 | CHAPTER XVIII.
HOME AGAIN. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
HOME AGAIN.
Frederic was coming home again—“Marster Frederic,”
who, as Dinah said, “had been so near to kingdom-come
that he could hear the himes they sung on
Sundays.”
Joyfully the blacks told to each other the glad news,
which was an incentive for them all to bestir themselves
as they had not done before during the whole
period of their master's absence. Old Dinah, whose
mind turned naturally upon eatables, busied herself
in conjuring up some new and harmless relish for the
invalid, while Uncle Phil spent all the whole day in
rubbing down the horses and rubbing up the carriage
with which he intended meeting his master at Frankfort.
Josh, too, caught the general spirit, and remembering
how much his master was wont to chide him
for his slovenly appearance, he cast rueful glances at
his sorry coat and red cowhides, wishing to goodness
he had some “clothes to honor the 'casion with.”
“I m-m-might sh-sh-shine these up a little,” he said,
examining his boots, and, purloining a tallow candle
from Hetty's cupboard, he set himself to the task,
succeeding so well that he was almost certain of commendation.
A coat of uncle Phil's was borrowed next, and
though it hung like a tent cloth about Josh's lank proportions,
the effect was entirely satisfactory to the boy,
reasonably be expected of him.
In the house Alice was not idle. From the earliest
dawn she had been up, for there was something on
her mind which kept her wakeful and restless. Frederic's
letters, which were read to her by the wife of
the overseer, who lived near by, had told her of the
blue-eyed girl who had been with him in his sickness,
and in one letter, written ere he had given up the
search, he had said, while referring to the girl: “Darling
Alice, I am so glad you sent me here, for I hope
to bring you a great and joyful surprise.”
Not the least mention did he make of Marian, but
Alice understood at once that he meant her. Marian
and the blue-eyed girl were the same, and he would
bring her back to them again. She was certain of it,
and though in his last letter, dated at Riverside, and
apprising them of his intended return, he had not
alluded to the subject, it made no difference with her.
He wished really to surprise her, she thought, and
seeking out Dinah, she said to her, rather cautiously,
for she would let no one into her secret:
“Supposing Frederic had never been married to
Marian, but had gone now after a bride—I don't mean
Isabel,” she said, as she felt the defiant expression of
Dinah's face—“but somebody else—somebody real
nice. Supposing, I say, he was going to bring her
home, which room do you think he would wish her to
have?”
“The best chamber, in course,” answered Dinah—
“the one whar the 'hogany bedstead and silk quilt is.
You wouldn't go to puttin' Marster Frederic's wife
off with poor truck, I hope. But what made you ask
that question? What have you hearn?”
“Nothing in particular,” answered Alice, “only it
would be nice if he should bring somebody with him,
and I want to fix the room just as though I knew he
would. May Lid sweep and dust it for me?”
For a moment Dinah looked at her as if she thought
a spell any way, and I may as well humor her whim,”
she replied. “Sakes alive, yes, and I'll ar the bed.
Thar haint nobody slep' in't sence Marian run away,
'cept Miss Agnes one night and that trollop, Isabel,
who consulted me by sayin' how't they done clarmbered
onto a table afore they could get inter bed, 'twas
so high. Ain't used to feathers whar she was raised,
I reckon, and if you'll b'lieve it, she said how't she
allus slep' on har afore she come here! Pretty stuff
that must be to lie on; but Lord, them Yankees is
mostly as poor as poverty, and don't know no differ.”
Having relieved herself of this speech, which involved
both her opinion of Yankees in general and Isabel
in particular, the old lady proceeded to business, first
arin' the bed, as she said, and then making it higher,
if possible, than it was made on the night when Isabel
so injured her feelings by laughing at its hight.
Lid's services were next brought into requisition; and
when the chamber was swept and dusted, the arrangement
of the furniture was left entirely to Alice, who
felt that what she did was right, and wished so much
that she could see just how Marian's favorite chair
looked standing by the window, from which the gorgeous
sunsets Marian so much admired could be
plainly seen. Just opposite, and on the other side of
the window, Frederic's easy chair was placed—the one
in which he always sat when tired, and where Alice
fancied he would now delight to sit with Marian, so
near that he could look into her eyes and tell her that
he was glad to have her there. He was beginning to
love her Alice knew by the tone of his letters; and
her heart thrilled with joy as she thought of the happiness
in store for them all. She would not be lonely
now in her own pleasant chamber, for it was so near to
Marian's. She could leave the doors open between,
and that would be so much nicer than having black
Ellen sleeping on the floor.
Dear little Alice! She built bright castles in the air
Frederic had written, “Marian is found, and coming
home with me.”
“She loved a great many flowers around her,” she
said, and groping her way down the stairs and out
into the yard, she gathered from the tree beneath the
library window a profusion of buds and half opened
roses, which she arranged into bouquets, and placed in
vases for Marian, just as Marian had gathered flowers
for her from the garden far away on the river.
It was done at last; and very inviting that pleasant,
airy apartment looked with its handsome furniture, its
bright carpet and muslin curtains of snowy white,
to say nothing of the towering bed. There were flowers
on the mantle, flowers on the table, flowers in the
window, flowers everywhere, and their sweet perfume
filled the air with a delicious fragrance which Dinah
declared was “a heap sight better than that scent
Miss Isabel used to put on her hankercher and fan.
Ugh, that fan!” and Dinah's nose was elevated at the
very thought of Isabel's sandal-wood fan which had
been her special abhorrence.
“Isn't it most time for Uncle Phil to start?” asked
Alice, when Dinah had finished fixing the room.
“Yes, high time,” answered Dinah, “but Phil is so
slow. I'll jest hurry him up,” and followed by Alice
she descended the stairs, meeting in the lower hall with
Lyd, who held in her hand a brown envelope, which
she passed to Alice, saying “One dem letters what
come like lightnin' on the telegraph. A boy done
brung it.”
“A telegram,” cried Alice, feeling at first alarmed.
“Go for Mrs. Warren to read it.”
But the overseer's wife was absent, as was also her
husband, and neither the blacks nor Alice knew what
to do.
“There isn't more than a line and a half,” said Alice,
passing her finger over the paper and feeling the thick
sand which had been sifted upon it. “I presume
word that he will not be here to-day.”
“Let me see dat ar,” said Phil, who liked to impress
his companions with a sense of his superior wisdom,
and, adjusting his iron-bowed specs, he took the letter,
which in reality was Greek to him.
After an immense amount of wry faces and loud
whispering he said:
“Yes, honey, you're correct, though Marster Frederic
has sich an onery hand-write that it takes me a
a heap of time to make it out. It reads, `Somethin'
has detained Frederic, and he has sent word
that he'll be here to-morry.”' And, with the utmost
gravity, Phil took off his specs, and was walking away
with the air of one who has done something his companions
could never hope to do, when Hetty called
out:
“Wonder if he 'spects us to swaller dat ar, and
think he kin read, when he jest done said over what
Miss Alice say. Can't fool dis chile.”
This insinuation Uncle Phil felt constrained to
answer, and with an injured air he replied:
“Kin read, too, for don't you mind how't Miss Alice
say. `Won't be here to day,' and it's writ on the
paper, `Comin' to-morry.”' And, fully satisfied that
he had convinced his audience, Uncle Phil hastened
off, ere Hetty had time for further argument. So certain
was Phil that Alice's surmises were correct and
the telegram interpreted aright, and so anxious withal
to prove himself sure, that he would not go to Frankfort,
as he proposed doing.
“There was no use on't,” he said. “Marster
wouldn't be thar till to-morry,” and he whiled away
the afternoon at leisure.
But alas for Uncle Phil. Mrs. Warren had made a
mistake in Frederic's last letter, the young man writing
he should be home on the 15th, whereas she had read
it the 17th; afterward, Frederic had decided to leave
Riverside one day earlier, and he telegraphed from
carriage nor servant in waiting, he hired a conveyance,
and about four o'clock P. M. from every cabin door
there came the joyful cry—
“Marster Frederic has come.”
“Told you so,” said Hetty, with an exultant glance
at Uncle Phil, who wisely made no reply, but hastened
with the rest to tell his master, “How d'ye?”
“How is it that some one did not meet me?” Frederic
asked, after the first noisy outbreak had somewhat
subsided. “Didn't you get the despatch?”
The negroes looked at Phil, who stammered out—
“Yes, we done got it, but dem ole iron specs of
mine is mighty nigh wore out—can't see in 'em at all,
and I read `to-morry' instead of `to-day.”'
The loud shout which followed this excuse enlightened
Frederic as to the true state of the case, and he,
too, joined in the laugh, telling the crest-fallen Phil
that “he should surely have a new pair of silver specs
which would read `to-day' instead of `to-morry.”'
“But where is Alice?” he continued. “Why don't
she come to greet me?”
“Sure 'nough,” returned Dinah. “Whar can she
be, when she was so fierce to have you come? Reckon
she's up in the best charmber she's been fixin' up
for somethin', she wouldn't tell what.”
“I'll go and see,” said Frederic, starting in quest
of the little girl, who, as Dinah had conjectured, was
in the front chamber—the one prepared with so much
care for Marian.
She had been sitting by the window when she
heard the sound of wheels coming up the avenue.—
Then the joyful cry of “Marster's comin',” came to
her quick ear, and, starting up, she bent her head to
listen for another voice—a voice she had not heard for
many a weary month. But she listened in vain, for
Marian was not there. Gradually she became convinced
of the fact, and, laying her face on the windowsill,
she was weeping bitterly when Frederic came in.
first at the well remembered chair, then at the books
upon the table, then at the flowers, and then he knew
why all this had been done.
“I would that it might have been so,” he thought,
and going to the weeping Alice he lifted up her head
and pushing her hair from her forehead, whispered to
her softly, “Darling, was it for Marian you gathered
all these flowers?”
“Yes, Frederic, for Marian,” and Alice sobbed
aloud.
Taking her in his lap, Frederic replied, “Did you
think I would bring her home?”
“Yes, I thought you had found her, and I was so
glad. What made you write me that?”
“Alice I did find her,” returned Frederic; “I have
seen her, I have talked with her. Marian is alive.”
At these words, so decidedly spoken, the blind eyes
flashed up into Frederic's face eagerly, wistfully, as if
they fain would burst their vail of darkness and see if
he told her truly.
“Is it true? Oh, Frederic, you are not deceiving
me? I can't bear any more disappointment,” and
Alice's face and lips were as white as ashes, as she
proceeded further to question Frederic, who told her
of the blue-eyed girl who, just as he was treading the
brink of the river of death, had come to him and called
him back to life by her kind acts and words of love.
“She had a sweet, childish face,” said he, “fairer,
sweeter than Marian's when she went away—but Marian
must have changed; for I knew that this was
she.”
Then he told her of her sudden disappearance when
Isabel came—of his fruitless efforts to find her, and
how while searching for her, he had met another girl,
whose hands reminded him of those which he had felt
so many times upon his brow.
“Wasn't that Marian?” said Alice, who had forgotten
her grief in listening.
There was a mournful pathos in the tone of his
voice, and it emboldened Alice to ask another question.
“Frederic,” she began, and her little hand played
with his hair, as it always did when she was uncertain
as to how her remarks would be received, “Frederic,
ain't you loving Marian a heap more than you did
when she went away?”
Frederic did not hesitate a moment ere replying,
“Yes, darling, I am, for that young girl crept away
down into my heart where Marian ought to have been,
before I asked her to be my wife; and I shall find her
too. I only stopped long enough to come home for
you. The house is ready at Riverside, and your room
is charming.”
“Will Isabel be there?” was Alice's next inquiry,
and Frederic answered by telling her all he knew of
the matter.
He did not say he was beginning to understand her
and consequently to like her less, but Alice inferred as
much, and with this fear removed from her mind, she
could endure patiently to become again a pupil of Miss
Huntington. For a long time they talked together,
wondering who wrote the letler purporting to have
come from Sarah Green, and why it had been written.
Then Frederic told her of the peddler Ben, and of his
sister, Marian Grey, who, at that moment, had his
daguerreotype in her keeping. Of Marian Grey Alice
did not say to him “She is our Marian,” for she had
not such a thought, but she seemed interested both in
her and in Ben, and when told that the latter had asked
for her picture she consented at once, saying he should
have it as soon as they were settled at Riverside.
“I would not tell any one that Marian was with me,”
said Frederic, as their conversation drew to a close;
“I had rather the subject should not be discussed until
I really find her and bring her home; then we will set
apart a day of general thanksgiving.”
To this suggestion Alice readily assented, and as the
to the delicious repast, which Dinah had prepared
with unusual care, insisting the while that “thar was
nothin' fit for nobody to eat.”
Frederic, however, whose appetite was increasing
each day, convinced her to the contrary, and while
watching him as he did justice to her viands, the old
negress thought to herself, “'Clar for't, how he does
eat. I should know he come from Yankee land. You
can allus tell 'em, the way they crams, when they get
whar thar is somethin'.”
The news of Frederic's return spread rapidly, and
that night he received calls from several of his neighbors,
together with an invitation to Agnes Gibson's
wedding, which was to take place in a few days. In
the invitation Alice was included, and though Dinah
demurred, saying that “trundle-bed truck or' to stay at
home,” Alice ventured to differ from her, and at the
appointed time went with Frederic to the party, which
was splendid in all its parts, having been got up with
a direct reference to the newspaper articles which were
sure to be published concerning it. Agnes, of course,
was charming in white satin, point lace, orange flowers,
flowing vail, and all other et ceteras which complete
the dress of a fashionable bride. And the bridegroom—poor
old man—looked very well in his new
suit of broadcloth, even if his knees did shake—not
from fear, however, but as one of the guests remarked,
“Because it was a way they'd had for several years!'
The top of his head was bald, it is true, and his hair'
as white as snow, but for every silver thread Agnes
knew there was a golden eagle in his purse, and this
consoled her somewhat, though it did not prevent her
from watching jealously to see if any one was talking
of the palsied man, her husband. Her expected present
from Isabel had never come, and the three fish knives,
ranged in a row, looked as if two of them, at least,
were rather more ornamental than useful, as did also
the four card baskets, and three gold thimbles, which
was especially gracious, asking him numberless questions
concerning her “dear friend,” and saying “she
hoped to meet her in her travels, as they were going
North and were intending to spend the Summer at
Saratoga, Newport, and Nahant. I thought once you
would be taking your bridal tour about this time,” she
said to him, when several were standing near.
“I assure you I had no such idea,” was Frederic's
reply, and Agnes continued, “Indeed I supposed you
were engaged, of course.”
“Then you supposed wrong,” he answered, glad of
this public opportunity to contradict a story he knew
had gained a wide circulation. “I esteem Miss Huntington
as a friend and distant relative, but I certainly
have no intention whatever of making her my wife.”
Frequently, during the evening, he was asked if he
had found any clue to Sarah Green or her letter; and
as he could in all sincerity reply in the negative, no
one guessed that instead of Sarah Green he had found
his wife—only, however to lose her again.
“But he would find her,” he said to himself, and as
he looked at the ill-matched bride and groom, he could
not forebear wishing that it were himself and Marian.
He would stay by her now, he thought, and when it
grew dark in the parlor instead of suffering her to go
away alone and read the fatal letter, he would draw
her to his side, and telling her of its contents, would
sue for her forgiveness, and offer to her love in return
for the fraud imposed upon her.
It was a pleasant picture Frederic drew that night
of what his bridal might have been, and so absorbed
was he in it that when, as they were going home, Alice
with a yawn said to him, “Wasn't it so tiresome hearing
those young folks say such foolish things to each
other, and hearing the old ones talk about their servants?”
he replied, “why no, child, I spent a most delightful
evening.”
“I—don't—see—how you could,” was the drowsy
cushions fast asleep!
It was nearly three weeks after this party ere Frederic's
arrangements for leaving Kentucky were entirely
completed, and it was not until the latter part of July
that he finally started for his new home. The lamentations
of the negroes were noisy in the extreme,
though far more moderate than they would have been
if their master had not said that it was very probable he
should return in the Autumn, and merely make Riverside
a Summer residence. If he found Marian he
should come back, of course, he thought, but he did
not deem it best to raise hopes which might never be
realized, so he said nothing of her to the blacks who
supposed of course she was dead.
The parting between Dinah and Alice was a bitter
one, the former hugging the little girl to her bosom
and wondering how “Marster Frederic 'spected a child
what had never waited on itself even to fotch a drop
of water, could get along way off dar whar thar warn't
nary nigger nor nothin' but a pack o' low flung Irish.
Order 'em 'round,” she said to Alice, wiping her eyes
with her checked apron, “order 'em round jist like
they warn't white. Make 'em think you be somebody.
Say your pra'rs evey night—war your white cambric
wrappers in the mornin', and don't on no count catch
any poor folksy's marners 'mong them Yankees for I
shouldn't get my nateral sleep o' nights, till you got
shet of 'em, and—” lowering her voice, “if so be that
you tell any of the quality 'bout us blacks, s'posin you
you kinder set me 'bove Hetty and them Higginses,
bein' that I the same as nussed you.”
To nearly all these requirements Alice promised
compliance, and then, as the carriage was waiting, she
followed Frederic down to the gate, and soon both
were lost to the sight of the tearful group which from
the piazza of Redstone Hall, gazed wistfully after
them.
It was at the close of a sultry Summer day when
Huntington waiting to receive them. Frederic had
written, apprising her of the time when he should
probably arrive, and asking her to be there if possible.
Something, too, he had said of Isabel, but that young
lady was not in the most amiable mood, and as she
was comfortably domesticated with another distant
relative, she declined going to Frederic until he came
to some understanding, or at least manifested a greater
desire to have her with him than his recent letters indicated.
Accordingly her mother went alone, and
Frederic was not sorry, while Alice was delighted.
Everything seemed so bright and airy, she said, just as
though a load were taken from them, and like a bird
she flitted about the house, for she needed to pass
through a room but once ere she was familiar with its
location, and could find it easily. With her own cozy
chamber she was especially pleased, and in less than
half an hour her little hands had examined every article
of furniture, even to the vases which held the
withered blossoms gathered so long ago.
“Somebody must have put these here for me,” she
said, and then her mind went back to the morning
when she, too, had gathered flowers for her expected
friend, and she wondered much who had done a similar
service for her.
“It's me,” returned Mrs. Russell, who was still staying
at Riverside. “Now I wonder if you found them
dried-up things so soon,” she continued, advancing into
room. “I should of hove them out, only that the girl
who fixed 'em made me promise to leave 'em till you
came. 'Pears like she b'lieved you'd think more on
'em for knowin' that she picked 'em.”
“Girl! Mrs. Russell. What girl?” and Alice's eyes
lighted up, for she thought at once of Marian, who
would know of course about the house, and as she would
naturally wish to see it, she had come some day and
left these flowers, which would be so dear to her if she
she asked again, and Mrs. Russell replied:
“I don't remember her name, but she went all over
the house, fixing things in Mr. Raymond's room, which
I didn't think was very marnerly, bein' that 'twa'n't
none o' hern. Then she come in here and set ever so
long before she picked these posys, which she told me
not to throw away.”
“Yes, it was Marian,” came involuntarily from
Alice's lips, while the woman, catching at the name
rejoined:
“That sounds like what he called her—that tall
spooky chap, her brother—Ben something. She said
he had seen you at the South.”
“Oh, Ben Butterworth. It was his adopted sister;”
and Alice turned away, feeling greatly disappointed
that Marian Grey, and not Marian Lindsey, had arranged
those flowers for her.
This allusion to Ben reminded Alice of his request
for her picture, and one morning, when Frederic was
going to New York, she asked to go with him and sit
for her daguerreotype. There was no reason why she
should not, and in an hour or two, she was listening,
half stunned, to the noise and uproar of the city.
“Oh, Frederic,” she cried, holding fast to his hand,
as they made their way up town—“oh, Frederic, I
wonder Marian didn't get crazy and die. I'm sure I
should. I'm almost distracted now. Where are all
those people and carts going that I hear running by us
so fast, and what makes them keep pushing me so hard.
Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't come!” and as some one just
then jostled her more rudely than usual, Alice began
to cry.
“Never mind,” said Frederic soothingly, “we are
almost there, and we will take a carriage back. Folks
can't push you then;” and in stooping down to comfort
the little girl, he failed to see the graceful figure passing
so near him that the hem of her dress fluttered
against his boot.
They had come upon each other so suddenly that
there was not time for the brown vail to be dropped,
neither was it needful, for so absorbed was Frederic
with his charge that he neither knew nor dreamed how
near to Marian Lindsey he had been.
Alice's tears being dried, they kept on their way,
and when the picture was taken, Frederic did it up
and directing it to Ben Butterworth, sent it to the office,
then calling a carriage, he took Alice, as he had
promised, all over the great city. And Alice enjoyed
it very much, laying back on the soft cushions, and
knowing that no one could touch her of all the noisy
throng she heard so distinctly, but could not see. It
was a day long talked of by the blind girl, and she
asked Mrs. Huntington to write a description of it to
the negroes, who she knew fancied that Louisville was
the largest city in the world.
Not long after this, something which Mrs. Huntington
said about her daughter determined Frederic to
visit her and make the explanation which he felt it his
duty to make, for he knew he had given her some reason
to think he intended asking her to be his wife He
accordingly feigned some excuse for going to New Haven,
and one morning found himself at the door where
Isabel was stopping.
“Give her this,” he said, handing his card to the servant
who carried it at once to the delighted young lady.
“Frederic Raymond,” read Isabel. “Oh, yes. Tell
him I'll be down in a moment,” and she proceeded to
arrange her hair a little more becomingly, and made
several changes in her dress, so that the one minute
was nearly fifteen ere she started for the parlor, where
Frederic was rather dreading her coming, for he scarcely
knew what he wished to say.
Half timidly she greeted him as a bashful maiden is
supposed to meet her lover, and seating herself at a
respectful distance from him, she asked numberless
questions concerning his health, her numberless friends
she presumed, did not miss her much.
“Your mother's presence reminds us of you very often,
of course,” returned Frederic, “but you know we
can get accustomed to almost anything, and Alice
seems very happy.”
“Yes,” sighed Isabel. “You will all forget me, I
suppose, even to mother—but for me I have not been
quite contented since I left Kentucky. I thought it
tiresome to teach, and perhaps was sometimes impatient
and unreasonable, but I have often wished myself
back again. I don't seem to be living for anything
now,” and Isabel's black eyes studied the pattern of
the carpet quite industriously.
This long speech called for a reply, and Frederic
said, “You would not care to come back again, would
you?”
“Why, yes,” returned Isabel; “I would rather do
that than nothing.”
For a time there was silence, while Frederic fidgeted
in his chair and Isabel fidgeted in hers, until at last the
former said:
“I owe you an explanation, Isabel, and I have come
to make it. Do you remember our conversation in the
parlor, and to what it was apparently tending, when
we were interrupted by Alice?”
“Yes,” replied Isabel, “and I have thought of it so
often, wondering if you were in earnest, or if you were
merely trifling with my feelings.”
“I certainly had no intention of trifling with you,”
returned Frederic: “neither do I know as I was really
in earnest. At all events it is fortunate for us both
that Alice came in as she did;” and having said so
much, Frederic could now look calmly upon a face
which changed from a serene Summer sky to a dark,
lightning-laden thunder-cloud as he told her the story
he had came to tell.
In her terrible disappointment, Isabel so far forgot
herself as to lose her temper entirely, and Frederic,
called his perfidy, wondered how he ever could have
thought her womanly or good.
“It was false that Marian was living, and had taken
care of him when sick,” she said. “He could not impose
that story upon her, and he only wished to do it
because he fancied that he was in some way pledged
to her and wished for an excuse, but he might have
saved himself the trouble, for even had Alice not appeared
she should have told him No. She liked him
once, she would admit, but there was nothing like living
beneath the same roof to make one person tire or
another, and even if she were not disgusted with him
before, she should have become so while taking care
of him in New York, and so she wrote to Agnes Gibson,
who, she heard, had spread the news that she was
engaged, though she had no authority for doing so, but
it was just like the tattling mischief-maker!”
“Are you through?” Frederic coolly asked, when
she had finished speaking. “If you are I will consider
our interview at an end.”
Isabel did not reply and he arose to go, saying to
her as he reached the door, “I did not come here to
quarrel with you, Bell, I wish still to be your friend,
and if you are ever in trouble come to me as to a brother.
Marian will, I trust, be with me then; but she
will be kind to you, for 'tis her nature.”
“Plague on that Marian,” was Isabel's unlady-like
thought as the door closed after Frederic. “I wonder
how many times she's coming to life! How I wanted
to charge him with his meanness in marrying her fortune,
but as that is a secret between the two, he would
have suspected me of treachery. The villain! I believe
I hate him—and only to think how those folks in
Kentucky will laugh. But it's all Agnes' doings.
She inveigled more out of me than there was to tell,
and then repeated it to suit herself. The jade! I
hope she's happy with that old man”—and at this
point Isabel broke down in a flood of tears, in the
up the stairs she listened to the names, which this time
were “Mr. and Mrs. Rivers,” (Agnes and her husband)
and they asked for her.
Drying her tears, and bathing her eyes until the
redness was gone, Isabel went down to meet the “tattling
mischief-maker,” embracing her very affectionately,
and telling her how delighted she was to see her
again, and how well she was looking.
“Then why do you not embark on the sea of matrimony
yourself, if you think it such a beautifier,” said
Agnes.
“Me?” returned Isabel, with a toss of her head; “I
thought I wrote you that I had given up that foolish
fancy.”
“Indeed, so you did,” said Agnes, “but I had forgotten
it, and when I saw Mr. Raymond at the Tontine,
where we are stopping, I supposed of course he
had come to see you, and I said to Mr. Rivers it really
was too bad, for from what he said at our wedding I
fancied there was nothing in it, and had made up my
mind to take you with us to Florida, as I once talked
of doing. Husband's sister wants a teacher for her
children, don't she, dear?”
Mr. Rivers was about to answer in the affirmative,
but ere he could speak Isabel chimed in, “Oh, you
kind, thoughtful soul. Let me go with you now; do.
Nothing could please me more. I have missed your
society so much, and am so unhappy here!” and in
the black eyes there was certainly a tear, which instantly
touched the heart of the sympathetic old man
who anticipated his wife's reply, by saying, “Certainly
you shall go, if you like. You'll be company for Mrs.
Rivers, and if I am in my dotage, as some say, I've
sense enough to know that she can't be contented all
the time with her grandfather. Eh, Aggie?” and
chucked his bride under the chin.
“Disgusting!” thought Isabel.
“Old fool!” thought Agnes, who was really rather
her new home, for though she did not love her dear
friend, she rather enjoyed her company, and she felt
that anybody was acceptable who would stand as a
third person between herself and the grandfather she
had chosen.
The more she thought of the plan the better she was
pleased with it, and before parting the whole was amicably
adjusted. Early in October, Isabel was to join
her friend in Kentucky, and go with her from thence
to Florida, where she was either to remain with Mrs.
Rivers, or to teach in the family of Mrs. McGregor,
Mr. Rivers' sister. The former was what Isabel intended
to do, for she thoroughly disliked teaching,
and if she could live without it, she would. Still she
did not so express herself to her visitors, and she appeared
so gracious and so grateful withal, that the
heart of the bridegroom was wholly won, and after his
return to their hotel, he extolled her so highly that
Agnes began to pout, a circumstance which pleased
her fatherly spouse, inasmuch as it angured more
affection for himself than he had supposed her to possess.
The story of Isabel's intended trip to Florida was
not long in reaching Rupolph McVicar, who had been
wondering why something didn't occur, and if he were
really to be disappointed after all.
“I wasted that paper and ink for nothing,” was his
mental comment when he heard from her own lips that
Isabel was going; for, presuming upon his former acquaintance,
he finally ventured to call upon her,
demeaning himself so well that, like her mother, Isabel
began to think he had reformed.
Still there was an expression in his eye which she
did not like, and when at last he left her, she experienced
a feeling of relief, as if a spell had been
removed. After her recent interview with Frederic
she would not go to his house, so her mother went to
New Haven, staying with her daughter a week and
Kentucky, where, as she had expected, she met with
Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, and was soon on her way to
Florida.
When sure that Isabel was gone, and that Sarah
Green's letter had indeed been written in vain, Rudolph,
who cared nothing now whether Marian were
ever discovered to her husband or not, went to New
York and embarked on a whaling voyage, as he had
long thought of doing, fancying that the roving life of
a seaman would suit his restless nature.
And now, with Rudolph on the sea, with Isabel in
Florida, with Marian at school, and Frederic at Riverside,
we draw a vail over the different characters of
our story, nor lift it again until three years have passed
away, bringing changes to all, but to none a greater
change than to the so-called Marian Grey.
| CHAPTER XVIII.
HOME AGAIN. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall | |