CHAPTER IV.KEEPING THE PROMISE.
Four weeks had passed away since Colonel Raymond was laid to rest. The negroes, having finished their mourning at the grave and at church on the Sabbath succeeding the funeral, had gone back to their old lighthearted way of living, and outwardly there were no particular signs of grief at Redstone Hall. But two there were who suffered keenly, and suffered all the more that neither could speak to the other a word of sympathy. With Alice Marian wept bitterly, feeling that she was indeed homeless and friendless in the wide world. From Dinah she had heard the story of the Will, and remembering the events of that morning when Lawyer Gibson, as she supposed, had come to draw it, she thought it very probable. Still this did not trouble her one half so much as the studied reserve which Frederic manifested toward her. At the funeral he had offered her his arm, walking with her to the grave and back; but since that night he had kept aloof, seeing her only at the table, or when he wished to ask some question which she alone could answer.
In the first days of her sorrow she had forgotten the letter which her guardian had left for her, and when she did remember it and go to the private drawer where he said it was, she found the drawer locked.—Frederic had the key, of course, and thinking that if a wrong had indeed been done to her, he knew it, too, she waited in hopes that he would speak of it,and perhaps bring her the letter. But Frederic Raymond had sworn to keep that letter from her yet awhile, and he dared not break his vow. On the night after the burial he, too, had gone to the private drawer, and, taking the undirected missive in his hand, had felt strongly tempted to break its seal and read. But he had no right to do that, he said; all that was required of him was to keep it from Marian until such time as he was at liberty to let her read it. So, with a benumbed sensation at his heart, he locked the drawer and left the room, feeling that his own destiny was fixed, and that it was worse than useless to struggle against it. He could not write to Isabel yet, but he wrote to her mother, telling her of his father’s death, and saying he did not know how long it would be ere they saw him again at New Haven. This done, he sat down in a kind of torpor, and waited for circumstances to shape themselves.—Marian would seek for her letter, he thought, and missing the key, would come to him, and then—oh, how he hoped it would be weeks and months before she came, for when she did he knew he must tell her why it was withheld.
Meantime, Marian waited day after day vainly wishing that he would speak to her upon the subject; but he did not, and at last, four weeks after her guardian’s death, she sought the library again, but found the drawer locked as usual.
“It is unjust to treat me so,” she said. “The letter is mine, and I have a right to read it.”
Then, as she recalled the conversation which had passed between herself and Colonel Raymond on that night when he first hinted of a wrong, she wondered if he had said aught to Frederic of her. Most earnestly she hoped not—and yet she was almost certain that he had, and this was why Frederic treated her so strangely. “He hates me,” she said bitterly, “because he thinks I want him—but he needn’t, for I wouldn’t have him now, even if he knelt at my feet,and begged of me to be his wife; I’ll tell him so, too, the first chance I get,” and sinking into the large arm chair Marian laid her head upon the writing desk and wept.
The day had been rainy and dark, and as she sat there in the gathering night and listened to the low moan of the October wind, she thought with gloomy forebodings of the future, and what it would bring to her.
“Oh, it is dreadful to be so homeless—so friendless, so poor,” she cried, and in that cry there was a note of desolation which touched a chord of pity in the heart of him who stood on the threshold of the door, silently watching the young girl as she battled with her stormy grief.
He did not know why he had come to that room, and he surely would not have come had he expected to find her there. But it could not now be helped; he was there with her; he had witnessed her sorrow, and involuntarily advancing toward her he laid his hand lightly upon her shoulder and said, “Poor child, don’t cry so hard.”
She seemed to him a little girl, and as such he had addressed her; but to the startled Marian it mattered not what he said—there was kindness in his voice, and lifting up her face, which even in the darkness looked white and worn, she sobbed, “Oh, Frederic, you don’t hate me, then?”
“Hate you, Marian,” he answered, “of course not. What put that idea into your head?”
“Because—because you act so cold and strange, and don’t come near me when my heart is aching so hard for him—your father.”
Frederic made no reply, and resolving to make a clean breast of it, Marian continued, “There’s nobody to care for me now, and I wish you to be my brother, just as you used to be, and if your father said any thing else of me to you he didn’t mean it, I am sure; I don’t at any rate, and I want you to forget it and nothate me for it. I’ll go away from Redstone Hall if you say so, but you mustn’t hate me for what I could not help. Will you, Frederic?” and Marian’s voice was again choked with tears.
She had stumbled upon the very subject uppermost in Frederic’s mind, and drawing a chair near to her, he said, “I will not profess to be ignorant of what you mean, Marian. My father had some strange fancies at the last, but for these you are not to blame. Did he say nothing to you of a letter?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Marian quickly, “and I’ve been for it so many times. Will you give it to me now, Frederic? It’s mine, you know,” and Marian looked at him wistfully.
Frederic hesitated a moment, and misapprehending the motive of his hesitancy, Marian continued,
“Do not fear what I may think. He said a wrong had been done to me, but if it has not affected me heretofore, it surely will not now—and I loved him well enough to forgive anything. Let me have the letter, won’t you?”
“Marian,” and Frederic trembled with strong emotion, “the night my father died, I laid my hand upon his head and promised that you should not see that letter until you were a bride.”
“A bride!” Marian exclaimed passionately, “I shall never be a bride—never—certainly not yours!” and the little hands worked nervously together, while she continued. “I asked you to forget that whim of your father’s. He did not mean it—he would not have it so, and neither would I,” and Frederic Raymond could almost see the angry flash of the blue eyes turned so defiantly toward him.
Man-like he began to feel some interest now that there was opposition, and to her exclamation “neither would I,” he replied softly, “Not if I wish it, Marian?”
The tone rather than the words affected the younggirl, thrilling her with a new-born delight; and laying her hand again upon the desk, she sobbed afresh, not impetuously, this time, but steadily, as if the crying did her good. Greatly she longed for him to speak again, but he did not. He was waiting for her, and drying her tears, she lifted up her face, and in a voice which seemed to demand the truth, she said: “Frederic, do you wish it? Here, almost in the room where your father died, can you say to me truly that you wish me to be your wife?”
It was a perplexing question, and Frederic Raymond felt that he was dealing falsely with her, but he made to her the only answer he could—“Men seldom ask a woman to marry them unless they wish it.”
“I know,” returned Marian, “but—do—would you have thought of it if your father had not first suggested it?”
“Marian,” said Frederic, “I am much older than yourself, and I might never have thought of marrying you. He, however, gave me good reasons why I should wish to have it so—in all sincerity I ask you to be my wife. Will you, Marian? It seems soon to talk of these things, but he so desired it.”
In her bewilderment Marian fancied he had said, “I do wish to have it so,” but she would know another thing, and not daring to put the question to him direct, she said, “Do men ever wish to marry one whom they do not love?”
Frederic understood her at once, and for a moment felt strongly tempted to tell her the truth, for in that case he was sure she would refuse to listen to his suit and he would then be free, but his father’s presence seemed over and around him, while Redstone Hall was too fair to be exchanged for poverty; and so he answered, “I have always loved you as a sister, and in time I will love you as you deserve. I will be kind to you, Marian, and I think I can make you happy.”
He spoke with earnestness, for he knew he was deceivingthe young girl, and in his inmost soul he determined to repair the wrong by learning to love her, as she said:
“And suppose I refuse you, what then?”
Marian spoke decidedly, and something in her manner startled Frederic, who now that he had gone thus far, did not care to be thwarted.
“You will not refuse me, I am sure,” he said.—“We cannot live together here just as we have done, for people would talk.”
“I can go away,” said Marian, mournfully, while Frederic replied,
“No, Marian, if you will not be my wife,Imust go away; Redstone Hall cannot be the home of us both, and if you refuse I shall go—soon, very soon.”
“Won’t you ever come back?” asked Marian, with childish simplicity; but ere Frederic could answer, the door suddenly opened and old Dinah appeared, exclaiming as her eye fell upon them, “For the dear Lord’s sake, if you two ain’t settin’ together in the dark, when I’ve done hunted everywhar for you,” and Dinah’s face wore a very knowing look, as setting down the candle she departed, muttering, something about “when me and Philip was young.”
The spell was broken for Marian, and starting up, she said, “I cannot talk any more to-night. I’ll answer you some other time,” and she hurried into the hall, where she stumbled upon Dinah, who greeted her with “Ain’t you two kinder hankerin’ arter each other, ’case if you be, it’s the sensiblest thing you ever done. Marster Frederic is the likeliest, trimmest chap in Kentuck, and you’ve got an uncommon heap of sense.”
Marian made no reply but darted up the stairs to her room, where she could be alone to think. It seemed to her a dream, and yet she knew it was a reality. Frederic had asked her to be his wife, and though she had said to herself that she would not marry him even if he knelt at her feet, she felt vastly likerevoking that decision! If she were only sure he loved her, or would love her; and then she recalled every word he had said, wishing she could have looked into his face and seen what its expression was. She did not think of the letter in her excitement.—She only thought of Frederic’s question, and she longed for some one in whom she could confide. Alice, who always retired early, was already asleep, and as her soft breathing fell on Marian’s ear, she said, “Alice is much wiser than children usually are at six and a half. I mean to tell her,” and, stealing to the bedside, she whispered, “Alice, Alice, wake up a moment, will you?”
Alice turned on her pillow, and when sure she was awake, Marian said impetuously, “If you were me, would you marry Frederic Raymond?”
The blind eyes opened wide, as if they doubted the sanity of the speaker; then quietly replying, “No, indeed, I wouldn’t,” Alice turned a second time upon her pillow and slept again, while Marian, a good deal piqued at the answer, tormented herself with wondering what the child could mean, and why she disliked Frederic so much. The next morning it was Alice who awoke Marian and said, “Was it a dream, or did you say something to me last night about marrying Frederic?”
For a moment Marian forgot that the sightless eyes turned so inquiringly toward her could not see, and she covered her face with her hands to hide the blushes she knew were burning there.
“Say,” persisted Alice, “what was it?” and half willingly, half reluctantly, Marian told of the strange request which Frederic had made, saying nothing, however, of the letter, for if Colonel Raymond had done her a wrong, she felt it a duty she owed his memory to keep it to herself.
The darkened world in which Alice lived, had matured her other faculties far beyond her age, and though not yet seven years old, she was in manythings scarcely less a child than Marian, whose story puzzled her, for she could hardly understand how one who had seemed so much her companion could think of being a married woman. Marian soon convinced her, however, that there was a vast difference between almost seven and almost sixteen, and still she was not reconciled.
“Frederic is well enough,” she said, “and I once heard Agnes Gibson say he was the best match in the county, but somehow he don’t seem to like you. Ain’t he stuck up, and don’t he know a heap more than you?”
“Yes, but I can learn,” answered Marian, sadly, thinking with regret of the many hours she had played in the woods when she might have been practising upon the piano, or reading the books which Frederic liked best. “I can in time make a lady perhaps—and then you know if I don’t have him, one of us must go away, for he said so.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Alice, catching her breath and drawing nearer to Marian, “wouldn’t it be nice for you and me to live here all alone with Dinah, and do just as we’re a mind to. Tell him you won’t, and let him go back where he came from.”
“No,” returned Marian, “if either goes away, it will be me, for I’ve no right here, and Frederic has.”
“You go away,” repeated Alice. “What could you do without Dinah?”
“I don’t know,” returned Marian mournfully, a dim foreboding as it were of her dark future rising up before her. “I can’t sew—I don’t know enough to teach, and I couldn’t do anything but die!”
This settled the point with Alice. She would rather Marian should marry Frederic than go away and die, and so she said, “I’d have him, I reckon,” adding quickly, “You’ll carry the keys, then, won’t you, and give me all the preserves and cake I want?”
Thus was the affair amicably adjusted between the two, and when at the breakfast table she met withFrederic, she was ready to answer his question; but she chose to let him broach the subject, and this he did do that evening when he found her alone in his father’s room. He had decided that it was useless to struggle with his fate, and he resolved to make the best of it. How far Redstone Hall, bank notes, stock and real estate influenced this decision we cannot say, but he was sincere in his intention of treating Marian well, and when he found her by accident in his father’s room, he said to her kindly, “Can you answer me now?”
Marian was not yet enough accustomed to the world to conceal whatever she felt, and with the light of a new happiness shining on her childish face, she went up to him, and laying her hand confidingly upon his, she said, “I will marry you, Frederic, if you wish me to.”
A strange enigma is human nature. When the previous night she had hesitated to answer, Frederic was conscious of a vague fear that she might say no—and now that she had said yes, he felt less pleasure than pain, for the die he knew was cast. A more observing eye than Marian’s would have seen the dark shadow which flitted over his face, and the sudden paling of his lips, but she did not; she only saw how he shook off her hand without even so much as touching it, and all the novels she had ever read would surely have sanctioned so modest a proceeding as that! But novels, she reflected, were not true, and as she was an actor in real life, she must accept whatever that life might bring. Still she was not quite satisfied, and when Frederic, fancying he should feel better if the matter were well over, said to her, “There is no reason why we should delay—my father would wish the marriage to take place immediately, and I will speak to Dinah at once,” she felt that with him it was a mere form, and bursting into tears she said passionately, “You are not obliged to marry me. I certainly did not ask you to.”
For a moment Frederic stood irresolute, and then he replied, “Don’t be foolish, Marian, but take a common sense view of the matter. I am not accustomed to love-making, and the character would not suit me now when my heart is so full of sorrow for my father. Many a one would gladly take your place, but”—here he paused, uncertain how to proceed and still keep truth upon his side—then, as a bright thought struck him, he added, “but I prefer you to all the girls in Kentucky. Be satisfied with this, and wait patiently for the time when I can show you that I love you.”
His manner both frightened and fascinated Marian, and she answered through her tears, “I will be satisfied, and wait.”
Frederic knew well that Marian was too much of a child to manage the affair, and after his interview with her, he sought out Dinah, to whom he announced his intentions.
“There is no need of delay,” he said, “and two weeks from to-day is the time appointed. There will be no show—no parade—simply a quiet wedding in the presence of a few friends, who will dine with us, of course. The dinner, you must see to, and I will attend to the rest.”
Amid ejaculations of surprise and delight, old Dinah heard what he had to say—and then, boiling over with the news, hastened to the kitchen, where she was soon surrounded by an astonished and listening audience, the various members of which were affected differently, just according to their different ideas of what “marster Frederic’s” wife ought to be. Among the negroes at Redstone Hall were two distinct parties, one of which having belonged to Mr. Higgins, the former owner of the place, looked rather contemptuously upon the other clique, who had been purchased of Mr. Smithers, a neighboring planter, and were not supposed to have as high blood in their veins as was claimed by their darker rivals. Hence between the democratic Smitherses and the aristocraticHigginses was waged many a fierce battle, which was usually decided by old Dinah, who, having belonged to another family still, “thanked the Lord that she was neither a Higginses nor a Smitherses, but was a peg or so above such low-lived truck as them.”
On this occasion the announcement of Master Frederic’s expected marriage was received by the Smitherses with loud shouts of joy and hurrahs for Miss Marian. The Higginses, on the contrary, though friendly to Marian, declared she was not high bred enough to keep up the glory of the house, and Aunt Hetty, who led the clan and was a kind of rival to old Dinah, launched forth into a wonderful stream of eloquence.
“Miss Marian would do in her place,” she said, “but ’twas a burnin’ shame to set such an onery thing over them as had been oncet used to the quality. ’Twas different with the Smitherses, whose old Miss was bed rid with a spine in her back, and hadn’t but one store carpet in the house. But the Higginses, she’d let ’em know, had been ’customed to sunthin’ better. Oh,” said she, “you or’to seen Miss Beatrice the fust day Marster brought her home. She looked jest like a queen, with that great long switchin’ tail to her dress, a wipin’ up the walk so clean that I, who was a gal then, didn’t have to sweep it for mor’n a week—and themarsshe put on when she curchied inter the room and walkin’ backards sot down on the rim of the cheer—so”—and holding out her short linsey-woolsey to its widest extent, the old negress proceeded to illustrate.
But alas for Aunt Hetty—her intention was anticipated by stuttering Josh, the most mischievous spirit of all the Smithers clan. Quick as thought the active boy removed the chair where she expected to land, pushing into its place an overflowing slop-pail, and into this the discomfited old lady plunged amid the execrations of her partisans and the jeers of her opponents.
“You Josh—you villain—the Lord spare me long enough to break yer sassy neck!” she screamed, as with difficulty she extricated herself from her position and wrung her dripping garments.
“Sarved you right,” said Dinah, shaking her fat sides with delight. “Sarved you right, and the fust one that raises thar voice agin Miss Marian ’ll catch sunthin’ a heap wus than dirty dishwater.”
But Dinah’s threat was unnecessary, for with Hetty’s downfall the star of the Higginses set, leaving that of the Smitherses still in the ascendant!
Meantime Marian was confiding to Alice the story of her engagement, and wondering if Frederic intended taking a bridal tour. She hoped he did, for she so much wished to see a little of the world, particularly New York, of which she had heard such glowing accounts. But nothing could be less in accordance with Frederic’s feelings than a bridal tour—and when once Marian ventured to broach the subject, he said that under the circumstances it would hardly be right to go off and enjoy themselves, so they had better stay quietly at home. And this settled the point, for Marian never thought of questioning his decision. If they made no journey, she would not need any additions to her wardrobe, and she was thus saved from the trouble which usually falls to the lot of brides.—Still it was not at all in accordance with her ideas—this marrying without a single article of finery, and once she resolved to indulge in a new dress at least. She had ample means of her own, for her guardian had been lavish of his money, always giving her far more than she could use, and during the last year she had been saving a fund for the purpose of surprising Alice and the blacks with handsome Christmas presents.—The former was to have a little gold watch, which she had long desired, because she liked to hear it tick—but the watch and the dress could not both be bought, and when she considered this, Marian generously gave up the latter for the sake of pleasing the blind girl.Among her dresses was a neat, white muslin given her by Colonel Raymond only the Summer previous, and this she decided should be the wedding robe, for black was gloomy, she said, and would almost seem ominous of evil.
And so the childish bride elect made her simple arrangements, unassisted by any one save Dinah and the little Alice, the latter of whom was really of the most service, for old Dinah spent the greater portion of her time in grumbling because “Marster Frederic didn’t act more lover-like to his wife that was to be.”
Marian, too, felt this keenly, but she would not admit it, and she said to Dinah, “You can’t expect him to be like himself when he’s mourning for his father.”
“Mournin’ for his father,” returned Dinah,—“and what if he is? Can’t a fellow kiss a gal and mourn a plenty too? Taint no way to do to mope from mornin’ till night like you was gwine to the gallus. Me and Phil didn’t act that way when he was settin’ to me—but I ’spect they’ve done got some new fangled way of courtin’ jest as they hev for everything else—but I’m satisfied with the old fashion, and I wish them fetch-ed Yankees would mind their own business and let well ’nough alone.”
Dinah felt considerably relieved after this long speech, particularly as she had that very morning made it in substance to Frederic—and when that evening she saw the young couple seated upon the same sofa, and tolerably near to each other, she was sure she had done some good by “ginnen ’em a piece of her mind.”
Among the neighbors there was a great deal of talk, and occasionally a few of them called at Redstone Hall, but these only came to go away again, and comment on Frederic’s strange taste in marrying one so young, and so wholly unlike himself. It could not be, they said, that he had really cared about the Will, else why had he so soon taken Marian to sharehis fortune with him? But Frederic kept his own counsel, and once when questioned on the subject of his marriage and asked if it were not a sudden thing, he answered haughtily, “Of course not—it was decided years ago, when Marian first came to live with us.”
And so amid the speculations of friends, the gossip of Dinah, the joyous anticipations of Marian, and the harrowing doubts of Frederic, the two weeks passed away, bringing at last the eventful day when Redstone Hall was to have once more a mistress.