 | CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MEETING. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall |  |
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MEETING.
Notwithstanding Alice's fears the day had not been
a long one to Marian, who had been so occupied in unpacking
her trunks and in going over the house and
grounds, as scarcely to heed the lapse of time, and she
was surprised when, about sunset, she saw John drive
from the yard, and knew he was going for his master.
Not till then did she fully realize her position, and she
sought her chamber to compose herself, for the dreaded
trial, which each moment came nearer and nearer.
“Will Frederic know me?” she asked herself a dozen
times, and as often answered no—but Alice, ah, Alice,
there was danger to be apprehended from her, and
Marian felt that she would far rather meet the scrutinizing
gaze of Frederic Raymond's eyes than submit
herself to the touch of the blind girl's fingers, or trust
her voice to the blind girl's ear.
That might not have changed. She could not tell
if it had, though she thought it very probable, for six
years was a long, long time, and it was nearly that
since she left Redstone Hall. She could not sustain a
feigned voice, she knew, and there was no alternative
save to wait the trial and abide the result of a recognition.
She felt a pardonable pride in wishing to
make a good impression upon Frederic, for he could
see, and she spent a much longer time at her toilet
than usual. Black was very becoming to her dazzling
complexion, and the thin tissue she wore fitted her
admirably, showing just enough of her neck, while the
arm, which, from contrast, looked white and
smooth as ivory. Hitherto she had curled her entire
hair, but she did not dare to do so now, and she confined
a part of it with a comb, while the remainder
of it was suffered to curl as usual about her face and
behind her ears. This changed her looks somewhat,
but was still becoming, and as she saw in the mirror
the reflection of her sweet young face and deep blue
eyes there came a brighter glow to her cheek, for she
knew that the cherished wish of her early girlhood had
been fulfilled, and that Ben Burt was right when he
called her beautiful.
The gas was lighted when she entered the parlor below,
and turning it down a little, she took a book and
seated herself somewhat in the shade. But the volume
might as well have been wrong side up for any
idea its contents conveyed to her, so absorbed was she
in what was fast approaching, for she had heard the
carriage stop at the gate, and felt the cold moisture
starting out beneath her hair and on her hands.
“I will be calm,” she said, and with one tremendous
effort of the will she quieted the violent throbbings
of her heart, and leaning on her elbow, pretended
to be reading, though not a sound escaped her ear.
She heard the little feet come running up the walk,
and the heavy, manly tread following in the rear.
She heard the struggle in the hall between Alice
and the cat, and when the latter bounded into the room
and crouched down at her feet, she thought there was
something familiar in that spot between the eyes. But
it could not be, she said, though Alice's exclamation of
“Do, Frederic, shut the door, so she cannot get away,”
seemed to intimate that pussy was a stranger there.
Stooping down, she passed her hand caressingly over
the animal's back, whispering, in a low tone, “Spotty,
darling, is it you?”
Won by her voice, the cat sprang up on Marian's
lap just as Frederic glanced hastily in.
“Your pet is safe,” he said to Alice, whom he followed
to the sitting-room, waiting there a moment, and
then starting to meet Miss Grey.
She knew he was coming, counting every step, and
without raising her eyes from the book she pretended
to be reading, knew just when he crossed the threshold
of the door. Removing her hand from her head, where
it had been resting, she gently pushed the cat from her
lap, and half rising to her feet, waited for the first
words of greeting.
“Miss Grey, I believe;” and bowing low, Frederic
Raymond advanced towards Marian, who now stood
up, so that the blaze of the chandelier fell full upon
her, revealing at once her face and form.
Had her very life depended upon it she could not
have spoken then, for the stormy emotions the name
“Miss Grey” called up, mastered her speech entirely.
She knew he would thus address her, but it grated
harshly on her ear to hear him call her so, and her
heart yearned for the familiar name of Marian, though
she had no reason to expect it from him.
“You are welcome to Riverside,” he continued;
“and I regret that your first day here should have
been so lonely.”
This gave her a little time, and conquering her
weakness she extended her hand to take the one he
offered. Hers was cold and clammy, and trembled
like an imprisoned bird, as it lay in his broad, warm
palm. For an instant he held it there, and gazed
down into her sweet, childish face, which did not look
wholly unfamiliar to him, while she herself seemed
more like a friend than a total stranger. The tie between
them, which naught but death could sever, and
which was bound so closely around Marian's heart,
brought to his own an answering throb, and when at
last she spoke, assuring him that she had not been
lonely in the least, he started, for there was something
in the tone which moved him as a stranger off is
moved, when hearing in the calm, still night the air
Redstone Hall, years and years ago, when in the moonlight
he had played with his dusky companions upon
the river brink. But Marian Lindsey had no portion
of his thoughts at that first interview with Marian
Grey, who ventured at last to look into his face just as
he was looking into hers. Oh, how much like the
Frederic of old he was, save that in his mature manhood
he was finer, nobler looking, while the proud fire
of his eye had given place to a milder, softer expression,
and she felt intuitively that he was far more worthy
of her love than when she knew him before.
Motioning her to a chair, he, too, sat down at a little
distance and conversed with her pleasantly, as
friend converses with friend, asking about her journey,
making inquiries after Mrs. Sheldon's family, and
experiencing a most unaccountable sensation when he
saw how she blushed at the mention of William Gordon!
Ben was next talked about, and Marian was
growing eloquent in his praise, when suddenly a sight
met her view which pretrified her powers of speech and
sent the hot blood ebbing backward from her cheek
and lip. In the hall without and where Frederic could
not see her, the blind girl stood, her hands clasped and
slightly raised, her lips apart, her eyes rolling, her head
bent forward, and her ear turned toward the door,
whence came the sound which had arrested her footsteps
and chained her to the spot. She had started for
the parlor and come thus far, when she, too, caught
the tone which had affected even Frederic, and her
head grew dizzy with the bewildering sound, for to
her it brought memories of Marian. Had she come?
Was she there with Frederic and Miss Grey? Eagerly
she waited to hear the sound repeated, wondering
why Miss Grey, too, did not join in the conversation.
It came again, the old familiar strain, though tuned to
a sadder note, for Marian had suffered much since last
she talked with Alice, and it was perceptible even in
her voice. Tighter and tighter the small hands pressed
shade of disappointment flitted over the face of the
listening child, for this time it did not seem quite so
natural as at first, and she knew, too, that 'twas Miss
Grey who spoke, for her subject was Ben Butterworth.
“What is it?” asked Frederic, observing that Miss
Grey stopped suddenly in the midst of a remark.
Marian pointed toward the spot where Alice stood,
but ere Frederic had time to step forward, the loud
ring of the bell started Alice from an attitude which,
had Frederic Raymond seen it, would surely have led
to a discovery.
“The little girl, she acts so singular,” said Marian,
thinking she must make some explanation.
“She's blind, you know,” was answered in a low
tone, and going toward the hall, Frederic met with
Alice just as a servant opened the outer door, and a
stranger entered, asking for Mr. Raymond.
“In a moment,” said Frederic, and leading Alice up
to Marian, he continued, “Your teacher,” and then
left the two together.
For an instant there was perfect silence, and Marian
knew the blind girl could hear the beating of her
heart, while she in turn watched the wonder and perplexity
written on the speaking face turned upward
toward her own, the brown eyes riveted upon her, as
if for once they had broken from their prison walls
and could discern what was before them.
Oh! how Marian longed to take the little, helpless
creature in her arms; to hug her, to kiss her, to cry
over her, and tell her of the love which had never
known one moment's abatement during the long years
of their separation. But she dared not; and she sat
gazing at her to see if she had changed since the night
when she left her sleeping so quietly in their dear old
room at home. She was now nearly thirteen, but her
figure was so slight, and her features so child like, that
few would have guessed her more than nine, unless
they judged by her mature, womanly mind. To Marian
to restrain herself, she drew the child to her, and, kissing
her forehead, said to her kindly,
“You are Alice, my pupil, I am sure. Alice
what?”
“Alice Raymond,” and the sightless eyes never
moved for an instant from the questioner's face.
“Are you very nearly related to Mr. Raymond?”
asked Marian; and Alice replied:
“Second cousin, that's all. But he has been more
than a brother to me since—since—”
The perplexed, mystified look increased on Alice's
face, and her gaze grew more intense as she continued:
“Since Marian went away.”
There was a moment's stillness, and then the hand
which hitherto had rested on Marian's lap was raised
until it reached the head, where it lay lightly, very
lightly, though to Marian it seemed like the weight of
a thousand pounds, and she felt every hair prickle at
its root when the blind girl said to her:
“Ain't you Marian?”
“Yes, Marian Grey, Didn't you know my first
name?” was the answer, spoken so deliberately that
Marian was astonished at herself.
There was a wavering then in the brown eyes, a quivering
of the lids, and the great tears rolled down
Alice's cheeks, for with this calm reply, uttered so
naturally, the hope she had scarcely dared to cherish
passed away, and she murmured sadly:
“It cannot be her.”
“What makes you cry, darling?” asked Marian,
choking back her own tears, which were just ready to
flow, and which did gush forth in torrents, when Alice
answered:
“Oh, I wish I wasn't blind to-night!”
This surely was a good cause for weeping and pressing
the little one to her bosom, Marian wept over
her passionately for a few moments; then, drying her
eyes, she said:
“Why to-night more than any other time?”
“Because I want so much to know how you look,”
returned Alice; adding immediately: “May I feel of
your face? It's the only way I have of seeing.”
“Certainly,” answered Marian; and the fingers wandered
slowly, cautiously, over every feature, involuntarily
caressing the fair, round cheek, but lingering
longest on the hair—the beautiful hair—whose glossy
waves were perceptible even to the touch.
“What color is it?” she asked, winding one of the
curls around her finger.
“Some call it auburn, some chesnut, and some a
mixture of both,” was the reply, and Alice continued
her investigations by mentally comparing its length
with a standard she had in her own mind.
The two did not agree, for the curls she remembered
were longer and far more wiry than the silken tresses
of Miss Grey.
“How tall are you?” she suddenly asked, and Marian
tried to laugh, although every nerve was thrilling
with fear, for she knew she was passing through a dangerous
test.
“Rather tall,” she replied, standing up, “Yes, very
tall, some would say. Put up your hand and see.”
Alice did as she requested, and her tears came faster
as she whispered mournfully. “You're the tallest.”
“Did you think we had met before?” asked Marian,
and then the sobs of the child burst forth unrestrained.
Burying her face in Marian's lap, she cried, “Yes—
no—I don't know what I thought, only you don't seem
to me like I supposed you would. You make me
tremble so, and I keep thinking of somebody we lost
long ago. At first your voice sounded so natural, that
I knew most she was here, but you ain't even like
her. You're taller and fatter, and handsomer, I reckon,
and yet there is something about you that makes my
heart beat so fast. Oh, I wish I could see what it is.
What made God make me blind?”
Never before had Marian heard a murmur from the
cruel not to whisper words of comfort in her ear. But
she could not do it yet, and so she kissed her tenderly,
saying, “Did you love this other one so very much?”
“Yes, very, very much,” was Alice's reply, “and it
hurts me so to think we cannot find her. I thought
we surely should to-day, for we went there, Frederic
and I—went where she used to live, and she wasn't
there. 'Twas a dreary place, and Frederic groaned
out loud to think she ever lived there.”
“Perhaps it didn't look so then,” suggested Marian,
who felt constrained to say a word in favor of her former
home.
“Oh, I know it didn't,” returned Alice, “for Frederic
has been by there, though he didn't know it then,
and he says it looked real nice, with the white curtain
and the kitten asleep on the window sill. It's a cat
now, and we brought it home.”
“Her cat?” and Marian started eagerly.
“Yes,” said Alice, “Frederic gave three dollars for
it,” and forgetting her late grief in this new interest,
she told how they knew it was Marian's, and then as
Miss Grey expressed a wish to see it, she started in
quest of it, just as Frederic appeared, telling them tea
was ready.
“I am afraid you will think we keep Lent here all
the year round,” he said, apologetically. “I was surprised
to find that Mrs. Russell compelled you to fast
until our return.”
“It didn't matter,” Marian relpied; though she had
wondered a little at the non-appearance of supper, for
Mrs. Russell, intent upon her dress, had no idea of
“makin' two fusses,” and she kept her visitor waiting
until the return of Frederic, saying, “the supper would
taste all the better when it did come.”
Very willingly Marian followed Frederic to the dining-room,
where everything was indicative of elegance
and wealth.
“Mrs. Jones used to sit here; and I now give the
the tea-tray, and himself sitting down opposite, with
Alice upon his right.
Marian became her new position well, and so Frederic
thought, as he saw how gracefully her snowy fingers
handled the silver urn, and how much at home
she seemed. There was a strange fascination about
her as she sat there at the head of his table, with the
bright bloom on her cheek, and the dewy lustre in
her beautiful blue eyes, which occasionally wandered
toward the figure opposite, but as often fell beneath
the curious gaze which they encountered. Frederic
could not forbear looking at her, even though he saw
that it embarrassed her—she was so fresh, so fair, so
modest—while there was about her an indescribable
something which he could not define, for though a
stranger, as he supposed, she seemed near to him—so
near that he almost felt he had a right to pass his arm
around her, and kiss the girlish lips which Will Gordon
had likened to a rose-bud.
“Poor Will,” sighed, “he did lose a prize when he
lost Marian Grey.”
Involuntarily his mind went back to Redstone Hall,
and to the time when another Marian sat opposite, and
did for him the office this one was doing. The contrast
between the two was great, but, with a nobleness
worthy of the man, he thought “Marian Grey is far
more beautiful, 'tis true, but Marian Lindsey was my
wife.”
Then he remembered the day when Isabel first sat
at his board, and he had felt it a sin to look at her in
all her queenly beauty. He had grown hard since
then, for he could not think it wicked to look at Marian
Grey, or deem it a wrong to the other one, and he
feasted his eyes upon her until she arose from the table,
and went, at Alice's request, to see the cat, which was
safely confined in a candle box, “by way of taming
her,” Alice said.
“I think there's no need of that,” returned Marian,
away. What do you propose calling her?”
“Marian, I reckon, only you might not want her
named after you, and it wouldn't be, for it's the other
one.”
“I haven't the least objection,” said Miss Grey,
laughing, “only Marian will sound oddly. Suppose
you call it `Spottie,' there's a cunning white spot between
its eyes.”
“Yes, Alice, let that be the name,” said a voice behind
them, and turning, Marian saw Frederic, who had
all the time been standing near and watching them as
like two children they knelt together by the candle
box and gave the cat its milk—Marian and Alice, side
by side, just as they used to be of old—just as Frederic
had seen them many a time.
The tableau was a familiar one, and so he felt it to
be, though he could not divine the reason. The tall,
beautiful girl before him bore no resemblance to the
Marian of Redstone Hall, and still nothing she did
seemed strange or new to him.
“I certainly have dreamed of her,” he said, when
lifting up her head she shook back from her face the
clustering curls, and smiled on Alice as she used to do.
“I have dreamed of her just as I sometimes dream of
places, and see them afterward in waking.”
This conclusion was entirely satisfactory, and she returned
with the girls to the parlor, while “Spottie” followed
after, hovering near to Marian, whose low spoken
words and gentle caresses had reawakened the affection
which had perhaps been dormant during the
last year.
“Will you play for us, Miss Grey?” said Frederic,
and without a word of apology, Marian seated herself
at the piano, whose rich, mellow tones roused her enthusiasm
at once, and she played more than usually
well, while Alice stood by listening eagerly, and Frederic
looked on, scarce heeding the stirring notes, so intent
keys so skillfully.
On the third finger there was a little cornelian ring,
the first gift of Ben, and as he looked, he felt certain
he had seen that ring and those hands before. But
where? He tried to recall the time and the place.
Stepping forward, he looked into her face, but that
gave him no clue, only the ring and the hands were
familiar. Suddenly he started, for he remembered the
when and the where—remembered, too, that Alice,
when told of the girl with the brown vail, had said to
him, “Wan't that our Marian?”
He had accepted the suggestion as a possible one
then, but he doubted it now, for if that maiden were
Marian Grey, it certainly could not have been Marian
Lindsey. The exquisite music ceased, and ere Alice
had time for a word of comment, he asked abruptly:
“Miss Grey, did you ever ride in the cars with me in
New York?”
The question was a startling one, but Marian's face
was turned from him, and he could not see the effort
she made to answer him calmly.
“I think it very probable. I have been in the cars
a great many times, and with a great many different
people.”
“Yes, but one rainy night, more than four years ago,
did I not offer you a seat between myself and the door?
You wore a brown vail, and carried a willow basket, if
it were you. Something about your appearance has
puzzled me all the evening, and I think I must have
met you there. It was on the Third Avenue cars.”
Marian trembled violently, but by constantly turning
the leaves of her music book, she managed to conceal
her agitation, and when Frederic ceased speaking,
she answered in her natural tone, “Now that you recall
the circumstances, I believe I do remember something
about it, though you do not look as that man
did. I imagined he had been sick, or was in trouble,”
and Marian's blue eyes turned sideways to witness, if
for she could not see how white Frederic was
for a single instant, but she felt it in his voice, as he
replied:
“You are right. I had been sick, and was in great
trouble.”
“Wasn't that when you were looking for Marian?”
Alice asked, and again the blue eye sought Frederic's
face, turning this time so that they could see it.
“Yes, I was hunting for Marian,” was the answer;
and the deep sigh which accompanied the words
brought a thrill of joy to the Marian hunted for, and
she knew now, and from his own lips, too, that he had
sought for her, nay, that he was looking for her even
then, when in her anger she censured him for not recognizing
her.
Little by little she was learning the truth just as it
was; and when at a late hour she bade Frederic good
night, and went to her own chamber, her heart was almost
too full for utterance, for she felt that the long,
dark night was over, and the dawn she had waited for
so long was breaking at last around her. Intuitively,
Alice, who had been permitted to sit up so long as she
did, caught something of the same spirit. “It was almost
as nice as if Marian really were there,” she said; and
she came twice to kiss her governess, while on her face
was a most satisfied expression, as she nestled among
her pillows and listened to the footsteps in the adjoining
chamber where Marian made her nightly toilet.
“Oh, I wish she'd let me sleep with her,” she thought.
“It would be a heap more like having Marian back.”
And, when all was still, she stepped upon the floor and
glided to the bedside of Marian, who was not aware of
her approach until a voice whispered in her ear:
“May I stay here with you? I've been making believe
that you was Marian—our Marian, I mean—and
I want to sleep with you so much just as I used to do
with her—may I?”
“Yes, darling,” was the answer, as Marian folded
whose soft, warm cheek was pressed against her own.
And there, just as they were used to do in the old
Kentucky home, ere sorrow had come to either, they
lay side by side, Marian and Alice, the one dreaming
sweet dreams of the Marian come back to her again;
and the other, that to her the gates of Paradise were
opened, and she saw the glory shining through, just as
in Frederic Raymond's eyes she had seen the glimmer
of the love-light which was yet to overshadow her and
brighten her future pathway.
| CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MEETING. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall | |