“Blessed Alice, I owe you more than I can repay,” he said, and Marian, far better than the child, appreciated the full meaning these words conveyed.
But for the helpless blind girl this hour might never have come to them, and the strong man felt it so, as he hugged the little creature closer to him, blessing her as his own and Marian’s good angel. Observing that she shivered as if with the cold, he arose, and drawing the sofa directly before the fire, resumed his seat again, with Marian between himself and Alice, his arm around her neck and his lips almost constantly meeting hers. He could not remove his eyes from her, she seemed to him so beautiful, with the firelight falling on her sparkling face and shining on her hair. That hair—how it puzzled him, and winding one of the curls about his fingers he said, half laughingly, half reluctantly, “Your hair was not always this color.”
Then the blue eyes flashed up into his, and Marian replied by telling whence came the change, and reminding him that she was the same young girl of whom the Yankee Ben had spoken when he visited Kentucky.
“And you had almost died, then, for me, my precious one,” said Frederic, kissing the sunny locks.
Just at this point, old Dinah appeared in the door, which, like most Kentucky doors, was left ajar. She saw the position of the parties—saw Frederic kiss Marian Grey—saw Alice’s look of satisfaction as he did so, and in an instant all the old lady’s sense of propriety was roused to a boiling pitch.
Since Marian had revealed herself to Alice, the little girl had said to Dinah, by way of preparing her for the surprise when it should come, that “there was some doubt concerning the death of Marian—that Frederic believed she had been with him in New York, and had taken means to find her.” This story was, of course, repeated among the servants, some of whom credited it, while others did not. Among the latter was Dinah. She wouldn’t believe “she had done all her mournin’ for nothin’,” and in opposition to Hetty, she persisted in saying Marian was dead. When, however, she saw her master’s familiarity with Miss Grey, she accepted of her young mistress’s existence as a reality, and was terribly incensed against the offending Marian Grey.
“The trollop!” she muttered. “But I’ll bring proof agin her,” and hurrying back to the kitchen, she told to the astonished blacks, “how’t marster done kissed Miss Grey spang on her har, and on her mouth, and hugged her into the bargain, when he didn’t know for certain that t’other one was dead; and if they didn’t b’lieve it, they could go and see for themselves, provided they went mighty still.”
“Tole you he was crazy,” said Uncle Phil, starting to see the wonderful sight, and followed by a troop of negroes, all of whom trod on tiptoe, a precaution wholly unnecessary, for Frederic and Marian were too much absorbed in each other to heed the dusky group assembled round the door, their white eyes growing larger as they all saw distinctly the arm thrown across Marian’s neck.
“Listen to dat ar, will you?” whispered Hetty, as Frederic said, “Dear Marian,” while old Dinah chimed in, “’Clar for’t, it makes my blood bile, and he not a widower nuther!”
“Quit dat!” she exclaimed aloud, as her master showed signs of repeating the kissing offense; and, in an instant, Frederic sprang to his feet, an angry flush mounting to his face when he saw the crowd at the door.