“Yes—so Alice said,” returned Ben, “and nobody knew’ nothin’ of you; so it was nateral they should think you drownded: but, no matter, it makes it more like a novel, and now I’ll tell you jest what ’tis, wee one, I don’t mean no offense, and you must take it all in good part. You are a great deal better than Isabel, I know; but, as fur as looks and manners is concerned, you can’t hold a candle to her, and a body knowin’ nothing about either would naterally say she was most befittin’ Redstun Hall; but, tell ’em to wait a spell. You hain’t got your growth yet, and you are gettin’ better-lookin’ every day. That sickness made a wonderful change in you, and shavin’ your hair was jest the thing. It’s comin’ out darker, as it always does, and in less than a year I’ll bet my hat on its bein’ a beautiful auburn. You must chirk up and grow fat, for I’m goin’ to send you to school, and have you take lessons on the pianner, and learn French and everything, so that by the time you’re twenty you’ll be the best educated and han’somest gal in the city, and then when the right time comes, if Providence don’t contrive to fetch you two together, Ben Burt will. I shall keep my eye on him, and if he’s gettin’ too thick with Isabel, I’ll drop a sly hint in his ear. They’re goin’ to move up on to the Hudson to the old place—did I tell you?—and mebby you’ll run afoul of him in the street some day.”
“Oh, I hope not—at least, not yet—not till the time you speak of,” said Marian, who had listened eagerly to Ben’s suggestion, and already felt that there was hope for her in the future. She would study so hard, she thought, and learn so fast, and if she only could be thought handsome, or even decent-looking, she would be satisfied, but that was impossible, she feared.
She did not know that, as Ben had said, the severe illness through which she had passed had laid the foundation for a softer, more refined style of beauty than she would otherwise have reached. Her entire constitution seemed to have undergone a change, and now, with hope to buoy her up, she grew stronger, healthier, and, as a natural consequence, handsomer each day. She could not erase from her memory the insult Frederic had offered her, by writing what she believed he did, but her affection for him was strong enough to overlook even that, and she was willing to wait and labor years if at the end of that time she could hope to win his love.
Whatever Ben undertook he was sure to accomplish in the shortest possible time, and before starting upon another peddling excursion, the name of “Marian Grey” was enrolled, among the list of pupils who attended Madam Harcourt’s school. At first she was subject to many annoyances, for, as was quite natural, her companions inquired concerning her standing, and when they learned that her aunt was a sewing woman, and that the queer, awkward fellow who came with her the first day was her cousin and a peddler, they treated her slightingly, and laughed at her plain dress. But Marian did not care. One thought—one feeling alone actuated her; to make herself something of which Frederic Raymond should not be ashamed was her aim, and for this she studied early and late, winning golden laurels in the opinion of her teachers, and coming ere long to be respected and loved by her companions, who little suspected that she was the heiress of untold wealth.
Thus the Summer and a part of the Autumn passed away, and when the semi-annual examination came, Marian Grey stood first in all her classes, acquitting herself so creditably and receiving so much praise, that Ben, who chanced to be present, was perfectly overjoyed, and evinced his pleasure by shedding tears, his usual way of expressing feeling.
From this time forward Marian’s progress was rapid, until even she herself wondered how it were possible for her to learn so fast when she had formerly cared so little for books. Hope, and a joyful anticipation of what would possibly be hers in the future, kept her up and helped her to endure the mental labors which might otherwise have overtaxed her strength. Gradually, too, the old soreness at her heart wore away, and she recovered in a measure her former light-heartedness, until at last her merry laugh was often heard ringing out loud and clear just as it used to do at home in days gone by. Very anxiously Ben watched her, and when on his return from his excursions he found her, as he always did, improved in looks and spirits, he rubbed his hands together and whispered to himself, “She’ll set up for a beauty, yet, and no mistake. That hair of hern is growin’ a splendid color.”
He did not always express these thoughts to Marian, but the little mirror which hung on the wall in her room sometimes whispered to her that the face reflected there was not the same which had looked at her so mournfully on that memorable night when she had left her pillow to see what her points of ugliness were! The one which she had thought the crowning defect of all had certainly disappeared. Her red curls were gone, and in their places was growing a mass of soft wavy hair, which reminded her of the auburn tress she had so much admired and prized, because it was her mother’s. She had no means of knowing how nearly they were alike, for the ringlet was far away, but by comparing her present short curls with those which had been shorn from her head, she saw there was a difference, and she felt a pardonable pride in brushing and cultivating her young hair, which well repaid her labor, growing very rapidly and curling about her forehead in small, round rings, which were far from unbecoming.
Toward the last of November, Ben, who found his peddling profitable, took a trip through Western New York, and did not return until February, when, somewhat to his mother’s annoyance, he brought a sick stranger with him. He had taken the cars at Albany, where he met with the stranger, who offered him a part of his seat and made himself so generally agreeable that Ben’s susceptible heart warmed toward him at once, and when at last, as they drew near New York, the man showed signs of being seriously ill, Ben’s sympathy was roused, and learning that he had no friends in the city, he urged him so strongly to accompany him home for the night, at least, that his invitation was accepted, and the more readily, perhaps, as the stranger’s pocket had been picked in Albany, and he had nothing left except his ticket to New York. This reason was not very satisfactory to Mrs. Burt, who from the first had disliked their visitor’s appearance. He was a powerfully built young man, with black bushy hair, and restless, rolling eyes, which seemed ever on the alert to discover something not intended for them to see. His face wore a hard, dissipated look; and when Mrs. Burt saw how soon after seating himself before the warm fire, he fell asleep, she rightly conjectured that a fit of drunkenness had been the cause of his illness. Still, he was their guest, and she would not treat him uncivilly, so she bade her son to take him to his room, where he lay in the same deep, stupid sleep, breathing so loudly that he could be plainly heard in the adjoining room, where Marian and Ben were talking of the house at Yonkers which was not finished yet, and would not be ready for the family until sometime in May.
Suddenly the loud breathing in the bedroom ceased—the stranger was waking up; but Ben and Marian paid no heed, and talked on as freely as if there were no greedy ears drinking in each word they said—no wild-eyed man leaning on his elbow and putting together, link by link, the chain of mystery until it was as clear to him as noonday. The first sentence which he heard distinctly sobered him at once. It was Marian who spoke, and the words she said were, “I wonder if Isabel Huntington will come with Frederic to Yonkers.”
“Isabel!” the stranger gasped. “What do they know of her?” and sitting up in bed, he listened until he learned what they knew of her, and learned, too, that the young girl whom Ben Burt called his cousin was the runaway bride from Redstone Hall.