CHAPTER XVII.THE SEARCH.
When the carriage containing Mrs. Huntington rolled away from the hotel, Frederic, who was standing upon the steps, experienced a feeling of relief in knowing that, as far as personal acquaintances were concerned, he was now alone and free to commence his search for Marian. Each day the conviction had been strengthened that she was alive—that she had been with him a few weeks before—and now every energy should be devoted to finding her. Once he thought of advertising, but she might not see the paper, and as he rather shrank from making his affairs thus public, he abandoned the project, determining, however, to leave no other means untried; he would hunt the city over, inquire at every house, and then scour the surrounding country. It might be months, or it might be years, ere this were accomplished; but accomplish it he would, and with a brave, hopeful heart, he started out, taking first a list of all the Mertons in the Directory, then searching out and making of them the most minute inquiries, except, indeed, in cases where he knew, by the nature of their surroundings, that none of their household had officiated in the capacity of nurse. The woman who had taken care of him was poor and uneducated, and he confined himself mostly to that class of people.
But all in vain. No familiar face ever came at his call. Nobody knew her whom he sought—no one hadheard of Marian Lindsey, and at last he thought of Sally Green, determining to visit her again, and, if possible, learn something more of the girl she had described. Perhaps she could direct him to Joe Black, who might know the tall man last seen with Marian. The place was easily found, and the dangerous stairs creaked again to his eager tread. Sal knew him at once, and tucking her grizzly hair beneath her dirty cap, waited to hear his errand, which was soon told. Could she give him any further information of that young girl, had she ever heard of her since his last visit there, and would she tell him where to find Joe Black?—he might know who the man was, and thus throw some light on the mystery.
“Bless your heart,” answered the woman, “Joe died three weeks ago with the delirium tremens, so what you git out of him won’t help you much. I told you all I knew before; or no, come to think on’t, I seen ’em go into a Third avenue car, and that makes me think the feller lived up town. But law, you may as well hunt for a needle in a haystack as to hunt for a lost gal in New York. You may git out all the police you’ve a mind to, and then you ain’t no better off. Ten to one they are wus than them that’s hidin’ her, if they do wear brass buttons and feel so big,” and Sal shook her brawny arm threateningly at some imaginary officers of justice.
With a feeling of disgust, Frederic turned away, and, retracing his steps, came at last to the Park, where he entered a Third avenue car, though why he did so he scarcely knew. He did not expect to find her there, but he felt a satisfaction in thinking she had once been over that route—perhaps in that very car—and he looked curiously in the faces of his fellow-passengers as they entered and left. Wistfully, too, he glanced out at the houses they were passing, saying to himself: “Is it there Marian lives, or there?” and once when they stopped for some one to alight, his eye wandered down the opposite street, resting at last upon a windowhigh up in a huge block of buildings. There was nothing peculiar about that window—nothing to attract attention, unless it were the neat white fringed curtain which shaded it, or the rose geranium which in its little earthen pot seemed to indicate that the inmates of that tenement retained a love for flowers and country fashions, even amid the smoke and the dust of the city. Frederic saw the white curtain, and it reminded him of the one which years ago hung in his bedroom at the old place on the river. He saw the geranium, too, and the figure which bent over it to pluck the withered leaf. Then the car moved on, and to the weary man sitting in the corner there came no voice to tell how near he had been to the lost one, for that window was Mrs. Burt’s, and the bending figure—Marian.
He had seen her—he had passed within a few rods of her and she could have heard him had he shouted aloud, but for all the good that this did him she might have been miles and miles away, for he never dreamed of the truth, and day after day he continued his search, while the excitement, the fatigue, and the constant disappointment, told fearfully upon his constitution. Still he would not give it up, and every morning he went forth with hope renewed, only to return at night weary, discouraged, and sometimes almost despairing of success.
Once, at the close of a rainy afternoon, he entered again a Third avenue car, which would leave him not very far from his hotel. It had been a day of unusual fatigue with him, and utterly exhausted, he sank into the corner seat, while passenger after passenger crowded in, their damp overcoats and dripping umbrellas filling the vehicle with a sickly steam, which affected him unpleasantly, causing him to lean his aching head upon his hand, and so shut out what was going on around him. They were full at last—every seat, every standing point was taken, and still the conductor said there was room for another, as he passed in a delicate young girl, who modestly drew her vail over her faceto avoid the gaze of the men, some of whom stared rather rudely at her. Just after she came in, Frederic looked up, but the thick folds of the vail told no tales of the sudden paling of the lip, the flushing of her cheek, and the quiver of the eye-lids. Neither did the violent trembling of her body, nor the quick pressure of her hand upon her side convey to him other impression than that she was tired—faint, he thought—and touching his next neighbor with his elbow, he compelled him to move along a few inches, while he did the same, and so made room for the girl between himself and the door.
“Sit here, Miss,” he said, and he turned partly toward her, as if to shield her from the crowd, for he felt intuitively that she was not like them.
Her hands, which chanced to be ungloved and grasped the handle of her basket, were small, very small, and about the joints were little laughing dimples, looking very tempting to Frederic Raymond, who was a passionate admirer of pretty hands, and who now felt a strong desire to clasp the tiny snowflakes just within his reach.
Involuntarily he thought of those which had so lately held his feverish head; they must have been much like the little ones holding so fast the basket, and he wished that chance had brought Marian there instead of the young girl sitting so still beside him. A strange sensation thrilled him at the very idea of meeting her thus, while his heart beat fast, but never said to him that it was Marian herself! Why didn’t it? He asked himself that question a thousand times in after years, saying he should know her again, but he had no suspicion of it now, though when they stopped at the same street down which he once had looked at the open window, and when the seat beside him was empty, he did experience a sense of loneliness—a feeling as if a part of himself had gone with the young girl. Suddenly remembering that in his abstraction he had come higher up than he wished to do, he alsoalighted, and standing upon the muddy pavement, looked after the tripping figure moving so rapidly toward the window where the geranium was blossoming, and where a light was shining now. It disappeared at last, and mentally chiding him for stopping in the rain to watch a perfect stranger, Frederic turned back in the direction of his hotel, while the girl, who had so awakened his interest, rushed up the narrow stairs, and bounded into the room where Mrs. Burt was sitting, exclaimed:
“I’ve seen him! I’ve sat beside him in the same car!”
“Why didn’t you fetch him home, then?” asked Ben, who had returned that afternoon from a short excursion in the country.
Marian’s face crimsoned at this question, and in a hard, unnatural voice she replied:
“He didn’t wish to come. He didn’t even pretend to recognize me, though he gave me a seat, and I knew him so quick.”
“Had that brown dud over your face, I s’pose,” returned Ben, casting a rueful glance at the vail. “Nobody can tell who a woman is, now-a-days. Why didn’t you pull it off and claim him for your husband, and make him pay your fare?”
“Oh, Ben,” said Marian, “you certainly wouldn’t have me degrade myself like that! Frederic knew who I was, I am sure, for I saw him so plain—but he does not wish to find me. He never asked for me since I left his sick room. All he cared for was Isabel, and I wish it were possible for him to marry her.”
“You don’t wish any such thing,” answered Ben, and in the same cold, hard tone Marian continued:
“I do. I thought so to-night when I sat beside him and looked into his face. I loved him once as much as one can love another, and because I loved him thus I came away, thinking in my ignorance that he might be happy with Isabel; and when I saw that advertisement, I wrote, asking if I might go back again. Theresult of the letter you know. He insulted me cruelly. He told me a falsehood, and still I was not cured. When I thought him dying in the hotel, I went and staid with him till the other came: but, after I was gone, he never spoke of me, and he even professed not to know Mrs. Daniel Burt, asking who she was, when he knew as well as I, for I told him who she was, and he directed my letter to her. I never used to think he was deceitful, but I know it now, and I almost hate him for it.”
“Tut, tut. No you don’t,” chimed in Ben; and Marian growing still more excited, continued, “Well, if I don’t, I will. I have run after him all I ever shall, and now if we are reconciled he must make the first concessions!”
“Whew-ew,” whistled Ben, thinking to himself, “Ain’t the little critter spunky, though!” and feeling rather amused than otherwise, he watched Marian as she paced the floor, her blue eyes flashing angrily and her whole face indicative of strong excitement.
She fully believed that Frederic knew her, simply because she recognized him, and his failing to acknowledge the recognition filled her with indignation and determination to forget him if it were possible. Ah, little did she dream then of the lonely man, who, in the same room where she so recently had been, sat with bowed head, and thought of her until the distant bells tolled the hour of midnight.
It was now three weeks since he commenced his search, and he was beginning to despair of success. His presence he knew was needed in Kentucky, where Alice had been left alone with the negroes, and where his arrangements for moving were not yet completed. His house on the river was waiting for him, the people wondering why he didn’t come, and as he sat thinking it all over, he resolved at last to go home and bring Alice to Riverside—to send for Mrs. Huntington as had previously been arranged, and then begin the search again. Of Isabel too, he thought, rememberinghis hasty promise of going to New Haven, but this he could not do. So he penned her a few lines, telling her how it was impossible for him to come, and saying that on his return to Riverside with Alice, he should expect to find her mother and herself waiting to receive him.
“I cannot do less than this,” he said. “Isabel has been with me a long time, and though I do not feel toward her as I did, I pity her; for I am afraid she likes me better than she should. I have given her encouragement, too; but when I come back, I will talk with her candidly. I will tell her how it is, and offer her a home with me as long as she shall choose to stay. I will be to her a brother; and when Marian is found, the two shall be like sisters, until some man who has not a wife already takes Isabel from my hands.”
Thus deciding, Frederic wrote to Alice, telling her when he should probably be home, and saying he should stop for a day or so at Yonkers. This done, he retired to rest, dreaming strange dreams of Marian and the girl who sat beside him. They were one and the same, he thought; and he was raising the brown vail to see, when he awoke to consciousness, and experienced a feeling of disappointment in finding his dream untrue.
That morning a vague, uneasy feeling prompted him to stroll slowly down the street whither the young girl had gone the previous night. The window in the third story was open again, and the geranium was standing there still, its broad leaves growing fresher and greener in the sunshine which shone warm upon the window sill, where a beautiful kitten lay, apparently asleep. Frederic saw it all, and for an instant felt a thrill of fear lest the cat should fall and be killed on the pavement below. But a second glance assured him of its safety—for, half buried in its long, silk fur, was a small white hand, a hand like Marian’s and that of the girl with the thick brown vail. “Its owner was the mistress of the kitten,” he said; and the top of herhead was just visible, for she sat reading upon a little stool, and utterly unconscious of the stranger who, on the opposite side in the street, cast many and wistful glances in that direction, not because he fancied that she was there, nor yet for any explainable reason, except that the fringed curtain reminded him of his boyhood; and he knew the occupant of that room had once lived in the country, and bleached her linen on the sweet, clean grass, which grew by the running brook.
“Marian,” said Mrs. Burt, “who is that tall man going down the street? He’s been looking this way ever so much. Isn’t it——”
She did not need to repeat the name, for Marian saw who it was, and her fingers buried themselves so deeply in the fat sides of the kitten that the little animal fancied the play rather too rude for comfort, and, spitting at her mistress pertly bounded upon the floor.
“It’s Frederic!” cried Marian. “Maybe he’s coming here, for he has crossed the street below, and is coming up this side.” And in her joy Marian forgot the harsh things she had said of him only the night before.
But in vain Marian waited for the step upon the stairs—the loud knock upon the door—neither of them came, and leaning from the window she watched him through her tears until he passed from sight.
That afternoon, as Frederic was sauntering leisurely down the street in the direction of the depot—for he intended going to Yonkers that night—he stumbled upon Ben, whose characteristic exclamation was, “Wall, Square, glad to see you out agin, but I didn’t b’lieve I ever should when I sent word to that gal. She come, I s’pose?”
“Yes,” returned Frederic, “and I am grateful to you for your kindness in telegraphing to my friends. How did you know I was sick?”
“Oh, I’m allus ’round,” said Ben. “Know one of them boys at the hotel, and he told me. I s’posedyou’d die, and I should of come to see you mabby, only I had to go off peddlin’. Bizness afore pleasure, you know.”
This remark seemed to imply that Frederic’s dying would have been a source of pleasure to the Yankee, but the young man knew that he did intend it, and the two walked on together—Ben plying his companion with questions, an learning that both Isabel and Mrs. Huntington were now in New Haven, but would probably go to Riverside when Frederic returned from Kentucky.
“That’s a grand place,” said Ben; “fixed up in tip-top style, too. I took my sister out to see it, and she thought ’twas pretty slick. Wouldn’t wonder if you’re goin’ to marry that black haired gal, by the looks of things?” and Ben’s gray eyes peered sideways at Frederic, who replied, “I certainly have no such intentions.”
“You don’t say it,” returned Ben. “I shouldn’t of took the trouble to send for her if I hadn’t s’posed you was kinder courtin’. My sister thought you was, and she or’to know, bein’ she’s been through the mill!”
Frederic winced under Ben’s pointed remarks, and as a means of changing the conversation, said, “If I am not mistaken, you spoke of your sister when in Kentucky, and Alice became quite interested. I’ve heard her mention the girl several times. What is her name?”
“Do look at that hoss—flat on the pavement. He’s a goner,” Ben exclaimed, by way of gaining a little time.
Frederic’s attention was immediately diverted from Ben, who thought to himself, “I’ll try him with half the truth, and if he’s any ways bright he’ll guess the rest.”
So when, to use Ben’s words, the noble quadruped was “safely landed on t’other side of Jordan where there wan’t no omnibus drivers, no cars, no canal boats, no cartmen, no gals to pound their backs into pummice,no wimmen, nor ministers to yank their mouths, nor nothin’ but a lot as big as the United States with the Missippi runnin’ through it, and nothin’ to do but kick up their heels and eat clover,” Ben came back to Frederic’s question, and said, “You as’t my sister’s name. They tried hard to call herMary Ann, I s’pose. My way of thinkin’ ’taint neither one nor t’other, though mabby you’ll like it—Marian; ’taint a common name. Did you ever hear it afore?”
“Marian!” gasped Frederic, turning instantly pale, while a strange, undefinable feeling swept over him—a feeling that he had never been so near finding her as now.
“Excuse me, Square,” said Ben, whose keen eyes lost not a single change in the expression of Frederic’s face. “I’m such a blunderin’ critter! That little blind gal told me your fust wife was Marian, and I or’to known better than harrer your feelings with the name.”
“Never mind,” returned Frederic, faintly, “but tell me of your sister—and now I think of it, you said once you were from down east, which I supposed referred to one of the New England states, Vermont perhaps?”
“Did use to live in Massachusetts,” replied Ben. “But can’t a feller move?”
Frederic admitted that he could, and Ben continued, “I or’to told you, I s’pose, that Marian ain’t my own flesh and blood—she’s adopted, that’s all. But I love her jest the same. Her name is Marian Grey,” and Ben looked earnestly at Frederic, thinking to himself, “Won’t he take the hint when he knows, or had or’to know that her mother was a Grey.”
But hints were lost on Frederic. He had no suspicion of the truth, and Ben proceeded, “All her kin is dead, and as mother hadn’t no daughter she took this orphan, and I’m workin’ hard to give her a good schoolin’. She can play the pianner like fury, and talks the French grammar most as well as I do the English!”
This brought a smile to Frederic’s face, and he did not for a moment think of doubting Ben’s word.
“You seem very proud of your sister,” he said, at last, “and as I owe you something for caring for me and telegraphing to my friends, let me show my gratitude by giving you something for this Marian Grey. What shall it be? Is she fond of jewelry? Most young girls are.”
Ben stuck his hands in his trousers pocket and seemed to be thinking; then, removing his hands he replied, “Mabby you’ll think it sassy, but there is somethin’ that would please us both. I told her about you when I came from Kentucky, and she cried like a baby over that blind gal. Then, when you was sick, she felt worried agin, beg your pardon, Square, but I told her you was han’some. Jest give us your picter, if it ain’t bigger than my thumb, and would it be asking too much for you when you git home to send me the blind gal’s. She’s an angel, and I should feel so good to have her face in my pocket. You can direct to Ben Butterworth—but law, you won’t, I know you won’t.”
“Why not?” asked Frederic, laughing at the novel request. “Mine you shall surely have, and Alice’s also, if she consents. Come with me now, for we are opposite a daguerrean gallery.”
The result of this was that in a short time Ben held in his hand a correct likeness of Frederic, which was of priceless value to him, because he knew how highly it would be prized by her for whom alone he had requested it.
As they passed out into the street again, Frederic said to him rather abruptly, “Do you know Sarah Green?”
“No,” answered Ben, and Frederic continued,
“Do you know Mrs. Merton?”
Ben started a little, and then repeating the name replied, “Ain’t acquainted with that name neither. Who is she?”
“She took care of me,” returned Frederic, “and I would like to find her, and thank her for her kindness.”
“I shouldn’t s’pose she could of took care of you alone, sick as you was,” said Ben, waiting eagerly for the answer, which, had it been what he desired, might lead to the unfolding of the mystery.
But Frederic shrank from making Ben his confidant.
“It was hard for her till Miss Huntington came.”
“Blast Miss Huntington,” thought Ben, now thoroughly satisfied that his companion did not care to discover Marian, or he would certainly say something about her.
Both she and his mother were sure that he knew she had been with him in his sickness, and if he really wished to find her he would speak of her as well as of Mrs. Merton.
“But he don’t,” thought Ben. “He don’t care a straw for her, and she’s right when she says she won’t run after him any more. He don’t like Isabel none too well, and I ra-ally b’lieve the man is crazy.”
This settled the matter satisfactorily with Ben, who accompanied Frederic to the depot, waiting there until the departure of the train.
“Give my regrets to that Josh, and the rest of the niggers, and don’t on no account forget the picter,” were his last words, as he quitted the car, and then hurried home impatient to show Marian his surprise.
He found her sitting by the open window—a listless, dreamy look in her blue eyes, and a sad expression upon her face, which said that her thoughts were far away in the South-land, where Nature had decked her beautiful home with all the glories of the merry month of May and the first bright days of June. Roses were blooming there now, she knew, and she thought of the bush she had planted beneath the library window, wondering if that were in bloom, and if its fragrance ever reminded the dear ones of her. Did Alice twine the buds amid her soft hair, just as she used to do,and call them Marian’s buds, saying they were sweeter than all the rest?
“Darling Alice,” she murmured, “I shall never see her again;” and her tears were dropping upon her lap just as Ben came in, and began:
“Wall, wee one, I’ve seen the Square, and talked with him of you.”
“Oh, Ben, Ben!”—and Marian’s face was spotted with her excitement—“what made you? What did he say? and where is he?”
“Gone home,” answered Ben; “but he had this took on purpose for you;” and he tossed the picture into her lap.
“It is—it is Frederic. Oh, Mrs. Burt, it is,” and Marian’s lip touched the glass, from which the face of Frederic Raymond looked kindly out upon her.
It was thinner than when she used to know it, but fuller, stronger-looking than when it lay among the tumbled pillows. The eyes, too, were hollow, and not so bright, while it seemed to her that the rich brown hair was not so thrifty as of old. But it was Frederic still, her Frederic, and she pressed it again to her lips, while her heart thrilled with the joyful thought that he remembered her, and had sent her this priceless token. But why had he gone home without her—why had he left her there alone if he really cared for finding her? Slowly, as a cloud obscures a summer sky, a shadow crept over her face—a shadow of doubt—of distrust. There was something she had not heard, and with quivering lip she said to Ben, “What does it mean? You have not told me why he sent it.”
It was cruel to deceive her as he had done, and so Ben thought when he saw the heaving of her chest, the pressure of her hands, and more than all, the whiteness of her face, as he told her why Frederic sent to her that picture; that it was not taken for Marian Lindsey, but rather for Marian Grey, adopted sister of Benjamin Butterworth.
“He does not wish to find me,” said Marian whenBen had finished speaking. “We shall never be reconciled, and it is just as well, perhaps.”
“I think so, too,” rejoined Ben, “or at any rate I’d let him rest a spell, and learn everything there is in books for woman kind to learn. You shall go to college, if you say so, and bimeby, when the old Nick himself wouldn’t know you, I’ll get you a chance to teach that blind gal, and he’ll fall in love with his own wife; see if he don’t,” and Ben stroked the curls within his reach very caressingly, thinking to himself, “I won’t tell her now ’bout Alice’s picter, ’cause it may not come, but I’ll cheer her up the best way that I can. She grows handsome every day of her life,” and as this, in Ben’s estimation, was the one thing of all others to be desired by Marian, he could not forbear complimenting her aloud upon her rapid improvement in looks.
“Thank you,” she answered, smiling very faintly, for to her, beauty or accomplishments were of little avail if in the end Frederic’s love were not secured.
Anon, however, hope whispered to her that it might be, and again she opened the daguerreotype, catching a glow of encouragement from the eyes which looked so kindly at her, as if they fain would tell her of the weary days the original of that picture had spent in searching for her, or how, even now, amid the noise and dust of the crowded cars, he sat, wholly unmindful of what was passing around, never looking at the beautiful blue river without, or yet at the motley passengers within, but with his hat drawn over his eyes and his shawl across his lap, he thought of her alone, except indeed occasionally when there would intrude itself upon him the remembrance of the girl with the brown vail, or a thought of Marian Grey!