It was cruel to deceive her as he had done, and so Ben thought when he saw the heaving of her chest, the pressure of her hands, and more than all, the whiteness of her face, as he told her why Frederic sent to her that picture; that it was not taken for Marian Lindsey, but rather for Marian Grey, adopted sister of Benjamin Butterworth.
“He does not wish to find me,” said Marian when Ben had finished speaking. “We shall never be reconciled, and it is just as well, perhaps.”
“I think so, too,” rejoined Ben, “or at any rate I’d let him rest a spell, and learn everything there is in books for woman kind to learn. You shall go to college, if you say so, and bimeby, when the old Nick himself wouldn’t know you, I’ll get you a chance to teach that blind gal, and he’ll fall in love with his own wife; see if he don’t,” and Ben stroked the curls within his reach very caressingly, thinking to himself, “I won’t tell her now ’bout Alice’s picter, ’cause it may not come, but I’ll cheer her up the best way that I can. She grows handsome every day of her life,” and as this, in Ben’s estimation, was the one thing of all others to be desired by Marian, he could not forbear complimenting her aloud upon her rapid improvement in looks.
“Thank you,” she answered, smiling very faintly, for to her, beauty or accomplishments were of little avail if in the end Frederic’s love were not secured.
Anon, however, hope whispered to her that it might be, and again she opened the daguerreotype, catching a glow of encouragement from the eyes which looked so kindly at her, as if they fain would tell her of the weary days the original of that picture had spent in searching for her, or how, even now, amid the noise and dust of the crowded cars, he sat, wholly unmindful of what was passing around, never looking at the beautiful blue river without, or yet at the motley passengers within, but with his hat drawn over his eyes and his shawl across his lap, he thought of her alone, except indeed occasionally when there would intrude itself upon him the remembrance of the girl with the brown vail, or a thought of Marian Grey!
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOME AGAIN.
Frederic was coming home again—“Marster Frederic,” who, as Dinah said, “had been so near to kingdom come that he could hear the himes they sung on Sundays.”
Joyfully the blacks told to each other the glad news, which was an incentive for them all to bestir themselves as they had not done before during the whole period of their master’s absence. Old Dinah, whose mind turned naturally upon eatables, busied herself in conjuring up some new and harmless relish for the invalid, while Uncle Phil spent all the whole day in rubbing down the horses and rubbing up the carriage with which he intended meeting his master at Frankfort. Josh, too, caught the general spirit, and remembering how much his master was wont to chide him for his slovenly appearance, he cast rueful glances at his sorry coat and red cowhides, wishing to goodness he had some “clothes to honor the ’casion with.”
“I m-m-might sh-sh-shine these up a little,” he said, examining his boots, and, purloining a tallow candle from Hetty’s cupboard, he set himself to the task, succeeding so well that he was almost certain of commendation.
A coat of uncle Phil’s was borrowed next, and though it hung like a tent cloth about Josh’s lank proportions, the effect was entirely satisfactory to the boy, who had a consciousness of having done all that could reasonably be expected of him.