CHAPTER XXIII.MARIAN RAYMOND.

Very rapidly the Spring passed away, enlivened once by a short visit from Ben, who, having purchased an entire new suit of clothes for the occasion, looked and appeared unusually well, talking but little until he was alone with Marian, when his tongue was loosed, and he told her all he had come to tell.

He had been to Riverside, he said, and Mrs. Russell, who was still there and was to be the future housekeeper, was very gracious to him, on account of his being the adopted brother of their next governess, Miss Grey.

“She showed me your chamber,” said he, “and it’s the very one they fixed up so nice for Isabel. Nobody has ever used it, for Miss Jones slep’ in a little room at the end of the hall. Frederic has had a door cut from Alice’s chamber into yourn, ’cause he said how’t you and she would want to be near to each other, he knew. And I’ll tell you what, when you git there, it seems to me you’ll be as nigh Heaven as you’ll ever git in this world. Mrs. Huntington has bought a little cottage close by Frederic’s,” he continued, “and she’s livin’ there with Isabel, who has got to be an heir——”

“An heiress!” repeated Marian. “Whose, pray?”

“Don’t know,” returned Ben, “only that old man she went to Florida with is dead, and he willed her some. I don’t know how much, but law she’ll spend it in no time. Mrs. Russell said her lace curtains cost an awful sight, though she b’lieved they was boughtsecond-hand, in New York. I walked by there afoot to see ’em, and between you and me they are yallerer than saffern. My advice to her is that she bile ’em up in ashes and water, jest as mother used to bile up my shirts that I wore in the factory. It’ll whiten ’em quickest of anything, and if I’s you I’d kinder tell her so—friendly like, you know—’cause it don’t look well for decent folks to have such dirty things a hangin’ to their winders!”

Marian smiled at Ben’s simplicity, telling him that “the chief value of the curtains consisted probably in their soiled, yellow appearance.”

“Whew,” whistled Ben, “I wish mother’d had a little more larnin’, for if she’d known it was genteel to be dirty, mabby she wouldn’t have broke her back a scrubbin’, when there warn’t no use on’t.”

Isabel’s curtains having been discussed at length, and herself described as Ben saw her “struttin’ through the streets,” he arose to go, telling Marian he should not probably see her again until he visited her in the Autumn at Riverside.

“I guess I wouldn’t let it all out at once,” said he, “but wait and let Frederic sweat. It’ll do him good, and he isn’t paid yet for all he’s made you suffer. I ain’t no Universaler, but I do like to see folks catch it as they go ’long.”

Once Marian thought to tell him of William Gordon’s unfortunate attachment, particularly as he was loud in his praises of the young man; but upon second reflections she decided to keep that matter to herself, hoping that the subject would never be mentioned to her again. And in this her wishes seemed to be realized, for as the weeks after Ben’s departure went by, William began to be more like himself than he had been before since her refusal of him. He came often to Mrs. Sheldon’s, sang with her sometimes as of old, and she fancied he was losing his love for her. But she was mistaken, for it was strengthening with each hour’s interview. The very hopelessness of his passionrendered it more intense, it would seem, until at last, unable longer to remain where she was, and know she could never be his, he went from home, nor returned again until near the middle of August, when he found Mrs. Sheldon’s house in a state of great confusion. Furniture was being covered or packed away, rooms shut up, and windows fastened down, while his sister was in that state of feminine bliss when every chair is filled with new dresses, save two, and those two are occupied by the makers of said dresses.

Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon were going to Europe. They would sail in about two weeks, and as Marian had positively declined to accompany them, they had engaged another governess, who was to meet them in New York. It was decided that Marian should remain a few days with Mrs. Gordon, and then go to Riverside, where her coming was anxiously expected both by Frederic and Alice. This arrangement was highly satisfactory to Will, who anticipated much happiness in having her wholly to himself for a week. There would be no sister Ellen, with curious, prying eyes, for she was going with Mrs. Sheldon as far as New York—no little girls always in the way—no funny Fred, to see and tell of everything—nobody, in short, but his good mother, who he knew would often leave him alone with Marian.

During his absence from home he had thought much upon the subject, and had resolved to make one more trial at least. She might be eventually won, and if so, he should care but little for the efforts made to win her. With this upon his mind, he felt rather relieved than otherwise when the family at last were gone, and Marian was an inmate of his mother’s house. Both Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon had urged him to accompany them, and he had made arrangements to do so in case he found Marian still firm in her refusal. They were intending to stop for a few days in New York, and he could easily join them the day on which the ship was advertised to sail. He should know hisfate before that time, he thought, and he strove in various ways to obtain an interview with Marian, who, divining his intention, was unusually reserved in her demeanor toward him, and if by chance she found herself with him alone, she invariably formed some excuse to leave the room, so that Will began at last to lose all hope, and to think seriously of joining his sister as the surest means of forgetting Marian Grey.

“She does not care for me,” he said to his mother, one night after Marian had retired. “I believe she rather dislikes me than otherwise. I think on the whole I shall go, and if so, I must start in the morning, for the vessel sails to-morrow night.”

To this his mother made no objection, for though she would be very lonely without him, she was accustomed to rely upon herself, so she rather encouraged him than otherwise, thinking it would do him good. Accordingly, next morning, when Marian came down to breakfast, she was surprised to hear of Will’s intended departure.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, involuntarily, for Will Gordon had a strong place in her affections, and knew not what danger might befall him on the deep.

Breakfast being over, there remained to Will but half an hour, and as a part of this was necessarily spent with the servants, and in preparations for his journey, he had at the last but a few moments in which to say his farewell words to Marian. She was in the back parlor, his mother said, and there he found her weeping, for she felt that her friends were leaving her one by one, and though in a few days she was going back to her husband and her home, she knew not what the result would be. Will’s sudden determination to visit Europe affected her unpleasantly, for she felt that she was in some way connected with it, and she was conscious of a feeling of loneliness, such as she had not experienced before since she first came to Mrs. Sheldon’s.

“Are you weeping?” said Will, when he saw her with her head bowed down upon the arm of the sofa.

Marian did not answer, and with newly awakened hope Will drew nearer and seated himself beside her. “It might be that he was mistaken, after all,” he thought. “Her tears would seem to indicate as much. Girls were strange beings, everybody said,” and passing his arm around the weeping Marian, he whispered: “Do you like me, then?”

“Yes, very, very much,” she answered, “and now that you are going away, and I may never see you again, I am so sorry I ever caused you a moment’s pain.”

“I needn’t go, Marian,” William said, drawing her close to him. “I will stay, oh, so gladly, if you bid me do so. But it must be foryou. Shall I, Marian? May I stay?” and again Will Gordon poured into her ear deep burning words of love—entreating her to be his wife—to forget that other love so unworthy of her, and to give herself to him, who would cherish her so tenderly. Then he told her how the thought that she did not love him had made him go away, when he would so much rather remain where she was, if he could know she wished it. “Answer me, Marian,” he said, “for time hastens, and if you tell me no again, I must be gone. Never man loved and, worshipped his wife as I will love and worship you. Speak and tell me yes.”

Will paused for her reply, and looking into her face, which she had turned towards him, he thought he read a confirmation of his hopes, but the first words she uttered wrung his heart with cruel disappointment.

“I cannot be your wife,” she said. “I mean it, Mr. Gordon, I cannot, and oh, it would be wicked not to tell you. Can I trust you? Will you keep my secret safe, as I have kept it almost six long years?”

There was some insufferable barrier between them, and William Gordon felt it, as trembling in everylimb, he answered, “Whatever you intrust to me shall not be betrayed.”

“Then, listen,” she said, “and say if you will bid me marry you. I told you I was not what I seemed, and I am not. People, perhaps, call me young, but to myself I seem old, I have suffered so much and all my womanhood has been wasted, as it were, in tears. I told you once that before coming here I had given to another the love for which you sued, and I told you truly; but Mr. Gordon, there was more to tell; that other one, who loves me not, or who, if he does, has never manifested it to me by word or deed, ismy own husband!”

“Oh, Marian, Marian, this indeed is death itself!” groaned Will, for though he had said there was no hope, it seemed to him now that he had never believed or realized it, as when he heard the dreadful words, “my own husband.”

“Do not despise me for deceiving you,” Marian continued. “If I had thought you could have seen aught to desire in me, a poor, humble girl, I might, perhaps, have warned you in time, though how could I tell you, a stranger, that I was an unloved wife?”

“Where is he—that man?” Will asked, for he could not say “your husband,” and his lip quivered with something akin to the pain one feels when he hears the cold earth rattling into the grave where he has buried his fondest pride.

Marian’s confession was a death-blow to all Will had dared to hope, and he asked for the husband more as a matter of form than because he really cared to know.

“Mr. Gordon,” said Marian, rising to her feet, and standing with her face turned fully toward him, “MustI tell you more? I thought I needed only to speak of ahusbandand you would guess the rest. Don’t you know me? Have we never met before?”

Wistfully, anxiously William gazed at her, scanning her features one by one, while a dim vision of somethingback in the past floated before him, but assumed no tangible form, and shaking his head, he answered: “Never, to my knowledge.”

“Look again. Is not my face a familiar one? Did you never see it before? Not here—not in New England—but far away, where the Summer comes earlier and the Winter is not so long. Is there not something about me—something in my person, or my voice, which carries you back to an old house on the river where you once met a little curly-haired girl?”

She did not need to say more. Little by little it had come to him, and, starting to his feet, he caught her hand, exclaiming, “Great Heaven!The lost wife of Frederic Raymond!”

“Yes,” she answered, “the lost Marian of Redstone Hall,” and leaning her head upon his arm, she burst into tears, for he seemed to her like a brother now, while she to him—

He could not think of her as a sister yet—he loved her too well for that; but still his feelings toward her had changed in the great shock with which he recognized her. She could never be his Marian, he knew, neither did he desire it. And for a moment he stood speechless, wholly overwhelmed with astonishment and wonder. Then he said, “Marian Raymond, why are you here?”

“Why?” she repeated bitterly. “You may well ask why. Hated by him who should care for me, what could I do but go away into the unknown world, and throw myself upon its charities, which in my case have not been cold or selfish. God bless the noble-hearted Ben, and the sainted woman, his mother, who did not cast me off when I went to them, homeless, friendless, and heart-broken.”

In her excitement, Marian clasped her hands together, and the blue of her eye grew deeper, darker, as she paid this tribute of gratitude to those who had been her friends indeed. Involuntarily, Will Gordon, too, responded to the words, “God bless the noble-heartedBen,” for, looking at the beautiful girl before him, he felt that what she was she owed to the self-denying, unwearied efforts of the uncultivated but generous Ben.

“Marian,” he said again, “you must go home. Go to your husband. He is waiting for you. He has sought for you long; he has expiated his sin. Go, Marian, go——”

“I am going,” she answered, “and if I only knew he wanted me—wanted his wife——”

“He does want you,” interrupted Will. “He has told me so many a time.”

Marian was about to reply, when Mrs. Gordon appeared, warning her son that the carriage was at the door; and with a hurried farewell to Marian and his mother, Will hastened off, whispering to the former, “I shall write to you when on the sea—”

“And keep my secret safe. I would rather divulge it myself,” she added.

He nodded in the affirmative, and was soon on his way to the depot, so bewildered with what he had heard, that he scarcely knew whether it were reality or a dream. Gradually, however, it became clear to him, and he remembered many things which confirmed the strange story he had heard.

Greatly he wished to write to Frederic, and tell him that Marian Grey was his wife, but he would not break his promise, and he was wondering how he could hasten the discovery, when, as the cars left the depot at Hartford, a broad hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice which sounded familiar, said, “Wall, captain, bein’ we’re so full, I guess you’ll have to make room for me, or else I’ll have to set with that gal whose hoops take up the hull concern.”

“Ben Butterworth,” Will exclaimed, turning his face toward the speaker, who recognized him at once.

“Wall,” he began, as he took the seat Will readily shared with him, “I didn’t ’spose ’twas you. How doyou do, and how’s Marian? Has she gone to Riverside yet?”

“No,” returned Will, and looking Ben directly in the face, he continued, “How much of Miss Grey’s history do you know?”

“Mor’n I shall tell, I’ll bet. How much do you know?” and Ben set his hat a little more on one side of his head.

“More than you suppose, perhaps,” returned Will. “And if you, too, are posted, I’d like to talk the matter over, but if not, I shall betray no secrets.”

“I swan, I b’lieve you do know,” said Ben. “Did she tell you?”

Will nodded, and Ben continued, “She wrote to me that you knew Mr. Raymond, and liked him, too; I guess he ain’t a very bad chap after all, is he?”

The ice was fairly broken now, and both Will and Ben settled themselves for a long conversation. Will did not think it betrayed Marian’s confidence to talk of her with one who understood her affairs so much better than himself, and ere they reached New York, he had heard the whole story—heard how Ben had stumbled upon her in New York, and taken her to his home without knowing aught of her, except that she was friendless and alone—how the mother, now resting in her grave, had cared for the orphan girl, and how Ben, too, had done for her what he could.

“’Twan’t much anyway,” he said, “and I never minded it an atom, for ’twas a pleasure to arn money for her schoolin’.”

And Ben spoke truly, for it never occurred to him that he had denied himself as few men would have done—toiling early and late, through sunshine and storm, wearing the old coat long after it was threadbare, and sometimes, when peddling, eating but two meals a day, by way of saving for Marian. Of all this he did not speak to his companion. He did not even think of it, or, if he did, he felt that he was more than paid in seeing Marian what she was. Accidentally,he said that his name was really Ben Burt, and that he should be glad when the time came for him to be called thus again.

“When will that be?” asked Will, and Ben replied by unfolding to him his long cherished plan of having Frederic make love to his own wife.

“You might write to him, I s’pose,” he said, “but that would spile all my fun, and I’d rather let the thing work itself out. He’s bound to fall in love with her. He can’t help it, and I don’t see howyoucould. Mabby you did.” And Ben’s grey eyes looked quizzically at his companion, who colored deeply as he replied merely to the first part of Ben’s remark. “I certainly will not interfere in the matter, though before meeting you I was wondering how I could do so, and not betray Marian’s confidence. I am sure now it will all come right at last, and you ought to be permitted to bring it round in your own way, for you have been a true friend to her, and I dare say she loves you as a brother.”

This was touching Ben on a tender point, for his old affection for Marian was not quite dead yet, and Will’s last words brought back to him memories of those dreary winter nights, when in his way he had battled with the love he knew he must not cherish for Marian Grey. He fidgeted in his seat, got up and looked under him, sat down again and looked out of the window, and repeated to himself a part of the multiplication table, by way of keeping from crying.

“Bless her, she’s an angel,” he managed at last to say, adding, as he, met the inquiring glance of Will: “It’s my misfortin’ to be oncommon tender-hearted, and when I git to thinkin’ of somethin’ that concerns nobody but me, I can’t keep from cryin’ no way you can fix it,” and two undeniable tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped from the end of his nose.

“He, too,” sighed Will Gordon, and as he thought how much more the uncouth man beside him had done for Marian Grey than either Frederic or himself, and thathe really had the greatest claim to her gratitude and love, his heart warmed toward Yankee Ben as to a long tried friend, and he resolved to leave for him a substantial token of his regard.

“Why don’t you settle down, as a grocer, in some small country town?” he asked, as they came near the city.

“I have thought of that,” said Ben, “for I’m gettin’ kinder tired of travelin’ now that there ain’t no home for me to go to once in so often. I think I should like to be a grocery man first rate, and weigh out saleratus and bar soap to the old wimmen. Wouldn’t they flock in, though, to see me, I’m so odd! But ’taint no use to think on’t for I hain’t the money now, though, mabby I shall have it bimeby. My expenses ain’t as great as they was.”

By this time they had reached the depot, and Will, who knew they must part there, said to him, “How long do you stay in New York?”

“Not long,” returned Ben, “I’ve only come to recruit my stock a little.”

“Go to the Post-Office before you leave,” was Will’s reply, as he stepped from the platform and was lost in the crowd.

“What did he mean?” thought Ben. “Nobody writes to me but Marian, and I ain’t expectin’ nothin’ from her, but I guess I may as well go.”

Accordingly, the next night, when Will Gordon, with little Fred in his arms, was looking out upon the sea, Ben wended his way to the office, inquiring first for Ben Butterworth and then for Ben Burt. There was a letter for the latter, and it contained a draft for three hundred dollars, together with the following lines:

“You and I have suffered alike, and in each of our hearts there is a hidden grave. I saw it in the tears you shed when talking to me of Marian Grey. Heaven bless you, Ben Burt, for all you have been to her.She is one of the fairest, best, of God’s creation, but she was not meant for you nor me; and we must learn to go our way without her. You have done for her more, perhaps, than either Mr. Raymond or myself would have done in the same circumstances, and thus far you are more worthy of her esteem. You will please accept the inclosed as a token that I appreciate your self-denying labors for Marian Grey. Use it for that grocery we talked about, if you choose, or for any purpose you like. If you have any delicacy just consider it a loan to be paid when you are a richer man than I am. You cannot return it, of course, for when you receive it I shall be gone.

“Yours, in haste,William Gordon.”

This letter was a mystery to Ben, who read it again and again, dwelling long upon the words, “You and I suffered alike, and in each of our hearts there is a hidden grave.”

“That hits me exactly,” he said, “though I never thought of callin’ that hole in my heart a grave—but ’taint nothin’ else, for I buried somethin’ in it, and the tender brotherly feelin’ I’ve felt for Marian ever since was the grave stun I set up in memory of what had been. But what does he know about it, though why shouldn’t he, for no mortal man can look in Marian’s face and not feel kinder cold and hystericky-like at the pit of his stomach! Yes, he’s in love with her, and that’s the way she came to tell who she was. Poor Bill! poor Bill! I know how to pity him to a dot,” and Ben heaved a deep sigh as he finished this long soliloquy.

The money next diverted his attention, but no puzzling on his part could explain to him satisfactorily why it had been sent.

“S’posin’ he was grateful,” he said, “he needn’t give me three hundred dollars for nothin’, but bein’ he has, I may as well use it to start in business, though I shall pay it back, of course,” and when alone in his roomat the Hotel where he stopped, he wrote upon a bit of paper.

“New york, August 30 18—

“For vally rec. I promise to pay Bill Gordon, or bearer, the sum of three hundred dollars with use from date.

“Benjamin Burt.”

This note he put carefully away in his old leathern wallet, where it was as safe and as sure of being paid as if it had been in William Gordon’s hands instead of his.

Meantime Marian at Mrs. Gordon’s was half regretting that she had told her secret to William, and greatly lamenting that they had been interrupted ere she knew just how much Frederic wished to find her. That his feelings toward her had changed, she was sure, but she would know by word and deed that he loved her ere she revealed herself to him, and the dark mystery of that cruel letter must be explained before she could respect him as she had once done. And now but a few days remained ere she should see him face to face, for she was going to Riverside very soon. Some acquaintance of hers were going west by way of New York, and she decided to accompany them, though by so doing she would reach Riverside one day earlier than she was expected.

“It would make no difference of course,” she said, and she waited impatiently for the appointed morning.

It came at last and long before the hour for starting she was ready, the dancing joy in her eyes, and her apparent eagerness to go being sadly at variance with the expression of Mrs. Gordon’s face, for the good lady loved the gentle girl and grieved to part with her.

“I am sorry to leave you,” Marian said, when the last moment came, “but I am so glad I am going, too, sometime, perhaps, you may know why and then you will not blame me.”

She could not shed a tear although she had become greatly attached to her Springfield home, and her excitement continued unabated until she reached New York, where they stopped for the night. There were several hours of daylight left, and stealing away from her friends she took a Third Avenue car and went up to their old house where strangers were living now. She did not care to go in, for the dingy, uncurtained windows looked far from inviting, and she passed slowly down the other side of the street, musing upon all that had passed since the night when she first climbed those narrow stairs, and asked a mother’s care from Mrs. Burt. She did not think then that she would ever be as happy as she was to-day with the uncertainty of meeting Frederic to-morrow. It seemed a great while to wait, and as Ben had once numbered the weeks in seven years, so she now counted the hours, which must elapse ere she felt the pressure of Frederic’s hand—for he would shake hands with her of course, and he would look into her face, for he had heard much of her both from Will Gordon and Ben. Would he be disappointed? Would he think her pretty? Would he know her? And Alice—what would she say? Marian dreaded this test more than all the rest, for she felt that there was danger in the instinct of the blind girl. Slowly she retraced her steps and returning to the Astor, sought her own room, informing her friends that she was weary and would rest.

“Five hours more,” was her first thought when she awoke next morning from a sounder sleep than she had supposed it possible to enjoy when under such excitement. Ere long it was four hours more, then three, then two, then one, and then the cars stopped at the depot at Yonkers. Two trunks marked “M. G.” stood upon the platform, and near them a figure in black, bowing to her friends, who leaned from the car window, and holding in her hands a satchel, a silk umbrella, two checks, her purse, and a book, for Marianpossessed the weakness of her sex, and in traveling always carried the usual amount of baggage.

“To Riverside,” she said, when asked where she wished to go, and she looked around as if half expecting a familiar face.

But she looked in vain, and in a few moments she was comfortably seated in the lumbering stage, which once before had carried her up that long hill. Eagerly she strained her eyes to catch the first view of the house; and when at last it came in sight, she was too intent upon it to observe the showily-dressed young lady tripping along upon the walk, and holding her skirts with her thumb and finger so as to show her dainty slipper.

But if Marian did not see Isabel, Isabel saw her. It was not usual for the stage to come up at that hour of the day, and as it passed her by, Isabel turned to see where it was going.

“To Riverside,” she exclaimed, as she saw it draw up to the gate. “It must be the new governess,” and as there was no house very near, she stopped to inspect the stranger as well as she could at that distance. “Black,” she said, as Marian stepped upon the ground; “But I might have known it, for regular built teachers always wear black, I believe. She is rather tall, too. An umbrella, of course. I wonder she hasn’t her blanket shawl and overshoes this hot day. Her bonnet is pretty, and that hem in her veil very wide. On the whole, she’s quite genteel for a governess,” and Isabel walked on while Marian went up the graveled walk, expecting at each step to meet with either Frederic or Alice.

She would rather it should be the latter, for in case of recognition, she knew she could bind the blind girl to secrecy for a time, but no one appeared, and about the house there was no sign of life, save a parrot, which, in its cage beneath a maple tree, screamed out wholly unintelligible words. The door was shut, and even after the driver had placed her trunks upon the piazza andgone, Marian stood there ringing the bell. The window to her right was open, and she knew it was the window of Frederic’s room, but he was not sitting near it, and after a little she ventured to approach it and look in. It did not seem to have been occupied at all that day, for everything was arranged in perfect order as if broom and duster had recently done service there. Its prim, neat appearance affected Marian unpleasantly, as if it were the forerunner of some disappointment, and going back to the door she resolutely pulled the silver knob. The loud, sharp ring made her heart beat violently, and when she heard a heavy tread, not unlike a man’s coming up the basement stairs, she thought, “What if it is Frederic himself? What shall I say?”

“It is Frederic,” she continued, as the step came nearer, and she was wishing she could run away and hide, when the door was opened by Mrs. Russell, her feet encased in a pair of Mr. Raymond’s cast-off shoes, which accounted for her heavy tread, and herself looking a little crest-fallen at the sight of her visitor, whom she recognized at once.

“Miss Grey, I b’lieve?” she said, dropping a low curtsy. “We wan’t expectin’ you till to-morrow; but walk in, and make yourself at home. You’ll want to go to your room, I ’spose. Traveled all night, didn’t you? You look pale, and I wouldn’t wonder if you wanted to sleep most of the day. I never thought of such a thing as your comin’ this mornin’. Dear me, what shall I do?”

This was said in an under-tone, but it caught the ear of Marian, who, now that she had a chance to speak, asked for Mr. Raymond, timidly, as if fearful that with his name her secret might slip out.

“Bless you!” returned Mrs. Russell, “both of ’em went to New York early this morning, and won’t be home till dark, maybe, and that’s why I feel so. I don’t know how to entertain you as they do, and Miss Alice has been reckoning on giving you a good impression.I’m so sorry you’ve—they’ve gone, I mean. I wan’t expecting to get any dinner to-day, and was having such a nice time, sewin’ on my new dress;” and, with the last, the whole cause of the old lady’s uneasiness was divulged.

In the absence of Frederic and Alice, she had counted upon a day of leisure, which Marian’s arrival had seriously interrupted.

“I beg you not to trouble yourself for me,” said Marian, who readily understood the matter. “I never care for a regular dinner: indeed, I may not be hungry at all.”

The old lady’s face brightened perceptibly, and she replied:

“Oh, I don’t mind a cup of tea, and the like o’ that; but to brile or stew this hot day ain’t so pleasant, when a person is fleshy, as I am. I’ll get you something, though; and now you go up stairs to your room, the one at the right hand, with the white furniture, and the silver jigger, that lets the water into that marble dish. We live in style, I tell you; and Mr. Raymond is a gentleman, if there ever was one—only he wants meat three times a day, just as he has in Kentucky. Thinks, I ’spose, it don’t hurt me any more to sweat over the fire, than it does that Dinah, Alice talks so much about. Yes, that’s the door—right there;” and Mrs. Russell went back to the making of her dress, while Marian sought her chamber, feeling rather disappointed at the absence of both Frederic and Alice, whose object in visiting New York, that day, will be explained in the succeeding chapter, and will necessarily take us backward for a little in our story.

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