CHAPTER XVI.THE FEVER.
Night and day Frederic Raymond had traveled, never allowing himself a minute’s rest, nor even stopping at Yonkers, so intent was he upon reaching New York and finding, if possible, some clue to Marian. It was a hopeless task, for he had no starting point—nothing which could guide him in the least, save the name of Sarah Green, and even that was not in the Directory, while to inquire for her former place of residence, was as preposterous as Marian’s inquiry for Mrs. Daniel Burt! Still, whatever he could do he did, traversing street after street, threading alley after alley, asking again and again of the squalid heads thrust from the dingy windows, if Sarah Green had ever lived in that locality, and receiving always the same impudent stare and short answer, “No.”
Once, in another and worse part of the city, he fancied he had found her, and that she had not sailed for Scotland as she had written, for they had told him that “Sal Green lived, up in the fourth story,” and climbing the crazy stairs, he knocked at the low, dark door, shuddering involuntarily and experiencing a feeling of mortified pride as he thought it possible that Marian—his wife—had toiled up that weary way to die. The door was opened by a blear-eyed, hard-faced woman, who started at sight of the elegant stranger, and to his civil questions replied rather gruffly, “Yes, I’m Sal Green, I s’pose, or Sarah, jest which you choose to call me, but the likes of Marian Lindsey never came near me,” and glancing aroundthe dirty, wretched room, Frederic was glad that it was so. He would rather not find her, or hear tidings of her, than to know that she had lived and died in such a place as this, and with a sickening sensation he was turning away, when the woman, who was blessed with a remarkable memory and never forgot anything to which her attention was particularly directed, said to him, “You say it’s a year last Fall sence she left home.”
“Yes, yes,” he replied eagerly, and she continued, “You say she dressed in black, and wore a great long vail?”
“The same, the same,” he cried, advancing into the room and thrusting a bill into the long hand, “oh, my good woman, have you seen her, and where is she now?”
“The Lord knows, mebby, but I don’t,” answered the woman, who was identical with the one who had so frightened Marian by watching her on that day when she sat in front of Trinity and wished that she could die, “I don’t know as I ever seen her at all,” she continued, “but a year ago last November such a girl as you described, with long curls that looked red in the sunshine, sat on the steps way down by Trinity and cried so hard that I noticed her, and knew she warn’t a beggar by her dress. It was gettin’ dark, and I was goin’ to speak to her when Joe Black came up and asked her what ailed her, or somethin’. He ain’t none of the likeliest,” and a grim smile flitted over the visage of the wrinkled hag.
“Oh, Heaven,” cried Frederic, pressing his hands to his head, as if to crush the horrid fear. “God save her from that fate. Is this all you know? Can’t you tell me any more? I’ll give you half my fortune if you’ll bring back my poor, lost Marian, just as she was when she left me.”
The offer was a generous one, and Sal was tempted for a moment to tell him some big lie, and thus receive a companion to the bill she clutched so greedily, butthe agonizing expression of his white face kindled a spark of pity within her bosom, and she replied, “I did not finish tellin’ you that while Joe was talking and had seemingly persuaded her to go with him, a tall chap that I never seen before knocked him flat, and took the girl with him, and that’s why I remember it so well.”
“Who was he, this tall man? Where did he go?” and Frederic wiped from his forehead the great drops of sweat forced out by terrible fear.
“I told you I never seen him before,” was Sally’s answer, “but he had a good face—a milk and water face—as if he never plotted no mischief in his life. She’s safe with him, I’m sure. I’d trust my daughter with him, if I had one, and know he wouldn’t harm her. He spoke to her tender-like, and she looked glad, I thought.”
Frederic felt that this information was better than none, for it was certain it was Marian whom the woman had seen, and, in a measure comforted by her assurance of Ben Burt’s honesty, he bade her good morning, and walked away.
At last, worn out and discouraged, he returned to his hotel, where he lay now burning with fever, and, in his delirium, calling sometimes for Isabel, sometimes for Alice, and again for faithful Dinah, but never asking why Marian did not come. She was dead, and he only begged of those around him to take her away from Joe Black, or show him where her grave was made, so he could go home and tell the blind girl he had seen it. Every ray of light which it was possible to shut out had been excluded from the room, for he had complained much of his eyes, and when Mrs. Burt entered, she could discover only the outline of a ghastly face resting upon the pillows, scarcely whiter than itself. It was a serious case, the attending physician said, and so she thought when she looked into his wild, bright eyes, and felt his rapid pulse. To her heput the same question he had asked nearly of every one:
“Do you know where Marian is?”
“Marian!” she repeated, feeling a little uncertain how to answer.
“Humor him! say you do!” whispered the physician, who was just taking his leave. And very truthfully Mrs. Burt replied:
“Yes, I know where she is! She will come to you to-morrow.”
“No!” he answered mournfully. “The dead never come back, and it must not be, either. Isabel is coming then, and the two can’t meet together here, for—. Come nearer, woman, while I tell you I loved Isabel the best, and that’s what made the trouble. She is beautiful, but Marian was good—and do you know Marian was the Heiress of Redstone Hall; but I’m not going to use her money.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Burt, trying to quiet him, but in vain.
He would talk—sometimes of Marian, and sometimes of Sarah Green, and the dreary room where he had been.
“It made Marian tired,” he said, “to climb those broken stairs—tired, just as he was now. But she was resting so quietly in Heaven, and the April sun was shining on her grave. It was a little grave—a child’s grave, as it were—for Marian was not so tall nor so old as Isabel.”
In this way he rambled on, and it was not until the morning dawned that he fell into a heavy sleep, and Mrs. Burt had leisure to reflect upon the novel position in which she found herself.
“It was foolish in me to give up to them children,” she said, “but now that I am here, I’ll make the best of it, and do as well as I can. Marian shan’t come, though! It would kill her dead to hear him going on.”
Mrs. Burt was a little rash in making this assertion,for even while she spoke, Marian was in the reception-room below, inquiring for the woman who took care of Mr. Raymond. Not once during the long night had her eye-lids closed in sleep, and with the early morning she had started for the hotel, leaving Ben to get his breakfast as he could.
“Say Marian Grey wishes to see her,” she said, in answer to the inquiry as to what name the servant was to take to No. ——.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Burt; “why didn’t Ben keep her at home?” and, gliding down the stairs, she tried to persuade Marian to return.
But when she saw the firm, determined expression in the young girl’s eye, she knew it was useless to reason with her, and saying, rather pettishly, “You must expect to hear some cuttin’ things,” she bade her follow up the stairs. Frederic still lay sleeping, his face turned partly to one side, and his hand resting beneath his head. His rich brown hair, now damp with heavy moisture, was pushed back from his white forehead, which, gleaming through the dusky darkness, first showed to Marian where he lay. The gas-light hurt his eyes, and the lamp, which was kept continually burning, was so placed that its dim light did not fall on him, and a near approach was necessary to tell her just how he looked. He was fearfully changed, and, with a bitter moan, she laid her head beside him on the pillow, so that her short curls mingled with his darker locks, and she felt his hot breath on her cheek.
“Frederic—dear Frederic!” she said, and at the sound of her voice he moved uneasily, as if about to waken.
“Come away, come away,” whispered Mrs. Burt. “He may know you, and a sudden start would kill him.”
But Marian was deaf to all else save the whispered words dropping from the sick man’s lips. They were of home, of Alice, of the library, and oh, joy! could it be she heard aright—did he speak of her? Was itMarianhe said? Yes,it was Marian, and with a cry of delight, which started Mrs. Burt to her feet, and penetrated even to the ear of the unconscious Frederic, she pressed her lips upon the very spot which they had touched before on that night when she gave him her first kiss. Slowly his eyes unclosed, but the wildness was still there, and Mrs. Burt, who stood anxiously watching him, felt glad that it was so. Slowly they wandered about the room, resting first upon the door, then on the chandelier, then on the ceiling above, and dropping finally lower, until at last they met and were riveted upon Marian, who, with clasped hands, stood breathlessly awaiting the result.
“Will he know her? Does he know her?” was the mental query of Mrs. Burt; while Marian’s fast-breathing heart asked the same question eagerly. There was a wavering, a fierce struggle between delirium and reason, and then, with a faint smile, he said:
“Did you kiss me just now?” and he pointed to the spot upon his forehead.
Marian nodded, for she could not speak, and he continued:
“Marian kissed me there, too! Little Marian, who went away, and it has burned and burned into my veins until it set my brain on fire. Nobody has kissed me since, but Alice. Did you know Alice, girl?”
“Yes,” answered Marian, keen disappointment swelling within her bosom and forcing the great tears from her eyes.
She had almost believed he would recognize her, but he did not; and sinking down by his side, she buried her face in the bed-clothes, and sobbed aloud.
“Don’t cry, little girl,” he said, evidently disturbed at the sight of her tears. “I cried when I thought Marian was dead, but that seems so long ago.”
“Oh Frederic—” and forgetful of everything, Marian sprang to her feet. “Oh, Frederic, is it true? Did you cry for me?”
At the sound of his own name the sick man lookedbewildered, while reason seemed struggling again to assert its rights, and penetrate the misty fog by which it was enveloped. Very earnestly he looked at the young girl, who returned his gaze with one in which was concentrated all the yearning love and tenderness, she had cherished for him so long.
“Are you Marian?” he asked, and in an instant the excited girl wound her arms around his neck, and laying her cheek against his own, replied:
“Yes, Frederic yes. Don’t you know me, your poor lost Marian?”
Very caressingly he passed his hand over her short silken curls—pushed them back from her forehead—examined them more closely, and then whispered mournfully,
“No, you are not Marian. This is not her hair. But I like you,” he continued, as he felt her tears drop on his face; “and I wish you to stay with me, and when the pain comes back charm it away with your soft hands. They are little hands,” and he took them between his own, “but not so small as Marian’s were when I held one in my hand and promised I would love her. It seemed like some tiny rose leaf, and I could have crushed it easily, but I did not; I only crushed her heart, and she fled from me forever, for ’twas a lie I told her,” and his voice sunk to a lower tone. “I didn’t love her then—I don’t know as I love her now, for Isabel is so beautiful. Did you ever see Isabel, girl?”
“Oh, Frederic,” groaned Marian, and wresting her hands from his grasp, she tottered to a chair, while he looked after her wistfully.
“Will she go away?” he said to Mrs. Burt. “Will she leave me alone, when she knows Alice is not here nor Isabel? I wish Isabel would come, don’t you?”
There was another moan of anguish, and, rolling his bright eyes in the direction of the arm-chair, the poor man whispered:
“Hark! that’s the sound I heard the night Marianwent away! I thought then ’twas the wind, but I knew afterwards that it was she, when her soul parted with her body, and it’s followed me ever since. There is not a spot at Redstone Hall that is not haunted with that cry. I’ve heard it at midnight, at noonday—in the storm and in the rushing river—where we thought she was buried. All but Alice—she knew she wasn’t, and she sent me here to look. She don’t like Isabel, and is afraid I’ll marry her. Maybe I shall, sometime! Who knows?”
And he laughed in delirious glee.
“Heaven keep me, too, from going mad?” cried Marian. “Oh! why did I come here?”
“I told you not to all the time,” was Mrs. Burt’s consolatory remark; which, however was lost on Marian, who, seizing her bonnet and shawl, rushed from the room, unmindful of the outstretched arms which seemed imploring her to stay.
The fresh morning air revived her fainting strength, but did not cool the feverish agony at her heart, and she sped onward, until she reached her home, where she surprised Ben at his solitary breakfast, which he had prepared himself.
“Oh! Ben, Ben!” she cried, coming so suddenly upon him that he upset the coffee-pot into which he was pouring some hot water. “Would it be wicked for you to kill me dead, or for me to kill myself?”
“What’s to pay now?” asked Ben, using the skirt of his coat for a holder in picking up the steaming coffee-pot.
Very hastily Marian related her adventures in the sick room, telling how Frederic had talked of marrying Isabel before her very face.
“Crazy as a loon,” returned Ben. “I shouldn’t think nothin’ of that. You say he talked as though he thought you was dead, and of course he don’t know what he’s sayin’. Have they writ to his folks?”
“Yes,” returned Marian, who had made a similar inquiry of Mrs. Burt. “They directed a letter to‘Frederic Raymond’s friends, Franklin County, Kentucky,’ but that may not reach them in a long time.”
“Wouldn’t it be a Christian act,” returned Ben “for us, who know jest who he is, to telegraph to that critter, and have her come? By all accounts he wants to see her, and it may do him good.”
Marian felt that it would be right, and, though it cost her a pang, she said, at last:
“Yes, Ben, you may telegraph; but what name will you append?”
“Benjamin Butterworth, of course,” he replied. “They’ll remember the peddler, and think it nateral I should feel an interest.” And leaving Marian to take charge of the breakfast table, he started for the office.
Meantime the sick room was the scene of much excitement—Frederic raving furiously, and asking for “the girl with the soft hands and silken hair.” Sometimes he called her Marian, and begged of them to bring her back, promising not to make her cry again.
“There is a mystery connected with this Marian he talks so much about,” said the physician, who was present, “and he seems to fancy a resemblance between her and the girl who left here this morning. What may I call her name?”
“Marian, my daughter,” came involuntarily from Mrs. Burt, whose mental rejoinder was, “God forgive me for that lie, if it was one. Names and things is gettin’ so twisted up that it takes more than me to straighten ’em!”
“Well, then,” continued the physician, “suppose you send for her. It will never do for him to get so excited. He is wearing out too fast.”
“I will go for her myself,” said Mrs. Burt, who fancied some persuasion might be necessary ere Marian could be induced to return.
But she was mistaken, for when told that Frederic’s life depended upon his being kept quiet, and his being kept quiet depended upon her presence, Marian consented,and nerved herself to hear him talk, as she knew he would, of her rival.
“If he lives, I will be satisfied,” she thought, “even though he never did or can love me,” and with a strong, brave heart, she went back again to the sick man, who welcomed her joyfully, and folding his feeble arms around her neck, stroked again her hair, as he said, “You will not leave me, Marian, till Isabel is here. Then you may go—back to the grave I cannot find, and we will go home together.”
Marian could not answer him, neither was it necessary that she should. He was satisfied to have her there, and with her sitting at his side, and holding his hand in hers, he became as gentle as a child. Occasionally he called her “little girl,” but oftener “Marian,” and when he said that name, he always smoothed her hair, as if he pitied her, and knew he had done her a wrong. And Marian felt each day more and more that the wound she hoped had partly healed was bleeding afresh with a new pain, for while he talked of Marian as a mother talks of an unfortunate child, he spoke of Isabel with all a lover’s pride, and each word was a dagger to the heart of the patient watcher, who sat beside him day and night, until her eyes were heavy, and her cheeks were pale with her unbroken vigils.
“Do you then love this Isabel so much?” she said to him one day, and sinking his voice to a whisper he replied, “Yes, and I love you, too, though not like her, because I loved her first.”
“And Marian?” questioned the young girl, “Don’t you love her?”
Oh, how eagerly she waited for the answer, which when it came almost broke her heart.
“Not as I ought to—not as I have prayed that I might, and not as I should, perhaps, if she hadn’t been to me what she is. Poor child,” he continued, brushing away the tears which rolled like rain down Marian’s cheeks, “poor child, are you crying for Marian?”
“Yes—yes, for Marian—for poor heart-broken me;” and the wretched girl buried her face in the pillow beside him, for he held her firmly by the wrist, and she could not get away.
In this manner several days went by, and over the intellect so obscured there shone no ray or reason, while the girlish face grew whiter and whiter each morning light, and at last the physician said that she must rest, or her strength would be exhausted.
“Let me stay a little longer,” she pleaded—“stay at least until Miss Huntington arrives.”
“Miss who?” asked the doctor. “Do you then know his family?”
“A friend of mine knows them,” answered Marian, a deep flush stealing over her cheek.
“I hope, then, they will reward you well,” continued the physician. “The young man would have died but for you. It is remarkable what control you have over him.”
But Marian wished for no reward. It was sufficient for her to know that she had been instrumental in saving his life, even though she had saved it for Isabel. The physician said that Frederic was better, and that afternoon, seated in the large arm-chair, she fell into a refreshing sleep, from which she was finally aroused by Mrs. Burt, who bending over her, whispered in her ear:
“Wake up. She’s come—she’s here—Miss Huntington!”
There was magic in that name, and it roused the sleeping girl at once, sending a quiver of pain through her heart, for her post she knew was to be given to another. Not both of them could watch by Frederic, and she, who in all the world had the best right to stay, must go; but not until she had looked upon her rival and had seen once the face which Frederic called so beautiful. This done, she would go away and die, if it were possible, and stand no longer between Frederic and the bride he so much desired. She did not understandwhy he had so often spoken of herself as being dead, when he knew that she was not. It was a vagary of his brain, she said—he had had many since she came there, and she hoped he would sometimes talk of her to Isabel, just as he had talked of Isabel to her. There was a hurried consultation between herself and Mrs. Burt, with regard to their future proceedings, and it was finally decided that the latter should remain a few days longer, and so report the progress of affairs to Marian, who, of course, must go away. This arrangement being made they sat down and rather impatiently waited for the coming of Isabel, who was in her room resting after her tiresome journey.
“Oh how can she wait so long?” thought Marian, glancing at Frederic, who was sleeping now more quietly than he had done before for a long time.
She did not know Isabel Huntington, and she could not begin to guess how thoroughly selfish she was, nor how that selfishness was manifest in every movement. The letter, which at last had gone to Frankfort, was received the same day with the telegram, and as a natural consequence, threw the inmates of Redstone Hall into great excitement. Particularly was this the case with Isabel, who unmindful of everything, wrang her hands despairingly, crying out, “Oh! what shall I do if he dies?”
“Do!” repeated Dinah, forgetting her own grief in her disgust. “For the Lord’s sake, can’t you do what you allus did? Go back whar you come from, you and your mother, in course.”
Isabel deigned no reply to this remark, but hurried to her chamber, where she commenced the packing of her trunk.
“Wouldn’t it look better for me to go?” suggested Mrs. Huntington, and Isabel answered:
“Certainly not, the telegram was directed to me. No one knows me in New York, and I don’t care what folks say here. If he lives I shall be his wife, of course, else why should he send for me. It’s perfectly naturalthat I should go.” And thinking to herself that she would rather Frederic should die than to live for another, she completed her hasty preparations, and was on her way to the depot before the household had time to realize what they were doing.
In passing the house of Lawyer Gibson she could not forbear stopping a moment to communicate the sad news to her particular friend, who, while condoling with her, thought to herself, “He does care more for her than I supposed, or he would not have not sent for her.”
“When will you come back?” she asked, and Isabel replied, “Not until he is better or worse. Oh, Agnes; what if he should die. Imagine Mr. Rivers at the point of death and you will know just how I feel.”
“Certainly, very, indeed,” was the meaningless answer of Agnes, who, as the day of her bridal drew near, began to fancy that she might be easily consoled in case anything should come between herself and the white haired Floridan. “Perhaps you will be married before you return,” she suggested, and Isabel, who had thought of the same possibility, replied, “Don’t, pray, speak of such a thing—it seems terrible when Frederic is so sick.”
“You won’t cotch the cars if you ain’t keerful,” chimed in Uncle Phil, and kissing each other a most affectionate good-by, the young ladies parted, Agnes thinking to herself, “I reckon I wouldn’t go off to New York after a man who hadn’t really proposed—but then it’s just like her,” while Isabel’s mental comment was, “It’s time Agnes was married, for she’s really beginning to look old; I wouldn’t have my grandfather though!”
So much for girlish friendships!
Distressed and anxious as Isabel seemed, it was no part of her intention to travel nights, for that would give her a sallow, jaded look; so she made the journey leisurely, and even after her arrival, took time to rest and beautify ere presenting herself to Frederic. Shehad ascertained that he was better, and had the best of care, so she remained quietly in her chamber an hour or so, and it was not until after dark that she bade the servant show her the way to the sick room.
“I will tell them you are coming,” suggested the polite attendant, and, going on before her, he said to Mrs. Burt that “Miss Huntington would like to come in.”
In the farthest corner in the room, where the shadows were the deepest, and where she would be the least observed, sat Marian, her hands clasped tightly together, her head bent forward, and her eyes fixed intently upon the door through which her rival would enter. Frederic was awake, and, missing her from her post, was about asking for her, when Isabel appeared, looking so fresh, so glowing, so beautiful, that for an instant Marian forgot everything in her admiration of the queenly creature, who, bowing civilly to Mrs. Burt, glided to the bedside, and sank upon her knees, gracefully—very gracefully—just as she had done at a private rehearsal in her own room! Tighter the little hands were clasped together, and the head which had dropped before was erect now, as Marian watched eagerly for what would follow next.
“Dear Frederic,” said Isabel, and over the white face in the arm-chair the hot blood rushed in torrents for it seemed almost an insult to hear him thus addressed—“Dear Frederic, do you know me? I am Isabel;” and, unmindful of Mrs. Burt, or yet of the motionless figure sitting near, she kissed his burning forehead, and said again; “Do you know me?”
The nails were marking dark rings now in the tender flesh, while the blue eyes flashed until they grew almost as black as Isabel’s, and still Marian did not move. She could not, until she heard what answer would be given. As the physician had predicted, Frederic was better since his refreshing sleep, and through the misty vail enshrouding his reason a glimmer of light was shining. The voice was a familiarone, and though it partly bewildered him, he know who it was that bent so fondly over him. It was somebody from home, and with a thrill of pleasure akin to what one feels when meeting a fellow countryman far away on a foreign shore, he twined his arms around her neck, and said to her joyfully: “You are Isabel, and you’ve come to make me well.”
Isabel was about to speak again, when a low sob startled her, and, turning in the direction from whence it came, she met a fierce, burning gaze which riveted her as by some magnetism to the spot, and for a moment the two looked intently into each other’s eyes. Isabel and Marian, the one stamping indelibly upon her memory the lineaments of a face which had stolen and kept a heart which should have been her own, while the other wondered much at the strange white face which even through the darkness seemed quivering with pain.
Purposely Mrs. Burt stepped between them, and thus the spell was broken, Isabel turning again to Frederic, while Marian, unlocking her stiff fingers, grasped her bonnet and glided from the room so silently that Isabel knew not she was gone until she turned her head and found the chair empty.
“Who was that?” she said to Mrs. Burt—“that young girl who just went out?”
“My daughter,” answered Mrs. Burt, again mentally asking forgiveness for the falsehood told, and thinking to herself, “Mercy knows it ain’t my nater to lie, but when a body gets mixed up in such a scrape as this, I’d like to see ’em help it!”
After the first lucid interval, Frederic relapsed again into his former delirious mood, but did not ask for Marian. He seemed satisfied that Isabel was there, and he fell asleep again, resting so quietly that when it was eleven Isabel arose and said, “He is doing so well I believe I will retire. I never sat up with a sick person in my life, and should be very little assistanceto you. That daughter of yours is somewhere around, I suppose, and will come if you need help.”
Mrs. Burt nodded, thinking how different was this conduct from that of the unselfish Marian, who had watched night after night without giving herself the rest she absolutely needed. Isabel, on the contrary, had no idea of impairing her beauty, or bringing discomfort to herself by spending many hours at a time in that close, unwholesome atmosphere, and while Marian in her humble apartment was weeping bitterly, she was dreaming of returning to Kentucky as a bride. Frederic could scarcely do less than reward her kindness by marrying her as soon as he was able. She could take care of him so much better, she thought, and ere she fell asleep she had arranged it all in her own mind, and had fancied her mother’s surprise at receiving a letter signed by her new name, “Isabel H. Raymond.” She would retain the “H,” she said. She always liked to see it, and she hoped Agnes Gibson, if she persisted in that foolish fancy of the fish knife, would have it marked in this way!
It was long after daylight ere she awoke, and when she did her first thought was of her pleasant dream and her second of the girl she had seen the night before. “How white she was,” she said, as she made her elaborate toilet, “and how those eyes of hers glared at me, as if I had no business here. Maybe she has fallen in love while taking care of him;” and Isabel laughed aloud at the very idea of a nursing woman’s daughter being in love with the fastidious Frederic! Once she thought of Mrs. Daniel Burt, wondering where she lived, and half wishing she could find her, and, herself unknown, could question her of Marian.
“Maybe this Mrs. Merton knows something of her,” she said, and thinking she would ask her if a good opportunity should occur, she gave an extra brush to her glossy hair, looked in a small hand mirror to see that the braids at the back of her head were right, threwopen her wrapper a little more to show her flounced cambric skirt, and then went to the breakfast room, where three attendants, attracted by her style and the prospect of a fee, bowed obsequiously and asked what she would have. This occupied nearly another hour, and it was almost ten ere she presented herself to Mrs. Burt, who was growing very faint and weary.
At the physician’s request more light had been admitted into the room, and Frederic, who was much better this morning, recognized Isabel at once. He had a faint remembrance of having seen her the previous night, but it needed Mrs. Burt’s assertion to confirm his conjecture, and he greeted her now as if meeting her for the first time. Many questions he asked of the people at home, and how they had learned of his illness.
“We received a letter and a telegram both,” said Isabel, continuing, “You remember that booby peddler who sold Alice the bracelet and frightened the negroes so? Well, he must have telegraphed, for his name was signed to the dispatch, ‘Benjamin Butterworth.’”
Mrs. Burt was very much occupied with something near the table, and Frederic did not notice her confusion as he replied, “He was a kind-hearted man, I thought, but I wonder how he heard of my illness, and where he is now. Mrs. Merton, has a certain Ben Butterworth inquired for me since I was sick?”
“I know nobody by that name,” returned Mrs. Burt, and without stopping to think that her question might lead to some inquiries from Frederic, Isabel rejoined, “Well, do you know a Mrs. Daniel Burt?”
“Mrs. Daniel Burt!” repeated Frederic, as if trying to recall something far back in the past, while the lady in question started so suddenly as to drop the cup of hot water she held in her hand.
Stooping down to pick up the cup, she said something about its having burned her, and added, “I ain’t much acquainted in the city, and never know my next door neighbors.”
“Mrs. Daniel Burt,” Frederic said again, “I have surely heard that name before. Who is she, Isabel?”
It was Isabel’s turn now to answer evasively; but being more accustomed to dissimulate than her companion, she replied, quite as a matter of course, “You may have heard mother speak of her in New Haven. I used to know her when I was a little girl, and I believe she lives in New York. She was a very good, but common kind of woman, and one with whom I should not care to associate, though mother, I dare say, would be glad to hear from her.”
“The impudent trollop,” muttered Mrs. Burt, marvelling at the conversation, and wondering which was trying to deceive the other, Frederic or Isabel. “The former couldn’t hoodwink her,” she said, “even if he did Isabel. She understood it all, and he knew who Mrs. Daniel Burt was just as well as she did, for even if he had forgotten that she once lived with his father, Marian’s letter had refreshed his memory, and he was only ‘putting on’ for the sake of misleading Isabel. But where in the world did that jade know her!” that was a puzzle, and settling it in her own mind that there were two of the same name, she left the room and went down to her breakfast.
During the day not a word was said of Marian. Isabel was evidently too much pleased with Frederic’s delight at seeing her to think of anything else, while Mrs. Burt did not consider it necessary to speak of her. Frederic, too, for a time had forgotten her, but as the day drew near its close, he relapsed into a thoughtful mood, replying to Isabel’s frequent remarks either in monosyllables or not at all. As the darkness increased he seemed to be listening intently, and when a step was heard upon the stairs or in the hall without, his face would light up with eager expectation and then be as suddenly overcast as the footstep passed his door. Gradually there was creeping into his mind a vague remembrance of something or somebody, which for many days had been there with him, gliding so noiselesslyabout the room that he had almost fancied it trod upon the air, and he could scarcely tell whether it were a spirit or a human being like himself. Little by little the outline so dimly discerned assumed a form, and the form was that of a young girl—a very fair young girl, with sweet blue eyes, and soft, baby hands, which had held his aching head and smoothed his tangled hair, oh, so many times. Her voice too, was low and gentle, and reminding him of some sad strain of music heard long, long ago. It seemed to him, too, that she called him Frederic, dropping hot tears upon his face. But where was she now? Why didn’t she come again, and who was she—that little blue-eyed girl? For a time the vision faded and all was confused again, but the reality came back ere long, and listening eagerly for something which never came, he thought and thought until great drops of sweat stood thickly upon his brow; and Isabel, wiping them away, became alarmed at the wildness of his eye and the rapid beating of his pulse. A powerful anodyne was administered, and he slept at last a fitful feverish sleep, which however, did him good, and in the morning he was better than he had been before.
Mrs. Burt, who had watched him carefully, knew that the danger was past, and that afternoon she left him with Isabel, while she went home, where she found Marian seriously ill, with Ben taking care of her in his kind but awkward manner.
“Did Frederic remember me? Does he know I have been there?” were Marian’s first questions, and when Mrs. Burt replied in the negative, she turned away whispering, mournfully, “It is just as well.”
“He is doing well,” said Mrs. Burt, “and as you need me more than he does now, I shall come home and let that Isabel take care of him. It won’t hurt her any, the jade. She can telegraph for her mother if she chooses.”
Accordingly, she returned to the sick room, where she found Frederic asleep and Isabel reading a novel.
To her announcement of leaving, the latter made no objection. She was rather pleased than otherwise, for, as Frederic grew stronger, the presence of a third person, and a stranger, too, might be disagreeable. She would telegraph for her mother, of course, as she did not think it quite proper to stay there alone. But her mother was under her control; she could dispose of her at any time, so she merely stopped her reading long enough to say, “Very well, you can go if you like. How much is your charge?”
Mrs. Burt did not hesitate to tell her; and Isabel, who had taken care of Frederic’s purse, paid her, and then resumed her book, while Mrs. Burt, with a farewell glance at her patient, went from the room, without a word of explanation as to where she could be found in case they wished to find her.
It was dark when Frederic awoke, and it was so still around him that he believed himself alone.
“They have all left me,” he said; “Mrs. Merton, Isabel, and that other one, that being of mystery—who was she—who could she have been?” and shutting his eyes, he tried to bring her before him just as he had often seen her bending o’er his pillow.
He knew now that it was not a phantom of his brain, but a reality. There had been a young girl there, and when the world without was darkest, and he was drifting far down the river of death, her voice had called him back, and her hands had held him up so that he did not sink in the deep, angry waters. There were tears many times upon her face, he remembered, and once he had wiped them away, asking why she cried. It was a pretty face, he said, a very pretty face, and the sunny eyes of blue seemed shining on him even now, while the memory of her gentle acts was very, very sweet, thrilling him with an undefined emotion, and awakening within his bosom a germ of the undying love he was yet to feel for the mysterious stranger. She had called him Frederic, too, while he had called her Marian. She had answered to thatname, she asked him of Isabel, and—“oh, Heaven!” he cried, starting quickly and clasping both hands upon his head. Like a thunderbolt it burst upon him, and for an instant his brain seemed all on fire. “It was Marian!—it was Marian!” he essayed to say, but his lips refused to move, and when Isabel, startled by his sudden movement, struck a light and came to his bedside, she saw that he had fainted!
In great alarm she summoned help, begging of those who came to go at once for Mrs. Merton. But no one knew of the woman’s place of residence, and as she had failed to inquire, it was a hopeless matter. Slowly Frederic came back to consciousness, and when he was again alone with Isabel he said to her, “Where is that woman who took care of me?”
“She is gone,” said Isabel. “Gone to her home.”
“Gone,” he repeated. “When did she go, and why?”
Isabel told him the particulars of Mrs. Burt’s going, and he continued:
“Was there no one else here when you came? No young girl with soft blue eyes?” and he looked eagerly at her.
“Yes,” she replied. “There was a queer acting thing sitting in the arm-chair the night I first came in—”
“Who was she, and where is she now?” he asked and Isabel answered, “I am sure I don’t know where she is, for she vanished like a ghost.”
“Yes, yes; but who was she? Did she have no name?” and Frederic clutched Isabel’s arm nervously.
“Mrs. Merton told me it was her daughter—that is all I know,” said Isabel; and in a tone of disappointment he continued:
“Will you tell me just how she looked, and how she acted when you first saw her?”
“One would suppose you deeply interested in your nurse’s daughter;” and the glittering black eyes flashed scornfully upon Frederic, who replied:
“I am interested, for she saved my life. Tell me, won’t you, how she looked?”
“Well, then,” returned Isabel pettishly, “she was about fifteen, I think—certainly not older than that. Her face was very white, with big, blue eyes, which glared at me like a wild beast’s; and what is queerer than all, she actually sobbed when I, or rather, you kissed me; perhaps you have forgotten that you did?”
He had forgotten it, for the best of reasons, but he did not contradict her, so intent was he upon listening to her story.
“I had not observed her particularly before; but when I heard that sound I turned to look at her, while she stared at me as impudently as if I had no business here. That woman stepped between us purposely I know, for she seemed excited; and when I saw the arm-chair again the girl was gone.”
Thus far everything, except the probable age, had confirmed his suspicions; but there was one question more—an all-important one—and with trembling eagerness he asked:
“What of her hair? Did you notice that?”
“It was brown, I think,” said Isabel—“short in her neck and curly round her forehead. I should say her hair was rather handsome.”
With a sigh of disappointment Frederic turned upon his pillow, saying to her:
“That will do—I’ve heard enough.”
Isabel’s last words had brought back to his mind something which he had forgotten until now—the girl’s hair was short, and he remembered distinctly twining the soft rings around his fingers. They were not long, red curls, like those described by Sally Green. It wasn’t Marian’s hair—it wasn’t Marian at all; and in his weakness his tears dropped silently upon the pillow, for the disappointment was terrible. All that night and the following day he was haunted with thoughts of the young girl, and at last, determiningto see her again and know if she were like Marian, he said to Isabel:
“Send for Mrs. Merton. I wish to talk with her.”
“It is an impossibility,” returned Isabel: “for, when she left us, I carelessly neglected to ask where she lived——”
“Inquire below, then,” persisted Frederic. “Somebody will certainly know, and I must find her.”
Isabel complied with his request, and soon returned with the information that no one knew aught of Mrs. Merton’s whereabouts, though it was generally believed that she came from the country, and at the time of coming to the hotel was visiting friends in the city.
“Find her friends, then,” continued Frederic, growing more and more excited and impatient.
This, too, was impossible, for everything pertaining to Mrs. Merton was mere conjecture. No one could tell where she lived, or whither she had gone; and the sick man lamented the circumstance so often that Isabel more than once lost her temper entirely, wondering why he should be so very anxious about a woman who had been well paid for her services—“yes, more than paid, for her price was a most exorbitant one.”
Meantime, Mrs. Huntington, who, on the receipt of Isabel’s telegram, had started immediately, arrived, laden with trunks, bandboxes, and bags, for the old lady was rather dressy, and fancied a large hotel a good place to show her new clothes. On learning that Frederic was very much better, and that she had been sent for merely on the score of propriety, she seemed somewhat out of humor—“Not that she wanted Frederic to die,” she said, “and she was glad of course that he was getting well, but she didn’t like to be scared the way she was; a telegram always made her stomach tremble so that she didn’t get over it in a week; she had traveled day and night to get there, and didn’t know what she could have done if she hadn’t met Rudolph McVicar in Cincinnati.”
“Rudolph!” exclaimed Isabel. “Pray, where is he now?”
“Here in this very hotel,” returned her mother. “He came with me all the way, and seemed greatly interested in you, asking a thousand questions about when you expected to be married. Said he supposed Frederic’s illness would postpone it awhile, and when I told him you wan’t even engaged as I knew of, he looked disappointed. I believe Rudolph has reformed!”
“The wretch!” muttered Isabel, who rightly guessed that Rudolph’s interest was only feigned.
He had heard of her sudden departure for New York, and had heard also (Agnes Gibson being the source whence the information came) that she might, perhaps, be married as soon as Frederic was able to sit up. Accordingly, he had himself started northward, stumbling upon Mrs. Huntington in Cincinnati, and coming with her to New York, where he stopped at the same hotel, intending to remain there and wait for the result. He did not care to meet Isabel face to face, while she was quite as anxious to avoid an interview with him; and after a few days she ceased to be troubled about him at all. Frederic absorbed all her thoughts, he appeared so differently from what he used to do—talking but little either to herself or her mother, and lying nearly all the day with his eyes shut, though she knew he was not asleep; and she tried in vain to fathom the subject of his reflections. But he guarded that secret well, and day after day he thought on, living over again the first weeks of his sickness in that chamber, until at last the conviction was fixed upon his mind that, spite of the short hair, spite of the probable age, spite of the story about Mrs. Merton’s daughter, or yet the letter from Sarah Green, that young girl who had watched with him so long and then disappeared so mysteriously, was none other than Marian—his wife. He did not shudder now when he repeated that last word to himself. It soundedpleasantly, for he knew it was connected with the sweet, womanly love which had saved him from death. The brown hair which Isabel had mentioned he rejected as an impossibility. It had undoubtedly looked dark to her, but it was red still, though worn short in her neck, for he remembered that distinctly. Sarah Green’s letter was a forgery—Alice’s prediction was true, and Marian still lived.
But where was she now? Why had she left him so abruptly? and would he ever find her? Yes, he would, he said. He would spare no time, no pains, no money in the search; and when he found her he would love and cherish her as she deserved. He was beginning to love her now, and he wondered at his infatuation for Isabel, whose real character was becoming more and more apparent to him. His changed demeanor made her cross and fretful; while Alice Gibson’s letter, asking when she was to be married, and saying people there expected her to return a bride, only increased her ill-humor, which manifested itself several times toward her mother, in Frederic’s presence.
At last, in a fit of desperation, she wrote to Agnes Gibson that she never expected to be married—certainly not to Frederic Raymond—and if every young lady matrimonially inclined should nurse her intended husband through a course of fever, she guessed they would become disgusted with mankind generally, and that man in particular! This done, Isabel felt better—so much better indeed that she resolved upon another trial to bring about her desired object, and one day, about two weeks after her mother’s arrival, she said to Frederic:
“Now that you are nearly well, I believe I shall go to New Haven, and, after a little, mother will come, too. I shall remain there, I think, though mother, I suppose, will keep house for you this year, as she has engaged to do.”
To this suggestion Frederic did not reply just as she thought he would.
“It was a good idea,” he said, “for her to visit her old home, and he presumed she would enjoy it.” Then he added, very faintly: “Alice will need a teacher here quite as much as in Kentucky, and you can retain your situation if you choose.”
Isabel bit her lip, and her black eyes flashed angrily as she replied:
“I am tired of teaching only one pupil, for there is nothing to interest me, and I am all worn out, too.”
She did look pale, and, touched with pity, Frederic said to her, very kindly:
“You do seem weary, Isabel. You have been confined with me too long, and I think you had better go at once. I will run down to see you, if possible, before I return to Kentucky.”
This gave her hope, and, drying her eyes, which were filled with tears, Isabel chatted pleasantly with him about his future plans, which had been somewhat disarranged by his unexpected illness. He could not now hope to be settled at Riverside, as he called his new home, until some time in June—perhaps not so soon—but he would let her know, he said, in time to meet him there.
A day or two after this conversation, Isabel started for New Haven, whither in the course of a week she was followed by both her mother and Rudolph, the latter of whom was determined not to lose sight of her until sure that the engagement, which he somewhat doubted, did not in reality exist.