Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

POPULAR NOVELS

By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes.

All published uniform with this volume, at $1.50, and sent free by mail on receipt of price.

I.— DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. II.— ’LENA RIVERS. III.— TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. IV.— MARIAN GREY. V.— MEADOW BROOK. VI.— ENGLISH ORPHANS. VII.— DORA DEANE. VIII.— COUSIN MAUDE. IX.— HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE.

Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.

CARLETON, Publisher,

New York.

MARIAN GREY;
OR, THE
HEIRESS OF REDSTONE HALL.

BY

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,

AUTHOR OF “’LENA RIVERS,” “TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,” ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK:

Carleton, Publisher, 413 Broadway.

M DCCC LXV.

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1863,

By DANIEL HOLMES,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Northern District of New York.

TO

N. C. MILLER,

OF NEW YORK,

MY MUCH ESTEEMED FRIEND,

AND

FORMER PUBLISHER,

THIS STORY OF MARIAN GREY

IS RESPECTFULLY

DEDICATED,

BY

THE AUTHOR

MARIAN GREY.

CHAPTER I.
GUARDIAN AND WARD.

The night was dark and the clouds black and heavy which hung over Redstone Hall, whose massive walls loomed up through the darkness like some huge sentinel keeping guard over the spacious grounds by which it was surrounded. Within the house all was still, and without there was no sound to break the midnight silence save the sighing of the autumnal wind through the cedar trees, or the roar of the river, which, swollen by the recent heavy rains, went rushing on to meet its twin sister at a point well known in Kentucky, where our story opens, as “The Forks of the Elkhorn.” From one of the lower windows a single light was shining, and its dim rays fell upon the face of a white-haired man, who moaned uneasily in his sleep, as if pursued by some tormenting fear. At last, as the old fashioned clock struck off the hour of twelve, he awoke, and glancing nervously toward the corner, whence the sound proceeded, he whispered, “Have you come again, Ralph Lindsey, to tell me of my sin?”

“What is it, Mr. Raymond?” and a young girl glided to the bedside of the old man, who, taking her hand in his, the better to assure himself of her presence, said, “Marian, is there nothing in that corner yonder—nothing with silvery hair?”

“Nothing,” answered Marian, “nothing but the lamplight shining on the face of the old clock. Did you think there was some one here?”

“Yes—no. Marian, do you believe the dead can come back to us again—when we have done them a wrong—the dead who are buried in the sea, I mean?”

Marian shuddered involuntarily, and cast a timid look toward the shadowy corner, then, conquering her weakness, she answered, “No, the dead cannot come back. But why do you talk so strangely to-night?”

The old man hesitated a moment ere he replied.—“The time has come for me to speak, so that your father can rest in peace. He has been with me more than once in this very room, and to-night I fancied he was here again, asking why I had dealt so falsely with his child.”

“Falsely!” cried Marian, kissing tenderly the hand of the only parent she had ever known. “Not falsely, I am sure, for you have been most kind to me.”

“And yet, Marian,” he said, “I have done you a wrong—a wrong which has eaten into my very soul, and worn my life away. I did not intend to speak of it to-night, but something prompts me to do so, and you must listen. On that night when your father died, and when all in the ship, save ourselves and the watch, were asleep, I laid my hand on his forehead, and swore to be faithful to my trust. Do you hear, Marian—faithful to my trust. You don’t know what that meant, but I know, and I’ve broken my oath to the dying—and from that grave in the ocean he comes to me sometimes, and with the same look upon his face which it wore that Summer afternoon when we laid him in the sea, he asks why justice has not been done to you. Wait, Marian, until I have finished,” he continued, as he saw her about to speak; “I know I have not long to live, and I would make amends; but, Marian, I would rather—oh, so much rather, you should not know the truth until I’m dead. You will forgive me then more readily, won’t you, Marian? Promise me you will forgive the poor old man who has loved you so much—loved you, if possible, better than he loved his only son.”

He paused for her reply, and half bewildered, Marian answered, “I don’t know what you mean—but if, as you say, a wrong has been done, no matter how great that wrong may be, it is freely forgiven for the sake of what you’ve been to me.”

The sick man wound his arm lovingly around her, and bringing her nearer to him, he said, “Bless you, Marian—bless you for that. It makes my deathbed easier. I will leave it in writing—my confession. I cannot tell it now, for I could not bear to see upon your face that you despised me. You wrote to Frederic, and told him to come quickly?”

“Yes,” returned Marian, “I said you were very sick and wished to see him at once.”

For a moment there was silence in the room; then, removing his arm from the neck of the young girl, the old man raised himself upon his elbow and looking her steadily in the face, said, “Marian, could you love my son Frederic?”

The question was a strange one, but Marian Lindsey was accustomed to strange modes of speech in her guardian, and with a slightly heightened color she answered quietly, “I do love him as a brother—”

“Yes, but I would have you love him as something nearer,” returned her guardian. “Ever since I took you for my child it has been the cherished object of my life that you should be his wife.”

There was a nervous start and an increase of color in Marian’s face, for the idea, though not altogether disagreeable, was a new one to her, but she made no reply, and her guardian continued, “I am selfish in this wish, though not wholly so. I know you could be happy with him, and in no other way can my good name be saved from disgrace. Promise me, Marian, that you will be his wife very soon after I am dead, and before all Kentucky is talking of my sin. You are not too young. You will be sixteen in a few months, and many marry as early as that.”

“Does he wish it?” asked Marian, timidly; and her guardian replied, “He has known you but little of late, but when he sees you here at home, and learns how gentle and good you are, he cannot help loving you as you deserve.”

“Yes he can,” answered Marian with childish simplicity. “No man as handsome as Frederic ever loved a girl with an ugly face, and I heard him tell Will Gordon, when he spent a vacation here, that I was a nice little girl, but altogether too freckled, too red-headed, and scrawny, ever to make a handsome woman,” and Marian’s voice trembled slightly as she recalled a speech which had wrung from her many tears.

To this remark Col. Raymond made no reply—for he too, had cause to doubt Frederic’s willingness to marry a girl who boasted so few personal charms as did Marian Lindsey then. Rumors, too, he had heard, of a peerlessly beautiful creature, with raven hair and eyes of deepest black, who at the north kept his son a captive to her will. But this could not be; Frederick must marry Marian, for in no other way could the name of Raymond be saved from a disgrace, or the vast possessions he called his be kept in the family, and he was about to speak again when a heavy tread in the hall announced the approach of some one, and a moment after, Aunt Dinah, the housekeeper, appeared. “She had come to sit up with her marster,” she said, “and let Miss Marian go to bed, where children like her ought to be.”

At first Marian objected, for though scarcely conscious of it herself, she was well enough pleased to sit where she was and hear her guardian talk of Frederic and of what she had no hope would ever be; but when Aunt Dinah suggested to her that sitting up so much would make her look yellow and old, she yielded, for Frederic was a passionate admirer of beauty, and she well knew that she had none to lose. Kissing her guardian good night, she hurried to her chamber, but not to sleep, for the tumult of thought which her recent conversation had awakened kept her restless and wakeful. Under ordinary circumstances she would have wondered what the wrong could be at which Col. Raymond had hinted, but now she scarcely remembered it, or if it occurred to her at all, she instantly dismissed it from her mind as some trivial thing which the weak state of her guardian’s mind magnified into a serious matter.

Thirteen years before our story opens, Marian had embarked with her father on board a ship which sailed from Liverpool to New York. Of that father she remembered little save that he was very poor, and that he talked of his poverty as if it were something of which he was proud. Pleasant memories, though, she had of an American gentleman who used often to take her on his lap, and tell her of the land to which she was going; and when one day her father laid him down in his berth, with the fever as they said, she remembered how the kind man had cared for him, holding his aching head and watching by him till he died;—then, when it was all over, he had taken her upon his knee and told her she was to be his little girl now, and he bade her call him father—telling her how her own dead parent had asked him to care for her, who in all the wide world had no near relative. Something, too, she remembered about an old coarse bag, which had troubled her new father very much, and which he had finally put in the bottom of his trunk, throwing overboard a few articles of clothing to make room for it. The voyage was long and stormy, but they reached New York at last, and he took her to his home—not Redstone Hall, but an humble farm-house on the Hudson, where he had always lived. Frederic was a boy then—a dark-haired handsome boy of eleven, and even now she shuddered as she remembered how he used to tease and worry her. Still he liked her, she was sure—and the first real grief which she remembered was on that rainy day when, with an extra pull at her long curls, he bade her good-by and went off to a distant boarding school.

Col. Raymond, her guardian, was growing rich, and people said he must have entered into some fortunate speculation while abroad, for, since his return, prosperity had attended every movement; and when, six months after Frederic’s departure, he went to Kentucky and purchased Redstone Hall, then rather a dilapidated building, Mrs. Burt, his housekeeper, had wondered where all his money came from, when he used to be so poor. They had moved to Kentucky when Marian was five and a half years old—and now, after ten years’ improvement, there was not in the whole county so beautiful a spot as Redstone Hall, with its terraced grounds, its graveled walks, its plats of grass, its grand old trees, its creeping vines, its flowering shrubs and handsome park in the rear. And this was Marian’s home;—here she had lived a rather secluded life, for only when Frederic was with them did they see much company, and all the knowledge she had of the world was what she gleaned from books or learned from the negress Dinah, who, “having lived with the very first families,” frequently entertained her young mistress with stories of “the quality,” and the dinner parties at which her presence was once so indispensable. And Marian, listening to these glowing descriptions of satin dresses, diamonds and feathers, sometimes wished that she were rich, and could have a taste of fashion. To be sure, her guardian bought her always more than she needed—but it was not hers, and without any particular reason why she should do so, she felt that she was a dependent and something of an inferior, especially when Frederic came home with his aristocratic manners, his graceful mustache, and the soft scent of perfumery he usually carried with him. He was always polite and kind to Marian, but she felt that there was a gulf between them. He was handsome; she was plain—he was rich; she was poor—he was educated, and she—alas, for Marian’s education—she read a great deal, but never yet had she given herself up to a systematic course of study. Governesses she had in plenty, but she usually coaxed them off into the woods, or down by the river, where she left them to do what they pleased, while she learned many a lesson from the great book of nature spread out so beautifully before her. All this had tended to make and keep her a very child, and it was not until her fourteenth year that any thing occurred to develop the genuine womanly qualities which she possessed.

By the death of a distant relative, a little unfortunate blind girl was left to Colonel Raymond’s care, and was immediately taken to Redstone Hall, where she became the pet of Marian, who loved nothing in the whole world as dearly as the poor blind Alice. And well was that love repaid; for to Alice Marian Lindsey was the embodiment of everything beautiful, pure and good. Frederic, on the contrary, was a kind of terror to the little Alice. “He was so precise and stuck up,” she said; “and when he was at home Marian was not a bit like herself.” To Marian, however, his occasional visits to Redstone Hall were sources of great pleasure. To look at his handsome figure, to listen to his voice, to anticipate his slightest wish and minister to his wants so quietly that he scarcely knew from whom the attention came, was happiness for her, and when he smiled upon her, as he often did, calling her “a good little girl,” she felt repaid for all she had done. Occasionally, since her guardian’s illness, she had thought of the future when some fine lady might come to Redstone Hall as its mistress, but the subject was an unpleasant one, and she always dismissed it from her mind. In her estimation, there were few worthy to be the wife of Frederic—certainly not herself—and when the idea was suggested to her by his father, she regarded it as an utter impossibility. Still it kept her wakeful, and once she said softly to herself, “I could love him so much if he would let me, and I should be so proud of him, too.” Then, as she remembered the remark she had heard him make to his college friend, she covered her face with her hands and whispered, sadly, “Oh, I wish I wasn’t ugly.” Anon, however, there came stealing over her the thought that in the estimation of others she was not as plain as in that of Frederic Raymond. Every body seemed to like her, and if she were hideous looking they could not. Alice, whose darkened eyes had never looked upon the light of day, and who judged by the touch alone, declared that she was beautiful, while old Dinah said that age would improve her as it did wine, and that in time she would be the handsomest woman in all Kentucky.

Never before had Marian thought so much of her personal appearance—and now, feeling anxious to know exactly what her defects were, she arose, and lighting the lamp, placed it upon her dressing bureau—then throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she sat down and minutely inspected the face which Frederic Raymond called so homely. The features were regular enough, but the face was very thin—“scrawny,” Frederic had said, and the cheek bones were plainly perceptible. This might be the result of eating slate-stones; Dinah, who knew everything, said it was, and mentally resolving thereafter to abjure everything of the kind, Marian continued her investigations. It did not occur to her that her complexion was surpassingly fair, nor yet that her eyes were of a most beautiful blue, so intent was she upon the freckles which dotted her nose and a portion of her face. Slate-stones surely had nothing to do with these, and she knew of no way of remedying this evil—unless, indeed, poulticing should do it.—She would consult Dinah on the subject, and feeling a good deal of confidence in the negress’ judgment, she passed on to what she considered her crowning point of ugliness—her hair! It was soft, luxuriant and curly, but alas, it bore the color which, though accounted beautiful in Mary Stuart’s time, has long since been proscribed by fashion as horrid and unbecoming. Turn which way she would, or hold the lamp in any position she chose, it was still red—a dark, decided red—and the tears came to Marian’s eyes as she recalled the many times when, as a boy, Frederic taunted her with being a “red-head” or a “brick-top,” just as the humor suited him. Suddenly she remembered that among her treasures was a lock of her mother’s hair, and opening a rosewood box she took from it a shining tress which she laid upon the marble top of her bureau, and then bent down to admire its color, a beautiful auburn, such as is rarely seen—and which, when seen, is sure to be admired.

“And this was my mother’s,” she whispered, smoothing caressingly the silken hair. “I must resemble her more than my father, who my guardian says was dark. I wish I was like her in everything, for I believe she was beautiful,” and into the mind of the orphan girl there crept an image of a bright-haired, sweet-faced woman, whose eyes of lustrous blue looked lovingly into her own—and this was her mother. She had seen her thus in fancy many a time, but never so vividly as to-night, and unconsciously she breathed the petition, “Let me look like her some day, and I shall be content.”

The gray morning light was by this time stealing through the window, and overcome with weariness and watching, Marian fell asleep, and when, two hours later, old Dinah came in to wake her, she found her sitting before the glass, with the lamp still burning at her side, and her head resting on her arms, which lay upon the low bureau.

“For the dear Lord’s sake, what are you doing?” was Dinah’s exclamation, which at once roused Marian, who unhesitatingly answered,

“I got up to look in the glass, and see if I was so very homely.”

“Humbly! Nonsense, child,” returned old Dinah. “You look like a picter lyin’ thar with the sun a shinin’ on yer har, and makin’ it look like a piece of crimson satin.”

The compliment was a doubtful one, but Marian knew it was well meant, and, without a word in reply, commenced her morning toilet. That day, somewhat to her disappointment, her guardian did not resume the conversation of the previous night. He was convinced that Marian could be easily won, but he did not think it wise to encourage her until he had talked with his son, whose return he looked for anxiously. But day after day went by, and it was in vain that Alice listened, and Marian watched, for the daily stage. It never stopped at the gate; and each time that the old man heard them say it had gone by, he groaned afresh, fearing Frederic would not come until it was too late.

“I can at least tell him the truth on paper,” he said to himself at last, “and it may be he will pay more heed to words, which a dead father wrote, than to words which a living father spoke.”

Marian was accordingly bidden to bring him his little writing desk, and then to leave the room, for he would be alone when he wrote that letter of confession. It cost him many a fierce struggle—the telling to his son a secret which none save himself and God had ever known—aye, which none had ever need to know if he would have it so—but he would not. The secret had worn his life away, and he must make reparation now. So, with the perspiration dropping from every pore, he wrote; and, as he wrote, in his disordered imagination, there stood beside his pillow the white-haired Englishman, watching carefully to see that justice was done at last to Marian. Recently several letters had passed between the father and his son concerning the marriage of the latter with Marian—a marriage every way distasteful to the young man, who, in his answer, had said far harsher things of Marian than he really meant, hoping thus to put an end to his father’s plan. She was “rough, uncouth, uneducated and ugly,” he said, “and if his father did not give up that foolish fancy, he should positively hate the red-headed fright.”

All this the old man touched upon—quoting the very words his son had used, and whispering to himself, “Poor—poor Marian, it would break her heart to know that he said that, but she never will—she never will;” and then, with the energy of despair, he wrote the reason why she must be the wife of his son, pleading with him as only a dying man can plead, that he would not disregard the wishes of his father, and begging him to forget the dark-haired Isabel, who, though perhaps more beautiful, was not—could not—be as pure, as gentle and as good as Marian.

The letter was finished, and ’mid burning tears of remorse and shame the old man read it through.

“Yes, that will do,” he said. “Frederic will heed what’s written here. He’ll marry her or else make restitution;” and laying it away, he commenced the last and hardest part of all—the confessing to Marian how he had sinned against her.

Although there was no tie of blood between them, the gentle young orphan had crept down into his inmost heart, where once he treasured a little golden-haired girl, who, before Frederic was born, died on his lap, and went to the heaven made for such as she. In the first moments of his bereavement, he had thought his loss could never be repaired, but when, with her soft arms around his neck, Marian Lindsey had murmured in his ear how much she loved the only father she had ever known, he felt that the angel he had lost was restored to him tenfold in the little English girl. He knew that she believed that there was in him no evil, and his heart throbbed with agony as he nerved himself to tell her how for years he had acted a villain’s part, but it was done at last, and with a passionate appeal for her forgiveness, and a request that she would not forget him wholly, but come some time to visit his lonely grave, he finished the letter, and folding it up, wrote upon its back, “For Marian;” then, taking the one intended for Frederic, he attempted to write, “For my Son,” but the ink was gone from his pen, there was a blur before his eyes, and though he traced the words he left no impress, and the letter bore no superscription to tell to whom it belonged. Stepping upon the floor, he dragged his feeble limbs to the adjoining room, his library, and placing both letters in his private drawer, retired to his bed, where, utterly exhausted, he fell asleep.

When at last he awoke, Marian was sitting by his side, and to her he communicated what he had done, telling her where the letters were, and that if he died ere Frederic’s return, she must give the one bearing the words “For my Son” to him.

“You will not read it, of course,” he said, “or ever seek to know what its contents are.”

Had Marian Lindsey been like many girls, the caution would have insured the reading of the letter at once, but she fortunately shrank from anything dishonorable, and was blessed with but a limited share of woman’s curiosity; consequently, the letter was safe in her care, even though no one ever came to claim it. All that afternoon she sat by her guardian, and when as usual the stage thundered down the turnpike, leaving no Frederic at the door, she soothed him with the hope that he would be there to-morrow. But the morrow came and went as did other to-morrows, until Col. Raymond grew so ill that a telegram was despatched to the truant boy, bidding him hasten if he would see his father again alive.

“That will bring him,” the old man said, while the big tears rolled down his wrinkled face. “He’ll be here in a few days,” and he asked that his bed might be moved near the window, where, propped upon pillows, he watched with childish impatience for the coming of his boy.

CHAPTER II.
FATHER AND SON.

A telegram from Frederic, who was coming home at last! He would be there that very day, and the inmates of Redstone Hall were thrown into a state of unusual excitement. Old Dinah in jaunty turban and clean white apron, bustled from the kitchen to the dining room, and from the dining room back to the kitchen, jingling her huge bunch of keys with an air of great importance, and kicking from under her feet any luckless black baby which chanced to be in her way, making always an exception in favor of “Victoria Eugenia,” who bore a striking resemblance to herself, and would one day call her “gran’mam.” Dinah was in her element, for nothing pleased her better than the getting up a “tip-top dinner,” and fully believing that Frederic had been half starved in a land where they didn’t have hoe-cake and bacon three times a day, she determined to give him one full meal, such as would make his stomach ache for three full hours at least!

Mr. Raymond, too, was better than usual to-day, and at his post by the window watched eagerly the distant turn in the road where the stage would first appear. In her chamber, Marian was busy with her toilet, trying the effect of dress after dress, and at Alice’s suggestion deciding at last upon a pale blue, which harmonized well with her fair complexion.

“Frederic likes blue, I know,” she thought, as she remembered having heard him admire a dress of that color worn by a young lady who had once visited at Redstone Hall.

Dinah, when consulted as to the best method of making red hair dark, had strongly recommended “possum ile and sulphur, scented with some kind of essence;” but to this dye Marian did not take kindly. She preferred that her hair should retain its natural color, and falling as it did in soft curls around her face and neck, it was certainly not unbecoming. Her toilet was completed at last—Alice’s little hands had decided that it was perfect—the image reflected by the mirror was far from being ordinary looking, and secretly wondering if Frederic would not think her tolerably pretty, Marian sat down to await his coming. She had not been seated long when Alice’s quick ear caught the sound of the distant stage, and in a few moments Marian from behind the half-closed shutter, was watching the young man as he came slowly up the avenue, which led from the highway to the house. His step was usually bounding and rapid, but now he lingered as if unwilling to reach the door.

“’Tis because of his father,” thought Marian. “He fears he may be dead.”

But not of his father alone was Frederic thinking. It was not pleasant coming home; for aside from the fear that his father might really die, was a dread of what that father might ask him to do. For Marian as a sister, he had no dislike, for he knew she possessed many gentle, womanly virtues, but from the thoughts of making her his wife he instinctively shrank. Only one had the shadow of a claim to bear that relation to him, and of her he was thinking that September afternoon as he came up the walk. She was poor, he knew, and the daughter of his landlady, who claimed a distant relationship with his father; but she was beautiful, and a queen might covet her stately bearing, and polished, graceful manner. Into her heart he had never looked, for satisfied with the fair exterior, he failed to see the treachery lurking in her large black eyes, or yet to detect the fierce, stormy passions, which had a home within her breast.

Isabella Huntington, or “Cousin Bell,” as he called her, was beautiful, accomplished, and artful, and during the year that Frederic Raymond had been an inmate of her mother’s family, she had succeeded in so completely infatuating the young man that now there was to him but one face in the world, and that in fancy shone upon him even when it was far away. He had never said to her that he loved her, for though often tempted so to do, something had always interposed between them, bidding him wait until he knew her better. Consequently he was not bound to her by words, but he thought it very probable that she would one day be his wife, and as he drew near to Redstone Hall, he could not forbear feeling a glow of pride, fancying how she would grace that elegant mansion as its rightful mistress. Of Marian, too, he thought—harsh, bitter thoughts, mingled with softer emotions as he reflected that she possibly knew nothing of his father’s plan. He pitied her, he said, for if his father died, she would be alone in the world. After what had passed, it would hardly be pleasant for him to have her there where he could see her every day;—she might not be agreeable to Isabel either, and he should probably provide for her handsomely and have her live somewhere else—at a fashionable boarding school, perhaps!

Magnanimous Frederic! He was growing very generous, and by the time he reached the long piazza, Marian Lindsey was comfortably disposed of in the third story of some seminary far away from Redstone Hall!

The meeting between the father and son was an affecting one—the former sobbing like a child, and asking of the latter why he had tarried so long. The answer to this question was that Frederic had been absent from New Haven for three weeks, and that Isabel, who took charge of his letters, neglected to forward the one written by Marian. At the mention of Isabel, the old man’s cheek flushed, and he said, impatiently, “the neglect was an unpardonable one, for it bore on its face ‘In haste.’ Perhaps, though, she did it purposely, hoping thus to keep you from me.”

Instantly Frederic warmed up in Isabel’s defence, saying she was incapable of a mean act. He doubted whether she had observed the words “In haste” at all, and if she did she only withheld it for the sake of saving him from anxiety as long as possible.

At this moment there was the sound of little uncertain feet near the door, and Alice groped her way into the room. She was a fair, sweet-faced little child, and taking her upon his knee, Frederic kissed her affectionately, and asked her many questions as to what she had done since he was home six months before. Seldom before had he paid her so much attention, and feeling anxious that Marian should be similarly treated, the little girl, after answering his questions, said to him, coaxingly,

“Won’t you kiss Marian, too, when she comes down? She’s been ever so long dressing herself and trying to look pretty.”

Instantly the eyes of the father and son met—those of the former expressive of entreaty, while those of the latter flashed with defiance.

“Go for Marian, child, and tell her to come here,” said Mr. Raymond.

Alice obeyed, and as she left the room, Frederic said bitterly, “I see she is leagued with you. I had thought better of her than that.”

“No, she isn’t,” cried the father, fearing that his favorite project was in danger. “I merely suggested it to her once—only once.”

Frederic was about to reply, when the rustling of female garments announced the approach of Marian. To Colonel Raymond she was handsome then, as with a heightened bloom upon her cheek and a bashful light in her deep blue eyes, she entered timidly and offered her hand to Frederic. But to the jealous young man she was merely a plain, ordinary country girl, bearing no comparison to the peerless Isabel. Still he greeted her kindly, addressed to her a few trivial remarks, and then resumed his conversation with little Alice, who, feeling that matters were going wrong, rolled her eyes often and anxiously toward the spot where she knew Marian was sitting—and when at last the latter left the room, she said to Frederic, “Isn’t Marian pretty in her blue dress, with all those curls? There are twenty of them, for I heard her count them. Say she is pretty, so I can tell her and make her feel good.”

Frederic would not then have admitted that Marian was pretty, even had he thought so, and biting his lip with vexation, he replied, “I do not particularly admire blue, and I detest cork-screw curls.”

Marian was still in the lower hall, and heard both the question and the answer. Darting up the stairs, she flew to her chamber, and throwing herself upon the bed, burst into a passionate flood of tears. All in vain had she dressed herself for Frederic Raymond’s eye—curling her hair in twenty curls, even as Alice had said. He hated blue—he hated curls—cork-screw curls particularly. What could he mean? She never heard the term thus applied before. It must have some reference to their color, and clutching at her luxuriant tresses she would have torn them from her head, had not a little childish hand been laid upon hers, and Alice’s soothing voice murmured in her ear, “Don’t cry, Marian; I wouldn’t care for him. He’s just as mean as he can be, and if I owned Redstone Hall, I wouldn’t let him live here, would you?”

“Yes—no—I don’t know,” sobbed Marian. “I don’t own Redstone Hall. I don’t own anything, and I most wish I was dead.”

Alice was unaccustomed to such a burst of passion, and was trying to frame some reply, when the dinner bell rang, and lifting up her head, Marian said, “Go down, Alice, and tell Dinah I can’t come, and if she insists, tell her I won’t!”

Alice knew she was in earnest, and going below she delivered the message to Dinah in the presence of Frederic, who silently took his seat at the table.

“For the dear Lord’s sake, what’s happened her now?” said Dinah, casting a rueful glance at Marian’s empty chair.

“She’s crying,” returned Alice, “and she dislikes somebody in this room awfully; ’taint you, Dinah, nor ’taint me,” and the blind eyes flashed indignantly at Frederic, who smiled quietly as he replied, “Thank you, Miss Alice.”

Alice made no reply, and the dinner proceeded in silence. After it was over, Frederic returned to his father, who had been nerving himself for the task he had to perform, and which he determined should be done at once.

“Lock the door, Frederic,” he said, “and then sit by me while I say to you what I have so long wished to say.”

With a lowering brow Frederic complied, and seating himself near to his father, he folded his arms and said, “Go on, I am ready now to hear—but if it is of Marian you would speak, I will spare you that trouble, father,” and Frederic’s voice was milder in its tone. “I have always liked Marian very much as a sister, and if it so chances that you are taken from us, I will be the best of brothers to her. I will care for her and see that she does not want. Let this satisfy you, father, for I cannot marry her. I do not love her, for I love another; one compared to whom Marian is as the night to the day. Let me tell you of Isabel, father,” and Frederic’s voice was still softer in its tone.

The old man shook his head and answered mournfully, “No, Frederic, were she as fair as the morning I could not wish her to be your wife. I have never told you before, but I once received an anonymous letter concerning this same Isabel, saying she was treacherous and deceitful, and would lead you on to ruin.”

“The villain! It was Rudolph’s doings,” muttered Frederic; then in a louder tone he said, “I can explain that, I think. When Isabel was quite young, she was engaged conditionally to Rudolph McVicar, a worthless fellow whom she has since discarded. He is a jealous, malignant creature, and has sworn to be revenged. He wrote that letter, I am sure. It is like him.”

“It may be,” returned the father, “but I distrust this Isabel. Her mother, as you are aware, is a distant relative of mine. I know her well, and though I never saw the daughter, I am sure she is selfish, ambitious, deceitful and proud, while Marian is so good.”

“Marian is a mere child,” interrupted Frederic.

“Almost sixteen,” rejoined the father, “and before you marry her she will be older still.”

“Yes, yes, much older,” thought Frederic, continuing aloud, “Listen to reason, father. I certainly do not love Marian, neither do I suppose that she loves me. Now if you have our mutual good at heart, you cannot desire a marriage which would surely result in wretchedness to both.”

“I have thought of all that,” returned the father. “A few kind words from you would win Marian’s love at once, and when once won she would be to you a faithful, loving wife, whom you would ere long learn to prize. You cannot treat any woman badly, Frederic, much less Marian. I know you would be happy with her, and should desire the marriage even though it could not save me from dishonor in the eyes of the world.”

“Father,” said Frederic, turning slightly pale, “what do you mean? You have in your letters hinted of a wrong done to somebody. Was it to Marian? If so, do not seek to sacrifice my happiness, but make amends in some other way. Will money repair the wrong? If so, give it to her, even to half your fortune, and leave me alone.”

He had touched a tender point, and raising himself in bed, the old man gasped, “Yes, yes, boy—but you have no money to give her. Redstone Hall is not mine, not yours, but hers. Those houses in Louisville are hers—not mine, not yours. Everything you see around you is hers—all hers; and if you refuse her, Frederic—hear me—if you refuse Marian Lindsey, strict restitution must be made, and you will be a beggar as it were. Marry her, and as her husband you will keep it all and save me from disgrace.—Choose, Frederic, choose.”

Mr. Raymond was terribly excited, and the great drops of perspiration stood thickly upon his forehead, and trickled from beneath his hoary hair.

“Is he going mad!” thought Frederic, his own heart throbbing with a nervous fear of coming evil, but ere he could speak his father continued, “Hear my story, and you will know how I came by these ill-gotten gains,” and he glanced around the richly furnished room. “You know I was sent to England, or I could not have gone, for I had no means with which to meet the necessary expenses. In the streets of Liverpool I first saw Marian’s father, and I mistook him for a beggar. Again I met him on board ship, and making his acquaintance, found him to be a man of no ordinary intellect. There was something about him which pleased me, and when he became ill, I cared for him as for a friend. The night he died we were alone, and he confided to me his history. He was an only child, and, orphaned at an early age, became an inmate of one of those dens of cruelty—those schools on the Dotheboys plan. From this bondage he escaped at last, and then for more than thirty years employed his time in making and saving money. He was a miser in every sense of the word, and though counting his money by thousands—yes, by tens of thousands, he starved himself almost to death. No one suspected his wealth—not even his young wife, Mary Grey, whom he married three years before I met him, and who died when Marian was born. She, too, had been an only child and an orphan; and as in England there was none to care for him or his, he conceived the idea of emigrating to America, and there lavishing his stores of gold on Marian. She should be a lady, he said, and live in a palace fit for a queen. But death overtook him, and to me he entrusted his child with all his money—some in gold, and some in bank notes. And when he was dying, Frederic, and the perspiration was cold on his brow, he made me lay my hand there and swear to be faithful to my trust as guardian of his child. For her, and for her alone, the money must be used. But, Frederic, I broke that oath. The Raymonds are noted for their love of gain, and when the Englishman was buried in the sea, the tempter whispered that the avenue to wealth, which I so long had coveted, was open now—that no one knew or would ever know of the miser’s fortune; and I yielded. I guarded the bag where the treasure was hidden with more than a miser’s vigilance, and I chuckled with delight when I found it far more than he had said.”

“Oh, my father, my father!” groaned Frederic, covering his white face with his hands, for he knew now that he was penniless.

“Don’t curse me, boy,” hoarsely whispered the old man; “Marian will not. She’ll forgive me—for Marian is an angel; but I must hasten. You remember how I grew gradually rich, and people talked of my good luck. Very cautiously I used the money at first so as not to excite suspicion, but when I came to Kentucky, where I was not known, I was less fearful, and launched into speculations, until now they say I am the wealthiest man in Franklin county. But it’s hers—it’s Marian’s—every cent of it is hers. Your education was paid for with her money; all you have and are you owe to Marian Lindsey, who, by every law of the land, is the heiress of Redstone Hall.”

He paused a moment, and trembling with emotion, Frederic said, “Is there nothing ours, father? Our old home on the Hudson? That, surely, is not hers?”

“You are right,” returned the father; “the old shell was mine, but when I brought Marian home, it was not worth a thousand dollars, and it was all I had in the world. Her money has made it what it is. I always intended to tell her when she was old enough to understand, but as time went by I shrank from it, particularly when I saw how much you prized the luxuries which money alone can buy, and how that money kept you in the proud position you occupy.—But it has killed me, Frederic, before my time—and now at the last do you wonder that I wish restitution to be made? I would save you from poverty, and my name from disgrace, by marrying you to Marian. She must know the truth, of course, for in no other way can my conscience be satisfied—but the world would still be kept in ignorance.”

“And if I do not marry her, oh, father, must it come—poverty, disgrace, everything?”

The young man’s voice was almost heart-broken in its tone, but the old man wavered not as he answered—“Yes, Frederic, it must come. If you refuse, I must deed it all to her. The lawyer, of course, must know the cause of so strange a proceeding, and I have no faith that he would keep the secret, even if Marian should. I left it in writing in case you did not come, and I gave you my dying curse if you failed of restoring to Marian her fortune. But you are here—you have heard my story, and it remains for you to choose. You have never taken care of yourself—have never been taught to think it necessary—and how can you struggle with poverty. Would that Isabel join her destiny with one who had not where to lay his head?”

“Stop, father! in mercy stop, ere you drive me mad!” and starting to his feet Frederic paced the floor wildly, distractedly.

A dark cloud had fallen upon him, and turn which way he would it enveloped him in its dark folds. He knew his father would keep his word, and he desired that he should do so. It was right, and he shrank from any further injustice to the orphan, Marian, with whom he had suddenly changed places. He was the dependent now, and hers the hand that fed him.—Frederic Raymond was proud, and the remembrance of his father’s words, “Her money paid for your education; all you have and are, you owe to Marian Lindsey,” stung him to his inmost soul. Still he could not make her his wife. It would be a greater wrong than ever his father had done to her. And yet if he had never seen Isabel, never mingled in the society of beautiful and accomplished women, he might, perhaps, have learned to love the gentle little girl, whose presence, he knew, made the life and light of Redstone Hall. But he could not do it now, and going up to his father, he said hesitatingly, as if it cost a bitter, agonized struggle to give up all his wealth, “I cannot do it, father; neither would Marian wish it if she knew. Send for her now,” he continued, as a new idea flashed upon him, “tell her all, here in my presence, and let her choose for me; but stay,” he added, quickly, coloring crimson at the unmanly selfishness which had prompted the sending for Marian, a selfishness which whispered that the generous girl would share her fortune with him; “stay, we will not send for her. I can decide the matter alone.”

“Not now,” returned the father. “Wait until to-morrow at nine o’clock, if you do not come to me then, I shall send for Lawyer Gibson, and the writings will be drawn. I give you until that time to decide; and now leave me, for I would rest.”

He motioned toward the door, and glad to escape from an atmosphere which seemed laden with grief, Frederic went out into the open air, and Col. Raymond was again alone. His first thought was of the letter—the one intended for his son. He could destroy that now—for he would not that Marian should ever know what it contained. She might not be Frederic’s wife, but he would save her from unnecessary pain; and exerting all his strength, he tottered to his private drawer, and took the letter in his hand. It was growing very dark within the room, and holding it up to the fading light, the dim-eyed old man read, or thought he read, “For my Son.”

“Yes, this is the one,” he whispered—“the other reads ‘For Marian,’” and hastening back to his bedroom he threw upon the fire burning in the grate, the letter, but, alas, the wrong one—for in the drawer still lay the fatal missive which would one day break poor Marian’s heart, and drive her forth a wanderer from the home she loved so well.

That night Frederic did not come down to supper. He was weary with his rapid journey, he said, and would rather rest. So Marian, who had dried her tears and half forgotten their cause, sat down to her solitary tea, little dreaming of the stormy scene which the walls of Frederic’s chamber looked upon that night. All through the dreary hours he walked the floor, and when the morning light came struggling through the windows, it found him pale, haggard, and older by many years than he had been the day before. Still he was undecided. “Love in a cottage” with Isabel, looked fair enough in the distance, but where could he get the “cottage?” To be sure, he was going through the form of studying law, but he had never looked upon the profession as a means of procuring his livelihood, neither did he see any way by which he could pursue his studies, unless, indeed, he worked to defray the expense. He might, perhaps, saw wood. Ben Gardiner did in college—Ben with the threadbare coat, cowhide boots, smiling face and best lessons in the class. Ben liked it well enough, and so, perhaps, would he! He held his hands up to the light; they were soft and white as a girl’s. They would blister with the first cut. He couldn’t saw wood—he couldn’t do anything. And would Isabel love him still when she knew how poor he was. It seemed unjust to doubt her, but he did, and he remembered sundry rumors he had heard touching her ambitious, selfish nature. Anon, too, there crept into his heart pleasant memories of a little, quiet girl, who had always sought to do him good, and ministered to his comfort in a thousand unobtrusive ways. And this was Marian, the one his father would have him marry; and why didn’t he? When the marrying her would insure him all the elegances of life to which he had been accustomed, and which he prized so highly. She was a child yet; he could mold her to his will and make her what he pleased. She might be handsome some time. There was certainly room for improvement. But no, she would never be aught save the plain, unpolished Marian, wholly unlike the beautiful picture he had formed of Redstone Hall’s proud mistress. He could not marry her, he would not marry her, and then he went back to the question, “What shall I do, if I don’t?”

As his father had said, the Raymonds were lovers of wealth, and this weakness Frederic possessed to a great degree. Indeed, it was the foundation of all his other faults, making him selfish and sometimes overbearing. As yet he was not worthy to be the husband of one as gentle and good as Marian, but he was passing through the fire, and the flames which burned so fiercely would purify and make him better. He heard the clock strike eight, and a moment after breakfast was announced.

“I am not ready yet; tell Marian not to wait,” was the message he gave the servant; and so another hour passed by, and heard the clock strike nine.

His hour was up, but he could not yet decide. He walked to the window and looked down on his home, which never seemed so beautiful before as on that September morning. He could stay there if he chose, for he felt sure he could win Marian’s love if he tried. And then he wondered if his life would not be made happier with the knowledge that he had obeyed his father’s request, and saved his name from dishonor. There was the sound of horses’ feet upon the graveled road. It was the negro Jake, and he was going for Lawyer Gibson.

Rapidly another hour went by, and then he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs again, but this time there were two who rode, Jake and the lawyer. In a moment the latter was at the door, and the sound of his feet, as he strode through the lower hall, went to the heart of the listening young man like bolts of ice. He heard a servant call Marian and say that his father wanted her; some new idea had entered the sick man’s head. He had probably decided to tell her all before he died, but it was not too late to prevent it, the young man thought; he could not be a beggar, and with a face as white as ashes, and limbs which trembled in every joint, he hurried down the stairs, meeting in the hall both Marian and the lawyer.

“Go back,” he whispered to the former, laying his hand upon her shoulder; “I would see my father first alone.”

Wonderingly Marian looked into his pale, worn face and bloodshot eyes; then motioning the lawyer into another room, she, too, followed him thither, while Frederic sought his father’s bedside, and bending low whispered in the ear of the bewildered and half-crazed man that he would marry the Heiress of Redstone Hall!

CHAPTER III.
DEATH AT REDSTONE HALL.

For two days after the morning of which we have written, Colonel Raymond lay in a kind of stupor from which he would rouse at intervals, and pressing the hand of his son who watched beside him, he would whisper faintly, “God bless you for making your old father so happy. God bless you, my darling boy.”

And Frederic, as often as he heard these words, would lay his aching head upon the pillow and try to force back the thoughts which continually whispered to him that a bad promise was better broken than kept, and that at the last he would tell Marian all, and throw himself upon her generosity. Since the morning when he made the fatal promise he had said but little to her, though she had been often in the room, ministering to his father’s comfort—and once in the evening when he looked more than usually pale and weary, she had insisted upon taking his place, or sharing at least in his vigils. But he had declined her offer, and two hours later a slender little figure had glided noiselessly into the room and placed upon the table behind him a waiter, filled with delicacies which her own hand had prepared, and which she knew from experience would be needed ere the long night was over. He did not turn his head when she came in, but he knew whose step it was; and in his heart he thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and compelled himself to eat what she had brought because he knew how disappointed she would be if in the morning she found it all untouched.

And still he was as far from loving her now as he had ever been; and on the second night, as he sat by his sleeping father, he resolved, come what might, he would retract the promise made under such excitement. “When father wakes, I’ll tell him I cannot,” he said, and anxiously he watched the clock, which pointed at last to midnight. The twelve long strokes rang through the silent room, and with a short, quick gasp his father woke.

“Frederic,” he said, and in his voice there was a tone never heard there before. “Frederic, has the light gone out, or why is it so dark? Where are you, my son? I cannot see.”

“Here, father—here I am,” and Frederic took in his the shriveled hand which was cold with approaching death.

“Frederic, it has come at last, and I am going from you; but before I go, lay your hand upon my brow, where the death sweat is standing, and say again what you said two days ago. Say you will make Marian your wife, and that until she is your wife she shall not know what I have done, for that might influence her decision. The letter I have left for her is in my private drawer, but you can keep the key.—Promise, Frederic—promise both, for I am going very fast.”

Twice Frederic essayed to speak, but the words “I cannot” died on his lips, and again the faint voice—fainter than when it spoke before, said, “Promise, my boy, and save the name of Raymond from dishonor!”

It was in vain he struggled to resist his destiny.—The pleading tones of his dying father prevailed. Isabel Huntington—Marian Lindsey—Redstone Hall—everything seemed as nought compared with that father’s wishes and falling on his knees the young man said, “Heaven helping me, father, I will do both.”

“And as you have made me happy, so may you be happy and prospered all the days of your life,” returned the father, laying his clammy hand upon the brown hair of his son. “Tell Marian that dying I blessed her with more than a father’s blessing, for she is very dear to me. And the little helpless Alice—she has money of her own, but she must still live with you and Marian. Be kind to the servants, Frederic. Don’t part with a single one—and—and—can you hear me, boy? Keep your promise as you hope for heaven hereafter.”

They were the last words the old man ever spoke—and when at last Frederic raised his head he knew by the white face lying motionless upon the pillow, that he was with the dead. The household was aroused, and crowding round the door the negroes came, their noisy outcries grating harshly on the ear of the young man, who felt unequal to the task of stopping them. But when Marian came, a few low spoken words from her quieted the tumult, and those whose services were not needed dispersed to the kitchen, where, forgetful of their recent demonstrations of grief, they speculated upon the probable result of their “old marster’s death,” and wondered if with the new one they should lead as easy a life as they had done heretofore.

The next morning the news spread rapidly, not only that Colonel Raymond was dead, but also that he had died without a will—this last piece of information being given by Lawyer Gibson, who, a little disappointed in the result of his late visit to Redstone Hall, had several times in public expressed his opinion that it was all the work of Frederic, who wanted everything himself, and feared his father would leave something to Marian Lindsey. This seemed very probable; and in the same breath, with which they deplored the loss of Colonel Raymond, the neighbors denounced his son as selfish and avaricious. Still he was now the richest man in the county, and it would not be politic to treat him with disrespect—so they came about him with words of sympathy and offers of assistance, all of which he listened to abstractedly, and when they asked for some directions as to the arrangements for the burial, he answered, “I do not know—I am not myself to-day—but go to Marian. I will abide by her decision.”

So to Marian they went; and hushing her own great grief—for she mourned for the departed as for a well loved father—Marian told them what she thought her guardian would wish that they should do. It is not customary in Kentucky to keep the dead as long as at the North, and ere the sun of the first day was low in the west a grave was made within an enclosure near the river side, where the cedar and the fir were growing, and when the sun was setting, a long procession wound slowly down the terraced walk, bearing with them one who when they returned came not with them, but was resting quietly where the light from the windows of his former home could fall upon his peaceful grave.

CHAPTER IV.
KEEPING THE PROMISE.

Four weeks had passed away since Colonel Raymond was laid to rest. The negroes, having finished their mourning at the grave and at church on the Sabbath succeeding the funeral, had gone back to their old lighthearted way of living, and outwardly there were no particular signs of grief at Redstone Hall. But two there were who suffered keenly, and suffered all the more that neither could speak to the other a word of sympathy. With Alice Marian wept bitterly, feeling that she was indeed homeless and friendless in the wide world. From Dinah she had heard the story of the Will, and remembering the events of that morning when Lawyer Gibson, as she supposed, had come to draw it, she thought it very probable. Still this did not trouble her one half so much as the studied reserve which Frederic manifested toward her. At the funeral he had offered her his arm, walking with her to the grave and back; but since that night he had kept aloof, seeing her only at the table, or when he wished to ask some question which she alone could answer.

In the first days of her sorrow she had forgotten the letter which her guardian had left for her, and when she did remember it and go to the private drawer where he said it was, she found the drawer locked.—Frederic had the key, of course, and thinking that if a wrong had indeed been done to her, he knew it, too, she waited in hopes that he would speak of it, and perhaps bring her the letter. But Frederic Raymond had sworn to keep that letter from her yet awhile, and he dared not break his vow. On the night after the burial he, too, had gone to the private drawer, and, taking the undirected missive in his hand, had felt strongly tempted to break its seal and read. But he had no right to do that, he said; all that was required of him was to keep it from Marian until such time as he was at liberty to let her read it. So, with a benumbed sensation at his heart, he locked the drawer and left the room, feeling that his own destiny was fixed, and that it was worse than useless to struggle against it. He could not write to Isabel yet, but he wrote to her mother, telling her of his father’s death, and saying he did not know how long it would be ere they saw him again at New Haven. This done, he sat down in a kind of torpor, and waited for circumstances to shape themselves.—Marian would seek for her letter, he thought, and missing the key, would come to him, and then—oh, how he hoped it would be weeks and months before she came, for when she did he knew he must tell her why it was withheld.

Meantime, Marian waited day after day vainly wishing that he would speak to her upon the subject; but he did not, and at last, four weeks after her guardian’s death, she sought the library again, but found the drawer locked as usual.

“It is unjust to treat me so,” she said. “The letter is mine, and I have a right to read it.”

Then, as she recalled the conversation which had passed between herself and Colonel Raymond on that night when he first hinted of a wrong, she wondered if he had said aught to Frederic of her. Most earnestly she hoped not—and yet she was almost certain that he had, and this was why Frederic treated her so strangely. “He hates me,” she said bitterly, “because he thinks I want him—but he needn’t, for I wouldn’t have him now, even if he knelt at my feet, and begged of me to be his wife; I’ll tell him so, too, the first chance I get,” and sinking into the large arm chair Marian laid her head upon the writing desk and wept.

The day had been rainy and dark, and as she sat there in the gathering night and listened to the low moan of the October wind, she thought with gloomy forebodings of the future, and what it would bring to her.

“Oh, it is dreadful to be so homeless—so friendless, so poor,” she cried, and in that cry there was a note of desolation which touched a chord of pity in the heart of him who stood on the threshold of the door, silently watching the young girl as she battled with her stormy grief.

He did not know why he had come to that room, and he surely would not have come had he expected to find her there. But it could not now be helped; he was there with her; he had witnessed her sorrow, and involuntarily advancing toward her he laid his hand lightly upon her shoulder and said, “Poor child, don’t cry so hard.”

She seemed to him a little girl, and as such he had addressed her; but to the startled Marian it mattered not what he said—there was kindness in his voice, and lifting up her face, which even in the darkness looked white and worn, she sobbed, “Oh, Frederic, you don’t hate me, then?”

“Hate you, Marian,” he answered, “of course not. What put that idea into your head?”

“Because—because you act so cold and strange, and don’t come near me when my heart is aching so hard for him—your father.”

Frederic made no reply, and resolving to make a clean breast of it, Marian continued, “There’s nobody to care for me now, and I wish you to be my brother, just as you used to be, and if your father said any thing else of me to you he didn’t mean it, I am sure; I don’t at any rate, and I want you to forget it and not hate me for it. I’ll go away from Redstone Hall if you say so, but you mustn’t hate me for what I could not help. Will you, Frederic?” and Marian’s voice was again choked with tears.

She had stumbled upon the very subject uppermost in Frederic’s mind, and drawing a chair near to her, he said, “I will not profess to be ignorant of what you mean, Marian. My father had some strange fancies at the last, but for these you are not to blame. Did he say nothing to you of a letter?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Marian quickly, “and I’ve been for it so many times. Will you give it to me now, Frederic? It’s mine, you know,” and Marian looked at him wistfully.

Frederic hesitated a moment, and misapprehending the motive of his hesitancy, Marian continued,

“Do not fear what I may think. He said a wrong had been done to me, but if it has not affected me heretofore, it surely will not now—and I loved him well enough to forgive anything. Let me have the letter, won’t you?”

“Marian,” and Frederic trembled with strong emotion, “the night my father died, I laid my hand upon his head and promised that you should not see that letter until you were a bride.”

“A bride!” Marian exclaimed passionately, “I shall never be a bride—never—certainly not yours!” and the little hands worked nervously together, while she continued. “I asked you to forget that whim of your father’s. He did not mean it—he would not have it so, and neither would I,” and Frederic Raymond could almost see the angry flash of the blue eyes turned so defiantly toward him.

Man-like he began to feel some interest now that there was opposition, and to her exclamation “neither would I,” he replied softly, “Not if I wish it, Marian?”

The tone rather than the words affected the young girl, thrilling her with a new-born delight; and laying her hand again upon the desk, she sobbed afresh, not impetuously, this time, but steadily, as if the crying did her good. Greatly she longed for him to speak again, but he did not. He was waiting for her, and drying her tears, she lifted up her face, and in a voice which seemed to demand the truth, she said: “Frederic, do you wish it? Here, almost in the room where your father died, can you say to me truly that you wish me to be your wife?”

It was a perplexing question, and Frederic Raymond felt that he was dealing falsely with her, but he made to her the only answer he could—“Men seldom ask a woman to marry them unless they wish it.”

“I know,” returned Marian, “but—do—would you have thought of it if your father had not first suggested it?”

“Marian,” said Frederic, “I am much older than yourself, and I might never have thought of marrying you. He, however, gave me good reasons why I should wish to have it so—in all sincerity I ask you to be my wife. Will you, Marian? It seems soon to talk of these things, but he so desired it.”

In her bewilderment Marian fancied he had said, “I do wish to have it so,” but she would know another thing, and not daring to put the question to him direct, she said, “Do men ever wish to marry one whom they do not love?”

Frederic understood her at once, and for a moment felt strongly tempted to tell her the truth, for in that case he was sure she would refuse to listen to his suit and he would then be free, but his father’s presence seemed over and around him, while Redstone Hall was too fair to be exchanged for poverty; and so he answered, “I have always loved you as a sister, and in time I will love you as you deserve. I will be kind to you, Marian, and I think I can make you happy.”

He spoke with earnestness, for he knew he was deceiving the young girl, and in his inmost soul he determined to repair the wrong by learning to love her, as she said:

“And suppose I refuse you, what then?”

Marian spoke decidedly, and something in her manner startled Frederic, who now that he had gone thus far, did not care to be thwarted.

“You will not refuse me, I am sure,” he said.—“We cannot live together here just as we have done, for people would talk.”

“I can go away,” said Marian, mournfully, while Frederic replied,

“No, Marian, if you will not be my wife, I must go away; Redstone Hall cannot be the home of us both, and if you refuse I shall go—soon, very soon.”

“Won’t you ever come back?” asked Marian, with childish simplicity; but ere Frederic could answer, the door suddenly opened and old Dinah appeared, exclaiming as her eye fell upon them, “For the dear Lord’s sake, if you two ain’t settin’ together in the dark, when I’ve done hunted everywhar for you,” and Dinah’s face wore a very knowing look, as setting down the candle she departed, muttering, something about “when me and Philip was young.”

The spell was broken for Marian, and starting up, she said, “I cannot talk any more to-night. I’ll answer you some other time,” and she hurried into the hall, where she stumbled upon Dinah, who greeted her with “Ain’t you two kinder hankerin’ arter each other, ’case if you be, it’s the sensiblest thing you ever done. Marster Frederic is the likeliest, trimmest chap in Kentuck, and you’ve got an uncommon heap of sense.”

Marian made no reply but darted up the stairs to her room, where she could be alone to think. It seemed to her a dream, and yet she knew it was a reality. Frederic had asked her to be his wife, and though she had said to herself that she would not marry him even if he knelt at her feet, she felt vastly like revoking that decision! If she were only sure he loved her, or would love her; and then she recalled every word he had said, wishing she could have looked into his face and seen what its expression was. She did not think of the letter in her excitement.—She only thought of Frederic’s question, and she longed for some one in whom she could confide. Alice, who always retired early, was already asleep, and as her soft breathing fell on Marian’s ear, she said, “Alice is much wiser than children usually are at six and a half. I mean to tell her,” and, stealing to the bedside, she whispered, “Alice, Alice, wake up a moment, will you?”

Alice turned on her pillow, and when sure she was awake, Marian said impetuously, “If you were me, would you marry Frederic Raymond?”

The blind eyes opened wide, as if they doubted the sanity of the speaker; then quietly replying, “No, indeed, I wouldn’t,” Alice turned a second time upon her pillow and slept again, while Marian, a good deal piqued at the answer, tormented herself with wondering what the child could mean, and why she disliked Frederic so much. The next morning it was Alice who awoke Marian and said, “Was it a dream, or did you say something to me last night about marrying Frederic?”

For a moment Marian forgot that the sightless eyes turned so inquiringly toward her could not see, and she covered her face with her hands to hide the blushes she knew were burning there.

“Say,” persisted Alice, “what was it?” and half willingly, half reluctantly, Marian told of the strange request which Frederic had made, saying nothing, however, of the letter, for if Colonel Raymond had done her a wrong, she felt it a duty she owed his memory to keep it to herself.

The darkened world in which Alice lived, had matured her other faculties far beyond her age, and though not yet seven years old, she was in many things scarcely less a child than Marian, whose story puzzled her, for she could hardly understand how one who had seemed so much her companion could think of being a married woman. Marian soon convinced her, however, that there was a vast difference between almost seven and almost sixteen, and still she was not reconciled.

“Frederic is well enough,” she said, “and I once heard Agnes Gibson say he was the best match in the county, but somehow he don’t seem to like you. Ain’t he stuck up, and don’t he know a heap more than you?”

“Yes, but I can learn,” answered Marian, sadly, thinking with regret of the many hours she had played in the woods when she might have been practising upon the piano, or reading the books which Frederic liked best. “I can in time make a lady perhaps—and then you know if I don’t have him, one of us must go away, for he said so.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Alice, catching her breath and drawing nearer to Marian, “wouldn’t it be nice for you and me to live here all alone with Dinah, and do just as we’re a mind to. Tell him you won’t, and let him go back where he came from.”

“No,” returned Marian, “if either goes away, it will be me, for I’ve no right here, and Frederic has.”

“You go away,” repeated Alice. “What could you do without Dinah?”

“I don’t know,” returned Marian mournfully, a dim foreboding as it were of her dark future rising up before her. “I can’t sew—I don’t know enough to teach, and I couldn’t do anything but die!”

This settled the point with Alice. She would rather Marian should marry Frederic than go away and die, and so she said, “I’d have him, I reckon,” adding quickly, “You’ll carry the keys, then, won’t you, and give me all the preserves and cake I want?”

Thus was the affair amicably adjusted between the two, and when at the breakfast table she met with Frederic, she was ready to answer his question; but she chose to let him broach the subject, and this he did do that evening when he found her alone in his father’s room. He had decided that it was useless to struggle with his fate, and he resolved to make the best of it. How far Redstone Hall, bank notes, stock and real estate influenced this decision we cannot say, but he was sincere in his intention of treating Marian well, and when he found her by accident in his father’s room, he said to her kindly, “Can you answer me now?”

Marian was not yet enough accustomed to the world to conceal whatever she felt, and with the light of a new happiness shining on her childish face, she went up to him, and laying her hand confidingly upon his, she said, “I will marry you, Frederic, if you wish me to.”

A strange enigma is human nature. When the previous night she had hesitated to answer, Frederic was conscious of a vague fear that she might say no—and now that she had said yes, he felt less pleasure than pain, for the die he knew was cast. A more observing eye than Marian’s would have seen the dark shadow which flitted over his face, and the sudden paling of his lips, but she did not; she only saw how he shook off her hand without even so much as touching it, and all the novels she had ever read would surely have sanctioned so modest a proceeding as that! But novels, she reflected, were not true, and as she was an actor in real life, she must accept whatever that life might bring. Still she was not quite satisfied, and when Frederic, fancying he should feel better if the matter were well over, said to her, “There is no reason why we should delay—my father would wish the marriage to take place immediately, and I will speak to Dinah at once,” she felt that with him it was a mere form, and bursting into tears she said passionately, “You are not obliged to marry me. I certainly did not ask you to.”

For a moment Frederic stood irresolute, and then he replied, “Don’t be foolish, Marian, but take a common sense view of the matter. I am not accustomed to love-making, and the character would not suit me now when my heart is so full of sorrow for my father. Many a one would gladly take your place, but”—here he paused, uncertain how to proceed and still keep truth upon his side—then, as a bright thought struck him, he added, “but I prefer you to all the girls in Kentucky. Be satisfied with this, and wait patiently for the time when I can show you that I love you.”

His manner both frightened and fascinated Marian, and she answered through her tears, “I will be satisfied, and wait.”

Frederic knew well that Marian was too much of a child to manage the affair, and after his interview with her, he sought out Dinah, to whom he announced his intentions.

“There is no need of delay,” he said, “and two weeks from to-day is the time appointed. There will be no show—no parade—simply a quiet wedding in the presence of a few friends, who will dine with us, of course. The dinner, you must see to, and I will attend to the rest.”

Amid ejaculations of surprise and delight, old Dinah heard what he had to say—and then, boiling over with the news, hastened to the kitchen, where she was soon surrounded by an astonished and listening audience, the various members of which were affected differently, just according to their different ideas of what “marster Frederic’s” wife ought to be. Among the negroes at Redstone Hall were two distinct parties, one of which having belonged to Mr. Higgins, the former owner of the place, looked rather contemptuously upon the other clique, who had been purchased of Mr. Smithers, a neighboring planter, and were not supposed to have as high blood in their veins as was claimed by their darker rivals. Hence between the democratic Smitherses and the aristocratic Higginses was waged many a fierce battle, which was usually decided by old Dinah, who, having belonged to another family still, “thanked the Lord that she was neither a Higginses nor a Smitherses, but was a peg or so above such low-lived truck as them.”

On this occasion the announcement of Master Frederic’s expected marriage was received by the Smitherses with loud shouts of joy and hurrahs for Miss Marian. The Higginses, on the contrary, though friendly to Marian, declared she was not high bred enough to keep up the glory of the house, and Aunt Hetty, who led the clan and was a kind of rival to old Dinah, launched forth into a wonderful stream of eloquence.

“Miss Marian would do in her place,” she said, “but ’twas a burnin’ shame to set such an onery thing over them as had been oncet used to the quality. ’Twas different with the Smitherses, whose old Miss was bed rid with a spine in her back, and hadn’t but one store carpet in the house. But the Higginses, she’d let ’em know, had been ’customed to sunthin’ better. Oh,” said she, “you or’to seen Miss Beatrice the fust day Marster brought her home. She looked jest like a queen, with that great long switchin’ tail to her dress, a wipin’ up the walk so clean that I, who was a gal then, didn’t have to sweep it for mor’n a week—and them ars she put on when she curchied inter the room and walkin’ backards sot down on the rim of the cheer—so”—and holding out her short linsey-woolsey to its widest extent, the old negress proceeded to illustrate.

But alas for Aunt Hetty—her intention was anticipated by stuttering Josh, the most mischievous spirit of all the Smithers clan. Quick as thought the active boy removed the chair where she expected to land, pushing into its place an overflowing slop-pail, and into this the discomfited old lady plunged amid the execrations of her partisans and the jeers of her opponents.

“You Josh—you villain—the Lord spare me long enough to break yer sassy neck!” she screamed, as with difficulty she extricated herself from her position and wrung her dripping garments.

“Sarved you right,” said Dinah, shaking her fat sides with delight. “Sarved you right, and the fust one that raises thar voice agin Miss Marian ’ll catch sunthin’ a heap wus than dirty dishwater.”

But Dinah’s threat was unnecessary, for with Hetty’s downfall the star of the Higginses set, leaving that of the Smitherses still in the ascendant!

Meantime Marian was confiding to Alice the story of her engagement, and wondering if Frederic intended taking a bridal tour. She hoped he did, for she so much wished to see a little of the world, particularly New York, of which she had heard such glowing accounts. But nothing could be less in accordance with Frederic’s feelings than a bridal tour—and when once Marian ventured to broach the subject, he said that under the circumstances it would hardly be right to go off and enjoy themselves, so they had better stay quietly at home. And this settled the point, for Marian never thought of questioning his decision. If they made no journey, she would not need any additions to her wardrobe, and she was thus saved from the trouble which usually falls to the lot of brides.—Still it was not at all in accordance with her ideas—this marrying without a single article of finery, and once she resolved to indulge in a new dress at least. She had ample means of her own, for her guardian had been lavish of his money, always giving her far more than she could use, and during the last year she had been saving a fund for the purpose of surprising Alice and the blacks with handsome Christmas presents.—The former was to have a little gold watch, which she had long desired, because she liked to hear it tick—but the watch and the dress could not both be bought, and when she considered this, Marian generously gave up the latter for the sake of pleasing the blind girl. Among her dresses was a neat, white muslin given her by Colonel Raymond only the Summer previous, and this she decided should be the wedding robe, for black was gloomy, she said, and would almost seem ominous of evil.

And so the childish bride elect made her simple arrangements, unassisted by any one save Dinah and the little Alice, the latter of whom was really of the most service, for old Dinah spent the greater portion of her time in grumbling because “Marster Frederic didn’t act more lover-like to his wife that was to be.”

Marian, too, felt this keenly, but she would not admit it, and she said to Dinah, “You can’t expect him to be like himself when he’s mourning for his father.”

“Mournin’ for his father,” returned Dinah,—“and what if he is? Can’t a fellow kiss a gal and mourn a plenty too? Taint no way to do to mope from mornin’ till night like you was gwine to the gallus. Me and Phil didn’t act that way when he was settin’ to me—but I ’spect they’ve done got some new fangled way of courtin’ jest as they hev for everything else—but I’m satisfied with the old fashion, and I wish them fetch-ed Yankees would mind their own business and let well ’nough alone.”

Dinah felt considerably relieved after this long speech, particularly as she had that very morning made it in substance to Frederic—and when that evening she saw the young couple seated upon the same sofa, and tolerably near to each other, she was sure she had done some good by “ginnen ’em a piece of her mind.”

Among the neighbors there was a great deal of talk, and occasionally a few of them called at Redstone Hall, but these only came to go away again, and comment on Frederic’s strange taste in marrying one so young, and so wholly unlike himself. It could not be, they said, that he had really cared about the Will, else why had he so soon taken Marian to share his fortune with him? But Frederic kept his own counsel, and once when questioned on the subject of his marriage and asked if it were not a sudden thing, he answered haughtily, “Of course not—it was decided years ago, when Marian first came to live with us.”

And so amid the speculations of friends, the gossip of Dinah, the joyous anticipations of Marian, and the harrowing doubts of Frederic, the two weeks passed away, bringing at last the eventful day when Redstone Hall was to have once more a mistress.

CHAPTER V.
THE BRIDAL DAY.

“It was the veriest farce in all the world, the marriage of Frederic Raymond with a child of fifteen;” at least so said Agnes Gibson of twenty-five, and so said sundry other guests who at the appointed hour assembled in the parlor of Redstone Hall, to witness the sacrifice—not of Frederic as they vainly imagined, but of the unsuspecting Marian.

He knew what he did, and why he did it, while she, blindfolded as it were, was about to leap into the uncertain future. No such gloomy thoughts as these, however, intruded themselves upon her mind as she stood before her mirror and with trembling fingers made her simple bridal toilet. When first the idea of marrying Frederic was suggested to her nearly as much pride as love had mingled in her thoughts, for Marian was not without her ambition, and the honor of being the mistress of Redstone Hall had influenced her decision. But during the two weeks since her engagement, her heart had gone out toward him with a deep absorbing love, and had he now been the poorest man in all the world and she a royal princess, she would have spurned the wealth that kept her from him, or gladly have laid it at his feet for the sake of staying with him and knowing that he wished it. And this was the girl whom Frederic Raymond was about to wrong by making her his wife when he knew he did not love her. But she should never know it, he said—should never suspect that nothing but his hand and name went with the words he was so soon to utter, and he determined to be true to her and faithful to his marriage vow.

Some doubt he had as to the effect his father’s letter might have upon her, and once he resolved that she should never see it; but this was an idle thought, not to be harbored for a moment. He had told her when she asked him for it the last time that she should have it on her bridal day; for so his father willed it, and he would keep his word. He had written to Isabel at the very last, for though he was not bound to her by a promise he knew an explanation of his conduct was due to her, and he forced himself to write it. Not a word did he say against Marian, but he gave her to understand that but for his father the match would never have been made—that circumstances over which he had no control compelled him to do what he was doing. He should never forget the pleasant hours spent in her society, he said, and he closed by asking her to visit the future Mrs. Raymond at Redstone Hall. It cost him a bitter struggle to write thus indifferently to one he loved so well, but it was right, he said, and when the letter was finished he felt that the last tie which bound him to Isabel was sundered, and there was nothing for him now but to make the best of Marian. So when on their bridal morning she came to him and asked his wishes concerning her dress, he answered her very kindly, “As you are in mourning you had better make no change, besides I think black very becoming to your fair complexion.”

This was the first compliment he had ever paid her, and her heart thrilled with delight, but when, as she was leaving the room he called her back and said, still gently, kindly, “Would you as soon wear your hair plain? I do not quite fancy ringlets,” her eyes filled with tears, for she remembered the cork-screw curls, and glancing in the mirror at her wavy hair, she wished it were possible to remedy the defect.

“I will do the best I can,” she said, and returning to her room, she commenced her operations, but it was a long, tedious process, the combing out of those curls, for her hair was tenacious of its rights, and even when she thought it subdued and let go of the end, it rolled up about her forehead in tight round rings, as if spurning alike both water and brush.

“I’d like to see the man what could make me yank out my wool like that,” muttered Dinah, who was watching the straightening process with a lowering brow, inasmuch as it reflected dishonor upon her own crisped locks. “If the Lord made yer har to curl, war it so, and not mind every freak of his’n. Fust you know, he’ll be a-wantin’ you to war yer face on t’other side of yer head, but ’taint no way to do. You must begin as you can hold out. In a few hours you’ll have as much right here as he has, and I’d show it, too, by pitchin’ inter us niggers and jawin’ to kill. I shall know you don’t mean nothin’ and shan’t keer. Come to think on’t, though, I reckon you’d better let me and the Smitherses be and begin with them Higginses. I’d give it to old Hetty good—she ’sarves to be took down a button hole lower, if ever a nigger did, for she said a heap o’ stuff about you.”

Marian smiled a kind of quiet happy smile and went on with her task, which was finished at last, and her luxuriant hair was bound at the back of her head in a large flat knot. The effect was not becoming and she knew it, but if Frederic liked it she was satisfied, even if Dinah did demur, telling her she looked like “a cat whose ears had been boxed.” Frederic did not like it, but after the pains she had taken he would not tell her so, and when she said to him, “I am ready,” he offered her his arm and went silently down the stairs to the parlor, where guests and clergymen were waiting.

The day was bright and beautiful, for the light of the glorious Indian Summer sun was resting on the Kentucky hills, and through the open window the murmuring ripple of the Elkhorn came, while the balmy breath of the south wind swept over the white face of the bride, and lifted from her neck the few stray locks which, escaping from their confinement, curled naturally in their accustomed place. But to the assembled guests there seemed in all a note of sadness, a warning voice which said the time for this bridal was not yet; and years after, when the beautiful mistress of Redstone Hall rode by in her handsome carriage, Agnes Gibson told to her little sister how on that November day the cheeks of both bride and bridegroom paled as if with mortal fear when the words were spoken which made them one.

Whether it were the newness of her position, or a presentiment of coming evil Marian could not tell, but into her heart there crept a chill as she glanced timidly at the man who stood so silently beside her, and thought, “He is my husband.” It was, indeed, a sombre wedding—“more like a funeral,” the guests declared, as immediately after dinner they took their leave and commented upon the affair as people always will. Oh, how Frederic longed yet dreaded to have them go. He could not endure their congratulations, which to him were meaningless, and he had no wish to be alone. He was recovering from his apathy, and could yesterday have been his again, he believed he would have broken his promise. But yesterday had gone and to-morrow had come—it was to-day, now, with him, and Marian was his wife. Turn which way he would, the reality was the same, and with an intense loathing of himself and a deep pity for her, he feigned some trivial excuse and went away to his room, where, with the gathering darkness and his own wretched thoughts, he would be alone.

With strange unrest Marian wandered from room to room, wondering if Frederic had so soon grown weary of her presence, and sometimes half wishing that she were Marian Lindsey again, and that the new name by which they called her belonged to some one else. At last, when it was really dark—when the lamps were lighted in the parlor and Alice had wept a bitter, passionate good night in her arms and gone to sleep, she bethought her of the letter. She could read it now. She had complied with all the stipulations, and there was no longer a reason why it should be withheld. She went to Frederic’s door; but he was not there, and a servant passing in the hall said he had returned to the parlor while she was busy with Alice. So to the parlor Marian went, finding him sitting unemployed and wrapped in gloomy thought. He heard her step upon the carpet, but standing in the shadow as she did, she could not see the look of pain which flitted over his face at her approach.

“Frederic,” she said, “I may read the letter now—will you give me the key?”

Mechanically he did as she desired, and then with a slightly uneasy feeling as to the effect the letter might have upon her, he went back to his reflections, while she started to leave the room. When she reached the door she paused a moment and looked back. In giving her the key he had changed his position, and she could see the suffering expression of his white face. Quickly returning to his side, she said anxiously, “Are you sick?”

“Nothing but a headache. You know I am accustomed to that,” he replied.

Marian hesitated a moment—then parting the damp brown hair from off his forehead she kissed him timidly and left the room. Involuntarily Frederic raised his hand to wipe the spot away, but something stayed the act and whispered to him that a wife’s first kiss was a holy thing and could never be repeated!

Through the hall the nimble feet of Marian sped until she stood within her late guardian’s room, and there she stopped, for the atmosphere seemed oppressive and laden with terror.

“’Tis because it’s so dark,” she said, and going out into the hall, she took a lamp from the table and then returned.

But the olden feeling was with her still—a feeling as if she were treading some fearful gulf, and she was half tempted to turn back even now, and ask Frederic to come with her while she read the letter.

“I will not be so foolish, though,” she said, and opening the library door she walked boldly in; but the same Marian who entered there never came out again!

CHAPTER VI.
READING THE LETTER.

Oh, how still it was in that room, and the click of the key as it turned the slender bolt echoed through the silent apartment, causing Marian to start as if a living presence had been near. The drawer was opened, and she held the letter in her hand, while unseen voices seemed whispering to her, “Oh, Marian, Marian—leave the letter still untouched. Do not seek to know the secret it contains, but go back to the man who is your husband, and by those gentle acts which seldom fail in their effect, win his love. It will be far more precious to you than all the wealth of which you are the unsuspecting heiress.”

But Marian did not understand—nor know why it was she trembled so. She only knew she had the letter in her hand—her letter—the one left by her guardian. It bore no superscription, but it was for her, of course, and fixing herself in a comfortable position, she broke the seal and read:

“My Dear Child:”

There was nothing in those three words suggestive of a mistake—and Marian read on till, with a quick, nervous start, she glanced forward, then backward—and then read on and on, until at last not even the fear of death itself could have stopped her from that reading. That letter was never intended for her eye—she knew that now, but had the cold hand of her guardian been interposed to wrest it from her, she would have held it fast until she learned the whole. Like coals of living fire, the words burned into her soul, scorching, blistering as they burned—and when the letter was finished she fell upon her face with a cry so full of agony and horror that Frederic in the parlor heard the wail of human anguish, and started to his feet, wondering whence it came.

With the setting of the sun the November wind had risen, and as the young man listened it swept moaning past the window, seeming not unlike the sound he had first heard. “It was the wind,” he said, and he resumed his seat, while, in that little room, not very far away, poor Marian came back to consciousness, and crouching on the floor, prayed that she might die. She understood it now—how she had been deceived, betrayed, and cruelly wronged. She knew, too, that she was the heiress of untold wealth, and for a single moment her heart beat with a gratified pride, but the surprise was too great to be realized at once, and the feeling was soon absorbed in the reason why Frederic Raymond had made her his wife. It was not herself he had married, but her fortune—her money—Redstone Hall. She was merely a necessary incumbrance, which he would rather should have been omitted in the bargain. The thought was maddening, and, stretching out her arms, she asked again that she might die.

“Oh, why didn’t he come to me?” she cried, “and tell me? I would gladly have given him half my fortune—yes, all—all—rather than be the wretched thing I am, and he would have been free to love and marry this—”

She could not at first speak the name of her rival—but she said it at last, and the sound of it wrung her heart with a new and torturing pain. She had never heard of Isabel Huntington before, and as she thought how beautiful and grand she was, she whispered to herself, “Why didn’t he go back to her, and leave me, the red-headed fright, alone? Yes, that was what he wrote to his father. Let me look at it again,” and the tone of her voice was bitter and the expression of her face hard and stony, as taking up the letter she read for the second time that “she was uncouth, uneducated and ugly,” and if his father did not give up that foolish fancy, Frederic would positively “hate the red-headed fright.” Her guardian had not given up the foolish fancy, consequently there was but one inference to be drawn.

In her excitement she did not consider that Frederic had probably written of her harsher things than he really meant. She only thought, “He loathes me—he despises me—he wishes I was dead—and I dared to kiss him too,” she added. “How he hated me for that, but ’twas the first, and it shall be the last, for I will go away forever and leave him Redstone Hall, the bride he married a few hours ago,” and laying her face upon the chair Marian thought long and earnestly of the future. She had come into that room a happy, simple-hearted, confiding child, but she had lived years since, and she sat there now a crushed but self-reliant woman, ready to go out and contend with the world alone. Gradually her thoughts and purposes took a definite form. She was ignorant of the knotty points of law, and she did not know but Frederic could get her a divorce, but from this publicity she shrank. She could not be pointed at as a discarded wife. She would rather go away where Frederic would never see nor hear of her again, and she fancied that by so doing he would after a time at least be free to marry Isabel. She had not wept before, for her tears seemed scorched with pain, but at the thought of another coming there to take the place she had hoped to fill, they rained in torrents over her white face, and clasping her little hands convulsively together, she cried—“How can I give him up when I love him so much—so much?”

Gradually there stole over her the noble, unselfish thought, that because she loved him so much, she would willingly sacrifice herself and all she had for the sake of making him happy—and then she grew calm again and began to decide where she would go. Instinctively her mind turned toward New York city as the great hiding place from the world. Mrs. Burt, the woman who had lived with them in Yonkers, and who had always been so kind to her, was in New York she knew, for she had written to Colonel Raymond not long before his death, asking if there was anything in Kentucky for her son Ben to do. This letter her guardian had answered and then destroyed with many others, which he said were of no consequence, and only lumbered up his drawer. Consequently there was no possibility that this letter would suggest Mrs. Burt to Frederic, who had never seen her, she having come and gone while he was away at school, and thus far the project was a safe one. But her name—she might some time be recognized by that, and remembering that her mother’s maiden name was Mary Grey, and that Frederic, even if he had ever known it, which was doubtful, had probably forgotten it, she resolved upon being henceforth Marian Grey, and she repeated it aloud, feeling the while that the change was well—for she was no longer the same girl she used to know as Marian Lindsey. Once she said softly to herself, “Marian Raymond,” but the sound grated harshly, for she felt that she had no right to bear that name.

This settled, she turned her thoughts upon the means by which New York was to be reached, and she was glad that she had not bought the dress, for now she had ample funds with which to meet the expense, and she would go that very night, before her resolution failed her. Redstone Hall was only two miles from the station, and as the evening train passed at half-past nine, there would be time to reach it, and write a farewell letter, too, to Frederic, for she must tell him how, though it broke her heart to do it, she willingly gave him everything, and hoped he would be happy when she was gone forever. Marian was beautiful then in her desolation, and so Frederic Raymond would have said, could he have seen her with the light of her noble sacrifice of self shining in her eyes, and the new-born, womanly expression on her face. The first fearful burst was over, and calmly she sat down to her task—but the storm rose high again as she essayed to write that good-by, which would seem to him who read it a cry of despair wrung from a fainting heart.

“Frederic—dear Frederic,” she began, “can I—may I say my husband once—just once—and I’ll never insult you with that name again?

“I am going away forever, Frederic, and when you are reading this I shall not be at Redstone Hall, nor anywhere around it. Do not try to find me. It is better you should not. Your father’s letter, which was intended for you, and by mistake has come to me, will tell you why I go. I forgive your father, Frederic—fully, freely forgive him—but you—oh, Frederic, if I loved you less I should blame you for deceiving me so cruelly. If you had told me all I would gladly have shared my fortune with you. I would have given you more than half, and when you brought that beautiful Isabel home I would have loved her as a sister.

“Why didn’t you, Frederic? What made you treat me so? What made you break my heart when you could have helped it? It aches so hard now as I write, and the hardest pain of all is the loss of faith in you. I thought you so noble, so good, and I may confess to you here on paper, I loved you so much—how much you will never know, for I shall never come back to tell you.

“And I kissed you, too. Forgive me for that, Frederic. I didn’t know then how you hated me.—Wash the stain from your forehead, can’t you?—and don’t lay it up against me. If I thought I could make you love me, I would stay. I would endure torture for years if I knew the light was shining beyond, but it cannot be. The sight of me would make you hate me more. So I give everything I have to you and Isabel. You’ll marry her at a suitable time, and when you see how well she becomes your home, you will be glad I went away. If you must tell her of me, and I suppose you must, speak kindly of me, won’t you?—You needn’t talk of me often, but sometimes, when you are all alone, and you are sure she will not know, think of poor little Marian, who gave her life away, that one she loved the best in all the world might have wealth and happiness.

“Farewell, Frederic, farewell. Death itself cannot be harder than bidding you good-by, and knowing it is for ever.”

And well might Marian say this, for it seemed to her that she dipped her pen in her very heart’s blood, when she wrote that last adieu. She folded up the letter and directed it to Frederic—then taking another sheet she wrote to the blind girl:

“Dearest Alice—Precious little Alice. If my heart was not already broken, it would break at leaving you. Don’t mourn for me much, darling. Tell Dinah and Hetty, and the other blacks, not to cry—and if I’ve ever been cross to them, they must forget it now that I am gone. God bless you all. Good by—good by.”

The letters finished, she left them upon the desk, where they could not help being seen by the first one who should enter—then stealing up the stairs to the closet at the extremity of the hall, she put on her bonnet, vail and shawl, and started for her purse, which was in the chamber where Alice slept. Careful, very careful were her footsteps now, lest she should waken the child, who, having cried herself to sleep, was resting quietly. The purse was obtained, as was also a daguerreotype of her guardian which lay in the same drawer—and then for a moment she stood gazing at the little blind girl, and longing to give her one more kiss; but she dared not, and glancing hurriedly around the room which had been hers so long, she hastened down the stairs and out upon the piazza. She could see the light from the parlor window streaming out into the darkness, and drawing near she looked through blinding tears upon the solitary man, who, sitting there alone, little dreamed of the whispered blessings breathed for him but a few yards away. It seemed to Marian in that moment of agony that her very life was going out, and she leaned against a pillar to keep herself from falling.

“Oh, can I leave him?” she thought. “Can I go away forever, and never see his face again or listen to his voice?” and looking up into the sky she prayed that if in heaven they should meet again, he might know and love her there for what she suffered here.

On the withered grass and leaves near by there was a rustling sound as if some one was coming, and Marian drew back for fear of being seen, but it was only Bruno, the large watch dog. He had just been released from his kennel, and he came tearing up the walk, and with a low savage growl sprang toward the spot where Marian was hiding.

“Bruno, good Bruno,” she whispered, and in an instant the fierce mastiff crouched at her feet and licked her hand with a whining sound, as if he suspected something wrong.

One more yearning glance at Frederic—one more tearful look at her old home, and Marian walked rapidly down the avenue, followed by Bruno, who could neither be coaxed nor driven back. It was all in vain that Marian stamped her little foot, wound her arms round his shaggy neck, bidding him return; he only answered with a faint whine quite as expressive of obstinacy as words could have been. He knew Marian had no business to be abroad at that hour of the night, and, with the faithfulness of his race, was determined to follow. At length, as she was beginning to despair of getting rid of him, she remembered how pertinaciously he would guard any article which he knew belonged to the family—and on the bridge which crossed the Elkhorn, she purposely dropped her glove and handkerchief, the latter of which bore her name in full. The ruse was successful, for after vainly attempting to make her know that she had lost something, the dog turned back, and, with a loud, mournful howl, which Marian accepted as his farewell, he laid himself down by the handkerchief and glove, turning his head occasionally in the direction Marian had gone, and uttering low plaintive howls when he saw she did not return.

Meantime Marian kept on her way, striking out into the fields so as not to be observed—and at last, just as the cars sounded in the distance, she came up to a clump of trees growing a little to the left, and on the opposite side of the road from that on which the depot stood. By getting in here no one would see her at the station, and when the train stopped she came out from her concealment, and bounding lightly upon the platform of the rear car, entered unobserved. As the passengers were sitting with their backs toward her, but one or two noticed her when she came in, and these scarce gave her a thought, as she sank into the seat nearest to the door, and drawing her vail over her face trembled violently lest she should be recognized, or at least noted and remembered. But her fears were vain, for no one there had ever seen or heard of her—and in a moment more the train was moving on, and she, heart-broken and alone, was taking her bridal tour!

CHAPTER VII.
THE ALARM.

In her solitary bed little Alice slumbered on, moaning occasionally in her sleep, and at last when the clock struck nine, starting up and calling “Marian, Marian, where are you?” Then, remembering that Marian could not come to her that night, she puzzled her little brain with the great mystery, and wept herself to sleep for the second time.

In the kitchen old Dinah was busy with various household matters. With Frederic she had heard in the distance the bitter moan which Marian made when first she learned how she had been deceived, and like him she had wondered what the sound could be—then as a baby’s cry came from a cabin near by, she had said to herself, “some of them Higgins brats, I’ll warrant. They’re allus a squallin’,” and, satisfied with this conclusion, she had resumed her work. Once or twice after that she was in the house, feeling a good deal disturbed at seeing Frederic sitting alone without his bride, who, she rightly supposed, “was somewhar. But ’taint no way,” she muttered; “Phil and me didn’t do like that;” then reflecting that “white folks wasn’t like niggers,” she returned to the kitchen just as Bruno set up his first loud howl. With Dinah the howl of a dog was a sure sign of death, and dropping her tallow candle in her fright, she exclaimed—“for the Lord’s sake who’s gwine to die now? I hope to goodness ’taint me, nor Phil, nor Lid, nor Victory Eugeny,” and turning to Aunt Hetty, who was troubled with vertigo, she asked if “she’d felt any signs of an afterplax fit lately?”

“The Lord,” exclaimed old Hetty, “I hain’t had a drap o’ blood in me this six month, and if Bruno’s howlin’ for me, he may as well save his breath;” but in spite of this self-assurance, the old negress, when no one saw her, dipped her head in a bucket of water by way of warding off the danger.

Thus the evening wore away until at last Dinah, standing in the doorway, heard the whistle of the train as it passed the Big Spring station.

“Who s’posed ’twas half-past nine,” she exclaimed. “I’ll go this minit and see if Miss Marian wants me.”

Just then another loud piercing howl from Bruno, who was growing impatient, fell upon her ear and arrested her movements.

“What can ail the critter,” she said—“and he’s down on the bridge, too, I believe.”

The other negroes also heard the cry, which was succeeded by another and another, and became at last one prolonged yell, which echoed down the river and over the hills, starting Frederic from his deep reverie and bringing him to the piazza, where the blacks had assembled in a body.

“’Spects mebbe Bruno’s done cotched somethin’ or somebody down thar,” suggested Philip, the most courageous of the group.

“Suppose you go and see,” said Frederic, and lighting his old lantern Philip sallied out, followed ere long by all his comrades, who, by accusing each other of being “skeered to death,” managed to keep up their own courage.

The bridge was reached, and in a tremor of delight Bruno bounded upon Phil, upsetting the old man and extinguishing the light, so that they were in total darkness. The white handkerchief, however, caught Dinah’s eye, and in picking it up she also felt the glove, which was lying near it. But this did not explain the mystery—and after searching in vain for man, beast or hobgoblin, the party returned to the house, where their master awaited them.

“Thar warn’t nothin’ thar ’cept this yer rag and glove,” said Dinah, passing the articles to him.

He took them, and going to the light saw the name upon the handkerchief, “Marian Lindsey.” The glove too, he recognised as belonging to her, and with a vague fear of impending evil, he asked where they found them.

“On the bridge,” answered Dinah; “somebody must have drapped ’em. That handkercher looks mighty like Miss Marian’s hem-stitched one.”

“It is hers,” returned Frederic—“do you know where she is?”

“You is the one who orto know that, I reckon,” answered Dinah, adding that she “hadn’t seen her sense jest after dark, when she went up stars with Alice.”

Frederic was interested now. In his abstraction he had not heeded the lapse of time, though he wondered where Marian was, and once feeling anxious to know what she would say to the letter, he was tempted to go in quest of her. But he did not—and now, with a presentiment that all was not right, he went to Alice’s chamber, but found no Marian there. Neither was she in any of the chambers, nor in the hall, nor in the dining room, nor in his father’s room, and he stood at last in the library door. The writing desk was open, and on it lay three letters—one for Alice, one for him, the other undirected. With a beating heart he took the one intended for himself, and tearing it open, read it through. When Marian wrote that “she gave her life away,” she had no thought of deceiving him, for her giving him up was giving her very life. But he did not so understand it, and sinking into a chair he gasped, “Marian is dead!” while his face grew livid and his heart sick with the horrid fear.

“Dead, Marster Frederic,” shrieked old Dinah—“who dars tell me my chile is dead!” and bounding forward like a tiger, she grasped the arm of the wretched man, exclaiming, “whar is she the dead? and what is she dead for? and what’s that she’s writ that makes yer face as white as a piece of paper?—Read, and let us hear.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” moaned the stricken man. “Oh, has it come to this? Marian, Marian—won’t somebody bring her back?”

“If marster’ll tell me whar to look, I’ll find her, so help me, Lord,” said uncle Phil, the tears rolling down his dusky cheeks.

“You found her handkerchief upon the bridge,” returned Frederic, “and Bruno has been howling there—don’t you see? She’s in the river!—She’s drowned! Oh, Marian—poor Marian, I’ve killed her—but God knows I did not mean to;” and in the very spot where not long before poor Marian had fallen on her face, the desolate man how lay on his, and suffered in part what she had suffered there.

It was a striking group assembled there. The bowed man, convulsed with strong emotion, and clutching with one hand the letter which had done the fearful work. The blacks gathered round, some weeping bitterly and all petrified with terror, while into their midst when the storm was at its hight the little Alice groped her way—her soft hair falling over her white night dress, her blind eyes rolling round the room, and her quick ear turned to catch any sound which might explain the strange proceedings. She had been roused from sleep by the confusion, and hearing the uproar in the hall and library, had felt her way to the latter spot, where in the doorway she stood asking for Marian.

“Bless you, honey, Miss Marian’s dead—drownded,” said Dinah, and Alice’s shriek mingled with the general din.

“Where’s Frederic?” asked the little girl, feeling intuitively that he was the one who needed the most sympathy.

At the sound of his name Frederic lifted up his head, and taking the child in his arms, kissed her tenderly, as if he would thus make amends for his coldness to the lost Marian.

“‘Tain’t no way to stay here like rocks,” said Uncle Phil at last. “If Miss Marian’s in the river, we’d better be a fishin’ her out,” and the practical negro proceeded to make the necessary arrangements.

Before he left the room, however, he would know if he were working for a certainty, and turning to his master, said, “Have you jest cause for thinkin’ she’s done drownded herself—’case if you hain’t, ’taint no use huntin’ this dark night, and it’s gwine to rain, too. The clouds is gettin’ black as pitch.”

Thus appealed to, Frederic answered, “She says in the letter that she’s going away forever, that she shall not come back again, and she spoke of giving her life away. You found her handkerchief and glove upon the bridge, with Bruno watching near, and she is gone. Do you need more proof?”

Uncle Phil did not, though “he’d jest like to know,” he said, “why a gal should up and dround herself on the very fust night arter she’d married the richest and han’somest chap in the county—but thar was no tellin’ what gals would do. Gener’ly, though, you could calkerlate on thar doin’ jest con-tra-ry to what you’d ’spect they would, and if Miss Marian preferred the river to that twenty-five pound feather-bed that Dinah spent mor’n an hour in makin’ up, ’twas her nater, and ’twan’t for him to say agin it. All he’d got to do was to work!”

And the old man did work, assisted by the other negroes and those of the neighbors who lived near to Redstone Hall. Frederic, too, joined, or rather led the search. Bareheaded, and utterly regardless of the rain which, as Uncle Phil had prophesied, began to fall in torrents, he gave the necessary directions, and when the morning broke, few would have recognized the elegant bridegroom of the previous day in the white-faced, weary man, who, with soiled garments and dripping hair, stood upon the narrow bridge, and in the grey November morning looked mournfully down the river as it went rushing on, telling no secret, if secret, indeed, there were to tell, of the wild despair which must have filled poor Marian’s heart and maddened her brain ere she sought that watery grave.

Before coming out he had hurriedly read his father’s letter, and he could well understand how its contents broke the heart of the wretched girl, and drove her to the desperate act which he believed she had committed.

“Poor Marian,” he whispered to himself, “I alone am the cause of your sad death;” and most gladly would he then have become a beggar and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, could she have come back again, full of life, of health and hope, just as she was the day before.

But this could not be, for she was dead, he said, dead beyond a doubt; and all that remained for him to do was to find her body and lay it beside his father. So during that day the search went on, and crowds of people were gathered on each side of the river, but no trace of the lost one could be found, and when a second time the night fell dark and heavy round Redstone Hall, it found a mournful group assembled there.

To Alice Frederic had read the letter left for her, and treasuring up each word the child groped her way into the kitchen, where, holding the note before her sightless eyes as if she could really see, she repeated it to the assembled blacks,

“Lor’ bless the child,” sobbed Dinah from behind her woolen apron, “I knowed she would remember me.”

“And me,” joined in Hetty. “Don’t you mind how I is spoke of, too? She was a lady, every inch of her, Miss Marian was, an’ if I said any badness of her, I want you to forgive me, Dinah. Here’s my hand,” and these two old ladies took each other’s hand in token that they were joined together now in one common sorrow.

Indeed, for once, the Higginses and Smitherses forgot their ancient feud and united in extolling the virtues of the lost one. After reading the letter as many as three times—for when their grief had somewhat subsided, the blacks would ask to hear it again, so as to have fresh cause for tears—Alice returned to the parlor, where she knew Frederic was sitting. Her own heart was throbbing with anguish, but she felt that his was a sorrow different from her own, and feeling her way to where he sat she wound her little arms around his neck, and whispered tenderly: “We must love each other more now that Marian is gone.”

He made no answer except to take her on his lap and lay her head upon his bosom; but Alice was satisfied with this, and after a moment she said, “Frederic, do you know why Marian killed herself?”

“Oh, Alice, Alice,” he groaned. “Don’t say those dreadful words. I cannot endure the thought.”

“But,” persisted the child, “she couldn’t have known what she was doing, and God forgave her.—Don’t you think He did? She asked him to, I am sure, when she was sinking in the deep water.”

The child’s mind had gone further after the lost one than Frederic’s had, and her question inflicted a keener pang than any he had felt before. He had ruined Marian, body and soul, and Alice felt his hot tears dropping on her face as he made her no reply. Her faith was stronger than his, and putting up her waxen hand, she wiped his tears away, saying to him, “We shall meet Marian again, I know, and then if you did anything naughty which made her go away, you can tell her you are sorry, and she’ll forgive you, for she loved you very much.”

Alice’s words were like arrows to the heart of the young man, and still he felt in the first hours of his desolation that she was his comforting angel, and he could not live without her. More than once she asked him if he knew why Marian went away, and at last he made her answer, “Yes, Alice, I do know, but I cannot tell you now. You would not understand it.”

“I think I should,” persisted the child, “and I should feel so much better if I knew there was a reason.”

Thus importuned, Frederic replied, “I can only tell you that she thought I did not love her.”