 | CHAPTER XVII.
THE SEARCH. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE SEARCH.
When the carriage containing Mrs. Huntington
rolled away from the hotel, Frederic, who was standing
upon the steps, experienced a feeling of relief in
knowing that, as far as personal acquaintances were
concerned, he was now alone and free to commence
his search for Marian. Each day the conviction had
been strengtnened that she was alive—that she had
been with him a few weeks before—and now every energy
should be devoted to finding her. Once he
thought of advertising, but she might not see the paper,
and as he rather shrank from making his affairs
thus public, he abandoned the project, determining,
however, to leave no other means untried; he would
hunt the city over, inquire at every house, and then
scour the surrounding country. It might be months,
or it might be years, ere this were accomplished; but
accomplish it he would, and with a brave, hopeful
heart, he started out, taking first a list of all the Mertons
in the Directory, then searching out and making
of them the most minute inquiries, except, indeed, in
cases where he knew, by the nature of their surroundings,
that none of their household had officiated in the
capacity of nurse. The woman who had taken care of
him was poor and uneducated, and he confined himself
mostly to that class of people.
But all in vain. No familiar face ever came at his
call. Nobody knew her whom he sought—no one had
Sally Green, determining to visit her again, and, if possible,
learn something more of the girl she had described.
Perhaps she could direct him to Joe Black,
who might know the tall man last seen with Marian.
The place was easily found, and the dangerous stairs
creaked again to his eager tread. Sal knew him at
once, and tucking her grizzly hair beneath her dirty
cap, waited to hear his errand, which was soon told.
Could she give him any further information of that
young girl, had she ever heard of her since his last
visit there, and would she tell him where to find Joe
Black?—he might know who the man was, and thus
throw some light on the mystery.
“Bless your heart,” answered the woman, “Joe died
three weeks ago with the delirium tremens, so what you
git out of him won't help you much. I told you all I
knew before; or no, come to think on't, I seen 'em go
into a Third avenue car, and that makes me think the
feller lived up town. But law, you may as well hunt
for a needle in a haystack as to hunt for a lost gal in
New York. You may git out all the police you've
a mind to, and then you ain't no better off. Ten to
one they are wus than them that's hidin' her, if they
do wear brass buttons and feel so big,” and Sal shook
her brawny arm threateningly at some imaginary officers
of justice.
With a feeling of disgust, Frederic turned away, and,
retracing his steps, came at last to the Park, where he
entered a Third avenue car, though why he did so he
scarcely knew. He did not expect to find her there,
but he felt a satisfaction in thinking she had once been
over that route—perhaps in that very car—and he
looked curiously in the faces of his fellow-passengers
as they entered and left. Wistfully, too, he glanced
out at the houses they were passing, saying to himself:
“Is it there Marian lives, or there?” and once when
they stopped for some one to alight, his eye wandered
down the opposite street, resting at last upon a window
peculiar about that window—nothing to attract
attention, unless it were the neat white fringed curtain
which shaded it, or the rose geranium which in its
little earthen pot seemed to indicate that the inmates
of that tenement retained a love for flowers and country
fashions, even amid the smoke and the dust of the city.
Frederic saw the white curtain, and it reminded him of
the one which years ago huug in his bedroom at the
old place on the river. He saw the geranium, too, and
the figure which bent over it to pluck the withered
leaf. Then the car moved on, and to the weary man
sitting in the corner there came no voice to tell how
near he had been to the lost one, for that window was
Mrs. Burt's, and the bending figure—Marian.
He had seen her—he had passed within a few rods of
her and she could have heard him had he shouted aloud,
but for all the good that this did him she might have
been miles and miles away, for he never dreamed of
the truth, and day after day he continued his search,
while the excitement, the fatigue, and the constant disappointment,
told fearfully upon his constitution. Still
he would not give it up, and every morning he went
forth with hope renewed, only to return at night
weary, discouraged, and sometimes almost despairing
of success.
Once, at the close of a rainy afternoon, he entered
again a Third avenue car, which would leave him not
very far from his hotel. It had been a day of unusual
fatigue with him, and utterly exhausted, he sank into
the corner seat, while passenger after passenger crowded
in, their damp overcoats and dripping umbrellas
filling the vehicle with a sickly steam, which affected
him unpleasantly, causing him to lean his aching head
upon his hand, and so shut out what was going on
around him. They were full at last—every seat, every
standing point was taken, and still the conductor said
there was room for another, as he passed in a delicate
young girl, who modestly drew her vail over her face
rather rudely at her. Just after she came in, Frederic
looked up, but the thick folds of the vail told no tales
of the sudden paling of the lip, the flushing of her
cheek, and the quiver of the eye-lids. Neither did the
violent trembling of her body, nor the quick pressure
of her hand upon her side convey to him other impression
than that she was tired—faint, he thought—
and touching his next neighbor with his elbow, he
compelled him to move along a few inches, while he
did the same, and so made room for the girl between
himself and the door.
“Sit here, Miss,” he said, and he turned partly
toward her, as if to shield her from the crowd, for he
felt intuitively that she was not like them.
Her hands, which chanced to be ungloved and
grasped the handle of her basket, were small, very
small, and about the joints were little laughing dimples,
looking very tempting to Frederic Raymond,
who was a passionate admirer of pretty hands, and
who now felt a strong desire to clasp the tiny snowflakes
just within his reach.
Involuntarily he thought of those which had so lately
held his feverish head; they must have been much
like the little ones holding so fast the basket, and he
wished that chance had brought Marian there instead
of the young girl sitting so still beside him. A strange
sensation thrilled him at the very idea of meeting her
thus, while his heart beat fast, but never said to him
that it was Marian herself! Why didn't it? He
asked himself that question a thousand times in after
years, saying he should know her again, but he had no
suspicion of it now, though when they stopped at the
same street down which he once had looked at the
open window, and when the seat beside him was
empty, he did experience a sense of loneliness—a feeling
as if a part of himself had gone with the young
girl. Suddenly remembering that in his abstraction
he had come higher up than he wished to do, he also
looked after the tripping figure moving so rapidly toward
the window where the geranium was blossoming,
and where a light was shining now. It disappeared
at last, and mentally chiding him for stopping in the
rain to watch a perfect stranger, Frederic turned back
in the direction of his hotel, while the girl, who had
so awakened his interest, rushed up the narrow stairs,
and bounded into the room where Mrs. Burt was sitting,
exclaimed:
“I've seen him! I've sat beside him in the same
car!”
“Why didn't you fetch him home, then?” asked
Ben, who had returned that afternoon from a short excursion
in the country.
Marian's face crimsoned at this question, and in a
hard, unnatural voice she replied:
“He didn't wish to come. He didn't even pretend
to recognize me, though he gave me a seat, and I knew
him so quick.”
“Had that brown dud over your face, I s'pose,” returned
Ben, casting a rueful glance at the vail. “Nobody
can tell who a woman is, now-a-days. Why didn't
you pull it off and claim him for your husband, and
make him pay your fare?”
“Oh, Ben,” said Marian, “you certainly wouldn't
have me degrade myself like that! Frederic knew
who I was, I am sure, for I saw him so plain—but he
does not wish to find me. He never asked for me
since I left his sick room. All he cared for was Isabel,
and I wish it were possible for him to marry her.”
“You don't wish any such thing,” answered Ben, and
in the same cold, hard tone Marian continued:
“I do. I thought so to-night when I sat beside him
and looked into his face. I loved him once as much
as one can love another, and because I loved him thus
I came away, thinking in my ignorance that he might
be happy with Isabel; and when I saw that advertisement,
I wrote, asking if I might go back again. The
He told me a falsehood, and still I was not cured.
When I thought him dying in the hotel, I went and
staid with him till the other came: but, after I was
gone, he never spoke of me, and he even professed not
to know Mrs. Daniel Burt, asking who she was, when
he knew as well as I, for I told him who she was, and
he directed my letter to her. I never used to think he
was deceitful, but I know it now, and I almost hate
him for it.”
“Tut, tut. No you don't,” chimed in Ben; and Marian
growing still more excited, continued, “Well, if I
don't, I will. I have run after him all I ever shall,
and now if we are reconciled he must make the first
concessions!”
“Whew-ew,” whistled Ben, thinking to himself,
“Ain't the little criter spunky, though!” and feeling
rather amused than otherwise, he watched Marian as
she paced the floor, her blue eyes flashing angrily and
her whole face indicative of strong excitement.
She fully believed that Frederic knew her, simply
because she recognized him, and his failing to acknowledge
the recognition filled her with indignation
and determination to forget him if it were possible.
Ah, little did she dream then of the lonely man, who,
in the same room where she so recently had been, sat
with bowed head, and thought of her until the distant
bells tolled the hour of midnight.
It was now three weeks since he commenced his
search, and he was beginning to despair of success. His
presence he knew was needed in Kentucky, where
Alice had been left alone with the negroes, and where
his arrangements for moving were not yet completed.
His house on the river was waiting for him, the people
wondering why he didn't come, and as he sat thinking
it all over, he resolved at last to go home and bring
Alice to Riverside—to send for Mrs. Huntington as
had previously been arranged, and then begin the
search again. Of Isabel too, he thought, remembering
could not do. So he penned her a few lines, telling
her how it was impossible for him to come, and saying
that on his return to Riverside with Alice, he
should expect to find her mother and herself waiting
to receive him.
“I cannot do less than this,” he said. “Isabel has
been with me a long time, and though I do not feel toward
her as I did, I pity her; for I am afraid she likes
me better than she should. I have given her encouragement,
too; but when I come back, I will talk with
her candidly. I will tell her how it is, and offer her a
home with me as long as she shall choose to stay. I
will be to her a brother; and when Marian is found,
the two shall be like sisters, until some man who has
not a wife already takes Isabel from my hands.”
Thus deciding, Frederic wrote to Alice, telling her
when he should probably be home, and saying he
should stop for a day or so at Yonkers. This done, he
retired to rest, dreaming strange dreams of Marian and
the girl who sat beside him. They were one and the
same, he thought; and he was raising the brown vail
to see, when he awoke to consciousness, and experienced
a feeling of disappointment in finding his dream
untrue.
That morning a vague, uneasy feeling prompted him
to stroll slowly down the street whither the young girl
had gone the previous night. The window in the third
story was open again, and the geranium was standing
there still, its broad leaves growing fresher and greener
in the sunshine which shone warm upon the window
sill, where a beautiful kitten lay, apparently asleep.
Frederic saw it all, and for an instant felt a thrill of
fear lest the cat should fall and be killed on the pavement
below. But a second glance assured him of its
safety—for, half buried in its long, silk fur, was a
small white hand, a hand like Marian's and that of the
girl with the thick brown vail. “Its owner was the
mistress of the kitten,” he said; and the top of her
stool, and utterly unconscious of the stranger who, on
the opposite side in the street, cast many and wistful
glances in that direction, not because he fancied that
she was there, nor yet for any explainable reason, except
that the fringed curtain reminded him of his boyhood;
and he knew the occupant of that room had
once lived in the country, and bleached her linen on
the sweet, clean grass, which grew by the running
brook.
“Marian,” said Mrs. Burt, “who is that tall man going
down the street? He's been looking this way ever
so much. Isn't it—”
She did not need to repeat the name, for Marian
saw who it was, and her fingers buried themselves so
deeply in the fat sides of the kitten that the little animal
fancied the play rather too rude for comfort, and,
spitting at her mistress pertly bounded upon the floor.
“It's Frederic!” cried Marian. “Maybe he's coming
here, for he has crossed the street below, and is
coming up this side.” And in her joy Marian forgot
the harsh things she had said of him only the night before.
But in vain Marian waited for the step upon the
stairs—the loud knock upon the door—neither of them
came, and leaning from the window she watched him
through her tears until he passed from sight.
That afternoon, as Frederic was sauntering leisurely
down the street in the direction of the depot—
ior he intended going to Yonkers that night—he stumbled
upon Ben, whose characteristic exclamation was,
“Wall, Square, glad to see you out agin, but I didn't
b'lieve I ever should when I sent word to that gal. She
come, I s'pose?”
“Yes,” returned Frederic, “and I am grateful to
you for your kindness in telegraphing to my friends.
How did you know I was sick?”
“Oh, I'm allus 'round,” said Ben. “Know one of
them boys at the hotel, and he told me. I s'posed
only I had to go off peddlin'. Bizness afore pleasure,
you know.”
This remark seemed to imply that Frederic's dying
would have been a source of pleasure to the Yankee,
but the young man knew that he did intend it, and the
two walked on together—Ben plying his companion
with questions, and learning that both Isabel and Mrs.
Huntington were now in New Haven, but would probably
go to Riverside when Frederic returned from
Kentucky.
“That's a grand place,” said Ben; “fixed up in tip-top
style, too. I took my sister out to see it, and she
thought 'twas pretty slick. Wouldn't wonder if you're
goin' to marry that black haired gal, by the looks of
things?” and Ben's gray eyes peered sideways at Frederic,
who replied, “I certainly have no such intentions.”
“You don't say it,” returned Ben. “I shouldn't
of took the trouble to send for her if I hadn't s'posed
you was kinder courtin'. My sister thought you was, and
she or'to know, bein' she's been through the mill!”
Frederic winced under Ben's pointed remarks, and
as a means of changing the conversation, said, “If I
am not mistaken, you spoke of your sister when in
Kentucky, and Alice became quite interested. I've
heard her mention the girl several times. What is her
name?”
“Do look at that hoss—flat on the pavement. He's
a goner,” Ben exclaimed, by way of gaining a little
time.
Frederic's attention was immediately diverted from
Ben, who thought to himself, “I'll try him with half
the truth, and if he's any ways bright he'll guess the
rest.”
So when, to use Ben's words, the noble quadruped
was “safely landed on t'other side of Jordan where
there wan't no omnibus drivers, no cars, no canal boats,
no cartmen, no gals to pound their backs into pummice,
nor nothin' but a lot as big as the United States with
the Missippi runnin' through it, and nothin' to do but
kick up their heels and eat clover,” Ben came back to
Frederic's question, and said, “You as't my sister's
name. They tried hard to call her Mary Ann, I
s'pose. My way of thinkin' 'taint neither one nor
t'other, though mabby you'll like it—Marian; 'taint a
common name. Did you ever hear it afore?”
“Marian!” gasped Frederic, turning instantly pale,
while a strange, undefinable feeling swept over him—
a feeling hat he had never been so near finding her as
now.
“Excuse me, Square,” said Ben, whose keen eyes
lost not a single change in the expression of Frederic's
face. “I'm such a blunderin' critter! That little
blind gal told me your fust wife was Marian, and I
or'to known better than harrer your feelings with the
name.”
“Never mind,” returned Frederic, faintly, “but tell
me of your sister—and now I think of it, you said once
you were from down east, which I supposed referred
to one of the New England states, Vermont perhaps?”
“Did use to live in Massachusetts,” replied Ben. “But
can't a feller move?”
Frederic admitted that he could, and Ben continued,
“I or'to told you, I s'pose, that Marian ain't my own
flesh and blood—she's adopted, that's all. But I love
her jest the same. Her name is Marian Grey,” and
Ben looked earnestly at Frederic, thinking to himself,
“Won't he take the hint when he knows, or had or'to
know that her mother was a Grey.”
But hints were lost on Frederic. He had no suspicion
of the truth, and Ben proceeded, “All her kin is
dead, and as mother hadn't no daughter she took this
orphan, and I'm workin' hard to give her a good
schoolin'. She can play the pianner like fury, and
talks the French grammar most as well as I do the
English!”
This brought a smile to Frederic's face, and he did
not for a moment think of doubting Ben's word.
“You seem very proud of your sister,” he said, at
last, “and as I owe you something for caring for me
and telegraphing to my friends, let me show my gratitude
by giving you something for this Marian Grey.
What shall it be? Is she fond of jewelry? Most
young girls are.”
Ben stuck his hands in his trousers pocket and
seemed to be thinking; then, removing his hands he
replied, “Mabby you'll think it sassy, but there is
somethin' that would please us both. I told her about
you when I came from Kentucky, and she cried like a
baby over that blind gal. Then, when you was sick,
she felt worried agin, beg your pardon, Square, but I
told her you was han'some. Jest give us your picter,
if it ain't bigger than my thumb, and would it be asking
too much for you when you git home to send me
the blind gal's. She's an angel, and I should feel so
good to have her face in my pocket. You can direct
to Ben Butterworth—but law, you won't, I know you
won't.”
“Why not?” asked Frederic, laughing at the novel
request. “Mine you shall surely have, and Alice's
also, if she consents. Come with me now, for we are opposite
a daguerrean gallery.”
The result of this was that in a short time Ben held
in his hand a correct likeness of Frederic, which was
of priceless value to him, because he knew how highly
it would be prized by her for whom alone he had requested
it.
As they passed out into the street again, Frederic
said to him rather abruptly, “Do you know Sarah
Green?”
“No,” answed Ben, and Frederic continued,
“Do you know Mrs. Merton?”
Ben started a little, and then repeating the name
replied, “Ain't acquainted with that name neither.
Who is she?”
“She took care of me,” returned Frederic, “and I
would like to find her, and thank her for her kind
ness.”
“I shouldn't s'pose she could of took care of you
alone, sick as you was,” said Ben, waiting eagerly for
the answer, which, had it been what he desired, might
lead to the unfolding of the mystery.
But Frederic shrank from making Ben his confidant.
“It was hard for her till Miss Huntington came.”
“Blast Miss Huntington,” thought Ben, now thoroughly
satisfied that his companion did not care to discover
Marian, or he would certainly say something
about her.
Both she and his mother were sure that he knew
she had been with him in his sickness, and if he really
wished to find her he would speak of her as well as of
Mrs. Merton.
“But he don't,” thought Ben. “He don't care a
straw for her, and she's right when she says she won't
run after him any more. He don't like Isabel none
too well, and I raally b'lieve the man is crazy.”
This settled the matter satisfactorily with Ben, who
accompanied Frederic to the depot, waiting there until
the departure of the train.
“Give my regrets to that Josh, and the rest of the
niggers, and don't on no account forget the picter,”
were his last words, as he quitted the car, and then
hurried home impatient to show Marian his surprise.
He found her sitting by the open window—a listless,
dreamy look in her blue eyes, and a sad expression
upon her face, which said that her thoughts were far
away in the South-land, where Nature had decked her
beautiful home with all the glories of the merry month
of May and the first bright days of June. Roses were
blooming there now, she knew, and she thought of the
bush she had planted beneath the library window,
wondering if that were in bloom, and if its fragrance
ever reminded the dear ones of her. Did Alice twine
the buds amid her soft hair, just as she used to do,
than all the rest?
“Darling Alice,” she murmured, “I shall never
see her again:” and her tears were dropping upon her
lap just as Ben came in, and began:
“Wall, wee one, I've seen the Square, and talked
with him of you.”
“Oh, Ben, Ben!”—and Marian's face was spotted
with her excitement—“what made you? What did
he say? and where is he?”
“Gone home,” answered Ben; “but he had this
took on purpose for you;” and he tossed the picture
into her lap.
“It is—it is Frederic. Oh, Mrs. Burt, it is,” and
Marian's lip touched the glass, from which the face of
Frederic Raymond looked kindly out upon her.
It was thinner than when she used to know it, but
fuller, stronger-looking than when it lay among the
tumbled pillows. The eyes, too, were hollow, and not
so bright, while it seemed to her that the rich brown
hair was not so thrifty as of old. But it was Frederic
still, her Frederic, and she pressed it again to her lips,
while her heart thrilled with the joyful thought that he
remembered her, and had sent her this priceless token.
But why had he gone home without her—why had he
left her there alone if he really cared for finding her?
Slowly, as a cloud obscures a summer sky, a shadow
crept over her face—a shadow of doubt—of distrust.
There was something she had not heard, and with quivering
lip she said to Ben, “What does it mean?
You have not told me why he sent it.”
It was cruel to deceive her as he had done, and so
Ben thought when he saw the heaving of her chest,
the pressure of her hands, and more than all, the
whiteness of her face, as he told her why Frederic
sent to her that picture; that it was not taken for
Marian Lindsey, but rather for Marian Grey, adopted
sister of Benjamin Butterworth.
“He does not wish to find me,” said Marian when
and it is just as well, perhaps.”
“I think so, too,” rejoined Ben, “or at any rate I'd
let him rest a spell, and learn everything there is in
books for woman-kind to learn. You shall go to college,
if you say so, and bimeby, when the old Nick
himself wouldn't know you, I'll get you a chance to
teach that blind gal, and he'll fall in love with his
own wife; see if he don't,” and Ben stroked the curls
within his reach very caressingly, thinking to himself,
“I won't tell her now 'bout Alice's picter, 'cause it
many not come, but I'll cheer her up the best way that
I can. She grows handsome every day of her life,”
and as this, in Ben's estimation, was the one thing of
all others to be desired by Marian, he could not forbear
complimenting her aloud upon her rapid improvement
in looks.
“Thank you,” she answered, smiling very faintly,
for to her, beauty or accomplishments were of little
avail if in the end Frederic's love were not secured.
Anon, however, hope whispered to her that it might
be, and again she opened the daguerreotype, catching
a glow of encouragement from the eyes which looked
so kindly at her, as if they fain would tell her of the
weary days the original of that picture had spent in
searching for her, or how, even now, amid the noise
and dust of the crowded cars, he sat, wholly unmindful
of what was passing around, never looking at the
beautiful blue river without, or yet at the motley
passengers within, but with his hat drawn over his
eyes and his shawl across his lap, he thought of her
alone, except indeed occasionally when there would
intrude itself upon him the remembrance of the girl
with the brown vail, or a thought of Marian Grey!
| CHAPTER XVII.
THE SEARCH. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall | |