University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
FATHER AND SON.

A telegram from Frederic, who was coming home
at last! He would be there that very day, and the
inmates of Redstone Hall were thrown into a state of
unusual excitement. Old Dinah in jaunty turban and
clean white apron, bustled from the kitchen to the
dining room, and from the dining room back to the
kitchen, jingling her huge bunch of keys with an air
of great importance, and kicking from under her feet
any luckless black baby which chanced to be in her
way, making always an exception in favor of “Victoria
Eugenia,” who bore a striking resemblance to herself,
and would one day call her “gran'mam.” Dinah
was in her element, for nothing pleased her better
than the getting up a “tip top dinner,” and fully
believing that Frederic had been half starved in a land
where they didn't have hoe-cake and bacon three
times a day, she determined to give him one full meal,
such as would make his stomach ache for three full
hours at least!

Mr. Raymond, too, was better than usual to-day,
and at his post by the window watched eagerly the
distant turn in the road where the stage would first
appear. In her chamber, Marian was busy with her
toilet, trying the effect of dress after dress, and at
Alice's suggestion deciding at last upon a pale blue,
which harmonized well with her fair complexion.

“Frederic likes blue, I know,” she thought, as

she remembered having heard him admire a dress of
that color worn by a young lady who had once visited
at Redstone Hall.

Dinah, when consulted as to the best method of
making red hair dark, had strongly recommended
“possum ile and sulphur, scented with some kind of
essence;” but to this dye Marian did not take kindly.
She preferred that her hair should retain its natural
color, and falling as it did in soft curls around her
face and neck, it was certainly not unbecoming. Her
toilet was completed at last—Alice's little hands had
decided that it was perfect—the image reflected by
the mirror was far from being ordinary-looking, and
secretly wondering if Frederic would not think her
tolerably pretty, Marian sat down to await his coming.
She had not been seated long when Alice's quick ear
caught the sound of the distant stage, and in a few
moments Marian from behind the half-closed shutter,
was watching the young man as he came slowly up
the avenue, which led from the highway to the house.
His step was usually bounding and rapid, but now he
lingered as if unwilling to reach the door.

“'Tis because of his father,” thought Marian. “He
fears he may be dead.”

But not of his father alone was Frederic thinking.
It was not pleasant coming home; for aside from the
fear that his father might really die, was a dread of
what that father might ask him to do. For Marian as
a sister, he had no dislike, for he knew she possessed
many gentle, womanly virtues, but from the thoughts
of making her his wife he instinctively shrank. Only
one had the shadow of a claim to bear that relation to
him, and of her he was thinking that September afternoon
as he came up the walk. She was poor, he
knew, and the daughter of his landlady, who claimed
a distant relationship with his father; but she was
beautiful, and a queen might covet her stately bearing,
and polished, graceful manner. Into her heart
he had never looked, for satisfied with the fair exterior,

he failed to see the treachery lurking in her large
black eyes, or yet to detect the fierce, stormy passions,
which had a home within her breast.

Isabella Huntington, or “Cousin Bell,” as he called
her, was beautiful, accomplished, and artful, and during
the year that Frederic Raymond had been an
inmate of her mother's family, she had succeeded in
so completely infatuating the young man that now
there was to him but one face in the world, and that
in fancy shone upon him even when it was far away.
He had never said to her that he loved her, for though
often tempted so to do, something had always interposed
between them, bidding him wait until he knew
her better. Consequently he was not bound to her
by words, but he thought it very probable that she
would one day be his wife, and as he drew near to
Redstone Hall, he could not forbear feeling a glow of
pride, fancying how she would grace that elegant
mansion as its rightful mistress. Of Marian, too, he
thought—harsh, bitter thoughts, mingled with softer
emotions as he reflected that she possibly knew
nothing of his father's plan. He pitied her, he said,
for if his father died, she would be alone in the world.
After what had passed, it would hardly be pleasant
for him to have her there where he could see her
every day;—she might not be agreeable to Isabel
either, and he should probably provide for her handsomely
and have her live somewhere else—at a fashionable
boarding school, perhaps!

Magnanimous Frederic! He was growing very
generous, and by the time he reached the long piazza,
Marian Lindsey was comfortably disposed of in the
third story of some seminary far away from Redstone
Hall!

The meeting between the father and son was an affecting
one—the former sobbing like a child, and
asking of the latter why he had tarried so long. The
answer to this question was that Frederic had been
absent from New Haven for three weeks, and that Isabel,

who took charge of his letters, neglected to forward
the one written by Marian. At the mention of
Isabel, the old man's cheek flushed, and he said,
impatiently, “the neglect was an unpardonable one,
for it bore on its face `In haste.' Perhaps, though,
she did it purposely, hoping thus to keep you from
me.”

Instantly Frederic warmed up in Isabel's defence,
saying she was incapable of a mean act. He doubted
whether she had observed the words “In haste” at
all, and if she did she only withheld it for the sake of
saving him from anxiety as long as possible.

At this moment there was the sound of little uncertain
feet near the door, and Alice groped her way
into the room. She was a fair, sweet-faced little child,
and taking her upon his knee, Frederic kissed her
affectionately, and asked her many questions as to
what she had done since he was home six months
before. Seldom before had he paid her so much attention,
and feeling anxious that Marian should be similarly
treated, the little girl, after answering his questions,
said to him, coaxingly,

“Won't you kiss Marian, too, when she comes
down? She's been ever so long dressing herself and
trying to look pretty.”

Instantly the eyes of the father and son met—those
of the former expressive of entreaty, while those of
the latter flashed with defiance.

“Go for Marian, child, and tell her to come here,”
said Mr. Raymond.

Alice obeyed, and as she left the room, Frederic
said bitterly, “I see she is leagued with you. I had
thought better of her than that.”

“No, she isn't,” cried the father, fearing that his
favorite project was in danger. “I merely suggested
it to her once—only once.”

Frederic was about to reply, when the rustling of
female garments announced the approach of Marian.
To Colonel Raymond she was handsome then, as with

a hightened bloom upon her cheek and a bashful light
in her deep blue eyes, she entered timidly and offered
her hand to Frederic. But to the jealous young man
she was merely a plain, ordinary country girl, bearing
no comparison to the peerless Isabel. Still he
greeted her kindly, addressed to her a few trivial reremarks,
and then resumed his conversation with little
Alice, who, feeling that matters were going wrong,
rolled her eyes often and anxiously toward the spot
where she knew Marian was sitting—and when at last
the latter left the room, she said to Frederic, “Isn't
Marian pretty in her blue dress, with all those curls?
There are twenty of them, for I heard her count them.
Say she is pretty, so I can tell her and make her
feel good.”

Frederic would not then have admitted that Marian
was pretty, even had he thought so, and biting his
lip with vexation, he replied, “I do not particularly
admire blue, and I detest cork-screw curls.”

Marian was still in the lower hall, and heard both
the question and the answer. Darting up the stairs,
she flew to her chamber, and throwing herself upon
the bed, burst into a passionate flood of tears. All in
vain had she dressed herself for Frederic Raymond's
eye—curling her hair in twenty curls, even as Alice
had said. He hated blue—he hated curls—cork-screw
curls particularly. What could he mean? She never
heard the term thus applied before. It must have
some reference to their color, and clutching at her
luxuriant tresses she would have torn them from her
head, had not a little childish hand been laid upon
hers, and Alice's soothing voice murmured in her ear,
“don't cry, Marian; I wouldn't care for him. He's
just as mean as he can be, and if I owned Redstone
Hall, I wouldn't let him live here, would you?”

“Yes—no—I don't know,” sobbed Marian. “I
don't own Redstone Hall. I don't own anything, and
I most wish I was dead.”

Alice was unaccustomed to such a burst of passion,

and was trying to frame some reply, when the dinner
bell rang, and lifting up her head, Marian said, “Go
down, Alice, and tell Dinah I can't come, and if she
insists, tell her I won't!”

Alice knew she was in earnest, and going below she
delivered the message to Dinah in the presence of
Frederic, who silently took his seat at the table.

“For the dear Lord's sake, what's happened her
now?” said Dinah, casting a rueful glance at Marian's
empty chair.

“She's crying,” returned Alice, “and she dislikes
somebody in this room awfully; 'taint you, Dinah,
nor 'taint me,” and the blind eyes flashed indignantly
at Frederic, who smiled quietly as he replied, “Thank
you, Miss Alice.”

Alice made no reply, and the dinner proceeded in
silence. After it was over, Frederic returned to his
father, who had been nerving himself for the task
he had to perform, and which he determined should
be done at once.

“Lock the door, Frederic,” he said, “and then sit
by me while I say to you what I have so long wished
to say.”

With a lowering brow Frederic complied, and seating
himself near to his father, he folded his arms and
said, “Go on, I am ready now to hear—but if it is of
Marian you would speak, I will spare you that trouble,
father,” and Frederic's voice was milder in its
tone. “I have always liked Marian very much as a
sister, and if it so chances that you are taken from
us, I will be the best of brothers to her. I will care
for her and see that she does not want. Let this satisfy
you, father, for I cannot marry her. I do not
love her, for I love another; one compared to whom
Marian is as the night to the day. Let me tell you of
Isabel, father,” and Frederic's voice was still softer
in its tone.

The old man shook his head and answered mournfully,
“No, Frederic, were she as fair as the morning

I could not wish her to be your wife. I have never
told you before, but I once received an anonymous
letter concerning this same Isabel, saying she was
treacherous and deceitful, and would lead you on to
ruin.”

“The villain! It was Rudolph's doings,” muttered
Frederic; then in a louder tone he said, “I can explain
that, I think. When Isabel was quite young,
she was engaged conditionally to Rudolph McVicar,
a worthless fellow whom she has since discarded. He
is a jealous, malignant creature, and has sworn to be
revenged. He wrote that letter, I am sure. It is like
him.”

“It may be,” returned the father, “but I distrust
this Isabel. Her mother, as you are aware, is a distant
relative of mine. I know her well, and though I
never saw the daughter, I am sure she is selfish, ambitious,
deceitful and proud, while Marian is so
good.”

“Marian is a mere child,” interrupted Frederic.

“Almost sixteen,” rejoined the father, “and before
you marry her she will be older still.”

“Yes, yes, much older,” thought Frederic, continning
aloud, “Listen to reason, father. I certainly do
not love Marian, neither do I suppose that she loves
me. Now if you have our mutual good at heart, you
cannot desire a marriage which would surely result in
wretchedness to both.”

“I have thought of all that,” returned the father.
“A few kind words from you would win Marian's
love at once, and when once won she would be to you
a faithful, loving wife, whom you would ere long
learn to prize. You cannot treat any woman badly,
Frederic, much less Marian. I know you would be
happy with her, and should desire the marriage even
though it could not save me from dishonor in the
eyes of the world.”

“Father,” said Frederic, turning slightly pale,

“what do you mean? You have in your letters hinted
of a wrong done to somebody. Was it to Marian?
If so, do not seek to sacrifice my happiness, but make
amends in some other way. Will money repair the
wrong? If so, give it to her, even to half your fortune,
and leave me alone.”

He had touched a tender point, and raising himself
in bed, the old man gasped, “Yes, yes, boy—but you
have no money to give her. Redstone Hall is not
mine, not yours, but hers. Those houses in Louisville
are hers—not mine, not yours. Everything you see
around you is hers—all hers; and if you refuse her,
Frederic—hear me—if you refuse Marian Lindsey,
strict restitution must be made, and you will be a
beggar as it were. Marry her, and as her husband
you will keep it all and save me from disgrace.—
Choose, Frederic, choose.”

Mr. Raymond was terribly excited, and the great
drops of perspiration stood thickly upon his forehead,
and trickled from beneath his hoary hair.

“Is he going mad!” thought Frederic, his own
heart throbbing with a nervous fear of coming evil,
but ere he could speak his father continued, “Hear
my story, and you will know how I came by these
ill-gotten gains,” and he glanced around the richly
furnished room. “You know I was sent to England,
or I could not have gone, for I had no means with
which to meet the necessary expenses. In the streets
of Liverpool I first saw Marian's father, and I mistook
him for a beggar. Again I met him on board ship,
and making his acquaintance, found him to be a man
of no ordinary intellect. There was something about
him which pleased me, and when he became ill, I
cared for him as for a friend. The night he died we
were alone, and he confided to me his history. He
was an only child, and, orphaned at an early age, became
an inmate of one of those dens of cruelty—
those schools on the Dotheboys plan. From this
bondage he escaped at last, and then for more than

thirty years employed his time in making and saving
money. He was a miser in every sense of the word,
and though counting his money by thousands—yes,
by tens of thousands, he starved himself almost to
death. No one suspected his wealth—not even his
young wife, Mary Grey, whom he married three years
before I met him, and who died when Marian was
born. She, too, had been an only child and an orphan;
and as in England there was none to care for
him or his, he conceived the idea of emigrating to
America, and there lavishing his stores of gold on
Marian. She should be a lady, he said, and live in
a palace fit for a queen. But death overtook him,
and to me he entrusted his child with all his money
—some in gold, and some in bank notes. And when
he was dying, Frederic, and the perspiration was cold
on his brow, he made me lay my hand there and
swear to be faithful to my trust as guardian of his
child. For her, and for her alone, the money must
be used. But, Frederic, I broke that oath. The Raymonds
are noted for their love of gain, and when the
Englishman was buried in the sea, the tempter whispered
that the avenue to wealth, which I so long had
coveted, was open now—that no one knew or would
ever know of the miser's fortune; and I yielded. I
guarded the bag where the treasure was hidden
with more than a miser's vigilance, and I chuckled
with delight when I found it far more than he had
said.”

“Oh, my father, my father!” groaned Frederic,
covering his white face with his hands, for he knew
now that he was penniless.

“Don't curse me, boy,” hoarsely whispered the old
man; “Marian will not. She'll forgive me—for Marian
is an angel; but I must hasten. You remember
how I grew gradually rich, and people talked of my
good luck. Very cautiously I used the money at first
so as not to excite suspicion, but when I came to Kentucky,
where I was not known, I was less fearful, and

launched into speculations, until now they say I am
the wealthiest man in Franklin county. But it's hers
—it's Marian's—every cent of it is hers. Your education
was paid for with her money; all you have and
are you owe to Marian Lindsey, who, by every law of
the land, is the heiress of Redstone Hall.”

He paused a moment, and trembling with emotion,
Frederic said, “Is there nothing ours, father? Our
old home on the Hudson? That, surely, is not
hers?”

“You are right,” returned the father; “the old
shell was mine, but when I brought Marian home, it
was not worth a thousand dollars, and it was all I had
in the world. Her money has made it what it is. I
always intended to tell her when she was old enough
to understand, but as time went by I shrank from it,
particularly when I saw how much you prized the
luxuries which money alone can buy, and how that
money kept you in the proud position you occupy.—
But it has killed me, Frederic, before my time—and
now at the last do you wonder that I wish restitution
to be made? I would save you from poverty, and
my name from disgrace, by marrying you to Marian.
She must know the truth, of course, for in no other
way can my conscience be satisfied—but the world
would still be kept in ignorance.”

“And if I do not marry her, oh, father, must it
come—poverty, disgrace, everything?”

The young man's voice was almost heart-broken in
its tone, but the old man wavered not as he answered
—“Yes, Frederic, it must come. If you refuse, I
must deed it all to her. The lawyer, of course, must
know the cause of so strange a proceeding, and I have
no faith that he would keep the secret, even if Marian
should. I left it in writing in case you did not come,
and I gave you my dying curse if you failed of restoring
to Marian her fortune. But you are here—you
have heard my story, and it remains for you to choose.
You have never taken care of yourself—have never

been taught to think it necessary—and how can you
struggle with poverty. Would that Isabel join her
destiny with one who had not where to lay his head?”

“Stop, father! in mercy stop, ere you drive me
mad!” and starting to his feet Frederic paced the
floor wildly, distractedly.

A dark cloud had fallen upon him, and turn which
way he would it enveloped him in its dark folds. He
knew his father would keep his word, and he desired
that he should do so. It was right, and he shrank
from any further injustice to the orphan, Marian, with
whom he had suddenly changed places. He was the
dependent now, and hers the hand that fed him.—
Frederic Raymond was proud, and the remembrance
of his father's words, “Her money paid for your education;
all you have and are, you owe to Marian
Lindsey,” stung him to his inmost soul. Still he
could not make her his wife. It would be a greater
wrong than ever his father had done to her. And yet
if he had never seen Isabel, never mingled in the society
of beautiful and accomplished women, he might,
perhaps, have learned to love the gentle little girl,
whose presence, he knew, made the life and light of
Redstone Hall. But he could not do it now, and going
up to his father, he said hesitatingly, as if it cost
a bitter, agonized struggle to give up all his wealth,
“I cannot do it, father; neither would Marian wish
it if she knew. Send for her now,” he continued, as
a new idea flashed upon him, “tell her all, here in my
presence, and let her choose for me; but stay,” he
added, quickly, coloring crimson at the unmanly selfishness
which had prompted the sending for Marian,
a selfishness which whispered that the generous girl
would share her fortune with him; “stay, we will not
send for her. I can decide the matter alone.”

“Not now,” returned the father. “Wait until to-morrow
at nine o'clock. If you do not come to me
then, I shall send for Lawyer Gibson, and the writings

will be drawn. I give you until that time to
decide; and now leave me, for I would rest.”

He motioned toward the door, and glad to escape
from an atmosphere which seemed laden with grief,
Frederic went out into the open air, and Col. Raymond
was again alone. His first thought was of the
letter—the one intended for his son. He could destroy
that now—for he would not that Marian should ever
know what it contained. She might not be Frederic's
wife, but he would save her from unnecessary pain;
and exerting all his strength, he tottered to his private
drawer, and took the letter in his hand. It was growing
very dark within the room, and holding it up to
the fading light, the dim-eyed old man read, or
thought he read, “For my Son.”

“Yes, this is the one,” he whispered — “the other
reads `For Marian,”' and hastening back to his bed-room
he threw upon the fire burning in the grate, the
letter, but, alas, the wrong one—for in the drawer
still lay the fatal missive which would one day break
poor Marian's heart, and drive her forth a wanderer
from the home she loved so well.

That night Frederic did not come down to supper.
He was weary with his rapid journey, he said, and
would rather rest. So Marian, who had dried her
tears and half forgotten their cause, sat down to her
solitary tea, little dreaming of the stormy scene which
the walls of Frederic's chamber looked upon that
night. All through the dreary hours he walked the
floor, and when the morning light came struggling
through the windows, it found him pale, haggard, and
older by many years than he had been the day before.
Still he was undecided. “Love in a cottage” with
Isabel, looked fair enough in the distance, but where
could he get the “cottage?” To be sure, he was
going through the form of studying law, but he had
never looked upon the profession as a means of procuring
his livelihood, neither did he see any way by
which he could pursue his studies, unless, indeed, he

worked to defray the expense. He might, perhaps,
saw wood. Ben Gardiner did in college—Ben with
the threadbare coat, cowhide boots, smiling face and
best lessons in the class. Ben liked it well enough,
and so, perhaps, would he! He held his hands up to
the light; they were soft and white as a girl's. They
would blister with the first cut. He couldn't saw
wood—he couldn't do anything. And would Isabel
love him still when she knew how poor he was. It
seemed unjust to doubt her, but he did, and he
remembered sundry rumors he had heard touching
her ambitious, selfish nature. Anon, too, there crept
into his heart pleasant memories of a little, quiet girl,
who had always sought to do him good, and ministered
to his comfort in a thousand unobtrusive ways.
And this was Marian, the one his father would have
him marry; and why didn't he? when the marrying
her would insure him all the elegances of life to
which he had been accustomed, and which he prized
so highly. She was a child yet; he could mold her
to his will and make her what he pleased. She might
be handsome some time. There was certainly room
for improvement. But no, she would never be aught
save the plain, unpolished Marian, wholly unlike the
beautiful picture he had formed of Redstone Hall's
proud mistress. He could not marry her, he would
not marry her, and then he went back to the question,
“What shall I do, if I don't?”

As his father had said, the Raymonds were lovers
of wealth, and this weakness Frederic possessed to a
great degree. Indeed, it was the foundation of all his
other faults, making him selfish and sometimes overbearing.
As yet he was not worthy to be the husband
of one as gentle and good as Marian, but he was passing
through the fire, and the flames which burned so
fiercely would purify and make him better. He heard
the clock strike eight, and a moment after breakfast
was announced.

“I am not ready yet; tell Marian not to wait,” was

the message he gave the servant; and so another hour
passed by, and heard the clock strike nine.

His hour was up, but he could not yet decide. He
walked to the window and looked down on his home,
which never seemed so beautiful before as on that
September morning. He could stay there if he chose,
for he felt sure he could win Marian's love if he tried.
And then he wondered if his life would not be made
happier with the knowledge that he had obeyed his
father's request, and saved his name from dishonor.
There was the sound of horses' feet upon the graveled
road. It was the negro Jake, and he was going for
Lawyer Gibson.

Rapidly another hour went by, and then he heard
the sound of horses' hoofs again, but this time there
were two who rode, Jake and the lawyer. In a moment
the latter was at the door, and the sound of his
feet, as he strode through the lower hall, went to the
heart of the listening young man like bolts of ice. He
heard a servant call Marian and say that his father
wanted her; some new idea had entered the sick
man's head. He had probably decided to tell her all
before he died, but it was not too late to prevent it,
the young man thought; he could not be a beggar,
and with a face as white as ashes, and limbs which
trembled in every joint, he hurried down the stairs,
meeting in the hall both Marian and the lawyer.

“Go back,” he whispered to the former, lnying his
hand upon her shoulder; “I would see my father first
alone.”

Wonderingly Marian looked into his pale, worn
face and bloodshot eyes; then motioning the lawyer
into another room, she, too, followed him thither,
while Frederic sought his father's bedside, and bending
low whispered in the ear of the bewildered and
half-crazed man that he would marry the Heiress of
Redstone Hall!