University of Virginia Library

3. 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 whispered
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 comfort—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 a slender little figure
had glided noiselessly into the room and placed upon
the table behind him a waiter, filled with delicacies
which her own hand had prepared, and which she
knew from experience would be needed ere the long
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 all untouched.

And still he was as far from loving her now as he
had ever been; and on the second night, as he sat by
his sleeping father, he resolved, come what might, he
would retract the promise made under such excitement.
“When father wakes, I'll tell him I cannot,”
he said, and anxiously he watched the clock, which
pointed at last to midnight. The twelve long strokes
rang through the silent room, and with a short, quick
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 you,
my son? I cannot see.”

“Here, father—here I am,” and Frederic took in
his the shriveled 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, where the death sweat is standing, 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 have 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 essayed to speak, but the words “I
cannot” died on his lips, and again the faint voice—
fainter than when it spoke before, said, “Promise, 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.”

“And as you have made me happy, so may you be
happy and prospered all the days of your life,” returned
the father, laying his clammy hand upon the
brown hair of his son. “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 Alice—
she has money of her own, but she must still live
with you and Marian. Be kind to the servants, Frederic.
Don't part with a single one—and—and—can
you hear me, boy? Keep your promise 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 lying motionless upon the pillow,
that he was with the dead. The household was
aroused, and crowding round the door the negroes
came, 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 low
spoken words from her quieted the tumult, and those
whose services were not needed dispersed to the kitchen,
where, forgetful 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 should 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 information
being given by Lawyer Gibson, who, a little
disappointed in the result of his late visit to Redstone
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 avaricious. Still he
was now the richest man in the county, and it would
not be politic to treat him with disrespect—so they
came about him with words of sympathy and offers
of assistance, all of which he listened to abstractedly,
and when they asked for some directions as to
the arrangements for the burial, he answered, “I do
not know—I am not myself to-day—but go to Marian.
I will abide by her decision.”

So to Marian they went; and hushing her own
great grief—for she mourned for the departed as for
a well loved father—Marian told them what she
thought her guardian would wish that they should do.
It is not customary in Kentucky to keep the dead as
long as at the North, and ere the sun of the first day
was low in the west a grave was made within an enclosure
near the river side, where the cedar and the
fir were growing, and when the sun was setting, a
long procession wound slowly down the terraced walk,
bearing with them one who when they returned came
not with them, but was resting quietly where the
light from the windows of his former home could fall
upon his peaceful grave.