But Marian had seen them first, and when as they turned a corner, the entire building came in view, she sank back upon the cushion, dizzy and sick with the thoughts which came crowding so fast upon her. The day had been soft and balmy, and mingled with the gathering darkness was the yellow, hazy light the sun of the Indian summer often leaves upon the hills. The early mist lay white upon the river, while here and there a shower of leaves came rustling down from the tall trees, which grew in such profusion around the old stone house. And Marian saw everything—heard everything—and when the horses’ hoofs struck upon the bridge, where once they fancied she had stood and plunged into eternity, an icy chill ran through her frame, depriving her of the power to speak or move. Through the dim twilight she saw the dusky forms gathered expectantly around the cabin doors—saw the full, rounded figure of Dinah on the piazza—saw the vine-wreathed pillar where six years ago that very night, she had leaned with a breaking heart, and wept her passionate adieu to the man, who, sitting opposite to her now, little dreamed of what was passing in her mind. In a distant hempfield she heard the song some negroes sang returning from their labor, and as she listened to the plaintive music, her tears began to flow, it seemed so natural—so much like the olden time.
Suddenly as they drew nearer and the song of the negroes ceased the stillness was broken by the deafening yell which Bruno, from his cage, sent up. His voice had been the last to bid the runaway good bye, and it was the first to welcome her back again. With a stifled sob of joy too deep for utterance, she drew her veil still closer over her face, and when at last they stopped and the light from the hall shone out upon her, she sat in the corner of the carriage motionless and still.
“Come, Miss Grey,” said Frederic, when Alice had been safely deposited and was folded to Dinah’s bosom, “Come, Miss Grey, are you sleeping?” and he touched the hand which lay cold and lifeless upon her lap. “She has fainted,” he cried. “The journey and excitement have overtaxed her strength,” and, taking her in his arms as if she had been a little child, he bore her into the house and up to her own chamber, for he rightly guessed that she would rather be there when she returned to consciousness.
Laying her upon the lounge, he removed her bonnet and veil, and then kneeling beside her, looked wistfully into her face, which in its helplessness seemed more beautiful than ever.
“Has she come to, yet?” asked the puffing Dinah, appearing at the door. “It’s narves what ailed her, I reckon, and I told Lyd to put some delirian to the steep. That’ll quiet her soonest of anything.”
Frederic knew that his services were no longer needed, and after glancing about the room to see that everything was right, he went down stairs leaving Marian to the care of Dinah, who, as her patient began to show signs of returning consciousness, undressed her as soon as possible and placed her in the bed, herself sitting by and bathing her face and hands in camphor and cologne. The fainting fit had passed away, but it was succeeded by a feeling of such delicious languor that for a long time Marian lay perfectly still, thinking how nice it was to be again in her old room with Dinah sitting by, and once as the hard, black hand rested on her forehead, she took it between her own, murmuring involuntarily, “Dear Aunt Dinah, I thank you so much.”
“Blessed lamb,” whispered the old lady, “they told her my name, I ’spect. ’Pears like she’s nigher to me than strangers mostly is,” and she smoothed lovingly the bright hair floating over the pillow.
Twice that evening there came up the stairs a cautious step which stopped always at the door, and Dinah as often as she answered the gentle knock, came back to Marian and said, “It’s marster axin’ is you any wus.”
“Tell him I am only tired, not sick,” Marian would say, and turning on her pillow, she wept great tears of joy to think that Frederic should thus care for her.
At last, having drank the “delirian tea,” more to please old Dinah than from any faith she had in its virtues, she fell into a quiet sleep, which was disturbed but twice, once when at nine o’clock Bruno was loosed from his confinement, and with a loud howl went rushing past the window, and once when Alice crept carefully to her side, holding her breath lest she should arouse her, and whispering low her nightly prayer. Then, indeed, Marian moved as if about to waken, and the blind girl thought she heard her say, “Darling Alice,” but she was not sure, and she nestled down beside her, sleeping ere long the dreamless sleep which always came to her after a day of unusual fatigue.