University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
WILL'S WOOING.

The silver tea-set and damask cloth had been removed
from Mrs. Gordon's supper-table. The heavy
curtains of brocatelle were dropped before the windows;
a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, for
Mrs. Gordon eschewed both furnaces and stoves; the
gas burned brightly in the chandelier, casting a softened
light throughout the room, and rendering more
distinct the gay flowers on the carpet. The lady-mother,
a fair type of a thrifty New England woman,
had donned her spectacles, and from a huge pile of
socks was selecting those which needed a near acquaintance
with the needle, and lamenting over her
son's propensity at wearing out his toes!

The son, meantime, half lay, half sat upon the sofa,
listlessly drumming with his fingers, and feeling glad
that Ellen was not there, and wondering how he should
begin to tell his mother what he so much wished her
to know.

“I should suppose she might see it,” he thought—
“might know how much I am in love with Marian,
for I used to be always talking about her, and now I
never mention her, it makes my heart thump so if I
try to speak her name. Nell will make a fuss, perhaps,
for she thinks so much of family: but Marian is
family enough for me. Mary likes her, and I guess
mother does. I mean to ask her.”

“Mother?”

“What, William?” and the good lady ran her hand
into a sock with a shockingly large rent in the heel.

No woman can be very gracious with such an open
prospect, and, as Will saw the scowl on his mother's
face, he regretted that he had spoken at this inauspicious
moment.

“I'll wait till she finds one not quite as dilapidated
as that,” he thought, and when the question was repeated,
“What, William?” he replied, “Is Nell coming
home to-night?”

“I believe so. I wish she was here now to help me,
for I shall never get these mended. What makes you
wear out your socks so fast?”

“I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's beating time to
Miss Grey's lively music. Don't she play like the
mischief, though?”

Mrs. Gordon did not answer, and Will continued,
“Let me help you mend. I used to in college and in
Europe, too, and if I never marry,”—here Will's voice
trembled a little—“I shall need to know how. Thread
me a darning needle, won't you?”

Mrs. Gordon laughingly compiled with his request,
and the fashionable Will Gordon was soon deep in the
mysteries of sock-darning, an accomplishment in
which he had before had some experience. Very
rapidly his mother's amiability increased, until at last
he ventured to say, “Let me see, how old am I?”

“Thirty, last August, just twenty years younger
than I am.”

“Then, when you were at my age you had a boy
ten years old. I wonder how I should feel in a like
predicament.”

“I'm afraid you'll never know,” and Mrs. Gordon
commenced on a fresh sock.

“Mother, how would you to have me marry and
settle down?” Will continued, after a moment's
silence, and his mother replied, “Well enough, provided
I liked your wife.”

“You don't suppose I'd marry one you didn't like,

I hope. Just look, can you beat that?” and he held
up what he fancied to be a neatly darned sock, which,
spite of its bungling appearance, received so much
praise, that he felt emboldened to proceed.

Taking Frederic's letter from his pocket he passed
it to his mother, asking her to read it, and give him
her opinion.

“You know I never can make out Mr. Raymond's
writing,” said Mrs. Gordon, “so pray read it yourself.”

But this Will could not do, and he insisted until his
mother took the letter and began to read, while he
forgot to darn, so intent was he upon watching the expression
of her face. At first it turned very red, then
white, and then the great drops of perspiration stood
upon her forehead, for she felt as every mother does,
when they first learn that their only boy is about
yielding to another the love they have claimed so long.

“Have you spoken to Marian?” she asked, giving
him back the letter, but not resuming her work.

“No,” was his answer: and she continued, “Then I
wouldn't.”

“Why not?” he asked, in some alarm; and with a
tremor in her voice, his mother replied, “I've nothing
against Marian, but we are so happy together, and it
would kill me to have you go away.”

“Is that all?” and in his delight Will ran the darning-needle
under his thumb nail; “I needn't go away.
I can bring her home, and you won't have to mend
my socks any more. Those back chambers are seldom
used, and—”

“Back chambers!” exclaimed Mrs. Gordon. “I
guess if you bring a wife here, you'll occupy the parlor
chamber and bedroom. I was going to re-paper
them in the Spring, and I think on the whole I'll refurnish
it entirely, for you might sometimes have calls
up there.”

“You charming woman,” cried Will, kissing his
mother, whose consent he understood to be fully won.

He knew she had always admired Miss Grey, but he

expected more opposition than this, and in his delight
he would have gone to see Marian at once, were it not
that he had heard she was absent that evening. For
an hour or more he talked with his mother of his plans,
and when at last Ellen came in, she, too, was let into
the secret. Of course, she rebelled at first, for her
family pride was very strong, and the peddler Ben,
was a serious objection. But when she saw how earnest
her brother was, and that her mother, too, had
espoused his cause, she condescended to say:

“I suppose you might do worse, though folks will
wonder at your taste in marrying Mary's governess.”

“Let them wonder, then,” said Will. “They dare
not slight my wife, you know,” and then he drew a
pleasing picture of the next Summer, when, with his
mother, Marian and Ellen, he would visit the White
Mountains and Montreal.

“Why not go to Europe?” suggested Ellen. “Mr.
Sheldon talks of going in August, and if you must marry
this girl, you may as well go, too.”

“Well spoken for yourself, little puss,” returned
Will; “but it's a grand idea, and I'll make arrangements
with Tom as soon as I have seen Marian. Maybe
she'll refuse me,” and Will turned pale at the very
idea.

“No danger,” was Ellen's comment, while her mother
thought the same, for in her estimation no one in
their right mind could refuse her noble boy.

It was a long night to Will, and the next day longer
still, for joyful hope and harrowing fears tormented
his mind, and when at last it was dark, and he had
turned his face toward Mr. Sheldon's, he half determined
to go back. But he didn't, and with his usual
easy, off-hand manner, he entered his sister's sitting-room.
Though bound to secrecy, Ellen had told the
news to Mrs. Sheldon, who, of course, had told her
husband; and soon after Will's arrival, the two found
some excuse for leaving him alone with Marian Grey.

Marian liked William Gordon very much—partly

because he was Frederic's friend, and partly because
she knew him to be a most affectionate brother and
dutiful son—two rare qualities in a traveled and fashionable
man. She was always pleased to see him, and
she welcomed him now as usual, without observing his
evident embarrassment when at last they were alone.
There were no stockings to be darned, and he did not
know how to commence, until he remembered Frederic's
letter. It had helped him with his mother—it
might aid him now—and after fidgeting awhile in his
chair, he said:

“I heard from Mr. Raymond yesterday.”

“Indeed!” and Marian's voice betrayed more interest
than the word would indicate.

“He wrote that you were engaged to him—”

“I engaged to Frederic Raymond!” and Marian
started so suddenly that she pulled her needle out from
the worsted garment she was knitting.

“Engaged to teach, I mean,” returned Will. “I'll
show you what he wrote when you pick up those
stitches. What do you call that queer-shaped thing?”

“A Sontag, or Hug-me-tight,” said Marian, while
Will involuntarily exclaimed, “Oh, I wish I could—
see Fred, he's such a good fellow,” he hastened to add,
as he saw Marian's wondering glance.

But the beginning and end of the sentence were too
far apart to belong to each other, and there was a moment's
awkward silence, which was broken at last by
Marian, who, resolving to take no notice of the strange
speech, said:

“What did Mr. Raymond write of me?”

“I'll show you just a little,” and Will pointed out
the sentence commencing with “Give my respects to
Miss Grey,” etc.

The sight of the well-remembered handwriting affected
Marian sensibly; but when she came to the last
part, and began to understand to what it all was tending,
her head grew dizzy and her brain whirled for a
moment. Then an intense pity for Will Gordon filled

her soul, for looking upward she met the glance of his
eyes, and saw therein how much she was beloved.

“No, no, Mr. Gordon!” she cried, putting her
hands to her ears as he began to say: “Dear Marian.”
“You must not call me so; it is wicked for you to do
it—wicked for me to listen. I am not what I seem.”

And she burst into tears, weeping so bitterly that in
his efforts to soothe her, Will well nigh carried out
the wish which had been finished up with “seeing
Frederic Raymond.”

Her not being what she seemed, he fancied might
refer to something connected with her birth, and he
hastened to assure her that no circumstance whatever
could change his feelings, or prevent him from wishing
her to be his wife.

“Won't you, Marian?” he said, holding her in his
arm so she could not escape. “I have never loved
before. I always said I could not, until I saw you;
and then everything was changed. I have told my
mother, darling, and Ellen, too. They are ready to
receive you, if you will go. Look at me, and say you
will come to my home, which will never again be so
bright to me without you. Won't my darling answer
me?” he continued, while she sobbed so violently as
to render speaking impossible. “I am sorry if my
words distressed you so,” he added, resting her head
upon his bosom, and fondly smoothing her hair.

“I am distressed for you,” Marian at last found
voice to say. “Oh, Mr. Gordon, I should be most
wretched if I thought I had encouraged you in this!
But I have not, I am sure. I like you very, very
much, but I cannot be your wife!”

“Marian, are you in earnest?” And on Will Gordon's
manly face was a look never seen there before.

He did not know until now how much he loved the
beautiful young girl he held so closely to his side.
All the affections of his heart had centered themselves,
as it were, upon her, and he could not give her up.
She had been so kind to him—had welcomed him ever

with her sweetest smile—had seemed sorry at his departure—and
was not this encouragement? He had
taken it as such, and ere she could reply to the question:
“Are you in earnest?” he added:

“I have thought, from your manner, that I was not
indifferent to you, else I had never told you of my
love. Oh, Marian, if you desert me now, I shall wish
that I could die!”

Marian struggled until she released herself from his
embrace, and, standing before him, she replied:

“I never dreamed that you thought of me, save as
a friend, and if I have encouraged you, it was because
—you reminded me of another. Oh, Mr. Gordon,
must I tell you that long before I came here, I had
learned to love some other man—hopelessly, it is true,
for he does not care for me; but that can make no
difference. Had I never seen him—never known of
him—I might—I would have been your wife, for I
know that you are noble and good; but 'tis too late—
too late!”

He did not need to ask her now if she were in earnest;
for, looking up into her truthful, clear blue eyes,
he knew there was no hope for him, and bowing his
head upon the arm of the sofa, he groaned aloud, while
the heaving of his chest showed how much he suffered,
and how manfully he strove to keep his feelings
down. Mournfully Marian gazed upon him, wishing
she had never come there, if by coming she had
brought this hour of anguish to him. Half timidly
she laid her hand upon his head, for she wished to
comfort him; and, as he felt the touch of her fingers,
he started, while an expression of joy lighted up his
face, only to pass away again as he saw the same unloving
look in her eye.

“If I could comfort you,” she said, “I would gladly
do it; but I cannot. You will forget me in time, Mr.
Gordon, and be as happy as you were before you knew
me.”

He shook his head despairingly. “No one could

forget you; and the man who stands between us must
be a monster not to requite your love. Who is he,
Marian?' or is it not for me to know?”

“I would rather you should not—it can do no good,”
was Marian's reply; and then Will Gordon pleaded
with her to think again ere she told him so decidedly
no. She might outlive that other love. She ought
to, certainly, if 'twere a hopeless one; and if she only
gave him half a heart, he would be content until he
won the whole. They would go to Europe in Autumn;
and beneath the sunny skies of Italy she would learn
to love him, he knew. “Won't you, Marian?” and in
the tone of his voice there was a word of eager, fearful,
yearning love.

“I can't—I can't; it is utterly impossible!” was the
decided answer; and, without another word, Will Gordon
rose and passed, with a breaking heart, from the
room he had entered so full of hope and pleasing anticipations.

The fire burned just as brightly in the grate at home
as it had done the night before; the gas-light fell as
softly on the roses in the carpet, and on his mother's
face there was a placid, expectant look, as he came in.
But it quickly vanished when she saw how he pale he
was, and how he crouched down into his easy chair,
as if he fain would hide from every one the pain gnawing
at his heart. There had never been a secret between
Mrs. Gordon and her son, for in some respects
the man of thirty was as much a child as ever; and
when his mother, coming to his side, parted the damp
hair from his forehead, and looked into his eyes,
saying:

“What is it, William? Has Marian Grey refused
my boy?” he told her all. How Marian Grey had
given her love to another, and that henceforth the
world to him would be a dreary blank.

It was, indeed, a terrible disappointment, and as the
days wore on, it told fearfully upon William's health,

until at last the mother sought an interview with Marian
Grey, beseeching her to think again.

“You can be happy with William,” she said, “and I
had prepared myself to love you as a daughter. Do, I
beseech of you, give me some hope to carry back to
my poor boy?”

“I cannot—I cannot!”

And, laying her head in the motherly lap of Mrs.
Gordon, Marian wept bitterly—half tempted, more
than once, to tell her the whole truth.

But this she did not do, and she wept on, while Mrs.
Gordon's tears kept company with her own.

“Don't you like my Willian?” she asked, unconsciously
playing with the bright hair resting on her
lap.

“Yes—very, very much; but I loved another first.”
And this was all the satisfaction Marian could give.

Mrs. Sheldon next tried her powers of persuasion,
pleading for herself quite as much as for her brother,
for she loved the young girl dearly, and would gladly
have called her sister. But naught which she could
say had the least effect, and Ellen determined to see
what she could do. She had been very indignant at
first, to think a poor teacher should refuse her brother,
and something of this spirit manifested itself during
her interview with Marian.

“I am astonished at you,” she said; “for, though
we have ever treated you as our equal, you must know
that in point of family you are not, and my brother
has done what few young men in his standing would
have done. Why, there never was a gentleman in
Springfield whom the girls accounted a better match
than William, unless it were Mr. Raymond from Kentucky,
and they only gave him the preference because
he lives South, and possibly has a wife somewhere.
So they could not get him, if they wished to. Now,
if you were in love with him, and he were not already
married, I should not think so strangely of your conduct,
for he may be Will's superior in some respects;

but I cannot conceive of your refusing him for any
common man such as would be likely to address you.”

Marian did not think it necessary to reply in substance
to this long speech, neither did she, by word or
look, resent Ellen's overbearing manner; but she answered,
as she always did:

“I would marry your brother, if I could; but I cannot.”

“Then I trust you will have a pleasant time teaching
all your days,” said Ellen, as she slammed the door
behind her, and went to report her success.

All this trouble and excitement wore upon Marian,
and after a time she became too ill to leave her room,
where she kept her bed, sometimes fancying it all a
dream—sometimes resolving to tell the people who she
was, and always weeping over the grief she had brought
to William Gordon, who, during her illness, showed
how noble and good he was by caring for her as tenderly
as if she had indeed been his promised bride.
He did not see her, but he made his presence felt in a
thousand different ways, and when they told him how
her tears would drop upon the fresh bouquets he sent
her from the green-house every morning, he would
turn away to keep his own from falling.

One night, toward the last of March, as he sat with
his mother in the same room where he first told her of
his love for Marian Grey, the door-bell rang, and a
moment after, to his great surprise, Frederic Raymond
walked into the room. William had forgotten what
his friend had said about the possibility of his coming
north earlier than usual, and he was so much astonished
that for some moments he did not appear like
himself.

“You know I wrote that business might bring me
to Albany,” said Frederic, “and that if I came so far
I should visit you.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now,” returned William, the
color mounting to his forehead as he recalled the nature
of the last letter written to Frederic, who, from

his manner, guessed that something was wrong, and
forbore questioning him until they retired to their
room for the night.

“Fred,” said William, after they had talked awhile
on indifferent subjects, “Fred,” and Will's feet went
up into a chair, for even a man who has been refused
feels better, and can tell it better, with his heels a little
elevated, “Fred, it's all over with me, and it makes
no difference now whether the sun rises in the east or
in the west.”

“I suspected as much,” returned Frederic, “from
your failing to write and from the length of your face.
What is the matter? You didn't coax hard enough, I
reckon, and I shall have to undertake it for you. How
would you like that? I dare say I should be more
successful,” and Frederic's smile was much like the
Frederic of other days, when he and Will were college
friends together.

“I said everything a man could say, but the chief
difficulty is that she don't love me and does love another,”
returned Will, at the same time repeating to
his companion as much of his experience as he thought
proper.

“A discouraging beginning, I confess,” said Frederic;
“but perhaps she will relent.”

“No she won't,” returned Will; “she is just as decided
now as she was that night. I have exhausted all
my persuasion; mother has coaxed, so has Mary, so
has Nell, and all to no purpose. Marian Grey can
never be my wife. If it were not for this other love,
though, I would not give it up.”

“Who is the favored one?” Frederic asked, and his
friend replied, “Some rascal, I dare say, for she says
it is a hopeless attachment on her part, and that makes
it all the worse. Now if I knew the man was worthy
of her, I should not feel so badly. If it were you, for
instance, or somebody like you, I'd try to be satisfied,
knowing she was quite as well off as she would be with
me,” and Will's feet went up to the top of the chair as

he thought how magnanimous he would be were it
Frederic Raymond who was beloved by Marian Grey.

“I am sorry for you,” said Frederic—“sorry that
you, too, must walk under a cloud, as I am doing. We
little thought, when we were boys, that we should both
be called to bear a heavy burden; but thus has it
proved. Mine came sooner than yours, and it seems
to me 'tis the hardest of the two to bear.”

“Fred, you don't know what you are saying. Your
grief cannot be as great as mine, for I love Marian
Grey as man never loved before, and when she told
me `No,' and I knew she meant it, I felt as if she were
tearing out my very heartstrings. You acknowledge
that you never loved your wife; but you married her
for—I don't know what you married for —

“For MONEY!” And the word dropped slowly from
Frederic's lips.

“For money?” repeated Will. “She had no money
—this Marian Lindsey. She was a poor orphan, I always
thought. Will you tell me what you mean?”

“I have never told a living being why I made that
girl my wife,” said Frederic; “but I can trust you, I
know, and I have sometimes thought I might feel better
if some one shared my secret. Still, I would rather
not explain to you how Marian was the heiress of
Redstone Hall, for that concerns the dead; but heiress
she was, not only of all that, but of all the lands and
houses said to belong to the Raymond estate in Kentucky;
not a cent of it was mine; and, rather than give
it up, I married her without one particle of love—
married her, too, when she did not know of her fortune,
but supposed herself dependent upon me.”

“Oh, Frederic, did you thus wrong that girl? I
never thought you capable of such an act. I knew
you did not love her, but the rest —. It hurts me
to think you did it, and that you still live on her
money.”

“Hush, Will!” And Frederic bowed his head for
very shame. “I deserve your censure, I know, but if

my sin was great—great has been my punishment.
Look at me, Will. I am not the light hearted man
you parted with six years ago upon the college green;
for, since that dreadful night when I first knew poor
Marian had fled, and thought she was in the river, I
have not had a single moment of perfect peace or freedom
from remorse. I have not spent more of her
money either than I could help. Bad as I am, I shrink
from that. Redstone Hall grew hateful to me—it was
haunted with so many bitter memories of her, and was,
besides, the place where I sinned against her a second
time by daring to think of another—of Isabel. You
remember her?”

“Fred Raymond!” and in his indignation, Will's
feet came down from the top of the chair, “you did
not aggravate your guilt by talking of love to her?”

“No, no,” groaned Frederic, “I did not, though
Heaven only knows the fierce struggle it cost me to
see her there every day, and know I must not say one
word to her of love. I left Redstone Hall at last, as
you know. Left it because it was Marian's and Riverside
was my father's, before Marian came to us; so
it did not seem quite so much like spending her money,
for I did try to be a man and earn my own living.
They did not get on well without me in Kentucky.
They needed me there a part of the time, at least; and
when, at last, I began to feel differently toward Marian,
I felt less delicacy about her fortune, and I have spent
my winters at Redstone Hall, where the negroes and
the neighbors around all suppose Marian dead, for I
have never told them that she was with me in New
York. Isabel knows it, but for some reason she has
kept it to herself; and I am glad, for I would rather
people should not talk of it until she is really found.
I have sought for her so long and unsuccessfully that
I'm growing discouraged now.”

“If you knew that she was dead, would you marry
Isabel?” asked Will; and Frederic replied,

“Never!'

Then, in a reverent tone, as if speaking of one above
him in purity and innocence, he told how the little
blind girl had stood between him and temptation,
holding up his hands when they were weakest, and
keeping his feet from falling. “But that desire is
over. I can look Isabel Huntington calm in the
face and experience no sensation, save that of relief,
to think I have escaped her. With the legacy left her
by Mr. Rivers, and the little means her mother had,
she has bought a small house near Riverside; so I
shall have them for neighbors every Summer. But I
do not care. I have no love now for Isabel. It all
died out when I was sick, and centered itself upon
that little sweet-faced girl, who, I know, was Marian,
though I cannot find her. If I could, Will, I'd willingly
part with every cent of money I call mine, and
work for my daily bread. Labor would not seem a
hardship, if I knew that when my toil was done, there
was a darling wife waiting for me at home—a wife
like what I hope my Marian is, and like what your
Marian Grey may be.”

“Not mine, Frederic. There is in all the world no
Marian for me,” said Will.

“Nor for me, perhaps,” was the sad response, and
in the dim firelight, the two mournful faces looked
wistfully at each other, as if asking the sympathy neither
had to give.

And there they sat until the clock in the room below,
struck the hour of midnight. Two weary heart-broken
men, in the pride of their early manhood, sat
talking each to the other, one of “My Marian,” and
one of “Mine;” but never, never dreaming that the
beautiful Marian Grey, so much beloved by William
Gordon, was the lost Marian so greatly mourned by
Frederic Raymond.