 
 to feel as if he had parted from some old friend. 
 But where was that ? It must be in this locality ; 
 and he wondered how one accustomed to the 
 luxuries of Redstone Hall could live in this place. 
 
 " I've found it !" he said, as his eyes caught the 
 number ; and now, that he believed himself near to 
 what he had sought so long, he was more impatient 
 than Alice herself. 
 
 He could not wait for her uncertain footsteps, 
 and pale with excitement, he caught her in his 
 arms and hurried up the stairs. The third story 
 was reached, and he stood panting by the door, 
 where Mr. Jennings had said that he must stop. 
 It was open, and the uncarpeted floor, of which he 
 caught a glimpse, looked cheerless and uninviting, 
 but it did not keep him back a moment, and he 
 advanced into the room, which, by the three heads 
 at the window, he knew was the same where the 
 white curtain once had hung, and where now the 
 glaring August sunlight came pouring in, unbroken 
 and unsubdued. 
 
 At the sight of a stranger one of the heads 
 turned toward him, and a little voice said : 
 
 " Ma's out washin', and won't be home till 
 night." 
 
 There was a heavy feeling of disappointment 
 settling round Frederic's heart, for nothing there 
 seemed at all like what he remembered of Mrs. 
 Merton, but he nerved himself to ask : 
 
 " What is your mother's name ?" 
 
 " Bunce, and my pa is in the Tombs," was the 
 reply. 
 
 ■ " How long have you lived here ?" was the next 
 question, a?ked with a colder, heavier he^irt:, 
 
276 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " Next Christmas a year," said the little girl, and 
 catching Frederic's arm, Alice whispered, 
 
 " Do let's go out into the open air," 
 
 With a sigh Frederic turned away, and knocking 
 at other doors, asked for the former occupants of 
 those front rooms. Nearly all the present tenants 
 had moved there since Mrs. Burt's death, and no 
 one knew aught of her save one decent-looking 
 woman, who said " she remembered the folks well, 
 though they held their heads above the likes of 
 her. She'd seen them comin' in and out, and knew 
 they was well to do." 
 
 " Was their name Merton ? and did a young girl 
 live with them?" Frederic asked; and the woman 
 replied : 
 
 " Merton sounds some like it, though I'd sooner 
 say 'twas Burton, or something like that. I never 
 even so much as passed the time of day with 'em, 
 tor I tell you they felt above me ; but the girl was 
 a jewel — so trim and genteel like." 
 
 " That was Marian," Alice whispered ; and Fred- 
 eric continued : 
 
 " Where are they now ?" 
 
 " Bless you," returned the woman. " One on 
 'em is in Heaven, and the Lord only knows where 
 t'other one went to." 
 
 Alice's hand, which lay in Frederic's, was clutched 
 with a painful grasp ; and the perspiration gathered 
 about the young man's lips as he stammered 
 out : 
 
 " Which one is dead ? Not the girl ? You dare 
 not tell me that?" 
 
 " I dare if it was so," returned the woman ; " but 
 'twas the old one — the one I took to be the 
 mother ; though I have heard a story about the 
 girl's comin' here long time ago, before I moved 
 here. I was away when the woman died, and when 
 I got back the rooms was empty, and the boy and 
 
PREt)ERIC AND AUCE VISIT MARlAJsf'S KtOME. 277 
 
 girl was gone ; nobody knows where ; and I hain't 
 seen 'em since." 
 
 Frederic was too much interested in Marian to 
 hear anything else, and he paid no attention to her 
 mention of a boy. Marian was all he wished to 
 find, but it was in vain that he questioned and 
 cross-questioned the woman. She had given all 
 the information she could ; and with an increased 
 feeling of disappointment he left her, glancing once 
 more into the room where he was sure Marian had 
 lived. On the floor a matronly looking cat was 
 lying and, as if recognizing a friend in Alice, it came 
 towards her purring loudly, and rubbing against 
 her side. 
 
 " Lands sake," exclaimed the woman who had 
 followed them. " Here's the cat the young girl 
 used to tend so much. I know it by the white spot 
 between its eyes. She must have give it to some 
 one when she went away, and it wouldn't stay. I 
 found it mewing and making an awful noise by the 
 door when I came back ; and though I ain't none 
 of your cat women, I flung it a bone or two till 
 them folks came, and the children kept it to tor- 
 ment, I 'spect, just as young ones will. I see one 
 of 'em with a string round its neck t'other day a 
 chokin' it most to death." 
 
 " Oh, Frederic," and Alice's face expressed what 
 she wished to say, while she caught up the animal 
 in her arms. 
 
 Frederic understood her, and speaking to the 
 oldest of the ehildren, he said, " Will you give me 
 your cat ?" 
 
 " No, no," the three set up at once, and Alice 
 whispered, " Buy her, Frederic, won't you ?" 
 
 '* Will you let me have her for fifty cents ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " No, no," and the youngest began to cry. 
 
 " Give more," Alice said, and Frederic continued,, 
 
^7& Marian greVj 
 
 " Fifty cents a piece, then. You can biiy a gr^at 
 many cakes and crackers with it " — 
 
 " And candy," suggested Alice. 
 
 The youngest began to show signs of relenting, 
 as did the second, but the third persisted in saying 
 "No." 
 
 " Offer her more," Alice whispered, and glancing 
 around the poorly furnished room, Frederic took 
 out his purse and said, " You shall have a dollar a 
 piece, but part of it must be saved for your mother, 
 — besides that, this httle girl is blind," and he laid 
 his hand on Alice's head. 
 
 This last argument would have been sufiScient 
 without the dollar, for it touched a chord of pity in 
 the heart of the child, and coming closer to Alice 
 she looked at her curiously, saying, " Can't you see 
 a bit more'n I can with my eyes shut ?" and she 
 closed her own by way of experimenting. 
 
 "Not a bit," returned Alice, "but I love kitty 
 just the same, because she used to belong to a dear 
 friend of mine. May I have her ?" 
 
 " Ye-es," came half reluctantly from the child, as 
 she extended her hand for the money. 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad," Alice said, when they were 
 at a safe distance from the house. " I was afraid 
 they'd take it back ; and she held fast the cat, which 
 made no effort to escape, but lay in her arms, sing- 
 ing occasionally, as if well pleased with the ex- 
 change. 
 
 This, however, Frederic knew would not con- 
 tinue until they reached home, and stepping into a 
 shop which they were passing, he bought a covered 
 basket, in which the cat was placed, and the lid 
 secured, a proceeding not altogether satisfactory 
 to the prisoner. Alice, too, was equally distressed, 
 and when she learned that Frederic could not go 
 home until night, she insisted upon his getting her 
 a room at the hotel, where she could let her treas- 
 ure out without fear of its escaping. Frederic 
 
ffefibEkiC AND ALICE VISIT MARIAN'S HOME. 2^§ 
 
 complied with her request, and in her delight with 
 her new pet, she half forgot how disappointed she 
 had been in the result of their visit. But Frederic 
 felt it keenly, for never had his hopes of finding 
 Marian been raised to a higher pitch than that 
 morning, and even now he could not give her up. 
 Leaving Alice at the hotel he went back again to 
 the street, and made the most minute inquiries, but 
 all to no purpose. He could not obtain the least 
 elue to her, and he retraced his steps with a feel- 
 ing that she was as really lost to him as if Sarah 
 Green's letter had been true. 
 
 " Why had that letter been written ?" he asked 
 himself again and again. 
 
 Somebody knew of Marian, and there was a 
 mystery connected with it — a mystery of wrong, it 
 might be. Perhaps she could not come back, even 
 though she wanted to, and his pulses quickened as 
 he thought of all the imaginary terrors which 
 might surround her. It was a sad reflection, and 
 his spirits were unusually depressed, when just 
 before sunset he took Alice by one hand, and the 
 basket in the other, and started for home. 
 
 " I didn't think we should come back alone," 
 Alice said, when at last they reached the station at 
 Yonkers, and she was lifted into the carriage wait- 
 ing for them. " It's dreadful we couldn't find her, 
 but I am so glad we've got the cat ;" and she 
 guarded the basket as carefully as if it had con- 
 tained the diamonds of India. 
 
 Frederic did not care to talk, but he leaned 
 moodily back in his carriage, evincing no interest 
 in anything until as they drew near home, the 
 driver said to Alice : 
 
 " Guess who's come ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know — Dinah may be," was Alice's 
 reply, and then Frederic smiled at the preposter- 
 ous idea. 
 
58o MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " No ; guess again," said the driver. " Some- 
 body as handsome as a doll." 
 
 " Miss Grey !" cried Alice, almost upsetting her 
 basket in her dehght. " I'm so glad, though I was 
 going to fix her room so nice to-morrow. How 
 lonesome she must have been all day with nothing 
 but the garden, the books, and the piano." 
 
 " She has been homesick," John said, " for I seen 
 her cryin', I thought, under a tree in the garden." 
 
 " Poor thing !" Alice said. " She won't be home- 
 sick any more when we get there ; I wonder if she 
 likes cats !" And as by this time they had stopped 
 at the gate, the little girl went running up the walk, 
 shaking the basket prodigiously and inciting its 
 contents to such violent struggles that in the hall 
 the lid came off, and bounding from its confine- 
 ment, the cat ran into the parlor, where, trembhng 
 with fright, it crouched as for protection at Marian's 
 feet. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 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 went to 
 her chamber to compose herself for the dreaded 
 trial which each moment came nearer and nearer. 
 
 " Will Frederic know me ?" she asked herself a 
 
tHE Meeting. 281 
 
 dozen times, and as often answered no — ^^but 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 fin- 
 gers, 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 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 but 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, and as she saw in the mir- 
 ror the reflection of herself 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 beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 The gas was lighted when she entered tlie parlor, 
 and turning it down a little, she took a book and 
 seated herself 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 tremen- 
 dous effort of the will she quieted the violent throb- 
 bings of her heart, and leaning on her elbow, pre- 
 tended to be reading, though not a sound escaped 
 her ear. She heard the little feet come running up 
 the walk, and the heavy 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 
 
282( MARIAN GREV. 
 
 there was something familiar in that spot betweeil 
 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 into 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 mo- 
 ment, and then starting to meet Miss Grey. 
 
 She knew he was coming, and pushing the cat 
 from her lap, half rose to her feet, waiting for the 
 first words of greeting. 
 
 " Miss Grey, I believe ;" and 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 her form. 
 
 Had her very life depended upon it she could not 
 have spoken then, for the 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 him. For an 
 instant he held it and looked into her face, which 
 did not seem wholly unfamiliar to him, while she 
 herself seemed more like a friend than a total 
 stranger, and when at last she spoke, assuring him 
 that she had nor been lonely in the least, he started, 
 for there was something in the tone which carried 
 him back to Redstone Hall, when he had played 
 
-^He meeting. 383 
 
 with his dusky companions upon the river brink. 
 But Marian Lindsey had no portion of his thoughts 
 at that first interview with Marian Grey. 
 
 Motioning her to a chair, he sat down at a httle 
 distance and conversed with her pleasantly, asking 
 about her journey, making inquiries after Mrs. 
 Sheldon's family, and experiencing a most unac- 
 countable 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 sent the hot blood from her cheek and lip. 
 In the hall and where Frederic could not see her, 
 Alice stood, her hands clasped and slightly raised, 
 her lips apart, her head bent forward, and her ear 
 turned toward the door. She had started for the 
 parlor and come thus far, when she, too, caught the 
 tone which had affected 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 ? She 
 waited to hear the sound repeated, wondering why 
 Miss Grey did not join in the conversation. It 
 came again, and a shade of disappointment flitted 
 over the face of the child, for this time it did not 
 seem quite so natural as at first, and she knew, too, 
 that it was Miss Grey who spoke, for her subject 
 was Ben Butterworth. 
 
 " What is it ?" Frederic asked, observing that 
 Miss Grey stopped suddenly in the midst of a re- 
 mark. 
 
 Marian pointed toward the spot where Alice 
 stood, but before Frederic had time to step forward, 
 the loud ring of the bell started Alice from her list- 
 ening attitude. 
 
 " The little girl, she acts so singular," said Ma- 
 rian, thinking she must make some explanation. 
 
 " She's bHnd, you know," Frederic answered in a 
 low tone, and going into the hall, he met Alice, just- 
 
284 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 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 could hear the beating of her heart, while 
 she watched the wonder and perplexity in the eyes 
 riveted upon her, as if for once they had broken 
 from their prison walls and could discern what was 
 before them. 
 
 Alice was now nearly thirteen, but her figure was 
 so slight, and her features so child-like, that few 
 would have guessed her more than nine, unless they 
 judged by her mature, womanly mind. To Marian 
 she seemed unchanged ; and unable to restrain her- 
 self, she drew the child to her, and kissing her fore- 
 head, 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 relafted to Mr. Raymond ?" 
 Marian asked, 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 con- 
 tinued : " 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 her head, where it lay very 
 lightly, though to Marian it seemed like the weight 
 of a thousand pounds, and she felt every hair priqkle 
 at its root when the bhnd 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. 
 
THE MEETING. 285 
 
 There was a quivering of the lids, and the tears 
 rolled down Alice's cheeks, for with this calm re- 
 ply, uttered so naturally, the hope she had scarcely 
 dared to cherish passed away, and she said sadly : 
 
 " It cannot be her." 
 
 " What makes you cry, darling ?" Marian asked, 
 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 cried 
 over her 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," Alice returned, adding immediately : " May 
 I feel of your face ? It's the only way I have of 
 seeing." 
 
 " Certainly," Marian answered ; and the fingers 
 wandered slowly over every feature, but lingering 
 longest on the hair. 
 
 " What color is it ?" she asked, winding one of 
 the curls around her finger. 
 
 " Some call it auburn, some chestnut, and some 
 a mixture of both," was the reply, and Alice con- 
 tinued 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 remem- 
 bered were longer and far more wiry than the silken 
 tresses of Miss Grey. 
 
 " How tall are you ?" she asked, and Marian tried 
 to laugh, although every nerve was thrilling with 
 fear, for she knew she was passing through a dan- 
 gerous test. 
 
 " Rather tall," she repHed, standing up. " Yes, 
 very tall, some would say. Put up your hand and 
 
286 MARIAN GREY, 
 
 Alice did as she requested, and her tears came 
 faster as she whispered : " You're the tallest." 
 
 " Did you think we had met before ?" Marian 
 asked, and then the sobs of the child burst forth 
 unrestrained. 
 
 Burying her face in Marian's lap, Alice cried, " 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 nat- 
 ural, that I knew most she was here, but you ain't 
 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 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 say- 
 ing : " Did you love this other one so very much ?" 
 
 " Yes, very, very much," was Alice's reply, " and 
 it hurts me to think we cannot find her. I thought 
 we surely should to-day, for we went there, Fred- 
 eric and I — went where she used to live, and she 
 wasn't there. It was a dreary place, and Frederic 
 groaned out loud to think she ever lived there, but 
 we got her cat." 
 
 " 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 dinner was ready. 
 
 " Mrs. Jones used to sit here ; and I now give 
 the place to you," Frederic said, motioning to the 
 seat at one end of the table and himself sitting 
 down opposite, with Alice upon his right. 
 
 Jfl^rian became her new position well, and sQ 
 
THE MEETING. 287 
 
 Frederic thought as he watched her. He could not 
 forbear looking at her, even though he saw that it 
 embarrassed her — for she was so fresh, so fair, so 
 modest — while there was about her an indescribable 
 something which he could not define. 
 
 Involuntarily his mind went back to Redstone 
 Hall, when another Marian sat opposite and did for 
 him the ofifice 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, it is true, but Marian Lindsey 
 was my wife." 
 
 Dinner being over, Marian went, at Alice's re- 
 quest, 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," Marian said, 
 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," Miss Grey said, 
 " only Marian will sound oddly. Suppose you call 
 her ' Spottie,' there's a cunning white spot between 
 her 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 watch- 
 ing them, as, like two children, they knelt together 
 by the candle-box and gave the cat its milk — Ma- 
 rian 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 define the reason. The 
 tall, beautiful girl before him bore no resemblance 
 to the Marian of Redstone Hall, and still nothing 
 phe did seemed strange or new to him. 
 
 " J certainly have dre^nje^ of her," ^e said, wh§n, 
 
288 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 lifting up her head she smiled on Ah'ce as she used 
 to do. " I have dreamed of her just as I some- 
 times dream of places, and see them afterwards in 
 waking." 
 
 This conclusion was entirely satisfactory, and he 
 returned with the girls to the parlor, while " Spot- 
 tie " followed after, hovering near Marian, whose 
 low spoken words and gentle caresses had reawak- 
 ened the affection which had perhaps been dormant 
 during the last years. 
 
 " Will you play for us. Miss Grey ?" Frederic 
 said, 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, admiring the beautiful 
 hands which swept the keys so skillfully. 
 
 The evening passed delightfully, and when at a 
 late hour Marian 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. 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 nes- 
 tled 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 
 t?^Jieve that you was Marian — our Marian, I qjeftt) 
 
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE. 289 
 
 — and I want to sleep with you so much, just as I 
 used to do with her — may I ?" 
 
 " Yes, darhng," was the answer, as Marian folded 
 her arms lovingly around the neck of the blind girl, 
 whose 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 of the Marian come back to her again, 
 and the other, that to her the gates of Paradise 
 were opening, 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 LIFE AT RIVERSIDE. 
 
 It was a joyful waking which came to Marian 
 next morning, and when, fresh and glowing from 
 her invigorating bath, she descended to the piazza, 
 she was surprised at finding Frederic there before 
 her, looking haggard and pale, as if the boon of 
 sleep had been denied to him. After Marian and 
 Alice had bidden him good-night, he, too, had re- 
 tired to his room, which was directly under theirs ; 
 and sitting in his arm-chair, he had listened to the 
 footsteps above, readily distingishing one from the 
 other, and experiencing unconsciously a delicious 
 feeling of comfort in knowing that the long-talked- 
 of Marian Grey had come to him at last, and that 
 she was even more beautiful than he had imagined 
 her to be from Will Gordon's desqription, He; 
 
290 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 would keep her with him, too, he said, until the 
 other one was found, if that should ever be ; and 
 then, as the footsteps and the murmur of voices in 
 the chamber above him ceased, and all about the 
 house was still, his heart went out after the other 
 one, demanding of the solitude around to show him 
 where she was ; to lead him to her so that he could 
 bring her back to the home where each day he was 
 wanting her more and more. And the solitude 
 thus questioned invariably carried his thonghts to 
 Marian Grey, whose girlish beauty had made so 
 strong an impression upon his mind. " How would 
 the two compare ?" he asked. " Would not the 
 governess far outshine the wife ? Would not the 
 contrast be a painful one ?" 
 
 " No, no," he said ; "for though Marian Lindsay 
 is not so beautiful as Marian Grey, she was gentle, 
 pure and good." And then, as he sought his pillow, 
 he went back again in fancy to that feverish sick- 
 room and the tender care which alone had saved 
 him from death ; while mingled with this remem- 
 brance were confused thoughts of Marian Grey, 
 who seemed a part of everything — for turn which 
 way he would, her eyes were sure to shine upon 
 him ; and once, when, for a few moments, he fell 
 into a troubled sleep, she said to him, " I am the 
 Marian you seek." 
 
 Then this vision faded, and he saw a little grave, 
 on whose humble stone was written, " The Heiress 
 of Redstone Hall," and with a nervous start he 
 woke, only to doze and dream again, until at last 
 he was glad when the dawn came stealing across 
 the misty river, and looked in at his window. The 
 sun was not up when he arose, and going out upon 
 the piazza, tried by walking to gain the rest the 
 night had failed to bring. As he walked, Spottie 
 came purring to his side, rubbing against his feet, 
 and looking into hj§ face as if she would tell him, if 
 
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE. 29 1 
 
 she could, that the lost one had returned, and was 
 safe beneath his roof. 
 
 Frederic could not be said to care particularly for 
 cats,"but there was a charm connected with this one 
 gamboling at his feet, and he did not think it an 
 unmanly act to stoop down and caress it for the 
 sake of her who had often had it in her arms. 
 
 " Can you tell me nothing of your mistress," he 
 said aloud, for he thought himself alone. 
 
 Instantly the cat, whose ear had caught a sound 
 he did not hear, bounded toward the door where 
 Marian Grey was standing. Advancing toward her 
 Frederic said, •' Yon must excuse me. Miss Grey. 
 I am not often guilty of petting cats, but this 
 one has a peculiar attraction for me, inasmuch as 
 it once belonged to — to — Mrs. Raymond," and 
 Frederic felt vastly relieved to think he had actu- 
 ally spoken of his wife to Marian Grey, and called 
 her Mrs. Raymond. He knew Will Gordon had told 
 her the story, and when he saw how the color came 
 and went upon her cheek, he fancied that it arose 
 from the delicacy she would naturally feel in talk- 
 ing with him of his runaway wife. He was glad he 
 had introduced the subject, and she could continue 
 it or not, as she chose. Marian hardly knew how 
 to reply, for though she longed to hear what he 
 had to say of Mrs. Raymond, she scarcely dared 
 trust herself to question him. 
 
 At last, however, she ventured to say, " Yes, 
 Alice told me that it was once your wife's. She is 
 dead, isn't she ?" 
 
 Frederic started, and walking off a few paces, 
 repHed, " Marian dead ! not that I know of ! Did 
 you ever hear that she was?" and he came back 
 to Marian, looking at her so earnestly that she 
 colored as she repHed : 
 
 " Mr. Gordon told me something of her ; and I 
 had the impression that " 
 
 She did not know how to finish the sentence, 
 
292 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 and she was glad to hear an uncertain step upon 
 the stairs, as that was an excuse for her to break 
 off abruptly, and go to Alice, who had come down 
 in quest of her, expressing much surprise that she 
 should rise so early and dress so quietly. 
 
 "Mrs. Jones used to make such a noise coughing 
 and sneezing," she said, " that she always woke 
 me, while Isabel never got up till breakfast was 
 ready, and sometimes not then, when we were in 
 Kentucky. Negroes were made to wait on her, 
 she said. She'll be coming over here to call and 
 see how you look. I heard her asking Mrs. Rus- 
 sell last week if you were pretty, and she said " 
 
 " Never mind what she said," suggested Marian, 
 adding laughingly, " I have heard of Miss Hunting- 
 ton before. Will Gordon told me of her, and Ben, 
 too. He saw her in Kentucky ; so you see, I am 
 tolerably well posted in your affairs ;" and she 
 turned towards Frederic, who was about to answer, 
 when Alice, who had climbed into a chair, and was 
 standing with her arm around the young man's neck, 
 chimed in : 
 
 " If Mr. Gordon told you that Frederic liked her, 
 it isn't so, for he don't ; do you, Frederic ?" 
 
 " I like all the ladies," was his reply ; and as the 
 breakfast bell just then rang, the conversation 
 ceased, and they entered the house together, Alice 
 holding fast to Marian's hand, and dancing along 
 like a joyous bird. 
 
 "You seem very happy this morning," Frederic 
 said, smiling down upon the happy child. 
 
 "I am," she replied. " I'm most as happy as I 
 should be if we had found Marian yesterday. 
 Wouldn't it be splendid if this were really Marian, 
 and wouldn't you be glad ?" 
 
 Frederic Raymond did not say anything ; but as 
 he looked at the figure in white presiding a second 
 time so gracefully at his table, he fancied that it 
 would not be a hard matter for any man to be 
 
LIFE At RIVERSIDE. 205 
 
 glad If Marian Grey were his wife. Breakfast being 
 over, Alice assumed the responsibiliy of showing 
 her teacher the place. 
 
 "You were here once, I know," she said, "and 
 left me those flowers, but you hadn't time then to 
 see. half. There's a tree down in the garden, where 
 Frederic's name is cut in the bark, and Marian 
 Lindsey's, too. You must see that ;" and she led 
 her off to the spot where John had seen her crying 
 the day before. " I ain't going to study a bit for 
 ever so long. Frederic says I needn't," said Alice. 
 "I'm going to have aright nice time with you." 
 And Marian was not sorry, for nothing could please 
 her better than rambling with Alice over what was 
 once her home. 
 
 Very rapidly the first few days passed away, and 
 before a week had gone by, Marian understood 
 tolerably well the place which Marian Lindsey 
 occupied in her husband's affections, and she 
 needed not the letter received from William Gor- 
 don, to tell her that the Frederic Raymond of to- 
 day was not the same from whose presence She had 
 once fled with a breaking heart. He was greatly 
 changed, and if she had loved him in the early days 
 of her girlhood, her heart clung to him now with 
 an affection tenfold stronger than she had ever 
 known before. From Alice, who was very com- 
 municative, she learned many things of which she 
 little dreamed, when, in New York, she was hiding 
 from her husband, and believing that he hated her. 
 Alice liked nothing better than to talk of Marian, 
 and one afternoon, when Frederic was in New 
 York, and the two girls were sitting together in 
 their pleasant chamber, she told the sad story in 
 her own childish way, accepting her companion's 
 tears, which fell like rain, as tokens of sympathy for 
 the lost one. 
 
 " Frederic cried just like he was a woman," she 
 said, " when he came up from the river, cold, and 
 
294 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 wet, and sick, and told us they could not find her. 
 I remember, too, how he groaned when I asked him 
 what made her kill herself ; she didn't, though," 
 she added quickly, as she heard Marian's exclama- 
 tion of horror at the very idea ; " she wasn't even 
 dead, but we thought she was, and we mourned 
 for her so much. The house was like a funeral all 
 the time till Isabel came." , 
 
 " And how was it then ?" Marian asked. 
 
 Alice did not reply immediately, and as Marian 
 saw the shadow which flitted over her face, she 
 pressed her hands together nervously, for she 
 fancied that she knew what Redstone Hall was 
 like when Isabel, her rival, came. 
 
 " You were telling me about the house after Miss 
 Huntington's arrival," she rejoined, as Alice showed 
 no signs of continuing the conversation, but sat 
 with her eyes fixed upon the floor as if she were 
 thinking of something, far back in the past. 
 
 At Marian's remark she started, and with the 
 same dreamy, perplexed look upon her face, re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Perhaps i ought not to tell ; but you seem so 
 near to me that I don't believe Frederic would 
 care. He's got over it, too, but he loved Isabel," 
 and Alice's voice sank to a wi.lsper, as if afraid the 
 walls would hear. " He loved her a heap better 
 than he did poor dear Marian, who somehow found 
 it out that night, and rather than be his wife when 
 he didn't want her, she ran away, you know." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," Marian gasped, while Alice, 
 continued, " And so when Isabel came, he couldn't 
 help loving her some, I suppose, though Dinah 
 thought he could, and she used to scold mightily 
 when she heard her singing and playing, as she did 
 all the time, so as to get Frederic in there," and 
 Alice's tone and manner were so much like old 
 Dinah, and so highly expressive of her meaning, 
 that Marian could not forbear smiling. " I talked 
 
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE. Hg^ 
 
 to Frederic one night," said Alice, " and told him I 
 didn't believe Marian was dead, and I reckon I 
 made him think so, too, for he promised he would 
 wait for her ten years." 
 
 " Will he marry then, if he does not find her?" 
 Marian asked, by way of calling out the little girl, 
 who replied : 
 
 " I suppose he won't live all his life alone : at 
 any rate, he said he wouldn't. Oh, Miss Grey!" 
 and Alice started so quickly that Marian started, 
 too ; " I'd a heap rather Marian would be his wife 
 than anybody, because he married her first ; but if 
 she don't come back, can't you guess what I wish 
 would be?" and Alice wound her arms around the 
 neck of Marian, who did guess, but could not 
 embody her guessing in words. 
 
 " Did Mr. Raymond never hear from her?" she 
 asked, and resuming her seat, Alice replied : 
 
 "Yes, and that's the mystery. One cold March 
 night when Isabel was dressing for a party, and 
 was just as cross as she could be, there came a let- 
 ter from Sarah Green, saying she was dead and 
 buried with canker-rash." 
 
 " Dead !" Marian exclaimed. " When ? Where ?" 
 
 " In New York," answered Alice ; and Marian 
 listened to the story of her supposed decease, won- 
 dering, as Frederic had often done, whence the 
 letter came, and why it had been sent. 
 
 " It must have been a plan of Ben's to see what 
 he would do," she thought ; and she listened again, 
 with burning cheeks and beating heart, while Alice 
 told of Frederic's grief when he read that she was 
 dead. 
 
 " I know he cried," said Alice, " for there were 
 tears on his face, and he sat so still, and held me so 
 close to him that I could hear his heart thump so 
 hard," and she illustrated by striking her tiny fist 
 upon the table. 
 
 Then she told how some time after she had inter- 
 
29^ itlARIAN GREY. 
 
 rupted Frederic in the parlor, just as he was asking 
 Isabel to be his wife, and had almost convinced him 
 again of Marian's existence. 
 
 " Blessed Alice," said Marian, involuntarily. 
 "You have been Miss Lindsey's good angel, and 
 kept her husband from falling." 
 
 " I couldn't help it," answered Alice. " I knew 
 she was alive ; and I was so glad when he started 
 for New York. I was sure he'd find her ; and he 
 did. There is no doubt about it. She took care 
 of him a few days, and left him when Isabel came. 
 Your brother Ben — the nice man who gave me the 
 bracelet — telegraphed for her to go ; and you would 
 suppose she was crazy — she flew around so, order- 
 ing the negroes, and knocking Dud down flat be- 
 cause he couldn't run fast enough to get out of her 
 way. That made Aunt Hetty, his grandmother, 
 mad, and she yellowed Isabel's collar that she was 
 ironing. If I hadn't been blind I should have cried 
 myself so, those dreadful days when we expected 
 to hear Frederic was dead, for next to Marian I 
 love him the best. He's real good to me ; and 
 when I asked him once what made him pet me so 
 he said : 'Because our dear, lost Marian loved you, 
 and you loved her.' " 
 
 " Did he call her his ' dear, lost Marian ?' " and 
 the eyes of the speaker sparkled with delight, while 
 across her mind there flitted the half-formed reso- 
 lution that before the sun had set, Frederic Ray- 
 mond should know the whole. 
 
 Before Alice could answer this question there 
 was a ring at the door, and a servant brought to 
 Miss Grey Isabel Huntington's card. 
 
 " I knew she'd call," said Ahce. " She wants to 
 see how you look ; but I don't care, for Frederic 
 says you're a heap the handsoinest ; I asked him 
 last night, after you quit playing and had left the 
 room." 
 
 The knowledge that Frederic Raymond preferred 
 
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE, 297 
 
 her face to that of Isabel made Marian far more 
 self-possessad than she would otherwise have been, 
 as she went down to meet her visitor, whose call 
 was prompted from mere curiosity, and not from 
 any friendliness she felt towards Marian Grey. 
 Isabel had heard much of Marian's beauty from 
 those who had met her since her arrival at Riverside, 
 and she had come to see if rumor were correct. 
 During the last three years she had not improved 
 materially, for her disappointment in failing to win 
 Frederic Raymond had soured a disposition never 
 particularly amiable, and she was now a censorious, 
 fault-finding woman of twenty-five, on the lookout 
 for a husband, and trembling lest the dreaded age 
 of thirty should find her still unmarried. For 
 Frederic she affected a feeling of contempt ; insin- 
 uating that he was mean — that his property was 
 not gained honestly ; that she knew something 
 which she could tell but shouldn't — all of which 
 had but little effect in a place where he was so 
 much better known than herself. And still, had 
 Frederic Raymond evinced the slightest interest in 
 her, she would gladly have met him more than half 
 the way, for the love she really felt for him once 
 had never died away. The story of Marian's exist- 
 ence she had repudiated at first, and in the excite- 
 ment of going south, and the incidents connected 
 with her sojourn there, she had failed to speak of it 
 to Mrs. Rivers, choosing rather to make her friends 
 believe that she had dehberately refused the owner 
 of Redstone Hall. Recently, however, and since 
 her arrival at Riverside, she had indirectly circu- 
 lated the story, and Frederic had more than once 
 been questioned as to its authenticity. Greatly to 
 Isabel's chagrin he took no pains to conceal the 
 fact, but frankly sppke of Mrs. Raymond as a per- 
 son who had been, and who, he hoped, was still a 
 living reality. Very narrowly Isabel watched the 
 proceedings at Riverside, and when she heard that 
 
298 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 Alice's new governess was in some way connected 
 with the " gawky peddler " whom she remembered, 
 she sneered at her as a person of no refinement, 
 marvelling greatly at the praises bestowed upon 
 her. At last, curious to see for herself, she donned 
 her richest robes, and now, in the parlor at River- 
 side, sat awaiting the appearance of Miss Grey. 
 
 "Let her be what she will, Frederic can't marry 
 her, and that's some consolation," she thought, just 
 as Marian appeared, and, assuming her haughtiest 
 manner, she arose and bowed to Frederic Ray- 
 mond's wife. 
 
 Coldly, inquisitively, and almost impudently, Isa- 
 bel scrutinized the graceful girl, mentally acknowl- 
 edging that she was beautiful, and hating her for 
 it. With a great effort, Marian concealed her own 
 agitation, and replied politely to the first common- 
 place remarks addressed to her, as to how she liked 
 Riverside, and if this was her first visit there. 
 
 "No," she answered to this last question — "I 
 came here once with Ben, who you remember was 
 at Redstone Hall." 
 
 " I could not well forget him. His odd Yankee 
 ways furnished gossip for many a day among the 
 negroes." And Isabel tossed her head scornfully, 
 as if Ben Burt were a creature far beneath her 
 notice. 
 
 After a little, she spoke of Mr. Raymond, asking 
 Marian, finally, what she thought of him, and say- 
 ing she supposed she knew he was a married man. 
 
 " I know he has been married, but is there any 
 certainty that his wife is still living ?" Marian asked, 
 for the sake of hearing her visitor's remarks. 
 
 " Any certainty ! Of course there is," said Isabel, 
 experiencing at once a pang of jealousy lest the 
 humble Marian Grey had dared to think of Frederic 
 as a widower, and hence a marriageable man. " Of 
 course she's living, though, I must say, he takes no 
 great pains to find her. He did look for her a lit- 
 
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE. 299 
 
 tie, I believe, after he was sick in New York ; but 
 he did it more to divert his mind from a very mor- 
 tifying disappointment than from any affection he 
 felt for her, and it was this which prompted him to 
 go to New York at all." 
 
 " What disappointment ?" Marian asked, and af- 
 fecting to be embarrassed, Isabel replied : 
 
 " It would be unbecoming in me to say what the 
 nature of it was, and I referred to it thoughtlessly. 
 Pray, forget it. Miss Grey;" and she turned the 
 leaves of a handsomely bound volume lying on the 
 table, with well-feigned modesty. 
 
 Marian understood her at once, and was glad 
 that Isabel was too intent upon an engraving to 
 observe her agitation. Notwithstanding what Alice 
 said, Frederic had offered himself to Isabel, and 
 her refusal had sent him to New York, where he 
 hoped to forget his mortification, and where sick- 
 ness had overtaken him. In the kindness of her 
 heart Isabel had come to him, and the words of af- 
 fection which she had heard her speak to Fred- 
 eric were prompted by pity rather than love, as 
 she then supposed. And after Isabel had left him, 
 he had looked for her merely by way of excitement, 
 and not because he cared to find her. Such were 
 the thoughts which flashed upon Marian's mind, 
 and destroyed her half-formed resolution of telling 
 Frederic that night. She did not know Isabel, and 
 she could not understand why she should be guilty 
 of a falsehood to her — a perfect stranger. 
 
 As they sat talking, there came along the grav- 
 eled walk a step familiar to them both, and the 
 color deepened on their cheeks ; while in the light 
 which shone in the eyes of blue, and flashed from 
 the eyes of black, there was a spark of jealousy, 
 as if each were reading the secret thoughts of the 
 other. 
 
 Frederic had returned from the city earlier than 
 was his custom, for he usually spent the entire day ; 
 
366 Marian grey. 
 
 but there was something now to draw him home 
 besides the blind girl, and he was conscious of 
 quickening his footsteps as he drew near his house, 
 and of watching for the sight of a face, which, he 
 knew, would smile a welcome. He heard her voice 
 in the parlor, and before he was aware of it, he 
 stood in the presence of Isabel. Marian watched 
 him narrowly, marveling at his perfect self-posses- 
 sion ; for Isabel was to him an object of such in- 
 difference that he experienced far less emotion in 
 meeting her than in speaking to Marian Grey, and 
 asking her if she had been lonely. 
 
 " You men are so vain," Isabel said, " and think 
 we miss you so much. Now I'll venture to say 
 Miss Grey has not thought of you all day. Why 
 should she ?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't she?" Frederic asked, giving 
 Marian a smile which sent the blood tingling to her 
 finger-tips. 
 
 "Why shouldn't she?" returned Isabel — "just 
 as though we girls ever think of married men. By 
 the way, have you heard anything definite from 
 Mrs. Raymond since she left you so suddenly in 
 New York, or have you given up the search ?" 
 
 Marian pitied Frederic, he turned so white, and 
 almost hated Isabel as she saw the malicious tri- 
 umph in her eye. Breathlessly she awaited the 
 answer, which was : 
 
 " I shall never abandon the search until I find 
 her, or know, certainly, that she is dead. I went 
 to the place where she used to live not long ago." 
 
 " Indeed ! What did you learn ?" and a part of 
 Isabel's assurance left her, for she felt that his 
 searching for his wife was a reality with him, while 
 Marian's heart grew hopeful and warm again, as 
 she listened to Frederic telling Isabel of the dear 
 old room which had been her home so long. 
 
 " I can't conceive what made her run away," 
 Isabel said, fixing her eyes upon Frederic, who 
 
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE. 30I 
 
 coolly replied, " / can ;" and then turning to Marian 
 lie commenced a conversation upon an entirely dif- 
 ferent subject. 
 
 Biting her lip with vexation, Isabel arose to go, 
 saying she should expect to see Miss Grey at her 
 own house, and that she hoped she would some- 
 times bring Mr. Raymond with her. 
 
 From this time forth Isabel was a frequent visi- 
 tor at Riverside, where she always managed to say 
 something which seriously affected Marian's peace 
 of mind, and led her to distrust the man who was 
 beginning to feel far more interest in the Marian 
 found than in the Marian lost. This Isabel saw, 
 and while her bosom rankled with envy towards 
 her rival, she exulted in the thought that, love her 
 as he might, he dared not tell her of his love, for a 
 barrier a living wife had built between the two. 
 Though professing the utmost regard for Miss Grey, 
 she did not hesitate to speak against her when an 
 opportunity occurred, but her shafts fell harmlessly, 
 for where Marian was known she was esteemed, 
 and the wily woman gave up the contest at last 
 and waited anxiously to see the end. 
 
 Towards the last of October, Ben, who was now 
 a small grocer in a New England village, came to 
 Riverside for the first time since Marian's resi- 
 dence there. Never before had he appeared so 
 happy, and his honest face was all aglow with his 
 delight at seeing Marian at last where she be- 
 longed. 
 
 " You fit in like an odd scissor," he said to her 
 when they were alone. " Ain't it most time to 
 tell ?" 
 
 " Not yet," returned Marian. " I would rather 
 wait until I am back at Redstone Hall. We are 
 going there next month, and then, too, I wish I 
 knew how much of Isabel's insinuations to be- 
 lieve." 
 
 " Isabel be hanged," said Ben. " She lied, I 
 
302 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 know, and mebby that letter was some of her dev- 
 ilment." 
 
 Marian replied by telling him of the letter from 
 Sarah Green, and asking if he could explain it. 
 But it was all a mystery to him, and he puzzled his 
 brain with it for a long time, deciding at last that 
 it might have come from some of her Kentucky 
 acquaintance, who chanced to be in New York, and 
 sent it just for mischief. 
 
 " But they overshot the mark," he said. " You 
 ain't dead by a great sight, and I b'lieve I'd let the 
 cat out pretty soon. That makes me think you 
 wrote that Spottiewas here. Where is the critter? 
 'Twould be good for sore eyes to see her again." 
 
 Marian went in quest of her, and on her return 
 found Alice with Ben, who, in her presence, dared 
 not manifest all that he felt at sight of his old 
 friend. Taking the animal on his lap he looked at 
 it for a moment with quivering chin ; then stroking 
 its soft fur, he said, with a prolongation of each 
 syllable, which rendered the sound ludicrous, 
 " Grumal-kin — -^oor gri-mal-kin" and a tear dropped 
 on its back. 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Alice, coming to his side, 
 " what did you call the kitty ?" 
 
 " Gri-mal-kin" Ben answered, adding by way of 
 explanation, " that, I b'lieve, is the Latin for cat." 
 
 Marian could hot forbear laughing aloud, and as 
 Ben joined with her, it served to keep him from 
 crying outright, as he otherwise might have done. 
 
 " What are you going to do with it when you go 
 south ?" he asked, and upon Alice's replying that 
 they should leave it with Mrs. Russell, he proposed 
 taking it instead and keeping it until spring, when 
 he could return it. 
 
 This suggestion was warmly seconded by Ma- 
 rian, and as Alice finally yielded the point, Ben 
 carried Spottie off the next morning, promising 
 the little girl that it should be well cared for in hei 
 
REDSTONE HALL. ^03 
 
 absence. Alice shed a few tears at parting with 
 her pet, but they were like April showers, and 
 soon passed away in her joyful anticipations of a 
 speedy removal to Kentucky, for Frederic was 
 going earlier this season than usual, and the loth 
 of November was appointed for them to start. If 
 they met with no delays they would reach Redstone 
 Hall on the anniversary of Marian's bridal, and to 
 her it seemed meet that on this day, of all others, 
 she should return again to her old home, and she 
 wondered if Frederic, too, would think of it. He 
 did remember it, for the November days were 
 always fraught with memories of the past. This 
 year, however, there was a difference, for though 
 he thought much of Marian Lindsey, it was not as 
 he had thought of her before, and he was con- 
 scious of a most unaccountable sensation of satisfac- 
 tion in knowing that, even if she could not go with 
 him to Kentucky, her place would be tolerably 
 well filled by Marian Grey. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 REDSTONE HALL. 
 
 News had been received at Redstone Hall, that 
 the family would be there on the 13th ; but Fred- 
 eric'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 
 
304 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 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 im- 
 patiently at least an hour the arrival of the train. 
 
 " We are here at last," Frederic said, when they 
 stopped at the station ; 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 mile-stone, 
 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 of the car, 
 marveled at its deathly pallor. 
 
 " Jest gone with consumption," was Phil's mental 
 comment ; and he wondered at the 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 car- 
 riage, 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, asJwith 
 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 increas- 
 ing about her mouth, as way-mark after way-mark 
 was passed and recognized. 
 
REDSTONE HALL. 305 
 
 " 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 Fred- 
 eric 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 min- 
 gled with the gathering darkness was the yellow, 
 hazy light the sun of the Indian summer often 
 leaves upon the hills. The 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 eter- 
 nity, an icy chill ran through her frame, depriving 
 her of the power to speak or move. Through the 
 twilight she saw the dusky forms gathered expect- 
 antly 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 pas- 
 sionate adieu to the man who, sitting opposite to 
 her now, little dreamed of what was passing in her 
 mind. In a distant hemp-field she heard the song 
 some negroes sang, returning from their labor, and 
 as gh^ listened to the music, her te^rs began to 
 
306 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 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 kennel sent 
 up. His voice had been the last to bid the runa- 
 way good bye, and it was the first to welcome her 
 back again. With a stifled sob of joy, 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," Frederic said, 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 life- 
 less upon her lap. " She has fainted," he cried. 
 " The journey and excitement have over-taxed 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 hat, 
 and then looked anxiously 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 conscious- 
 ness, 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 faii^t- 
 
REDSTONE HALL. 307 
 
 ing 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, and said in- 
 voluntarily, " Deiar Aunt Dinah, I thank you so 
 much." 
 
 " Blessed lamb," whispered the old negress, "they 
 told her my name, I 'spect. 'Pears like she's nigher 
 to me than strangers mostly is." 
 
 Twice that evening there came up the stairs a 
 step which stopped at the door, and Dinah as often 
 as she answered the 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 
 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 dis- 
 turbed 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 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 before long the 
 dreamless sleep which always came to her after a 
 day of unusual fatigue. 
 
 The dawn was just stealing into the room, next 
 morning, when Marian awoke with a vague, uncer- 
 tain feeling as to where she was, or what had hap- 
 pened. Before long, however, she remembered it 
 all ; and stepping upon the floor, went to the win- 
 (Jow, to feast her eyes once more upon her hpn)?. 
 
308 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 Before her lay the garden, and though the Novem- 
 ber frosts had marred its Summer glory, it was still 
 beautiful to her ; and hastily dressing herself, she 
 went out 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 crea- 
 ture, which, bristling with rage, came tearing down 
 the 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 dis- 
 tance, 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 
 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, he answered her — not with a human 
 tongue, it is true j but she understood his language, 
 
REDSTONE HALL. 30$ 
 
 and by the low, peculiar cry of joy he gave as he 
 crouched upon the ground, she knew that she was 
 recognized. Of all who had loved her at Redstone 
 Hall, none remembered her save the noble dog, 
 who licked her hands, her, dress, her feet ; while 
 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 gave 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 appearance 
 indicative of alarm. He had been roused from 
 sleep by the yell which Bruno gave when he first 
 caught sight of Marian, and before 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 him- 
 self 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 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 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 closer around his neck, while he 
 licked her face and hair. 
 
 Wonderingly Frederic looked on, and all the 
 
31(3 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 while there came to him no thought that the two 
 had met before — that the hand patting Bruno's 
 head had fed him many a time — and that amid all 
 the changes which six years had made, the saga- 
 cious animal had recognized his mistress and play- 
 mate, Marian Lindsey. 
 
 " It must be that you can win all hearts," he said, 
 marveling at her secret power. 
 
 Shaking back her 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 confes- 
 sion 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 encour- 
 agement he said, " Even that may yet be won ;" 
 and while he said it, there came over him a sensa- 
 tion 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 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 face toward him and an- 
 swered 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 
 
REbSTONE HALL. 31 1 
 
 if that voice were not entirely strange to him. 
 Touching his master's arm and pointing to the lady, 
 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 clung so obsti- 
 nately 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 that 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 had by this time reached the door, where 
 she stood smiling pleasantly upon the blacks, but 
 not daring to call them by name until she saw Di- 
 nah, whocourtesied low, and coming forward asked, 
 " Is you better this mornin' ?" 
 
 " Yes, quite well, thank you. Are these your 
 companions ?" asked Marian, anxious for an oppor- 
 tunity 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 : 
 
312 MARIAN GRfiV. 
 
 " 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 intention 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 before Hetty could reply. Josh, whose 
 gaze had all the time been riveted upon her, stut- 
 tered out : 
 
 " Sh-sh-she is-s^s-s like M-m-miss Marian." 
 
 Yes, this was the likeness they had seen, but Ma, 
 rian 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 inta 
 use, while she said : 
 
 " Yes, poor dear lamb, if thar's any truth in them 
 Scripter sayin's, she's a burnin' and a shinin' light 
 in de kingdom come." And the old negresa 
 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 be- 
 ginning 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 Marian Grey. 
 
 " Dinah can be very eloquent at times," he said, 
 
REDSTONE HALL. 3I3 
 
 "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 in- 
 strument 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 sufificient 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 Isa- 
 bel. As was quite natural, they yielded their 
 preference to the last comer, old Hetty acknowledg- 
 ing that even " Miss Beatrice couldn't beat that." 
 
 It would seem that Marian Grey was destined to 
 take all hearts by storm, for before the day was 
 over her virtues had been discussed in the kitchen 
 and by the cabin fire, while even the gallant Josh, 
 at his work in the hemp-field, 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, going last to the library, and seating herself 
 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, and, with^ 
 out 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 her letter. She knew 
 
3 14 kAblAN GfeteY. 
 
 it by its superscription, and by its tear-stained, 
 soiled appearance. She had wept over it herself, 
 but she knew her tears alone had never blurred and 
 blotted like this. Frederic's had mingled with them, 
 and her heart was trembling with joy when another 
 object caught her eye. The 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 thought, as 
 she continued her investigation, coming at last 
 upon a picture of herself, taken when she was just 
 fifteen. 
 
 " Oh, horror !" she cried, laughing, until the tears 
 ran, at the forlorn little face which looked upon her 
 so demurely. "Frederic must enjoy looking at 
 you and thinking you are his wife," she said, and 
 she felt a thrill of pride in knowing that she bore 
 scarcely the slightest resemblance to that picture. 
 
 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 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 sofa with its 
 face turned to the wall. 
 
 " Whose is it ?" she asked, directing Frederic's 
 
REDStONE HALL. 3t5 
 
 attention to it. " Whose is it, and why is it hidden 
 there ?" 
 
 " It is an unfinished portrait of Mrs. Raymond, 
 taken from a daguerrotype of her when she was 
 only fifteen. But the artist did not understand his 
 business, and it looks even worse than the orig- 
 inal." 
 
 This last was spoken bitterly, and Marian felt 
 the blood rising to her cheeks. 
 
 " I never even told Alice of it," he continued, 
 " but put it in here, where I hide all my secrets." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Raymond, please let me see it," Ma- 
 rian said. " I lived in New York a long time, and 
 perhaps I may have met her, or 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 : 
 " Miss Grey, you must excuse me for refusing your 
 request. Poor Marian was far from being hand- 
 some, and 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 eyelashes fell beneath his 
 steady gaze — " And if you did," he continued, " 1 
 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 
 Tialf feared she had offended him by her eagerness 
 to see the portrait, while mingled with this was a 
 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, pro- 
 tect her from even the semblance of insult. Her 
 heart was already full, and, releasing her hands 
 from Frederic's, she resumed her seat, and burst 
 into tears, while Frederic paced the room, wonder- 
 ing what, under the circumstances, he was expected 
 
3l6 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 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 one grasping the 
 table edge as he dared, and saying, very gently : 
 
 " If I spoke harshly to you, Miss Grey, I am 
 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 ! He did not 
 think that an insult to the portrait at all. The 
 touch of Marian Grey's fingers drove all other 
 ideas from his mind, and for one instant he was 
 supremely happy. 
 
 From the first, he had thought of Marian Grey 
 as a beautiful young girl, 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 con- 
 viction burst upon him that, spite of his marriage 
 vow — spite of the humble origin which would once 
 have shocked his pride — 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, but he would stifle his 
 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 som«- 
 
REDSTONE HALL. 317 
 
 what 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." 
 
 "And you really wish to find her?" Marian 
 asked, and Frederic, a little surprised at the ques- 
 tion, replied : 
 
 "Yes, 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 Fred- 
 eric 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 times 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 chair 
 she had just vacated, he 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, 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 9ame a 
 
3l8 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 waking, and he said aloud : " It cannot be, and the 
 hardest part of all to bear is the thought that, but 
 for my dastardly, unmanly act, it might, perhaps, 
 have been — but now, never ! Oh, Marian Grey ! 
 Marian Grey! I wish 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 uttered 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 sug- 
 gested one dead, 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 dis- 
 covered anything he trusted she would forget it." 
 
 That night he joined the young girls in the par- 
 lor, and compelled himself to listen while Marian 
 made the walls echo with her merry music. But 
 he would not look at her, and at an early hour he 
 sought his chamber, where the livelong night he 
 fought with the love which, now that he acknowl- 
 edged its e?i:i3t?n?e, grew rapidly in intensity an<J 
 
REDSTONE HALL. 319 
 
 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 Sunday, 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." 
 
 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 de- 
 cidedly that Marian heard him, and wondered what 
 Agnes's remark could have been. She was not long 
 left in doubt, for, as they were riding home, Fred- 
 eric 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 pos- 
 sible 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 by Marian's 
 asking, " if he believed he would know his wife in 
 case he met her accidentally ?" 
 
 " Know her ? Yes — from all the world !" was 
 the hasty answer ; and Frederic did not speak agaiji 
 until they stopped at their own door, 
 
320 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 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 she said : 
 
 " At first I thought I'd rather have my sight — 
 but only for a moment — and then I wished, if Ma- 
 rian 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 ?" Marian asked, and Alice 
 replied : 
 
 " Now — to-night ; but as this 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, sweet- 
 est one that I could have." 
 
 " Darling Alice," Marian thought, " your wish 
 shall be gratified." 
 
 And kissing the blind girl affectionately, she re- 
 solved 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. 
 
TELLING ALICE. 32 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 TELLING ALICE. 
 
 One by one the November days went by and the 
 hazy Indian Summer light faded from the Ken- 
 tucky hills, where now the December sun was shin- 
 ing cold and clear. And as the weeks passed away, 
 there hung over Redstone Hall a dark, portentous 
 cloud, and they who had waited so eagerly the com- 
 ing of the holidays trembled lest the merry Christ- 
 mas song should prove a funeral dirge for tile pet 
 and darling of them all. Alice was dying, so the 
 physician said, while Dinah, too, had prophesied 
 that before the New Year came the eyes which 
 never in this world had looked upon the light would 
 be opened to the glories of the better land. 
 
 For many days and nights the fever had burned 
 in the young girl's veins, but it had left her now, 
 and like a fragile lily she lay among her pillows, 
 talking of Heaven and the grave as something very 
 near to her. , Marian never for a moment left her, 
 except t'p take the rest she absolutely needed. 
 Frederic, too, often shared her vigils, feeling almost 
 as anxious for one as for the other. Both were 
 very dear to him, and Marian, as she witnessed his 
 tender care of Alice, and his anxiety for herself lest 
 her strength should be overtasked, felt more and 
 more that he was worthy of her love. Alice, too, 
 appreciated his goodness as she had never done 
 before, and once when he sat alone with her, and 
 Marian was asleep, she passed her hand caressingly 
 over his face, and said : 
 
 " Dear Frederic, you have been so kind to me, 
 that I am sure God has SQip? good in store for 
 you." 
 
322 MARIAN CREY. 
 
 Then as she remembered what would probably 
 be the greatest good to him, she continued, " I 
 know what's in your heart, and I pity you so much, 
 but there is light ahead ; I've thought strange 
 things, and dreamed strange dreams since I lay 
 here so sick, and as I once was certain Marian was 
 alive, so now I'm almost certain that she's dead." 
 
 " Hush, Alice, hush," said Frederic, but Alice did 
 not heed him, and continued — 
 
 " I never saw her in this world, and maybe I 
 shan't know her right away, though, next to mother, 
 I reckon she'll be the first to welcome me to Heaven, 
 if she's there, and I know she is, or we should have 
 heard from her. I shall tell her of her old home, 
 and how we mourned for her when we^thought she 
 was dead. I don't know what it was that made her 
 go away, ,but I shall tell her you repented of the 
 act, and how you looked for her so long, and that 
 if you had found her you would have loved her, 
 sure. That will not be a lie, will it, Frederic ?' 
 
 " No, darling, no," was the answer, and Alice con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " Then when I have explained all, I'll steal away 
 from Heaven, just long enough to come and tell 
 you she is there. You'll be in the library, maybe, 
 and I reckon 'twill be dark, though if you'd any ra- 
 ther, I'll come in the daytime, and, when you feel 
 there's somebody near, somebody you can't see, you 
 may know that it is me come to say that you are 
 free to love the other Marian." 
 
 "Oh AHce, don't," Frederic said, for it made his 
 heart bleed afresh to hear her talk of what he had 
 no hope would ever be. 
 
 But Alice's faith was stronger, and to Marian 
 Grey she sometimes talked in a similar strain, say- 
 ing, " she knew she should meet the other one in 
 Heaven," and Marian felt that she must undeceive 
 her. "It may possibly make her better," she 
 thought, and when, at l^gt, Christmas eve had come. 
 
TELLING ALICE. 323 
 
 and it was her turn to watch that night, she deter- 
 mined to tell her, if she found that she had strength 
 to bear it. One by one, the family servants retired, 
 and when at last they were alone, Marian drew her 
 chair close beside the bed, wondering how she 
 should commence, and what effect it would have 
 upon the little girl. 
 
 " I've been dreaming of Marian to-day, and I 
 thought she looked like you do — but she don't, of 
 course ; and I wonder how I'll know her for sure 
 from my mother, for she, too, was young when she 
 died, if it were you. Miss Grey, I could tell you 
 so easily, for the one who sang the sweetest song 
 and had the fairest face would certainly be Marian 
 Grey : but the other Marian — how shall I know her 
 —think ?" 
 
 Leaning forward so that her cheek touched the 
 pale one of the sick girl, Marian said : 
 
 " Wouldn't you know her by her voice ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not," answered Alice; "I thought 
 you were she at first when I heard you speak." 
 
 " How is it now, darling?" Marian asked, in a 
 voice so tremulous that Alice started, and her face 
 flushed as she replied : "You are not like her now, 
 except at times, and then — it's all so queer. 
 There's a mystery about you. Miss Grey — and 
 seems sometimes just like I didn't know what to 
 think — you puzzle me so !" 
 
 " Shall I tell you, Alice ? Have you strength to 
 hear who and what I am ?" Marian asked ; and 
 Alice answered eagerly : 
 
 " Yes— tell me— do ?" 
 
 "And you'll promise not to faint, nor scream, 
 nor reveal it to anybody, unless I say you may ?" 
 
 " It must be something terrible to make me faint 
 or scream !" 
 
 " Not terrible, dearest, but strange !" and sitting 
 down upon the bed, Marian wound her arm around 
 the little girl. 
 
324 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 It was a hazardous thing telling that secret then, 
 but Marian did not realize what she was doing, and 
 in as calm a voice as she could command, she 
 began : 
 
 " People call me Marian Grey, but that is not my 
 name !" 
 
 " Not Marian Grey ! Who are you, then, 
 Marian what ?" 
 
 Marian did not reply to this question, but said 
 instead : " I had seen you before that night at 
 Riverside." 
 
 " Seen me where ?" and the little girl trembled 
 with an indefinable dread of the shock which she 
 instinctively felt was waiting for her. 
 
 " I had seen you many times," Marian said, " and 
 that is why my voice is familiar. Put your hands 
 upon my face again, and maybe you will know it." 
 
 " I can't, I can't ! you frighten me so !" Alice 
 gasped, and Marian continued : 
 
 " I must have changed much, for they who used 
 to know me have never suspected that I am in their 
 midst again — none but Bruno. Do you remember 
 my power over him ? Bruno and I were playmates 
 together." 
 
 Marian paused and gazed earnestly at the child, 
 who lay panting in her arms, her face upturned and 
 the blind eyes fixed upon hers with an intensity 
 she had never before seen equaled. In the still- 
 ness of the room she could hear the beating of 
 Alice's heart, and see the bed-clothes rise and fall 
 with every throb. 
 
 " Alice," she said at last, " don't you know me 
 now ?" 
 
 " Yes" and over the white face there shone a 
 smile of almost seraphic sweetness. "You are 
 Marian — my Marian — Frederic's Marian — Dinah's 
 Marian — All of us Marian t" and with a low cry 
 the blind girl crept close to the bosom of her long- 
 lost friend, 
 
TELLTNC ALICE, 32$ 
 
 Stretcliing out her arms she wound them round 
 Marian's neck, and kissed her lips, her cheek, her 
 forehead, her hair, whispering all the time, " Blessed 
 Marian — precious Marian — beautiful Marian — our 
 Marian — Frederic's, and mine, and everybody s. 
 Oh, I don't want to go to heaven now : I'd rather 
 stay with you. Call Frederic, quick, and tell him ? 
 Why haven't you told him before? Ho, Frederic, 
 come here !" and the feeble voice raised to its 
 highest pitch, went ringing through the room and 
 penetrated to the adjoining chamber, where, since 
 Alice's illness, Federic had slept. 
 
 " Alice," said Marian, " if you love me, you will 
 not tell him now. I am not ready yet." 
 
 " What if I should die ?" Alice asked, and Marian 
 replied : 
 
 " You won't die. I know you won't. Promise, 
 Alice, promise," she continued, as she heard Fred- 
 eric's step in the hall. 
 
 " How can I — how can I ? It will choke me to 
 death !" was Alice's answer, and the next moment 
 Frederic had crossed the threshold of the door. 
 
 " What is it, Miss Grey ?" he asked. " Didn't 
 you call ?" 
 
 " Alice is rather excited, that's all," said Marian, 
 " and you can go back. We do not wish to dis- 
 turb you." 
 
 "Frederic," came in a faint whisper from the 
 bedside, and knowing that father remonstrance was 
 useless, Marian stood like a rock, while Frederic 
 went to the child, who lay with her head thrown 
 back, the tears rolling down her cheeks, and the 
 great joy of what she had heard shining out all 
 over her little face. 
 
 "Did you want me, birdie?" he asked, but 
 before he had ceased speaking, Marian was at his 
 side. 
 
 Alice knew she was there, and she pressed both 
 
326 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 hands upon her lips to force back the secret she 
 had been forbidden to divulge. 
 
 " Is she delirious ?" Frederic asked, and shaking 
 her head, Alice whispered : " No, no, but happy, 
 so happy. Oh, Frederic, I don't want to die ! 
 Must I? If I take a heap of doctor's stuff, will I 
 get well, think?" 
 
 " I hope so," said Frederic, his suspicions of 
 insanity increasing. 
 
 " Give me your hand," she continued, " and 
 yours, too, Miss Grey." 
 
 Both were extended, and joining them together 
 she said, " Love her, Frederic. Love her all you 
 want to. You may — you may. It isn't wicked. 
 Oh, Marian, Marian." 
 
 The last word was a whisper, and as it died 
 away, Marian seized Frederic's arm, and said, 
 beseechingly : " Please leave the room, Mr. Ray- 
 mond. You see she is excited, and I can quiet her 
 best alone. Will you go ?" 
 
 With a feeling that he scarcely understood what 
 the whole proceeding meant, and why he had been 
 called in, if he must be summarily dismissed, Fred- 
 eric went out, leaving Marian alone with Alice. 
 
 " Why didn't you let me tell him ?" the latter 
 asked, and Marian replied, " I shall tell him by and 
 by, but I am not ready yet, and you must not 
 betray me." 
 
 "I'll try," said Alice, " but 'tis so hard. I had 
 to bite my tongue to keep the words from coming. 
 Where have you been ? Why didn't you come to 
 us before. How came you so beautiful — so grand ?" 
 Alice asked, all in the same breath. 
 
 But Marian absolutely refused to answer the 
 questions until she had become quiet and been re- 
 freshed with sleep. 
 
 " All in good time, dearest," she said, " but you 
 must rest now. You are wearing out too fast, and 
 you do not want to die." 
 
TELLING ALIC^. 327 
 
 This was the right chord to touch, and it had the 
 desired effect. 
 
 " Let me ask one question, and say one thing," 
 Said Alice, " and I won't talk another word till 
 morning. When you are ready may / tell Frederic, 
 if I am not dead ?" 
 
 "Yes," was the ready answer, and Alice con- 
 tinued : " Isn't it almost morning ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " And when it is, won't it be Christmas day ?" 
 
 " Yes, but you have asked three questions instead 
 of one." 
 
 "I know — I know ; but what I want to say is 
 tkis : I wished my Christmas gift might be Marian, 
 and it is. Last year it was a beautiful little pony, 
 but you are worth ten hundred million ponies. 
 Oh, I'm so glad — so glad," and on the childish face 
 there was a look of perfect happiness. 
 
 Even after she shut her eyes and tried to sleep 
 her lips continued to move, and Marian could hear 
 the words : " Our own Marian — our blessed Ma- 
 rian." 
 
 The excitement was too much for Alice, and when 
 next morning the physician came, he pronounced 
 her worse than she had been the previous night. 
 
 " But I ain't going to die," Alice said, resolutely; 
 "I can't die now," and it was this very determiua- 
 tion on her part which did more to save her life 
 than all the doctor's drugs or Dinah's wonderful 
 herbs. 
 
 For many days she seemed hovering between 
 life and death, while Marian never for a moment 
 left her, and Alice was more quiet when she was 
 sitting by, holding her feverish hand ; she seemed 
 to have lost all her desire to tell, though she per- 
 sisted in calling her teacher Marian, and a look of 
 pain always flitted over her face when she heard 
 her addressed as Miss Grey. Sometimes she would 
 
328 MARlA^f GREY. 
 
 start up, and whisper, " Are you Marian for sure — 
 our Marian, I mean ?" 
 
 " Yes, Marian Lindsey, sure," would be the an- 
 swer, and the little girl would fall away again into 
 a half unconscious state, a smile of joy wreathing 
 her white lips, and an expression of peace resting 
 on her face. 
 
 At last, as the New Year's morning dawned, she 
 woke from a deep, unbroken sleep, and Marian anc^ 
 Frederic, who watched beside her, knew that she 
 was saved. There were weeks of convalescence, 
 and Dinah often wondered at Alice's patience ii 
 staying so long and willingly in the chamber whe^ 
 she had suffered so much. But to Alice that sici- 
 room was a second paradise, and Marian the bright 
 angel whose presence made all the sunlight of her 
 life. i 
 
 Gradually, as she could bear it, Marian told her 
 everything which had come to her since she left 
 Redstone Hall, and Alice's eyes grew strangely 
 bright when she heard that the bracelet she had 
 always prized so much was made from Marian's 
 hair, and that Ben's visit to Kentucky was all a 
 plan of his to see if Frederic were married. Greatly 
 was she shocked when she heard of the letter which 
 had almost taken Marian's hfe. 
 
 ■' Frederic never did that cruel thing," she knew. 
 
 " But it was in his handwriting," Marian said, 
 " and until the mystery is cleared away, I cannot 
 forgive him." 
 
 For a long time Alice sat absorbed in thought, 
 then suddenly starting forward, she cried : " I know, 
 Isabel did it. I'm sure she did. I remember it all 
 so plain." 
 
 "Isabel," Marian repeated; "how could she? 
 What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Why," returned Alice, " you say you sent- it a 
 few weeks after you went away, and I remember so 
 well Frederic's going to Lexington one day, be- 
 
tfetLli^G ALtCfi. P^ 
 
 cause that was the time it came to me that you 
 were not dead. It was the first morning, too, that 
 Isabel heard my lessons, and she scolded because 
 I didn't remember quick, when I was thinking all 
 the time of you, and my heart was aching so. For 
 some reason, I can't tell what, I showed her that 
 note you left for me. You remember it ; don't 
 you ? It read : 
 
 " ' Darling Alice ! Precious Alice : If my heart 
 were not already broken, it would break in leaving 
 you.'" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I remember," said Marian, and Alice 
 continued : 
 
 " She said your hand-writing was queer, when she 
 gave me back the note. That evening, Josh came 
 back from Frankfort with a heap of letters for 
 Frederic, and one of them I know was from you. 
 I was standing out under the big maple tree think- 
 ing of you, when Isabel came and asked to take the 
 note again, and I let her have it. Ever so long 
 after, I started to go into the library, for I heard 
 somebody rustling papers, and I didn't know but 
 Dud was doing mischief. Just as I got to the door, 
 I heard a voice like Isabel's exclaim, ' It is from 
 her, but he shall never see it, never ;' or something 
 like that, and when I called to her she wouldn't 
 answer me until I got close to her, and then she 
 laughed as if she was choked, and said she was try- 
 ing to frighten me. Marian, that her was you, and 
 that he was Frederic. She copied his writing, and 
 sent the letter back because she wanted Frederic 
 herself." 
 
 " Could she do such a thing," Marian said, more 
 to herself than to Alice, who replied : 
 
 " She can do anything ; for Dinah says she's one 
 
 of the , I reckon that I'll skip that word in 
 
 there, because it's almost swearing, but it means 
 Satan s unaccountables" and Alice's voice dropped 
 to a whisper at what she fancied to be profanity. 
 
330 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 Marian could understand why Isabel should do 
 such a wicked thing even better than Alice, and 
 after reflecting upon it for a time, she accepted it 
 as a fact, and even suggested the possibility of 
 Isabel's having been the author of the letter from 
 Sarah Green. 
 
 " She was ! she was !" Alice cried, starting to her 
 feet ! " It's just like her — for she thought Frederic 
 would surely want to marry her then. I know she 
 wrote it, and managed to get it to New York some 
 how ;" and as is often the case poor Isabel was com- 
 pelled to bear more than her share of the fraud, 
 for Marian, too, believed that she had been in 
 some way implicated with the letter from Sarah 
 Green. 
 
 " And I may tell Frederic now — mayn't I ?" said 
 Alice. " Suppose we set to-morrow, when he's in 
 the library among the letters. He'll wonder what 
 I'm coming in there for, all wrapped up in shawls. 
 But he'll know plenty quick, for it will be just like 
 me to tell it all at once, and he will be so glad. 
 Don't you wish it was to-morrow now ?" 
 
 Marian could not say she did, but Alice was so 
 anxious, and had waited so patiently, that she at 
 last consented, and when at supper she met Fred- 
 eric as usual, she was conscious of a different feel- 
 ing towards him than she had ever experienced 
 before. He seemed unusually dejected, though 
 exceedingly kind to her, talking but little, it is true, 
 but evincing, in various ways, the interest he felt 
 in her, and even asking her to sit with him awhile 
 before returning to Alice's chamber. There was 
 evidently something on his mind which he wished 
 to say, but whatever rt might have been, seven 
 o'clock found it still unsaid, and as Alice retired at 
 that hour, Marian arose to go. 
 
 " Must you leave me ?" he said, rising too, and ac- 
 companying her to the door. " Yes, you must !" 
 
TELLIISTG PREDEKIC. 33 1 
 
 and Marian little guessed the meaning these three 
 words implied. 
 
 She only felt that she was not indifferent to him 
 — that the story Alice was to tell him on the mor- 
 row would be received with a quiet kind of happi- 
 ness at lea^ — that he would not bid her go away 
 as she once had done before — and with the blind 
 girl, she, too, began to think the morrow would 
 never come. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 TELLING FREDERIC. 
 
 Hour by hour — day by day — week by week, 
 Frederic's 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 tried to keep Marian Lind- 
 sey 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 nev^ could know, 
 and as he thought of the long years in which he 
 must live on with that terrible uncertainty forever 
 haunting him, he pressed his hands upon his fore- 
 head, 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 Ma- 
 rian !" 
 
532 MARIAN GREV 
 
 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 one brief hour 
 to this love. 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 medi- 
 tated. Not both of them could stay there, himself 
 and Marian, for he would not have her 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, and she must go, he 
 said. He had come to that decision, sitting alone 
 in his library, and it had wrung great drops of per- 
 spiration from his brow and moans of anguish 
 from his lips. But it must be — ^there was no alter- 
 native, 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. 
 
 "Do not think 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 en- 
 close 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." 
 
TELLING FREDERIC. 333 
 
 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 fev- 
 erish unrest, and he was glad when at last Josh 
 came in to make the fire, and he knew it was 
 morning. 
 
 "Tell Dinah I will breakfast in my room," he 
 said, " and say to Phil that he must have the car- 
 riage 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 hap- 
 pened 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 
 Jong time back," she said. " What you 'spect 
 'tis ?" 
 
 Marian could not tell ; neither did she venture a 
 sugge.stion, so fearful was she that Frederic's in- 
 tended departure would interfere with the plan of 
 which Alice had talked incessantly since daylight. 
 Hastily finishing her breakfast, she hurried 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 tore open the envelope, and 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 a mockery for him to offer 
 what was already hers. 
 
 " What is it. Marian ?" Alice asked, and recover- 
 
334 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 ing her composure, Marian read her what Frederic 
 had written, while AHce'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 to tell him myself," said Alice, and 
 Marian replied : 
 
 " So you shall, I'll send Dinah 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 beat- 
 ing heart turning her steps toward the library. It 
 was much like facing the wild beast in its lair, con- 
 fronting 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 feel- 
 ing that he should probably never look upon her 
 face again, had stirred the very depths of his heart, 
 and in a state of mind bordering upon distraction, 
 he was making the necessary preparations for his 
 hasty journey, when a 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 
 bafHed, 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 thrust- 
 ing into his pocket, he turned toward her, saying : 
 
TELLING FREDERIC. 335 
 
 ■' Why are you here, Miss Grey ? Haven't you 
 caused me pain enough already ? Have you re- 
 ceived 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 sud- 
 denly without an explanation. How have I of- 
 fended ? 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 this room un- 
 til you do," was her decided answer, and with the 
 air of one who meant what she said, Marian went 
 so near to him 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 expres? , 
 sion of the deep love he felt for the beautiful girl 
 standing so fearlessly before him. 
 
 " I cannot help it," he said at last, and going 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 gentle 
 tone, " apd ypt, Marian Grey, I would sell my Hfq 
 
33^ MARIAN GREY. 
 
 inch by inch rather than harm a hair of your deaf 
 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 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 pun- 
 ishment 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 breath as his lips almost touched her 
 cheek. In the words " Marian Grey, Marian Grey," 
 there was a deep pathos, as if all the loving tender- 
 ness of his nature were centered upon that name, 
 and it brought the tears from her eyes. He saw 
 them, and 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 hea^ upon his bosom, 
 sobbing : 
 
 " I have loved you so long — so long." 
 
 But for her promise to Alice she would 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 be- 
 neath your feet. You can if you try. You are not 
 as hard, as callous as I am. My heart is like ada- 
 mant, 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 \,o forget me 
 
TELLING FREDERIC. 337 
 
 — 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, / cannot live with her !" 
 
 " Oh, Frederic !" And again hot tears trembled 
 on the hands which Marian clasped before her eyes. 
 
 " Don't call me that," Frederic said entreatingly, 
 as he removed her hands, and held them in his. 
 " Don't say Frederic, for though it thrills me with 
 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 was 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 sad as he told 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 himself from poverty. " So I made 
 her my wife," he said. " I promised to love and 
 cherish her, when 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 Isa- 
 bel was beautiful, and only Alice kept me from tell- 
 ing 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 ?" ]VIarian ?.sked, and \\^ 
 j-eplied : 
 
338 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " Never ! If she had I should have known where 
 to find her." 
 
 Then, as briefly as possible, he told of his sick- 
 ness, and of the little girl who took such care of 
 him, and who he believed was Marian — 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 ten-fold 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 be- 
 neath. " These are for you," he said. " There are 
 furrows upon my face — and 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," Marian said, strugghng 
 to release herself. " There is something she must 
 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 unm'arried, 
 ■yvill you then be my wife ? Promise me that yoij 
 
TELLING FREDERIC. 339 
 
 will, and the remembrance of that promise will help 
 me to bear a little longer." 
 
 " I do !" said Marian, standing up before him, 
 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 must be ?" 
 
 , There was a world of love and tenderness in the 
 answering look which Marian gave him as he opened 
 the door for her to pass out. 
 
 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 Marian Grey. 
 
 " Alice, Alice ! Go now — go quick !" she ex- 
 claimed, bursting into the room. 
 
 " Go whar — for the dear Lord's sake ?" said Di- 
 nah, who had that moment come up, and conse- 
 quently 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 I" Alice cried, standing first on one 
 foot and then on the other. " I must tell Fred- 
 eric 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 button- 
 ing the wrong button, putting both stockings on 
 the same foot, pulling the shoe-lacing into a hard 
 knot, which baffled all her efforts, while Dinah 
 worked on leisurely, insisting that Alice "wasn't 
 gwine down, and if there was anythin' killin' whicl} 
 
 s 
 
340 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 marster or'to know, Miss Grey could tell him her- 
 self." 
 
 " Yes, Marian, go," said Alice, in despair, as she 
 heard Dud bid Frederic good-by, and, scarcely con. 
 scious of what she was about, Marian ran down the 
 stairs, just as Phil cracked his whip, and the greys 
 bounded off with a rapidity which left her faint call 
 of " Stop, Frederick, 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 rap- 
 idly towards Frankfort. 
 
 " No, no," said Marian, " I will write immedi- 
 ately, as 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 Fred- 
 eric. 
 
 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. He's come 
 back. I knew he would !" and in her weakness and 
 excitement the little girl sank exhausted at Mari- 
 an's feet. 
 
 Raising her up, Marian listened breathlessly, but 
 heard nothing except Phil talking to his horses as 
 he drove them to the stable. 
 
 " He has not come," gh? said, and A^ce replied ; 
 
I-ELLIISTG t'RfeDERiCJ. 34t 
 
 " 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 Frederic 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 driving up the long hill 
 which leads from Frankfort into the country be- 
 yond, he unexpectedly met his master, who had 
 been to the cemetery, and was just returning to the 
 Capitol Hotel. 
 
 All 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 Red- 
 stone Hall, where his coming was hailed with eager 
 joy by Marian and Alice, and created much sur- 
 prise 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 make, went to his own room 
 —the one formerly occupied by his father'-^where 
 
342 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 he sat before the grate, when Alice appeared, cov- 
 ered with shawls, and her face all aglow with ex- 
 citement. 
 
 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 said, inquir- 
 ingly : 
 
 " 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 shoul- 
 der, exclaimed : " 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 de- 
 ceived us all, and it is strange, too, that none of us 
 should know her 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 
 
CELLING FREDErIc. 34^ 
 
 not know her?" " 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 re- 
 ceded from his face, leaving it colorless as ashes. 
 There was an unnatural light in his eyes, his hands 
 worked nervously together, his hair seemed start- 
 ing 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 cry than a prayer of thanks- 
 giving, the words, " I thank thee, O my God," issued 
 from them. The next moment the air near Alice 
 was set in rapid motion — there was a heavy fall, 
 and Frederic 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 kisses upon his lips and dropping tears 
 upon his face. Marian had stood outside the door, 
 listening, and when by the fall she knew the inter- 
 view was ended, she came at once and knelt by 
 the fainting man, who soon began to show signs of 
 consciousness. Alice was first to discover this, and 
 when sure that he would come back to life, she 
 went from the room, for she knew that she would 
 not be needed there. 
 
 She might have stayed 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 
 at the hand feeling for his pulse, he did not seem 
 to know anything else, until Marian whispered: 
 
 " My husband — may I call you so ?" 
 
344 MARIAN GRElV. 
 
 Then he started from his lethargy, and, strug- 
 gling to his feet, clasped her in his arms, weeping 
 over her passioiiately; 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 win- 
 ter 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 ! 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 eyes up to his, and 
 by their expression of perfect happiness, 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 head rest- 
 ing 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 tinge faded from the western sky, 
 and the night shadows 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 murmur of their voices, she went 
 noiselessly back, saying to herself : " I won't dis- 
 turb them yet." 
 
 At last, as she came, she stumbled accidentally, 
 and this woke Marian from the sweetest dream 
 which ever had come to her. 
 
Telling Frederic. 345 
 
 " It is Alice," she said ; and she called to the 
 little girl, who came gladly, and climbing into Fred- 
 eric's lap laid her cheek against his own, without 
 word of comment. 
 
 " Blessed Alice, I owe you more than I can 
 repay," he said. 
 
 But for the helpless blind girl, this hour might 
 never have come to them, and Frederic felt it so, 
 as he hugged the little creature closer to him, bless- 
 ing her as his own and Marian's good angel. 
 Observing that she shivered with the cold, he arose, 
 and drawing the sofa directly before the fire, re- 
 sumed his seat again, with Marian between him- 
 self and Alice, his arm around her neck and his lips 
 almost constantly meeting hers. He could not re- 
 move his eyes from her, she seemed to him so 
 beautiful, with the firelight falling on her face and 
 shining on her hair. That hair puzzled him, and 
 he said, half laughingly, half reluctantly, " Your 
 hair was not always this color." 
 
 Marian replied by telling him the change came 
 after her long illness, and reminding him that she 
 was the same young girl of whom the Yankee Ben 
 had spoken when he visited Kentucky. 
 
 " And you almost died, then, for me," Frederic 
 said, kissing the sunny locks. 
 
 Just at this point, old Dinah appeared in the 
 door which, like most Kentucky doors, was left 
 ajar. She 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 amtsng 
 
34^ Marian grey. 
 
 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 nothinV' and in opposition to Hetty, she per- 
 sisted in saying Marian was dead. When, how- 
 ever, she saw her master's familiarity with Miss 
 Grey, she accepted 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 the astonished blacks " how 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 believe it, they could go and see 
 for themselves, provided they went mighty still." 
 
 " Tole you he was crazy," said Uncle Phil, start- 
 ing to see the wonderful sight, and followed by a 
 troop of negroes, all of whom trod on tiptoe, a pre- 
 caution wholly unnecessary, for Frederic and Ma- 
 rian were too much absorbed in each other to hear 
 the dusky group assembled round the door, their 
 white eyes growing larger as they all saw Frederic's 
 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, 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 assem- 
 bled blacks, saying to them : 
 
 " Rejoice with me that the lost one has returned 
 to us again, for this is Marian Lindsey — my wife 
 
TELLING P-REDERIC. 347 
 
 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 1 he contrary, had not the shadow of a 
 doubt, and she dropped on her knees at once, kiss- 
 ing the 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 cries of surprise and joy were almost 
 deafening. Particularly was Josh delighted, and 
 while the noise went on, he took occasion to " bal- 
 ance 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 Ma- 
 rian was somebody," Frederic made a few brief ex- 
 planations as to where their mistress had been, and 
 then dismissed them to their several duties, for he 
 preferred being alone with his wife and Alice. 
 
 Dinner 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 the former, 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 : 
 
348 MARIAN GREV. 
 
 " Yes, 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 Ma- 
 rian replied : 
 
 " But all is forgotten now." 
 
 It did seem to be, and in the conversation which 
 lasted long after Alice had retired, 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 neigh- 
 borhood that Frederic Raymond's governess was 
 Frederic Raymond's wife ; and, for many days, the 
 house was thronged with visitors, most of whom 
 remembered Marian Lindsey, and all of whom of- 
 fered their sincere congratulations to 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 
 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." 
 
BEN. 
 
 349 
 
 " Certainly not," answered Frederic. " I ovve 
 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 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 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 dis- 
 covery, was the theme of the whole county. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 BEN. 
 
 Ben sat among his boxes and barrels cracking 
 hickory nuts and carrying on a one sided conver- 
 sation with a cat and six beautiful kittens, which 
 were gamboling over the floor, the terror of rats 
 and mice, and the pride of their owner, who found 
 his heart altogether too tender to destroy any one 
 of them by the usual means of drowning or decap- 
 itation. So he was literally killing them with kind- 
 ness, and with his seven cats and odd ways was the 
 wonder and favorite of the entire village. 
 
 The night was dark and stormy, and fancying he 
 had dismi5|e4 lii? last customer he had settl^i^ 
 
3 so MARIAN GREY. 
 
 himself before the stove, with nearly half a peck of 
 nuts at his side, when the door opened, and a little 
 boy came in, his hair covered with snow, which had 
 also settled upon other portions of his person. 
 
 " Good evenin', Sandy," was Ben's salutation. 
 " What brung you here to-night ?" 
 
 "Got you a letter," returned Sandy, who was 
 the chore boy of the post-master. " It's been a 
 good while coming, too, for all it says, ' in haste,' " 
 and passing the note to Ben, he caught up five or 
 six of the kittens, while Ben, tearing open the en- 
 velope and snuffing a tallow candle with his fingers, 
 read : 
 
 " Dear Ben : — Frederic knows it all, and we are 
 so happy. We are to have a great party on the 
 20th, and you must surely come. Don't fail us, 
 that's a dear, good Ben, but come as soon as you 
 get this. Then I will tell you what I can't write 
 now. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 " Marian." 
 
 " P. S. — Alice sends her love, so does Frederic, 
 and so do I, dear Ben." 
 
 " I 'most wish she'd left off that last," said Ben, 
 when, after the boy Sandy departed, he was alone. 
 " It makes me feel so streaked like. Guy, wouldn't 
 I give all my groceries, and the seven cats into the 
 bargain, to be in Fred Raymond's boots ;" and, 
 taking up the kitten he called " Marian Grey," he 
 fondled it tenderly, for the sake of her whose name 
 it bore. " I shall go to this party," he continued, 
 as his mind reverted again to the letter, " though 
 I'll be as much out of place as a toad in a sugar 
 bowl ; but I can see Marian, and that blind girl, 
 and Josh. Wa'n't he a case, though ?" And lean- 
 ing back in his chair, Ben mentally made the neces- 
 sary arrangements for leaving. 
 
BEN. 351 
 
 These arrangements were next day carried into 
 effect, and as he must start at once if he would be 
 there in time for the party, he took the night ex- 
 press for Albany, having left his feline family to 
 the care of the boy Sandy. The second night 
 found him on the train between Buffalo and Cleve- 
 land, and as the weather was very cold, and the 
 seat near the stove unoccupied, he appropriated it 
 to himself, and was just falling to sleep, when a 
 lady, wrapped in velvet and furs, with a thickly 
 dotted veil over her face, came up to him, and 
 said, rather haughtily : 
 
 " Can I have this seat, sir ?" I prefer it to any 
 other." 
 
 " So do I," returned Ben ; " but bein' you're a 
 woman, I'll give it up, I guess." 
 
 And he found another, of which there were 
 plenty, for it was the last car, and not one-third 
 full. 
 
 " Considerable kind o' toppin'," was his mental 
 comment, as he coiled himself in his shaggy over- 
 coat for a second time, sleeping so soundly that 
 nothing disturbed him, until at last, as they turned 
 a short curve, the car was detached from the others, 
 and, leaving the track, was precipitated down an 
 embankment, which, fortunately, was not very 
 steep, so that none were killed, although several 
 were wounded, and among them the lady who had 
 so unceremoniously taken possession of Ben's com- 
 fortable seat. 
 
 "Wall, now," said Ben, crawling out of a win- 
 dow, and holding fast to his hat, which, being new, 
 was his special care, "if this ain't a little the imper- 
 litest way of wakin' a feller out of a sound sleep, 
 to pitch him head over heels in among these black- 
 b'ry bushes and stuns ; but who the plague is that 
 a-screechin' so ? — a woman's voice, too !" 
 
 And with all his gallantry aroused, Ben went to 
 the rescue, feeling his way through briars ^nd grass 
 
352 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 and broken pieces of the car, until he reached the 
 forna struggling beneath the ruins, in close prox- 
 imity to the hissing stove. 
 
 " Easy, now, my gal," he said, lifting her up. 
 " Haul your foot out, can't you ?" 
 
 " No, no, it's crushed ;" and Ben's knees shook 
 beneath him at the cry of pain. 
 
 Relief soon came from other sources, and as this 
 lady seemed more seriously injured than either of 
 the other passengers, she was carried carefully to a 
 dwelling near by, and laid upon a bed, before Ben 
 had a chance to see her features distinctly. 
 
 " Pretty well jammed," he said, examining the 
 hat which the women of the farm-house had re- 
 moved. 
 
 Supposing he meant herself the lady moaned : 
 
 " Oh, sir, is my face entirely crushed ?" 
 
 " I meant your hat," returned Ben, " though if 
 I was to pass judgment on you, I should say some 
 of your feathers was crumpled a little ; but law, 
 beauty ain't but skin deep. It's good, honest ac- 
 tions that makes folks liked." 
 
 Taking the lamp, he bent to investigate, discov- 
 ering to his amazement that the lady was Isabel 
 Huntington ! 
 
 Some weeks before Marian's identity with Fred- 
 eric's wife had been made known, Mrs. Rivers had 
 invited her to visit Kentucky, and as "there was 
 now nothing in Yonkers to interest her she had 
 accepted, with the forlorn hope that, spite of Fred- 
 eric's improbable story about a living wife, he 
 might eventually be won back to his old allegiance. 
 
 Accordingly, she had taken the same train and 
 car with Ben, and by rudely depriving him of his 
 seat near the stove had been considerably injured, 
 receiving several flesh wounds, besides breaking 
 her ankle. For this last, however, she did not 
 care ; that would get well again ; but was her face 
 §Q disfigured as to spoil her beauty ? This vrs.^ J}?? 
 
BEN. 353 
 
 constant thought, as she lay moaning upon her pil- 
 lows, and when for a few nnoments she was alone 
 with Ben, whom she knew to be the Yankee ped- 
 dler, and who considered it his duty to stay with 
 her, she said to him : 
 
 " Please, Mr. Butterworth, tell me just how much 
 I am bruised, and whether I shall probably be a 
 fright the rest of my days." 
 
 " Wall, now," returned Ben, taking the lamp a 
 second time and coming nearer to her, " there's no 
 knowin' how you will look hereafter, but the fact 
 is, you ain't none too han'some now, with your 
 face swelled as big as two and all scratched up 
 with them pesky briars." 
 
 " Yes, yes," interrupted Isabel, " but the swelling 
 will go down and the scratches will get well. That 
 isn't all." 
 
 "You're right," said Ben, "that ain't all. You 
 know, I 'spose, that six of your front teeth are 
 knocked out." 
 
 "Yes, but false ones will remedy that." 
 
 "Wall," continued Ben, "you've fixed your teeth, 
 but what are you goin' to do with your broke 
 
 
 "Oh!" Isabel screamed, clasping her hand to that 
 organ, which, from its classic shape had been her 
 special pride. " Not broken— is it broken, true ?" 
 
 " Looks mighty like it," Ben answered, " but doc- 
 tors can do anything. They'll tinker it up so it 
 will answer to sneeze out of and smell with as good 
 as ever ; and they'll sew up that ugly gash, too, 
 that runs like a Virginny fence from your ear up 
 onto your forehead and part of your cheek. Looks 
 as though there'd been a scar of some kind there 
 before," and looking closer, Ben saw the mark which 
 the hot iron had made the night when Isabel had 
 given the blow to the blind girl. 
 
 " Oh, I wish I could die," Isabel groaned, " if \ 
 must be so mutilated." 
 
354 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 " Pshaw ! no you don't," returned Ben, now act- 
 ing the part of a consoler. " Your eyes ain't dam- 
 aged, nor your hair neither, only singed a little with 
 the stove. There's some white ones, I see, but they 
 must have been there before. Never used Wood's 
 brimstony stuff, did you ? That'll keep it from 
 turnin'. I knew a chap once with a broke nose that 
 looked like the notch in the White Mountains, and 
 nobody thought of it, he was so good. Maybe 
 your'n ain't so bad. Perhaps it's only out of jint. 
 The doctor'll know — here he comes," and Ben 
 stood back respectfully, while the physician exam- 
 ined the nature and extent of Isabel's injuries. 
 
 There was nothing serious, he said ; nothing from 
 which she would not recover. She was only stunned 
 and bruised, besides having a broken ankle. The 
 cut on the face would probably leave a scar, other- 
 wise she would be as well as ever, but she must re- 
 main where she was for two or three weeks, and he 
 asked if she had friends with her. 
 
 " No," she replied, while Ben said : 
 
 "Yes, I'm her friend, and though I want to go 
 on the wust way, I'll stay till her mother comes. 
 We'd better telegraph, I guess." 
 
 This brought the tears from the heartless Isabel, 
 for she appreciated Ben's kindness in not deserting 
 her, and when they were alone she thanked him for 
 staying with her, when she heard him say he wished 
 to go on. 
 
 " Were you going to Kentucky ?" she asked, and 
 Ben replied : 
 
 " Yes, goin' to see how Miss Raymond looks at 
 the head of a family. You've heard, I s'pose, that 
 Marian Grey was Fred's runaway wife, and that 
 they are as happy now as two clams." 
 
 Unmindful of the fierce twinges of pain it gave 
 her to move, Isabel started up, exclaiming, " No, 
 no, how can that be ?" 
 
 " Just as easy," Ben said, proceeding to narrate 
 
BEN. 355 
 
 a few particulars to his astonished listener, who, 
 when he had finished, lay back again upon her pil- 
 low, crying bitterly. 
 
 This, then, was the end of all her secret hopes. 
 Frederic was lost to her ; Marian Grey was his wife, 
 and what was worse than all, her treachery was un- 
 doubtedly suspected, and what must they think of 
 her ? She was in a measure suffering for her sins, 
 and she continued to cry, while Ben tried in vain to 
 soothe her, talking to her upon the subject upper- 
 most in his mind, namely, Marian's happiness and 
 his own joy that it had all come right at last. Isa- 
 bel would rather have heard of anything else, but 
 when she saw how kind Ben was, she compelled her- 
 self to listen, even though every word he said of 
 Marian and Frederic pierced her with a keener pain 
 than even her bruises produced. 
 
 " I shan't be there for the doin's any way," Ben 
 thought, when Mrs. Huntington did not come at 
 the expected time, and as he fancied it his duty to 
 let Marian know why he was not there, he tele- 
 graphed to her, " We've had a break down, and 
 Isabel is knocked into a cocked hat." 
 
 This telegram, which created no little sensation 
 at the office, was copied verbatim and sent to 
 Frederic, who read it, while Marian was dressing 
 for the party. He could not forbear laughing 
 heartily, it sounded so much like Ben, but he wisely 
 determined to keep it from his wife and Alice, as 
 it might cause them unnecessary anxiety. He 
 accordingly thrust it in his pocket, and then, when 
 it was time, went up for Marian, who, in her bridal 
 dress, looked wondrously beautiful to him, and re- 
 ceived many words of commendation from the 
 guests, who soon began to appear, and who felt that 
 the bride of Redstone Hall well became her high 
 position. Many were the pleasant jokes passed at 
 Frederic's expense, and the clergyman who had 
 officiated at his wedding more than six years be- 
 
3S6 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 fore, laughingly offered to repeat the ceremony.. 
 But Frederic shook his head, saying he was satis- 
 fied if Marian was. And so, amid smiles and con- 
 gratulations, the song and the dance moved on, and 
 all went merry as a marriage bell, until at last, as 
 the clock told the hour of midnight, the last guest 
 had departed, and Frederic, with his arm round 
 Marian, was caUing her Mrs. Raymond, on purpose 
 to see her blush, when there came up the avenue 
 the sound of rapid wheels, followed by a bound on 
 the piazza, and the next moment Ben burst into the 
 room, holding up both hands, as he caught sight of 
 Marian in her bridal robes. 
 
 " My goodness !" he exclaimed. " Ain't she 
 pretty, though. It's curis how clothes will fix up 
 a woman." 
 
 The meeting between Frederic and Ben was like 
 brother greeting brother, for the former felt that 
 he almost owed his life to the great-hearted Yankee, 
 and he grasped his hand warmly, bidding him wel- 
 come to Redstone Hall, and, by his kind, familiar 
 manner, putting him at once at his ease. Alice, 
 too, did her part well, and, pressing Ben's hand to 
 her lips, she said : 
 
 " I love you, Ben Burt ; love you a heap, for be- 
 ing so good to Marian." 
 
 " Don't now," Ben said, whiningly. "Don't set 
 me to bellerin' the fust thing. 1 only did what any- 
 body would have done, unless the milk of human 
 kindness was all turned to bonnyclabber !" Then, 
 as he thought of Isabel, he continued, " I tried to 
 get here sooner, but Miss Huntington didn't come 
 till the last minute, and I couldn't leave Isabel. 
 How she does take on." 
 
 "What do you mean?" Marian asked. "Where 
 is Isabel ?" and as Frederic passed her the telegram, 
 she continued to ask questions, until she had learned 
 the whole. 
 
" Poor girl !" she sighed ; " I pity her, and if she 
 were here, I would so gladly take care of her." 
 
 Instantly there flashed upon AUce's mind an idea 
 every way worthy of her, but she would not sug- 
 gest it then, as it was growing late, and when she 
 heard a loud yawn from Ben, she rang the bell, bid- 
 ding the servant who came "show Mr. Burt his 
 room ;" then kissing Frederic and Marian good 
 night, she, too, departed, leaving them alone. 
 
 Next morning, at the breakfast-table, she said to 
 Frederic : 
 
 " Don't folks most always take a bridal tour ?" 
 
 " Sometimes, when they can't be happy at home," 
 returned Frederic. " Where does my blind birdie 
 wish to go ?" 
 
 " I don't really wish to go," answered Alice ; 
 " but wouldn't it be nice to surprise poor Isabel, 
 lying so bruised and sick in that old farm-house in 
 Ohio. Maybe she wants money ? I heard them say 
 at Yonkers that she had spent all Mr. Rivers left 
 her, except the house, and that was mortgaged. 
 I've got ten dollars that I'll give her." 
 
 " Blessed baby !" said Ben, bringing out his 
 pocket-handkerchief, which he was pretty sure to 
 need. 
 
 This suggestion was warmly seconded by Marian, 
 and after a little further consultation, it was decided 
 that they should start the next day for the place 
 where Isabel lay sick. 
 
 " She may confess about the letters," Marian said, 
 " and that will make me like her so much better." 
 
 This* being settled, Alice's next inquiry was for 
 her cat, and her eyes opened wide with wonder 
 when told of the six young kittens which had a 
 home in Ben Burt's grocery, and one of which was 
 called for her. 
 
 " It ought to be blind," said the little girl ; and, 
 with a quivering chin, Ben answered : 
 
 " That's it, though I shouldn't have told you for 
 
3S8 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 fear of hurtin' your feelin's. The little cat is blind, 
 and when Sandy — that's a boy who lives there — 
 said how he would kill it for me, it struck to my 
 stomick at once, for that little critter lies even 
 Higher to my heart than the handsomest, sleekest 
 one, which I call ' Marian Grey,' and 'tis grey, too, 
 with mottled spots all over its back, while Alice is 
 white as milk !" 
 
 The cat story being satisfactorily concluded, 
 Ben went out to renew his acquaintance with the 
 negroes, who vied with each other in paying him at- 
 tention. Though they did not quite understand it, 
 they knew that he was in some way connected with 
 the return of their young mistress, and neither 
 Dinah nor Hetty made the least objection when, 
 before night, they saw the two black babies which 
 had usurped the rights of Djid and Victory, seated 
 upon his lap, and " riding to Boston to buy penny 
 cakes," at a rate which bade fair to throw them to 
 the top of the ceiling at least, if .not to land them 
 somewhere in the vicinity of the Bay State capital. 
 
 The next morning, Frederic, Marian and Alice 
 started for Ohio, leaving Ben in charge at Redstone 
 Hall. 
 
 " He'd 'tend to the niggers," he said, and he bade 
 the " Square," as he persisted in calling Frederic, 
 " not to worry at all about things to hum." 
 
 The family had scarcely been gone an hour when 
 Dinah came in quest of Ben, whom she found in 
 the parlor, drumming Yankee Doodle upon the 
 piano with one hand and whistling by way of 
 accompaniment. 
 
 " Thar was the queerest actin' man in the dinin' 
 room," she said, " and he done ax for marster, 
 and when I tole him he had gone to the 'Hio with 
 his wife, he laughed so hateful, and say how't she 
 isn't his wife, that I come for you, 'case thar's a look 
 in his eye I don't like." 
 
 " Catch him tellin' me Marian ain't a lawful 
 
BEN. 350 
 
 tvife," Said Ben, starting from the stool and hurry- 
 ing to the dining-room, where, very much intoxi- 
 cated, Rudolph McVicar was sitting. 
 
 He had landed not long before at New Orleans, 
 and coming up the river as far as Louisville had 
 stopped in that city, where he accidentally heard a 
 young man speak of Frederic's wedding party, 
 which had taken place the previous night. 
 
 " Who is the bride ?" he asked eagerly. " Is it 
 Miss Huntington ?" and the young man who knew 
 none of the particulars, and who had once heard 
 that Frederic was to marry a lady of that name, 
 replied : " Yes, I believe it is, or at all events she 
 was his governess." 
 
 Rudolph waited for no more, but started at 
 once for Redstone Hall, chuckling with delight as 
 he thought of the consternation his visit would 
 create. He did not at first recognize Ben, neither 
 did Ben know him, so bloated had he become with 
 drink, and so rough and red with exposure upon 
 the sea. 
 
 " Where is the woman they call Mrs. Ray- 
 mond ?" he asked with a sneer ; and Ben replied : 
 " Gone with her husband to Ohio." 
 
 " Her husband !" repeated Rudolph. " He isn't 
 her husband. She has no right to be his wife, and 
 I have come to tell her so." 
 
 " You say that again, if you dare !" said Ben, 
 bristling up in Marian's defense. " You say that 
 Marian ain't Frederic's lawful wife, and I'll show 
 you the door, plaguy quick. I'm boss here now." 
 
 As Ben was speaking, Rudolph remembered that 
 they had ' met before, but he scarcely heeded that, 
 so intent was he upon the name which Ben had 
 uttered. 
 
 " Marian !" he repeated, a light breaking over 
 him ; " Is not Isabel Huntington the bride ?" 
 
 "No, sir," answered Ben, snapping his fingers 
 almost in the stranger's face. " She didn't come 
 
360 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 that game, though she tried it hard enough. But 
 what do you know about it, any way ?" 
 
 " I know I've been a fool," answered Rudolph, 
 explaining, in a few words, what he had once 
 done. 
 
 " So you wrote that Sarah Green letter, you 
 scullion," returned Ben. " But it didn't do no 
 good ; and the smartest trick you ever done was 
 to sign yourself green. Ugh !" and Ben's voice was 
 quite expressive of his contempt. " I don't blame 
 you so much though," he continued, " for wantin' 
 to pester that Isabel, but you'd better let the Lord 
 'tend to such critters in his own way. He can fix 
 'em better'n we can," and Ben proceeded to give 
 an account of the accident in which Isabel's beauty 
 had probably been seriously impaired. 
 
 " I am so glad," was Rudolph's exclamation, and 
 he was proceeding further to express his malicious 
 joy, when Ben cut him short by saying : 
 
 " It don't look well to rejoice over anybody's 
 downfall ; though I'm none too friendly to the gal, 
 I shan't hear her berated, and you may as well 
 quit." 
 
 On ordinary occasions, Rudolph would have re- 
 sented any attempt at restraint, but he was too 
 intoxicated now fully to realize anything, and 
 staring vacantly at Ben, he made no reply, but 
 soon fell asleep, dozing in his chair for several 
 hours. Then, with faculties somewhat brightened, 
 he announced his intention of leaving. With an 
 immense degree of satisfaction, Ben watched him 
 as he went slowly down the avenue, saying to him- 
 self: 
 
 " Poor drunken critter, he's disappointed, I 
 s'pose, in not gettin' revenge his own way ; but I 
 don't blame her much for givin' him the mitten. 
 Wouldn't they have scratched each other's eyes 
 out, if they'd come together ! Better be as 'tis — 
 he a nervous old maid, and he in a drunkard's 
 
fefiN. 36i 
 
 gfave, where he will be mighty soon— the bloat !" 
 and having finished his soliloquy, Ben returned 
 again to his music. 
 
 Meantime, in a most unenviable frame of mind, 
 Isabel was chiding her mother for doing everything 
 wrong, and bewailing her own sad fate : 
 
 " Oh, why didn't I stay at home," she said; "and 
 so not have become the fright I know I am ?" 
 
 It was in vain that her mother bade her feel 
 thankful that her life was spared. Isabel did not 
 care for that. She thought only of her lost teeth 
 and ugly scar, and turning her face to the wall, she 
 was wishing she could die, when the woman of 
 the house came in, telling her " some friends 
 were there from Kentucky." 
 
 " Who are they ?" she asked ; but before the 
 woman could reply, a sweet voice said : 
 
 " It's me, and all us ;" and AHce's little hands 
 were tenderly pressed to Isabel's feverish brow. 
 
 Then, indeed, the haughty girl wept aloud, for she 
 knew she did not deserve this kindness either from 
 Alice or Marian, the latter of whom soon came in, 
 greeting her as pleasantly as if she had never re- 
 ceived an injury from her hands. Frederic, too, 
 was perfectly self-possessed, expressing his sym- 
 pathy for her misfortune, and with these kind 
 friends to cheer her sick room, Isabel recovered in 
 a measure her former cheerfulness. But there was 
 evidently something resting heavily upon her mind, 
 and that night, when alone with Frederic and 
 Marian, she confessed her wickedness in opening 
 the letter, and sending it back with so cruel a mes- 
 sage, 
 
 " We knew you must have done it," Frederic 
 said, at the same time assuring her of his own and 
 Marian's forgiveness. " It kept us apart for many 
 years," he continued, "but I have found her at 
 last, and love her all the more for what I have suf- 
 fered." 
 
362 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 And Isabel, when she saw the look of deep affec- 
 tion he gave to his young wife, covered her face 
 with her hands, while Marian asked " if she knew 
 of the letter from Sarah Green ?" 
 
 " No, no," she answered ; " I am innocent of 
 that," and they believed her, wondering all the 
 more whence it could have come or why it had 
 been sent. 
 
 Toward the close of the next day they took their 
 leave, cordially inviting Isabel to visit them at 
 Redstone Hall should she ever feel inclined so to 
 do. 
 
 " We will let bygones be bygones," Frederic 
 said, at parting. " You and I have both learned 
 that to deal fairly and openly is the best policy, and 
 it is to be hoped we will profit by the experience." 
 
 Isabel did not answer, but she pressed his hand, 
 and returned the kiss which both Marian and Alice 
 gave to her. As the latter was turning away she 
 detained her a moment while she whispered in her 
 ear : " Will you forgive me for that blow I gave 
 you when I thought I was about to be exposed ?" 
 
 " Yes, willingly," was the answer, and thrusting 
 the golden eagle under the pillow, Alice hurried 
 away. They found it after she was gone, and when 
 at last Isabel was able to go home, they found 
 their bills paid, too, and were at no loss to know to 
 whom they were indebted for the generous act. 
 " I do not deserve this from him of all others," 
 Isabel said, and drawing her thick veil close over 
 her face she entered the carriage which had come 
 to take them to the station. 
 
Summing up. 365 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 SUMMING UP. 
 
 It is early June, and the balmy south wind is 
 blowing soft and warm round Redstone Hall, which, 
 with its countless roses in full bloom, and its pro- 
 fusion of flowering shrubs and vines, looks won- 
 drously beautiful without, while within, the sunlight 
 of domestic peace is shining, with no cloud to dim 
 its brightness. Frederic and Marian are perfectly 
 happy, for the dark night which enshrouded them 
 so long has passed away, and the day they fancied 
 will never end has dawned upon them at last. 
 
 Ben, too, is there, ostensibly as an overseer, but 
 really as a valued friend, free to do whatever he 
 pleases, and greatly esteemed by those whom he 
 worships with a devotion bordering upon idolatry. 
 Everything pertaining to the place he calls his, and 
 Frederic hardly knows whether himself or Ben is 
 the master of Redstone Hall. The negroes ac- 
 knowledge them both, though, as is quite natural, 
 the aristocratic Higginses give the preference to 
 Frederic, while the democratic Smitherses, with 
 stammering Josh at their head, warmly advocate 
 Marster Ben, " as sayin' the curisest things and 
 singin' the drollest songs." 
 
 There is no spot in the world where Ben could be 
 so supremely happy as he is at Redstone Hall, with 
 Marian and Alice ; and when Frederic, on his re- 
 turn from Ohio, suggested his remaining there, he 
 evinced his delight in his usual way, lamenting the 
 while that his extremely tender heart would always 
 make him cry just when he did not wish to. 
 
 " I was never cut out for a nigger driver," he 
 said ; " but I guess I can coax as much out of 'em 
 
3^4 kARIAl* GREY4 
 
 as that blusterin' Warren did ;" and making his 
 visit short, he hastened back to New England, 
 where he found no difficulty in disposing of his 
 grocery, and five of his numerous family. 
 
 These last he bestowed upon different people in 
 the village, taking great care that none of them 
 should go where there were children, and numerous 
 were his injunctions that they should be well cared 
 for, and suffered to die a natural death. Marian 
 and Alice were destined for Kentucky, where they 
 were welcomed joyfully by those whose names they 
 bore. Particularly was the white one, with its 
 sightless eyes, the pet of the entire household, 
 negroes and all ; while even Bruno, who, on ac- 
 count of his recognition of Marian, was now allowed 
 more liberty than before, and was consequently far 
 less savage, took kindly to the little creature, toss- 
 ing it up in his huge paws, licking its face, and 
 sometimes coaxing it into his kennel, where it was 
 more than once found, sleeping half hidden under 
 the mastiff's shaggy mane. 
 
 Frequently on bright days can Alice and her 
 kitten be seen seated in a miniature wagon, which 
 the Yankee ingenuity of Ben had devised, and in 
 which he draws his blind pets from field to field, 
 seeking out the shadiest spot and watching all their 
 movements with a vigilance which tells how dear 
 to him was one of them at least. In all the wide 
 world there is nothing Ben Burt loves half so well 
 as the blind girl, Alice. All the fairest flowers and 
 choicest fruits are brought to her. And when he 
 sees how she enjoys them and how grateful she is 
 to him, he murmurs softly : 
 
 " Blessed bird, I b'lieve I'd be blind myself if she 
 could only see." 
 
 But Alice does not care for sight, except at 
 times, when she hears the people speak of Mrs. 
 Raymond's beauty, and wishes she could look upon 
 the face whose praises so many ring. She is very 
 
SUMMING UP. 365 
 
 happy in Frederic's and Marian's love, and happy, 
 too, with her faithful friend, Ben. 
 
 Once she hoped to improve his peculiar dialect 
 somewhat by imparting to him a greater knowl- 
 edge of books than he already possessed, and Ben, 
 willing to gratify her, waded industriously through 
 the many volumes she recommended him to read, 
 among which was "Watts on the Mind." But 
 vain were all his efforts to grasp a single idea, and 
 he returned it to Alice, saying that he " presumed it 
 was a very excitin' story to some, but blamed if he 
 could make out a word of sense from beginnin' to 
 finis. 
 
 " 'Tain't much use tryin' to make a scholar of 
 me," said he, winking at Marian, who was present. 
 " It's hard teachin' old dogs new tricks, and if I's 
 to read all there is in the Squire's library, I 
 shouldn't be no better off." 
 
 Marian thought so, too, and dropped a few well- 
 timed hints to Alice, who gradually relaxed her 
 efforts to teach one who, had he been educated, 
 would certainly not have been the simple-hearted, 
 unselfish man we know as Ben Burt. 
 
 Away to the northward among the New England 
 hills there is a forsaken grave, where the inebriate 
 Rudolph sleeps. His thirst for revenge is over, and 
 the forlorn girl who, in her mother's kitchen, washed 
 the dinner dishes for college students, just as she 
 used to when Frederic Raymond was a boarder 
 there, has nothing to dread from him. Mrs. Hunt- 
 ington's house on the river has been sold to cancel 
 the mortgage, and in the City of Elms she has re- 
 turned to her old vocation, and Isabel, with her 
 ugly scar, has scarcely a hope that among her 
 mother's boarders there will ever be found one 
 weak enough to offer her his hand. An humbled, 
 and it is to be hoped, a better woman, she derives 
 her greatest comfort from the letters which some- 
 times come to her from Marian, and which usually 
 
366 MARIAN GREY. 
 
 contain a more substantial token of regard than 
 mere words convey. 
 
 One word now of William Gordon, and our story 
 is done. Ben had claimed the privilege of writing 
 the news to him, and he did it in his characteristic 
 way, first touching upon the note which, he said, 
 was safe in his wallet and sure of being paid, then 
 launching out into glowing descriptions of Marian's 
 happiness with Frederic. 
 
 This letter was a long time in finding Will, and 
 the answer did not reach Redstone Hall until the 
 family had returned from their summer residence 
 at Riverside. Then it came to them one warm 
 November day, just as the sun was setting, and its 
 mellow rays fell upon the group assembled upon 
 the piazza. Frederic, to whom it was directed, 
 broke the seal, and read the sincere congratulations 
 A\ liich his early friend had sent to him from over 
 the sea, — read, too, that among the vine-clad hills 
 of Bingen, in a cottage looking out upon the Rhine, 
 there was a fair-haired German girl, with eyes like 
 Marian Grey's, and that when Will came back to 
 America he would not be alone. 
 
 " For this fair-haired German girl," he wrote, 
 " has promised to come with me. I have told her 
 of my former love, and when last night I read her 
 Ben's letter, the tears glistened in her eyes as she 
 whispered in her broken English tongue, ' God 
 bless sweet Marian Grey,' and I, too, Fred, from a 
 full heart respond the same, God bless sweet Mariaa 
 Grey, the Heiress of Redstone Hall." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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