“S’posin’ he was grateful,” he said, “he needn’t give me three hundred dollars for nothin’, but bein’ he has, I may as well use it to start in business, though I shall pay it back, of course,” and when alone in his room at the Hotel where he stopped, he wrote upon a bit of paper.
“New york, August 30 18—
“For vally rec. I promise to pay Bill Gordon, or bearer, the sum of three hundred dollars with use from date.
“Benjamin Burt.”
This note he put carefully away in his old leathern wallet, where it was as safe and as sure of being paid as if it had been in William Gordon’s hands instead of his.
Meantime Marian at Mrs. Gordon’s was half regretting that she had told her secret to William, and greatly lamenting that they had been interrupted ere she knew just how much Frederic wished to find her. That his feelings toward her had changed, she was sure, but she would know by word and deed that he loved her ere she revealed herself to him, and the dark mystery of that cruel letter must be explained before she could respect him as she had once done. And now but a few days remained ere she should see him face to face, for she was going to Riverside very soon. Some acquaintance of hers were going west by way of New York, and she decided to accompany them, though by so doing she would reach Riverside one day earlier than she was expected.
“It would make no difference of course,” she said, and she waited impatiently for the appointed morning.
It came at last and long before the hour for starting she was ready, the dancing joy in her eyes, and her apparent eagerness to go being sadly at variance with the expression of Mrs. Gordon’s face, for the good lady loved the gentle girl and grieved to part with her.
“I am sorry to leave you,” Marian said, when the last moment came, “but I am so glad I am going, too, sometime, perhaps, you may know why and then you will not blame me.”
She could not shed a tear although she had become greatly attached to her Springfield home, and her excitement continued unabated until she reached New York, where they stopped for the night. There were several hours of daylight left, and stealing away from her friends she took a Third Avenue car and went up to their old house where strangers were living now. She did not care to go in, for the dingy, uncurtained windows looked far from inviting, and she passed slowly down the other side of the street, musing upon all that had passed since the night when she first climbed those narrow stairs, and asked a mother’s care from Mrs. Burt. She did not think then that she would ever be as happy as she was to-day with the uncertainty of meeting Frederic to-morrow. It seemed a great while to wait, and as Ben had once numbered the weeks in seven years, so she now counted the hours, which must elapse ere she felt the pressure of Frederic’s hand—for he would shake hands with her of course, and he would look into her face, for he had heard much of her both from Will Gordon and Ben. Would he be disappointed? Would he think her pretty? Would he know her? And Alice—what would she say? Marian dreaded this test more than all the rest, for she felt that there was danger in the instinct of the blind girl. Slowly she retraced her steps and returning to the Astor, sought her own room, informing her friends that she was weary and would rest.