University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
MARIAN RAYMOND.

Very rapidly the Spring passed away, enlivened
once by a short visit from Ben, who, having purchased
an entire new suit of clothes for the occasion, looked
and appeared unusually well, talking but little until he
was alone with Marian, when his tongue was loosed,
and he told her all he had come to tell.

He had been to Riverside, he said, and Mrs. Russell,
who was still there and was to be the future housekeeper,
was very gracious to him, on account of his being
the adopted brother of their next governess, Miss
Grey.

“She showed me your chamber,” said he, “and it's
the very one they fixed up so nice for Isabel. Nobody
has ever used it, for Miss Jones slep' in a little room
at the end of the hall. Frederic has had a door cut
from Alice's chamber into yourn, 'cause he said how't
you and she would want to be near to each other, he
knew. And I'll tell you what, when you git there, it
seems to me you'll be as nigh Heaven as you'll ever git
in this world. Mrs. Huntington has bought a little cottage
close by Frederic's,” he continued, “and she's
livin' there with Isabel, who has got to be an heir—”

“An heiress!” repeated Marian. “Whose, pray?”

“Don't know,” returned Ben, “only that old man
she went to Florida with is dead, and he willed her
some. I don't know how much, but law, she'll spend
it in no time. Mrs. Russell said her lace curtains cost
an awful sight, though she b'lieved they was bought

second-hand, in New York. I walked by there afoot
to see 'em, and between you and me they are yallerer
than saffern. My advice to her is that she bile 'em up
in ashes and water, jest as mother used to bile up my
shirts that I wore in the factory. It'll whiten 'em
quickest of anything, and if I's you I'd kinder tell her
so—friendly like, you know—'cause it don't look well
for decent folks to have such dirty things a hangin' to
their winders!”

Marian smiled at Ben's simplicity, telling him that
“the chief value of the curtains consisted probably in
their soiled, yellow appearance.”

“Whew,” whistled Ben, “I wish mother'd had a
little more larnin', for if she'd known it was genteel to
be dirty, mabby she wouldn't have broke her back a
scrubbin', when there warn't no use on't.”

Isabel's curtains having been discussed at length,
and herself described as Ben saw her “struttin' through
the streets,” he arose to go, telling Marian he should
not probably see her again until he visited her in the
Autumn at Riverside.

“I guess I wouldn't let it all out at once,” said he,
“but wait and let Frederic sweat. It'll do him good,
and he isn't paid yet for all he's made you suffer. I
ain't no Universaler, but I do like to see folks catch it
as they go 'long.”

Once Marian thought to tell him of William Gordon's
unfortunate attachment, particularly as he was
loud in his praises of the young man; but upon second
reflections she decided to keep that matter to herself,
hoping that the subject would never be mentioned to
her again. And in this her wishes seemed to be realized,
for as the weeks after Ben's departure went by,
William began to be more like himself than he had
been before since her refusal of him. He came often
to Mrs. Sheldon's, sang with her sometimes as of old,
and she fancied he was losing his love for her. But
she was mistaken, for it was strengthening with each
hour's interview. The very hopelessness of his passion

rendered it more intense, it would seem, until at
last, unable longer to remain where she was, and know
she could never be his, he went from home, nor returned
again until near the middle of August, when he
found Mrs. Sheldon's house in a state of great confusion.
Furniture was being covered or packed away,
rooms shut up, and windows fastened down, while his
sister was in that state of feminine bliss when every
chair is filled with new dresses, save two, and those
two are occupied by the makers of said dresses.

Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon were going to Europe. They
would sail in about two weeks, and as Marian had positively
declined to accompany them, they had engaged
another governess, who was to meet them in New
York. It was decided that Marian should remain a few
days with Mrs. Gordon, and then go to Riverside, where
her coming was anxiously expected both by Frederic
and Alice. This arrangement was highly satisfactory
to Will, who anticipated much happiness in having
her wholly to himself for a week. There would be no
sister Ellen, with curious, prying eyes, for she was going
with Mrs. Sheldon as far as New York—no little
girls always in the way—no funny Fred, to see and
tell of everything—nobody, in short, but his good
mother, who he knew would often leave him alone
with Marian.

During his absence from home he had thought
much upon the subject, and had resolved to make one
more trial at least. She might be eventually won, and
if so, he should care but little for the efforts made to
win her. With this upon his mind, he felt rather relieved
than otherwise when the family at last were
gone, and Marian was an inmate of his mother's
house. Both Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon had urged him to
accompany them, and he had made arrangements to
do so in case he found Marian still firm in her refusal.
They were intending to stop for a few days in New
York, and he could easily join them the day on which
the ship was advertised to sail. He should know his

fate before that time, he thought, and he strove in various
ways to obtain an interview with Marian, who,
divining his intention, was unusually reserved in her
demeanor toward him, and if by chance she found herself
with him alone, she invariably formed some excuse
to leave the room, so that Will began at last to
lose all hope, and to think seriously of joining his sister
as the surest means of forgetting Marian Grey.

“She does not care for me,” he said to his mother, one
night after Marian had retired. “I believe she rather
dislikes me than otherwise. I think on the whole I
shall go, and if so, I must start in the morning, for the
vessel sails to-morrow night.”

To this his mother made no objection for though
she would be very lonely without him, she was accustomed
to rely upon herself, so she rather encouraged
him than otherwise, thinking it would do him good.
Accordingly, next morning, when Marian came down
to breakfast, she was surprised to hear of Will's intended
departure.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, involuntarily, for Will
Gordon had a strong place in her affections, and knew
not what danger might befall him on the deep.

Breakfast being over, there remained to Will but
half an hour, and as a part of this was necessarily
spent with the servants, and in preparations for his journey,
he had at the last but a few moments in which to
say his farewell words to Marian. She was in the back
parlor, his mother said, and there he found her weeping,
for she felt that her friends were leaving her one
by one, and though in a few days she was going back
to her husband and her home, she knew not what the
result would be. Will's sudden determination to visit
Europe affected her unpleasantly, for she felt that she
was in some way connected with it, and she was conscious
of a feeling of loneliness, such as she had not
experienced before since she first came to Mrs. Sheldon's.

“Are you weeping?” said Will, when he saw her with
her head bowed down upon the arm of the sofa.

Marian did not answer, and with newly awakened
hope Will drew nearer and seated himself beside
her. “It might be that he was mistaken, after all,”
he thought. “Her tears would seem to indicate as
much. Girls were strange beings, everybody said,”
and passing his arm around the weeping Marian, he
whispered: “Do you like me, then?”

“Yes, very, very much,” she answered, “and now
that you are going away, and I may never see you
again, I am so sorry I ever caused you a moment's
pain.”

“I needn't go, Marian,” William said, drawing her
close to him. “I will stay, oh, so gladly, if you bid
me do so. But it must be for you. Shall I, Marian?
May I stay?” and again Will Gordon poured into her
ear deep burning words of love—entreating her to be
his wife—to forget that other love so unworthy of her,
and to give herself to him, who would cherish her so
tenderly. Then he told her how the thought that she
did not love him had made him go away, when he
would so much rather remain where she was, if he
could know she wished it. “Answer me, Marian,” he
said, “for time hastens, and if you tell me no again, I
must be gone. Never man loved and worshipped his
wife as I will love and worship you. Speak and tell
me yes.”

Will paused for her reply, and looking into her face,
which she had turned towards him, he thought he read
a confirmation of his hopes, but the first words she uttered
wrung his heart with cruel disappointment.

“I cannot be your wife,” she said. “I mean it, Mr.
Gordon, I cannot, and oh, it would be wicked not to
tell you. Can I trust you? Will you keep my secret
safe, as I have kept it almost six long years?”

There was some insufferable barrier between them,
and William Gordon felt it, as trembling in every

limb, he answered, “Whatever you intrust to me shall
not be betrayed.”

“Then, listen,” she said, “and say if you will bid
me marry you. I told you I was not what I seemed,
and I am not. People, perhaps, call me young, but to
myself I seem old, I have suffered so much and all my
womanhood has been wasted, as it were, in tears. I
told you once that before coming here I had given to
another the love for which you sued, and I told you
truly; but Mr. Gordon, there was more to tell; that
other one, who loves me not, or who, if he does, has
never manifested it to me by word or deed, is my own
husband!”

“Oh, Marian, Marian, this indeed is death itself!”
groaned Will, for though he had said there was no
hope, it seemed to him now that he had never believed
or realized it, as when he heard the dreadful words,
“my own husband.”

“Do not despise me for deceiving you,” Marian continued.
“If I had thought you could have seen aught
to desire in me, a poor, humble girl, I might, perhaps,
have warned you in time, though how could I tell you,
a stranger, that I was an unloved wife?”

“Where is he—that man?” Will asked, for he could
not say “your husband,” and his lip quivered with
something akin to the pain one feels when he hears the
cold earth rattling into the grave where he has buried
his fondest pride.

Marian's confession was a death-blow to all Will had
dared to hope, and he asked for the husband more as a
matter of form than because he really cared to know.

“Mr. Gordon,” said Marian, rising to her feet,
and standing with her face turned fully toward
him, “Must I tell you more? I thought I needed
only to speak of a husband and you would guess the
rest. Don't you know me? Have we never met before?”

Wistfully, anxiously William gazed at her, scanning
her features one by one, while a dim vision of something

back in the past floated before him, but assumed no
tangible form, and shaking his head, he answered:
“Never, to my knowledge.”

“Look again. Is not my face a familiar one? Did
you never see it before? Not here—not in New
England—but far away, where the Summer comes
earlier and the Winter is not so long. Is there not
something about me—something in my person, or my
voice, which carries you back to an old house on the
river where you once met a little curly-haired girl?”

She did not need to say more. Little by little it had
come to him, and, starting to his feet, he caught her
hand, exclaiming, “Great Heaven! The lost wife of
Frederic Raymond!”

“Yes,” she answered, “the lost Marian of Redstone
Hall,” and leaning her head upon his arm, she burst
into tears, for he seemed to her like a brother now,
while she to him—

He could not think of her as a sister yet—he loved
her too well for that; but still his feelings toward her
had changed in the great shock with which he recognized
her. She could never be his Marian, he knew,
neither did he desire it. And for a moment he stood
speechless, wholly overwhelmed with astonishment and
wonder. Then he said, “Marian Raymond, why are
you here?”

“Why?” she repeated bitterly. “You may well
ask why. Hated by him who should care for me, what
could I do but go away into the unknown world, and
throw myself upon its charities, which in my case have
not been cold or selfish. God bless the noble-hearted
Ben, and the sainted woman, his mother, who did not
cast me off when I went to them, homeless, friendless,
and heart-broken.”

In her excitement, Marian clasped her hands together,
and the blue of her eye grew deeper, darker, as she
paid this tribute of gratitude to those who had been
her friends indeed. Involuntarily, Will Gordon, too,
responded to the words, “God bless the noble-hearted

Ben,” for, looking at the beautiful girl before him, he
felt that what she was she owed to the self-denying,
unwearied efforts of the uncultivated but generous
Ben.

“Marian,” he said again, “you must go home. Go
to your husband. He is waiting for you. He has
sought for you long; he has expiated his sin. Go, Marian,
go—”

“I am going,” she answered, “and if I only knew
he wanted me—wanted his wife—”

“He does want you,” interrupted Will. “He has
told me so many a time,”

Marian was about to reply, when Mrs. Gordon appeared,
warning her son that the carriage was at the
door; and with a hurried farewell to Marian and his
mother, Will hastened off, whispering to the former,
“I shall write to you when on the sea—”

“And keep my secret safe. I would rather divulge
it myself,” she added.

He nodded in the affirmative, and was soon on his
way to the depot, so bewildered with what he had
heard, that he scarcely knew whether it were reality or
a dream. Gradually, however, it became clear to him,
and he remembered many things which confirmed the
strange story he had heard.

Greatly he wished to write to Frederic, and tell him
that Marian Grey was his wife, but he would not break
his promise, and he was wondering how he could hasten
the discovery, when, as the cars left the depot at Hartford,
a broad hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a
voice which sounded familiar, said, “Wall, captain,
bein' we're so full, I guess you'll have to make room
for me, or else I'll have to set with that gal whose hoops
take up the hull concern.”

“Ben Butterworth,” Will exclaimed, turning his face
toward the speaker, who recognized him at once.

“Wall,” he began, as he took the seat Will readily
shared with him, “I didn't 'spose 'twas you. How do

you do, and how's Marian? Has she gone to Riverside
yet?”

“No,” returned Will, and looking Ben directly in
the face, he continued, “How much of Miss Grey's
history do you know?”

“Mor'n I shall tell, I'll bet. How much do you
know?” and Ben set his hat a little more on once side
of his head.

“More than you suppose, perhaps,” returned Will.
“And if you, too, are posted, I'd like to talk the matter
over, but if not, I shall betray no secrets.”

“I swan, I b'lieve you do know,” said Ben. “Did
she tell you?”

Will nodded, and Ben continued, “She wrote to me
that you knew Mr. Raymond, and liked him, too; I
guess he ain't a very bad chap after all, is he?”

The ice was fairly broken now, and both Will and
Ben settled themselves for a long conversation. Will
did not think it betrayed Marian's confidence to talk
of her with one who understood her affairs so much
better than himself, and ere they reached New York,
he had heard the whole story—heard how Ben had
stumbled upon her in New York, and taken her to his
home without knowing aught of her, except that she
was friendless and alone—how the mother, now resting
in her grave, had cared for the orphan girl, and how
Ben, too, had done for her what he could.

“'Twan't much any way,” he said, “and I never
minded it an atom, for 'twas a pleasure to arn money
for her schoolin'.”

And Ben spoke truly, for it never occurred to him
that he had denied himself as few men would have
done—toiling early and late, through sunshine and
storm, wearing the old coat long after it was threadbare,
and sometimes, when peddling, eating but two
meals a day, by way of saving for Marian. Of all
this he did not speak to his companion. He did not
even think of it, or, if he did, he felt that he was more
than paid in seeing Marian what she was. Accidentally,

he said that his name was really Ben Burt, and
that he should be glad when the time came for him to
be called thus again.

“When will that be?” asked Will, and Ben replied
by unfolding to him his long cherished plan of having
Frederic make love to his own wife.

“You might write to him, I s'pose,” he said, “but
that would spile all my fun, and I'd rather let the thing
work itself out. He's bound to fall in love with her.
He can't help it, and I don't see how you could.
Mabby you did.” And Ben's grey eyes looked quizzically
at his companion, who colored deeply as he replied
merely to the first part of Ben's remark. “I
certainly will not interfere in the matter, though before
meeting you I was wondering how I could do so, and
not betray Marian's confidence. I am sure now it will
all come right at last, and you ought to be permitted
to bring it round in your own way, for you have been
a true friend to her, and I dare say she loves you as a
brother.”

This was touching Ben on a tender point, for his old
affection for Marian was not quite dead yet, and Will's
last words brought back to him memories of those
dreary winter nights, when in his way he had battled
with the love he knew he must not cherish for Marian
Grey. He fidgetted in his seat, got up and looked
under him, sat down again and looked out of the window,
and repeated to himself a part of the multiplication
table, by way of keeping from crying.

“Bless her, she's an angel,” he managed at last to
say, adding, as he met the inquiring glance of Will:
“It's my misfortin' to be oncommon tender-hearted,
and when I git to thinkin' of somethin' that concerns
nobody but me, I can't keep from cryin' no way you
can fix it,” and two undeniable tears rolled down his
cheeks and dropped from the end of his nose.

“He, too,” sighed Will Gordon, and as he thought
how much more the uncouth man beside him had done
for Marian Grey than either Frederic or himself, and that

he really had the greatest claim to her gratitude and
love, his heart warmed toward Yankee Ben as to a
long tried friend, and he resolved to leave for him a
substantial token of his regard.

“Why don't you settle down, as a grocer, in some
small country town?” he asked, as they came near the
city.

“I have thought of that,” said Ben, “for I'm gettin'
kinder tired of travelin' now that there ain't no home
for me to go to once in so often. I think I should like
to be a grocery man first rate, and weigh out saleratus
and bar soap to the old wimmen. Wouldn't they
flock in, though, to see me, I'm so odd! But 'taint
no use to think on't for I hain't the money now, though,
mabby I shall have it bimeby. My expenses ain't as
great as they was.”

By this time they had reached the depot, and Will,
who knew they must part there, said to him, “How
long do you stay in New York?”

“Not long,” returned Ben, “I've only come to recruit
my stock a little.”

“Go to the Post-Office before you leave,” was Will's
reply, as he stepped from the platform and was lost in
the crowd.

“What did he mean?” thought Ben. “Nobody
writes to me but Marian, and I ain't expectin' nothin'
from her, but I guess I may as well go.”

Accordingly, the next night, when Will Gordon,
with little Fred in his arms, was looking out upon the
sea, Ben wended his way to the office, inquiring first
for Ben Butterworth and then for Ben Burt. There
was a letter for the latter, and it contained a draft for
three hundred dollars, together with the following
lines:

This letter was a mystery to Ben, who read it again
and again, dwelling long upon the words, “You and
I suffered alike, and in each of our hearts there is a
hidden grave.”

“That hits me exactly,” he said, “though I never
thought of callin' that hole in my heart a grave—
but 'taint nothin' else, for I buried somethin' in it,
and the tender brotherly feelin' I've felt for Marian
ever since was the grave stun I set up in memory of
what had been. But what does he know about it,
though why shouldn't he, for no mortal man can look
in Marian's face and not feel kinder cold and hystericky-like
at the pit of his stomach! Yes, he's in love
with her, and that's the way she came to tell who she
was. Poor Bill! poor Bill! I know how to pity him to
a dot,” and Ben heaved a deep sigh as he finished this
long soliloquy.

The money next diverted his attention, but no puzzling
on his part could explain to him satisfactorily
why it had been sent.

“S'posin' he was grateful,” he said, “he needn't give
me three hundred dollars for nothin', but bein' he has,
I may as well use it to start in business, though I shall
pay it back, of course,” and when alone in his room

at the Hotel where he stopped, he wrote upon a bit of
paper.

This note he put carefully away in his old leathern
wallet, where it was as safe and as sure of being paid
as if it had been in William Gordon's hands instead of
his.

Meantime Marian at Mrs. Gordon's was half regretting
that she had told her secret to William, and greatly
lamenting that they had been interrupted ere she
knew just how much Frederic wished to find her.
That his feelings toward her had changed, she was
sure, but she would know by word and deed that he
loved her ere she revealed herself to him, and the dark
mystery of that cruel letter must be explained before
she could respect him as she had once done. And now
but a few days remained ere she should see him face
to face, for she was going to Riverside very soon.
Some acquaintance of hers were going west by way of
New York, and she decided to accompany them,
though by soing doing she would reach Riverside one
day earlier than she was expected.

“It would make no difference of course,” she said,
and she waited impatiently for the appointed morning.

It came at last and long before the hour for starting
she was ready, the dancing joy in her eyes, and her
apparent eagerness to go being sadly at variance with
the expression of Mrs. Gordon's face, for the good lady
loved the gentle girl and grieved to part with her.

“I am sorry to leave you,” Marian said, when the
last moment came, “but I am so glad I am going, too,
sometime, perhaps, you may know why and then you
will not blame me.”

She could not shed a tear although she had become
greatly attached to her Springfield home, and her excitement
continued unabated until she reached New
York, where they stopped for the night. There were
several hours of daylight left, and stealing away from
her friends she took a Third Avenue car and went up to
their old house where strangers were living now. She
did not care to go in, for the dingy, uncurtained windows
looked far from inviting, and she passed slowly
down the other side of the street, musing upon all that
had passed since the night when she first climbed those
narrow stairs, and asked a mother's care from Mrs.
Burt. She did not think then that she would ever be
as happy as she was to-day with the uncertainty of
meeting Frederic to-morrow. It seemed a great while
to wait, and as Ben had once numbered the weeks in
seven years, so she now counted the hours, which must
elapse ere she felt the pressure of Frederic's hand—
for he would shake hands with her of course, and he
would look into her face, for he had heard much of
her both from Will Gordon and Ben. Would he be
disappointed? Would he think her pretty? Would
he know her? And Alice—what would she say?
Marian dreaded this test more than all the rest, for she
felt that there was danger in the instinct of the blind
girl. Slowly she retraced her steps and returning to
the Astor, sought her own room, informing her friends
that she was weary and would rest.

“Five hours more,” was her first thought when she
awoke next morning from a sounder sleep than she
had supposed it possible to enjoy when under such excitement.
Ere long it was four hours more, then three,
then two, then one, and then the cars stopped at the
depôt at Yonkers. Two trunks marked “M. G.” stood
upon the platform, and near them a figure in black,
bowing to her friends, who leaned from the car window,
and holding in her hands a satchel, a silk umbrella,
two checks, her purse, and a book, for Marian

possessed the weakness of her sex, and in traveling
always carried the usual amount of baggage.

“To Riverside,” she said, when asked where she
wished to go, and she looked around as if half expecting
a familiar face.

But she looked in vain, and in a few moments she
was comfortably seated in the lumbering stage, which
once before had carried her up that long hill. Eagerly
she strained her eyes to catch the first view of the
house; and when at last it came in sight, she was too
intent upon it to observe the showily-dressed young
lady tripping along upon the walk, and holding her
skirts with her thumb and finger so as to show her
dainty slipper.

But if Marian did not see Isabel, Isabel saw her.
It was not usual for the stage to come up at that hour
of the day, and as it passed her by, Isabel turned to
see where it was going.

“To Riverside,” she exclaimed, as she saw it draw
up to the gate. “It must be the new governess,” and
as there was no house very near, she stopped to inspect
the stranger as well as she could at that distance.
“Black,” she said, as Marian stepped upon the ground;
“But I might have known it, for regular built teachers
always wear black, I believe. She is rather tall,
too. An umbrella, of course. I wonder she hasn't
her blanket shawl and overshoes this hot day. Her
bonnet is pretty, and that hem in her veil very wide.
On the whole, she's quite genteel for a governess,”
and Isabel walked on while Marian went up the graveled
walk, expecting at each step to meet with either
Frederic or Alice.

She would rather it should be the latter, for in case
of recognition, she knew she could bind the blind girl
to secrecy for a time, but no one appeared, and about
the house there was no sign of life, save a parrot, which,
in its cage beneath a maple tree, screamed out wholly
unintelligible words. The door was shut, and even after
the driver had placed her trunks upon the piazza and

gone, Marian stood there ringing the bell. The window
to her right was open, and she knew it was the
window of Frederic's room, but he was not sitting near
it, and after a little she ventured to approach it and
look in. It did not seem to have been occupied at all
that day, for everything was arranged in perfect order
as if broom and duster had recently done service there.
Its prim, neat appearance affected Marian unpleasantly,
as if it were the furerunner of some disappointment,
and going back to the door she resolutely pulled
the silver knob. The loud, sharp ring made her heart
beat violently, and when she heard a heavy tread, not
unlike a man's coming up the basement stairs, she
thought, “What if it is Frederic himself? What shall
I say?”

“It is Frederic,” she continued, as the step came
nearer, and she was wishing she could run away and
hide, when the door was opened by Mrs. Russell, her
feet encased in a pair of Mr. Raymond's cast-off shoes,
which accounted for her heavy tread, and herself looking
a little crest-fallen at the sight of her visitor, whom
she recognized at once.

“Miss Grey, I b'lieve?” she said, dropping a low
curtesy. “We wan't expectin' you till to-morrow;
but walk in, and make yourself at home. You'll want
to go to your room, I 'spose. Traveled all night, didn't
you? You look pale, and I wouldn't wonder if you
wanted to sleep most of the day. I never thought of
such a thing as your comin' this mornin'. Dear me,
what shall I do?”

This was said in an under-tone, but it caught the ear
of Marian, who, now that she had a chance to speak,
asked for Mr. Raymond, timidly, as if fearful that with
his name her sacret might slip out.

“Bless you!” returned Mrs. Russell, “both of 'em
went to New York early this morning, and won't be
home till dark, maybe, and that's why I feel so. I
don't know how to entertain you as they do, and Miss
Alice has been reckoning on giving you a good impression.

I'm so sorry you've—they've gone, I mean.
I wan't expecting to get any dinner to-day, and was
having such a nice time, sewin' on my new dress;”
and, with the last, the whole cause of the old lady's uneasiness
was divulged.

In the absence of Frederic and Alice, she had counted
upon a day of leisure, which Marian's arrival had
seriously interrupted.

“I beg you not to trouble yourself for me,” said
Marian, who readily understood the matter. “I never
care for a regular dinner: indeed, I may not be hungry
at all.”

The old lady's face brightened perceptibly, and she
replied:

“Oh, I don't mind a cup of tea, and the like o' that;
but to brile or stew this hot day ain't so pleasant, when
a person is fleshy, as I am. I'll get you something,
though; and now you go up stairs to your room, the
one at the right hand, with the white furniture, and
the silver jigger, that let's the water into that marble
dish. We live in style, I tell you; and Mr. Raymond
is a gentleman, if there ever was one—only he wants
meat three times a day, just as he has in Kentucky.
Thinks, I 'spose, it don't hurt me any more to sweat over
the fire, than it does that Dinah, Alice talks so much
about. Yes, that's the door—right there;” and Mrs.
Russell went back to the making of her dress, while
Marian sought her chamber, feeling rather disappointed
at the absence of both Frederic and Alice, whose
object in visiting New York, that day, will be explained
in the succeeding chapter, and will necessarily
take us backward for a little in our story.