“No!” he answered mournfully. “The dead never come back, and it must not be, either. Isabel is coming then, and the two can’t meet together here, for—. Come nearer, woman, while I tell you I loved Isabel the best, and that’s what made the trouble. She is beautiful, but Marian was good—and do you know Marian was the Heiress of Redstone Hall; but I’m not going to use her money.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Burt, trying to quiet him, but in vain.
He would talk—sometimes of Marian, and sometimes of Sarah Green, and the dreary room where he had been.
“It made Marian tired,” he said, “to climb those broken stairs—tired, just as he was now. But she was resting so quietly in Heaven, and the April sun was shining on her grave. It was a little grave—a child’s grave, as it were—for Marian was not so tall nor so old as Isabel.”
In this way he rambled on, and it was not until the morning dawned that he fell into a heavy sleep, and Mrs. Burt had leisure to reflect upon the novel position in which she found herself.
“It was foolish in me to give up to them children,” she said, “but now that I am here, I’ll make the best of it, and do as well as I can. Marian shan’t come, though! It would kill her dead to hear him going on.”
Mrs. Burt was a little rash in making this assertion, for even while she spoke, Marian was in the reception-room below, inquiring for the woman who took care of Mr. Raymond. Not once during the long night had her eye-lids closed in sleep, and with the early morning she had started for the hotel, leaving Ben to get his breakfast as he could.
“Say Marian Grey wishes to see her,” she said, in answer to the inquiry as to what name the servant was to take to No. ——.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Burt; “why didn’t Ben keep her at home?” and, gliding down the stairs, she tried to persuade Marian to return.
But when she saw the firm, determined expression in the young girl’s eye, she knew it was useless to reason with her, and saying, rather pettishly, “You must expect to hear some cuttin’ things,” she bade her follow up the stairs. Frederic still lay sleeping, his face turned partly to one side, and his hand resting beneath his head. His rich brown hair, now damp with heavy moisture, was pushed back from his white forehead, which, gleaming through the dusky darkness, first showed to Marian where he lay. The gas-light hurt his eyes, and the lamp, which was kept continually burning, was so placed that its dim light did not fall on him, and a near approach was necessary to tell her just how he looked. He was fearfully changed, and, with a bitter moan, she laid her head beside him on the pillow, so that her short curls mingled with his darker locks, and she felt his hot breath on her cheek.