To Frederic reality was more endurable than suspense, for he could look the future in the face and think what he would do. He was free to marry Isabel, he believed; but, as was quite natural, he cared less about it now than when there was an obstacle in his way. There was no danger of losing her, he was sure, and he could wait as long as he pleased! Once he thought of going to New York to make some inquiries, and if possible find Marian’s grave, but when he reflected that Sarah Green was on the ocean, even before her letter reached Kentucky, he decided to defer the matter until their removal to Yonkers, which was to take place about the middle of May. Isabel, too, had her own views upon the subject. There no longer existed a reason why Frederic should not address her, and in her estimation nothing could be more proper than to christen the new home with a bride. So she bent all her energies to the task, smiling her sweetest smile, saying her softest words, and playing the amiable lady to perfection. But it availed her nothing, and she determined at last upon a bolder movement.
Finding Frederic alone in the parlor, one day, she said:
“I suppose it will not affect you materially if mother and I leave when you remove to Yonkers. Agnes Gibson, you know, is soon to be married, and she has invited me to go with her to Florida, where, she says, I can procure a good situation as music-teacher, and mother wishes to go back to New Haven.”
The announcement, and the coolness with which it was made, startled Frederic, and he replied, rather anxiously:
“I have never contemplated a separation. I shall need your mother there more than I do here, for I shall not have Dinah.”
“Perhaps you can persuade her to stay, but I think it best for me to go,” returned Isabel, delighted with her success.
Frederic Raymond did not wish Isabel to leave him, and, after a moment, he said:
“Why must you go, Isabel? Do you wish for a larger salary? Are you tired of us—of me?” And the last words were spoken hesitatingly, as if he doubted the propriety of his saying them.
“Oh, Frederic!” and in the soft, black eyes raised for an instant to his face, and then modestly withdrawn, there was certainly a tear! “Oh, Frederic!” was all she said, and Frederic felt constrained to answer: “What is it, Isabel? Why do you wish to go?”
“I don’t—I don’t,” she answered, passionately; “but respect for myself demands it. People are already talking about my living here with you; and now poor Marian is dead and you are a widower, it will be tenfold worse. I wish they would let us alone, for I have been so happy here and am so much attached to Alice. It will almost break my heart to leave her!”