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.”