“Whose is it?” she asked, directing Frederic’s attention to it. “Whose is it, and why is it hidden there?”
Instantly the young man’s face grew dark, and Marian trembled beneath the glance he bent upon her. Then the cold, hard look passed away, and he replied:
“It is an unfinished portrait of Mrs. Raymond, taken from a daguerreotype of her when she was only fifteen. But the artist did not understand his business, and it looks even worse than the original.”
This last was spoken bitterly, and Marian felt the hot blood rising to her cheeks.
“I never even told Alice of it,” he continued, “but put it away in here, where I hide all my secrets.”
He glanced at the private drawer—so did Marian; but she was too intent upon seeing a portrait which could look worse than the daguerreotype to heed aught else, and she said, entreatingly, “Oh, Mr. Raymond, please let me see it, won’t you? I lived in New York a long time, you know, and perhaps I may have met her, or even known her under some other name? May I see it?” and she was advancing toward the sofa, when Frederic seized both her hands, and holding them in his, said, half hesitatingly, half mournfully:
“Miss Grey, you must excuse me for refusing your request. Poor Marian was far from being handsome, nay, I sometimes thought her positively ugly. She is certainly so in the portrait, and a creature as highly gifted with beauty as you, might laugh at her plain features, but if you did—” He paused a moment, and Marian’s eye-lashes fell beneath his steady gaze—“And if you did,” he continued, “I never could like you again, for she was my wife, and as such must be respected.”
Marian could not tell why it was, but Frederic’s words and manner affected her painfully. She half feared she had offended him by her eagerness to see the portrait, while mingled with this was a strange feeling of pity for poor, plain Marian Lindsey, as she probably looked upon the canvas, and a deep respect for Frederic, who would, if possible, protect her from even the semblance of insult. Her heart was already full, and, releasing her hands from Frederic’s, she resumed her seat, and leaning her head upon the writing desk, burst into tears, while Frederic paced the room, wondering what, under the circumstances, he was expected to do. He knew just how to soothe Alice, but Marian Grey was a different individual. He could not take her in his lap and kiss away her tears, but he could at least speak to her; and he did at last, laying his hand as near the little white one grasping the table edge as he dared, and saying, very gently:
“If I spoke harshly to you, Miss Grey, I am sorry—very sorry; I really did not intend to make you cry. I only felt that I could not bear to hear you, of all others, laugh at my poor Marian, and so refused your request. Will you forgive me?”
And by some chance, as he looked another way, his hand did touch hers, and held it, too! He did not think that an insult to the portrait at all, nor yet of the supposed original; for there was something in the way the snowy fingers twined themselves round his, which drove all other ideas from his mind, and for one brief instant he was supremely happy.