University of Virginia Library

6. 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, while
unseen voices seemed whispering to her, “Oh, Marian,
Marian—leave the letter still untouched. Do not
seek to know the secret it contains, but go back to the
man who is your husband, and by those gentle acts
which seldom fail in their effect, win his love. It will
be far more precious to you than all the wealth of
which you are the unsuspecting heiress.”

But Marian did not understand—nor know why it
was she trembled so. She only knew she had the
letter in her hand—her letter—the one left by her
guardian. 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 suggestive
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 intended for her eye—she
knew that now, but had the cold hand of her guardian
been interposed to wrest it from her, she would have

held it fast until she learned the whole. Like coals
of living fire, the words burned into her soul, scorching,
blistering as they burned—and when the letter
was finished she fell upon her face with a cry so full
of agony and horror that Frederic in the parlor heard
the wail of human anguish, 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, in that little room, not very
far away, poor 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 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 Frederic
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 again 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—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 of her voice was bitter and the expression of her
face hard and stony, as taking up the letter she read
for the second 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 Frederic
had probably written of her harsher things than he
really meant. She only thought, “He loathes me—
he despises 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 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 purposes
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 publicity 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
there to take the place she had hoped to fill,
they rained in torrents over her white face, and clasping
her little hands convulsively together, she cried—
“How can I give him up when I love him so much—
so much?”

Gradually there stole over her the noble, unselfish
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 was
no possibility that this letter would suggest Mrs. Burt
to Frederic, who had never seen her, she having come
and gone while he was away at school, and thus far
the project was a safe one. But her name—she might
some time be recognized by that, 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 the while 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, too, to Frederic, 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. Marian was

beautiful then in her desolation, and so Frederic Raymond
would have said, could he have seen her with
the light of her noble sacrifice of self shining in her
eyes, and the new-born, womanly expression on her
face. The first fearful burst was over, and calmly she
sat down to her task—but the storm rose high again
as she essayed to write that good-by, which would
seem to him who read it a cry of despair wrung from
a fainting heart.

“Frederic—dear Frederic,” she began, “can I—
may I say my husband once—just once—and I'll never
insult you with that name again?

“I am going away forever, Frederic, 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—fully,
freely forgive him—but you—oh, Frederic,
if I loved you less I should blame you for deceiving
me so cruelly. If you had told 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 loved 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,
Frederic. I didn't know then how you hated me.—
Wash the stain from your forehead, can't you?—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 cannot 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 cannot
be harder than bidding you good-by, and knowing it
is for ever.”

And well might Marian say this, for it seemed to
her that she dipped her pen in her very heart's blood,
when she wrote that last adieu. She folded up the
letter and directed it to Frederic—then taking another
sheet she wrote to the blind girl:

The letters finished, she left them upon the desk,
where they could not help being seen by the first one
who should enter—then stealing up the stairs to the
closet at the extremity of the hall, she put on her
bonnet, vail and shawl, and started for her purse,
which was in the chamber where Alice slept. Careful,
very careful were her footsteps now, lest she
should waken the child, who, having cried herself to
sleep, was resting quietly. 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 gazing at the little blind girl, and longing to
give her one more kiss; but she dared not, and glancing

hurriedly around the room which had been hers
so long, she hastened down the 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 withered grass and leaves near by there was
a rustling 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 savage growl sprang toward the
spot where Marian was hiding.

“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 suspected
something wrong.

One more yearning glance at Frederic—one more
tearful 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 little foot, wound her arms
round his shaggy neck, bidding him return; he only
answered with a faint whine quite as expressive of
obstinacy 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 determined
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 himself down by the handkerchief and glove,
turning his head occasionally in the direction Marian
had gone, and uttering low plaintive 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 up 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 bounding lightly upon the
platform of the rear car, entered unobserved. As the
passengers were sitting with their backs toward her,
but one or two noticed her when she came in, and
these scarce gave her a thought, as she sank into the
seat nearest to the door, and drawing her vail over
her face trembled violently lest she should be recognized,
or at least noted and remembered. But her
fears were vain, for no one there had ever seen or
heard of her—and in a moment more the train was
moving on, and she, heart-broken and alone, was taking
her bridal tour!