CHAPTER XXV.THE MEETING.
Notwithstanding Alice’s fears the day had not been a long one to Marian, who had been so occupied in unpacking her trunks and in going over the house and grounds, as scarcely to heed the lapse of time, and she was surprised when, about sunset, she saw John drive from the yard, and knew he was going for his master. Not till then did she fully realize her position, and she sought her chamber to compose herself, for the dreaded trial, which each moment came nearer and nearer.
“Will Frederic know me?” she asked herself a dozen times, and as often answered no—but Alice, ah, Alice, there was danger to be apprehended from her, and Marian felt that she would far rather meet the scrutinizing gaze of Frederic Raymond’s eyes than submit herself to the touch of the blind girl’s fingers, or trust her voice to the blind girl’s ear.
That might not have changed. She could not tell if it had, though she thought it very probable, for six years was a long, long time, and it was nearly that since she left Redstone Hall. She could not sustain a feigned voice, she knew, and there was no alternative save to wait the trial and abide the result of a recognition. She felt a pardonable pride in wishing to make a good impression upon Frederic, for he could see, and she spent a much longer time at her toilet than usual. Black was very becoming to her dazzling complexion, and the thin tissue she wore fitted her admirably, showing just enough of her neck, while thewide, loose sleeves displayed the whole of her well-shaped arm, which, from contrast, looked white and smooth as ivory. Hitherto she had curled her entire hair, but she did not dare to do so now, and she confined a part of it with a comb, while the remainder of it was suffered to curl as usual about her face and behind her ears. This changed her looks somewhat, but was still becoming, and as she saw in the mirror the reflection of her sweet young face and deep blue eyes there came a brighter glow to her cheek, for she knew that the cherished wish of her early girlhood had been fulfilled, and that Ben Burt was right when he called her beautiful.
The gas was lighted when she entered the parlor below, and turning it down a little, she took a book and seated herself somewhat in the shade. But the volume might as well have been wrong side up for any idea its contents conveyed to her, so absorbed was she in what was fast approaching, for she had heard the carriage stop at the gate, and felt the cold moisture starting out beneath her hair and on her hands.
“I will be calm,” she said, and with one tremendous effort of the will she quieted the violent throbbings of her heart, and leaning on her elbow, pretended to be reading, though not a sound escaped her ear. She heard the little feet come running up the walk, and the heavy, manly tread following in the rear.
She heard the struggle in the hall between Alice and the cat, and when the latter bounded into the room and crouched down at her feet, she thought there was something familiar in that spot between the eyes. But it could not be, she said, though Alice’s exclamation of “Do, Frederic, shut the door, so she cannot get away,” seemed to intimate that pussy was a stranger there. Stooping down, she passed her hand caressingly over the animal’s back, whispering, in a low tone, “Spotty, darling, is it you?”
Won by her voice, the cat sprang up on Marian’s lap just as Frederic glanced hastily in.
“Your pet is safe,” he said to Alice, whom he followed to the sitting room, waiting there a moment, and then starting to meet Miss Grey.
She knew he was coming, counting every step, and without raising her eyes from the book she pretended to be reading, knew just when he crossed the threshold of the door. Removing her hand from her head, where it had been resting, she gently pushed the cat from her lap, and half rising to her feet, waited for the first words of greeting.
“Miss Grey, I believe;” and bowing low, Frederic Raymond advanced towards Marian, who now stood up, so that the blaze of the chandelier fell full upon her, revealing at once her face and form.
Had her very life depended upon it she could not have spoken then, for the stormy emotions the name “Miss Grey” called up, mastered her speech entirely. She knew he would thus address her, but it grated harshly on her ear to hear him call her so, and her heart yearned for the familiar name of Marian, though she had no reason to expect it from him.
“You are welcome to Riverside,” he continued; “and I regret that your first day here should have been so lonely.”
This gave her a little time, and conquering her weakness she extended her hand to take the one he offered. Hers was cold and clammy, and trembled like an imprisoned bird, as it lay in his broad, warm palm. For an instant he held it there, and gazed down into her sweet, childish face, which did not look wholly unfamiliar to him, while she herself seemed more like a friend than a total stranger. The tie between them, which naught but death could sever, and which was bound so closely around Marian’s heart, brought to his own an answering throb, and when at last she spoke, assuring him that she had not been lonely in the least, he started, for there was something in the tone which moved him as a stranger oft is moved, when hearing in the calm, still night the airof “Home, Sweet Home.” It carried him back to Redstone Hall, years and years ago, when in the moonlight he had played with his dusky companions upon the river brink. But Marian Lindsey had no portion of his thoughts at that first interview with Marian Grey, who ventured at last to look into his face just as he was looking into hers. Oh, how much like the Frederic of old he was, save that in his mature manhood he was finer, nobler looking, while the proud fire of his eye had given place to a milder, softer expression, and she felt intuitively that he was far more worthy of her love than when she knew him before.
Motioning her to a chair, he, too, sat down at a little distance and conversed with her pleasantly, as friend converses with friend, asking about her journey, making inquiries after Mrs. Sheldon’s family, and experiencing a most unaccountable sensation when he saw how she blushed at the mention of William Gordon! Ben was next talked about, and Marian was growing eloquent in his praise, when suddenly a sight met her view which petrified her powers of speech and sent the hot blood ebbing backward from her cheek and lip. In the hall without and where Frederic could not see her, the blind girl stood, her hands clasped and slightly raised, her lips apart, her eyes rolling, her head bent forward, and her ear turned toward the door, whence came the sound which had arrested her footsteps and chained her to the spot. She had started for the parlor and come thus far, when she, too, caught the tone which had affected even Frederic, and her head grew dizzy with the bewildering sound, for to her it brought memories of Marian. Had she come? Was she there with Frederic and Miss Grey? Eagerly she waited to hear the sound repeated, wondering why Miss Grey, too, did not join in the conversation. It came again, the old familiar strain, though tuned to a sadder note, for Marian had suffered much since last she talked with Alice, and it was perceptible even in her voice. Tighter and tighter the small hands pressedtogether—lower and lower bent the head, while a shade of disappointment flitted over the face of the listening child, for this time it did not seem quite so natural as at first, and she knew, too, that ’twas Miss Grey who spoke, for her subject was Ben Butterworth.
“What is it?” asked Frederic, observing that Miss Grey stopped suddenly in the midst of a remark.
Marian pointed toward the spot where Alice stood, but ere Frederic had time to step forward, the loud ring of the bell started Alice from an attitude which, had Frederic Raymond seen it, would surely have led to a discovery.
“The little girl, she acts so singular,” said Marian, thinking she must make some explanation.
“She’s blind, you know,” was answered in a low tone, and going toward the hall, Frederic met with Alice just as a servant opened the outer door, and a stranger entered, asking for Mr. Raymond.
“In a moment,” said Frederic, and leading Alice up to Marian, he continued, “Your teacher,” and then left the two together.
For an instant there was perfect silence, and Marian knew the blind girl could hear the beating of her heart, while she in turn watched the wonder and perplexity written on the speaking face turned upward toward her own, the brown eyes riveted upon her, as if for once they had broken from their prison walls and could discern what was before them.
Oh! how Marian longed to take the little, helpless creature in her arms; to hug her, to kiss her, to cry over her, and tell her of the love which had never known one moment’s abatement during the long years of their separation. But she dared not; and she sat gazing at her to see if she had changed since the night when she left her sleeping so quietly in their dear old room at home. She was now nearly thirteen, but her figure was so slight, and her features so childlike, that few would have guessed her more than nine, unless they judged by her mature, womanly mind. To Marianshe seemed the same; and when, unable longer to restrain herself, she drew the child to her, and, kissing her forehead, said to her kindly,
“You are Alice, my pupil, I am sure. Alice what?”
“Alice Raymond,” and the sightless eyes never moved for an instant from the questioner’s face.
“Are you very nearly related to Mr. Raymond?” asked Marian; and Alice replied:
“Second cousin, that’s all. But he has been more than a brother to me since—since—”
The perplexed, mystified look increased on Alice’s face, and her gaze grew more intense as she continued: “Since Marian went away.”
There was a moment’s stillness, and then the hand which hitherto had rested on Marian’s lap was raised until it reached the head, where it lay lightly, very lightly, though to Marian it seemed like the weight of a thousand pounds, and she felt every hair prickle at its root when the blind girl said to her:
“Ain’t you Marian?”
“Yes, Marian Grey. Didn’t you know my first name?” was the answer, spoken so deliberately that Marian was astonished at herself.
There was a wavering then in the brown eyes, a quivering of the lids, and the great tears rolled down Alice’s cheeks, for with this calm reply, uttered so naturally, the hope she had scarcely dared to cherish passed away, and she murmured sadly:
“It cannot be her.”
“What makes you cry, darling?” asked Marian, choking back her own tears, which were just ready to flow, and which did gush forth in torrents, when Alice answered:
“Oh, I wish I wasn’t blind to-night!”
This surely was a good cause for weeping and pressing the little one to her bosom, Marian wept over her passionately for a few moments; then, drying her eyes, she said:
“Why to-night more than any other time?”
“Because I want so much to know how you look,” returned Alice; adding immediately: “May I feel of your face? It’s the only way I have of seeing.”
“Certainly,” answered Marian; and the fingers wandered slowly, cautiously, over every feature, involuntarily caressing the fair, round cheek, but lingering longest on the hair—the beautiful hair—whose glossy waves were perceptible even to the touch.
“What color is it?” she asked, winding one of the curls around her finger.
“Some call it auburn, some chesnut, and some a mixture of both,” was the reply, and Alice continued her investigations by mentally comparing its length with a standard she had in her own mind.
The two did not agree, for the curls she remembered were longer and far more wiry than the silken tresses of Miss Grey.
“How tall are you?” she suddenly asked, and Marian tried to laugh, although every nerve was thrilling with fear, for she knew she was passing through a dangerous test.
“Rather tall,” she replied, standing up, “Yes, very tall, some would say. Put up your hand and see.”
Alice did as she requested, and her tears came faster as she whispered mournfully. “You’re the tallest.”
“Did you think we had met before?” asked Marian, and then the sobs of the child burst forth unrestrained.
Burying her face in Marian’s lap, she cried, “Yes—no—I don’t know what I thought, only you don’t seem to me like I supposed you would. You make me tremble so, and I keep thinking of somebody we lost long ago. At first your voice sounded so natural, that I knew most she was here, but you ain’t even like her. You’re taller and fatter, and handsomer, I reckon, and yet there is something about you that makes my heart beat so fast. Oh, I wish I could see what it is. What made God make me blind?”
Never before had Marian heard a murmur from thelips of the unfortunate child, and it seemed to her cruel not to whisper words of comfort in her ear. But she could not do it yet, and so she kissed her tenderly, saying, “Did you love this other one so very much?”
“Yes, very, very much,” was Alice’s reply, “and it hurts me so to think we cannot find her. I thought we surely should to-day, for we went there, Frederic and I—went where she used to live, and she wasn’t there. ’Twas a dreary place, and Frederic groaned out loud to think she ever lived there.”
“Perhaps it didn’t look so then,” suggested Marian, who felt constrained to say a word in favor of her former home.
“Oh, I know it didn’t,” returned Alice, “for Frederic has been by there, though he didn’t know it then, and he says it looked real nice, with the white curtain and the kitten asleep on the window sill. It’s a cat now, and we brought it home.”
“Her cat?” and Marian started eagerly.
“Yes,” said Alice, “Frederic gave three dollars for it,” and forgetting her late grief in this new interest, she told how they knew it was Marian’s, and then as Miss Grey expressed a wish to see it, she started in quest of it, just as Frederic appeared, telling them tea was ready.
“I am afraid you will think we keep Lent here all the year round,” he said, apologetically. “I was surprised to find that Mrs. Russell compelled you to fast until our return.”
“It didn’t matter,” Marian replied; though she had wondered a little at the non-appearance of supper, for Mrs. Russell, intent upon her dress, had no idea of “makin’ two fusses,” and she kept her visitor waiting until the return of Frederic, saying, “the supper would taste all the better when it did come.”
Very willingly Marian followed Frederic to the dining room, where everything was indicative of elegance and wealth.
“Mrs. Jones used to sit here; and I now give theplace to you,” said Frederic, motioning to the seat by the tea-tray, and himself sitting down opposite, with Alice upon his right.
Marian became her new position well, and so Frederic thought, as he saw how gracefully her snowy fingers handled the silver urn, and how much at home she seemed. There was a strange fascination about her as she sat there at the head of his table, with the bright bloom on her cheek, and the dewy lustre in her beautiful blue eyes, which occasionally wandered toward the figure opposite, but as often fell beneath the curious gaze which they encountered. Frederic could not forbear looking at her, even though he saw that it embarrassed her—she was so fresh, so fair, so modest—while there was about her an indescribable something which he could not define, for though a stranger, as he supposed, she seemed near to him—so near that he almost felt he had a right to pass his arm around her, and kiss the girlish lips which Will Gordon had likened to a rose-bud.
“Poor Will,” sighed, “he did lose a prize when he lost Marian Grey.”
Involuntarily his mind went back to Redstone Hall, and to the time when another Marian sat opposite, and did for him the office this one was doing. The contrast between the two was great, but, with a nobleness worthy of the man, he thought “Marian Grey is far more beautiful, ’tis true, but Marian Lindsey was my wife.”
Then he remembered the day when Isabel first sat at his board, and he had felt it a sin to look at her in all her queenly beauty. He had grown hard since then, for he could not think it wicked to look at Marian Grey, or deem it a wrong to the other one, and he feasted his eyes upon her until she arose from the table, and went, at Alice’s request, to see the cat, which was safely confined in a candle box, “by way of taming her,” Alice said.
“I think there’s no need of that,” returned Marian,stroking her soft coat. “I am sure she will not run away. What do you propose calling her?”
“Marian, I reckon, only you might not want her named afteryou, and it wouldn’t be, for it’s the other one.”
“I haven’t the least objection,” said Miss Grey, laughing, “only Marian will sound oddly. Suppose you call it ‘Spottie,’ there’s a cunning white spot between its eyes.”
“Yes, Alice, let that be the name,” said a voice behind them, and turning, Marian saw Frederic, who had all the time been standing near and watching them as like two children they knelt together by the candle box and gave the cat its milk—Marian and Alice, side by side, just as they used to be of old—just as Frederic had seen them many a time.
The tableau was a familiar one, and so he felt it to be, though he could not divine the reason. The tall, beautiful girl before him bore no resemblance to the Marian of Redstone Hall, and still nothing she did seemed strange or new to him.
“I certainly have dreamed of her,” he said, when lifting up her head she shook back from her face the clustering curls, and smiled on Alice as she used to do. “I have dreamed of her just as I sometimes dream of places, and see them afterward in waking.”
This conclusion was entirely satisfactory, and she returned with the girls to the parlor, while “Spottie” followed after, hovering near to Marian, whose low spoken words and gentle caresses had reawakened the affection which had perhaps been dormant during the last year.
“Will you play for us, Miss Grey?” said Frederic, and without a word of apology, Marian seated herself at the piano, whose rich, mellow tones roused her enthusiasm at once, and she played more than usually well, while Alice stood by listening eagerly, and Frederic looked on, scarce heeding the stirring notes, so intentwas he upon the dimpled hands which swept the keys so skillfully.
On the third finger there was a little cornelian ring, the first gift of Ben, and as he looked, he felt certain he had seen that ring and those hands before. But where? He tried to recall the time and the place. Stepping forward, he looked into her face, but that gave him no clue, only the ring and the hands were familiar. Suddenly he started, for he remembered the when and the where—remembered, too, that Alice, when told of the girl with the brown vail, had said to him, “Wan’t that our Marian?”
He had accepted the suggestion as a possible one then, but he doubted it now, for if that maiden were Marian Grey, it certainly could not have been Marian Lindsey. The exquisite music ceased, and ere Alice had time for a word of comment, he asked abruptly: “Miss Grey, did you ever ride in the cars with me in New York?”
The question was a startling one, but Marian’s face was turned from him, and he could not see the effort she made to answer him calmly.
“I think it very probable. I have been in the cars a great many times, and with a great many different people.”
“Yes, but one rainy night, more than four years ago, did I not offer you a seat between myself and the door? You wore a brown vail, and carried a willow basket, if it were you. Something about your appearance has puzzled me all the evening, and I think I must have met you there. It was on the Third Avenue cars.”
Marian trembled violently, but by constantly turning the leaves of her music book, she managed to conceal her agitation, and when Frederic ceased speaking, she answered in her natural tone, “Now that you recall the circumstances, I believe I do remember something about it, though you do not look as that man did. I imagined he had been sick, or was in trouble,” and Marian’s blue eyes turned sideways to witness, ifpossible, the effect of her words. But she was disappointed, for she could not see how white Frederic was for a single instant, but she felt it in his voice, as he replied:
“You are right. I had been sick, and was in great trouble.”
“Wasn’t that when you were looking for Marian?” Alice asked, and again the blue eyes sought Frederic’s face, turning this time so that they could see it.
“Yes, I was hunting for Marian,” was the answer; and the deep sigh which accompanied the words brought a thrill of joy to the Marian hunted for, and she knew now, and from his own lips, too, that he had sought for her, nay, that he was looking for her even then, when in her anger she censured him for not recognizing her.
Little by little she was learning the truth just as it was; and when at a late hour she bade Frederic good night, and went to her own chamber, her heart was almost too full for utterance, for she felt that the long, dark night was over, and the dawn she had waited for so long was breaking at last around her. Intuitively, Alice, who had been permitted to sit up so long as she did, caught something of the same spirit. “It was almost as nice as if Marian really were there,” she said; and she came twice to kiss her governess, while on her face was a most satisfied expression, as she nestled among her pillows and listened to the footsteps in the adjoining chamber where Marian made her nightly toilet.
“Oh, I wish she’d let me sleep with her,” she thought. “It would be a heap more like having Marian back.” And, when all was still, she stepped upon the floor and glided to the bedside of Marian, who was not aware of her approach until a voice whispered in her ear:
“May I stay here with you? I’ve been making believe that you was Marian—our Marian, I mean—and I want to sleep with you so much just as I used to do with her—may I?”
“Yes, darling,” was the answer, as Marian foldedher arms lovingly around the neck of the blind girl, whose soft, warm cheek was pressed against her own.
And there, just as they were used to do in the old Kentucky home, ere sorrow had come to either, they lay side by side, Marian and Alice, the one dreaming sweet dreams of the Marian come back to her again; and the other, that to her the gates of Paradise were opened, and she saw the glory shining through, just as in Frederic Raymond’s eyes she had seen the glimmer of the love-light which was yet to overshadow her and brighten her future pathway.