Marian Grey

Front matter

CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

Contents

CRAPTBK fjlCB

I. Guardian and Ward . . . . 1 1

II. Father and Son

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 silence save the sighing of the 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 known in Kentucky, as "The Forks of the Elkhorn." From one of the lower windows a light was shining, and its rays fell upon the face of a white-haired man/r»who moaned uneasily in his sleep, as if pursued by some torrfienting fear. At last, as the clock struck the hour of twelve, he awoke, and glancing nervously toward the corner, from which the sound proceeded, he whispered, " Have you come again, Ralph Lindsey, to tell me of my sin ?"

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

" Nothing," Marian answered, " nothing but the lamplight shining on the face of the old clocjc. 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 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 and then 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 !" Marian cried, kissing 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," he said, " I have done you 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,JV[arian — 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

GUARbIA>f AND WARD. I3

I have finished," he continued, as he saw her about to speak ; " I know I have not long to Hve, and I would make^pmends ; but, Marian, I would rather you should not know the truth until I'm dead. You will forgive'me then, won't you, Marian ? Promise me you will forgive the poor old man who has 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, said, " Bless you, Marian, 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 ill, 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 t4 MARIAN GREY.

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 belmved 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 ?" Marian asked 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," Marian answered. " 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 scrawney, ever to make a handsome woman," and Marian's voice trembled as she recalled a which speech had wrung from her many tears.

To this remark Colonel 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 Marian Lindsey. Rumors, too, he had heard, of a peerlessly beautiful creature, who at the north kept his son a captive to her will. But this could not be ; Frederic 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 a,fter. Aunt Dinah, the housekeeper, appeared. " She had come to sit up with ole 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

GtARDlAl* AND WAR£>. I$

t 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 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 Colonel Raymond had hinted, but now she scarcely remembered it, or if it occurred to her at all, she instamtly 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 except 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 to take her on his lap, and tell her of the land to which she was going ; and when one day her father lay down in his berth, with the fever as they said, she remembered how the kind man h^ cared for him, holding his head and watching bj^ him till he died ; — then, when it was all over, he had told her she was to be his little girl, and he bade her call him father, telling her how her own dead parent had asked him to care for her. 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, thowing overboard a few articles of clothing to make room for it. The voyage was long and stormy, but they reached New York at t6 MAklANf GRfeV.

last, and he took her to his home, aa humble farm-house on the Hudson, where he had always lived. Frederic was 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 when he bade her good-by and went off to a distant boarding school.

Colonel 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, 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 country so beautiful a spot as Redstone Hall, with its terraced p ounds, its graveled walks, its grand ; old trees, its creeping vines, its flowering shrubs and handsome park in the rear. And this was Marian's home; 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 her glowing descriptions, sometimes wished that she were rich, and could have a taste of fashion. To be sure, her guardian bought her 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 some*

GUARDIAN AND WARD. 1 7

thing of an inferior, especially when Frederic came home. 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 had never 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 anything 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 world as dearly as the poor blind Alice, while to Alice, Marian was the embodiment of everything beautiful, pure and good. Frederic, on the contrary, was a kind of terror to 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 guard, ian'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 §h^ dismissed it froit) her mine^. In her estimatipij 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 impossibility. Still it kept her wakeful, and once she said to herself, " I could love him so much if he would let me, and I should be so proud of him." Then, as she remembered the remark she had heard him make to his friend, she covered her face with her hands and whispered, " Oh, I wish I wasn't ugly?' Then there came stealing over her the thought that in the estimation of others she was not as plain as in that of Frederic Raymond. Everybody seemed to like her, and if she were hideous they could not. Alice, who judged by touch alone, declared that she was beautiful, while old Dinah said age would improve her as it did wine, and that in time she would be the handsomest woman in Kentucky.

Never before had Marian thought so much of her appearance ; and now, anxious to know exactly what her defects were, she arose, and lighting the lamp, placed it upon her bureau ; then throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she sat down and inspected the face which Frederic Raymond called homely. The features were regular enough, but the face was thin — " scrawney," Frederic had said, and the cheek bones were plainly perceptible. This might be the result of eating slate-stones ; Dinah, who knew everything, said so, and resolving to abjure everything of the kind, Marian continued her investigations. It did not occur to her that her complexion was very fair, nor 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 would do it. She would consult Dinah on the subject, and feeling a good deal of confidence in the

GUARDIAN AND WARD. 1 9

negress' judgment, she passed on to what she considered her crowning point of ugliness — her hair ! It was soft, luxuriant and curly, but was red. Turn which way she would, or hold the lamp in any position she chose, it was still 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 o^ her mother's hair, and opening a rosewood box she took from it a shining tress which she laid upon the top of her bureau, and then bent down to admire its color, a beautiful auburn, such as is ranely seen, and which, when seen, is sure to be admired,

"And this was my mother's," she whispered, smoothing 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 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 I^Jarlan, who unhesjtc^tingly 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, som«what 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 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 his letter of confession. It cost him many a fierce struggle to tell his son a secret which none save himself and God had ever known — and which none 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 Englishman, watching to see that justice was done at last to Marian. Recently several letters had passed between tlie fattier and his son concerning the mar-

GUARDIAN AND WARD. 21

riage 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, unedu-' cated 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 Marian, it would, break her heart to know he said that, but 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, could not be as pure, as gentle, and as good as Marian.

The letter was finished, and 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 heart, where once he treasured a little golden-haired girl, who died before Frederic was born. In the first moments of his bereavement, he had thought his loss could never be repaired, but when, with her arms around his neck, Marian had told hiin how much she loved him, he felt that the child he had lost was restored to him in the little English girl. He knew she believed 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, h6 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 went to his hbrary, 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 before 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 shrank from anything dishonorable, and was blessed with but a limited share of woman's curiosity ; consequently, the letter was safe in her care, 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 Colonel .Raymond grew so ill that a telegram was despatched to the young man, bidding him hasten if he would see his father alive.

" That will bring him," the old man said, " 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.

tAl*HEk ANt) SON. 23

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 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, arid 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 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

1^4 MARIAN GREi/.

making red hair dark, had strongly recommendeci "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 unwiUing to reach the door.

" 'Tis because of his father," thought Marian. " He fears he may be dead."

But Frederic was not thinking of his father alone. It was not pleasant coming home ; for aside from the fear that his father might die was a dread of what he 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 he was thinking of her 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 f ATHER ANt) SON. ^5

black eyes, or 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 Red Stone Hall, he could not forbear fancying how she would grace that elegant mansion as its 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 !

He was growing very generous, and by the time he reached the long piazza Marian Lind&ey was comfprtably tjisposed 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, neg.