That night there came to Marian a paper from Ben, who, having far outstayed his time, had returned the week before to Ware. Listlessly she tore open the wrapper, and glancing at the first page, was about throwing it aside, when a marked paragraph arrested her attention, and, with burning cheeks and fast-beating heart, she read that “Frederic Raymond would gladly receive any information of a young girl who had disappeared mysteriously from Redstone Hall.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet, “I am going home—back to Frederic. He’s sent for me—see!” and she pointed out to Mrs. Burt the advertisement. “Can I go to-night?” she continued. “Is there a train? Oh, I am so glad.”
Mrs. Burt, however, was more moderate in her feelings. Mr. Raymond could scarcely do less than advertise, she thought, and to her this did not mean that he wished the fugitive to return for any love he bore her. Still, she would not dash Marian’s hopes at once, though she would save her from the cold reception she felt sure she would meet, should she return to Redstone Hall, unannounced. So, when the first excitement of Marian’s joy had abated, she said: “I should write to Mr. Raymond, just as I first thought of doing. Then he’ll know where you are, and he will come for you, if he wants you, of course.”
That “if he wants you” grated harshly on Marian’s ear; but, after her past experience, she did not care to thrust herself upon him, unless sure that he wished it, and concluded to follow Mrs. Burt’s advice. So she sat down and wrote to him a second letter, telling him where she was, and how she came there, and asking him in her childlike way, to let her come back again.
“Oh, I want to come home so much,” she wrote; “if you’ll only let me, you needn’t ever call me your wife, nor make believe I am—at least, not until you love me, and I get to be a lady. I’ll try so hard to learn. I’ll go away to school, and maybe, after a good many years are gone, you won’t be ashamed of me, though I shall never be as beautiful as Isabel. If you don’t want me back, Frederic, you must tell me so. I can’t feel any worse than I did that day when I sat here in the street and wished I could die. I didn’t die then, maybe I shouldn’t now, and if you do hate me, I’ll stay away and never write again—never let you know whether I am alive, or not; and after seven years, Ben Burt says, you will be free to marry Isabel. She’ll wait for you, I know. She won’t be too old then, will she? I shall be almost twenty-three, but that is young, and the years will seem so long to me if you do not let me return. May I, Frederic? Write, and tell me Yes; but direct to Mrs. Daniel Burt, as I shall then be more sure to get it. I dare not hope you’ll come for me, but if you only would, and quick, too, for my heart aches so, and my head is tired and sick with the dreadful noise. Do say I may come home. God will bless you if you do, I am sure; and if you don’t, I’ll ask Him to bless you just the same.”
The letter closed with another assurance that she gave to him cheerfully all her fortune—that she neither blamed his father, nor himself, nor Isabel, nor anybody. All she asked was to come back!
Poor little Marian! The pain in her heart was not so intense, and the noise in the street easier to bear after sending that letter, for hope softened them both, and whispered to her, “he’ll let me come,” and in a thousand different ways she pictured the meeting between herself and Frederic. Occasionally the thought intruded itself upon her, “what if he bids me keep away,” and then she said, “I’ll do it if he does, and before seven years are gone, maybe I’ll be dead. I hope I shall, for I do not want to think of Isabel’s living there with him!”
She had great faith in the seven years, for Ben had said so, and Ben, who was very susceptible to female charms, believed it, too, and the thought of it was like a ray of sunshine in the dingy, noisome room where all day he worked, sometimes reckoning up how many months there were in seven years—then how many weeks—then how many days, and finally calling himself a fool for caring a thing about it. When the newspaper article came under his eye, the sunshine left the dirty room, and after he had sent the paper to Marian he cared but little how many months or weeks or days there were in seven years, and he felt angry at himself for having sweat so hard in making the computation!
And so, while Marian in the city waits and watches for the message which will, perhaps, bid her come back, and Ben, in the noisy factory, waits also for a message which shall say she has gone, and his mother is again alone, the letter travels on, and one pleasant afternoon, when the clerk at Cincinnati makes up the mail for Frankfort, he puts that important missive with the rest and sends it on its way.