University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
MARIAN.

Onward and onward—faster and faster flew the
night Express, and the wishes of nearly all the passengers
kept pace with the speed. One there was, however,
a pale-faced, blue-eyed girl, who 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 every
body had been kind to her, and asked her where she
wished to go; until now the last dreadful change was
made—the blue 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 flowers sweet again. Nervously she shrank
from observation—and once, when a lady behind her,
who saw that she was weeping, touched her shoulder
and said, “What is the matter, little 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 confusion of the
larger cities, “Is New York a heap noisier than Albany
or Buffalo?”

“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,”
sobbed Marian, her tears falling fast at words of sympathy.

The lady was greatly interested in the child, as she
thought her, and had she been going to New York
would have still befriended her, but she left at Newburgh,
and Marian was again alone. She had heard
much of New York, but she had no conception of it—
and when at last she was there, and followed a group
through the depot up to Broadway, her head grew
dizzy and her brain whirled with the deafening roar.
Cincinnati, Louisville, Buffalo 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 raised her eyes meekly and
asked where “Mrs. Daniel Burt lived?”

The question was too preposterous to be heeded,
even if it were heard, and the lady moved on, leaving
Marian as ignorant as ever of Mrs. Burt's whereabouts.
To two or three other ladies the same question
was put, but Mrs. Daniel Burt was evidently not
generally known in New York, for no one paid the
slightest attention—except indeed to hold tighter their
purse-strings, as if there were danger to be apprehended
from the slender little figure which extended its
ungloved hand so imploringly. After a time, a woman
from the country, who had not yet been through
the hardening process, listened 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 opposite to Trinity Church, she sank down upon
the step, and drawing her vail over her face, half
wished that she might die and be buried there in the
enclosure where she saw the November sunshine
falling 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, wondering
what every body was going down that street for, and
why they came back so quick! Then she tried to
count the omnibuses, thinking to herself, “Somebody's
dead up town, and this is the procession.” The
deceased must have been a person of distinction, 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! Poor Marian!
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, 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 loaded
omnibus, and then rushed higher up to a more favorable
locality.

“The funeral was over,” she said. The omnibusses
were most all 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. “Nobody, I am sure, will hurt
me there,” and she glanced confidingly at the massive
walls which were 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
omnibus drivers swore louder and longer—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 herself 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,
throwing back her vail, she half rose to her feet, when
a tall, disagreeable looking fellow bent over her 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 exceedingly
repulsive, but when he repeated his question, she answered
timidly, “I want to find Mrs. Daniel Burt.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs Daniel Burt. I know the old lady
well—lives just round the corner. Come with me and
I'll show you the way,” and the great red, rough hand
was about to touch the little slender white one resting
on Marian's lap, when a blow from a brawny fist
sent the rascal reeling upon the pavement, while a
round, 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 companion 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 everybody else is goin'
hum?”

Marian felt intuitively that he could be trusted, and
she sobbed aloud, “I havn'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 any way 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.”

“Three miles!” repeated Marian, “that other man
said just around the corner. What made him tell
such a lie?”

“Yeu 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 she 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 personal 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 and whence
she came, but he refrained asking her any questions,
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,” said he, and following whither he led, Marian
was soon climbing 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 cheerful
blazing fire, which was disclosed to view 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-covered 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 little, just a little, and bounding
toward the woman, she cried, “You don't know me,
I suppose. I am Marian Lindsey, Colonel Raymond's
ward.”

Mrs. Burt, for it was she, came near dropping her
plate of buttered toast in her surprise, and setting it
down upon the hearth, she exclaimed, “The last person
upon 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 choking
sob and replied: “Colonel Raymond is dead, and Frederic—oh,
Mrs. Burt, please don't ask me about him
now, or I shall surely 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 villain,” 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, soothingly.
“Take off your things and have some supper;
you must be hungry, I'm sure. How long is it since
you ate?”

“Oh, I don't know,” answered Marian, a death-like
paleness overspreading her face; “not since yesterday,
I reckon. Where am I? Everything is so
confused!” and overcome with hunger, exhaustion
and her late fright, Marian fainted in her chair.

Taking her in his arms as if she had been an infant,
Ben carried her to the spare room, which, in accordance
with her New England habits, Mrs. Burt always
kept for company, and there on the softest of all soft
beds he laid her down; then, while his mother removed
her bonnet and shawl, he ran for water and
camphor, chafing with his own rough fingers her little
clammy hands, and bathing her forehead until Marian
came back to consciousness.

“There, swaller some cracker and tea, and you'll
feel better directly,” said Mrs. Burt; and, like a very
child, Marian obeyed, feeling that there was something
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-morrow,” 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 soft, regular
breathing told that she was asleep, and taking the
lamp in his hand, the curious Ben stole 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 with his great hand he brushed
her tears away, and then went noiselessly out, leaving
her to her slumbers.

It was a deep, dreamless sleep which came to Marian
that night, for her strength was utterly exhausted, and
in the atmosphere of kindness surrounding her, there
was something soothing to her irritated nerves. But
when the morning broke and the roar of the waking
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 ache so?”

Full soon she remembered what it was, and burying
her face in the pillows, she wept again bitterly, wondering
what they were doing far away 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 be still
and rest. But this it was impossible for Marian to do.
She could not lie there in that little room and listen
to the din which began to produce upon her the same
dizzy, bewildering 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 away—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 unhesitatingly told them everything, interrupted
occasionally 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'll walk in here and claim her.”

This picture was not a displeasing one to Marian,
who through her tears smiled gratefully upon Ben,
mentally resolving that should she ever be mistress of
Redstone Hall she should remember him. And thus
it was arranged that Marian Grey, as she chose to be
called, should remain where she was, for a time at
least, and if no husband came for her, she should 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 feelings than the widow and her son.
Particularly was this true of Ben, who in his treatment
of Marian only acted out the impulse of 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
factories, and though now home on a visit, he was
still connected with one in Ware, Mass. Very carefully
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, laying her
hand caressingly on the head of 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 know if he were sorry that she
was gone. This feeling Mrs. Burt did not seek to discourage,
for though she was learning fast 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, making her haggard and pale, and writing
lines of care upon her childish face.

That night there came to Marian 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, with burning cheeks and fast-beating
heart, 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—back to Frederic. He's sent for me—
see!” and she pointed out to Mrs. Burt the advertisement.
“Can I go to-night?” she continued. “Is
there a train? Oh, I am so glad.”

Mrs. Burt, however, was more moderate in her feelings.
Mr. Raymond could scarcely do less than advertise,
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 felt sure she would meet, should she return to
Redstone 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 Marian's
ear; but, after her past experience, she did not care
to thrust herself upon him, unless sure that he wished
it, and concluded to follow Mrs. Burt's advice. So
she sat down and wrote to him a second letter, telling
him where she was, and how she came there, and
asking him in her child-like way, 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 may be, 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 tired 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 to him cheerfully all her fortune—that she neither
blamed his father, nor himself, nor Isabel, nor anybody.
All she asked was to come back!

Poor little Marian! The pain in her heart was not
so intense, and the noise in the street easier to bear
after sending that letter, for hope softened them both,
and whispered to her, “he'll let me come,” and in a
thousand different ways she pictured the meeting between
herself and Frederic. Occasionally the thought
intruded itself upon her, “what if he bids me 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, who was very susceptible to female
charms, believed it, too, and the thought of it was like
a ray of sunshine in the dingy, noisome room where
all day he worked, sometimes reckoning 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
dirty 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 noisy factory, waits also for a
message which shall say she has gone, and his mother
is again alone, the letter travels on, and one pleasant
afternoon, when the clerk at Cincinnati makes up the
mail for Frankfort, he puts that important missive with
the rest and sends it on its way.