 | CHAPTER I.
GUARDIAN AND WARD. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
GUARDIAN AND WARD.
The night was dark and the clouds black and heavy
which hung over Redstone Hall, whose massive walls
loomed up through the darkness like some huge sentinel
keeping guard over the spacious grounds by which
it was surrounded. Within the house all was still,
and without there was no sound to break the midnight
silence save the sighing of the autumnal wind
through the cedar trees, or the roar of the river, which,
swollen by the recent heavy rains, went rushing on to
meet its twin sister at a point well known in Kentucky,
where our story opens, as “The Forks of the Elkhorn.”
From one of the lower windows a single light was
shining, and its dim rays fell upon the face of a white-haired
man, who moaned uneasily in his sleep, as if
pursued by some tormenting fear. At last, as the old-fashioned
clock struck off the hour of twelve, he
awoke, and glancing nervously toward the corner,
whence the sound proceeded, he whispered, “Have
you come again, Ralph Lindsey, to tell me of my
sin?”
“What is it, Mr. Raymond?” and a young girl
hand in his, the better to assure himself of her presence,
said, “Marian, is there nothing in that corner
yonder—nothing with silvery hair?”
“Nothing,” answered Marian, “nothing but the
lamplight shining on the face of the old clock. Did
you think there was some one here?”
“Yes—no. Marian, do you believe the dead can
come back to us again—when we have done them a
wrong—the dead who are buried in the sea, I mean?”
Marian shuddered involuntarily, and cast a timid
look toward the shadowy corner, then, conquering her
weakness, she answered, “No, the dead cannot come
back. But why do you talk so strangely to-night?”
The old man hesitated a moment ere he replied.—
“The time has come for me to speak, so that your father
can rest in peace. He has been with me more
than once in this very room, and to-night I fancied he
was here again, asking why I had dealt so falsely with
his child.”
“Falsely!” cried Marian, kissing tenderly the hand
of the only parent she had ever known. “Not falsely,
I am sure, for you have been most kind to me.”
“And yet, Marian,” he said, “I have done you a
wrong—a wrong which has eaten into my very soul,
and worn my life away. I did not intend to speak of
it to-night, but something prompts me to do so, and
you must listen. On that night when your father
died, and when all in the ship, save ourselves and the
watch, were asleep, I laid my hand on his forehead,
and swore to be faithful to my trust. Do you hear,
Marian—faithful to my trust. You don't know what
that meant, but I know, and I've broken my oath to
the dying—and from that grave in the ocean he comes
to me sometimes, and with the same look upon his
face which it wore that Summer afternoon when we
laid him in the sea, he asks why justice has not been
done to you. Wait, Marian, until I have finished,”
he continued, as he saw her about to speak; “I know
but, Marian, I would rather—oh, so much rather, you
should not know the truth until I'm dead. You
will forgive me then more readily, won't you, Marian?
Promise me you will forgive the poor old man who
has loved you so much—loved you, if possible, better
than he loved his only son.”
He paused for her reply, and half bewildered, Marian
answered, “I don't know what you mean—but if,
as you say, a wrong has been done, no matter how
great that wrong may be, it is freely forgiven for the
sake of what you've been to me.”
The sick man wound his arm lovingly around her,
and bringing her nearer to him, he said, “Bless you,
Marian—bless you for that. It makes my deathbed
easier. I will leave it in writing—my confession. I
cannot tell it now, for I could not bear to see upon
your face that you despised me. You wrote to Frederic,
and told him to come quickly?”
“Yes,” returned Marian, “I said you were very
sick and wished to see him at once.”
For a moment there was silence in the room; then,
removing his arm from the neck of the young girl, the
old man raised himself upon his elbow and looking
her steadily in the face, said, “Marian, could you love
my son Frederic?”
The question was a strange one, but Marian Lindsey
was accustomed to strange modes of speech in her
guardian, and with a slightly heightened color she
answered quietly, “I do love him as a brother—”
“Yes, but I would have you love him as something
nearer,” returned her guardian. “Ever since I took
you for my child it has been the cherished object of
my life that you should be his wife.”
There was a nervous start and an increase of color
in Marian's face, for the idea, though not altogether
disagreeable, was a new one to her, but she made no
reply, and her guardian continued, “I am selfish in
this wish, though not wholly so. I know you could
name be saved from disgrace. Promise me, Marian,
that you will be his wife very soon after I am dead,
and before all Kentucky is talking of my sin. You
are not too young. You will be sixteen in a few
months, and many marry as early as that.”
“Does he wish it?” asked Marian, timidly; and her
guardian replied, “He has known you but little of
late, but when he sees you here at home, and learns
how gentle and good you are, he cannot help loving
you as you deserve.”
“Yes he can,” answered Marian with childish simplicity.
“No man as handsome as Frederic ever loved
a girl with an ugly face, and I heard him tell Will
Gordon, when he spent a vacation here, that I was a
nice little girl, but altogether too freckled, too red-headed,
and scrawney, ever to make a handsome woman,”
and Marian's voice trembled slightly as she
recalled a speech which had wrung from her many
tears.
To this remark Col. Raymond made no reply — for
he too, had cause to doubt Frederic's willingness to
marry a girl who boasted so few personal charms as
did Marian Lindsey then. Rumors, too, he had heard,
of a peerlessly beautiful creature, with raven hair
and eyes of deepest black, who at the north kept his
son a captive to her will. But this could not be;
Frederick must marry Marian, for in no other way
could the name of Raymond be saved from a disgrace,
or the vast possessions he called his be kept in
the family, and he was about to speak again when a
heavy tread in the hall announced the approach of
some one, and a moment after, Aunt Dinah, the
housekeeper, appeared. “She had come to sit up
with her marster,” she said, “and let Miss Marian
go to bed, where children like her ought to be.”
At first Marian objected, for though scarcely conscious
of it herself, she was well enough pleased to
sit where she was and hear her guardian talk of Frederic
when Aunt Dinah suggested to her that sitting up
so much would make her look yellow and old, she
yielded, for Frederic was a passionate admirer of
beauty, and she well knew that she had none to lose.
Kissing her guardian good night, she hurried to her
chamber, but not to sleep, for the tumult of thought
which her recent conversation had awakened kept her
restless and wakeful. Under ordinary circumstances
she would have wondered what the wrong could be
at which Col. Raymond had hinted, but now she
scarcely remembered it, or if it occurred to her at all,
she instantly dismissed it from her mind as some trivial
thing which the weak state of her guardian's mind
magnified into a serious matter.
Thirteen years before our story opens, Marian had
embarked with her father on board a ship which
sailed from Liverpool to New York. Of that father
she remembered little save that he was very poor,
and that he talked of his poverty as if it were something
of which he was proud. Pleasant memories,
though, she had of an American gentleman who used
often to take her on his lap, and tell her of the land
to which she was going; and when one day her father
laid him down in his berth, with the fever as they
said, she remembered how the kind man had cared
for him, holding his aching head and watching by
him till he died;—then, when it was all over, he had
taken her upon his knee and told her she was to be
his little girl now, and he bade her call him father—
telling her how her own dead parent had asked him
to care for her, who in all the wide world had no near
relative. Something, too, she remembered about an
old coarse bag, which had troubled her new father
very much, and which he had finally put in the bottom
of his trunk, throwing overboard a few articles
of clothing to make room for it. The voyage was long
and stormy, but they reached New York at last, and
he took her to his home—not Redstone Hall, but an
lived. Frederic was a boy then—a dark haired
handsome boy of eleven, and even now she shuddered
as she remembered how he used to tease and worry
her. Still he liked her, she was sure—and the first
real grief which she remembered was on that rainy
day when, with an extra pull at her long curls, he
bade her good-by and went off to a distant boarding
school.
Col. Raymond, her guardian, was growing rich,
and people said he must have entered into some fortunate
speculation while abroad, for, since his return,
prosperity had attended every movement; and when,
six months after Frederic's departure, he went to
Kentucky and purchased Redstone Hall, then rather
a dilapidated building, Mrs. Burt, his housekeeper,
had wondered where all his money came from, when
he used to be so poor. They had moved to Kentucky
when Marian was five and a half years old—and now,
after ten years' improvement, there was not in the
whole county so beautiful a spot as Redstone Hall,
with its terraced grounds, its graveled walks, its plats
of grass, its grand old trees, its creeping vines, its
flowering shrubs and handsome park in the rear. And
this was Marian's home;—here she had lived a rather
secluded life, for only when Frederic was with them
did they see much company, and all the knowledge
she had of the world was what she gleaned from
books or learned from the negress Dinah, who, “having
lived with the very first families,” frequently entertained
her young mistress with stories of “the
quality,” and the dinner parties at which her presence
was once so indispensable. And Marian, listening
to these glowing descriptions of satin dresses, diamonds
and feathers, sometimes wished that she were
rich, and could have a taste of fashion. To be sure,
her guardian bought her always more than she needed—but
it was not hers, and without any particular
reason why she should do so, she felt that she was a
when Frederic came home with his aristocratic manners,
his graceful mustache, and the soft scent of perfumery
he usually carried with him. He was always
polite and kind to Marian, but she felt that there was
a gulf between them. He was handsome; she was
plain—he was rich; she was poor—he was educated,
and she—alas, for Marian's education—she read a
great deal, but never yet had she given herself up to
a systematic course of study. Governesses she had
in plenty, but she usually coaxed them off into the
woods, or down by the river, where she left them to
do what they pleased, while she learned many a lesson
from the great book of nature spread out so beautifully
before her. All this had tended to make and
keep her a very child, and it was not until her fourteenth
year that any thing occurred to develop the
genuine womanly qualities which she possessed.
By the death of a distant relative, a little unfortunate
blind girl was left to Colonel Raymond's care, and
was immediately taken to Redstone Hall, where she
became the pet of Marian, who loved nothing in the
whole world as dearly as the poor blind Alice. And
well was that love repaid; for to Alice Marian Lindsey
was the embodiment of everything beautiful, pure
and good. Frederic, on the contrary, was a kind of
terror to the little Alice. “He was so precise and
stuck up,” she said; “and when he was at home Marian
was not a bit like herself.” To Marian, however,
his occasional visits to Redstone Hall were sources of
great pleasure. To look at his handsome figure, to
listen to his voice, to anticipate his slightest wish and
minister to his wants so quietly that he scarcely knew
from whom the attention came, was happiness for
her, and when he smiled upon her, as he often did,
calling her “a good little girl,” she felt repaid for all
she had done. Occasionally, since her guardian's illness,
she had thought of the future when some fine
lady might come to Redstone Hall as its mistress, but
dismissed it from her mind. In her estimation, there
were few worthy to be the wife of Frederic—certainly
not herself—and when the idea was suggested to her
by his father, she regarded it as an utter impossibility.
Still it kept her wakeful, and once she said softly
to herself, “I could love him so much if he would let
me, and I should be so proud of him, too.” Then, as
she remembered the remark she had heard him make
to his college friend, she covered her face with her
hands and whispered, sadly, “Oh, I wish I wasn't
ugly.” Anon, however, there came stealing over her
the thought that in the estimation of others she was
not as plain as in that of Frederic Raymond. Every
body seemed to like her, and if she were hideous looking
they could not. Alice, whose darkened eyes
had never looked upon the light of day, and who
judged by the touch alone, declared that she was
beautiful, while old Dinah said that age would improve
her as it did wine, and that in time she would
be the handsomest woman in all Kentucky.
Never before had Marian thought so much of her
personal appearance—and now, feeling anxious to
know exactly what her defects were, she arose, and
lighting the lamp, placed it upon her dressing bureau
—then throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she
sat down and minutely inspected the face which Frederie
Raymond called so homely. The features were
regular enough, but the face was very thin—
“scrawney,” Frederic had said, and the cheek bones
were plainly perceptible. This might be the result of
eating slate-stones; Dinah, who knew everything,
said it was, and mentally resolving thereafter to abjure
everything of the kind, Marian continued her
investigations. It did not occur to her that her
complexion was surpassingly fair, nor yet that her
eyes were of a most beautiful blue, so intent was she
upon the freckles which dotted her nose and a portion
of her face. Slate-stones surely had nothing to do
this evil—unless, indeed, poulticing should do it.—
She would consult Dinah on the subject, and feeling a
good deal of confidence in the negress' judgment, she
passed on to what she considered her crowning point of
ugliness—her hair! It was soft, luxuriant and curly,
but alas, it bore the color which, though accounted
beautiful in Mary Stuart's time, has long since been
proscribed by fashion as horrid and unbecoming. Turn
which way she would, or hold the lamp in any position
she chose, it was still red—a dark, decided red—and
the tears came to Marian's eyes as she recalled the
many times when, as a boy, Frederic taunted her with
being a “red-head” or a “brick-top,” just as the humor
suited him. Suddenly she remembered that
among her treasures was a lock of her mother's
hair, and opening a rosewood box she took from it a
shining trees which she laid upon the marble top of
her bureau, and then bent down to admire its color, a
beautiful auburn, such as is rarely seen—and which,
when seen, is sure to be admired.
“And this was my mother's,” she whispered,
smoothing caressingly the silken hair. “I must resemble
her more than my father, who my guardian
says was dark. I wish I was like her in everything,
for I believe she was beautiful,” and into the mind of
the orphan girl there crept an image of a bright-haired,
sweet-faced woman, whose eyes of lustrous
blue looked lovingly into her own—and this was her
mother. She had seen her thus in fancy many a time,
but never so vividly as to-night, and unconsciously
she breathed the petition, “Let me look like her
some day, and I shall be content.”
The gray morning light was by this time stealing
through the window, and overcome with weariness and
watching, Marian fell asleep, and when, two hours
later, old Dinah came in to wake her, she found her
sitting before the glass, with the lamp still burning at
upon the low bureau.
“For the dear Lord's sake, what are you doing?”
was Dinah's exclamation, which at once roused Marian,
who unhesitatingly answered,
“I got up to look in the glass, and see if I was so
very homely.”
“Humbly! Nonsense, child,” returned old Dinah.
“You look like a picter lyin' thar with the sun a shinin'
on yer har, and makin' it look like a piece of crimson
satin.”
The compliment was a doubtful one, but Marian
knew it was well meant, and, without a word in reply,
commenced her morning toilet. That day, somewhat
to her disappointment, her guardian did not resume
the conversation of the previous night. He was
convinced that Marian could be easily won, but he
did not think it wise to encourage her until he had
talked with his son, whose return he looked for auxiously.
But day after day went by, and it was in
vain that Alice listened, and Marian watched, for the
daily stage. It never stopped at the gate; and each
time that the old man heard them say it had gone by,
he groaned afresh, fearing Frederic would not come
until it was too late.
“I can at least tell him the truth on paper,” he said
to himself at last, “and it may be he will pay more
heed to words, which a dead father wrote, than to
words which a living father spoke.”
Marian was accordingly bidden to bring him his little
writing desk, and then to leave the room, for he
would be alone when he wrote that letter of confession.
It cost him many a fierce struggle—the telling
to his son a secret which none save himself and God
had ever known—aye, which none had ever need to
know if he would have it so—but he would not. The
secret had worn his life away, and he must make reparation
now. So, with the perspiration dropping
from every pore, he wrote; and, as he wrote, in his
the white-haired Englishman, watching carefully to
see that justice was done at last to Marian. Recently
several letters had passed between the father and his
son concerning the marriage of the latter with Marian
—a marriage every way distasteful to the young man,
who, in his answer, had said far harsher things of Marian
than he really meant, hoping thus to put an end
to his father's plan. She was “rough, uncouth, uneducated
and ugly,” he said, “and if his father did not
give up that foolish fancy, he should positively hate
the red-headed fright.”
All this the old man touched upon—quoting the
very words his son had used, and whispering to himself,
“Poor—poor Marian, it would break her heart
to know that he said that, but she never will—she
never will;” and then, with the energy of despair, he
wrote the reason why she must be the wife of his son,
pleading with him as only a dying man can plead,
that he would not disregard the wishes of his father,
and begging him to forget the dark-haired Isabel,
who, though perhaps more beautiful, was not—could
not—be as pure, as gentle and as good as Marian.
The letter was finished, and 'mid burning tears of
remorse and shame the old man read it through.
“Yes, that will do,” he said. “Frederic will heed
what's written here. He'll marry her or else make
restitution;” and laying it away, he commenced the
last and hardest part of all—the confessing to Marian
how he had sinned against her.
Although there was no tie of blood between them,
the gentle young orphan had crept down into his inmost
heart, where once he treasured a little golden-haired
girl, who, before Frederic was born, died on
his lap, and went to the heaven made for such as she.
In the first moments of his bereavement, he had
thought his loss could never be repaired, but when,
with her soft arms around his neck, Marian Lindsey
had murmured in his car how much she loved the
he had lost was restored to him tenfold in the little
English girl. He knew that she believed that there
was in him no evil, and his heart throbbed with agony
as he nerved himself to tell her how for years he had
acted a villain's part, but it was done at last, and with
a passionate appeal for her forgiveness, and a request
that she would not forget him wholly, but come
some time to visit his lonely grave, he finished the
letter, and folding it up, wrote upon its back, “For
Marian;” then, taking the one intended for Frederic,
he attempted to write, “For my Son,” but the ink was
gone from his pen, there was a blur before his eyes,
and though he traced the words he left no impress,
and the letter bore no superscription to tell to whom
it belonged. Stepping upon the floor, he dragged his
feeble limbs to the adjoining room, his library, and
placing both letters in his private drawer, retired to
his bed, where, utterly exhausted, he fell asleep.
When at last he awoke, Marian was sitting by his
side, and to her he communicated what he had done,
telling her where the letters were, and that if he died
ere Frederic's return, she must give the one bearing
the words “For my Son” to him.
“You will not read it, of course,” he said, “or ever
seek to know what its contents are.”
Had Marian Lindsey been like many girls, the caution
would have insured the reading of the letter at
once, but she fortunately shrank from anything dishonorable,
and was blessed with but a limited share
of woman's curiosity; consequently, the letter was
safe in her care, even though no one ever came to
claim it. All that afternoon she sat by her guardian,
and when as usual the stage thundered down the turnpike,
leaving no Frederic at the door, she soothed him
with the hope that he would be there to-morrow. But
the morrow came and went as did other to-morrows,
until Col. Raymond grew so ill that a telegram was
he would see his father again alive.
“That will bring him,” the old man said, while the
big tears rolled down his wrinkled face. “He'll be
here in a few days,” and he asked that his bed might
be moved near the window, where, propped upon pillows,
he watched with childish impatience for the
coming of his boy.
| CHAPTER I.
GUARDIAN AND WARD. Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall | |