University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER.

“Marian,” said Ben, one pleasant April morning,
“Frederic's house is finished in tip-top style, and if
you say so, we'll go out and take a look. It will do
you good to see the old place once more and know
just how things are fixed.”

“Oh, I'd like it so much,” returned Marian, “but
what if I should fall upon Frederic?”

“No danger,” answered Ben; “the man who has
charge of everything told me he wasn't comin' till
May, and the old woman who is tendin' to things
knows I have seen Mr. Raymond, for I told her so,
and she won't think nothin'; so clap on your clothes
in a jiff, for we've barely time to reach the cars.”

Marian did not hesitate long ere deciding to go, and
in a few moments they were in the street. As they
were passing the — Hotel, Ben suddenly left her,
and running up the steps spoke to one of the servants
with whom he was acquainted. Returning ere long,
he said, by way of apology, “I was in there last night
to see Jim, and he told me there was a man took sick
with a ravin' fever, pretty much like you had when you
bit your tongue most in two.”

Marian shuddered involuntarily, and without knowing
why, felt a deep interest in the stranger, thinking
how terrible it was to be sick and alone in a crowded,
noisy hotel.

“Is he better?” she asked, and Ben replied, “No,

ten times wus—he'll die most likely. But hurry up—
here's the omnibus we want,” and in the excitement
of securing a seat, they both forgot the sick man.

The trip to Yonkers was a pleasant one, for to Marian
it seemed like going home, and when, after reaching
the station, they entered the lumbering stage and
wound slowly up the long, steep hill, she recognized
many familiar way marks, and drawing her vail over
her face, wept silently as she remembered all she had
passed through since the night when Col. Raymond
first took her up that same long hill, and told her by
the way, of his boy Frederic, who would be delighted
with a sister. The fond old man was dead now, and
she, the little girl he had loved so much, was a sad
lonely woman, going back to visit the spot which had
been so handsomely fitted up without a thought of
her.

The house itself was greatly changed, but the view
it commanded of the river and the scenery beyond
was the same, and leaning against a pillar Marian
tried to fancy that she was a child again and listening
for the bold footsteps of the handsome, teasing boy,
once her terror and her pride. But all in vain she
listened: the well-remembered foot-fall did not come:
the handsome boy was not there, and even had he
been, she would scarcely have recognized him in the
haughty, elegant young man, her husband. Yes, he was
her husband, and she repeated the name to herself, and
when at last Ben touched her on the shoulder, saying,
“I have told Miss Russell my sister was here, and she
says you can go over the house,” she started as if waking
from a dream.

“Let us go through the garden first,” she said, as
she led the way to the maple tree where summers
before che had built her little play-house, and where
on the bark, just as high as his head then came, the
name of Frederic was cut.

Far below it, and at a point which her red curls
had reached, there was another name—her own—and

Frederic's jack-knife had made that, too, while she
stood by and said to him, “I wish I was Marian Raymond,
instead of Marian Lindsey.”

How distinctly she remembered the characteristic
reply:

“If you should happen to be my wife, you would be
Marian Raymond; but pshaw, I shall marry a great
deal prettier woman than you will ever be, and you
may live with us if you want to, and take care of the
children. I mean to have a lot!”

She had not thought of this speech in years, but it
come back to her vividly now, as did many other
things which had occurred there long ago. Within
the house everything was changed, but they had no
trouble in identifying the different rooms, and she lingered
long in the one she felt sure was intended for
Frederic himself, sitting in the chair where she knew
he would often sit, and wondering if, while sitting
there, he would ever think of her. Perhaps he might
be afraid of meeting her accidentally in New York, and
so he would seldom come there; or, if he did, it would
be after dark, or when she was not in the street, and
thus she should possibly never see him, as she hoped
to do. The thought was a sad one, and never before
had the gulf between herself and Frederic seemed so
utterly impassible as on that April morning when, in
his room and his arm chair, the girl-wife sat and questioned
the dark future of what it had in store for her.

Once she was half tempted to leave some momento
—something which would tell him she had been there.
She spurned the idea as soon as formed. She would
not intrude herself upon him a second time, and rising
at last, she arranged the furniture more to her taste,
changed the position of a picture, moved the mirror
into a perfect angle, set Frederic's chair before the
window looking out upon the river, and then, standing
in the door, fancied that she saw him, with his handsome
face turned to the light, and his rich brown hair
shading his white brow. At his feet, and not far away

was a little stool, and if she could only sit there once,
resting her head upon his knee and hear him speaking
to her kindly, affectionately, she felt that she would
gladly die, and leave to another the caresses she could
never hope to receive.

Isabel's chamber was visited next, and Marian's
would have been less than a woman's nature could
she have looked, without a pang, upon the costly furniture
and rare ornaments which had been gathered
there. In the disposal of the furniture there was a
lack of taste—a decidedly Mrs. Russell air; but Marian
had no wish to interfere. There was something
sickening in the very atmosphere of her rival's apartment,
and with a long, deep sigh, she turned away.
Opening the door of an adjoining chamber, she stood
for a moment motionless, while her lips moved nervously,
for she knew that this was Alice's room. It
was smaller than the others, and with its neat white furniture,
seemed well adapted to the pure, sinless child
who was to occupy it. Here too, she tarried long,
gazing, through blinded tears, upon the little rocking-chair
just fitted to Alice's form, looping up the soft
lace custains, brushing the dust from the marble mantle,
and patting lovingly the snowy pillows, for the
sake of the fair head which would rest there some
night.

“There are no flowers here,” said she, glancing at
the tiny vases on the stand. “Alice is fond of flowers,
and though they will be withered ere she comes,
she will be sure to find them, and who knows but their
faint perfume may remind her of me,” and going out
into the garden she gathered some hyacinths and violets
which she made into boquets and placed them in
the vases, and bidding the old woman change the
water every day, until they began to fade, and then
leave them to dry until the blind girl came. “Ben
told me of her; he once staid at Redstone Hall all
night,” she said, in answer to the woman's inquiring

look. “He says she is a sweet young creature, and I
thought flowers might please her.”

“Fresh ones would,” returned Mrs. Russell “but
them that's withered ain't no use. S'pose I fling 'em
away when they get old and put in some new the day
she comes?”

“No, no, not for the world, leave them as they are,”
and Marian spoke so earnestly that the old lady promised
compliance with her request.

“Be you that Yankee peddler's sister,” she asked,
as she followed Marian down the stairs. “If you be,
nater cut up a curis caper with one or t'other of you,
for you ain't no more alike than nothin'.”

“I believe I do not resemble him much,” was Marian's
evasive answer, as with a farewell glance at the
old place, she bade Mrs. Russell good-by and went
with Ben to the gate where the stage was waiting to
take them back to the depot.

It was dark when they reached New York, and as
they passed the — Hotel a second time, Marian
spoke of the sick man, and wondered how he was.

“I might go in and see,” said Ben, “but it's so
late I guess I won't, particularly as he's nothin' to us.”

“But he's something to somebody,” returned Marian,
and as she followed on after Ben, her thoughts turned
continually upon him, wondering if he had a mother
—a sister—or a wife, and if they knew how sick he
was.

While thus reflecting they reached home, where
they found Mrs. Burt entertaining a visitor—a Martha
Gibbs, who for some time had been at the — Hotel,
in the capacity of chamber-maid, but who was to
leave there the next day. Martha's parents lived in
the same New England village where Mrs. Burt had
formerly resided, and the two thus became acquainted,
Martha making Mrs. Burt the depository of all her little
secrets and receiving in return much motherly advice.
She was to be married soon, and though her
destination was a log house in the West, and her bridal

trousseau consisted merely of three dresses—a silk,
a delaine and a calico—it was an affair of great consequence
to her, and she had come as usual to talk it
over with Mrs. Burt, feeling glad at the absence of Ben
and Marian, the latter of whom she supposed was an
orphan neice of her friend's husband. The return of
the young people operated as a restraint upon her, and
changing the conversation, she spoke at last of a sick
man who was up in the third story in one of the
rooms of which she had the charge.

“He had the typhoid fever,” she said, “and was
raving distracted with his head. They wanted some
good experienced person to take care of him, and had
asked her to stay, she seemed so handy, but she
couldn't. John wouldn't put their wedding off, she
knew, and she must go, though she did pity the poor
young man—he raved and took on so, asking them if
anybody had seen Marian, or knew where she was
buried!”

Up to this point Marian had listened, because she
knew it was the same man of whom Ben had told her
in the morning; but now the pulsations of her heart
stopped, her head grew dizzy, her brain whirled, and
she was conscious of nothing except that Ben made a
hurried movement and then passed his arm around her,
while he held a cup of water to her lips, sprinkling
some upon her face, and saying, in a natural voice,
“Don't you want a drink? My walk made me awful
dry.”

It was dark in the room, for the lamp was not yet
lighted, and thus Martha did not see the side-play
going on. She only knew that Ben was offering Marian
some water; but Mrs. Burt understood it, and,
when sure that Marian would not faint, she said:

“Where did the young man come from, and what is
his name? Do you know?”

“He registered himself as F. Raymond, Franklin
County, Kentucky,” returned the girl; “and that's the
bother of it. Nobody knows where to direct a letter

to his friends. But how I have staid. I must go this
minute,” and greatly to the relief of the family, Martha
took her leave.

Scarcely had the door closed after her, when Marian
was on her knees, and, with her head in Mrs. Burt's
lap, was begging of her to offer her services as nurse
to Frederic Raymond!

“He must not die there alone,” she cried. “Say
you will go, or my heart will burst. They know
Martha for a trusty girl, and they will take you on her
recommendation. Help me, Ben, to persuade her,”
she continued, appealing to the young man, who had
not yet spoken upon the subject.

He had been thinking of it, however, and as he
could see no particular objection, he said, at last:

“May as well go, I guess. It won't do no hurt, any
how, and mebby it'll be the means of savin' his life.
You can tell Martha how't you s'pose he'll pay a good
price for nussin', and she'll think it's the money you
are after.”

This suggestion was so warmly seconded by Marian,
that Mrs. Burt finally consented to seeing Martha,
and asking her what she thought of the plan. Accordingly,
early the next morning, she sought an interview
with the young woman, inquiring, first, how the stranger
was, and then, continuing—

“What do you think of my turning nurse awhile
and taking care of him? I am used to such folks, and
I presume the gentleman is plenty able to pay.”

She had dragged this last in rather bunglingly, but
it answered every purpose, for Martha, who knew her
thrifty habits, understood at once that money was the
inducement, and she replied, “Of course he is. His
watch is worth two hundred dollars, to say nothing of
a diamond pin. I for one shall be glad to have you
come, for I am going away some time to-day, and
there'll be nobody in particular to take care of him.
I'll speak about it right away.”

The result of this speaking was that Mrs. Burt's

offered services were readily accepted, for Martha was
known to be an honest, faithful girl, and any one
whom she recommended must, of course, be respectable
and trusty. By some chance, however, there was a
misunderstanding about the name, which was first construed
into Burton and then into Merton, and as Martha,
who alone could rectify the error, left that afternoon,
the few who knew of the sick man and his nurse,
spoke of the latter as a “Mrs. Merton, from the country,
probably.” So when at night Mrs. Burt appeared
and announce herself as ready to assume her duties,
she was surprised at hearing herself addressed by her
new name, and she was about to correct it when she
thought, “It doesn't matter what I'm called, and perhaps
on the whole, I'd rather not be known by my real
name. I don't believe much in goin' out nussin' any
way, and I guess I'll let 'em call me what they
want to.”

She accordingly made no explanation, but followed
the servant girl up three long flights of stairs, and
turning down a narrow hall, stood ere long at the door
of the sick room.