In passing the house of Lawyer Gibson she could not forbear stopping a moment to communicate the sad news to her particular friend, who, while condoling with her, thought to herself, “He does care more for her than I supposed, or he would not have not sent for her.”
“When will you come back?” she asked, and Isabel replied, “Not until he is better or worse. Oh, Agnes; what if he should die. Imagine Mr. Rivers at the point of death and you will know just how I feel.”
“Certainly, very, indeed,” was the meaningless answer of Agnes, who, as the day of her bridal drew near, began to fancy that she might be easily consoled in case anything should come between herself and the white haired Floridan. “Perhaps you will be married before you return,” she suggested, and Isabel, who had thought of the same possibility, replied, “Don’t, pray, speak of such a thing—it seems terrible when Frederic is so sick.”
“You won’t cotch the cars if you ain’t keerful,” chimed in Uncle Phil, and kissing each other a most affectionate good-by, the young ladies parted, Agnes thinking to herself, “I reckon I wouldn’t go off to New York after a man who hadn’t really proposed—but then it’s just like her,” while Isabel’s mental comment was, “It’s time Agnes was married, for she’s really beginning to look old; I wouldn’t have my grandfather though!”
So much for girlish friendships!
Distressed and anxious as Isabel seemed, it was no part of her intention to travel nights, for that would give her a sallow, jaded look; so she made the journey leisurely, and even after her arrival, took time to rest and beautify ere presenting herself to Frederic. She had ascertained that he was better, and had the best of care, so she remained quietly in her chamber an hour or so, and it was not until after dark that she bade the servant show her the way to the sick room.
“I will tell them you are coming,” suggested the polite attendant, and, going on before her, he said to Mrs. Burt that “Miss Huntington would like to come in.”
In the farthest corner in the room, where the shadows were the deepest, and where she would be the least observed, sat Marian, her hands clasped tightly together, her head bent forward, and her eyes fixed intently upon the door through which her rival would enter. Frederic was awake, and, missing her from her post, was about asking for her, when Isabel appeared, looking so fresh, so glowing, so beautiful, that for an instant Marian forgot everything in her admiration of the queenly creature, who, bowing civilly to Mrs. Burt, glided to the bedside, and sank upon her knees, gracefully—very gracefully—just as she had done at a private rehearsal in her own room! Tighter the little hands were clasped together, and the head which had dropped before was erect now, as Marian watched eagerly for what would follow next.
“Dear Frederic,” said Isabel, and over the white face in the arm-chair the hot blood rushed in torrents for it seemed almost an insult to hear him thus addressed—“Dear Frederic, do you know me? I am Isabel;” and, unmindful of Mrs. Burt, or yet of the motionless figure sitting near, she kissed his burning forehead, and said again; “Do you know me?”
The nails were marking dark rings now in the tender flesh, while the blue eyes flashed until they grew almost as black as Isabel’s, and still Marian did not move. She could not, until she heard what answer would be given. As the physician had predicted, Frederic was better since his refreshing sleep, and through the misty vail enshrouding his reason a glimmer of light was shining. The voice was a familiar one, and though it partly bewildered him, he know who it was that bent so fondly over him. It was somebody from home, and with a thrill of pleasure akin to what one feels when meeting a fellow countryman far away on a foreign shore, he twined his arms around her neck, and said to her joyfully: “You are Isabel, and you’ve come to make me well.”