 | CHAPTER XI.
THE LETTER RECEIVED. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE LETTER RECEIVED.
It was baking-day at Mrs. Burt's, and the good lady
bustled in and out—her cap strings pinned over her
head, her sleeves tucked up above her shoulders, and
her face, hands and apron covered with flour. Occasionally
as she rolled out the short pie crust, or sliced
the juicy apple, she glanced at the rain-drops pattering
against the window, and said encouragingly, “I
don't care for the rain, for I've get a big umbrella and
the best kind of overshoes;” and as often as she related
the cheering words, they brought a smile to the
thin, white face of the young girl who sat in the large,
stuffed easy-chair, and did not offer to share the labors
of her aunt, as she called her.
Marian was sick. Strong excitement had worn her
strength away, and since she had sent the letter to
Frederic, her restless anxiety for the answer had made
her so weak that she kept her bed nearly all the time,
counting the days which must elapse ere she could
possibly hope to hear, and then, when the full time
was out, bidding Mrs. Burt wait one more day before
she went to the office, so as to be sure and get it. She
had made due allowance for delays, and now she was
certain that it had come. She would sit up that day,
she said, for she felt almost well; and if Frederic told
her to come home, she should start to-morrow and get
there Saturday night, and she fancied how people
would stare at her, and be glad to see her, too, on Sunday,
when she first went into church, for she “should
kiss her so many times; and then she wondered if
Frederic wouldn't kiss her, too — she thought he
might just once, she'd been so long away, and she said
to herself that “she would draw back a little, and let
him know she wasn't so very anxious.”
Poor Marian, how little was she prepared for the cruel
blow awaiting her! The pies were made at last, as
was the ginger-bread and crispy snaps; the apple dumplings,
Marian's favorite dessert, were steaming on the
stove; the litter was cleared away, the carpet swept,
the oil-cloth washed, the chairs set back; and then
exchanging her work dress for a more respectable delaine,
Mrs. Burt put over the kettle to boil, “for after
her wet walk, she should want a cup of tea,” she said,
and, leaving Marian to watch the pie baking in the
oven, she started on her errand.
“I mean to have the table ready when she gets
back,” said Marian—“for if I don't make her think
I'm well, she won't let me start so soon;” and, exerting
all strength, she set the table for dinner in the
neatest possible manner, even venturing upon the extravagance
of bringing out the best white dishes,
which Mrs. Burt only used on great occasions. “When
I get some, I'll send her a new set with gilt bands,” the
little girl said, as she arranged the cups, and then
stepped back to witness the effect. “Oh! I wish she'd
come,” she continued, glancing at the clock; but it
was not time yet, and, resuming her rocking-chair, she
tried to wait patiently.
But it seemed very long and very tiresome, sitting
there alone, listening to the rain and the ticking of the
clock. It is strange how the most trivial circumstance
will sometimes stamp itself indelibly upon the memory.
The steam from the dumplings, which Marian
thought she should enjoy so much, filled the room with
a sweet, sickly odor, and for many, many years she
remembered now faint it made her feel. But 'twas
a pleasant faintness now; everything was pleasant, for
to Frederic, who, if he didn't love her now, would
learn to love her, for Mrs. Burt said so; Mrs. Burt, who
knew almost as much as Dinah, and who, even while
she thought of her, was coming up the narrow stairs.
Marian heard her put her dripping umbrella beside
the door, but for her life she could not move. If she
should be disappointed after all, she said, and she
tried to see how many she could count before she
knew for certain.
“A letter—oh, have you a letter for me?” she attempted
to say, when Mrs. Burt came in, but she could
not articulate a word, and the good lady, wishing to
tease her a little, leisurely took off her overshoes,
hung up her shawl, wiped her damp bonnet with a
handkerchief, and looked at the dumplings and then
said, as indifferently as if the happiness of a young life
was not to be crushed by what she had in her pocket,
“it rains awfully down street!”
“I know—but the letter—was there a letter?” and
Marian's blue eyes looked dark with excitement. “Yes,
child, there was, but where it was mailed I don't know.
'Tis directed to me, and is from Kentucky, but I can't
make out the post mark mor'n the dead. It's some
kind of Forks, but the postmaster will never set the
Hudson on fire with his writing.”
“Forks of Elkhorn,” cried Marian, snatching at the
letter. “It's Frederic's superscription, too, and dated
ever so many days ago. Dear Frederic, he didn't
wait a minute before he wrote,” and she pressed to
her lips the handwriting of Isabel Huntington!
The envelope was torn open—the enclosed sheet
was withdrawn, but about it there was a strangely
familiar look. Was there a film before Marian's eyes?
Was she growing blind, or did she recognize her own
letter—the one she had sent to Redstone Hall? It
was the same—for it said “Dear Frederic” at the top,
and “Marian” at the bottom! And he had returned it
to her unanswered—not a word—not a line—nothing
settling down on Marian's heart. But yes—there
was one line—only one, and it read—oh, horror, could
it be that he would mock her thus—that he would
tear out her bleeding heart and trample it beneath his
feet, by offering her this cruel insult.
“Isabel Huntington is now the mistress of Redstone
Hall.”
This was the drop in the brimming bucket, and if
she had suffered death when the great sorrow came
upon her once before, she suffered more now a hundred
fold. In her ignorance she fancied they were married,
for how else could Isabel be mistress there, and she
comprehended at once the shame—the disgrace such
a proceeding would bring to Frederic, and the wrong,
the dishonor, the insult it brought to her. There was
a look of anguish in her eye and a painful contraction
of the muscles about her mouth. There were purple
spots upon her flesh, which seemed wasting away
while she sat there, and a note of agony, rarely heard
by human ear, was in her voice, as she cried, “No,
no, no—it is too soon—too soon—anything but that,”
and the little Marian who, half an hour before, had
heard the ticking of the clock and listened to the rain,
lay in the arms of Mrs. Burt, a white, motionless thing,
unconscious of pain, unconscious of everything. She
had suffered all she could suffer, and henceforth no
sorrow which could come to her would eat into her
heart's core as this last one had done.
Mrs. Burt thought she was dead, as did those who
came at her loud call, but the old physician said there
was life, adding, as he looked at the blue pinched lips
and shrunken face: “The more's the pity, for she has
had some awful blow, and if she lives she'll probably
be a raving maniac.”
Poor Marian! As time passed on the physician's
words seemed likely to be verified. For days she lay
in the same death-like stupor, and when at last she
roused from it, 'twas only to tear her hair and rave in
the letter, thought of writing to Frederic and telling
him the result of his cruel message, the truth of which
she did not believe; but she seldom acted without advice,
so she wrote first to Ben, who came quickly, crying
like a very child, and wringing his great rough
hands when he saw the swaying, tossing form upon
the bed and knew that it was Marian.
“No, mother,” he said, “we won't write. It's a lie
the villain told her, but we will let him be till she's
dead. God will find him fast enough, the rascal!” and
Ben struck his fist upon the bureau as if he would like to
take the management of Frederic into his own hands.
It was a long and terrible sickness which came to
Marian, and when the delirium was on, the very elements
of her nature seemed changed. For her hair
she conceived an intense loathing; and clutching at
her long tresses, she would tear them from her head
and shake them from her fingers, whispering scornfully:
“Go, you vile red things! He hates you, and so
do I.”
“Better shave the hull concern and not let her yank
it out like that,” said Ben; and when she became
more and more ungovernable, he passed his arms
around her and held fast her little hands, while her
head was shorn of the locks once so displeasing to
Frederic Raymond.
Ben's taste, however, was different, and putting
them reverently together, he dropped great tears upon
them, and then laid them carefully away, thinking:
“'Twill be something to look at when she's gone. Poor
little picked bird,” he would say as he watched by
her side and listened to her moaning cries for home,
“you'll be out of your misery afore long, and go to
a'nough sight better hum than Red stun Hall; but I
hev my doubts 'bout meetin' him there. Poor little
girl, if you hadn't been born a lady and I hadn't been
born a fool, and we'd been brung up together, mabby
wringin' your hands, with your head shaved slick and
clean,” and the sweat dropped from Ben's face, as he
thought of what under widely different circumstances
might have been. “But it can't be now,” he said, “for
even if she wan't jined to this villain she loves so
much, she's as far above Ben Burt as the stars in
Heaven.”
This, however, did not lessen Ben's attentions in the
least, or stay his tears when he thought that she would
die. “She should be buried in Greenwood,” he said;
“he'd got more'n two hundred dollars in the bank at
Ware, all arnt honest, with hard work; and if there
was such a thing as a stun forty feet high she should
have it, and he'd get som o' them that scribbled for a
living to write a piece; there should be a big funeral,
too—he could hire carriages as well as the best of
'em—and he'd have a procession so long that folks
would stop and stare, and Frederic Raymond wouldn't
be ashamed on't either, the scalliway—he hoped when
he and Isabel came to die they'd be pitched into the
canal where the water was considerable kind o' dirty,
too!”
This long speech relieved Ben somewhat, and fully
determined to carry out his promise, he staid patiently
by Marian, nor experienced one feeling of regret when
he heard that, owing to his prolonged absence, his
place in Ware had been given to another.
“Nobody cares,” he said, “I can find something to
do if it's nothin' but sawin' wood.”
So he remained at home through all the winter
days, and watched by the sick girl, who talked piteously
of her home, of Alice, and that man who
hated her so. She never spoke his name, but she
sometimes begged of him to come and take her away
where it didn't thunder all the time. The roar of the
city disturbed her, and she frequently besought Ben to
go and stop it so that she could sleep and be better in
the morning; and Ben, had it been in his power,
the weary, worn-out sufferer sleep. But this could
not be, and so, day after day the heavy, incessant roar
came through the curtained window into the darkened
room, where Marian lay moaning in her pain. Once
in her unconsciousness she folded meekly her thin
hands and prayed, “Will God stop that noise and let
me sleep just once?” then with an expression of childish
trust upon her face, she said to those around her,
“He will stop it to-morrow, I reckon.”
And when the winter snows all were fallen, and the
early March sun shone upon the kitchen walls, the
to-morrow so much longed for came, and Marian
woke at last to consciousness. She was out of danger,
the physician said, though it might be long ere her
health was fully restored. To Marian, this announcement
brought but little joy. “She had hoped to die,”
she said, “and thus be out of the way.” and then she
spoke of Redstone Hall, asking if any tidings had
come from there since the dreadful message she had
received. There was none, for Isabel Huntington
guarded her secret well, and Frederic Raymond knew
nothing of the white, emaciated wreck which prayed
each day that he might be happy with the companion
he had chosen.
“If he had only waited,” she said to Mrs. Burt and
Ben, one day when she was able to be bolstered up in
bed, “if he had waited and not taken her so soon, I
shouldn't care so much, but its awful to think of his
living with her after I wrote that letter.”
“Marian,” said Ben, a little impatiently, “I'm naturally
a fool, so every body says, but I've sense
enough to know that Mr. Raymond never went and
married that woman so quick after you came away;
'tain't reasonable at all. Why, they'd mob him—tar
and feather him—for you ain't dead, and he's no business
with two wives.”
Marian's face was whiter than ever when Ben finished
speaking, and a bright red spot burned on her
she's there and not his wife. That would be worse
than everything else.”
“Of course I don't,” returned Ben. “My 'pinion is
that she ain't there at all, and he only writ that to
make a clean finish of you, or 'tany rate, so't you
wouldn't be coming back to bother him. He calkerlates
to have her bimeby. I presume—say in
seven years.”
“Oh, I wish I knew,” said Marian, and Ben replied,
“Would you rest any easier nights if you did?”
“Yes, a heap,” was the answer, and the great, blue
eyes looked wistfully at Ben, as if anxious that he
should clear up the mystery.
“You might write,” suggested Mrs. Burt; but
Marian shook her head, saying, “I wrote once, and
you know my success.”
“You certainly wouldn't go back,” continued Mrs.
Burt; and Marian answered indignantly, “Never! I
am sure he hates me now, and I shall not trouble him
again. Perhaps he thinks me mean because I read
the letter intended for him, and so found it all out.
But I thought it was mine until I read a ways, and
then I could not stop. My eyes wouldn't leave the
paper. Was it wrong in me, do you think?”
It is what anybody would have done,” answered
Mrs. Burt, and, changing the subject entirely, Marian
rejoined, “Oh, I do wish I knew about this Isabel.'
For a time Ben sat thinking; then striking his
hands together, he exclaimed, “I've got it, and it's
jest the thing, too. I don't want no better fun than
that. I've lost my place to Ware, and though I might
get another, I've a notion to turn peddler. I allus
thought I should like travellin' and seein' the world.
I'll buy up a lot of jimcracks and take a bee line for
Redstun Hall, and learn just how the matter stands.
I can put on a little more of the Down East Yankee,
if you think I hain't got enough, and I'll pull the wool
over their eyes. What do you say, wee one?”
“Oh, I wish you would,” said Marian, adding in
the same breath, “what will you do, if you find him
the husband of Isabel?”
“Do!” he repeated. “String 'em both up by the
neck on one string. What do you 'spect I'd do?
Honest, though,” he continued, as he saw her look of
alarm; “if she is his wife, which ain't at all likely,
'tis because he s'posed you're dead, but he knows better
now, and I shall tell the neighbors that you're
alive and breathin', and they can do with him what
they choose—and if they ain't married, nor ain't
nothin', I'll just do what you say.”
“Come back, and don't tell Frederic you ever saw
or heard of me,” said Marian. “I shall not live a
great while, and even if I do, I'd rather not trouble
him. It would only make him hate me worse, and
that I couldn't bear. He knows now where I am, and
if he ever wants me, he will come. Don't tell him,
nor any one, a word of me, Ben, but do go, for I long
to hear from home.”
To Mrs. Burt this project seemed a wild and foolish
one, but she rarely opposed her son, and when se saw
that he was determined, she said nothing, but helped
him all she could.
“You'll be wantin' to send some jimcrack to that
blind gal, I guess,” he said to Marian one day, and she
replied, “I wish I could, but I havn't anything, and
besides you mustn't tell her of me.”
“Don't you worry,” answered Ben. “I've passed
my word, and I never broke it yet. I can manage to
give her somethin' and make it seem natural. What
do you say to makin' her a bracelet out o' them curls
of yourn that we shaved off?”
“That red hair! Frederic would know it at once,”
and Marian shook her head ruefully, but Ben persisted.
“'Twould look real pretty, just like gingerbread when
'twas braided tight,” and bringing out the curls, he
selected the longest one, and hurried off.
The result proved his words correct, for when a few
was fastened with a neat golden clasp, Marian exclaimed
with delight at the soft beauty of her hair:
“Darling Alice,” she cried, kissing the tiny ornament,
“I wish she could know that my lips have
touched it—that it once grew on my head—but it
wouldn't be best. She couldn't keep the secret, and
you mustn't tell.”
“Don't worry, I say,” returned Ben. “I've got an
idee in my brains for a wonder, and I'm jest as 'fraid
of tellin' as you be. So cheer up a bit and grow fat,
while I'm gone, for I want you to be well when I come
back, so as to go to school and get to be a great
scholar, that Mr. Raymond won't be ashamed on when
the right time comes,” and Ben spoke as cheerfully as
if within his heart there was no grave where during
the weary nights when he watched with Marian he
buried his love for her, and vowed to think of her only
as a cherished sister.
Marian smiled pleasantly upon him, watching him
with interest as he made up his pack, consisting of
laces, ribbons, muslin, handkerchiefs, combs and jewelry,
a little real, and a good deal brass, “for the niggers,”
he said. Many were the charges she gave him
concerning the blacks, telling him which ones to notice
particularly, so as to report to her.
“Jehosiphat!” he exclaimed at last, “how many is
there? I shall never remember in the world,” and
taking out a piece of paper, he wrote upon it, “Dinah,
Hetty, Lid, Victory, Uncle Phil, Josh, and the big
dog. There!” said he, reading over the list, “if I don't
bring you news of every one, my name ain't Ben
Burt. I'll wiggle myself inter their good feelin's and
get 'em to talkin' of you, see if I don't.”
Marian had the utmost confidence in Ben's success,
and though she knew she should be lonely when he was
gone, she was glad when, at last, the morning came
for him to leave them. Ben, too, was equally delighted,
and, bidding his mother and Marian good-by, he gathered
up his large boxes, and whistling a lively tune,
by way of keeping up his spirits, started for Kentucky.
| CHAPTER XI.
THE LETTER RECEIVED. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall | |