University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
TELLING FREDERIC.

It was midnight, and from the windows of the
library at Redstone Hall there shone a single light, its
dim rays falling upon the haggard face of the weary
man, who, since parting from Marian in the parlor, had
sat there just as he was sitting now, unmindful of the
lapse of time—unmindful of every thing save the fierce
battle he was waging with himself. Hour by hour
—day by day—week by week, had his love for Marian
Grey increased, until now he could no more control it
than he could stay the mighty torrent in its headlong
course. It was all in vain that he kept or tried to
keep Marian Lindsey continually before his mind, saying
often to himself: “She is my wife—she is alive,
and I must not love another.”

He did not care for Marian Lindsey. He did not
wish to find her now—he almost hoped he never
should, though even that would avail him nothing, unless
he knew to a certainty that she were really dead.
Perhaps he never could know, and as he thought of
the long, dreary years in which he must live on with
that terrible uncertainty forever haunting him, he
pressed his hands upon his burning forehead and cried
aloud: “My punishment is greater than I can bear.
Oh, Marian Grey, can it be that you, who might have
been the angel of my life, were sent to avenge the
wrongs of that other Marian?”

He knew it was wicked, this intense, absorbing passion
for Marian Grey, but he could not feel it so, and

he would have given half his possessions for the sake
of abandoning himself for one brief hour to this love
—for the sake of seeing her eyes of blue meet with the
look he had so often fancied her giving to the man she
loved. And she loved him! He was sure of it! He
saw it those nights when he watched with her by Alice's
bedside; he had seen it since in the sudden flushing
of her cheek and the falling of her eyes when he
approached. And it was this discovery which prompted
him to the act he meditated. Not both of them
could stay there, himself and Marian, for he would not
that she should suffer more than need be. She had
recovered from her first and early love; she would get
over this, and if she were only happy, it didn't matter
how desolate her going would leave him, for she must
go, he said. He had come to that decision, sitting
there alone, and it had wrung great drops of perspiration
from his brow and moans of anguish from his
lips. But it must be—there was no alternative, he
thought, and in the chair where Marian Lindsey once
had written her farewell, he wrote to Marian Lindsey's
rival that Redstone Hall could be her home no longer.

Many times he read this letter over, and it was not
until long after midnight that he sought his pillow, only
to toss from side to side with feverish unrest, and he

was glad when at last Josh came in to make the fire,
for by that token he knew it was morning.

“Tell Dinah I will breakfast in my room,” he said,
“and say to Phil that he must have the carriage ready
early, for I am going to New-Orleans, and he will carry
me to Frankfort.”

“Ye-e-es, Sir,” was Josh's answer, as he departed
with the message.

“Marster have breakfast in his room, and a goin' to
New-Orleans? In the Lord's name what's happened
him?” exclaimed Dinah, and when Marian came down
to her solitary meal, she repeated the story to her,
asking if she could explain it.

“Marster's looked desput down in the mouth a long
time back,” she said. “What you 'spect 'tis?”

Marian could not tell; neither did she venture a suggestion,
so fearful was she that Frederic's intended departure
would interfere with the plan of which Alice
had talked incessantly since daylight. Hastily finishing
her breakfast, she hurried back to her chamber,
whither the note had preceded her.

“Luce brought this to you from Frederic,” said
Alice, passing her the letter, “and she says he looks
like he was crazy. Read it and see what he wants.”

Marian accordingly tore open the envelope, and with
blanched cheek and quivering lip read that she must
go again from Redstone Hall, and worse than all, there
was no tangible reason assigned for the cruel mandate.
The check next caught her eye, and with a proud,
haughty look upon her face, she tore it in fragments
and scattered them upon the floor, for it seemed an
idle mockery for him to offer what was already hers.

“What is it, Marian?” asked Alice, and recovering
her composure Marian read to her what Frederic said,
while Alice's face grew white as hers had done before.

“You go away!” she exclaimed, bounding upon the
floor and feeling for the warm shawl which she wore
when sitting up. “You won't do any such thing.

You've as much right here as he has, and I'm going
this minute to tell him so.”

She had groped her way to the door and was just
opening it when Marian held her back, saying:

“You must not go out undressed and barefooted as
you are. The halls are cold. Wait here while I go
and learn the reason of this sudden freak.”

“But I want so much to tell him myself,” said Alice,
and Marian replied, “So you shall, I'll send Dinah
up to dress you and then I will come for you when it's
time.”

This pacified Alice, who already began to feel faint
with her exertions, and she crept back to bed, while
Marian descended the stairs, going first to Dinah as she
had promised, and then with a beating heart turning
her steps toward the library. It was much like facing
the wild beast in its lair, confronting Frederic in his
present savage mood. He felt himself as if his reason
were overturned, for the deliberate giving up of Marian
Grey, and the feeling that he should probably never
look upon her face again, had stirred, as it were, the
very depths of his heart's blood, and in a state of mind
bordering upon distraction, he was making the necessary
preparations for his hasty journey, when a timid
knock was heard outside the door.

“Who's there? I'm very busy,” was his loud, imperious
answer, but Marian was not to be thus baffled,
and turning the knob, she entered without further
ceremony, recoiling back a pace or two when she met
the expression of Frederic's eye.

With his hands full of papers, which he was thrusting
into his pocket, his hair disordered and his face
white as ashes, he turned toward her, saying; “Why
are you here, Miss Grey? Haven't you caused me
pain enough already? Have you received my note?”

“I have,” she answered, advancing still further into
the room. “And I have come to ask you what it
means. You have no right to dismiss me so suddenly

without an explanation. How have I offended? You
must tell me.”

“I said you had not offended,” he replied, “and
further than that I can give no explanation.”

“I shall not leave your house, nor yet this room until
you do,” was her decided answer, and with the air
of one who meant what she said, Marian went so near
to the excited man that he could have touched her had
he chosen.

For an instant the two stood gazing at each other,
Marian never wavering for an instant, while over Frederic's
face there flitted alternately a look of wonder,
admiration, and perplexity. Then that look passed
away and was succeeded by an expression of the deep
love he felt for beautiful girl standing so fearlessly before
him.

“I cannot help it,” he murmured at last, and tottering
to the door, he turned the key; then returning to
Marian, he compelled her to sit down beside him upon
the sofa, and passing his arm around her, so that she
could not escape, he began: “You say you will not
leave the room until you know why I should send you
from me. Be it so, then. It surely cannot be wrong
for me to tell when you thus tempt me to the act; so, for
one brief half-hour, you are mine—mine, Marian, and
no power can save you now from hearing what I have
to say.”

His looks, even more than his manner, frightened
her, and she said imploringly, “Give me the key, Mr.
Raymond. Unlock the door and I will go away without
hearing the reason.”

“I frighten you, then,” he answered, in a gentler
tone, drawing her nearer to him, “and yet, Marian
Grey, I would sell my life inch by inch rather than
harm a hair of your dear head. Oh, Marian, Marian,
I would to Heaven you had never crossed my path, for
then I should not have known what it is to love as madly,
as hopelessly, as wickedly as I now love you.
What made you come to me in all your bright, girlish

beauty, or why did Heaven suffer me to love you as I
do? My punishment was before as great as I could
bear, and now I must suffer this anguish, too. Oh,
Marian Grey, Marian Grey!”

He wound his arms close around her, and she could
feel his feverish breath as his lips almost touched her
burning cheek. In the words “Marian Grey, Marian
Grey,” there was a deep pathos, as if all the loving
tenderness of his nature were centered upon that name,
and it brought the tears in torrents from her eyes. He
saw them, and wiping them away, he said:

“The hardest part of all to me is the knowledge
that you must suffer, too. Forgive me for saying it,
but as I know that I love you, so by similar signs I
know that you love me. Is it not so, darling?”

Involuntarily she laid her head upon his bosom, sobbing:

“I have loved you so long—so long.”

But for her promise to Alice she would then have
told him all, but she must keep her word, and when
he rejoined, “It does, indeed seem long since that
night you came to Riverside,” she did not undeceive
him, but listened while he continued, “Bless you for
telling me of your love. When you are gone it will
be a comfort for me to think that Marian Grey once
loved me. I say once for you must overcome that
love. You must tear it out and trample it beneath
your feet. You can if you try. You are not as hard,
as callous as I am. My heart is like adamant, and
though I know that it is wicked to love you, and to
tell you of my love, I cannot help it. I am a wretch,
and when I tell you, as I must, just what a wretch I
am, it will help you to forget me—to hate me, it may
be. You have heard of my wife. You know she left
me on my bridal night, and I have never known the
joys of wedded bliss—never shall know, for even if
she comes back to me now, I cannot live with her!”

“Oh, Frederic!” And again the hot tears trembled

through the hands which Marian clasped before her
eyes.

“Don't call me thus,” said Frederic, entreatingly,
as he removed her hands, and held them both in his.
“Don't say Frederic, for though it thrills me with
strange joy to hear you, it is not right. Listen, Marian,
while I tell you why I married her who bears your
name, and then I'm sure you'll hate me—nor call me
Frederic again. I have never told but one, and that
one, William Gordon. I had thought never to tell it
again, but it is right that you should know. Marian
Lindsey was, or is, the Heiress of Redstone Hall. All
my boasted wealth is hers—every cent of it is hers.
But she didn't know it, for”—and Frederic's voice was
very low and plaintive now as he told to Marian Grey
how Marian Lindsey was an heiress—told her of his
dead parent's fraud—of his desire to save that parent's
name from disgrace, and his stronger desire to save
him from poverty. “So I made her my wife,” he said.
“I promised to love and cherish her all the time my
heart was longing for another.”

Marian trembled now, as she lay helpless in his
arms, and, observing it, he continued:

“I must confess the whole, and tell you that I loved,
or thought I loved, Isabel Huntington, though how I
could have fancied her is a mystery to me now. My
poor Marian was plain, while Isabel was beautiful, and
naught but Alice kept me from telling her my love.
Alice stayed the act—Alice sent me to New York to
look for Marian —”

“And did you never hear from her? Did she never
send you a letter?” Marian asked, and he replied:

“Never! If she had I should have known where
to find her.”

Then, as briefly as possible, for he knew time was
hastening, he told of his fearful sickness, and of the
little girl who took such care of him—told, too, of his
weary search for her, and of the many dreary nights

he had passed in thinking of her, and her probable
fate.

“Then you came,” he said, “and, struggle as I
would, I could not mourn for Marian Lindsey as I had
done before. I was satisfied to have you here until
the conviction burst upon me, that far greater than
any affection I had thought I could feel for that blue-eyed
girl, and ten-fold greater than any love I had felt
for Isabel Huntington, was my love for you. It has
worn upon me terribly. Look!” And pushing back
his thick brown locks, he showed her where the hair
was turning white beneath. “These are for you,” he
said. “There are furrows upon my face—furrows upon
on my heart—and can you wonder that I bade you go
and so no longer tempt me to sin? And yet, could I
keep you with me, Marian? Could I hold you to my
bosom just as I hold you now, and know that I had a
right so to do?—a right to call you mine—my Marian
—my wife? Not Heaven itself, I'm sure, has greater
happiness in store for those who merit its bliss than
this would be to me! Oh, why is the boon denied to
me? Why must I suffer on through wretched, dreary
years, and know that somewhere in the world there is
a Marian Grey, who might have been my wife?”

“Let me go for Alice,” said Marian, struggling to
release herself. “There is something she would tell
you.”

“Yes, in a moment,” he replied; “but promise me
first one thing. The news may come to me that I am
free, and if it does, and you are still unmarried, will
you then be my wife? Promise that you will, and the
remembrance of that promise will help me to bear a
little longer.”

“I do!” said Marian, standing up before him, and
holding one of his hands in hers. “I promise you,
solemnly, that no other man shall ever call me wife
save you.”

There were tears in Frederic's eyes, and his whole

frame quivered with emotion, as, catching at her
dress, for she was moving toward the door, he added:

“And you will wait for me, darling—wait for me
twenty years, if it needs must be? You will never be
old to me. I shall love you just the same when these
sunny locks are grey,” and he passed his hands caressingly
over her bright hair. There was a world of love
and tenderness in the answering look which Marian
gave to him as he opened the door for her to pass out,
and wringing his hands in anguish, he cried to himself,
“Oh, how can I give her up—beautiful, beautiful
Marian Grey!”

Swift as a bird Marian flew up the stairs in quest of
Alice, who was to tell the wretched man that it was
not a sin for him to love the beautiful Marian Grey.

“Alice, Alice! Go now—go quick!” she exclaimed,
bursting into the room.

“Go whar—for the dear Lord's sake?” said Dinah,
who had that moment come up, and consequently had
made but little progress in dressing Alice. “Go
whar? Not down stairs—'strue as yer born. She'll
cotch her death o' cold!”

“Hurry—do!” cried Alice, standing first on one
foot and then upon the other. “I must tell Frederic
something before he goes away. There, he's going!
Oh, Marian, help!” she fairly screamed, as she heard
the carriage at the door, and Frederic in the hall
below.

Marian was terribly excited, and in her attempts to
assist, she only made matters worse by buttoning the
wrong button, putting both stockings on the same
foot, pulling the shoe-lacing into a hard knot, which
baffled all her nervous efforts, while Dinah worked on
leisurely, insisting that Alice “wasn't gwine down,
and if there was anythin' killin' which marster 'or'to
know, Miss Grey could tell him herself.”

“Yes, Marian, go,” said Alice, in despair, as she heard
Dud bid Frederic good-by, and, scarcely conscious of
what she was about, Marian ran down the stairs, just

as Phil cracked his whip, and the spirited greys
bounded off with a rapidity which left her faint call
of “Stop, Frederic, stop!” far behind.

“I can write to him,” she thought, as she slowly retraced
her steps back to Alice, who was bitterly disappointed,
and who, after Dinah was gone, threw herself
upon the bed, refusing to be comforted.

“Three weeks was forever,” she said, and she suggested
sending Josh after the traveler, who, in a most
unenviable frame of mind, was riding rapidly towards
Frankfort.

“No, no,” said Marian, “I will write immediately,
so he can get the letter as soon almost as he reaches
New Orleans. It won't be three weeks before he returns,”
and she strove to divert the child's mind by repeating
to her as much as she thought proper of her
exciting interview with Frederic.

But Alice could not be comforted, and all that day
she lamented over the mischance which had taken
Frederic away before she could tell him.

“There's Uncle Phil,” she said, when towards night
she heard the carriage drive into the yard; “and
hark, hark!” she exclaimed, turning her quick ear in
the direction of the sound, and rolling her bright eye
around the room; “there's a step on the piazza that
sounds like his—'tis him—'tis him! He's come back!
I knew he would!” and in her weakness and excitement
the little girl sunk exhausted at Marian's feet.

Raising her up, Marian listened breathlessly, but
heard nothing save Phil, talking to his horses as he
drove them to the stable.

“He has not come,” she said, and Alice replied, “I
tell you he has. There—there, don't you hear?” and
Marian's heart gave one great bound as she, too, heard
the well-known footstep upon the threshold and Frederick
speaking to his favorite Dud, who had run to
meet “his mars,” asking for sugar-plums from New
Orleans.

There had been a change in the time-table, and

Frederic did not reach Frankfort until after the tram
he intended to take had gone. His first thought was
to remain in the city, and wait for the next train from
Lexington. Accordingly he gave his parting directions
to Phil, who being in no haste to return, loitered away
the morning and a portion of the afternoon before he
turned his horses homeward. As he was riding up the
long hill which leads from Frankfort into the country
beyond, he unexpectedly met his master, who had
been to the cemetery, and was just returning to the
Capitol Hotel.

All the day Frederic had thought of Marian Grey,
and with each thought it had seemed to him more and
more that he must see her again, if only to hear her
say that she would wait all time for him, and when he
came upon Phil, who he supposed was long ere this at
Redstone Hall, his resolution was taken, and instead
of the reproof he knew he merited, Phil was surprised
at hearing his master say, as he made a motion for him
to stop:

“Phil, I am going home.”

And thus it was that he returned again to Redstone
Hall, where his coming was hailed with eager joy by
Marian and Alice, and created much surprise among
the servants.

“My 'pinion he's a little out of his head,” was all the
satisfaction Phil could give, as he drove the carriage to
the barn, while Frederic, half repenting of his rashness
in returning, and wondering what good excuse he
could render, went to his own room—the one formerly
occupied by his father—where he sat before the glowing
grate, when Alice appeared, covered with shawls,
and her face all aglow with her excitement.

She would not be kept back another moment, lest
he should go off again, so Marian had wrapped her up
and sent her on her mission. Frederic sat with his face
turned toward the fire, and though by the step he knew
who it was that entered the door, he did not turn his

head or evince the least knowledge of her presence until
she stood before him, and said, inquiringly:

“Frederic, are you here?”

“Yes;” was the answer, rather curtly spoken, for he
would rather be alone.

“Frederic!” and the bundle of shawls trembled violently.
“I have come to tell you something about
Marian.”

“I don't wish to hear it,” was his reply; and, nothing
daunted, Alice continued:

“But you must hear me. Her name isn't Miss
Grey. She is a married woman, and has a living husband;
and you—”

She did not finish the sentence, for like a tiger Frederic
started up, and seizing her by the shoulder, exclaimed:
“You dare not tell me that again. Marian
Grey is not married. She never had a husband,” and
as the maddening thought swept over him, that possibly
the blind girl told him truly, he staggered against
the mantel, where he stood panting for breath, and enduring,
as it were, all the agonies of a lingering, painful
death.

“Sit down,” said Alice, and like a child he obeyed,
while she proceeded, “Miss Grey has deceived us all,
and it is strange, too, that none of us should know her
—none but Bruno. Don't you remember how he
wouldn't bite her, just because he knew her when we
didn't? Don't you mind how I told you once maybe
the Marian who went away would come back to us
some day so beautiful we should not know her? You
are listening, ain't you?”

“Yes, yes,” came in a quick, short gasp from the
arm-chair.

“Well, she has come back! She called herself Marian
Grey so we would not guess right off who she was,
but she ain't Marian Grey. She's the other one—she's
MY Marian, Frederic, AND YOUR WIFE—”

As Alice was speaking Frederic had risen to his
feet. Drop by drop every particle of blood receded

from his face, leaving it colorless as ashes. There was
a wild, unnatural light flashing from his eyes—his
hands worked nervously together—his hair seemed
starting from its roots, and with his head bent forward,
he stood transfixed as it were by the dazzling
light which had burst upon him. Then his lips parted
slowly, and more like a wailing cry than a prayer of
thanksgiving, the words “I thank thee, oh, my God,”
issued from them. The next moment the air near
Alice was set in rapid motion—there was a heavy fall,
and Frederic Raymond lay upon the carpet white and
still as a block of marble.

Like lightning Alice flew across the floor, but swift
as were her movements, another was there before her,
and with his head upon her lap was pressing burning
kisses upon his lips and dropping showers of tears upon
his face. Marian had stood without the door, listening
to that dialogue, and when by the fall she knew
that it was ended, she came at once and knelt by the
fainting man, who ere long began to show signs of
consciousness. Alice was first to discover this, and
when sure that he would come back to life, she glided
silently from the room, for she knew that she would
not be needed there.

She might have tarried yet a little longer, for the
shock to Frederic had been so sudden and so great,
that though his lips moved and his fingers clutched
eagerly at the soft hand feeling for his pulse, he did
not seem to heed aught else, until Marian whispered
in his ear:

“My husband—may I call you so?”

Then, indeed, he started from his lethargy, and,
struggling to his feet, clasped her in his arms, weeping
over her passionately, and murmuring as he did
so:

“My wife—my darling—my wife! Is it true that
you have come to me again? Are you my Marian?”

Daylight was fading from the room, for the Winter
sun had set behind the western hills, and leading her

to the window, he turned her face to the light, gazing
rapturously upon it, and saying to her:

“You are mine—all mine! God bless you, Marian!”

He kissed her hands, her neck, her lips, her forehead,
her hair, and she could feel his hot tears falling
amid the shining curls he parted so lovingly from her
brow. They were not hateful to him now—and he
passed his hand caressingly over them, whispering all
the while:

“My own beautiful Marian—my bride—my wife!”

Surely, in this moment of bliss, Marian felt repaid
for all that she had suffered, when at last as thoughts
of the dreadful past came over Frederic, he led her to
the sofa, and said, “Can you forgive me, darling?”
she turned her bright eyes up to his, and by the expression
of perfect happiness resting there, he knew
she had forgotten the cold, heartless words he spoke
to her, when once, at that very hour, and in that very
place, he asked her to be his. That scene had faded
away, leaving no cloud between them. All was sunshine
and gladness, and with her fair head resting on
his bosom — not timidly, as it had lain there in
the morning, but trustingly, confidingly, as if that
were its rightful resting-place—they sat together until
the rose-red tinge faded from the western sky, and the
night shadows had crept into the room.

More than once Alice stole on tiptoe to the door, to
see if it were time for her to enter, but as often as she
heard the low murmur of their voices, she went noiselessly
back, saying to herself: “I won't disturb them
yet.”

At last as she came once she stumbled accidentally,
and this woke Marian from the sweetest dream which
ever had come to her.

“'Tis Alice,” she said; and she called to the little
girl who came gladly, and climbing into Frederic's
lap, twined her arms around his neck and laid a cheek
against his own, without word of comment.

“Blessed Alice, I owe you more than I can repay,”
he said, and Marian, far better than the child, appreciated
the full meaning these words conveyed.

But for the helpless blind girl this hour might never
have come to them, and the strong man felt it so, as
he hugged the little creature closer to him, blessing her
as his own and Marian's good angel. Observing that
she shivered as if with the cold, he arose, and drawing
the sofa directly before the fire, resumed his seat
again, with Marian between himself and Alice, his arm
around her neck and his lips almost constantly meeting
hers. He could not remove his eyes from her, she
seemed to him so beautiful, with the firelight falling on
her sparkling face and shining on her hair. That hair
—how it puzzled him, and winding one of the curls
about his fingers he said, half laughingly, half reluctantly,
“Your hair was not always this color.”

Then the blue eyes flashed up into his, and Marian
replied by telling whence came the change, and reminding
him that she was the same young girl of
whom the Yankee Ben had spoken when he visited
Kentucky.

“And you had almost died, then, for me, my precious
one,” said Frederic, kissing the sunny locks.

Just at this point, old Dinah appeared in the door,
which, like most Kentucky doors, was left ajar. She
saw the position of the parties—saw Frederic kiss Marian
Grey—saw Alice's look of satisfaction as he did
so, and in an instant all the old lady's sense of propriety
was roused to a boiling pitch.

Since Marian had revealed herself to Alice, the little
girl had said to Dinah, by way of preparing her
for the surprise when it should come, that “there was
some doubt concerning the death of Marian—that
Frederic believed she had been with him in New
York, and had taken means to find her.” This story
was, of course, repeated among the servants, some of
whom credited it, while others did not. Among the
latter was Dinah. She wouldn't believe “she had

done all her mournin' for nothin',” and in opposition
to Hetty, she persisted in saying Marian was dead.
When, however, she saw her master's familiarity with
Miss Grey, she accepted of her young mistress's existence
as a reality, and was terribly incensed against the
offending Marian Grey.

“The trollop!” she muttered. “But I'll bring
proof agin her,” and hurrying back to the kitchen, she
told to the astonished blacks, “how't marster done
kissed Miss Grey spang on her har, and on her month,
and hugged her into the bargain, when he didn't know
for certain that t'other one was dead; and if they
didn't b'lieve it, they could go and see for themselves,
provided they went mighty still.”

“Tole you he was crazy,” said Uncle Phil, starting
to see the wonderful sight, and followed by a troop of
negroes, all of whom trod on tiptoe, a precaution
wholly unnecessary, for Frederic and Marian were too
much absorbed in each other to heed the dusky group
assembled round the door, their white eyes growing
larger as they all saw distinctly the arm thrown across
Marian's neck.

“Listen to dat ar, will you?” whispered Hetty, as
Frederic said, “Dear Marian,” while old Dinah chimed
in, “'Clar for't, it makes my blood bile, and he not a
widower nuther!”

“Quit dat!” she exclaimed aloud, as her master
showed signs of repeating the kissing offense; and, in
an instant, Frederic sprang to his feet, an angry flush
mounting to his face when he saw the crowd at the
door.

Then, as he began to comprehend its meaning, the
frown gave place to a good-humored laugh, and taking
Marian's hand, he led her toward the assembled
blacks, saying to them:

“Rejoice with me that the lost one has returned to
us again, for this is Marian Lindsey—my wife and
your mistress—changed, it is true, but the same Marian
who went from us more than six years ago.”

“Wonder if he 'spects us to swallow dat ar?” said
the unbelieving Hetty.

Dinah, on the contrary, had not the shadow of a
doubt, and she dropped on her knees at once, kissing
the very hem of Marian's dress, and exclaiming through
her tears:

“Lord bress you, Miss Marian. You've mightily
altered, to be sure, but ain't none the wus for that.
I'm nothin' but a poor old nigger, and can't say what's
in my heart, but it's full and runnin' over, bless you,
honey.”

Dinah's example was contagious, and more than
one prostrated themselves before their mistress, while
their howling cries of surprise and delight were almost
deafening. Particularly was Josh delighted, and
while the noise went on, he took occasion to “balance
to your partner,” in the hall, with a young yellow
girl, who thought his stammering was music, and his
ungainly figure the most graceful that could be conceived.
When the commotion had in a measure subsided,
and Hetty had gone over to the popular side,
saying, “she knew from the first Marian was somebody,”
Frederic made a few brief explanations as to
where their mistress had been, and then dismissed
them to their several duties, for he preferred being
alone again with his wife and Alice.

Supper was soon announced, but little was eaten by
any one. They were too much excited for that, and as
soon as the meal was over, they returned to Frederic's
room, where, sitting again between her husband and
Alice, Marian told them, as far as possible, everything
which had come to her since leaving Redstone
Hall.

“Can't I ever know what made you go away?”
Alice asked; and Frederic replied:

“Yes, birdie, you shall;” and, without sparing himself
in the least, he told her all.

“Marian an heiress, too!” she exclaimed. “Will
marvels never cease?” and she laid her head which

was beginning to grow weary, upon Marian's lap,
saying, “I never knew till now one half how good
you are. No wonder Frederic thought that he had
killed you. It was wicked in him, very,” and
the brown eyes looked sleepily into the fire, while
Marian replied:

“But is all forgotten now.”

It did seem to be, and in the long conversation
which lasted till almost midnight, there was many a
word of affection exchanged, many a confession made,
many a forgiveness asked, and when, at last they
parted, it was with the belief that each was all the
world to the other.

Like lightning the news spread through the neighborhood
that Frederid Raymond's governess was Frederic
Raymond's wife; and, for many days the house
was thronged with visitors, most of whom remembered
little Marian Lindsey, and all of whom offered their
sincere congratulations to the beautiful Marian Grey,
for so she persisted in being called, until the night of
the 20th of February, when they were to give a bridal
party. Then she would answer to Mrs. Raymond,
she said, but not before, and with this Frederic was
fain to be satisfied. Great were the preparations for
that party, to which all their friends were to be bidden,
and as they were one evening making out the list, Marian
suggested Isabel, more for the sake of seeing
what Frederic would say, than from any desire to
have her present.

“Isabel,” he repeated, “never. I cannot so soon
forget her treachery,” and a frown darkened his handsome
face, but Marian kissed it away as she said:

“You surely will not object to Ben, the best and
truest friend I ever had.”

“Certainly not,” answered Frederic. “I owe Ben
Burt more than I ever can repay, and I mean to keep
him with us. He is just the man I want upon my
farm—your farm, I mean,” he added, smiling knowingly

upon her, and catching in his the little hand
raised to shut his mouth.

But Marian had her revenge by refusing to let him
kiss her until he had promised never to allude to that
again.

“I gave you Redstone Hall,” she said, “that night
I ran away, and I have never taken it back, but have
brought you in instead an incumbrance which may
prove a most expensive one.” And amid such pleasantries
as these Marian wrote the note to Ben, and then
went back to her preparations for the party, which,
together with the strange discovery, was the theme of
the whole country.