University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
KEEPING THE PROMISE.

Four weeks had passed away since Colonel Raymond
was laid to rest. The negroes, having finished
their mourning at the grave and at church on the
Sabbath 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 two there were who suffered 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 indeed homeless
and friendless in the wide world. From Dinah she
had heard the story of the Will, and remembering
the events of that morning 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 kept aloof, seeing her only at
the table, or when he wished to ask some question
which she alone could answer.

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 indeed been done to her, he knew it,
too, she waited in hopes that he would speak of it,

and perhaps bring her the letter. But Frederic Raymond
had sworn to keep that letter from her yet
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, with a benumbed sensation at his
heart, 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 ere they saw him again at
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 then—oh,
how he hoped it would be weeks and months before
she came, for when she did 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 subject;
but he did not, and at last, four weeks after
her guardian's death, she sought 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 between herself and Colonel Raymond on that
night when he first hinted of a wrong, she wondered
if he had said aught to Frederic of her. Most earnestly
she hoped not—and yet 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 of 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
wept.

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 friendless,
so poor,” she cried, and in that cry there was a
note of desolation which touched a chord of pity in
the heart of him who stood on the threshold of the
door, silently watching the young girl as she battled
with her stormy grief.

He did not know why he had come to that room,
and he surely would not have come had he expected
to find her there. But it could not now be helped;
he was there with her; he had witnessed her sorrow,
and involuntarily advancing toward her he laid his
hand lightly 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, which even in the darkness looked
white and worn, 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 him—your father.”

Frederic made no reply, and resolving to make a
clean breast of it, Marian continned, “There's nobody
to care for me now, and I wish you to be my brother,
just as you used to be, and if your father said any
thing 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. Will you, Frederic?” and Marian's voice
was again choked with tears.

She had stumbled upon the very subject uppermost
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,
Frederic? It's mine, you know,” and Marian looked
at him wistfully.

Frederic hesitated a moment, and misapprehending
the motive of his hesitancy, Marian continued,

“Do not fear what I may think. He 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 until you were a bride.”

“A bride!” Marian exclaimed passionately, “I
shall never be a bride—never—certainly not yours!”
and the little 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 Frederic Raymond
could almost see the angry flash of the blue eyes
turned so defiantly toward him.

Man-like he began to feel some interest now that
there was opposition, and to her exclamation “neither
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; and laying
her hand again upon the desk, she sobbed
afresh, not impetuously, this time, but steadily, as if
the crying did her good. Greatly she longed for him
to 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 demand 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 Raymond
felt 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—do—would you
have thought of it if your father had not first suggested
it?”

“Marian,” said Frederic, “I am much older than
yourself, and I might never have thought of marrying
you. He, however, gave me good reasons why I
should wish to have it so—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 another
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 strongly 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”

He spoke with earnestness, for he knew he was deceiving

the young girl, and in his inmost soul he determined
to repair the wrong by learning to love her,
as she said:

“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—soon, very soon.”

“Won't you ever come back?” asked Marian, with
childish simplicity; but ere Frederic could answer,
the door suddenly 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 setting
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 Kentuck, 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 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, stealing
to the bedside, she whispered, “Alice, Alice, wake up
a moment, will you?”

Alice turned on her pillow, and when sure she was
awake, Marian said impetuously, “If you were me,
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?”

For a moment Marian forgot that the sightless 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 Raymond 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 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.
Ain't he stuck up, and don't he know a heap more
than you?”

“Yes, but I can learn,” answered Marian, 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 me, 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 mournfully, a
dim foreboding as it were of her dark future rising
up before her. “I can't sew—I don't know enough
to teach, and I couldn't do 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 was the affair amicably adjusted between the
two, and when at the breakfast table she met with

Frederic, she was ready to answer his question; 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 resolved 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 confidingly upon
his, she said, “I will marry you, Frederic, if you wish
me to.”

A strange enigma is human nature. When the
previous night she had hesitated to answer, Frederic
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; she only saw how
he shook off her hand without even so much as touching
it, and all the novels she had ever read would
surely have sanctioned so modest a proceeding as
that! But novels, she reflected, were not true, and
as she was an actor in real life, she must accept
whatever that life might bring. Still she was not
quite satisfied, and when Frederic, 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 bursting into tears she
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 accustomed
to love-making, and the character would not suit me
now when my heart is so full of sorrow 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 satisfied with this, and wait patiently
for the time when I can show you that I love you.”

His manner both frightened and fascinated Marian,
and she answered through her tears, “I will be satisfied,
and wait.”

Frederic knew well that Marian was too much of
a child to manage the affair, and after his interview
with her, he sought out Dinah, to whom he announced
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 wedding 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, boiling over
with the news, hastened to the kitchen, where she
was soon surrounded by an astonished and listening
audience, the various members of which were affected
differently, just according to their different ideas
of what “marster Frederic'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 aristocratic

Higginses was waged many a fierce battle, which was
usually decided by old Dinah, who, having belonged
to another family still, “thanked the Lord that she
was neither a Higginses nor a Smitherses, but was
a peg or so above such low-lived truck as them.”

On this occasion the announcement of Master Frederic'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 wonderful 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 'customed 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 anticipated
by stuttering Josh, the most mischievous spirit
of all the Smithers clan. Quick as thought the active
boy removed the chair where she expected to land,
pushing into its place an overflowing slop-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
with difficulty she extricated herself from her position
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 'll catch
sunthin' a heap wus than dirty dishwater.”

But Dinah's threat was unnecessary, for with Hetty's
downfall the star of the Higginses set, leaving
that of the Smitherses still in the ascendant!

Meantime Marian was confiding to Alice the story
of her engagement, and wondering if Frederic intended
taking a bridal tour. She hoped he did, for she so
much wished to see a little of the world, particularly
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 off and enjoy themselves, so they had better
stay quietly at home. And this settled the point, for
Marian never thought of questioning his decision. If
they made no journey, she would not need any additions
to her wardrobe, 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 without 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 the dress could not both be bought,
and when she considered this, Marian generously gave
up the latter for the sake of pleasing the blind girl.

Among her dresses was a neat, white 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 almost seem
ominous of evil.

And so the childish bride elect made her simple arrangements,
unassisted by any one save Dinah and
the 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 was gwine to the gallus. Me
and Phil didn't act that way when he was settin' to
me—but I 'spect they've done got some new fangled
way of courtin' jest as they hev for everything else—
but I'm satisfied with the old fashion, and I wish
them fetch—ed Yankees would mind their 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 Redstone
Hall, but these only came to go away again, and
comment on Frederic's strange taste in marrying one
so young, and so wholly unlike himself. It could
not be, they said, that he had really cared about the
Will, else why had he so soon taken Marian 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 speculations of friends, the gossip
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 once more a mistress.