CHAPTER XXIX.TELLING FREDERIC.
It was midnight, and from the windows of the library at Redstone Hall there shone a single light, its dim rays falling upon the haggard face of the weary man, who, since parting from Marian in the parlor, had sat there just as he was sitting now, unmindful of the lapse of time—unmindful of every thing save the fierce battle he was waging with himself. Hour by hour—day by day—week by week, had his love for Marian Grey increased, until now he could no more control it than he could stay the mighty torrent in its headlong course. It was all in vain that he kept or tried to keep Marian Lindsey continually before his mind, saying often to himself: “She is my wife—she is alive, and I must not love another.”
He did not care for Marian Lindsey. He did not wish to find her now—he almost hoped he never should, though even that would avail him nothing, unless he knew to a certainty that she were really dead. Perhaps he never could know, and as he thought of the long, dreary years in which he must live on with that terrible uncertainty forever haunting him, he pressed his hands upon his burning forehead and cried aloud: “My punishment is greater than I can bear. Oh, Marian Grey, can it be that you, who might have been the angel of my life, were sent to avenge the wrongs of that other Marian?”
He knew it was wicked, this intense, absorbing passion for Marian Grey, but he could not feel it so, andhe would have given half his possessions for the sake of abandoning himself for one brief hour to this love—for the sake of seeing her eyes of blue meet with the look he had so often fancied her giving to the man she loved. And she loved him! He was sure of it! He saw it those nights when he watched with her by Alice’s bedside; he had seen it since in the sudden flushing of her cheek and the falling of her eyes when he approached. And it was this discovery which prompted him to the act he meditated. Not both of them could stay there, himself and Marian, for he would not that she should suffer more than need be. She had recovered from her first and early love; she would get over this, and if she were only happy, it didn’t matter how desolate her going would leave him, for she must go, he said. He had come to that decision, sitting there alone, and it had wrung great drops of perspiration from his brow and moans of anguish from his lips. But it must be—there was no alternative, he thought, and in the chair where Marian Lindsey once had written her farewell, he wrote to Marian Lindsey’s rival that Redstone Hall could be her home no longer.
“Think not that you have displeased me,” he said, “for this is not why I send you from me. Both of us cannot stay, and though for Alice’s sake I would gladly keep you here, it must not be. I am going to New Orleans, to be absent three or four weeks, and shall not expect to find you here on my return. You will need money, and I enclose a check for a thousand dollars. Don’t refuse to take it, for I give it willingly, and though my conduct is sadly at variance with my words, you must believe me when I say that in all the world you have not so true a friend, as
“Frederic Raymond.”
“Frederic Raymond.”
“Frederic Raymond.”
“Frederic Raymond.”
Many times he read this letter over, and it was not until long after midnight that he sought his pillow, only to toss from side to side with feverish unrest, and hewas glad when at last Josh came in to make the fire, for by that token he knew it was morning.
“Tell Dinah I will breakfast in my room,” he said, “and say to Phil that he must have the carriage ready early, for I am going to New Orleans, and he will carry me to Frankfort.”
“Ye-e-es, Sir,” was Josh’s answer, as he departed with the message.
“Marster have breakfast in his room, and a goin’ to New Orleans? In the Lord’s name what’s happened him?” exclaimed Dinah, and when Marian came down to her solitary meal, she repeated the story to her, asking if she could explain it.
“Marster’s looked desput down in the mouth a long time back,” she said. “What you ’spect ’tis?”
Marian could not tell; neither did she venture a suggestion, so fearful was she that Frederic’s intended departure would interfere with the plan of which Alice had talked incessantly since daylight. Hastily finishing her breakfast, she hurried back to her chamber, whither the note had preceded her.
“Luce brought this to you from Frederic,” said Alice, passing her the letter, “and she says he looks like he was crazy. Read it and see what he wants.”
Marian accordingly tore open the envelope, and with blanched cheek and quivering lip read that she must go again from Redstone Hall, and worse than all, there was no tangible reason assigned for the cruel mandate. The check next caught her eye, and with a proud, haughty look upon her face, she tore it in fragments and scattered them upon the floor, for it seemed an idle mockery for him to offer what was already hers.
“What is it, Marian?” asked Alice, and recovering her composure Marian read to her what Frederic said while Alice’s face grew white as hers had done before.
“You go away!” she exclaimed, bounding upon the floor and feeling for the warm shawl which she wore when sitting up. “You won’t do any such thing.You’ve as much right here as he has, and I’m going this minute to tell him so.”
She had groped her way to the door and was just opening it when Marian held her back, saying:
“You must not go out undressed and barefooted as you are. The halls are cold. Wait here while I go and learn the reason of this sudden freak.”
“But I want so much to tell him myself,” said Alice, and Marian replied, “So you shall, I’ll send Dinah up to dress you and then I will come for you when it’s time.”
This pacified Alice, who already began to feel faint with her exertions, and she crept back to bed, while Marian descended the stairs, going first to Dinah as she had promised, and then with a beating heart turning her steps toward the library. It was much like facing the wild beast in its lair, confronting Frederic in his present savage mood. He felt himself as if his reason were overturned, for the deliberate giving up of Marian Grey, and the feeling that he should probably never look upon her face again, had stirred, as it were, the very depths of his heart’s blood, and in a state of mind bordering upon distraction, he was making the necessary preparations for his hasty journey, when a timid knock was heard outside the door.
“Who’s there? I’m very busy,” was his loud, imperious answer, but Marian was not to be thus baffled, and turning the knob, she entered without further ceremony, recoiling back a pace or two when she met the expression of Frederic’s eye.
With his hands full of papers, which he was thrusting into his pocket, his hair disordered and his face white as ashes, he turned toward her, saying; “Why are you here, Miss Grey? Haven’t you caused me pain enough already? Have you received my note?”
“I have,” she answered, advancing still further into the room. “And I have come to ask you what it means. You have no right to dismiss me so suddenlywithout an explanation. How have I offended? You must tell me.”
“I said you had not offended,” he replied, “and further than that I can give no explanation.”
“I shall not leave your house, nor yet this room until you do,” was her decided answer, and with the air of one who meant what she said, Marian went so near to the excited man that he could have touched her had he chosen.
For an instant the two stood gazing at each other, Marian never wavering for an instant, while over Frederic’s face there flitted alternately a look of wonder, admiration, and perplexity. Then that look passed away and was succeeded by an expression of the deep love he felt for beautiful girl standing so fearlessly before him.
“I cannot help it,” he murmured at last, and tottering to the door, he turned the key; then returning to Marian, he compelled her to sit down beside him upon the sofa, and passing his arm around her, so that she could not escape, he began: “You say you will not leave the room until you know why I should send you from me. Be it so, then. It surely cannot be wrong for me to tell when you thus tempt me to the act; so, for one brief half-hour, you are mine—mine, Marian, and no power can save you now from hearing what I have to say.”
His looks, even more than his manner, frightened her, and she said imploringly, “Give me the key, Mr. Raymond. Unlock the door and I will go away without hearing the reason.”
“I frighten you, then,” he answered, in a gentler tone, drawing her nearer to him, “and yet, Marian Grey, I would sell my life inch by inch rather than harm a hair of your dear head. Oh, Marian, Marian, I would to Heaven you had never crossed my path, for then I should not have known what it is to love as madly, as hopelessly, as wickedly as I now love you. What made you come to me in all your bright, girlishbeauty, or why did Heaven suffer me to love you as I do? My punishment was before as great as I could bear, and now I must suffer this anguish, too. Oh, Marian Grey, Marian Grey!”
He wound his arms close around her, and she could feel his feverish breath as his lips almost touched her burning cheek. In the words “Marian Grey, Marian Grey,” there was a deep pathos, as if all the loving tenderness of his nature were centered upon that name, and it brought the tears in torrents from her eyes. He saw them, and wiping them away, he said:
“The hardest part of all to me is the knowledge that you must suffer, too. Forgive me for saying it, but as I know that I love you, so by similar signs I know that you love me. Is it not so, darling?”
Involuntarily she laid her head upon his bosom, sobbing:
“I have loved you so long—so long.”
But for her promise to Alice she would then have told him all, but she must keep her word, and when he rejoined, “It does, indeed seem long since that night you came to Riverside,” she did not undeceive him, but listened while he continued, “Bless you for telling me of your love. When you are gone it will be a comfort for me to think that Marian Greyonceloved me. I sayoncefor you must overcome that love. You must tear it out and trample it beneath your feet. You can if you try. You are not as hard, as callous as I am. My heart is like adamant, and though I know that it is wicked to love you, and to tell you of my love, I cannot help it. I am a wretch, and when I tell you, as I must, just what a wretch I am, it will help you to forget me—to hate me, it may be. You have heard of my wife. You know she left me on my bridal night, and I have never known the joys of wedded bliss—never shall know, for even if she comes back to me now,I cannot live with her!”
“Oh, Frederic!” And again the hot tears trembledthrough the hands which Marian clasped before her eyes.
“Don’t call me thus,” said Frederic, entreatingly, as he removed her hands, and held them both in his. “Don’t say Frederic, for though it thrills me with strange joy to hear you, it is not right. Listen, Marian, while I tell you why I married her who bears your name, and then I’m sure you’ll hate me—nor call me Frederic again. I have never told but one, and that one, William Gordon. I had thought never to tell it again, but it is right that you should know. Marian Lindsey was, or is, the Heiress of Redstone Hall. All my boasted wealth is hers—every cent of it is hers. But she didn’t know it, for”—and Frederic’s voice was very low and plaintive now as he told to Marian Grey how Marian Lindsey was an heiress—told her of his dead parent’s fraud—of his desire to save that parent’s name from disgrace, and his stronger desire to save him from poverty. “So I made her my wife,” he said. “I promised to love and cherish her all the time my heart was longing for another.”
Marian trembled now, as she lay helpless in his arms, and, observing it, he continued:
“I must confess the whole, and tell you that I loved, or thought I loved, Isabel Huntington, though how I could have fancied her is a mystery to me now. My poor Marian was plain, while Isabel was beautiful, and naught but Alice kept me from telling her my love. Alice stayed the act—Alice sent me to New York to look for Marian——”
“And did you never hear from her? Did she never send you a letter?” Marian asked, and he replied:
“Never! If she had I should have known where to find her.”
Then, as briefly as possible, for he knew time was hastening, he told of his fearful sickness, and of the little girl who took such care of him—told, too, of his weary search for her, and of the many dreary nightshe had passed in thinking of her, and her probable fate.
“Thenyoucame,” he said, “and, struggle as I would, I could not mourn for Marian Lindsey as I had done before. I was satisfied to have you here until the conviction burst upon me, that far greater than any affection I had thought I could feel for that blue-eyed girl, and tenfold greater than any love I had felt for Isabel Huntington, was my love for you. It has worn upon me terribly. Look!” And pushing back his thick brown locks, he showed her where the hair was turning white beneath. “These are for you,” he said. “There are furrows upon my face—furrows upon my heart—and can you wonder that I bade you go, and so no longer tempt me to sin? And yet, could I keep you with me, Marian? Could I hold you to my bosom just as I hold you now, and know that I had a right so to do?—a right to call you mine—my Marian—my wife? Not Heaven itself, I’m sure, has greater happiness in store for those who merit its bliss than this would be to me! Oh, why is the boon denied to me? Why must I suffer on through wretched, dreary years, and know that somewhere in the world there is a Marian Grey, who might have been my wife?”
“Let me go for Alice,” said Marian, struggling to release herself. “There is something she would tell you.”
“Yes, in a moment,” he replied; “but promise me first one thing. The news may come to me that I am free, and if it does, and you are still unmarried, will you then be my wife? Promise that you will, and the remembrance of that promise will help me to bear a little longer.”
“I do!” said Marian, standing up before him, and holding one of his hands in hers. “I promise you, solemnly, that no other man shall ever call me wife save you.”
There were tears in Frederic’s eyes, and his wholeframe quivered with emotion, as, catching at her dress, for she was moving toward the door, he added:
“And you will wait for me, darling—wait for metwentyyears, if it needs must be? You will never be old to me. I shall love you just the same when these sunny locks are grey,” and he passed his hands caressingly over her bright hair. There was a world of love and tenderness in the answering look which Marian gave to him as he opened the door for her to pass out, and wringing his hands in anguish, he cried to himself, “Oh, how can I give her up—beautiful, beautiful Marian Grey!”
Swift as a bird Marian flew up the stairs in quest of Alice, who was to tell the wretched man that it was not a sin for him to love the beautiful Marian Grey.
“Alice, Alice! Go now—go quick!” she exclaimed, bursting into the room.
“Go whar—for the dear Lord’s sake?” said Dinah, who had that moment come up, and consequently had made but little progress in dressing Alice. “Go whar? Not down stairs—’strue as yer born. She’ll cotch her death o’ cold!”
“Hurry—do!” cried Alice, standing first on one foot and then upon the other. “I must tell Frederic something before he goes away. There, he’s going! Oh, Marian, help!” she fairly screamed, as she heard the carriage at the door, and Frederic in the hall below.
Marian was terribly excited, and in her attempts to assist, she only made matters worse by buttoning the wrong button, putting both stockings on the same foot, pulling the shoe lacing into a hard knot, which baffled all her nervous efforts, while Dinah worked on leisurely, insisting that Alice “wasn’t gwine down, and if there was anythin’ killin’ which marster ’or’to know, Miss Grey could tell him herself.”
“Yes, Marian, go,” said Alice, in despair, as she heard Dud bid Frederic good-by, and, scarcely conscious of what she was about, Marian ran down the stairs, justas Phil cracked his whip, and the spirited greys bounded off with a rapidity which left her faint call of “Stop, Frederic, stop!” far behind.
“I can write to him,” she thought, as she slowly retraced her steps back to Alice, who was bitterly disappointed, and who, after Dinah was gone, threw herself upon the bed, refusing to be comforted.
“Three weeks was forever,” she said, and she suggested sending Josh after the traveler, who, in a most unenviable frame of mind, was riding rapidly towards Frankfort.
“No, no,” said Marian, “I will write immediately, so he can get the letter as soon almost as he reaches New Orleans. It won’t be three weeks before he returns,” and she strove to divert the child’s mind by repeating to her as much as she thought proper of her exciting interview with Frederic.
But Alice could not be comforted, and all that day she lamented over the mischance which had taken Frederic away before she could tell him.
“There’s Uncle Phil,” she said, when towards night she heard the carriage drive into the yard; “and hark, hark!” she exclaimed, turning her quick ear in the direction of the sound, and rolling her bright eye around the room; “there’s a step on the piazza that sounds like his—’tis him—’tis him! He’s come back! I knew he would!” and in her weakness and excitement the little girl sunk exhausted at Marian’s feet.
Raising her up, Marian listened breathlessly, but heard nothing save Phil, talking to his horses as he drove them to the stable.
“He has not come,” she said, and Alice replied, “I tell you he has. There—there, don’t you hear?” and Marian’s heart gave one great bound as she, too, heard the well known footstep upon the threshold and Frederick speaking to his favorite Dud, who had run to meet “his mars,” asking for sugar-plums from New Orleans.
There had been a change in the time-table, andFrederic did not reach Frankfort until after the train he intended to take had gone. His first thought was to remain in the city, and wait for the next train from Lexington. Accordingly he gave his parting directions to Phil, who being in no haste to return, loitered away the morning and a portion of the afternoon before he turned his horses homeward. As he was riding up the long hill which leads from Frankfort into the country beyond, he unexpectedly met his master, who had been to the cemetery, and was just returning to the Capitol Hotel.
All the day Frederic had thought of Marian Grey, and with each thought it had seemed to him more and more that he must see her again, if only to hear her say that she would wait all time for him, and when he came upon Phil, who he supposed was long ere this at Redstone Hall, his resolution was taken, and instead of the reproof he knew he merited, Phil was surprised at hearing his master say, as he made a motion for him to stop:
“Phil, I am going home.”
And thus it was that he returned again to Redstone Hall, where his coming was hailed with eager joy by Marian and Alice, and created much surprise among the servants.
“My ’pinion he’s a little out of his head,” was all the satisfaction Phil could give, as he drove the carriage to the barn, while Frederic, half repenting of his rashness in returning, and wondering what good excuse he could render, went to his own room—the one formerly occupied by his father—where he sat before the glowing grate, when Alice appeared, covered with shawls, and her face all aglow with her excitement.
She would not be kept back another moment, lest he should go off again, so Marian had wrapped her up and sent her on her mission. Frederic sat with his face turned toward the fire, and though by the step he knew who it was that entered the door, he did not turn hishead or evince the least knowledge of her presence until she stood before him, and said, inquiringly:
“Frederic, are you here?”
“Yes;” was the answer, rather curtly spoken, for he would rather be alone.
“Frederic!” and the bundle of shawls trembled violently. “I have come to tell you something about Marian.”
“I don’t wish to hear it,” was his reply; and, nothing daunted, Alice continued:
“But you must hear me. Her name isn’t Miss Grey. She is a married woman, and has a living husband; and you——”
She did not finish the sentence, for like a tiger Frederic started up, and seizing her by the shoulder, exclaimed: “You dare not tell me that again. Marian Grey is not married. She never had a husband,” and as the maddening thought swept over him, that possibly the blind girl told him truly, he staggered against the mantel, where he stood panting for breath, and enduring, as it were, all the agonies of a lingering, painful death.
“Sit down,” said Alice, and like a child he obeyed, while she proceeded, “Miss Grey has deceived us all, and it is strange, too, that none of us should know her—none but Bruno. Don’t you remember how he wouldn’t bite her, just because he knew her when we didn’t? Don’t you mind how I told you once maybe the Marian who went away would come back to us some day so beautiful we should not know her? You are listening, ain’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” came in a quick, short gasp from the arm-chair.
“Well, she has come back! She called herself Marian Grey so we would not guess right off who she was, but she ain’t Marian Grey. She’s the other one—she’smy Marian, Frederic,AND YOUR WIFE—”
As Alice was speaking Frederic had risen to his feet. Drop by drop every particle of blood recededfrom his face, leaving it colorless as ashes. There was a wild, unnatural light flashing from his eyes—his hands worked nervously together—his hair seemed starting from its roots, and with his head bent forward, he stood transfixed as it were by the dazzling light which had burst upon him. Then his lips parted slowly, and more like a wailing cry than a prayer of thanksgiving, the words “I thank thee, oh, my God,” issued from them. The next moment the air near Alice was set in rapid motion—there was a heavy fall, and Frederic Raymond lay upon the carpet white and still as a block of marble.
Like lightning Alice flew across the floor, but swift as were her movements, another was there before her, and with his head upon her lap was pressing burning kisses upon his lips and dropping showers of tears upon his face. Marian had stood without the door, listening to that dialogue, and when by the fall she knew that it was ended, she came at once and knelt by the fainting man, who ere long began to show signs of consciousness. Alice was first to discover this, and when sure that he would come back to life, she glided silently from the room, for she knew that she would not be needed there.
She might have tarried yet a little longer, for the shock to Frederic had been so sudden and so great, that though his lips moved and his fingers clutched eagerly at the soft hand feeling for his pulse, he did not seem to heed aught else, until Marian whispered in his ear:
“My husband—may I call you so?”
Then, indeed, he started from his lethargy, and, struggling to his feet, clasped her in his arms, weeping over her passionately, and murmuring as he did so:
“My wife—my darling—my wife! Is it true that you have come to me again? Are you my Marian?”
Daylight was fading from the room, for the Winter sun had set behind the western hills, and leading herto the window, he turned her face to the light, gazing rapturously upon it, and saying to her:
“You are mine—all mine! God bless you, Marian!”
He kissed her hands, her neck, her lips, her forehead, her hair, and she could feel his hot tears falling amid the shining curls he parted so lovingly from her brow. They were not hateful to him now—and he passed his hand caressingly over them, whispering all the while:
“My own beautiful Marian—my bride—my wife!”
Surely, in this moment of bliss, Marian felt repaid for all that she had suffered, when at last as thoughts of the dreadful past came over Frederic, he led her to the sofa, and said, “Can you forgive me, darling?” she turned her bright eyes up to his, and by the expression of perfect happiness resting there, he knew she had forgotten the cold, heartless words he spoke to her, when once, at that very hour, and in that very place, he asked her to be his. That scene had faded away, leaving no cloud between them. All was sunshine and gladness, and with her fair head resting on his bosom—not timidly, as it had lain there in the morning, but trustingly, confidingly, as if that were its rightful resting place—they sat together until the rose-red tinge faded from the western sky, and the night shadows had crept into the room.
More than once Alice stole on tiptoe to the door, to see if it were time for her to enter, but as often as she heard the low murmur of their voices, she went noiselessly back, saying to herself: “I won’t disturb them yet.”
At last as she came once she stumbled accidentally, and this woke Marian from the sweetest dream which ever had come to her.
“’Tis Alice,” she said; and she called to the little girl who came gladly, and climbing into Frederic’s lap, twined her arms around his neck and laid a cheek against his own, without word of comment.
“Blessed Alice, I owe you more than I can repay,” he said, and Marian, far better than the child, appreciated the full meaning these words conveyed.
But for the helpless blind girl this hour might never have come to them, and the strong man felt it so, as he hugged the little creature closer to him, blessing her as his own and Marian’s good angel. Observing that she shivered as if with the cold, he arose, and drawing the sofa directly before the fire, resumed his seat again, with Marian between himself and Alice, his arm around her neck and his lips almost constantly meeting hers. He could not remove his eyes from her, she seemed to him so beautiful, with the firelight falling on her sparkling face and shining on her hair. That hair—how it puzzled him, and winding one of the curls about his fingers he said, half laughingly, half reluctantly, “Your hair was not always this color.”
Then the blue eyes flashed up into his, and Marian replied by telling whence came the change, and reminding him that she was the same young girl of whom the Yankee Ben had spoken when he visited Kentucky.
“And you had almost died, then, for me, my precious one,” said Frederic, kissing the sunny locks.
Just at this point, old Dinah appeared in the door, which, like most Kentucky doors, was left ajar. She saw the position of the parties—saw Frederic kiss Marian Grey—saw Alice’s look of satisfaction as he did so, and in an instant all the old lady’s sense of propriety was roused to a boiling pitch.
Since Marian had revealed herself to Alice, the little girl had said to Dinah, by way of preparing her for the surprise when it should come, that “there was some doubt concerning the death of Marian—that Frederic believed she had been with him in New York, and had taken means to find her.” This story was, of course, repeated among the servants, some of whom credited it, while others did not. Among the latter was Dinah. She wouldn’t believe “she haddone all her mournin’ for nothin’,” and in opposition to Hetty, she persisted in saying Marian was dead. When, however, she saw her master’s familiarity with Miss Grey, she accepted of her young mistress’s existence as a reality, and was terribly incensed against the offending Marian Grey.
“The trollop!” she muttered. “But I’ll bring proof agin her,” and hurrying back to the kitchen, she told to the astonished blacks, “how’t marster done kissed Miss Grey spang on her har, and on her mouth, and hugged her into the bargain, when he didn’t know for certain that t’other one was dead; and if they didn’t b’lieve it, they could go and see for themselves, provided they went mighty still.”
“Tole you he was crazy,” said Uncle Phil, starting to see the wonderful sight, and followed by a troop of negroes, all of whom trod on tiptoe, a precaution wholly unnecessary, for Frederic and Marian were too much absorbed in each other to heed the dusky group assembled round the door, their white eyes growing larger as they all saw distinctly the arm thrown across Marian’s neck.
“Listen to dat ar, will you?” whispered Hetty, as Frederic said, “Dear Marian,” while old Dinah chimed in, “’Clar for’t, it makes my blood bile, and he not a widower nuther!”
“Quit dat!” she exclaimed aloud, as her master showed signs of repeating the kissing offense; and, in an instant, Frederic sprang to his feet, an angry flush mounting to his face when he saw the crowd at the door.
Then, as he began to comprehend its meaning, the frown gave place to a good-humored laugh, and taking Marian’s hand, he led her toward the assembled blacks, saying to them:
“Rejoice with me that the lost one has returned to us again, for this isMarian Lindsey—my wife and your mistress—changed, it is true, but the same Marian who went from us more than six years ago.”
“Wonder if he ’spects us to swallow dat ar?” said the unbelieving Hetty.
Dinah, on the contrary, had not the shadow of a doubt, and she dropped on her knees at once, kissing the very hem of Marian’s dress, and exclaiming through her tears:
“Lord bress you, Miss Marian. You’ve mightily altered, to be sure, but ain’t none the wus for that. I’m nothin’ but a poor old nigger, and can’t say what’s in my heart, but it’s full and runnin’ over, bless you, honey.”
Dinah’s example was contagious, and more than one prostrated themselves before their mistress, while their howling cries of surprise and delight were almost deafening. Particularly was Josh delighted, and while the noise went on, he took occasion to “balance to your partner,” in the hall, with a young yellow girl, who thought his stammering was music, and his ungainly figure the most graceful that could be conceived. When the commotion had in a measure subsided, and Hetty had gone over to the popular side, saying, “she knew from the first Marian was somebody,” Frederic made a few brief explanations as to where their mistress had been, and then dismissed them to their several duties, for he preferred being alone again with his wife and Alice.
Supper was soon announced, but little was eaten by any one. They were too much excited for that, and as soon as the meal was over, they returned to Frederic’s room, where, sitting again between her husband and Alice, Marian told them, as far as possible, everything which had come to her since leaving Redstone Hall.
“Can’t I ever know what made you go away?” Alice asked; and Frederic replied:
“Yes, birdie, you shall;” and, without sparing himself in the least, he told her all.
“Marian an heiress, too!” she exclaimed. “Will marvels never cease?” and she laid her head whichwas beginning to grow weary, upon Marian’s lap, saying, “I never knew till now one half how good you are. No wonder Frederic thought that he had killed you. It was wicked in him, very,” and the brown eyes looked sleepily into the fire, while Marian replied:
“But is all forgotten now.”
It did seem to be, and in the long conversation which lasted till almost midnight, there was many a word of affection exchanged, many a confession made, many a forgiveness asked, and when, at last they parted, it was with the belief that each was all the world to the other.
Like lightning the news spread through the neighborhood that Frederic Raymond’s governess was Frederic Raymond’s wife; and, for many days the house was thronged with visitors, most of whom remembered little Marian Lindsey, and all of whom offered their sincere congratulations to the beautiful Marian Grey, for so she persisted in being called, until the night of the 20th of February, when they were to give a bridal party. Then she would answer to Mrs. Raymond, she said, but not before, and with this Frederic was fain to be satisfied. Great were the preparations for that party, to which all their friends were to be bidden, and as they were one evening making out the list, Marian suggestedIsabel, more for the sake of seeing what Frederic would say, than from any desire to have her present.
“Isabel,” he repeated, “never. I cannot so soon forget her treachery,” and a frown darkened his handsome face, but Marian kissed it away as she said:
“You surely will not object to Ben, the best and truest friend I ever had.”
“Certainly not,” answered Frederic. “I owe Ben Burt more than I ever can repay, and I mean to keep him with us. He is just the man I want upon my farm—yourfarm, I mean,” he added, smiling knowinglyupon her, and catching in his the little hand raised to shut his mouth.
But Marian had her revenge by refusing to let him kiss her until he had promised never to allude to that again.
“I gave you Redstone Hall,” she said, “that night I ran away, and I have never taken it back, but have brought you in instead an incumbrance which may prove a most expensive one.” And amid such pleasantries as these Marian wrote the note to Ben, and then went back to her preparations for the party, which, together with the strange discovery, was the theme of the whole country.