Oh! could the writing desk before him have told how only that afternoon there had lain upon its velvet cover a message from the lost one—a sweet, childlike petition for him to take her back, even though he could not love her—he would have gone for her then, and, bringing her to the home which was not his, but hers, he would have placed her between himself and the temptation, yielding to her all honor and respect until his heart should say it loved her. But the time was not yet, and he must suffer longer—must pass through deeper waters; while Marian, too, must be molded and changed into a bride who, far better than the queenly Isabel, could do the honors of Redstone Hall.
CHAPTER XI.
THE LETTER RECEIVED.
It was baking-day at Mrs. Burt’s, and the good lady bustled in and out—her cap strings pinned over her head, her sleeves tucked up above her shoulders, and her face, hands and apron covered with flour. Occasionally as she rolled out the short pie crust, or sliced the juicy apple, she glanced at the rain-drops pattering against the window, and said encouragingly, “I don’t care for the rain, for I’ve get a big umbrella and the best kind of overshoes;” and as often as she related the cheering words, they brought a smile to the thin, white face of the young girl who sat in the large, stuffed easy chair, and did not offer to share the labors of her aunt, as she called her.
Marian was sick. Strong excitement had worn her strength away, and since she had sent the letter to Frederic, her restless anxiety for the answer had made her so weak that she kept her bed nearly all the time, counting the days which must elapse ere she could possibly hope to hear, and then, when the full time was out, bidding Mrs. Burt wait one more day before she went to the office, so as to be sure and get it. She had made due allowance for delays, and now she was certain that it had come. She would sit up that day, she said, for she felt almost well; and if Frederic told her to come home, she should start to-morrow and get there Saturday night, and she fancied how people would stare at her, and be glad to see her, too, on Sunday, when she first went into church, for she “should go, any way.” Alice, too, would be delighted, and kiss her so many times; and then she wondered if Frederic wouldn’t kiss her, too—she thought he might just once, she’d been so long away, and she said to herself that “she would draw back a little, and let him know she wasn’t so very anxious.”
Poor Marian, how little was she prepared for the cruel blow awaiting her! The pies were made at last, as was the gingerbread and crispy snaps; the apple dumplings, Marian’s favorite dessert, were steaming on the stove; the litter was cleared away, the carpet swept, the oil-cloth washed, the chairs set back; and then exchanging her work dress for a more respectable delaine, Mrs. Burt put over the kettle to boil, “for after her wet walk, she should want a cup of tea,” she said, and, leaving Marian to watch the pie baking in the oven, she started on her errand.
“I mean to have the table ready when she gets back,” said Marian—“for if I don’t make her think I’m well, she won’t let me start so soon;” and, exerting all strength, she set the table for dinner in the neatest possible manner, even venturing upon the extravagance of bringing out the best white dishes, which Mrs. Burt only used on great occasions. “When I get some, I’ll send her a new set with gilt bands,” the little girl said, as she arranged the cups, and then stepped back to witness the effect. “Oh! I wish she’d come,” she continued, glancing at the clock; but it was not time yet, and, resuming her rocking-chair, she tried to wait patiently.
But it seemed very long and very tiresome, sitting there alone, listening to the rain and the ticking of the clock. It is strange how the most trivial circumstance will sometimes stamp itself indelibly upon the memory. The steam from the dumplings, which Marian thought she should enjoy so much, filled the room with a sweet, sickly odor, and for many, many years she remembered how faint it made her feel. But ’twas a pleasant faintness now; everything was pleasant, for wasn’t she going home, back to Redstone Hall—back to Frederic, who, if he didn’t love her now, would learn to love her, for Mrs. Burt said so; Mrs. Burt, who knew almost as much as Dinah, and who, even while she thought of her, was coming up the narrow stairs. Marian heard her put her dripping umbrella beside the door, but for her life she could not move. If she should be disappointed after all, she said, and she tried to see how many she could count before she knew for certain.
“A letter—oh, have you a letter for me?” she attempted to say, when Mrs. Burt came in, but she could not articulate a word, and the good lady, wishing to tease her a little, leisurely took off her overshoes, hung up her shawl, wiped her damp bonnet with a handkerchief, and looked at the dumplings and then said, as indifferently as if the happiness of a young life was not to be crushed by what she had in her pocket, “it rains awfully down street!”
“I know—but the letter—was there a letter?” and Marian’s blue eyes looked dark with excitement. “Yes, child, there was, but where it was mailed I don’t know. ’Tis directed to me, and is from Kentucky, but I can’t make out the post-mark mor’n the dead. It’s some kind of Forks, but the postmaster will never set the Hudson on fire with his writing.”
“Forks of Elkhorn,” cried Marian, snatching at the letter. “It’s Frederic’s superscription, too, and dated ever so many days ago. Dear Frederic, he didn’t wait a minute before he wrote,” and she pressed to her lips the handwriting of Isabel Huntington!