University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
ISABEL HUNTINGTON.

All day and all night it rained with a steady, unrelenting
pour, and when the steamboat which plies between
Cincinnati and Frankfort stopped at the latter
place, two ladies from the lower deck looked drearily
over the city, one frowning impatiently at the mud
and the rain, while the other wished in her heart that
she was safely back in her old home, and had never
consented to this foolish trip. This wish, however, she
dared not express to her companion, who, though calling
her mother, was in reality the mistress—the one
whose word was law, and to whose wishes everything
else must bend.

“This is delightful,” the younger lady exclaimed,
as holding up her fashionable traveling dress, and
glancing ruefully at her thin kid gaiters, she prepared
to walk the plank. “This is charming. I wonder if
they always have such weather in Kentucky.”

“No, Miss, very seldom, 'cept on strordinary 'casions,”
said the polite African, who was holding an
umbrella over her head, and who felt bound to defend
his native State.

The lady tossed her little bonnet proudly, and turning
to her mother, continued: “Have you any idea
how we are to get to Redstone Hall?”

At this question an old gray-haired negro, who, with
several other idlers, was standing near, came forward
and said, “If it's Redstone Hall whar Miss wants to

go, I's here with Marster Frederic's carriage. I come
to fotch a man who's been out thar tryin' to buy a
house of marster in Louisville.”

At this announcement the face of both ladies brightened
perceptibly, and pointing out their baggage to
the negro, who was none other than our old friend Uncle
Phil, they went to a public house to wait until the
carriage came round for them.

“What do you suppose Frederic will think when he
sees us?” the mother asked; and the daughter replied,
“He won't think anything, of course. It is perfectly
proper that we should visit our relations, particularly
when we are as near to them as Dayton, and they are
in affliction, too. He would have been displeased if
we had returned without giving him a call.”

From these remarks the reader will readily imagine
that the ladies in question were Mrs. Huntington and
her daughter Isabella. They had decided at last to
visit Dayton, and had started for that city a few days
after the receipt of Frederic's letter announcing his
father's death: consequently they knew nothing of the
marriage, and the fact that Colonel Raymond was dead
only increased Isabel's desire to visit Redstone Hall,
for she rightly guessed that Frederic was now so absorbed
in business that it would be long ere he came
to New Haven again; so she insisted upon coming,
and as she found her Ohio aunt not altogether agreeable,
she had shortened her visit there, and now with
her mother sat waiting at the Mansion House for the
appearance of Phil and the carriage. That Isabel was
beautiful was conceded by every one, and that she was
as treacherous as beautiful was conceded by those who
knew her best. Early in life she had been engaged to
Rudolph McVicar, a man of strong passions, an iron
will and indomitable perseverance. But when young
Raymond came, and she fancied she could win him,
she unhesitatingly broke her engagement with Rudolph,
who, stung to madness by her cold, unfeeling
conduct, swore to be revenged. This threat, however,

was little heeded by the proud beauty. If she secured
Frederic Raymond, she would be above all danger,
and she bent every energy to the accomplishment of
her plan. She knew that the Kentuckians were proverbial
for their hospitality, and feeling sure that no
one would think it at all improper for her mother and
herself to visit their cousin, as she called Frederic, she
determined, if possible, to prolong that visit until asked
to stay with him always. He had never directly talked
to her of love, consequently she felt less delicacy
in going to his house and claiming relationship with
him; so when Phil came around with the carriage, she
said to him, quite as a matter of course, “How
is Cousin Frederic since his father's death?”

“Jest tolable, thankee,” returned the negro, at the
same time saying, “Be you marster's kin?”

“Certainly,” answered Isabel, while the negro bowed
low, for any one related to his master was a person
of distinction to him.

Isabel had heard Frederic speak of Marian, and
when they were half way home, she put her head from
the window and said to Phil, “Where is the young
girl who used to live with Colonel Raymond—Marian
was her name, I think?”

“Bless you,” returned the negro, cracking his whip
nervously, “haint you hearn how she done got married
to marster mighty nigh three weeks ago?”

“Married! Frederic Raymond married!” screamed
Isabel; “it is not true. How dare you tell me such a
falsehood?”

“Strue as preachin', and a heap truer than some
on't, for I seen 'em joined with these very eyes,” said
Phil, and, glancing backward at the white face leaning
from the window, he muttered, “'spects mebby she
calkerlated on catchin' him herself. Ki, wouldn't she
and Dinah pull har though. Thar's a heap of Ole Sam
in them black eyes of hern,” and, chirruping to his
horses, Philip drove rapidly on, thinking he wouldn't

tell her that the bride had run away—he would let
Frederic do that.

Meantime, Isabel, inside, was choking—gasping—
crying—wringing her hands and insisting that her
mother should ask the negro again if what he had told
them were so.

“Man—sir”—said Mrs. Huntington, putting her
bonnet out into the rain, “is Mr. Frederic Raymond
really married to that girl Marian?”

“Yes, as true as I am sittin' here. Thursday'll be
three weeks since the weddin',” was the reply, and
with another hysterical sob, Isabel laid her head in her
mother's lap.

Nothing could exceed her rage, mortification and
disappointment, except, indeed, her pride, and this
was stronger than all her other emotions and that
which finally roused her to action. She would not
turn back now, she said. She would brave the villain
and show him that she did not care. She would put
herself by the side of his wife and let him see the contrast.
She had surely heard from him that Marian
was plain, and in fancy, she saw how she would overshadow
her rival and make Frederic feel keenly the
difference between them, and then she thought of the
discarded Rudolph. If everything else should fail, she
could win him back—he had some money, and she
would rather be his wife than nobody's!

By this time they had left the highway, for Redstone
Hall was more than a mile from the turnpike, and Isabel
found ample opportunity for venting her ill-nature.
Such a road as that she never saw before, and she'd
like to know if folks in Kentucky lived out in the lots.
“No wonder they were such heathen! you nigger,” she
exclaimed, as Phil drove through a brook; “are you
going to tip us over, or what?”

“Wonder if she 'spects a body is gwine round the
brook,” muttered Phil, and as the carriage wheels were
now safe from the water, he stopped and said to the
indignant lady, “mebby Miss would rather walk the

rest of the way. Thar's a heap wus places in the
cornfield, whar we'll be pretty likely to get oversot.”

“Go on,” snapped Isabel, who knew she could not
walk quite as well as the mischievous driver.

Accordingly they went on, and ere long came in
sight of the house which even in that drenching rain
looked beautiful to Isabel, and all the more beautiful
because she felt that she had lost it. On the piazza
little Alice stood, her fair hair blowing over her face,
and her ear turned to catch the first sound which
should tell her if what she hoped were true. Old
Dinah, who saw the carriage in the distance, had said
there was some one in it, and instantly Alice thought
of Marian, and going out upon the piazza, she waited
impatiently until Phil drove up to the door.

“There are four feet,” she said, as the strangers
came up the steps; “four feet, but none are Marian's,”
and she was turning sadly away, when she
accidentally trod upon the long skirt of Isabel, who,
snatching it away, said angrily, “child, what are you
doing—stepping on my dress?”

“I didn't mean to; I'm blind,” answered Alice, her
lip quivering and her eyes filling with tears.

“Never you mind that she dragon,” whispered
Uncle Phil, thrusting into the child's hand a paper of
candy, which had the effect of consoling her somewhat,
both for her disappointment and her late reproof.

“Who is that ar?” asked Dinah, appearing upon
the piazza just as Isabel passed into the hall. “Some
of marster's kin!” she repeated after Uncle Phil.
“For the Lord's sake, what fotched 'em here this rainy
day, when we's gwine to have an ornery dinner—
no briled hen, nor turkey, nor nothin'. Be they
quality, think?”

“'Spects the young one wants to be, if she ain't,”
returned Phil, with a very expressive wink, which
had the effect of enlightening Dinah with regard to
his opinion.

“Some low flung truck, I'll warrant,” said she, as

she followed them into the parlor, where Isabel's
stately bearing and glittering black eyes awed her
into a low courtesy, as she said: “You're very welcome
to Redstone Hall, I'm sure. Who shall I tell
marster wants to see him?”

“Two ladies, simply,” was Isabel's haughty answer,
and old Dinah departed, whispering to herself, “Two
ladies simple! She must think I know nothin' 'bout
grarmar to talk in that kind of way, but she's mistakened.
I hain't lived in the fust families for nothin',”
and knocking at Frederic's door, she told him
that “two simple ladies was down in the parlor and
wanted him.”

“Who?” he asked, in some surprise, and Dinah
replied:

“Any way, that's what she said—the tall one, with
great black eyes jest like coals of fire. Phil picked
'em up in Frankford, whar they got off the boat.
They's some o' yer kin they say.”

Frederic did not wish to hear any more, for he suspected
who they were. It was about this time they
had talked of visiting Dayton, and motioning Dinah
from the room, he pressed his hands to his forehead,
and thought, “Must I suffer this, too? Oh, why did
she come to look at me in my misery?” Then, forcing
an unnatural calmness, he started for the parlor,
where, as he had feared, he stood face to face with
Isabel Huntington.

She was very pale, and in her black eyes there was
a hard, dangerous expression, from which he gladly
turned away, addressing first her mother, who, rising
to meet him, said:

“We have accepted your invitation, you see.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied, and he was trying to
stammer out a welcome, when Isabel, who all the time
had been aching to pounce upon him, chimed,

“Where is Mrs. Raymond? I am dying to see my
new cousin” and in the eyes of black there was a reddish

gleam, as if they might ere long emit sparks of
living fire.

“Mrs. Raymond!” repeated Frederic, the name
dropping slowly from his lips. “Mrs. Raymond!
Oh! Isabel, don't you know? Havn't you heard?”'

“Certainly I have,” returned the young lady,
watching him as a fierce cat watches his helpless
prey. “Of course I have heard of your marriage, and
have come to congratulate you. Is your wife well?”

Frederic raised his hand to stop the flippant speech,
and when it finished he rejoined: “But havn't you
heard the rest—the saddest part of all? Marian is
dead!—drowned—at least we think she must be, for
she went away on our wedding night, and no trace of
her can be found.”

The fiery gleam was gone from the black eyes—the
color came back to the cheeks—the finger nails ceased
their painful pressure upon the tender flesh—the shadow
of a smile dimpled the corner of the mouth, and
Isabel was herself again.

“Dead! Drowned!” she exclaimed. “How did it
happen? What was the reason? Dreadful, isn't it?”
and going over to where Mr. Raymond stood, she
looked him in the face, with an expression she meant
should say, “I am sorry for you,” but which really
did say something quite the contrary.

“I cannot tell you why she went away,” Frederic
answered, “but there was a reason for it, and it has
cast a shadow over my whole life.”

“Marian was a mere child, I had always supposed,”
suggested Isabel, anxious to get at the reason why he
had so soon forgotten herself.

“Did you get my last letter—the one written to
you?” asked Frederic, and upon Isabel's replying that
she did not, he briefly stated a few facts concerning
his marriage, saying it was his father's dying request,
and he could not well avoid doing as he had done,
even if he disliked Marian. “But I didn't dislike her,”
he continued, and the hot blood rushed into his face.

“She was a gentle, generous hearted girl, and had she
lived, I would have made her happy.”

If by this speech Frederic Raymond thought to deceive
Isabel Huntington, he was mistaken, for, looking
into his eyes she read a portion of the truth and knew
there was something back of all—a something between
himself and his father which had driven him
to the marriage. What it was she did not care then
to know. She was satisfied that the bride was gone—
and when Frederic narrated more minutely the particulars
of her going, the artful girl said to herself,
`She is dead beyond a doubt, and when I leave Redstone
Hall, I shall know it, and mother, too!”

It was strange how rapidly Isabel changed from a
hard, defiant woman, to a soft, sparkling, beautiful
creature, and when, in her plaid silk dress of crimson
and brown, with her magnificent hair bound in heavy
braids about her head, she came down to dinner, Aunt
Dinah involuntarily dropped another courtesy, and
whispered under her teeth, “The Lord, if she ain't
quality after all.” Old Hetty, too, who from a side
door looked curiously in at their guests, received a
like impression, pronouncing her more like Miss Beatrice
than any body she had ever seen. To Alice,
Isabel was all gentleness, for she readily saw that the
child was a pet; so she called her darling and dearest,
smoothing her fair hair and kissing her once when
Frederic was looking on. All this, however, did not
deceive the little blind girl, or erase from her mind
the angry words which had been spoken to her, and
that evening, when she went to Frederic to bid him
good night, she climbed into his lap and said: “Is that
Miss Isabel going to stay here always?”

“Why, no,” he answered. “Did you think she
was?”

“I did not know,” returned Alice, “but I hoped
not, for I don't like her at all. She's very grand and
beautiful, Dinah says, but I think she must look like
a snake, and I want her to go away, don't you?”

Frederic would not say yes to this question, and he
remained silent. Had he been consulted, he would
rather that she had never come to Redstone Hall, but
now that she was there, he did not wish her away. It
would be inhospitable, he said, and when next morning
she came down to breakfast, bright, fresh and elegant
in her tasteful wrapper, he felt a pang, as he
thought, “had I done right, she might have been the
mistress of Redstone Hall,” but it could not be now, he
said, even if Marian were dead, and all that day he
struggled manfully between his duty and his inclination,
while Isabel dealt out her highest card, ingrafting
herself into the good graces of the Smitherses by
speaking to them pleasant, familiar words, exalting
herself in the estimation of the Higginses by her lofty,
graceful bearing, and winning Dinah's friendship by
praising Victoria Eugenia, and asking if that fine
looking man who drove the carriage was her husband.
Then, in the evening, when the lamps were lighted in
the parlor, she opened the piano and filled the house
with the rich melody of her cultivated voice, singing a
sad, plaintive strain, which reminded Alice of poor,
lost Marian, and carried Frederic back to other days,
when, with a feeling of pride, he had watched her
snowy fingers as they gracefully swept the keys. He
could not look at them now—he dared not look at
her, in her ripe glowing beauty, and he left the room,
going out upon the piazza, where he wiped great
drops of sweat from his face, and almost cursed the
fate which had made it a sin for him to love the dark-haired
Isabel. She knew that he was gone, and rightly
divining the cause, she dashed off into a stirring
dancing tune, which brought the negroes to the door,
where they stood admiring her playing and praising
her queenly form.

“That's somethin' like it,” whispered Hetty, beating
time to the lively strain. “That sounds like Miss Beatrice
did when she done played the pianner. I 'clare
for't, I eenamost wish Marster Frederic had done

chose her. 'Case you know t'other one done drowned
herself the fust night,” she added quickly, as she met
Dinah's rebuking glance.

Dinah admired Isabel, but she could not forget Marian;
though like her sex, whether black or brown,
she speculated upon the future, when “Marster Frederic
would be done mournin',” and she wondered if
“old miss,” meaning Mrs. Huntington, would think it
necessary to stay there, too. Thus several days went
by, and so pleasant was it to Frederic to have some
one in the house who could divert him from his
gloomy thoughts, that he began to dread the time
when he would be alone again. But could he have
looked into the heart of the fair lady, he would have
seen no immediate cause of alarm. Isabel did not
intend to leave her present quarters immediately, and
to this end her plans were laid. From what she had
heard she believed Marian Lindsey was dead, and if
so, she would not again trust Frederic away from
her influence. Redstone Hall needed a head—a housekeeper—and
as her mother was an old lady, and also
a relative of Frederic, she was just the one to fill
that post. Their house in New Haven was only rented
until March, and by writing to some friends they
could easily dispose of their furniture until such time
as they might want it. Alice needed a governess, for
she heard Frederic say so; and though the little pest
(this was what she called her, to herself) did not seem
to like her, she could teach her as well as any one. It
would be just as proper for her to be Alice's governess
as for any one else, and a little more so, for her
mother would be with her.

And this arrangement she brought about with the
most consummate skill, first asking Frederic if he
knew of any situation in Kentucky which she could
procure as a teacher. That was one object of her visit,
she said. She must do something for a living, and as
she would rather teach either in a school, or in a private
family, she would be greatly obliged to him if he

would assist her a little. Hardly knowing what he
was doing, Frederic said something about Alice's
having needed a governess for a long time; and
quickly catching at it, Isabel rejoined, “Oh! but you
know I couldn't possibly remain here, unless mother
staid with me. Now, if you'll keep her as a kind
of overseer-in-general of the house, I'll gladly undertake
the charge of dear little Alice's education. She
does not fancy me, I think, but I'm sure I can win her
love. I can that of almost any one—children I mean,
of course;” and the beautiful, fascinating eyes looked
out of the window quite indifferently, as if their owner
were utterly oblivious of the fierce struggle in Frederic's
bosom.

He wished her to stay with him—oh, so much! But
was it right? and would he not get to loving her?
No, he would not, he said. He would only think of
her as his cousin—his sister, whose presence would
cheer his solitary home. So he bade her stay, and she
bade her mother stay, urging so many reasons why she
should, and must, that the latter consented at last, and
a letter was dispatched to New Haven, with directions
for having their furniture packed away, and their house
given up to its owner. This arrangement at first
caused some gossip among the neighbors, who began
to predict what the end would be, and, also, to assert
more loudly than ever their belief that Marian was not
dead. Still, there was no reason why Isabel should
not be Alice's governess, particularly as her mother
was with her; and when Agnes Gibson pronounced
her beautiful, accomplished, and just the thing, the
rest followed in the train, and the health of the “northern
beauty” was drunk by more than one fast young
man.

In the kitchen at Redstone Hall there was also a
discussion, in which the Higginses rather had the preference,
inasmuch as the lady in question was after
their manner of thinking. Old Dinah wisely kept silent,
saying to herself, “a new broom sweeps clean,

and I'll wait to see what 'tis when it gets a little wore.
One thing is sartin, though, if she goes to put on ars,
and sasses us colored folks, I'll gin her a piece of my
mind. I'll ask her whar she come from, and how many
niggers she owned afore she come from thar.”

It was several days before Alice was told of the arrangement,
and then she rebelled at once. Bursting
into tears, she hid her face in Dinah's lap, and sobbed,
“I can't learn of her. I don't like her. What shall
I do?”

“I wish to goodness I had larning',” answered Dinah,
“and I'd hear you say that foolishness 'bout the
world's turnin' round and makin' us stan' on our heads
half the time, but I hain't, and if I's you I'd make the
best on't. I'll keep my eye on her, and if she makes
you do the fust thing you don't want to, I'll gin her a
piece of my mind. I ain't afraid on her. Why, Gibson's
niggers say how they hearn Miss Agnes say she
used to make her own bed whar she came from, and
wash dishes, too! Think o' that!”

Thus comforted, Alice dried her tears, and hunting
up the books from which she had once recited to Marian,
she declared herself ready for her lessons at any
time.

“Let it be to-morrow, then,” said Isabel, who knew
that Frederic was going to Lexington, and that she
could not see him even if she were not occupied with
Alice.

So, the next morning, after Frederic was gone, Alice
went to the school-room, and drawing her little chair
to Isabel's side, laid her books upon the lady's lap, and
waited for her to begin.

“You must read to me,” she said, “until I know
what 'tis, and then I'll recite it to you.”

But Isabel was never intended for a teacher, and she
found it very tedious reading the same thing over and
over, particularly as Alice seemed inattentive and not
at all inclined to remember. At last she said, impatiently,

“For the pity's sake how many more times
must I read it. Can't you learn anything?”

“Dont—don't speak so,” sobbed Alice. “I'm thinking
of Marian, and how she used to be with me. It's
just six weeks to-day since she went away. Oh, I
wish she'd come back. Do you believe she's dead?”

Isabel was interested in anything concerning Marian,
and closing the book, she began to question the child,
asking her among other things, if Marian did not leave
a letter for Mr. Raymond, and if she knew what was
in it.”

“No one knows,” returned the child; “he never
told—but here's mine,” and drawing from her bosom
the soiled note, she passed it to Isabel, who scrutinized
it closely, particularly the handwriting.

“Of course she's dead, or she would have been heard
from ere this,” said she, passing the note back to Alice,
who, not feeling particularly comforted, made but little
progress in her studies that morning, and both
teacher and pupil were glad when the lessons of the
day were over.

Before starting for Lexington, Frederic had sent
Josh on some errand to Frankfort, and just after dinner
the negro returned. Isabel was still alone upon
the piazza when he came up, and as she was expecting
news from New Haven, she asked if he stopped at
the post office.

“Ye-e-us 'm,” began the stuttering negro, “an' I
d-d-d-one got a h-h-eap on 'em, too,” and Josh gave
her six letters—one for herself and five for Frederic.

Hastily breaking the seal of her own letter, she read
that their matters at home were satisfactorily arranged
—a tenant had already been found for their house, and
their furniture would be safely stowed away. Hearing
her mother in the hall, she handed the letter to her
and then went to the library to dispose of Frederic's.
As she was laying them down she glanced at the superscriptions,
carelessly, indifferently, until she came
to the last, the one bearing the New York postmark;

then, with a nervous start she caught it up again and
examined it more closely, while a sickening, horrid
fear crept through her flesh—her heart gave one fearful
throb and then lay like some heavy, pulseless
weight within her bosom. Could it be that she had
seen that handwriting before? Had the dead wife returned
to life, and was she coming back to Redstone
Hall? The thought was overwhelming, and for a moment
Isabel Huntington was tempted to break that
seal and read. But she dared not, for her suspicion
might be false; she would see Alice's note again, and
seeking out the child she asked permission to take the
letter which Marian had written. Alice complied
with her request, and darting away to the library Isabel
compared the two. They were the same. There
could be no mistake, and in the intensity of her excitement,
she felt her black hair loosening at its roots.

“It is from her, but he shall never see it, never!”
she exclaimed aloud, and her voice was so unnatural
that she started at the sound, and turning saw Alice
standing in the door with an inquiring look upon her
face, as if asking the meaning of what she had heard.

Isabel quailed beneath the glance of that sightless
child, and then sat perfectly still, while Alice said,
“Miss Huntington, are you here? Was it you who
spoke?”

Isabel made no answer, but trembling in every limb,
shrank farther and farther back in her chair as the little,
groping, outstretched arms came nearer and nearer
to her. Presently, when she saw no escape, she forced
a loud laugh, and said, “Fie, Alice. I tried to frighten
you by feigning a strange voice. You want your letter,
don't you? Here it is. I only wished to see if in
reading it a second time I could get any clue to the
mystery,” and she gave the bit of paper back to Alice,
who, somewhat puzzled to understand what it all
meant, left the room, and Isabel was again alone.
Three times she caught up the letter with the intention
of breaking its seal, and as often threw it down, for,

unprincipled as she was, she shrank from that act, and
still, if she did not know the truth, she should go mad,
she said, and pressing her hands to her forehead, she
thought what the result to herself would be were Marian
really alive.

“But she isn't,” she exclaimed. “I won't have it
so. She's dead—she's buried in the river.” But who
was there in New York that wrote so much like her?
She wished she knew, and she might know, too, by
opening the letter. If it was from a stranger, she could
destroy it, and he, thinking it had been lost, would
write again. She should die if she didn't know, and
maybe she should die if she did.

At all events, reality was more endurable than suspense,
and glancing furtively around to make sure
that no blind eyes were near, she snatched the letter
from the table and broke the seal! Even then she
dared not read it, until she reflected that she could not
give it to Frederic in this condition—she might as well
see what it contained; and wiping the cold moisture
from her face she opened it and read, while her flesh
seemed turning to stone, and she could feel the horror
creeping through her veins, freezing her blood and
petrifying her very brain. Marian Lindsey lived!
She was coming back again—back to her husband,
and back to the home which was hers. There was
enough in the letter for her to guess the truth, and she
knew why another had been preferred to herself. For
a moment even her lip curled with scorn at what she
felt was an unmanly act, but this feeling was soon lost
in the terrible thought that Marian might return.

“Can it be? Must it be?” she whispered, as her
hard, black eyes fastened themselves again upon the
page, blotted with Marian's tears. “Seven years—
seven years,” she continued, “I've heard of that before,”
and into the wild tumult of her thoughts there
stole a ray of hope. If she withheld the letter from
Frederic, and she must withhold it now, he would
never know what she knew. Possibly, too, Marian

might die, and though she would have repelled the
accusation, Isabel Huntington was guilty of murder in
her heart, as she sat there alone and planned what she
would do. She was almost on the borders of insanity,
for the disappointment to her now would be greater
and more humiliating than before. She had no home
to go to—her arrangements for remaining in Kentucky
were all made, and Redstone Hall seemed so fair that
she would willingly wait twice seven years, if, at the expiration
of that time, she were sure of being its mistress.
It was worth trying for, and though she had
but little hope of success, the beautiful demon bent
her queenly head and tried to devise some means of
effectually silencing Marian, so that if there really
were anything in the seven years the benefit would
accrue to her.

“She's a litle silly fool,” she said, “and this Mrs.
Daniel Burt she talked about is just as silly as herself.
They'll both believe what is told to them. I may never
marry Frederic, it is true, but I'll be revenged on Marian.
What business had she to cross my path, the
little red-headed jade!”

Isabel was growing excited, and as she dared do
anything when angry, she resolved to send the letter
back.

“I can imitate his handwriting,” she thought; “I
can do anything as I feel now,” and going to her room,
she found the letter he had written to her mother.

This she studied and imitated for half an hour, and
at the end of that time wrote on the blank page of
Marian's letter, “Isabel Huntington is now the mistress
of Redstone Hall.”

“That will keep her still, I reckon,” she said, and
taking a fresh envelope, she directed it to “Mrs. Daniel
Burt,” as Marian had bidden Frederic do. “'Twas
a fortunate circumstance, her telling him that, for
`Marian Lindsey' would have been observed at once,”
she thought; and then, lest her resolution should fail
her, she found Josh and bade him take the letter to

the post-office at the Forks of Elkhorn not very far
away.

Nothing could suit Josh better than to ride, and
stuttering out something which nobody could understand,
he mounted his rather sorry-looking horse and
was soon galloping out of sight. In the kitchen Mrs.
Huntington heard of Josh's destination, and when next
she met her daughter, she asked to whom she had been
writing.

“To some one, of course,” answered Isabel, at the
same time intimating that she hoped she could have a
correspondent without her mother troubling herself.

The rudeness of this speech was forgotten by Mrs.
Huntington in her alarm at Isabel's pale face, and she
asked anxiously what was the matter?

“Nothing but a wretched headache—teaching don't
agree with me,” was Isabel's reply, and turning away,
she ran up the stairs to her room, where, throwing herself
upon the bed, she tried to fancy it all a dream.

But it was not a dream, and Marian's anguish was
scarcely greater than her own at that moment, when
she began to realize that Frederic and Redstone Hall
were lost to her forever. There might be something
in the seven years, but it was a long, dreary time to
wait, with the ever-haunting fear that Marian might
return, and she half wished she had not opened the
letter. But her regrets were unavailing now, and resolving
to guard her secret carefully and deny what
she had done, if ever accused of it, she began to consider
how she should hereafter demean herself toward
Frederic. It would be terrible to have him making
love to her, she thought, for she would be compelled
to tell him no, and if another should become her rival,
she could not stand quietly by and witness the unlawful
deed.

“Oh, if I or Marian had never been born, this hour
would not have come to me,” she cried, burying her
face in the pillows to shut out the fast increasing darkness
which was so hateful to her.

Already was she reaping the fruit of the transgression,
and when an hour later she heard the voice of
Frederic in the hall, she stopped her ears, and, burying
her face still closer in the pillows, wished again
that either Marian or herself had never seen the light
of day.