CHAPTER IX.ISABEL HUNTINGTON.
All day and all night it rained with a steady, unrelenting pour, and when the steamboat which plies between Cincinnati and Frankfort stopped at the latter place, two ladies from the lower deck looked drearily over the city, one frowning impatiently at the mud and the rain, while the other wished in her heart that she was safely back in her old home, and had never consented to this foolish trip. This wish, however, she dared not express to her companion, who, though calling her mother, was in reality the mistress—the one whose word was law, and to whose wishes everything else must bend.
“Thisisdelightful,” the younger lady exclaimed, as holding up her fashionable traveling dress, and glancing ruefully at her thin kid gaiters, she prepared to walk the plank. “This is charming. I wonder if they always have such weather in Kentucky.”
“No, Miss, very seldom, ’cept on strordinary ’casions,” said the polite African, who was holding an umbrella over her head, and who felt bound to defend his native State.
The lady tossed her little bonnet proudly, and turning to her mother, continued: “Have you any idea how we are to get to Redstone Hall?”
At this question an old gray-haired negro, who, with several other idlers, was standing near, came forward and said, “If it’s Redstone Hall whar Miss wants togo, I’s here with Marster Frederic’s carriage. I come to fotch a man who’s been out thar tryin’ to buy a house of marster in Louisville.”
At this announcement the face of both ladies brightened perceptibly, and pointing out their baggage to the negro, who was none other than our old friend Uncle Phil, they went to a public house to wait until the carriage came round for them.
“What do you suppose Frederic will think when he sees us?” the mother asked; and the daughter replied, “He won’t think anything, of course. It is perfectly proper that we should visit our relations, particularly when we are as near to them as Dayton, and they are in affliction, too. He would have been displeased if we had returned without giving him a call.”
From these remarks the reader will readily imagine that the ladies in question were Mrs. Huntington and her daughter Isabella. They had decided at last to visit Dayton, and had started for that city a few days after the receipt of Frederic’s letter announcing his father’s death: consequently they knew nothing of the marriage, and the fact that Colonel Raymond was dead only increased Isabel’s desire to visit Redstone Hall, for she rightly guessed that Frederic was now so absorbed in business that it would be long ere he came to New Haven again; so she insisted upon coming, and as she found her Ohio aunt not altogether agreeable, she had shortened her visit there, and now with her mother sat waiting at the Mansion House for the appearance of Phil and the carriage. That Isabel was beautiful was conceded by every one, and that she was as treacherous as beautiful was conceded by those who knew her best. Early in life she had been engaged to Rudolph McVicar, a man of strong passions, an iron will and indomitable perseverance. But when young Raymond came, and she fancied she could win him, she unhesitatingly broke her engagement with Rudolph, who, stung to madness by her cold, unfeeling conduct, swore to be revenged. This threat, however,was little heeded by the proud beauty. If she secured Frederic Raymond, she would be above all danger, and she bent every energy to the accomplishment of her plan. She knew that the Kentuckians were proverbial for their hospitality, and feeling sure that no one would think it at all improper for her mother and herself to visit their cousin, as she called Frederic, she determined, if possible, to prolong that visit until asked to stay with him always. He had never directly talked to her of love, consequently she felt less delicacy in going to his house and claiming relationship with him; so when Phil came around with the carriage, she said to him, quite as a matter of course, “How is Cousin Frederic since his father’s death?”
“Jest tolable, thankee,” returned the negro, at the same time saying, “Be you marster’s kin?”
“Certainly,” answered Isabel, while the negro bowed low, for any one related to his master was a person of distinction to him.
Isabel had heard Frederic speak of Marian, and when they were half way home, she put her head from the window and said to Phil, “Where is the young girl who used to live with Colonel Raymond—Marian was her name, I think?”
“Bless you,” returned the negro, cracking his whip nervously, “haint you hearn how she done got married to marster mighty nigh three weeks ago?”
“Married! Frederic Raymond married!” screamed Isabel; “it isnottrue. How dare you tell me such a falsehood?”
“Strue as preachin’, and a heap truer than some on’t, for I seen ’em joined with these very eyes,” said Phil, and, glancing backward at the white face leaning from the window, he muttered, “’spects mebby she calkerlated on catchin’ him herself. Ki, wouldn’t she and Dinah pull har though. Thar’s a heap of Ole Sam in them black eyes of hern,” and, chirruping to his horses, Philip drove rapidly on, thinking he wouldn’ttell her that the bride had ran away—he would let Frederic do that.
Meantime, Isabel, inside, was choking—gasping—crying—wringing her hands and insisting that her mother should ask the negro again if what he had told them were so.
“Man—sir”—said Mrs. Huntington, putting her bonnet out into the rain, “is Mr. Frederic Raymond really married to that girl Marian?”
“Yes, as true as I am sittin’ here. Thursday’ll be three weeks since the weddin’,” was the reply, and with another hysterical sob, Isabel laid her head in her mother’s lap.
Nothing could exceed her rage, mortification and disappointment, except, indeed, her pride, and this was stronger than all her other emotions and that which finally roused her to action. She would not turn back now, she said. She would brave the villain and show him that she did not care. She would put herself by the side of his wife and let him see the contrast. She had surely heard from him that Marian was plain, and in fancy, she saw how she would overshadow her rival and make Frederic feel keenly the difference between them, and then she thought of the discarded Rudolph. If everything else should fail, she could win him back—he had some money, and she would rather be his wife than nobody’s!
By this time they had left the highway, for Redstone Hall was more than a mile from the turnpike, and Isabel found ample opportunity for venting her ill-nature. Such a road as that she never saw before, and she’d like to know if folks in Kentucky lived out in the lots. “No wonder they were such heathen! you nigger,” she exclaimed, as Phil drove through a brook; “are you going to tip us over, or what?”
“Wonder if she ’spects a body is gwine round the brook,” muttered Phil, and as the carriage wheels were now safe from the water, he stopped and said to the indignant lady, “mebby Miss would rather walk therest of the way. Thar’s a heap wus places in the cornfield, whar we’ll be pretty likely to get oversot.”
“Go on,” snapped Isabel, who knew she could not walk quite as well as the mischievous driver.
Accordingly they went on, and ere long came in sight of the house which even in that drenching rain looked beautiful to Isabel, and all the more beautiful because she felt that she had lost it. On the piazza little Alice stood, her fair hair blowing over her face, and her ear turned to catch the first sound which should tell her if what she hoped were true. Old Dinah, who saw the carriage in the distance, had said there was some one in it, and instantly Alice thought of Marian, and going out upon the piazza, she waited impatiently until Phil drove up to the door.
“There are four feet,” she said, as the strangers came up the steps; “four feet, but none are Marian’s,” and she was turning sadly away, when she accidentally trod upon the long skirt of Isabel, who, snatching it away, said angrily, “child, what are you doing—stepping on my dress?”
“I didn’t mean to; I’m blind,” answered Alice, her lip quivering and her eyes filling with tears.
“Never you mind that she dragon,” whispered Uncle Phil, thrusting into the child’s hand a paper of candy, which had the effect of consoling her somewhat, both for her disappointment and her late reproof.
“Who is that ar?” asked Dinah, appearing upon the piazza just as Isabel passed into the hall. “Some of marster’s kin!” she repeated after Uncle Phil. “For the Lord’s sake, what fotched ’em here this rainy day, when we’s gwine to have an ornery dinner—no briled hen, nor turkey, nor nothin’. Be they quality, think?”
“’Spects the young one wants to be, if she ain’t,” returned Phil, with a very expressive wink, which had the effect of enlightening Dinah with regard to his opinion.
“Some low flung truck, I’ll warrant,” said she, asshe followed them into the parlor, where Isabel’s stately bearing and glittering black eyes awed her into a low courtesy, as she said: “You’re very welcome to Redstone Hall, I’m sure. Who shall I tell marster wants to see him?”
“Two ladies, simply,” was Isabel’s haughty answer, and old Dinah departed, whispering to herself, “Two ladies simple! She must think I know nothin’ ’bout grarmar to talk in that kind of way, but she’s mistakened. I hain’t lived in the fust families for nothin’,” and knocking at Frederic’s door, she told him that “two simple ladies was down in the parlor and wanted him.”
“Who?” he asked, in some surprise, and Dinah replied:
“Any way, that’s what she said—the tall one, with great black eyes jest like coals of fire. Phil picked ’em up in Frankford, whar they got off the boat. They’s some o’ yer kin they say.”
Frederic did not wish to hear any more, for he suspected who they were. It was about this time they had talked of visiting Dayton, and motioning Dinah from the room, he pressed his hands to his forehead, and thought, “Must I suffer this, too? Oh, why did she come to look at me in my misery?” Then, forcing an unnatural calmness, he started for the parlor, where, as he had feared, he stood face to face with Isabel Huntington.
She was very pale, and in her black eyes there was a hard, dangerous expression, from which he gladly turned away, addressing first her mother, who, rising to meet him, said:
“We have accepted your invitation, you see.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and he was trying to stammer out a welcome, when Isabel, who all the time had been aching to pounce upon him, chimed,
“Where is Mrs. Raymond? I am dying to see my new cousin” and in the eyes of black there was a reddishgleam, as if they might ere long emit sparks of living fire.
“Mrs. Raymond!” repeated Frederic, the name dropping slowly from his lips. “Mrs. Raymond! Oh! Isabel, don’t you know? Havn’t you heard?”
“Certainly I have,” returned the young lady, watching him as a fierce cat watches his helpless prey. “Of course I have heard of your marriage, and have come to congratulate you. Is your wife well?”
Frederic raised his hand to stop the flippant speech, and when it finished he rejoined: “But havn’t you heard the rest—the saddest part of all? Marian is dead!—drowned—at least we think she must be, for she went away on our wedding night, and no trace of her can be found.”
The fiery gleam was gone from the black eyes—the color came back to the cheeks—the finger nails ceased their painful pressure upon the tender flesh—the shadow of a smile dimpled the corner of the mouth, and Isabel was herself again.
“Dead! Drowned!” she exclaimed. “How did it happen? What was the reason? Dreadful, isn’t it?” and going over to where Mr. Raymond stood, she looked him in the face, with an expression she meant should say, “I am sorry for you,” but which really did say something quite the contrary.
“I cannot tell you why she went away,” Frederic answered, “but there was a reason for it, and it has cast a shadow over my whole life.”
“Marian was a mere child, I had always supposed,” suggested Isabel, anxious to get at the reason why he had so soon forgotten herself.
“Did you get my last letter—the one written to you?” asked Frederic, and upon Isabel’s replying that she did not, he briefly stated a few facts concerning his marriage, saying it was his father’s dying request, and he could not well avoid doing as he had done, even if he disliked Marian. “But I didn’t dislike her,” he continued, and the hot blood rushed into his face.“She was a gentle, generous hearted girl, and had she lived, I would have made her happy.”
If by this speech Frederic Raymond thought to deceive Isabel Huntington, he was mistaken, for, looking into his eyes she read a portion of the truth and knew there was something back of all—a something between himself and his father which had driven him to the marriage. What it was she did not care then to know. She was satisfied that the bride was gone—and when Frederic narrated more minutely the particulars of her going, the artful girl said to herself, “She is dead beyond a doubt, and when I leave Redstone Hall, I shall know it, and mother, too!”
It was strange how rapidly Isabel changed from a hard, defiant woman, to a soft, sparkling, beautiful creature, and when, in her plaid silk dress of crimson and brown, with her magnificent hair bound in heavy braids about her head, she came down to dinner, Aunt Dinah involuntarily dropped another courtesy, and whispered under her teeth, “The Lord, if she ain’t quality after all.” Old Hetty, too, who from a side door looked curiously in at their guests, received a like impression, pronouncing her more like Miss Beatrice than any body she had ever seen. To Alice, Isabel was all gentleness, for she readily saw that the child was a pet; so she called her darling and dearest, smoothing her fair hair and kissing her once when Frederic was looking on. All this, however, did not deceive the little blind girl, or erase from her mind the angry words which had been spoken to her, and that evening, when she went to Frederic to bid him good night, she climbed into his lap and said: “Is that Miss Isabel going to stay here always?”
“Why, no,” he answered. “Did you think she was?”
“I did not know,” returned Alice, “but I hoped not, for I don’t like her at all. She’s very grand and beautiful, Dinah says, but I think she must look like a snake, and I want her to go away, don’t you?”
Frederic would not say yes to this question, and he remained silent. Had he been consulted, he would rather that she had never come to Redstone Hall, but now that she was there, he did not wish her away. It would be inhospitable, he said, and when next morning she came down to breakfast, bright, fresh and elegant in her tasteful wrapper, he felt a pang, as he thought, “had I done right, she might have been the mistress of Redstone Hall,” but it could not be now, he said, even if Marian were dead, and all that day he struggled manfully between his duty and his inclination, while Isabel dealt out her highest card, ingrafting herself into the good graces of the Smitherses by speaking to them pleasant, familiar words, exalting herself in the estimation of the Higginses by her lofty, graceful bearing, and winning Dinah’s friendship by praising Victoria Eugenia, and asking if that fine looking man who drove the carriage was her husband. Then, in the evening, when the lamps were lighted in the parlor, she opened the piano and filled the house with the rich melody of her cultivated voice, singing a sad, plaintive strain, which reminded Alice of poor, lost Marian, and carried Frederic back to other days, when, with a feeling of pride, he had watched her snowy fingers as they gracefully swept the keys. He could not look at them now—he dared not look at her, in her ripe glowing beauty, and he left the room, going out upon the piazza, where he wiped great drops of sweat from his face, and almost cursed the fate which had made it a sin for him to love the dark-haired Isabel. She knew that he was gone, and rightly divining the cause, she dashed off into a stirring dancing tune, which brought the negroes to the door, where they stood admiring her playing and praising her queenly form.
“That’s somethin’ like it,” whispered Hetty, beating time to the lively strain. “That sounds like Miss Beatrice did when she done played the pianner. I ’clare for’t, I eenamost wish Marster Frederic had donechose her. ’Case you know t’other one done drowned herself the fust night,” she added quickly, as she met Dinah’s rebuking glance.
Dinah admired Isabel, but she could not forget Marian; though like her sex, whether black or brown, she speculated upon the future, when “Marster Frederic would be done mournin’,” and she wondered if “old miss,” meaning Mrs. Huntington, would think it necessary to stay there, too. Thus several days went by, and so pleasant was it to Frederic to have some one in the house who could divert him from his gloomy thoughts, that he began to dread the time when he would be alone again. But could he have looked into the heart of the fair lady, he would have seen no immediate cause of alarm. Isabel did not intend to leave her present quarters immediately, and to this end her plans were laid. From what she had heard she believed Marian Lindsey was dead, and if so, she would not again trust Frederic away from her influence. Redstone Hall needed a head—a housekeeper—and as her mother was an old lady, and also a relative of Frederic, she was just the one to fill that post. Their house in New Haven was only rented until March, and by writing to some friends they could easily dispose of their furniture until such time as they might want it. Alice needed a governess, for she heard Frederic say so; and though the little pest (this was what she called her, to herself) did not seem to like her, she could teach her as well as any one. It would be just as proper for her to be Alice’s governess as for any one else, and a little more so, for her mother would be with her.
And this arrangement she brought about with the most consummate skill, first asking Frederic if he knew of any situation in Kentucky which she could procure as a teacher. That was one object of her visit, she said. She must do something for a living, and as she would rather teach either in a school, or in a private family, she would be greatly obliged to him if hewould assist her a little. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Frederic said something about Alice’s having needed a governess for a long time; and quickly catching at it, Isabel rejoined, “Oh! but you know I couldn’t possibly remain here, unless mother staid with me. Now, if you’ll keep her as a kind of overseer-in-general of the house, I’ll gladly undertake the charge of dear little Alice’s education. She does not fancy me, I think, but I’m sure I can win her love. I can that of almost any one—children I mean, of course;” and the beautiful, fascinating eyes looked out of the window quite indifferently, as if their owner were utterly oblivious of the fierce struggle in Frederic’s bosom.
He wished her to stay with him—oh, so much! But was it right? and would he not get to loving her? No, he would not, he said. He would only think of her as his cousin—his sister, whose presence would cheer his solitary home. So he bade her stay, and she bade her mother stay, urging so many reasons why she should, and must, that the latter consented at last, and a letter was dispatched to New Haven, with directions for having their furniture packed away, and their house given up to its owner. This arrangement at first caused some gossip among the neighbors, who began to predict what the end would be, and, also, to assert more loudly than ever their belief that Marian was not dead. Still, there was no reason why Isabel should not be Alice’s governess, particularly as her mother was with her; and when Agnes Gibson pronounced her beautiful, accomplished, and just the thing, the rest followed in the train, and the health of the “northern beauty” was drunk by more than one fast young man.
In the kitchen at Redstone Hall there was also a discussion, in which the Higginses rather had the preference, inasmuch as the lady in question was after their manner of thinking. Old Dinah wisely kept silent, saying to herself, “a new broom sweeps clean,and I’ll wait to see what ’tis when it gets a little wore. One thing is sartin, though, if she goes to put on ars, and sasses us colored folks, I’ll gin her a piece of my mind. I’ll ask her whar she come from, and how many niggers she owned afore she come from thar.”
It was several days before Alice was told of the arrangement, and then she rebelled at once. Bursting into tears, she hid her face in Dinah’s lap, and sobbed, “I can’t learn of her. I don’t like her. What shall I do?”
“I wish to goodness I had larning,” answered Dinah, “and I’d hear you say that foolishness ’bout the world’s turnin’ round and makin’ us stan’ on our heads half the time, but I hain’t, and if I’s you I’d make the best on’t. I’ll keep my eye on her, and if she makes you do the fust thing you don’t want to, I’ll gin her a piece of my mind. I ain’t afraid on her. Why, Gibson’s niggers say how they hearn Miss Agnes say she used to make her own bed whar she came from, and wash dishes, too! Think o’ that!”
Thus comforted, Alice dried her tears, and hunting up the books from which she had once recited to Marian, she declared herself ready for her lessons at any time.
“Let it be to-morrow, then,” said Isabel, who knew that Frederic was going to Lexington, and that she could not see him even if she were not occupied with Alice.
So, the next morning, after Frederic was gone, Alice went to the school-room, and drawing her little chair to Isabel’s side, laid her books upon the lady’s lap, and waited for her to begin.
“You must read to me,” she said, “until I know what ’tis, and then I’ll recite it to you.”
But Isabel was never intended for a teacher, and she found it very tedious reading the same thing over and over, particularly as Alice seemed inattentive and not at all inclined to remember. At last she said, impatiently,“For the pity’s sake how many more times must I read it. Can’t you learn anything?”
“Don’t—don’t speak so,” sobbed Alice. “I’m thinking of Marian, and how she used to be with me. It’s just six weeks to-day since she went away. Oh, I wish she’d come back. Do you believe she’s dead?”
Isabel was interested in anything concerning Marian, and closing the book, she began to question the child, asking her among other things, “if Marian did not leave a letter for Mr. Raymond, and if she knew what was in it.”
“No one knows,” returned the child; “he never told—but here’s mine,” and drawing from her bosom the soiled note, she passed it to Isabel, who scrutinized it closely, particularly the handwriting.
“Of course she’s dead, or she would have been heard from ere this,” said she, passing the note back to Alice, who, not feeling particularly comforted, made but little progress in her studies that morning, and both teacher and pupil were glad when the lessons of the day were over.
Before starting for Lexington, Frederic had sent Josh on some errand to Frankfort, and just after dinner the negro returned. Isabel was still alone upon the piazza when he came up, and as she was expecting news from New Haven, she asked if he stopped at the post-office.
“Ye-e-us’m,” began the stuttering negro, “an’ I d-d-d-one got a h-h-eap on ’em, too,” and Josh gave her six letters—one for herself and five for Frederic.
Hastily breaking the seal of her own letter, she read that their matters at home were satisfactorily arranged—a tenant had already been found for their house, and their furniture would be safely stowed away. Hearing her mother in the hall, she handed the letter to her and then went to the library to dispose of Frederic’s. As she was laying them down she glanced at the superscriptions, carelessly, indifferently, until she came to the last, the one bearing the New York post-mark;then, with a nervous start she caught it up again and examined it more closely, while a sickening, horrid fear crept through her flesh—her heart gave one fearful throb and then lay like some heavy, pulseless weight within her bosom. Could it be that she had seen that handwriting before? Had the dead wife returned to life, and was she coming back to Redstone Hall? The thought was overwhelming, and for a moment Isabel Huntington was tempted to break that seal and read. But she dared not, for her suspicion might be false; she would see Alice’s note again, and seeking out the child she asked permission to take the letter which Marian had written. Alice complied with her request, and darting away to the library Isabel compared the two. They were the same. There could be no mistake, and in the intensity of her excitement, she felt her black hair loosening at its roots.
“It is from her, but he shall never see it, never!” she exclaimed aloud, and her voice was so unnatural that she started at the sound, and turning saw Alice standing in the door with an inquiring look upon her face, as if asking the meaning of what she had heard.
Isabel quailed beneath the glance of that sightless child, and then sat perfectly still, while Alice said, “Miss Huntington, are you here? Was it you who spoke?”
Isabel made no answer, but trembling in every limb, shrank farther and farther back in her chair as the little, groping, outstretched arms came nearer and nearer to her. Presently, when she saw no escape, she forced a loud laugh, and said, “Fie, Alice. I tried to frighten you by feigning a strange voice. You want your letter, don’t you? Here it is. I only wished to see if in reading it a second time I could get any clue to the mystery,” and she gave the bit of paper back to Alice, who, somewhat puzzled to understand what it all meant, left the room, and Isabel was again alone. Three times she caught up the letter with the intention of breaking its seal, and as often threw it down, for,unprincipled as she was, she shrank from that act, and still, if she did not know the truth, she should go mad, she said, and pressing her hands to her forehead, she thought what the result to herself would be were Marian really alive.
“But she isn’t,” she exclaimed. “I won’t have it so. She’s dead—she’s buried in the river.” But who was there in New York that wrote so much like her? She wished she knew, and she might know, too, by opening the letter. If it was from a stranger, she could destroy it, and he, thinking it had been lost, would write again. She should die if she didn’t know, and maybe she should die if she did.
At all events, reality was more endurable than suspense, and glancing furtively around to make sure that no blind eyes were near, she snatched the letter from the table and broke the seal! Even then she dared not read it, until she reflected that she could not give it to Frederic in this condition—she might as well see what it contained; and wiping the cold moisture from her face she opened it and read, while her flesh seemed turning to stone, and she could feel the horror creeping through her veins, freezing her blood and petrifying her very brain.Marian Lindsey lived!She was coming back again—back to her husband, and back to the home which was hers. There was enough in the letter for her to guess the truth, and she knew why another had been preferred to herself. For a moment even her lip curled with scorn at what she felt was an unmanly act, but this feeling was soon lost in the terrible thought that Marian might return.
“Can it be? Must it be?” she whispered, as her hard, black eyes fastened themselves again upon the page, blotted with Marian’s tears. “Seven years—seven years,” she continued, “I’ve heard of that before,” and into the wild tumult of her thoughts there stole a ray of hope. If she withheld the letter from Frederic, and she must withhold it now, he would never know what she knew. Possibly, too, Marianmight die, and though she would have repelled the accusation, Isabel Huntington was guilty of murder in her heart, as she sat there alone and planned what she would do. She was almost on the borders of insanity, for the disappointment to her now would be greater and more humiliating than before. She had no home to go to—her arrangements for remaining in Kentucky were all made, and Redstone Hall seemed so fair that she would willingly wait twice seven years, if, at the expiration of that time, she were sure of being its mistress. It was worth trying for, and though she had but little hope of success, the beautiful demon bent her queenly head and tried to devise some means of effectually silencing Marian, so that if there really were anything in the seven years the benefit would accrue to her.
“She’s a little,” she said, “and this Mrs. Daniel Burt she talked about is just as silly as herself. They’ll both believe what is told to them. I may never marry Frederic, it is true, but I’ll be revenged on Marian. What business had she to cross my path, the little red-headed jade!”
Isabel was growing excited, and as she dared do anything when angry, she resolved to send the letter back.
“I can imitate his handwriting,” she thought; “I can do anything as I feel now,” and going to her room, she found the letter he had written to her mother.
This she studied and imitated for half an hour, and at the end of that time wrote on the blank page of Marian’s letter, “Isabel Huntington is now the mistress of Redstone Hall.”
“That will keep her still, I reckon,” she said, and taking a fresh envelope, she directed it to “Mrs. Daniel Burt,” as Marian had bidden Frederic do. “’Twas a fortunate circumstance, her telling him that, for ‘Marian Lindsey’ would have been observed at once,” she thought; and then, lest her resolution should fail her, she found Josh and bade him take the letter tothe post-office at the Forks of Elkhorn not very far away.
Nothing could suit Josh better than to ride, and stuttering out something which nobody could understand, he mounted his rather sorry-looking horse and was soon galloping out of sight. In the kitchen Mrs. Huntington heard of Josh’s destination, and when next she met her daughter, she asked to whom she had been writing.
“To some one, of course,” answered Isabel, at the same time intimating that she hoped she could have a correspondent without her mother troubling herself.
The rudeness of this speech was forgotten by Mrs. Huntington in her alarm at Isabel’s pale face, and she asked anxiously what was the matter?
“Nothing but a wretched headache—teaching don’t agree with me,” was Isabel’s reply, and turning away, she ran up the stairs to her room, where, throwing herself upon the bed, she tried to fancy it all a dream.
But it was not a dream, and Marian’s anguish was scarcely greater than her own at that moment, when she began to realize that Frederic and Redstone Hall were lost to her forever. There might be something in the seven years, but it was a long, dreary time to wait, with the ever-haunting fear that Marian might return, and she half wished she had not opened the letter. But her regrets were unavailing now, and resolving to guard her secret carefully and deny what she had done, if ever accused of it, she began to consider how she should hereafter demean herself toward Frederic. It would be terrible to have him making love to her, she thought, for she would be compelled to tell him no, and if another should become her rival, she could not stand quietly by and witness the unlawful deed.
“Oh, if I or Marian had never been born, this hour would not have come to me,” she cried, burying her face in the pillows to shut out the fast increasing darkness which was so hateful to her.
Already was she reaping the fruit of the transgression, and when an hour later she heard the voice of Frederic in the hall, she stopped her ears, and, burying her face still closer in the pillows, wished again that either Marian or herself had never seen the light of day.