University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
PLANS.

Marian was sitting by the window of her little room,
looking out into the busy street below, and thinking
how differently New York seemed to her now from
what it did that dreary day when she wandered down
Broadway, and wished that she could die. She was
getting accustomed to the city roar, and the sounds
which annoyed her so much at first did not trouble
her as they once had done. Still there was the same
old pain at her heart—a restless, longing desire to
hear from home, and know if what she feared were
true. She had counted the days of Ben's absence, and
she knew it was almost time for his return. She did
not expect him to-day, however, and she paid no attention
to the heavy footstep upon the stairs, neither
did she hear the creaking of the door; but when Mrs.
Burt exclaimed, “Benjamin Franklin! where did you
come from?” she started, and in an instant held both
his hands in hers.

Wistfully, eagerly she looked up into his face, longing,
yet dreading, to ask the important question.

“Have you been there?” she managed to say at
last; and Ben replied, “Yes, chicken, I have, I've
been to Redstun Hall, and seen the hull tribe on 'em
That Josh is a case. Couldn't understand him no more
than if he spoke a furrin tongue.”

“But Frederic—did you see him, and is he—oh,
Ben, do tell me—what you know I want to hear?” and
Marian trembled with excitement.

“Wall, I will,” answered Ben, dropping into a chair,
and coming to the point at once. “Frederic ain't
married to Isabel, nor ain't a-goin' to be, either.”

“What made him write me that lie?” was Marian's
next question, asked so mournfully that Ben replied:

“A body'd s'pose you was sorry it warn't the truth
he writ.”

“I am glad it is not true,” returned Marian, “but it
hurts me so to lose confidence in one I love. How
does Frederic look?”

“White as a sheet and poor as a crow,” said Ben.
“It's a wearin' on him, depend on't. But she—I tell
you she's a dasher, with the blackest eyes and hair I
ever seen.”

“Who?” fairly screamed Marian. “Who? Not
Isabel? Oh, Ben, is Isabel there?” And Marian grew
as white as Ben had described Frederic to be.

“Yes she is,” returned Ben. “She's pretendin' to
teach that blind gal, but Frederic ain't makin' love to
her—no such thing. So don't go to faintin' away, and
I'll begin at the beginning and tell you the hull story.”

Thus re-assured, Marian composed herself and listened,
while Ben narrated every particular of his recent
visit to Redstone Hall.

“I stopped at some of the houses in the neighborhood,”
said he, “but I never as't a question about the
Raymonds, for fear of bein' mistrusted. Come to
think on't, though, I did inquire the road, and they
sent me through corn fields, and hemp fields, and
mercy knows what; such a way as they have livin' in
the lots? But I kinder like it. Seems like a story,
them big housen way off among the trees, with the
whitewashed cabins round 'em lookin' for all the world
like a camp-meetin' in the woods—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Marian; “but Frederic—
won't you ever reach him?”

“Not till I tell you about the dogs, and that jawbreakin'
chap they call Josh, with his cow hides, big

as a scow-boat, I'll bet,” was Ben's answer; and finding
it useless to hurry him, Marian summoned all her
patience and waited while he waded through his
introduction to the blacks, his attempt to be more of
a Yankee than he really was, his sliver in his thumb,
and, finally his addressing Frederic as Square and inquiring
for his wife!

Marian was all attention now, and held her breath,
lest she should lose a single word. When he
came to Isabel, and described her glowing, sparkling
beauty, she trembled in every joint, and felt as if she
were turning to stone; but when he spoke of Alice,
and the sweet, loving words she had said of the lost
one, the cold, hard feeling passed away, and, covering
her face with her hands, she wept aloud. Everything
which Ben had seen or heard he told, omitting not a
single point, but lengthening out his story with surmises
and suspicions of his own.

“Alice and Dinah both,” said he, “told me Frederic
wouldn't marry till they knew for certain you was
dead, and as he does know for certain, you can calkerlate
on that Isabel's bein' an old maid for all of him.”

“I never supposed they'd think me drowned when
I dropped my glove and handkerchief,” said Marian.
“Did they inquire at the depot.”

“Yes—so Alice said,” returned Ben, “and nobody
knew nothin' of you; so it was nateral they should
think you drownded: but, no matter, it makes it more
like a novel, and now I'll tell you jest what 'tis, wee
one, I don't mean no offense, and you must take it all
in good part. You are a great deal better than Isabel,
I know; but, as fur as looks and manners is concerned,
you can't hold a candle to her, and a body knowin' nothing
about either would naterally say she was most befittin'
Redstun Hall; but, tell 'em to wait a spell. You
hain't got your growth yet, and you are gettin' betterlookin'
every day. That sickness made a wonderful
change in you, and shavin' your hair was jest the
thing. It's comin' out darker, as it always does, and

in less than a year I'll bet my hat on its bein' a beautiful
auburn. You must chirk up and grow fat, for
I'm goin' to send you to school, and have you take lessons
on the pianner, and learn French and everything,
so that by the time you're twenty you'll be the best
educated and han'somest gal in the city, and then
when the right time comes, if Providence don't contrive
to fetch you two together, Ben Burt will. I shall
keep my eye on him, and if he's gettin' too thick with
Isabel, I'll drop a sly hint in his ear. They're goin'
to move up on to the Hudson to the old place—did I
tell you?—and mebby you'll run afoul of him in the
street some day.”

“Oh, I hope not—at least, not yet—not till the time
you speak of,” said Marian, who had listened eagerly
to Ben's suggestion, and already felt that there was
hope for her in the future. She would study so hard,
she thought, and learn so fast, and if she only could
be thought handsome, or even decent-looking, she
would be satisfied, but that was impossible, she feared.

She did not know that, as Ben had said, the severe
illness through which she had passed had laid the
foundation for a softer, more refined style of beauty
than she would otherwise have reached. Her entire
constitution seemed to have undergone a change, and
now, with hope to buoy her up, she grew stronger,
healthier, and, as a natural consequence, handsomer
each day. She could not erase from her memory the
insult Frederic had offered her, by writing what she
believed he did, but her affection for him was strong
enough to overlook even that, and she was willing to
wait and labor years if at the end of that time she
could hope to win his love.

Whatever Ben undertook he was sure to accomplish
in the shortest possible time, and before starting upon
another peddling excursion, the name of “Marian
Grey” was enrolled among the list of pupils who attended
Madam Harcourt's school. At first she was
subject to many annoyances, for, as was quite natural,

her companions inquired concerning her standing, and
when they learned that her aunt was a sewing woman,
and that the queer, awkward fellow who came with her
the first day was her cousin and a peddler, they
treated her slightingly, and laughed at her plain dress.
But Marian did not care. One thought—one feeling
alone actuated her; to make herself something of which
Frederic Raymond should not be ashamed was her
aim, and for this she studied early and late, winning
golden laurels in the opinion of her teachers, and coming
ere long to be respected and loved by her companions,
who little suspected that she was the heiress
of untold wealth.

Thus the Summer and a part of the Autumn passed
away, and when the semi-annual examination came,
Marian Grey stood first in all her classes, acquitting
herself so creditably and receiving so much praise,
that Ben, who chanced to be present, was perfectly
overjoyed, and evinced his pleasure by shedding tears,
his usual way of expressing feeling.

From this time forward Marian's progress was rapid,
until even she herself wondered how it were possible
for her to learn so fast when she had formerly cared so
little for books. Hope, and a joyful anticipation of
what would possibly be hers in the future, kept her up
and helped her to endure the mental labors which
might otherwise have overtaxed her strength. Gradually,
too, the old soreness at her heart wore away,
and she recovered in a measure her former light-heartedness,
until at last her merry laugh was often heard
ringing out loud and clear just as it used to do at home
in days gone by. Very anxiously Ben watched her,
and when on his return from his excursions he found
her, as he always did, improved in looks and spirits,
he rubbed his hands together and whispered to himself,
“She'll set up for a beauty, yet, and no mistake.
That hair of hern is growin' a splendid color.”

He did not always express these thoughts to Marian,
but the little mirror which hung on the wall in her

room sometimes whispered to her that the face reflected
there was not the same which had looked at her so
mournfully on that memorable night when she had left
her pillow to see what her points of ugliness were!
The one which she had thought the crowning defect of
all had certainly disappeared. Her red curls were
gone, and in their places was growing a mass of soft
wavy hair, which reminded her of the auburn tress she
had so much admired and prized, because it was her
mother's. She had no means of knowing how nearly
they were alike, for the ringlet was far away, but by
comparing her present short curls with those which
had been shorn from her head, she saw there was a
difference, and she felt a pardonable pride in brushing
and cultivating her young hair, which well repaid her
labor, growing very rapidly and curling anout her
forehead in small, round rings, which were far from
unbecoming.

Toward the last of November, Ben, who found his
peddling profitable, took a trip through Western New
York, and did not return until February, when, somewhat
to his mother's annoyance, he brought a sick
stranger with him. He had taken the cars at Albany,
where he met with the stranger, who offered him a
part of his seat and made himself so generally agreeable
that Ben's susceptible heart warmed toward him
at once, and when at last, as they drew near New
York, the man showed signs of being seriously ill,
Ben's sympathy was roused, and learning that he had
no friends in the city, he urged him so strongly to accompany
him home for the night, at least, that his invition
was accepted, and the more readily, perhaps, as
the stranger's pocket had been picked in Albany, and
he had nothing left except his ticket to New York.
This reason was not very satisfactory to Mrs. Burt, who
from the first had disliked their visitor's appearance.
He was a powerfully built young man, with black
bushy hair, and restless, rolling eyes, which seemed
ever on the alert to discover something not intended

for them to see. His face wore a hard, dissipated
look; and when Mrs. Burt saw how soon after seating
himself before the warm fie, he fell asleep, she rightly
conjectured that a fit of drunkenness had been the
cause of his illness. Still, he was their guest, and she
would not treat him uncivilly, so she bade her son to
take him to his room, where he lay in the same deep,
stupid sleep, breathing so loudly that he could be
plainly heard in the adjoining room, where Marian and
Ben were talking of the house at Yonkers which was
not finished yet, and would not be ready for the family
until sometime in May.

Suddenly the loud breathing in the bed-room ceased
—the stranger was waking up; but Ben and Marian
paid no heed, and talked on as freely as if there were
no greedy ears drinking in each word they said—no
wild-eyed man leaning on his elbow and putting together,
link by link, the chain of mystery until it was
as clear to him as noonday. The first sentence which
he heard distinctly sobered him at once. It was Marian
who spoke, and the words she said were, “I wonder
if Isabel Huntington will come with Frederic to
Yonkers.”

“Isabel!” the stranger gasped. “What do they
know of her?” and sitting up in bed, he listened until
he learned what they knew of her, and learned, too,
that the young girl whom Ben Burt called his cousin
was the runaway bride from Redstone Hall.

Fiercely the black eyes flashed through the darkness,
and the fists smote angrily together as the
stranger hoarsely whispered:

“The time I've waited for has come at last, and the
proud lady shall be humbled in the very dust!”

It was Rudolph McVicar who thus threatened evil
to Isabel Huntington. He had loved her once, but
her scornful refusal of him, even after she was his
promised wife, had turned his love to hate, and he had
sworn to avenge the wrong should a good chance ever
occur. He knew that she was in Kentucky—a teacher

at Redstone Hall—and for a time he had expected to
hear of her marriage with the heir, but this intelligence
did not come, and weary of New Haven, he at last
made a trip to New Orleans, determining on his way
back to stop for a time in the neighborhood of Redstone
Hall, and if possible learn the reason why Isabel
had not yet succeeded in securing Frederic Raymond.
On the boat in which he took passage on his return
were three or four young people from Franklin county,
and among them Anges Gibson and her brother.
They were a very merry party, and at once attracted
the attention of Rudolph, who, learning that they were
from the vicinity of Frankfort, hovered around them,
hoping that by some chance he might hear them speak
of Isabel. Nor was he disappointed; for one afternoon
when they were assembled upon the upper deck,
one of their number who lived in Lexington, and who
had been absent in California for nearly two years, inquired
after Frederic Raymond, whom he had formerly
known at school.

“Why,” returned the loquacious Agnes, “did no
one write that news to you?” and oblivious entirely
of Rudolph McVicar, who at a little distance was listening
attentively, she told the story of Frederic's
strange marriage and its sad denouement. Isabel, too,
was freely discussed, Miss Agnes saying that Mr.
Raymond would undoubtedly marry her, could he
know that Marian was dead, but as there were some
who entertained doubts upon that point he would
hardly dare take any decisive step until uncertainty
was made sure.

“When Miss Huntington first came to Redstone
Hall,” continued Agnes, “she took no pains whatever
to conceal her preference for Mr. Raymond; but latterly
a change has come over her, and she hardly
appears like the same girl. There seems to be something
on her mind, though what it is I have never been
able to learn, which is a little strange, considering that
she tells me everything.”

Not a word of all this story was lost by McVicar.
There was no reason now for his leaving the boat at
Louisville. He knew why Isabel was not a bride, and
secretly exulting as he thought of her weary restlessness,
he kept on his way till he reached Albany, where
a debauch of a few days was succeeded by the sickness
which had awakened the sympathy of the tender-hearted
Ben, and induced the latter to offer him shelter for
the night. He was glad of it, now —glad that he had
met with Ben, for by that means he had discovered the
hiding-place of Frederic Raymond's wife. He did not
know of her fortune, but he knew that she was Marian
Lindsey; that accidentally, as he supposed, she had
stumbled upon Mrs. Burt and Ben, who were keeping
her secret from the world, and that was enough for
him. That Isabel had something to do with her he
was sure, and long after the conversation in the next
room had ceased, he lay awake thinking what use he
should make of his knowledge, and still not betray
those who had befriended him.

Rudolph McVicar was an adept in cunning, and
before the morning dawned he had formed a plan by
which he hoped to crush the haughty Isabel. Assuming
an air of indifference to everything around him,
he sauntered out to breakfast, and pretended to eat,
while his eyes rested almost constantly on Marian.
She was very young, he thought, and far prettier than
Agnes Gibson had represented her to be. She was
changing in her looks, he said, and two or three years
would ripen her into a beautiful woman of whom
Frederic Raymond would be proud. Much he wished
he knew why she had left Redstone Hall, but as this
knowledge was beyond his reach, he contented himself
with knowing who she was, and after breakfast
was over, he thanked his new acquaintances for their
hospitality, and went out into the city, going first to a
pawnbroker's, where he left his watch, receiving in
exchange money enough to defray his expenses in the
city for several days.

That night, in a private room at the St. Nicholas, he
sat alone, bending over a letter, which, when finished,
bore a very fair resemblance to an uneducated woman's
handwriting, and which read as follows:

“There,” soliloquized Rudolph, reading over the
letter. “That covers the whole ground, and still gives
him no clue in case he should come to New York.
The — does sail the very day I have named, and
though `Sarah Green' may not be among her passengers,
it answers my purpose quite as well. I believe
I've steered clear of all doubtful points which
might lead him to suspect it a forgery. He knows
Marian would not attempt to deceive him thus, and he
will, undoubtedly, think old Mrs. Green some good
soul, who dosed the patient with saffron tea, and then

saw her decently interred! He'll have a nice time
hunting up her grave if he should undertake that. But
he won't—he'll be pleased enough to know that he is
free, for by all accounts he didn't love her much, and
in less than six weeks he'll be engaged to Isabel. But
I'll be on their track. I'll watch them narrowly, and
when the day is set, and the guests are there, one will
go unbidden to the marriage feast, and the story that
uninvited guest can tell will humble the proud beauty
to the dust. He will tell her that this letter was a
forgery, and Sarah Green a myth: that Marian Lindsey
lives, and Frederic Raymond, if he takes another
wife, can be indicated for bigamy; and when he sees
her eyes flash fire, and her cheek grow pale with
rage and disappointment, Rudolph McVicar will be
avenged.”

This, then, was the plan which Rudolph had formed,
and, without wavering for an instant in his purpose,
he sealed the letter, and directing it to Frederic, sent
it on its way, going himself the next morning to New
Haven, where he had some money deposited in the
bank. This he withdrew, and after a few days started
for Lexington, where he intended to remain and watch
the proceedings at Redstone Hall, until the denouement
of his plot.