CHAPTER XXVI.LIFE AT RIVERSIDE.
It was a joyful waking which came to Marian next morning, and when fresh and glowing from her invigorating bath she descended to the piazza she was surprised at finding Frederic there before her, looking haggard and pale, as if the boon of sleep had been denied to him. After Marian and Alice had bidden him good night, he, too, had retired to his room, which was directly under theirs; and sitting in his arm-chair, he had listened to the footsteps above, readily distinguishing one from the other, and experiencing unconsciously a vague, delicious feeling of comfort in knowing that the long talked of Marian Grey had come to him at last, and that she was even more beautiful than he had imagined her to be from Will Gordon’s glowing description. He would keep her with him, too, he said, until the other one was found, if that should ever be: and then, as the footsteps and the murmur of voices in the chamber above him ceased, and all about the house was still, his heart went out after the other one, demanding of the solitude around to show him where she was—to lead him to her so that he could bring her back to the home where each day he was wanting her more and more. And the solitude thus questioned invariably carried his thoughts toMarian Grey, whose delicate, girlish beauty had made so strong an impression upon his mind. “How would the two compare?”he asked. “Would not the governess far outshine the wife? Would not the contrast be a painful one?”
“No, no!” he said; “for, though Marian Lindsey were not as beautiful as Marian Grey, she was gentle, pure and good.” And then, as he sought his pillow, he went back again in fancy to that feverish sick room, and the tender love which alone had saved him from death; while mingled with this remembrance were confused thoughts of the vailed maiden in the corner of the car—of the geranium growing in the window, and of Marian Grey, who seemed a part of every thing—for, turn which way he would, her blue eyes were sure to shine upon him; and once, when, for a few moments, he fell into a troubled sleep, she said to him, “I am the Marian you seek.”
Then this vision faded, and he saw a little grave, on whose humble stone was written, “The Heiress of Redstone Hall,” and with a nervous start he woke, only to doze and dream again, until at last he was glad when the dawn came stealing across the misty river, and looked in at his window. The sun was not yet up when he arose, and going out upon the broad piazza, tried by walking to gain the rest the night had failed to bring. As he walked Spottie came purring to his side, rubbing against his feet and looking into his face as if she fain would tell him, if she could, that the lost one had returned, and was safe beneath his roof.
Frederic Raymond could not be said to care particularly for cats, but there was a charm connected with this one gambolling at his feet, and he did not deem it an unmanly act to stoop down and caress it for the sake of her who had often had it in her arms.
“Can you tell me nothing of your mistress,” he said, aloud, for he thought himself alone.
Instantly the cat, whose ear had caught a sound he did not hear, bounded toward the door where Marian Grey was standing. Advancing toward her, Frederic said, “You must excuse me, Miss Grey. I am not often guilty of petting cats, but this one has a peculiarattraction for me, inasmuch as it once belonged to—to—to Mrs. Raymond,” and Frederic felt vastly relieved to think he had actually spoken of his wife to Marian Grey, and called her Mrs. Raymond, too! He knew Will Gordon had told her the story, and when he saw how the color came and went upon her cheek, he fancied that it arose from the delicacy she would naturally feel in talking with him of his runaway wife. He was glad he had introduced the subject, and she should continue it or not, as she choose. Marian hardly knew how to reply, for though she longed to hear what he had to say of Mrs. Raymond, she scarcely dared trust herself to question him.
At last, however, she ventured to say, “Yes, Alice told me that it was once your wife’s. She is dead, isn’t she?”
Frederic started, and walking off a few paces, replied, “Marian dead! not that I know of! Did you ever hear that she was?” and he came back to Marian, looking at her so earnestly that she colored deeply, as she replied:
“Mr. Gordon told me something of her; and I had the impression that——”
She did not know how to finish the sentence, and she was glad to hear a little, uncertain step upon the stairs, as that was an excuse for her to break off abruptly, and go to Alice, who had come down in quest of her, expressing much surprise that she should rise so early and dress so quietly.
“Mrs. Jones used to make such a noise coughing and sneezing,” she said, “that she always woke me, while Isabel never got up till breakfast was ready, and sometimes not then, when we were in Kentucky. Negroes were made to wait on her, she said. She’ll be coming over here to call and see how you look. I heard her asking Mrs. Russell last week if you were pretty, and she said——”
“Never mind what she said,” suggested Marian, adding laughingly, “I have heard of Miss Huntingtonbefore. Will Gordon told me of her, and Ben, too. He saw her in Kentucky, you know; so you see, I am tolerably well posted in your affairs;” and she turned towards Frederic, who was about to answer, when Alice, who had climbed into a chair, and was standing with her arm around the young man’s neck, chimed in:
“If Mr. Gordon told you that Frederic liked her, it isn’t so, for he don’t; do you, Frederic?”
“I like all the ladies,” was his reply; and the breakfast bell just then rang, the conversation ceased, and they entered the house together, Alice holding fast to Marian’s hand, and dancing along like a joyous bird.
“You seem very happy this morning,” said Frederic, smiling down upon the happy child.
“I am,” she replied. “I’m most as happy as I should be if we had found Marian yesterday. Wouldn’t it be splendid if this were really Marian, and wouldn’t you be glad?”
Frederic Raymond did not say yes—he did not say anything; but as he looked at the figure in white presiding a second time so gracefully at his table, he fancied that it would not be a hard matter for any man to be glad if Marian Grey were his wife. Breakfast being over, Alice assumed the responsibility of showing her teacher the place.
“You were here once, I know,” she said, “and left me those flowers, but you hadn’t time then to see half. There’s a tree down in the garden, where Frederic’s name is cut in the bark, and Marian Lindsey’s, too. You must see that;” and she led her off to the spot where John had seen her crying the day before. “I ain’t going to study a bit for ever so long. Frederic says I needn’t,” said Alice. “I’m going to have a right nice time with you.” And Marian was not sorry, for nothing could please her better than rambling with Alice over what was once her home.
Very rapidly the first few days passed away, and ere a week had gone by, Marian understood tolerably wellthe place which Marian Lindsey occupied in her husband’s affections, and she needed not the letter received from William Gordon to tell her that the Frederic Raymond of to-day was not the same from whose presence she had once fled with a breaking heart. He was greatly changed, and if she had loved him in the early days of her girlhood, her heart clung to him now with an affection tenfold stronger than she had ever known before. From Alice, who was very communicative, she learned many things of which she little dreamed, when in New York she was hiding from her husband, and believing that he hated her. Alice liked nothing better than to talk of Marian, and one afternoon, when Frederic was in New York, and the two girls were sitting together in their pleasant chamber, she told her sad story in her own childish way, accepting her companion’s tears, which fell like rain as tokens of sympathy for the lost one.
“Frederic cried just like he was a woman,” she said, “when he came up from the river, cold, and wet, and sick, and told us they could not find her. I remember, too, how he groaned when I asked him what made her kill herself; she didn’t, though,” she added quickly, as she heard Marian’s exclamation of horror at the very idea; “she wasn’t even dead, but we thought she was, and we mourned for her so much. The house was like a funeral all the time till Isabel came.”
“And how was it then?” Marian asked.
Alice did not reply immediately, and as Marian saw the shadow which flitted over her face, she pressed her hands together nervously, for she fancied that she knew what Redstone Hall was like when Isabel, her rival, came.
“You were telling me about the house after Miss Huntington’s arrival,” she rejoined, as Alice showed no signs of continuing the conversation, but sat with her eyes fixed upon the floor as if she were thinking of something far back in the past.
At Marian’s remark she started, and with the same dreamy, perplexed look upon her face, replied:
“Perhaps I ought not to tell; but you seem so near to me that I don’t believe Frederic would care. He’s got over it, too, but he loved Isabel,” and Alice’s voice sank to a whisper, as if afraid the walls would hear. “He loved her a heap better than he did poor dear Marian, who somehow found it out that night, and rather than be his wife when he didn’t want her, she ran away, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” gasped Marian, while Alice, little dreaming how well she knew, continued, “And so when Isabel came, he couldn’t help loving her some, I suppose, though Dinah thought he could, and she used to scold mightily when she heard her singing and playing, as she did all the time, so as to get Frederic in there,” and Alice’s tone and manner were so much like old Dinah and so highly expressive of her meaning, that Marian could not forbear smiling. “I talked to Frederic one night,” said Alice, “and told him I didn’t believe Marian was dead, and I reckon I made him think so, too, for he promised he would wait for her ten years.”
“Will he marry then, if he does not find her?” Marian asked by way of calling out the little girl, who replied:
“I suppose he won’t live all his life alone; at any rate, he said he wouldn’t. Oh, Miss Grey!” and Alice started so quickly that Marian started, too; “I’d a heap rather Marian would be his wife than anybody, because he married her first; but if she don’t come back, can’t you guess what I wish would be?” and Alice wound her arms around the neck of Marian, who did guess, but could not embody her guessing in words.
“Did Mr. Raymond never hear from her?” she asked, and resuming her seat, Alice replied:
“Yes, and that’s the mystery. One cold March night when Isabel was dressing for a party, and wasjust as cross as she could be, there came to him a letter from Sarah Green, saying she was dead and buried with canker rash.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Marian, starting quickly. “When? Where?”
“In New York,” answered Alice; and Marian listened breathlessly to the story of her supposed decease, wondering, as Frederic had often done, whence the letter came, and why it had been sent.
“It must have been a plan of Ben’s to see what he would do,” she thought; and she listened again, with burning cheeks and beating heart, while Alice told of Frederic’s grief when he read that she was dead.
“I know he cried,” said Alice, “for there were tears on his face, and he sat so still, and held me so close to him that I could hear his heart thump so hard,” and she illustrated by striking her tiny fist upon the table.
Then she told how sometime after she had interrupted Frederic in the parlor, just as he was asking Isabel to be his wife, and had almost convinced him again of Marian’s existence.
“Blessed Alice,” said Marian, involuntarily. “You have been Miss Lindsey’s good angel, and kept her husband from falling.”
“I couldn’t help it,” answered Alice. “I most knew she was alive; and I was so glad when he started for New York. I was sure he’d find her; and he did. She took care of him a few days and his voice sounded so low and sad when he told me of her, and how she left him when Isabel came. Your brother Ben—the nice man who gave me the bracelet—telegraphed for her to go; and you would suppose she was crazy—she flew around so, ordering the negroes, and knocking Dud down flat, because he couldn’t run fast enough to get out of her way. That made Aunt Hetty, his grandmother, mad, and she yellowed Isabel’s collar that she was ironing. If I hadn’t beenblind I should have cried myself so those dreadful days when we expected to hear Frederic was dead, for next to Marian I love him the best. He’s real good to me now; and when I asked him once what made him pet me so much more than he used to, he said, ‘Because our dear, lost Marian loved you, and you loved her.’”
“Did he say that? Did he call her his ‘dear, lost Marian?’” and the eyes of the speaker sparkled with delight, while across her mind there flitted the half-formed resolution that before the sun had set Frederic Raymond should know the whole.
Ere Alice could answer this question, there was a loud ring at the door, and a servant brought to Miss Grey Isabel Huntington’s card.
“I knew she’d call,” said Alice. “She wants to see how you look; but I don’t care, for Frederic says you’re a heap the handsomest; I asked him last night after you quit playing, and had left the room.”
The knowledge that Frederic Raymond preferred her face to that of Isabel, rendered Marian far more self-possessed than she would otherwise have been, as she went down to meet her visitor, whose call was prompted from mere curiosity, and not from any friendliness she felt towards Marian Grey. Isabel had heard much of Marian’s beauty from those who met her since her arrival at Riverside, and she had come to see if rumor were correct. During the last three years she had not improved materially, for her disappointment in failing to win Frederic Raymond had soured a disposition never particularly amiable, and she was now a censorious, fault-finding woman of twenty-five, on the lookout for a husband, and trembling lest the dreaded age of thirty should find her still unmarried. For Frederic Raymond she affected a feeling of contempt; insinuating that he was mean—that his property was not gained honestly; that she knew something which she could tell but shouldn’t—all of which had but little effect in a place where he was somuch better known than herself. And still, had Frederic Raymond evinced the slightest interest in her, she would gladly have met him more than half the way, for the love she really felt for him once had never died away. And even now she watched him often through blinding tears as he passed her cottage door. The story of Marian’s existence she had repudiated at first and in the excitement of going south, and the incidents connected with her sojourn there, she had failed to speak of it even to Mrs. Rivers, choosing rather to make her friends believe that she had deliberately refused the owner of Redstone Hall. Recently, however, and since her arrival at Riverside, she had indirectly circulated the story, and Frederic had more than once been questioned as to its authenticity. Greatly to Isabel’s chagrin he took no pains to conceal the fact, but frankly spoke of Mrs. Raymond, as a person who had been, and who he hoped was still a living reality. Very narrowly Isabel watched the proceedings at Riverside, and when she heard that Alice’s new governess was in some way connected with the “gawky peddler,” whom she remembered well, she sneered at her as a person of no refinement, marvelling greatly at the praises bestowed upon her. At last, curious to see for herself, she donned her richest robes, and now in the parlor at Riverside, sat awaiting the appearance of Miss Grey.
“Let her be what she will, Frederic can’t marry her, and that’s some consolation,” she thought, just as a tripping footstep announced the approach of Marian, and, assuming her haughtiest manner, she arose, and bowed to Frederic Raymond’s wife.
They had met before, but there was no token of recognition between them now, and as strangers they greeted each other, Marian’s hand trembling slightly as she offered it to Isabel—for she knew that this was not their first meeting. Coldly, inquisitively and almost impudently, the haughty Isabel scrutinized the graceful creature, mentally acknowledging thatshe was beautiful, and hating her for it. With great effort Marian concealed her agitation, and answered carelessly the first few common-place remarks addressed to her, as to how she liked Riverside, and if this were her first visit there.
“No,” she answered to this last question—“I came here once with Ben, who, you remember, was once at Redstone Hall.”
“I could not well forget him. His odd Yankee ways furnished gossip for many a day among the negroes.” And Isabel tossed her head scornfully, as if Ben Burt were a creature far beneath her notice.
After a little, she spoke of Mr. Raymond, asking Marian, finally, what she thought of him, and saying she supposed she knew he was a married man.
“I know he has been married, but is there any certainty that his wife is still living?” asked Marian, for the sake of hearing her visitor’s remarks.
“Any certainty! Of course there is,” said Isabel, experiencing at once a pang of jealousy lest the humble Marian Grey had dared to think of Frederic as a widower, and hence a marriageable man. “Of course she’s living, though, I must say, he takes no great pains to find her. He did look for her a little, I believe, after he was sick in New York; but he did it more to divert his mind from a very mortifying disappointment than from any affection he felt for her, and it was this which prompted him to go to New York at all.”
“What disappointment?” Marian asked, faintly, and, affecting to be embarrassed, Isabel replied:
“It would be unbecoming inmeto say what the nature of it was, and I referred to it thoughtlessly. Pray, forget it, Miss Grey;” and she turned the leaves of a handsomely bound volume lying on the table with well feigned modesty.
Marian understood her at once, and was glad that Isabel was too intent upon an engraving to observe her agitation. Notwithstanding what Alice said, Frederichadoffered himself to Isabel, and her refusalhad sent him to New York, where he hoped to forget his mortification, and where sickness had overtaken him. In the kindness of her heart, Isabel had come to him, and the words of affection which she had heard her speak to Frederic were prompted by pity, rather than love, as she then supposed. And after Isabel had left him, he had looked for her merely by way of excitement, and not because he cared to find her. Such were the thoughts which flashed upon Marian’s mind and destroyed at once her half-formed resolution of telling Frederic that night. She did not know Isabel, and she could not understand why she should be guilty of a falsehood to her—a perfect stranger.
“He is not learning to love me, after all,” was the sad cry of her heart; and, when she spoke again, there was a plaintive tone in her voice, and Isabel wondered she had not observed before how mournful it was. And, as they sat talking, there came along the graveled walk a step familiar to them both, and the color deepened on their cheeks; while in the kindling light which shone in the eyes of blue, and flashed from the eyes of black, there was a spark of jealousy, as if each were reading the secret thoughts of the other.
Frederic had returned from the city earlier than was his custom, for he usually spent the entire day; but there was something now to draw him home besides the blind girl, and he was conscious of quickening his footsteps as he drew near his house, and of watching eagerly for the flutter of a mourning robe, or the sight of a sunny face, which, he knew, would smile a welcome. He heard her voice in the parlor, and ere he was aware of it, he stood in the presence of Isabel. Narrowly Marian watched him, marvelling somewhat at his perfect self-possession; for Isabel was to him an object of such indifference that he experienced far less emotion in meeting her than in speaking to Marian Grey, and asking if she had been lonely.
“You men are so vain,” said Isabel, with a toss of her head, “and think we miss you so much. Now I’llventure to say Miss Grey has not thought of you in a day. Why should she?”
“Why shouldn’t she?” asked Frederic, giving to Marian a smile which sent the hot blood tingling to her finger tips.
“‘Why shouldn’t she!’” returned Isabel—“just as though we, girls, ever think of married men. By the way, have you heard anything definite from Mrs. Raymond, since she left you so suddenly in New York, or have you given up the search?”
Marian pitied Frederic then, he turned so white; and she almost hated Isabel, as she saw the malicious triumph in her eye. Breathlessly, too, she awaited the answer, which was:
“I shall never abandon the search until I find her, or know certainly that she is dead. I went to the place where she used to live, not long ago.”
“Indeed! What did you learn?” and a part of Isabel’s assurance left her, for she felt that his searching for his wife was a reality with him; while Marian’s heart grew hopeful and warm again, as she listened to Frederic Raymond telling Isabel Huntington of that dear old room which had been her home so long.
“I can’t conceive what made her run away,” said Isabel, fixing her large, glittering eyes upon Frederic, who coolly replied, “I can,” and then turning to Marian he abruptly commenced a conversation upon an entirely different subject.
Biting her lip with vexation, Isabel arose to go, saying she should expect to see Miss Grey at her own house, and that she hoped she would sometimes bring Mr. Raymond with her.
“You need not be afraid to come,” she continued, addressing herself to him, “for everybody knows you have a wife, consequently your coming will create no scandal concerning yourself andmother!” and with a hateful laugh she swept haughtily down the walk.
From this time forth Isabel was a frequent visitor at Riverside, where she always managed to say somethingwhich seriously affected Marian’s peace of mind and led her to distrust the man who was beginning to feel far more interest in the Marian found than in the Marian lost. This the quick-sighted Isabel saw and while her bosom rankled with envy towards her rival, she exulted in the thought that love her as he might he dared not tell her of his love, for a barrier the living wife had built between the two. Though professing the utmost regard for Miss Grey she did not hesitate to speak against her when an opportunity occurred, but her shafts fell harmlessly, for where Marian was known she was esteemed and the wily woman gave up the contest at last and waited anxiously to see the end.
Towards the last of October, Ben, who was now a petty grocer in a New England village, came to Riverside for the first time since Marian’s residence there. Never before had he appeared so happy, and his honest face was all aglow with his delight at seeing Marian at last where she belonged.
“You fit in like an odd scissor,” he said to her when they were alone. “Ain’t it most time to tell?”
“Not yet,” returned Marian. “I would rather wait until I am back at Redstone Hall. We are going there next month, and then, too, I wish I knew how much of Isabel’s insinuations to believe.”
“Isabel be hanged,” said Ben. “She lied I know, and mebby that letter was some of her devilment. Has she washed them curtains yit?”
Marian replied by telling him of the letter from Sarah Green and asking if he could explain it. But it was all a mystery to him, and he puzzled his brain with it for a long time, deciding at last that it might have come from some of her Kentucky acquaintance who chanced to be in New York, and sent it just for mischief.
“But they overshot the mark,” said he. “You ain’t dead by a great sight, and I b’lieve I’d let the cat out pretty soon. That makes me think you wrote thatSpottie was here. Where is the critter? ’Twould be good for sore eyes to see her again.”
Marian went in quest of her, and on her return found Alice with Ben, who, in her presence, dared not manifest all that he felt at sight of his old friend. Taking the animal on his lap he looked at it for a moment with quivering chin; then stroking its soft fur, he said, with a prolongation of each syllable, which rendered the sound ludicrous, “Gri-mal-kin——poorgri-mal-kin,” and a tear dropped on its back.
“What!” exclaimed Alice, coming to his side, “what did you call the kitty?”
“Gri-mal-kin,” answered Ben, adding, by way of explanation, “that, I b’lieve, is theLatinfor cat.”
Marian could not forbear laughing aloud, and as Ben joined with her, it served to keep him from crying outright, as he otherwise might have done.
“What are you going to do with it when you go South?” he asked, and upon Alice’s replying that they should leave it with Mrs. Russell, he proposed taking it instead and keeping it until Spring, when he could return it.
This suggestion was warmly seconded by Marian, and as Alice finally yielded the point, Ben carried Spottie off the next morning, promising the little girl that it should be well cared for in her absence. Alice shed a few tears at parting with her pet, but they were like April showers, and soon passed away in her joyful anticipations of a speedy removal to Kentucky, for Frederic was going earlier this season than usual, and the 10th of November was appointed for them to start. If they met with no delays they would reach Redstone Hall on the anniversary of Marian’s bridal, and to her it seemed meet that on this day of all others she should return again to her old home, and she wondered if Frederic, too, would think of it or send one feeling of regret after his missing bride. He did remember it, for the November days were always fraught with memoriesof the past. This year, however, there was a difference, for though he thought much of Marian Lindsey, it was not as he had thought of her before, and he was conscious of a most unaccountable sensation of satisfaction in knowing that even if she could not go with him to Kentucky, her place would be tolerably well filled by Marian Grey!