Mrs. Sheldon next tried her powers of persuasion, pleading for herself quite as much as for her brother, for she loved the young girl dearly, and would gladly have called her sister. But naught which she could say had the least effect, and Ellen determined to see what she could do. She had been very indignant at first, to think a poor teacher should refuse her brother, and something of this spirit manifested itself during her interview with Marian.
“I am astonished at you,” she said; “for, though we have ever treated you as our equal, you must know that in point of family you are not, and my brother has done what few young men in his standing would have done. Why, there never was a gentleman in Springfield whom the girls accounted a better match than William, unless it were Mr. Raymond from Kentucky, and they only gave him the preference because he lives South, and possibly has a wife somewhere. So they could not get him, if they wished to. Now, if you were in love with him, and he were not already married, I should not think so strangely of your conduct, for he may be Will’s superior in some respects; but I cannot conceive of your refusing him for any common man such as would be likely to address you.”
Marian did not think it necessary to reply in substance to this long speech, neither did she, by word or look, resent Ellen’s overbearing manner; but she answered, as she always did:
“I would marry your brother, if I could; but I cannot.”
“Then I trust you will have a pleasant time teaching all your days,” said Ellen, as she slammed the door behind her, and went to report her success.
All this trouble and excitement wore upon Marian, and after a time she became too ill to leave her room, where she kept her bed, sometimes fancying it all a dream—sometimes resolving to tell the people who she was, and always weeping over the grief she had brought to William Gordon, who, during her illness, showed how noble and good he was by caring for her as tenderly as if she had indeed been his promised bride. He did not see her, but he made his presence felt in a thousand different ways, and when they told him how her tears would drop upon the fresh bouquets he sent her from the green-house every morning, he would turn away to keep his own from falling.
One night, toward the last of March, as he sat with his mother in the same room where he first told her of his love for Marian Grey, the door bell rang, and a moment after, to his great surprise, Frederic Raymond walked into the room. William had forgotten what his friend had said about the possibility of his coming north earlier than usual, and he was so much astonished that for some moments he did not appear like himself.
“You know I wrote that business might bring me to Albany,” said Frederic, “and that if I came so far I should visit you.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now,” returned William, the color mounting to his forehead as he recalled the nature of the last letter written to Frederic, who, from his manner, guessed that something was wrong, and forbore questioning him until they retired to their room for the night.
“Fred,” said William, after they had talked awhile on indifferent subjects, “Fred,” and Will’s feet went up into a chair, for even a man who has been refused feels better, and can tell it better, with his heels a little elevated, “Fred, it’s all over with me, and it makes no difference now whether the sun rises in the east or in the west.”