Breakfast being over, Marian and Alice sought the parlor, where, instead of the old fashioned instrument which the former remembered as standing there, she found a new and beautifully carved piano.
“Frederic ordered this on purpose to please you,” whispered Alice. “He said it was a shame for you to play on the other rattling thing.”
This was sufficient to call out Marian’s wildest strains, and as a matter of course the entire band of servants gathered about the door to listen just as they once had done when the performer was Isabel. As was quite natural, they yielded their preference to the last comer, old Hetty acknowledging that even “Miss Beatrice couldn’t beat that.”
It would seem that Marian Grey was destined to take all hearts by storm, for ere the day was done her virtues had been discussed in the kitchen and by the cabin fire, while even the gallant Josh, at his work in the hempfield, attempted a song, which he meant to be laudatory of her charms, but as he was somewhat lacking in poetical talent, his music ran finally into the well known ballad of “Mary Ann,” which suited his purpose quite as well.
Meantime, Marian, stealing away from Alice, quietly explored every nook and corner of the house, opening first the little box where she once had kept her mother’s hair. It was just as she had left it, and kissing it reverently she placed it by the side of her silken locks, to see how they compared. It might be that the tress of the dead had faded somewhat, for there was certainly a richer, darker tinge to her own wavy hair, and bowing her head upon the bureau she dropped tears of thankfulness that her childhood’s prayer had been more than answered. The library was visited next, and she seated herself again in the chair where she had sat when penning her last farewell to Frederic. Where was that letter now? She wished that she could see it, though she did not care to read it, and without any expectation of finding it she pressed what she knew was the secret spring to a private drawer. It yielded to her touch—the drawer came open, and there before her lay the letter—her letter—she knew it by its superscription, and by its tear-stained, soiled appearance. She had wept over it herself, but she knew full well her tears alone had never blurred and blotted it like this. Frederic’s had mingled with them, and her heart was trembling with joy when another object caught her eye and quickened her rapid pulsations. Her glove! the little black kid glove she had dropped upon the bridge was there, wrapped in a sheet of paper, and with it the handkerchief!
“Frederic has saved them all,” she whispered, shuddering involuntarily, for it seemed almost like looking into the grave, where he had buried these sad remembrances of her. He had preserved them carefully, she thought, and she continued her investigation, coming at last upon a daguerreotype of herself, taken when she was just fifteen.
“Oh, horror!” she cried, and sinking back in her chair, she laughed until the tears ran at the forlorn little face which looked upon her so demurely from the casing. “Frederic must enjoy looking at you vastly, and thinking you are his wife,” she said, and she felt a thrill of pride in knowing that Marian Grey bore scarcely the slightest resemblance to that daguerreotype.
There was a similarity in the features and in the way the hair grew around the forehead, while the eyes were really alike. But the likeness extended no further, and she did not wonder that none, save Bruno, had recognized her. Returning the picture to its place, she was about to leave the room, when Frederic came in, appearing somewhat surprised to find her there, sitting in his chair as if she had a perfect right so to do. At first she was too much confused to apologize, but she managed at last to say:
“This cozy room attracted me, and I took the liberty to enter. You have a very fine library, I think; some of the books must have been your father’s.”
It was the books, of course, which she came to see, and sitting down opposite to her Frederic talked with her about them until she chanced to spy a portrait, put away behind the ponderous sofa, with its face turned to the wall.