“I hope, then, they will reward you well,” continued the physician. “The young man would have died but for you. It is remarkable what control you have over him.”
But Marian wished for no reward. It was sufficient for her to know that she had been instrumental in saving his life, even though she had saved it for Isabel. The physician said that Frederic was better, and that afternoon, seated in the large arm-chair, she fell into a refreshing sleep, from which she was finally aroused by Mrs. Burt, who bending over her, whispered in her ear:
“Wake up. She’s come—she’s here—Miss Huntington!”
There was magic in that name, and it roused the sleeping girl at once, sending a quiver of pain through her heart, for her post she knew was to be given to another. Not both of them could watch by Frederic, and she, who in all the world had the best right to stay, must go; but not until she had looked upon her rival and had seen once the face which Frederic called so beautiful. This done, she would go away and die, if it were possible, and stand no longer between Frederic and the bride he so much desired. She did not understand why he had so often spoken of herself as being dead, when he knew that she was not. It was a vagary of his brain, she said—he had had many since she came there, and she hoped he would sometimes talk of her to Isabel, just as he had talked of Isabel to her. There was a hurried consultation between herself and Mrs. Burt, with regard to their future proceedings, and it was finally decided that the latter should remain a few days longer, and so report the progress of affairs to Marian, who, of course, must go away. This arrangement being made they sat down and rather impatiently waited for the coming of Isabel, who was in her room resting after her tiresome journey.
“Oh how can she wait so long?” thought Marian, glancing at Frederic, who was sleeping now more quietly than he had done before for a long time.
She did not know Isabel Huntington, and she could not begin to guess how thoroughly selfish she was, nor how that selfishness was manifest in every movement. The letter, which at last had gone to Frankfort, was received the same day with the telegram, and as a natural consequence, threw the inmates of Redstone Hall into great excitement. Particularly was this the case with Isabel, who unmindful of everything, wrang her hands despairingly, crying out, “Oh! what shall I do if he dies?”
“Do!” repeated Dinah, forgetting her own grief in her disgust. “For the Lord’s sake, can’t you do what you allus did? Go back whar you come from, you and your mother, in course.”
Isabel deigned no reply to this remark, but hurried to her chamber, where she commenced the packing of her trunk.
“Wouldn’t it look better for me to go?” suggested Mrs. Huntington, and Isabel answered:
“Certainly not, the telegram was directed to me. No one knows me in New York, and I don’t care what folks say here. If he lives I shall be his wife, of course, else why should he send for me. It’s perfectly natural that I should go.” And thinking to herself that she would rather Frederic should die than to live for another, she completed her hasty preparations, and was on her way to the depot before the household had time to realize what they were doing.