 | CHAPTER XXV.
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE.
It was a joyful waking which came to Marian next
morning, and when fresh and glowing from her invigorating
bath she descended to the piazza she was surprised
at finding Frederic there before her, looking
haggard and pale, as if the boon of sleep had been denied
to him. After Marian and Alice had bidden him
good night, he, too, had retired to his room, which was
directly under theirs; and sitting in his arm-chair, he
had listened to the footsteps above, readily distinguishing
one from the other, and experiencing unconsciously a
vague, delicious feeling of comfort in knowing that the
long-talked of Marian Grey had come to him at last,
and that she was even more beautiful than he had imagined
her to be from Will Gordon's glowing description.
He would keep her with him, too, he said, until
the other one was found, if that should ever be: and
then, as the footsteps and the murmur of voices in the
chamber above him ceased, and all about the house
was still, his heart went out after the other one, demanding
of the solitude around to show him where she
was—to lead him to her so that he could bring her
back to the home where each day he was wanting her
more and more. And the solitude thus questioned invariably
carried his thoughts to Marian Grey, whose
delicate, girlish beauty had made so strong an impression
upon his mind. “How would the two compare?”
wife? Would not the contrast be a painful one?”
“No, no!” he said; “for, though Marian Lindsey
were not as beautiful as Marian Grey, she was gentle,
pure and good.” And then, as he sought his pillow,
he went back again in fancy to that feverish sick-room,
and the tender love which alone had saved him from
death; while mingled with this remembrance were
confused thoughts of the vailed maiden in the corner
of the car—of the geranium growing in the window,
and of Marian Grey, who seemed a part of every thing
—for, turn which way he would, her blue eyes were
sure to shine upon him; and once, when, for a few moments,
he fell into a troubled sleep, she said to him,
“I am the Marian you seek.”
Then this vision faded, and he saw a little grave, on
whose humble stone was written, “The Heiress of
Redstone Hall,” and with a nervous start he woke,
only to doze and dream again, until at last he was glad
when the dawn came stealing across the misty river,
and looked in at his window. The sun was not yet up
when he arose, and going out upon the broad piazza,
tried by walking to gain the rest the night had failed
to bring. As he walked Spottie came purring to his
side, rubbing against his feet and looking into his face
as if she fain would tell him, if she could, that the lost
one had returned, and was safe beneath his roof.
Frederic Raymond could not be said to care particularly
for cats, but there was a charm connected with
this one gambolling at his feet, and he did not deem it
an unmanly act to stoop down and caress it for the
sake of her who had often had it in her arms.
“Can you tell me nothing of your mistress,” he said,
aloud, for he thought himself alone.
Instantly the cat, whose ear had caught a sound he
did not hear, bounded toward the door where Marian
Grey was standing. Advancing toward her, Frederic
said, “You must excuse me, Miss Grey. I am not
often guilty of petting cats, but this one has a peculiar
—to Mrs. Raymond,” and Frederic felt vastly relieved
to think he had actually spoken of his wife to Marian
Grey, and called her Mrs. Raymond, too! He knew
Will Gordon had told her the story, and when he saw
how the color came and went upon her cheek, he fancied
that it arose from the delicacy she would naturally
feel in talking with him of his runaway wife. He was
glad he had introduced the subject, and she should
continue it or not, as she choose. Marian hardly knew
how to reply, for though she longed to hear what he
had to say of Mrs. Raymond, she scarcely dared trust
herself to question him.
At last, however, she ventured to say, “Yes, Alice
told me that it was once your wife's. She is dead,
isn't she?”
Frederic started, and walking off a few paces, replied,
“Marian dead! not that I know of! Did you
ever hear that she was?” and he came back to Marian,
looking at her so earnestly that she colored deeply, as
she replied:
“Mr. Gordon told me something of her; and I had the
impression that—”
She did not know how to finish the sentence, and she
was glad to hear a little, uncertain step upon the stairs,
as that was an excuse for her to break off abruptly,
and go to Alice, who had come down in quest of her,
expressing much surprise that she should rise so early
and dress so quietly.
“Mrs. Jones used to make such a noise coughing and
sneezing,” she said, “that she always woke me, while
Isabel never got up till breakfast was ready, and sometimes
not then, when we were in Kentucky. Negroes
were made to wait on her, she said. She'll be coming
over here to call and see how you look. I heard her
asking Mrs. Russell last week if you were pretty, and
she said—”
“Never mind what she said,” suggested Marian
adding laughingly, “I have heard of Miss Huntington
He saw her in Kentucky, you knew; so you see, I am
tolerably well posted in your affairs;” and she turned
towards Frederic, who was about to answer, when
Alice, who had climbed into a chair, and was standing
with her arm around the young man's neck, chimed
in:
“If Mr. Gordon told you that Frederic liked her, it
isn't so, for he don't; do you, Frederic?”
“I like all the ladies,” was his reply; and the breakfast
bell just then rang, the conversation ceased, and
they entered the house together, Alice holding fast to
Marian's hand, and dancing along like a joyous bird.
“You seem very happy this morning,” said Frederic,
smiling down upon the happy child.
“I am,” she replied. “I'm most as happy as I should
be if we had found Marian yesterday. Wouldn't it
be splendid if this were really Marian, and wouldn't
you be glad?”
Frederic Raymond did not say yes—he did not say
anything; but as he looked at the figure in white presiding
a second time so gracefully at his table, he fancied
that it would not be a hard matter for any man to
be glad if Marian Grey were his wife. Breakfast being
over, Alice assumed the responsibility of showing
her teacher the place.
“You were here once, I know,” she said, “and left
me those flowers, but you hadn't time then to see half.
There's a tree down in the garden, where Frederic's
name is cut in the bark, and Marian Lindsey's, too.
You must see that;” and she led her off to the spot
where John had seen her crying the day before. “I
ain't going to study a bit for ever so long. Frederic
says I needn't,” said Alice. “I'm going to have
a right nice time with you.” And Marian was not
sorry, for nothing could please her better than rambling
with Alice over what was once her home.
Very rapidly the first few days passed away, and ere
a week had gone by, Marian understood tolerably well
affections, and she needed not the letter received
from William Gordon to tell her that the Frederic
Raymond of to-day was not the same from whose presence
she had once fled with a breaking heart. He
was greatly changed, and if she had loved him in the
early days of her girlhood, her heart clung to him now
with an affection tenfold stronger than she had ever
known before. From Alice, who was very communicative,
she learned many things of which she little
dreamed, when in New York she was hiding from her
husband, and believing that he hated her. Alice liked
nothing better than to talk of Marian, and one afternoon,
when Frederic was in New York, and the two
girls were sitting together in their pleasant chamber,
she told her sad story in her own childish way, accepting
her companion's tears, which fell like rain as tokens
of sympathy for the lost one.
“Frederic cried just like he was a woman,” she said,
“when he came up from the river, cold, and wet, and
sick, and told us they could not find her. I remember,
too, how he groaned when I asked him what made her
kill herself; she didn't, though,” she added quickly, as
she heard Marian's exclamation of horror at the very
idea; “she wasn't even dead, but we thought she was,
and we mourned for her so much. The house was like
a funeral all the time till Isabel came.”
“And how was it then?” Marian asked.
Alice did not reply immediately, and as Marian saw
the shadow which flitted over her face, she pressed her
hands together nervously, for she fancied that she
knew what Redstone Hall was like when Isabel, her
rival, came.
“You were telling me about the house after Miss
Huntington's arrival,” she rejoined, as Alice showed
no signs of continuing the conversation, but sat with
her eyes fixed upon the floor as if she were thinking
of something far back in the past.
At Marian's remark she started, and with the same
dreamy, perplexed look upon her face, replied:
“Perhaps I ought not to tell; but you seem so near
to me that I don't believe Frederic would care. He's
got over it, too, but he loved Isabel,” and Alice's voice
sank to a whisper, as if afraid the walls would hear.
“He loved her a heap better than he did poor dear
Marian, who somehow found it out that night, and
rather than be his wife when he didn't want her, she
ran away, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” gasped Marian, while Alice, little
dreaming how well she knew, continued, “And so
when Isabel came, he couldn't help loving her some, I
suppose, though Dinah thought he could, and she used
to scold mightily when she heard her singing and
playing, as she did all the time, so as to get Frederic
in there,” and Alice's tone and manner were so much
like old Dinah and so highly expressive of her meaning,
that Marian could not forbear smiling. “I talked
to Frederic one night,” said Alice, “and told him I
didn't believe Marian was dead, and I reckon I made
him think so, too, for he promised he would wait for
her ten years.”
“Will he marry then, if he does not find her?” Marian
asked by way of calling out the little girl, who
replied:
“I suppose he won't live all his life alone; at any
rate, he said he wouldn't. Oh, Miss Grey!” and Alice
started so quickly that Marian started, too; “I'd a
heap rather Marian would be his wife than anybody,
because he married her first; but if she don't come
back, can't you guess what I wish would be?” and
Alice wound her arms around the neck of Marian, who
did guess, but could not embody her guessing in
words.
“Did Mr. Raymond never hear from her?” she
asked, and resuming her seat, Alice replied:
“Yes, and that's the mystery. One cold March
night when Isabel was dressing for a party, and was
from Sarah Green, saying she was dead and buried
with canker rash.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Marian, starting quickly.
“When? Where?”
“In New York,” answered Alice; and Marian listened
breathlessly to the story of her supposed decease,
wondering, as Frederic had often done, whence the
letter came, and why it had been sent.
“It must have been a plan of Ben's to see what
he would do,” she thought; and she listened again,
with burning cheeks and beating heart, while Alice
told of Frederic's grief when he read that she was
dead.
“I know he cried,” said Alice, “for there were
tears on his face, and he sat so still, and held me so
close to him that I could hear his heart thump so hard,”
and she illustrated by striking her tiny fist upon the
table.
Then she told how sometime after she had interrupted
Frederic in the parlor, just as he was asking Isabel
to be his wife, and had almost convinced him again
of Marian's existence.
“Blessed Alice,” said Marian, involuntarily. “You
have been Miss Lindsey's good angel, and kept her
husband from falling.”
“I couldn't help it,” answered Alice. “I most
knew she was alive; and I was so glad when he
started for New York. I was sure he'd find her; and
he did. She took care of him a few days and his voice
sounded so low and sad when he told me of her, and how
she left him when Isabel came. Your brother Ben—
the nice man who gave me the bracelet—telegraphed
for her to go; and you would suppose she was crazy
—she flew around so, ordering the negroes, and
knocking Dud down flat, because he couldn't run fast
enough to get out of her way. That made Aunt
Hetty, his grandmother, mad, and she yellowed Isabel's
collar that she was ironing. If I hadn't been
when we expected to hear Frederic was dead, for
next to Marian I love him the best. He's real good
to me now; and when I asked him once what made
him pet me so much more than he used to, he said,
`Because our dear, lost Marian loved you, and you
loved her.”'
“Did he say that? Did he call her his `dear, lost Marian?”'
and the eyes of the speaker sparkled with delight,
while across her mind there flitted the half-formed
resolution that before the sun had set Frederic
Raymond should know the whole.
Ere Alice could answer this question, there was a
loud ring at the door, and a servant brought to Miss
Grey Isabel Huntington's card.
“I knew she'd call,” said Alice. “She wants to
see how you look; but I don't care, for Frederic says
you're a heap the handsomest; I asked him last night
after you quit playing, and had left the room.”
The knowledge that Frederic Raymond preferred
her face to that of Isabel, rendered Marian far more
self-possessed than she would otherwise have been, as
she went down to meet her visitor, whose call was
prompted from mere curiosity, and not from any
friendliness she felt towards Marian Grey. Isabel had
heard much of Marian's beauty from those who met
her since her arrival at Riverside, and she had come to
see if rumor were correct. During the last three
years she had not improved materially, for her disappointment
in failing to win Frederic Raymond had
soured a disposition never particularly amiable, and
she was now a censorious, fault-finding woman of
twenty-five, on the lookout for a husband, and trembling
lest the dreaded age of thirty should find ner still unmarried.
For Frederic Raymond she affected a feeling
of contempt; insinuating that he was mean—that
his property was not gained honestly; that she knew
something which she could tell but shouldn't—all of
which had but little effect in a place where he was so
Raymond evinced the slightest interest in her, she
would gladly have met him more than half the way,
for the love she really felt for him once had never
died away. And even now she watched him often
through blinding tears as he passed her cottage
door. The story of Marian's existence she had repudiated
at first and in the excitement of going south,
and the incidents connected with her sojourn there,
she had failed to speak of it even to Mrs. Rivers,
choosing rather to make her friends believe that she
had deliberately refused the owner of Redstone
Hall. Recently, however, and since her arrival at
Riverside, she had indirectly circulated the story, and
Frederic had more than once been questioned as to its
authenticity. Greatly to Isabel's chagrin he took no
pains to conceal the fact, but frankly spoke of Mrs.
Raymond, as a person who had been, and who he hoped
was still a living reality. Very narrowly Isabel watched
the proceedings at Riverside, and when she heard
that Alice's new governess was in some way connected
with the “gawky peddler,” whom she remembered
well, she sneered at her as a person of no refinement,
marvelling greatly at the praises bestowed upon her.
At last, curious to see for herself, she donned her
richest robes, and now in the parlor at Riverside, sat
awaiting the appearance of Miss Grey.
“Let her be what she will, Frederic can't marry
her, and that's some consolation,” she thought, just
as a tripping footstep announced the approach of Marian,
and, assuming her haughtiest manner, she arose,
and bowed to Frederic Raymond's wife.
They had met before, but there was no token of recognition
between them now, and as strangers they
greeted each other, Marian's hand trembling slightly
as she offered it to Isabel—for she knew that this was
not their first meeting. Coldly, inquisitively and almost
impudently, the haughty Isabel scrutinized
the graceful creature, mentally acknowledging that
effort Marian concealed her agitation, and answered
carelessly the first few common-place remarks addressed
to her, as to how she liked Riverside, and if
this were her first visit there.
“No,” she answered to this last question—“I came
here once with Ben, who, you remember, was once at
Redstone Hall.”
“I could not well forget him. His odd Yankee
ways furnished gossip for many a day among the negroes.”
And Isabel tossed her head scornfully, as if
Ben Burt were a creature far beneath her notice.
After a little, she spoke of Mr. Raymond, asking
Marian, finally, what she thought of him, and saying
she supposed she knew he was a married man.
“I know he has been married, but is there any certainty
that his wife is still living?” asked Marian, for
the sake of hearing her visitor's remarks.
“Any certainty! Of course there is,” said Isabel,
experiencing at once a pang of jealousy lest the humble
Marian Grey had dared to think of Frederic as a
widower, and hence a marriageable man. “Of course
she's living, though, I must say, he takes no great pains
to find her. He did look for her a little, I believe, after
he was sick in New York; but he did it more to
divert his mind from a very mortifying disappointment
than from any affection he felt for her, and it was
this which prompted him to go to New York at all.”
“What disappointment?” Marian asked, faintly,
and, affecting to be embarrassed, Isabel replied:
“It would be unbecoming in me to say what the
nature of it was, and I referred to it thoughtlessly.
Pray, forget it, Miss Grey;” and she turned the leaves
of a handsomely bound volume lying on the table with
well feigned modesty.
Marian understood her at once, and was glad that
Isabel was too intent upon an engraving to observe
her agitation. Notwithstanding what Alice said,
Frederic had offered himself to Isabel, and her refusal
his mortification, and where sickness had overtaken
him. In the kindness of her heart, Isabel had come
to him, and the words of affection which she had heard
her speak to Frederic were prompted by pity, rather
than love, as she then supposed. And after Isabel had
left him, he had looked for her merely by way of excitement,
and not because he cared to find her. Such
were the thoughts which flashed upon Marian's mind
and destroyed at once her half-formed resolution of
telling Frederic that night. She did not know Isabel,
and she could not understand why she should be guilty
of a falsehood to her—a perfect stranger.
“He is not learning to love me, after all,” was the
sad cry of her heart; and, when she spoke again, there
was a plaintive tone in her voice, and Isabel wondered
she had not observed before how mournful it was.
And, as they sat talking, there came along the graveled
walk a step familiar to them both, and the color
deepened on their cheeks; while in the kindling light
which shone in the eyes of blue, and flashed from the
eyes of black, there was a spark of jealousy, as if each
were reading the secret thoughts of the other.
Frederic had returned from the city earlier than was
his custom, for he usually spent the entire day; but
there was something now to draw him home besides
the blind girl, and he was conscious of quickening his
footsteps as he drew near his house, and of watching
eagerly for the flutter of a mourning robe, or the sight
of a sunny face, which, he knew, would smile a welcome.
He heard her voice in the parlor, and ere he
was aware of it, he stood in the presence of Isabel.
Narrowly Marian watched him, marvelling somewhat
at his perfect self-possession; for Isabel was to him an
object of such indifference that he experienced far less
emotion in meeting her than in speaking to Marian
Grey, and asking if she had been lonely.
“You men are so vain,” said Isabel, with a toss of
her head, “and think we miss vou so much. Now I'll
day. Why should she?”
“Why shouldn't she?” asked Frederic, giving to
Marian a smile which sent the hot blood tingling to
her finger tips.
“Why shouldn't she!” returned Isabel—“just as
though we, girls, ever think of married men. By the
way, have you heard anything definite from Mrs. Raymond,
since she left you so suddenly in New York, or
have you given up the search?”
Marian pitied Frederic then, he turned so white;
and she almost hated Isabel, as she saw the malicious
triumph in her eye. Breathlessly, too, she awaited the
answer, which was:
“I shall never abandon the search until I find her,
or know certainly that she is dead. I went to the
place where she used to live, not long ago.”
“Indeed! What did you learn?” and a part of Isable's
assurance left her, for she felt that his searching
for his wife was a reality with him; while Marian's
heart grew hopeful and warm again, as she listened to
Frederic Raymond telling Isabel Huntington of that
dear old room which had been her home so long.
“I can't conceive what made her run away,” said
Isabel, fixing her large, glittering eyes upon Frederic,
who coolly replied, “I can,” and then turning to Marian
he abruptly commenced a conversation upon an
entirely different subject.
Biting her lip with vexation, Isabel arose to go, saying
she should expect to see Miss Grey at her own
house, and that she hoped she would sometimes bring
Mr. Raymond with her.
“You need not be afraid to come,” she continued,
addressing herself to him, “for everybody knows you
have a wife, consequently your coming will create no
scandal concerning yourself and mother!” and with a
hateful laugh she swept haughtily down the walk.
From this time forth Isabel was a frequent visitor at
Riverside, where she always managed to say something
led her to distrust the man who was beginning to feel
far more interest in the Marian found than in the Marian
lost. This the quick-sighted Isabel saw and while
her bosom rankled with envy towards her rival, she exulted
in the thought that love her as he might he dared
not tell her of his love, for a barrier the living wife
had built between the two. Though professing the utmost
regard for Miss Grey she did not hesitate to
speak against her when an opportunity occurred, but
her shafts fell harmlessly, for where Marian was known
she was esteemed and the wily woman gave up the
contest at last and waited anxiously to see the end.
Towards the last of October, Ben, who was now a
petty grocer in a New England village, came to Riverside
for the first time since Marian's residence there.
Never before had he appeared so happy, and his
honest face was all aglow with his delight at seeing
Marian at last where she belonged.
“You fit in like an odd scissor,” he said to her when
they were alone. “Ain't it most time to tell?”
“Not yet,” returned Marian. “I would rather
wait until I am back at Redstone Hall. We are going
there next month, and then, too, I wish I knew how
much of Isabel's insinuations to believe.”
“Isabel be hanged,” said Ben. “She lied I know,
and mebby that letter was some of her devilment.
Has she washed them curtains yit?”
Marian replied by telling him of the letter from
Sarah Green and asking if he could explain it. But it
was all a mystery to him, and he puzzled his brain
with it for a long time, deciding at last that it might
have come from some of her Kentucky acquaintance
who chanced to be in New York, and sent it just for
mischief.
“But they overshot the mark,” said he. “You ain't
dead by a great sight, and I b'lieve I'd let the cat out
pretty soon. That makes me think you wrote that
good for sore eyes to see her again.”
Marian went in quest of her, and on her return
found Alice with Ben, who, in her presence, dared not
manifest all that he felt at sight of his old friend.
Taking the animal on his lap he looked at it for a moment
with quivering chin; then stroking its soft fur,
he said, with a prolongation of each syllable, which
rendered the sound ludicrous, “Gri-mal-kin—poor
gri-mal-kin,” and a tear dropped on its back.
“What!” exclaimed Alice, coming to his side,
“what did you call the kitty?”
“Gri-mal-kin,” answered Ben, adding, by way
of explanation, “that, I b'lieve, is the Latin for
cat.”
Marian could not forbear laughing aloud, and as Ben
joined with her, it served to keep him from crying outright,
as he otherwise might have done.
“What are you going to do with it when you go
South?” he asked, and upon Alice's replying that they
should leave it with Mrs. Russell, he proposed taking
it instead and keeping it until Spring, when he could
return it.
This suggestion was warmly seconded by Marian,
and as Alice finally yielded the point, Ben carried
Spottie off the next morning, promising the little girl
that it should be well cared for in her absence. Alice
shed a few tears at parting with her pet, but they were
like April showers, and soon passed away in her joyful
anticipations of a speedy removal to Kentucky, for
Frederic was going earlier this season than usual, and
the 10th of November was appointed for them to start.
If they met with no delays they would reach Redstone
Hall on the anniversary of Marian's bridal, and to her
it seemed meet that on this day of all others she should
return again to her old home, and she wondered if
Frederic, too, would think of it or send one feeling of
regret after his missing bride. He did remember it,
for the November days were always fraught with me
difference, for though he thought much of Marian
Lindsey, it was not as he had thought of her before,
and he was conscious of a most unaccountable sensation
of satisfaction in knowing that even if she could
not go with him to Kentucky, her place would be tolerably
well filled by Marian Grey!
| CHAPTER XXV.
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall | |