Marian Grey

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.