University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
WILL GORDON.

Mrs. Sheldon's residence was a most delightful
spot, reminding Marian a little of Redstone Hall, and
as she passed up its nicely graveled walk and stepped
upon its broad piazza, she felt that she could be very
happy there, provided she met with sympathizing
friends. Any doubts she might have had upon this
subject were speedily dispelled by the appearance of
Mrs. Sheldon, in whose face there was something very
familiar; and it was not long ere Marian identified
her as the lady who had spoken so kindly to her in
the car between Albany and New York, asking her
what was the matter, and if she had friends in the city.
This put Marian at once at her ease, and her admiration
for her employer increased each moment, particularly
when she saw how gracious she was to Ben,
who true to his resolution, scarcely spoke except to
answer Mrs. Sheldon's questions and to decline her
invitation to dinner.

“I should never get through that in the world without
some blunder,” he thought, and as the dinner-bell
was ringing, he took his leave, crying like a child when
he parted with Marian, who was scarcely less affected
than himself.

Going to the depot, he sauntered into the ladies'
room, where he found a group of young girls, who were
waiting the arrival of a friend, and who, meantime,
were ready for any fun which might come up. Ben
instantly attracted their attention, and one who seemed

to be the leader of the party, began to quiz him,
asking “where he lived, and if he had ever been so
far from home before?”

Ben understood the drift of her remarks at once,
and with imperturbable gravity, replied:

“I come from down East, where they raise sich as
me, and this is the fust time I was ever out of Tanton,
which allus was my native town!”

Then, taking his tobacco box from his pocket, he
passed it to an elegant-looking man, whom he readily
divined to be the brother of the girl, saying to him:

“Have a chaw, captain? I'd just as lief you would
as not.”

As he heard the loud laugh which this speech called
forth, he continued, without the shadow of a smile:

“I had—'strue's I live, for I ain't none o' your tight
critters. Nobody ever said that of Ben Bur—Ben
Butterwith,” he added, hastily, for until Marian was
discovered to Frederic, he thought it best to retain
the latter name.

“Ben Butterworth,” repeated the young girl in an
aside to her brother—“Why, Will, didn't sister Mary
tell us that was the adopted brother or cousin of her
new governess? You know Miss Grey mentioned his
name in one of her letters.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ben, ere Will had time to reply.
“If by Mary you mean Miss Sheldon, I'm the chap.
Brought my sister there to-day, to be her schoolma'am,
and I don't want you to run over her neither,
'cause you'll be sorry bimeby. That was all gammon I
told you about never being away from home before,
for I've seen considerable of the world.”

The cars from Boston were by this time rolling in at
the depot, and without replying to Ben's remark, the
young lady went out to look for her friend.

That night, just after dark, Mrs. Sheldon's door bell
rang, and her brother and sister came in, the latter
dressed in the extreme of fashion, and bearing about
her an air which seemed to indicate that she had long

been accustomed to receive the homage of those around
her. Seating herself on the sofa, she began, “Well,
Mary, Will and I have come over to see this wonderful
prodigy. Mother was here, you know, this afternoon,
and she came home half wild on the subject of
Miss Grey, insisting that I should call directly, and so
like a dutiful daughter I have obeyed, though I must
confess that the sight of Ben Butterworth, whom we
met at the depot, did not greatly prepossess me in her
favor.”

“They are not at all alike,” said Mrs. Sheldon, “neither
are they in any way related. Miss Grey is highly
educated, and has the sweetest face I ever saw. She
has some secret trouble, too, I'm sure, and she reminds
me of a beautiful picture over which a vail is thrown,
softening, and at the same time heightening its beauty.”

“Really,” said Will, rousing up, “some romance
connected with her. Do bring her out at once.”

Mrs. Sheldon left the room, and going up to Marian's
chamber, knocked at the door. A low voice bade her
come in, and she entered just in time to see Marian
hide away the daguerreotype of Frederic, at which she
had been looking.

“My brother and sister are in the parlor and have
asked for you,” she said.

“I will come down in a moment,” returned Marian,
who wished a little time to dry her tears, for she had
been weeping over the pictures of Frederic and Alice,
both of which she had in her possession.

Accordingly, when Mrs. Sheldon was gone, she
bathed her face until the stains had disappeared; then
smoothing her collar and brushing her wavy hair, she
descended to the parlor, where Ellen Gordon sat prepared
to criticise, and William Gordon sat prepared
for almost anything, though not for the vision which
greeted his view when Marian Grey appeared before
him. The dazzling purity of her complexion contrasted
well with her black dress, and the natural
bloom upon her cheek was increased by her embarrassment,

while her eyes dropped modestly beneath
the long-fringed lashes, which Ellen noticed at once,
because they were the one coveted beauty which had
been denied to herself.

“Jupiter!” was Will's mental comment. “Mary
didn't exaggerate in the least, and Nell will have to
yield the palm at once.”

Something like this passed through Ellen's mind,
but though on the whole a frank, right-minded girl,
she was resolved upon finding fault with the stranger,
simply because her mother and sister had said so much
in her praise.

“She is vulgar, I know,” she thought, and she
watched narrowly for something which should betray
her low birth, but she waited in vain.

Marian was perfectly lady-like in her manners; her
language was well chosen; her voice soft and low;
and ere she had been with her half an hour, Ellen secretly
acknowledged her superiority to most of the
young ladies of her acquaintance, and she regretted
that she, too, had not been educated at Mrs. Harcourt's
school, if such manners as Miss Grey's were common
there.

At Mrs. Sheldon's request, Marian took her seat at
the piano, and then Ellen hoped to criticise; but here
again she was at fault, for Marian was a brilliant performer,
keeping perfect time, and playing with the
most exquisite taste.

As she was turning over the leaves of the music
book after the close of the first piece, Will said to his
sister:

“By the way, Nell, I had a letter from Fred to-day
and he says he will be delighted to get you that music
the first time he goes to the city.”

Marian started just as she had done that afternoon
when Mrs. Sheldon called her youngest boy Fred.
Still there was no reason why she should do so. Frederic
was a common name, and she kept on turning the

leaves, while Ellen replied, “What else did he write,
and when is he going south?”

Marian's hand was stayed now, and she listened
eagerly for the answer, which was “Sometime in November,
and he has invited me to go with him, but I
hardly think I shall. He's lonesome, he says, and can
find no trace of his run away wife. So, there's a
shadow of a chance for you Nell.”

The hand which held the leaf suspended, came
down with a crash upon the keys of the piano, but
Ellen thought it was an accident, if she thought of it
at all; and she replied, “Fie, just as though I would
have a man before I knew for certain that his wife
was dead. I admire Mr. Raymond very much, and if
he had not been so foolish as to marry that child, I
can't say that he would not have made an impression,
for he is the finest looking and most agreeable gentleman
I ever met. Isn't it strange where that girl went,
and what she went for? Hasn't he ever told you anything
that would explain it?”

Up to this point Marian had sat immovable, listening
eagerly and wondering where these people had
known Frederic Raymond. Then, as something far
back in the past flashed upon her mind, she turned,
and looking in the young man's face, knew who he
was and that they had met before. His name had
seemed familiar from the first, and she knew that he
was the Will Gordon who had been Frederic's chum
in college, and had once spent a vacation at Redstone
Hall. He had predicted that she would be a handsome
woman, and Frederic had said she could not with such
hair. She remembered it all distinctly, but any effect
it might then have had upon her was lost in her anxiety
to hear the answer to Ellen's question.

“Fred generally keeps his matters to himself, but
I know as much as this: He didn't love that Miss
Lindsey any too well when he married her, but he has
admitted to me since that his feelings toward her had
undergone a change, and he would give almost anything

to find her. He is certain that she was with him
when he was sick in New York, and since that time he
has sought for her everywhere.”

William Gordon had no idea of the effect his words
produced upon the figure which, on the music stool,
sat as motionless as if it had been a block of marble.
During all the long, dreary years of exile from home
there had not come to her so cheering a ray of hope
as this, and the bright bloom deepened on her cheek,
while the joy which danced in her deep blue eyes
made them look almost black beneath the heavy
lashes. Frederic was beginning to love her—he had
acknowledged as much to Mr. Gordon, and her heart
bounded forward to the time when she should see him
face to face, and hear him tell her so with his own lips.
Little now she heeded Ellen's next remark, “I presume
it would be just the same even if he were to find
her. He is a great admirer of beauty, and she, I believe,
was very ordinary looking.”

“Not remarkably so,” returned Will. “She was
thin-faced and had red hair, but I remember thinking
she might make a handsome woman—”

“With red hair! Oh, Will!” and the blacktressed
Ellen laughed at the very idea.

A sudden movement on Marian's part made Will
recollect her, and he hastened to apologise for his
apparent forgetfulness of her presence.

“You will please excuse us,” he said, “for discussing
an affair in which you, of course, can have no interest.”

“Certainly,” she replied, while around the corners
of her mouth were little laughing dimples, which told
no tales to the young man, who continued: “Will you
give us some more music? I admire your style of playing.”

Marian was in a mood for anything, and turning to
the piano she dashed off into a merry, spirited thing,
to which Will's feet kept time, while Ellen looked on
amazed at the white fingers which flew like lightning

over the keys, seemingly never resting for an instant
upon any one of them, but lighting here and there
with a rapidity she never before seen equalled. It was
the outpouring of Marian's heart, and the tune she
played was a song of jubilee for the glad tidings she
had heard. Ere she had half finished, Will Gordon
was at her side, gazing wonderingly into her face,
which sparkled and glowed with her excitemënt.

“She is strangely beautiful,” he thought, and so he
said to Ellen when they were walking home together.

“She looks very well,” returned Ellen, “but I trust
you will not feel it your duty to fall in love with her
on that account. Wouldn't it be ridiculous though, for
you, who profess never to have felt the least affection
for any woman, to yield at once to Mary's governess?”

“Mary's governess is no ordinary person,” answered
Will. “How like the mischief she made those
fingers go in that last piece. I never saw anything
like it;” and he tried in vain to whistle a few bars of
the lively strain.

That night three men dreamed of Marian—Will
Gordon in his bachelor apartments, which he had said
should never be invaded with a female's wardrobe—
Ben Burt in his room at the Lovejoy Hotel—and Frederic
Raymond in his cheerful home upon the Hudson.
But to Marian, sleeping so quietly in her chamber
there came a thought of only one, and that one Frederic
Raymond, whose picture lay beneath her pillow.
She had never placed it there until to-night, for she
had felt that she had no right to do so. But Mr. Gordon's
words had effected a change. He said that
Frederic was begining to love her at last—that he had
sought for her without success—that he would give
almost anything to find her. It is true she could not
reconcile all this with her preconceived opinion: but
she had no wish to doubt it, and she accepted it as
truth, thinking it was probably a very recent thing
with him, this searching after and loving her.

Very rapidly and pleasantly to Marian did the first
few weeks of her sojourn with Mrs. Sheldon pass away.
She was interested in her pupils, two bright-faced little
girls, and doubly interested in their brother, the browneyed
Fred, whose real name she learned was Frederic
Raymond, he having been called, Mrs. Sheldon said,
after Williams particular friend, who spent his winters
in Kentucky, and his Summers at Riverside, a delightful
place on the Hudson. Frederic Raymond was a
frequent subject of conversation in Mrs. Sheldon's family,
and once, after Marian had been there four or five
months, and Will, as usual, was spending an evening
there, the matter was discussed at length, while Marian,
sitting partly in the shade, so that the working of
her features could not be seen, dropped stitch after
stitch in the cloud she was crotcheting, and finally
stopped altogether as the conversation proceeded.

“I am positive,” said Mrs. Sheldon, “that I saw Mrs.
Raymond in the cars, between Albany and Newburg.
It was four years ago, last Autumn, and about that
time she came away. There was a very young girl sitting
before me, dressed in black, with long red curls,
and she looked as if she had wept all her tears away,
though they fell like rain when I spoke to her and
asked her what was the matter. I remember her particularly
from her question, `Is New York a heap noisier
than Albany or Buffalo?”'

“That `heap' is purely Southern,” interrupted Will,
while his sister continued:

“She said she had but one friend in the world, and
that one was in New York. I remember, too, that one
of her hands was ungloved. It was so white and
small, and she used it so often to brush her tears away.”

Here Will glanced involuntarily at the beautiful little
hands busy with the cloud. It might have been
fancy, but he thought they trembled, and so he closed
the register and opened a door, thinking the heat of
of the room might have made Miss Grey nervous—and
he was growing very careful of her comfort!

Poor Will!

Returning to his seat, he replied to his sister's remark,
“That was undoubtedly Marian Lindsey. Did
you speak of it to Frederic?”

“No,” said Mrs. Sheldon, “I have always thought
he disliked talking of her to me, and that makes me
think there is something wrong—that he did her an injury.”

“Every man who marries without love injures the
woman he makes his wife,” said Will, “and Frederic
does not profess to have loved her then. His father
drew him into this match, and for some inexplicable
reason Fred consented, when all the time he loved that
Isabel Huntington. But he has recovered from that
infatuation, and I am glad of it, for I never liked her,
and had the thing been possible, I should say she poisoned
him against this Marian. Why, Miss Grey, you
are actually shivering,” he added, as he saw the violent
trembling of Marian's body, and this time he
opened the register and shut the door, offering to go
for a shawl, and asking where she had taken such a
cold.

“It's only a slight chill—it will soon pass off,” she
said, and as Mrs. Sheldon was just then called from the
room, Will drew his chair a little nearer to Marian and
continued:

“This Raymond affair must be irksome to you, who
know nothing about it.”

“Oh, no,” said Marian faintly. “I am greatly interested,
particularly in the girl-wife. Can't he find
her? Seems as though he might. Perhaps though, he
don't really care.”

“Yes, he does,” interrupted Will. “He disliked
her once, but I believe he feels differently toward her
now. His hobby in college was a handsome wife, but
he has learned that beauty alone is worthless, and he
would gladly take Marian back.”

“Red hair and all?” asked Marian, mischievously,
and Will replied, “Yes, I believe he's even made up

his mind to the red hair. I didn't object to it myself,
and I once saw this girl.”

“Redstone Hall is a beautiful spot, I believe,” said
Marian, briefly stating thai Ben had once been there
in his travels, and had since met Mr. Raymond in New
York.

“Then you know the family,” said Will, in some
surprise.

“I know of them,” returned Marian, “for Ben was
so much interested in the blind girl that after his return
he talked of little else.”

“You have never seen them yourself, of course,” and
taking this fact for granted, Will proceeded to give her
a most minute description of Redstone Hall, of its master,
and of herself as she was when he visited Kentucky.

Frederic's marriage was then touched upon. Will
telling how angry his chum used to be when he received
a letter on the subject from his father.

“We were studying law together,” he said, “and,
as we were room-mates in college, it was quite natural
that we should confide in each other; so he used to tell
me of his father's project, and almost swear he wouldn't
do it. I never was more astonished than when I heard
he was to be married in a few days. `It's all over
with me,' he wrote, `I can't help it!” and he signed
himself `Your wretched Fred!' But what are you
crying for, Miss Grey? You certainly are. What is
the matter?”

“I am crying for her—for poor Marian Lindsey!”
was the answer; and Marian's tears flowed faster.

Will Gordon was distressed at the sight of woman's
tears, but particularly at the sight of Marian Grey's,
and he tried to console her by saying he was sure Mr.
Raymond would sometime find his wife, and they all
would be the happier for what they both had suffered.
Involuntarily he had touched the right chord, for, in
listening to his predictions of future good, which
should come to Frederic Raymond's wife, Marian Grey

ceased to weep, and when, ere his departure, Will
asked her for for some music, she gave him one of
those stirring pieces she always played when her heart
was running over with happy anticipations!

Will Gordon was older than Frederic Raymond, and
an examination of the family Bible would have shown
him to be thirty. Quite a bachelor, his sister Ellen
said, and she marveled that he had lived thus long
without taking to himself a wife. But Will was very
fastidious in his ideas of females, and though he had
traveled much, both in Europe and his own country,
he had never seen a face which could hold his fancy
for a moment, until the sunny blue eyes of Marian
Grey shone upon him and thawed the ice which had
laid about his heart so many years. Even then he did
not quite understand the feeling, or know how it was
that night after night he found himself locked out at
home, while morning after morning his sister Ellen
scolded him for staying out so late, wondering what
attraction he could find at Mary's, when he knew as
well as she that he would never disgrace the Gordon
family by marrying a governess, and a peddler's adopted
sister, too! Will hardly thought he should either. He
didn't quite know what ailed him, and in a letter written
to Frederic, who was now in Kentucky, he gave
an analysis of his feelings, after having first told him
that Marian Grey was the adopted sister of a Yankee
peddler, who had once visited Redstone Hall, and
who, he was sure, Frederic would remember for his
oddities.

“I wish you could see this girl,” he wrote, “I'd like
to have your opinion, for I know you are a connoisseur
in everything pertaining to female charms, but I
am sure you never in all your life saw anything like
Marian Grey. I never did, and I have seen the proudest
court beauties in Europe—but nobody like her.
And yet it is not so much the exceeding fairness of
her complexion, or the perfect regularity of her features,
as it is the indescribably fascinating something

which demands your pity as well as your admiration.
There is that about her mouth, and in her smile, which
seems to say that she has suffered as few have ever
done, and that from this suffering she has risen purified,
beautified, and if I may be allowed a term which
my good mother would call wicked in the extreme,
glorified as it were!

“Just picture to yourself a graceful, airy figure, five
feet four inches high—then clothe it in black, and
adapt every article of dress exactly to her form and
style, then imagine a rose-bud face, which I cannot
describe, with the deepest, saddest, brightest, merriest,
sunniest, laughing blue eyes you ever saw. You
see there is a slight contradiction of words, but every
one by turns will apply to her eyes of blue. Then
her hair—oh, Fred, words fail me here. It's a mixture
of everything—brown, black, yellow, and red.
Yes, red—I mean it, for it has decidedly a reddish hue
in the sunshine. By gas-light it is brown, and by daylight
a most beautiful chesnut or auburn—rippling all
over her head in glossy waves, and curling about her
forehead and neck.

“Beautiful—beautiful Marian! Yes, I will call her
Marian here on paper, with no one to see it but you.
'Tis a sweet, feminine name, Fred;—the name, too, of
your lost wife. I told her that story the other night,
and she cried great tears, which looked like pearls
upon her cheek.

“Do write soon, and give me your advice—though
what I want of it is more than I can tell. I only know
that I feel strangely about the region of my waistbands,
and every time I see Miss Grey, I feel a heap
worse, as you folks say. She is of low origin, I know,
and this would make a difference with a man as proud
as you, but I don't care. Marian Grey has bewitched
me, I verily believe, until I am—I don't know what.

“Do write, Fred, and tell me what I am, and what
to do. But pray don't preface your letter with long-winded
remarks about marrying my equal—looking

higher than a peddler's sister, and all that nonsense, for
it will be lost on me. I never can get higher than
Marian's blue eyes unless indeed I reached her hair,
at which point I should certainly yield, and go over to
the enemy at once.”

This letter reached Frederic one rainy afternoon,
when he had nothing to do but to read it, laugh over
it, reflect upon and answer it. Will Gordon's description
of Marian Grey thrilled him with a strange feeling
of pleasure, imperceptibly sending his thoughts
after another Marian, and involuntarily he said, aloud,
“If she had been like this picture Will has drawn, I
should not be here so lonely and desolate.”

Frederic Raymond was prouder far than Will Gordon,
and his feelings at first rebelled against his friend's
taking for a bride the sister of unpolished, uneducated
Ben. “But it is his own matter,” he said; “I see
plainly that he is in love, so I will write at once and
tell him what is the `trouble”'

Accordingly he commenced a letter, in which after
expressing his happiness that his college friend had
not persisted in shutting his eyes to all female charms,
he wrote: