Little by little she was learning the truth just as it was; and when at a late hour she bade Frederic good night, and went to her own chamber, her heart was almost too full for utterance, for she felt that the long, dark night was over, and the dawn she had waited for so long was breaking at last around her. Intuitively, Alice, who had been permitted to sit up so long as she did, caught something of the same spirit. “It was almost as nice as if Marian really were there,” she said; and she came twice to kiss her governess, while on her face was a most satisfied expression, as she nestled among her pillows and listened to the footsteps in the adjoining chamber where Marian made her nightly toilet.
“Oh, I wish she’d let me sleep with her,” she thought. “It would be a heap more like having Marian back.” And, when all was still, she stepped upon the floor and glided to the bedside of Marian, who was not aware of her approach until a voice whispered in her ear:
“May I stay here with you? I’ve been making believe that you was Marian—our Marian, I mean—and I want to sleep with you so much just as I used to do with her—may I?”
“Yes, darling,” was the answer, as Marian folded her arms lovingly around the neck of the blind girl, whose soft, warm cheek was pressed against her own.
And there, just as they were used to do in the old Kentucky home, ere sorrow had come to either, they lay side by side, Marian and Alice, the one dreaming sweet dreams of the Marian come back to her again; and the other, that to her the gates of Paradise were opened, and she saw the glory shining through, just as in Frederic Raymond’s eyes she had seen the glimmer of the love-light which was yet to overshadow her and brighten her future pathway.
CHAPTER XXVI.
LIFE AT RIVERSIDE.
It was a joyful waking which came to Marian next morning, and when fresh and glowing from her invigorating bath she descended to the piazza she was surprised at finding Frederic there before her, looking haggard and pale, as if the boon of sleep had been denied to him. After Marian and Alice had bidden him good night, he, too, had retired to his room, which was directly under theirs; and sitting in his arm-chair, he had listened to the footsteps above, readily distinguishing one from the other, and experiencing unconsciously a vague, delicious feeling of comfort in knowing that the long talked of Marian Grey had come to him at last, and that she was even more beautiful than he had imagined her to be from Will Gordon’s glowing description. He would keep her with him, too, he said, until the other one was found, if that should ever be: and then, as the footsteps and the murmur of voices in the chamber above him ceased, and all about the house was still, his heart went out after the other one, demanding of the solitude around to show him where she was—to lead him to her so that he could bring her back to the home where each day he was wanting her more and more. And the solitude thus questioned invariably carried his thoughts to Marian Grey, whose delicate, girlish beauty had made so strong an impression upon his mind. “How would the two compare?” he asked. “Would not the governess far outshine the wife? Would not the contrast be a painful one?”
“No, no!” he said; “for, though Marian Lindsey were not as beautiful as Marian Grey, she was gentle, pure and good.” And then, as he sought his pillow, he went back again in fancy to that feverish sick room, and the tender love which alone had saved him from death; while mingled with this remembrance were confused thoughts of the vailed maiden in the corner of the car—of the geranium growing in the window, and of Marian Grey, who seemed a part of every thing—for, turn which way he would, her blue eyes were sure to shine upon him; and once, when, for a few moments, he fell into a troubled sleep, she said to him, “I am the Marian you seek.”
Then this vision faded, and he saw a little grave, on whose humble stone was written, “The Heiress of Redstone Hall,” and with a nervous start he woke, only to doze and dream again, until at last he was glad when the dawn came stealing across the misty river, and looked in at his window. The sun was not yet up when he arose, and going out upon the broad piazza, tried by walking to gain the rest the night had failed to bring. As he walked Spottie came purring to his side, rubbing against his feet and looking into his face as if she fain would tell him, if she could, that the lost one had returned, and was safe beneath his roof.
Frederic Raymond could not be said to care particularly for cats, but there was a charm connected with this one gambolling at his feet, and he did not deem it an unmanly act to stoop down and caress it for the sake of her who had often had it in her arms.