University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
MARIAN.

The deacon and his family had now been residents at
Glen's Creek nearly three months. Already was the leafy
month of June verging into sultry July, when George
Wilder at length found time to carry out a plan long before
formed. It was to visit Marian, and if he found her
all which as a child she had promised to be, he would win
her for himself.

Soon after the early sun had touched the hill tops as
with a blaze of fire, George mounted his favorite steed,
and taking Jake with him for a companion, turned into
the woods and took the lonely road to Lexington. Leaving

them for a moment, we will press on and see Marian's
home.

It was a large, double log building, over which the
flowering honeysuckle and dark green hop-vine had been
trained until they formed an effectual screen. The yard
in front was large, and much taste had been displayed in
the arrangement of the flowers and shrubs which were
scattered through it. Several large forest trees had been
left standing, and at one end of the yard, under a clump
of honey-locusts, a limpid stream of water, now nearly dry,
went dancing over the large flat limestones which lay at
the bottom. In the rear of the house was the garden,
which was very large, and contained several bordered
walks, grassy plats, and handsome flower-beds, besides vegetables
of all descriptions. At the end of the garden, and
under the shadows of the woods, was a little summer-house,
over which a wild grape-vine had been taught to
twine its tendrils.

In this summer-house, on the morning of which we are
speaking, was a beautiful young girl, Marian Gorton. We
have not described her, neither do we intend to, for she
was not as beautiful as heroines of stories usually are;
but, reader, we will venture that she was as handsome as
any person you have ever seen, for people were handsomer
in those days than they are now,— at least our grand-parents
tell us so. Neither have we told her age, although
we are sure that we have somewhere said enough on that
point to have you know, by a little calculation, that Marian
was now eighteen.

This morning, as she sits in the summer-house, her brow
is resting on her hand, and a shadow is resting on her
brow. Had Marian cause for sorrow? None, except
that her cousin Robert, who had recently returned from
England, had that morning offered her his hand and been

partially refused. Yet why should Marian refuse him,
whom many a proud lady in the courtly halls of England
would not refuse? Did she remember one who, years
ago, in the green old woods of Virginia, awakened within
her childish heart a feeling, which, though it might have
slumbered since, was still there in all its freshness? Yes,
she did remember him, although she struggled hard to
conquer each feeling that was interwoven with a thought
of him. Nearly three months he had been within twenty
miles of her, and yet no word or message had been received,
and Marian's heart swelled with resentment toward
the young man, whose fleet steed even then could
scarce keep pace with his master's eager wishes to press
onward.

From her earliest childhood she had looked upon Robert
as a brother, and now that he was offered as a husband,
her heart rebelled, although pride occasionally
whispered, “Do it,—marry him,—then see what George
Wilder will say;” but Marian had too much good sense
long to listen to the promptings of pride, and the shadow
on her face is occasioned by a fear that she had remembered
so long and so faithfully only to find herself uncared
for and forgotten.

Meantime, the sound of horses' feet near her father's
house had brought to the fence half a dozen negroes and
half as many dogs, all ready in their own way to welcome
the new comers. After giving his horse in charge of the
negroes, George proceeded to the house, where he
was cordially received by Mrs. Gorton, who could scarcely
recognize the school-boy George, in the tall, fine looking
young man before her. Almost his first inquiry was
for Marian. Mrs. Gorton did not know where she was,
but old Sukey, who had known George in Virginia, now
hobbled in, and after a few tears, and a great many

“Lor' bless you's,” and inquiries about “old Virginny,”
she managed to tell him that Marian was in the garden,
and that she would call her; but George prevented her,
saying he would go himself.

Most of my readers have doubtless either witnessed or
experienced meetings similar to that which took place between
George and Marian, so I shall not describe it, but
shall leave it for the imagination, which will probably do
it better justice than can my pen, which comes very near
the point of being used up. We will only say, that when
at twelve o'clock Mr. Gorton and Robert returned from
a ride, George and Marian were still in the summer-house,
unmindful of the sun which looked in upon them as if to
tell them of his onward course. But then, the question
that morning asked and answered, was of great importance,
so 'twas no wonder that they were alike deaf and
blind to the little darkies, who on tip-toe crept behind
the summer-house, eager to know “what the strange gentleman
could be saying to Miss Marian, which made her
look so speckled and roasted like.” These same hopefuls,
when at dinner time they were sent for their young
mistress, commenced a general hunt, which finally terminated
in the popping of their woolly heads into the summer-house
door, exclaiming between breaths, “Oh, Miss
Marian, here you is. We 've looked for you every whar!
Come to your dinner.” On their way to the house they
encountered old Sukey, who called out, “Ho, Mas' George,
—'specs mebby you found Miss Marry-'em,” at the same
time shaking her sides at her own wit.

Mr. Gorton received his young friend with great cordiality,
but there was a cool haughtiness in the reception
which Robert at first gave his old playmate. He suspected
the nature of George's visit, nor did Marian's bright, joyous
face tend in the least to allay his suspicions. But not

long could he cherish feelings of resentment toward
one whom he liked so well as he had George Wilder. In
the course of an hour his reserve wore off, and unless
George should chance to see this story,—which is doubtful,—he
will probably never know how bitter were the
feelings which his presence for a few moments stirred in
the heart of Robert Hunting. Before George returned
home, he asked Marian of her father, and also won from
her a promise that, ere the frosts of winter came, her
home should be with him, and by his own fireside.