And Marian, guarding her happy secret, entered the cottage to make preparations for keeping her appointment with Thurston.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, at Luckenough, Dr. Grimshaw kept his room until late in the afternoon. Then, descending the stairs, and meeting the maid Maria, who almost shrieked aloud at the ghastly face that confronted her, he asked:
"Where is Mrs. Grimshaw?"
"Lord, sir!" cried the girl, half paralyzed by the sound of his sepulchral voice, "she's done gone home 'long o' Miss Marian."
"When will she be back, do you know?"
"Lord, sir!" cried Maria, shuddering, "I heerd her tell old Mis', how she didn't think she'd be back to-night."
"Ah!" said the unhappy man, in a hollow tone, that seemed to come from a tomb, as he passed down.
And Maria, glad to escape him, fled up-stairs, and never paused until she had found refuge in Mrs. L'Oiseau's room.
One hour after that, Professor Grimshaw, closely enveloped in an ample cloak, left Luckenough, and took the road to the beach.
The heavens were growing very dark; the wind was rising and driving black clouds athwart the sky; the atmosphere was becoming piercingly cold; the snow, that during the middle of the day had thawed, was freezing hard. Yet Marian hurried fearlessly and gayly on over the rugged and slippery stubble fields that lay between the cottage and the beach. A rapid walk of fifteen minutes brought her down to the water's edge. But it was now quite dark. Nothing could be more deserted, lonely and desolate than the aspect of this place. From her feet the black waters spread outward, till their utmost boundaries were lost among the blacker vapors of the distant horizon. Afar off a sail, dimly seen or guessed at, glided ghost-like through the shadows. Landward, the boundaries of field and forest, hill and vale, were all blended, fused, in murky obscurity. Heavenward, the lowering sky was darkened by wild, scudding, black clouds, driven by the wind, through which the young moon seemed plunging and hiding as in terror. The tide was coming in, and the waves surged heavily with a deep moan upon the beach. Not a sound was heard except the dull, monotonous moan of the sea, and the fitful, hollow wail of the wind. The character of the scene was in the last degree wild, dreary, gloomy and fearful. Not so, however, it seemed to Marian, who, filled with happy, generous and tumultuous thoughts, was scarcely conscious of the gathering darkness and the lowering storm, as she walked up and down upon the beach, listening and waiting. She wondered that Thurston had not been there ready to receive her; but this thought gave her little uneasiness; it was nearly lost, as the storm and darkness also were, in the brightness and gladness of her own loving, generous emotions. There was no room in her heart for doubt or trouble. If the thought of the morning's conversation and of Angelica entered her mind, it was only to be soon dismissed with fair construction and cheerful hope. And then she pictured to herself the surprise, the pleasure of Thurston, when he should hear of the accession of fortune which should set them both free to pursue their inclinations and plans for their own happiness and for the benefit of others. And she sought in her bosom if the letters were safe. Yes; there they were; she felt them. Her happiness had seemed a dream without that proof of its reality. For once she gave way to imagination, and allowed that magician to build castles in the air at will. Thurston and herself must go to England immediately to take possession of the estate; that was certain. Then they must return. But ere that she would confide to him her darling project; one that she had never breathed to any, because to have done so would have been vain; one that she had longingly dreamed of, but never, as now, hoped to realize. And Edith—she would make Edith so comfortable! Edith should be again surrounded with the elegancies and refinements of life. And Miriam—Miriam should have every advantage of education that wealth could possibly secure for her, either in this country or in Europe. If Edith would spare Miriam, the little girl should go with her to England. But Thurston—above all, Thurston! A heavy drop of rain struck Marian in the face, and, for an instant, woke her from her blissful reverie.
She looked up. Why did not Thurston come? The storm would soon burst forth upon the earth; where was Thurston? Were he by her side there would be nothing formidable in the storm, for he would shelter her with his cloak and umbrella, as they should scud along over the fields to the cottage, and reach the fireside before the rain could overtake them. Where was he? What could detain him at such a time? She peered through the darkness up and down the beach. To her accustomed eye, the features of the landscape were dimly visible. That black form looming like a shadowy giant before her was the headland of Pine Bluff, with its base washed by the sullen waves. It was the only object that broke the dark, dull monotony of the shore. She listened; the moan of the sea, the wail of the wind, were blended in mournful chorus. It was the only sound that broke the dreary silence of the hour.
Hark! No; there was another sound. Amid the moaning and the wailing of winds and waves, and the groaning of the coming storm, was heard the regular fall of oars, soon followed by the slow, grating sound of a boat pushed up upon the frozen strand. Marian paused and strained her eyes through the darkness in the direction of the sound, but could see nothing save the deeper, denser darkness around Pine Bluff. She turned, and, under cover of the darkness, moved swiftly and silently from the locality. The storm was coming on very fast. The rain was falling and the wind rising and driving it into her face. She pulled her hood closely about her face, and wrapped her shawl tightly about her as she met the blast.
Oh! where was Thurston, and why did he not come? She blamed herself for having ventured out; yet could she have foreseen this? No; for she had confidently trusted in his keeping his appointment. She had never known him to fail before. What could have caused the failure now? Had he kept his tryste they would now have been safely housed at Old Field Cottage. Perhaps Thurston, seeing the clouds, had taken for granted that she would not come, and he had therefore stayed away. Yet, no; she could not for an instant entertain that thought. Well she knew that had a storm risen, and raged as never a storm did before, Thurston, upon the bare possibility of her presence there, would keep his appointment. No; something beyond his control had delayed him. And, unless he should now very soon appear, something very serious had happened to him. The storm was increasing in violence; her shawl was already wet, and she resolved to hurry home.
She had just turned to go when the sound of a man's heavy, measured footsteps, approaching from the opposite direction, fell upon her ear. She looked up half in dread, and strained her eyes out into the blackness of the night. It was too dark to see anything but the outline of a man's figure wrapped in a large cloak, coming slowly on toward her. As the man drew near she recognized the well-known figure, air and gait; she had of the identity. She hastened to meet him, exclaiming in a low, eager tone:
"Thurston! dear Thurston!"
The man paused, folded his cloak about him, drew up, and stood perfectly still.
Why did he not answer her? Why did he not speak to her? Why did he stand so motionless, and look so strange? She could not have seen the expression of his countenance, even if a flap of his cloak had not been folded across his face; but his whole form shook as with an ague fit.
"Thurston! dear Thurston!" she exclaimed once more, under her breath, as she pressed toward him.
But he suddenly stretched out his hand to repulse her, gasping, as it were, breathlessly, "Not yet—not yet!" and again his whole frame shook with an inward storm. What could be the reason of his strange behavior? Oh, some misfortune had happened to him—that was evident! Would it were only of a nature that her own good news might be able to cure. And it might be so. Full of this thought, she was again pressing toward him, when a violent flurry of rain and wind whistled before her and drove into her face, concealing him from her view. When the sudden gust as suddenly passed, she saw that he remained in the same spot, his breast heaving, his whole form shaking. She could bear it no longer. She started forward and put her arms around his neck, and dropped her head upon his bosom, and whispered in suppressed tones:
"Dearest Thurston, what is the matter? Tell me, for I love you more than life!"
The man clasped his left arm fiercely around her waist, lifted his right hand, and, hissing sharply through his clenched teeth:
"You have drawn on your own doom—die, wretched girl!" plunged a dagger in her bosom, and pushed her from him.
One sudden, piercing shriek, and she dropped at his feet, grasping at the ground, and writhing in agony. Her soul seemed striving to recover the shock, and recollect its faculties. She half arose upon her elbow, supported her head upon her hand, and with her other hand drew the steel out from her bosom, and laid it down. The blood followed, and with the life-stream her strength flowed away. The hand that supported her head suddenly dropped, and she fell back. The man had been standing over her, speechless, motionless, breathless, like some wretched somnambulist, suddenly awakened in the commission of a crime, and gazing in horror, amazement, and unbelief upon the work of his sleep.
Suddenly he dropped upon his knees by her side, put his arm under her head and shoulders and raised her up; but her chin fell forward upon her bosom, and her eyes fixed and glazed. He laid her down gently, groaning in a tone of unspeakable anguish:
"Miss Mayfield! My God! what have I done?" And with an awful cry, between a shriek and a groan, the wretched man cast himself upon the ground by the side of the fallen body.
The storm was beating wildly upon the assassin and his victim; but the one felt it no more than the other. At length the sound of footsteps was heard approaching fast and near. In the very anguish of remorse the instinct of self-preservation seized the wretched man, and he started up and fled as from the face of the avenger of blood.
In the meantime Jacquelina had reached home sooner than she had expected. It was just dark, and the rain was beginning to fall as she sprang from the carriage and darted into the house.
Mrs. Waugh met her in the hall, took her hand, and said:
"Oh, my dear Lapwing! I'm so glad you have come back, bad as the weather is; for indeed the professor gives me a great deal of anxiety, and if you had stayed away to-night I could not have been answerable for the consequences. There, now; hurry up-stairs and change your dress, and come down to tea. It is all ready, and we have a pair of canvasback ducks roasted."
"Very well, aunty! But—is Grim in the house?"
"I don't know, my love. You hurry."
Jacquelina tripped up the stairs to her own room, which she found lighted, warmed, and attended by her maid, Maria. She took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them aside, and began to smooth her hair, dancing all the time, and quivering with suppressed laughter in anticipation of her "fun." When she had arranged her dress, she went down-stairs and passed into the dining-room, where the supper table was set.
"See if Nace Grimshaw is in his room, and if he is not, we will wait no longer!" said the hungry commodore, thumping his heavy stick down upon the floor.
Festus sprang to do his bidding, and after an absence of a few minutes returned with the information that the professor was not there.
Jacquelina shrugged her shoulders, and shook with inward laughter.
They all sat down, and amid the commodore's growls at Grim's irregular hours, and Jacquelina's shrugs and smiles and sidelong glances and ill-repressed laughter, the meal passed. And when it was over, the commodore, leaning on Mrs. Waugh's arm, went to his own particular sofa in the back parlor; Mrs. L'Oiseau remained, to superintend the clearing away of the supper-table; and Jacquelina danced on to the front parlor, where she found no one but the maid, who was mending the fire.
"Say! did you see anything of the professor while I was gone?" she inquired.
"Lors, honey, I wish I hadn't! I knows how de thought of it will give me 'liriums nex' time I has a fever."
"Why? What did he do? When was it?"
"Why, chile, jes afore sundown, as I was a carryin' an armful of wood up-stairs, for Miss Mary's room, I meets de 'fessor a comin' down. I like to 'a' screamed! I like to 'a' let de wood drap! I like to 'a' drapped right down myself! It made my heart beat in de back o' my head—he look so awful, horrid gashly! Arter speakin' in a voice hollow as an empty coffin, an' skeerin' me out'n my seventeen sensibles axin arter you, he jes tuk hisself off summers, an' I ain't seen him sence."
"What did he ask you? What did you tell him?"
"He jes ax where you was. I telled him how you were gone home 'long o' Miss Marian; he ax when you were comin' back; I telled him I believed not till to-morrow mornin'; then his face turned all sorts of awful dark colors, an' seemed like it crushed right in, an' he nodded and said 'Ah!' but it sounded jes like a hollow groan; and he tuk hisself off, and I ain't seen him sence."
The elf danced about the room, unable to restrain her glee. And the longer Dr. Grimshaw remained away, the more excited she grew. She skipped about like the very sprite of mischief, exclaiming to herself:
"Oh, shan't we have fun presently! Oh, shan't we, though! The Grim maniac! he has gone to detect me! And he'll break in upon Thurston and Marian's interview. Won't there be an explosion! Oh, Jupiter! Oh, Puck! Oh, Mercury! What fun—what delicious fun! Wr-r-r-r! I can scarcely contain myself! Begone, Maria! Vanish! I want all the space in this room to myself! Oh, fun alive! What a row there'll be! Me-thinks I hear the din of battle!
"Oh clanga a rang! a rang! clang! clash! Whoop!"
sang the elf, springing and dancing, and spinning, and whirling, around and around the room in the very ecstasy of mischief. Her dance was brought to a sudden and an awful close.
The hall door was thrown violently open, hurried and irregular steps were heard approaching, the parlor door was pushed open, and Dr. Grimshaw staggered forward and paused before her!
Yes; her frolic was brought to an eternal end. She saw at a glance that something fatal, irreparable, had happened. There was blood upon his hands and wrist-bands! Oh, more—far more! There was the unmistakable mark of Cain upon his writhen brow! Before now she had seen him look pale and wild and haggard, and had known neither fear nor pity for him. But now! An exhumed corpse galvanized into a horrid semblance of life might look as he did—with just such sunken cheeks and ashen lips and frozen eyes; with just such a collapsed and shuddering form; yet, withal, could not have shown that terrific look of utter, incurable despair! His fingers, talon-like in their horny paleness and rigidity, clutched his breast, as if to tear some mortal anguish thence, and his glassy eyes were fixed in unutterable reproach upon her face! Thrice he essayed to speak, but a gurgling noise in his throat was the only result. With a last great effort to articulate, the blood suddenly filled his throat and gushed from his mouth! For a moment he sought to stay the hemorrhage by pressing a handkerchief to his lips; but soon his hand dropped powerless to his side; he reeled and fell upon the floor!
Jacquelina gazed in horror on her work.
And then her screams of terror filled the house!
The family came rushing in. Foremost entered the commodore, shaking his stick in a towering passion, and exclaiming at the top of his voice:
"What the devil is all this? What's broke loose now? What are you raising all this row for, you infernal little hurricane?"
"Oh, uncle! aunty! mother! look—look!" exclaimed Jacquelina, wringing her pale fingers, and pointing to the fallen man.
The sight arrested all eyes.
The miserable man lay over on his side, ghastly pale, and breathing laboriously, every breath pumping out the life-blood, that had made a little pool beside his face.
Mrs. Waugh and Mary L'Oiseau hastened to stoop and raise the sufferer.
The commodore drew near, half stupefied, as he always was in a crisis.
"What—what—what's all this? Who did it? How did it happen?" he asked, with a look of dull amazement.
"Give me a sofa cushion, Maria, to place under his head. Mary L'Oiseau, hurry as fast as you can, and send a boy for Dr. Brightwell; tell him to take the swiftest horse in the stable, and ride for life and death, and bring the physician instantly, for Dr. Grimshaw is dying! Hurry!"
"Dying? Eh! what did you say, Henrietta?" inquired the commodore, in a sort of stupid, blind anxiety; for he was unable to comprehend what had happened.
"Speak to me, Henrietta! What is the matter? What ails Grim?"
"He has ruptured an artery," said Mrs. Waugh, gravely, as she laid the sufferer gently back upon the carpet and placed the sofa pillow under his head.
"Ruptured an artery? How did it happen? Grim! Nace! speak to me! How do you feel? Oh, Heaven! he doesn't speak—he doesn't hear me! Oh, Henrietta! he is very ill—he is very ill! He must be put to bed at once, and the doctor sent for! Come here, Maria! Help me to lift your young master," said the old man, waking up to anxiety.
"Stay! The doctor has been sent for; but he must not be moved; it would be fatal to him. Indeed, I fear that he is beyond human help," said Henrietta, as she wiped the gushing stream from the lips of the dying man.
"Beyond human help! Eh! what? Nace! No! no! no! no! It can't be!" said the old man, kneeling down, and bending over him in helpless trouble.
"Attend Dr. Grimshaw, while I hurry out and see what can be done, Mary," said Mrs. Waugh, resigning her charge, and then hastening from the room. She soon returned, bringing with her such remedies as her limited knowledge suggested. And she and Mary L'Oiseau applied them; but in vain! Every effort for his relief seemed but to hasten his death. The hemorrhage was subsiding; so also was his breath. "It is too late; he is dying!" said Henrietta, solemnly.
"Dying! No, no, Nace! Nace! speak to me! Nace! you're not dying! I've lost more blood than that in my time! Nace! Nace! speak to your old—speak, Nace!" cried the commodore, stooping down and raising the sufferer in his arms, and gazing, half wildly, half stupidly, at the congealing face.
He continued thus for some moments, until Mrs. Waugh, putting her hand upon his shoulder, said gravely and kindly:
"Lay him down, Commodore Waugh; he is gone."
"Gone! gone!" echoed the old man, in his imbecile distraction, and dropped his gray head upon the corpse, and groaned aloud.
Mrs. Waugh came and laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder. He looked up in such hopeless, helpless trouble, and cried out:
"Oh, Henrietta! he was my son—my only, only son! My poor, unowned boy!
Oh, Henrietta! is he dead? Are you sure? Is he quite gone?"
"He is gone, Commodore Waugh; lay him down; come away to your room," said Henrietta, gently taking his hand.
Jacquelina, white with horror, was kneeling with clasped hands and dilated eyes, gazing at the ruin. The old man's glance fell upon her there, and his passion changed from grief to fury. Fiercely he broke forth:
"It was you! You are the murderess—you! Heaven's vengeance light upon you!"
"Oh, I never meant it! I never meant it! I am very wretched! I wish I'd never been born!" cried Jacquelina, wringing her pale fingers.
"Out of my sight, you curse! Out of my sight—and may Heaven's wrath pursue you!" thundered the commodore, shaking with grief and rage.
In the meanwhile, where was he whose headlong passions had precipitated this catastrophe? where was Thurston? After having parted with his confederate, he hurried home, for a very busy day lay before him. To account for his sudden departure, and long absence, and to cover his retreat, it was necessary to have some excuse, such as a peremptory summons to Baltimore upon the most important business. Once in that city, he would have leisure to find some further apology for proceeding directly to France without first returning home. Now, strange as it may appear, though his purposed treachery to Marian wrung his bosom with remorse whenever he paused to think of it, yet it was the remorse without humiliation; for he persuaded himself that stratagem was fair in love as in war, especially in his case with Marian, who had already given him her hand; but now the unforseen necessity of these subterfuges made his cheek burn. He hastened to Dell-Delight, and showing the old man a letter he had that morning received from the city, informed him that he was obliged to depart immediately, upon affairs of the most urgent moment to him, and then, to escape the sharp stings of self-scorn, he busied himself with arranging his papers, packing his trunks and ordering his servants. His baggage was packed into and behind the old family carriage, and having completed his preparations about one o'clock, he entered it, and was driven rapidly to the village.
The schooner was already at the wharf and waiting for him. Thurston met many of his friends in the village, and in an off-hand manner explained to them the ostensible cause of his journey. And thus, in open daylight, gayly chatting with his friends, Thurston superintended the embarkation of his baggage. And it was not until one by one they had shaken hands with him, wished him a good voyage and departed, that Thurston found himself alone with the captain in the cabin.
"Now you know, Miles, that I have not come on board to remain. When the coast is clear I shall go on shore, get in the carriage, and return to Dell-Delight. I must meet my wife on the beach. I must remain with her through all. I must take her on board. You will be off Pine Bluff just at dusk, captain?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"You will not be a moment behind hand?"
"Trust me for that, Cap'n."
"See if the people have left."
The skipper went on deck and returned to report the coast clear.
Thurston then went on shore, entered the carriage, and was driven homeward.
It was nearly four o'clock when he reached Dell-Delight, and there he found the whole premises in a state of confusion. Several negroes were on the lookout for him; and as soon as they saw him ran to the house.
"What is the meaning of all this?" he inquired, detaining one of the hindmost.
"Oh, Marse Thuster, sir! oh, sir!" exclaimed the boy, rolling his eyes quite wildly.
"What is the matter with the fool?"
"Oh, sir; my poor ole marse! my poor ole marse!"
"What has happened to your master? Can't you be plain, sir?"
"Oh, Marse Thuster, sir! he done fell down inter a fit, an had to be toted off to bed."
"A fit! good heavens! has a doctor been summoned?" exclaimed Thurston, springing from his seat.
"Oh, yes, sir! Jase be done gone arter de doctor."
Thurston stopped to inquire no farther, but ran into the house and up into his grandfather's chamber.
There a distressing scene met his eyes. The old man, with his limbs distorted, and his face swollen and discolored, lay in a state of insensibility upon the bed. Two or three negro women were gathered around him, variously occupied with rubbing his hands, chafing his temples and wiping the oozing foam from his lips. At the foot of the bed stood poor daft Fanny, with disheveled hair and dilated eyes, chanting a grotesque monologue, and keeping time with a see-saw motion from side to side. The first thing Thurston did, was to take the hand of this poor crazed, but docile creature, and lead her from the sick-room up into her own. He bade her remain there, and then returned to his grandfather's bedside. In reply to his anxious questioning, he was informed that the old man had fallen into a fit about an hour before—that a boy had been instantly sent for the doctor, and the patient carried to bed; but that he had not spoken since they laid him there. It would yet be an hour before the doctor could possibly arrive, and the state of the patient demanded instant attention.
And withal Thurston was growing very anxious upon Marian's account. The sun was now sinking under a dark bank of clouds. The hour of his appointed meeting with her was approaching. He felt, of course, that his scheme must for the present be deferred—even if its accomplishment should again seem necessary, which was scarcely possible. But Marian would expect him. And how should he prevent her coming to the beach and waiting for him there? He did not know where a message would most likely now to find her, whether at Luckenough, at Old Fields or at Colonel Thornton's. But he momentarily expected the arrival of Dr. Brightwell, and he resolved to leave that good man in attendance at the sick bed, while he himself should escape for a few hours; and hurry to the beach to meet and have an explanation with his wife.
But an hour passed, and the doctor did not come.
Thurston's eyes wandered anxiously from the distorted face of the dying man before him, to the window that commanded the approach to the house. But no sign of the doctor was to be seen.
The sun was on the very edge of the horizon. The sufferer before him was evidently approaching his end. Marian he knew must be on her way to the beach. And a dreadful storm was rising.
His anxiety reached fever heat.
He could not leave the bedside of his dying relative, yet Marian must not be permitted to wait upon the beach, exposed to the fierceness of the storm, or worse the rudeness of his own confederates.
He took a sudden resolution, and wondered that he had not done so before. He resolved to summon Marian as his wife to his home.
Full of this thought, he hastened down stairs and ordered Melchizedek to put the horse to the gig and get ready to go an errand. And while the boy was obeying his directions, Thurston penned the following lines to Marian:
"My dear Marian—my dear, generous, long-suffering wife—come to my aid. My grandfather has been suddenly stricken down with apoplexy, and is dying. The physician has not yet arrived, and I cannot leave his bedside. Return with my messenger, to assist me in taking care of the dying man. You, who are the angel of the sick and suffering, will not refuse me your aid. Come, never to leave me more! Our marriage shall be acknowledged to-morrow, to-night, any time, that you in your nicer judgment, shall approve. Come! let nothing hinder you. I will send a message to Edith to set her anxiety at rest, or I will send for her to be with you here. Come to me, beloved Marian. Dictate your own conditions if you will—only come."
He had scarcely sealed this note, when the boy, hat in hand, appeared at the door.
"Take this note, sir, jump in the gig and drive as fast as possible to the beach below Pine Bluffs. You will see Miss Mayfield waiting there, give her this note, and then—await her orders. Be quicker than you ever were before," said Thurston, hurrying his messenger off.
Then, much relieved of anxiety upon Marian's account, he returned to the sick-room and renewed his endeavors to relieve the patient.
Ah! he was far past relief now; he was stricken with death. And with Thurston all thoughts, all feelings, all interests, even those connected with Marian, were soon lost in that awful presence. It was the first time he had ever looked upon death, and now, in the rushing tide of his sinful passions and impetuous will, he was brought face to face with this last, dread, all-conquering power! What if it were not in his own person? What if it were in the person of an old man, very infirm, and over-ripe for the great reaper? It was death—the final earthly end of every living creature—death, the demolition of the human form, the breaking up of the vital functions, the dissolution between soul and body, the one great event that "happeneth to all;" the doom certain, the hour uncertain; coming in infancy, youth, maturity, as often or oftener than in age. These were the thoughts that filled Thurston's mind as he stood and wiped the clammy dews from the brow of the dying man.
Thurston might have remained much longer, too deeply and painfully absorbed in thought to notice the darkening of the night or the beating of the storm, had not a gust of the rain and wind, of unusual violence, shaken the windows.
This recalled Marian to his mind; it was nearly time for her to arrive; he hoped that she was near the house; that she would soon be there; he arose and went to the window to look forth into the night; but the deep darkness prevented his seeing, as the noise of the storm prevented his hearing the approach of any vehicle that might be near. He went back to the bedside; the old man was breathing his life away without a struggle. Thurston called the mulatto housekeeper to take his place, and then went down stairs and out of the hall door, and gazed and listened for the coming of the gig, in vain. He was just about to re-enter the hall and close the door when the sound of wheels, dashing violently, helter-skelter, and with break-neck speed into the yard, arrested his attention.
"Marian! it is my dear Marian at last; but the fellow need not risk her life to save her from the storm by driving at that rate. My own Marian!" he exclaimed, as he hurried out, expecting to meet her.
Melchizedek alone sprang from the gig, and sank trembling and quaking at his master's feet.
Thurston blindly pushed past him, and peered and felt in the gig. It was empty.
"Where is the lady, sirrah? What ails you? Why don't you answer me?" exclaimed Thurston, anxiously returning to the spot where the boy crouched. But the latter remained speechless, trembling, groaning, and wringing his hands. "Will you speak, idiot? I ask you where is the lady? Was she not upon the beach? What has frightened you so? Did the horse run away?" inquired Thurston, hurriedly, in great alarm.
"Oh, sir, marster! I 'spects she's killed!"
"Killed! Oh, my God! she has been thrown from the gig!" cried the young man, in a piercing voice, as he reeled under this blow. In another instant he sprang upon the poor boy and shaking him furiously, cried in a voice of mingled grief, rage and anxiety: "Where was she thrown? Where is she? How did it happen? Oh! villain! villain! you shall pay for this with your life! Come and show me the spot! instantly! instantly!"
"Oh, marster, have mercy, sir! 'Twasn't along o' me an' the gig it happened of! She wur 'parted when I got there!"
"Where? Where? Good heavens, where?" asked Thurston, nearly beside himself.
"On de beach, sir. Jes' as I got down there, I jumped out'n de gig, and walked along, and then I couldn't see my way, an' I turned de bull-eye ob de lantern on de sand afore me, an' oh, marse—"
"Go, on! go on!"
"I seen de lady lying like dead, and a man jump up and run away, and when I went nigh, I seen her all welkering in her blood, an' dis yer lying by her," and the boy handed a small poignard to his master.
It was Thurston's own weapon, that he had lost some months previous in the woods of Luckenough. It was a costly and curious specimen of French taste and ingenuity. The handle was of pearl, carved in imitation of the sword-fish, and the blade corresponded to the long pointed beak that gives the fish that name.
Thurston scarcely noticed that it was his dagger, but pushing the boy aside, he ran to the stables, saddled a horse with the swiftness of thought, threw himself into his stirrups, and galloped furiously away towards the beach.
The rain was now falling in torrents, and the wind driving it in fierce gusts against his face. The tempest was at its very height, and it seemed at times impossible to breast the blast—it seemed as though steed and rider must be overthrown! Yet he lashed and spurred his horse, and struggled desperately on, thinking with fierce anguish of Marian, his Marian, lying wounded, helpless, alone and dying, exposed to all the fury of the winds and waves upon that tempestuous coast, and dreading with horror, lest before he should be able to reach her, her helpless form, still living, might be washed off by the advancing waves. Thus he spurred and lashed his horse, and drove him against rain and wind, and through the darkness of the night.
With all his desperate haste, it was two hours before he approached the beach. And as he drew near the heavy cannonading of the waves upon the shore admonished him that the tide was at its highest point. He pressed rapidly onward, threw himself from his horse, and ran forward to the edge of the bank above the beach. It was only to meet the confirmation of his worst fears! The waters were thundering against the bank upon which he stood. The tide had come in and overswept the whole beach, and now, lashed and driven by the wind, the waves tossed and raved and roared with appalling fury.
Marian was gone, lost, swept away by the waves! that was the thought that wrung from him a cry of fierce agony, piercing through all the discord of the storm, as he ran up and down the shore, hoping nothing, expecting nothing, yet totally unable to tear himself from the fatal spot.
And so he wildly walked and raved, until his garments were drenched through with the rain; until the storm exhausted its fury and subsided; until the changing atmosphere, the still, severe cold, froze all his clothing stiff around him; so he walked, groaning and crying and calling despairingly upon the name of Marian, until the night waned and the morning dawned, and the eastern horizon grew golden, then crimson, then fiery with the coming sun.
The sky was clear, the waters calm, the sands bare and glistening in the early sunbeams; no vestige of the storm or of the bloody outrage of the night remained—all was peace and beauty. In the distance was a single snow-white sail, floating swan-like on the bosom of the blue waters. All around was beauty and peace, yet from the young man's tortured bosom peace had fled, and remorse, vulture-like, had struck its talons deep into his heart. He called himself a murderer, the destroyer of Marian; he said it was his selfishness, his willfulness, his treachery, that had exposed her to this danger, and brought her to this fate! Some outlaw, some waterman, or fugitive negro had robbed and murdered her. Marian usually wore a very valuable watch; probably, also, she had money about her person—enough to have tempted the cupidity of some lawless wretch. He shrank in horror from pursuing conjecture—it was worse than torture, worse than madness to him. Oh, blindness and frenzy; why had he not thought of these dangers so likely to beset her solitary path? Why had he so recklessly exposed her to them? Vain questions, alas! vain as was his self-reproach, his anguish and despair!
In the meantime, how had the morning broken upon Dell-Delight? How upon
Luckenough? and how at Old Field Cottage?
At Dell-Delight the old man had expired just before the sun arose. The two physicians that had been summoned the night previous, but had been delayed by the storm, arrived in the morning only to see the patient die. Many inquiries were made and much conjecture formed as to the cause of Thurston Willcoxen's improper and unaccountable absence at such a juncture. But Melchizedek, poor, faithful fellow, having followed his master's steps, did not appear, and no one else upon the premises could give any explanation relative to the movements of their young master. He had left the bedside of his dying relative at nine o'clock the night before, and he had not since returned—his saddle-horse was gone from the stable—that was all that could be ascertained. Dr. Brightwell took his departure, to answer other pressing calls. But Dr. Weismann, seeing that there was no responsible person in charge, and having elsewhere no urgent demands upon his time and attention, kindly volunteered to stay and superintend affairs at Dell-Delight, until the reappearance of the young master.
* * * * *
At Old Field Cottage, Edith had sat up late the night before waiting for Marian; but, seeing that she did not return, had taken it for granted that she had remained all night with Miss Thornton, and so, without the least uneasiness at her prolonged absence, had retired to rest. And in the morning she arose with the same impression on her mind, gayly looking forward to Marian's return with the visitor, and the certain happy revelation she had promised.
She had breakfast over early, made the room very tidy, dressed Miriam in her holiday clothes, put on her own Sunday gown, and sat down to wait for Marian and the visitor. The morning passed slowly, in momentary expectation of an arrival.
It was near eleven o'clock when she looked up and saw Colonel Thornton's carriage approaching the cottage.
"There! I said so! I knew Marian had remained with Miss Thornton, and that they would bring her home this morning. I suppose Colonel Thornton and his sister are both with her! And now for the revelation! I wonder what it is," said Edith, smiling to herself, as she arose and stroked down her dress, and smoothed her ringlets, preparatory to meeting her guests.
By this time the carriage had drawn up before the cottage gate. Edith went out just in time to see the door opened, and Miss Thornton alight. The lady was alone—that Edith saw at the first glance.
"What can be the meaning of this?" she asked herself, as she went forward to welcome her visitor.
But Miss Thornton was very pale and tremulous, and she acted altogether strangely.
"How do you do, Miss Thornton? I am very glad to see you," said Edith, cordially offering her hand.
But the lady seized it, and drew her forcibly towards the door, saying in a husky voice:
"Come in—come in!"
Full of surprise, Edith followed her.
"Sit down," she continued, sinking into a chair, and pointing to a vacant one by her side.
Edith took the seat, and waited in wonder for her further speech.
"Where is Marian?" asked Miss Thornton, in an agitated voice.
"Where? Why, I believed her to be at your house!" answered Edith, in surprise and vague fear.
"Good heaven!" exclaimed the lady, growing very pale, and trembling in every limb. Edith started up in alarm.
"Miss Thornton, what do you mean? For mercy's sake, tell me, has anything happened?"
"I do not know—I am not sure—I trust not—tell me! when did you see her last? When did she leave home? this morning?"
"No! last evening, about sundown."
"And she has not returned? You have not seen her since?"
"No!"
"Did she tell you where she was going?"
"No!"
"Did she promise to come back? and when?"
"She promised to return before dark! She did not do so! I judged the storm had detained her, and that she was with you, and I felt easy."
"Oh, God!" cried the lady, in a voice of deep distress,
"Miss Thornton! for Heaven's sake! tell me what has occurred!"
"Oh, Edith!"
"In mercy, explain yourself—Marian! what of Marian?"
"Oh, God, sustain you, Edith! what can I say to you? my own heart is lacerated!"
"Marian! Marian! oh! what has happened to Marian! Oh! where is Marian?"
"I had hoped to find her here after all! else I had not found courage to come!"
"Miss Thornton, this is cruel—"
"Ah! poor Edith! what you required to be told is far more cruel. Oh,
Edith! pray Heaven for fortitude?"
"I have fortitude for anything but suspense. Oh, Heaven, Miss Thornton, relieve this suspense, or I shall suffocate!"
"Edith! Edith!" said the lady, going up and putting her arms around the
fragile form of the young widow, as to shield and support her. "Oh,
Edith! I heard a report this morning—and it may be but a report—I pray
Heaven, that it is no more—"
"Oh, go on! what was it?"
"That, that last evening on the beach during the storm, Marian
Mayfield—" Miss Thornton's voice choked.
"Oh, speak; for mercy speak! What of Marian?"
"That Marian Mayfield had been waylaid, and—"
"Murdered! Oh, God!" cried Edith, as her over-strained nerves relaxed, and she sank in the arms of Miss Thornton.
A child's wild, frenzied shriek resounded through the house. It was the voice of Miriam.
* * * * *
At Luckenough that morning, the remains of the unfortunate Dr. Grimshaw were laid out preparatory to burial. Jacquelina, in a bewildered stupor of remorse, wandered vaguely from room to room, seeking rest and finding none. "I have caused a fellow creature's death!" That was the envenomed thought that corroded her heart's centre. From her bosom, too, peace had fled. It was near noon when the news of Marian's fate reached Luckenough, and overwhelmed the family with consternation and grief.
But Jacquelina! the effect of the tragic tale on her was nearly fatal. She understood the catastrophe, as no one else could! She knew who struck the fatal blow, and when and why, and under what mistake it was struck! She felt that another crime, another death lay heavy on her soul! It was too much! oh! it was too much! No human heart nor brain could sustain the crushing burden, and the poor lost elf fell into convulsions that threatened soon to terminate in death. There was no raving, no talking; in all her frenzy, the fatal secret weighing on her bosom did not then transpire.
* * * * *
Before the day was out the whole county was in an uproar. Never had any event of the neighborhood created so high an excitement or so profound a sympathy. Great horror and amazement filled every bosom. A county meeting spontaneously convened, and handbills were printed, large rewards offered, and every means taken to secure the discovery of the criminal. In the deep, absorbing sympathy for Marian's fate, the sudden death of Professor Grimshaw, and the reasonably-to-be-expected demise of old Mr. Cloudesley Willcoxen, passed nearly unnoticed, and were soon forgotten. Among the most zealous in the pursuit of the unknown murderer was Thurston Willcoxen; but the ghastly pallor of his countenance, the wildness of his eyes, and the distraction of his manner, often varied by fits of deep and sullen despair, excited the surprise and conjecture of all who looked upon him.
Days passed and still no light was thrown upon the mystery. About a fortnight after the catastrophe, however, information was brought to the neighborhood that the corpse of a woman, answering to the description of Marian, had been washed ashore some miles down the coast, but had been interred by the fishermen, the day after its discovery. Many gentlemen hurried down to the spot, and further investigation confirmed the general opinion that the body was that of the martyred girl.
* * * * *
Three weeks after this, Edith lay upon her deathbed. Her delicate frame never recovered this last great shock. A few days before her death she called Miriam to her bedside. The child approached; she was sadly altered within the last few weeks; incessant weeping had dimmed her splendid eyes, and paled her brilliant cheeks.
"Sit down upon the bed by me, my daughter," said Edith.
The child climbed up and took the indicated seat. Something of that long-smothered fire, which had once braved the fury of the British soldiers, kindled in the dying woman's eyes.
"Miriam, you are nearly nine years old in time, and much older than that in thought and feeling. Miriam, your mother has not many days to live; but in dying, she leaves you a sacred trust to be fulfilled. My child, do you follow and understand me?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Do not weep; tears are vain and idle. There was an injured queen once whose tears were turned to sparks of fire. So I would have yours to turn! She came among us a young stranger girl, without fortune or position, or any of the usual stepping-stones to social consideration. Yet see what influence, what power she soon obtained, and what reforms and improvements she soon effected. The county is rich in the monuments of her young wisdom and angelic goodness. All are indebted to her; but none so deeply as you and I. All are bound to seek out and punish her destroyer; but none so strongly as you and I. Others have pursued the search for the murderer with great zeal for a while; we must make that search the one great object of our lives. Upon us devolve the right and the duty to avenge her death by bringing her destroyer to the scaffold. Miriam, do you hear—do you hear and understand me?"
"Yes, mamma; yes."
"Child, listen to me! I have a clue to Marian's murderer!"
Miriam started, and attended breathlessly.
"My love, it was no poor waterman or fugitive negro, tempted by want or cupidity. It was a gentleman, Miriam."
"A gentleman?"
"Yes; one that she must have become acquainted with during her visit to Washington three years ago. Oh, I remember her unaccountable distress in the months that followed that visit! His name, or his assumed name, was—attend, Miriam!—Thomas Truman."
"Thomas Truman!"
"Yes; and while you live, remember that name, until its owner hangs upon the gallows!"
Miriam shuddered, and hid her pale face in her hands.
"Here," said Edith, taking a small packet of letters from under her pillow. "Here, Miriam, is a portion of her correspondence with this man, Thomas Truman—I found it in the secret drawer of her bureau. There are several notes entreating her to give him a meeting, on the beach, at Mossy Dell, and at other points. From the tenor of these notes, I am led to believe that she refused these meetings; and, more than that, from the style of one in particular I am induced to suppose that she might have been privately married to that man. Why he should have enticed her to that spot to destroy her life, I do not know. But this, at least, I know: that our dearest Marian has been basely assassinated. I see reason to suppose the assassin to have been her lover, or her husband, and that his real or assumed name was Thomas Truman. These facts, and this little packet of notes and letters, are all that I have to offer as testimony. But by following a slight clue, we are sometimes led to great discoveries."
"Why didn't you show them to the gentlemen, dear mamma? They might have found out something by them."
"I showed them to Thurston Willcoxen, who has been so energetic in the pursuit of the unknown murderer; but Thurston became so violently agitated that I thought he must have fallen. And he wished very much to retain those letters, but I would not permit them to be carried out of my sight. When he became calmer, however, he assured me that there could be no possible connection between the writer of these notes and the murderer of the unfortunate girl. I, however, think differently. I think there is a connection, and even an identity; and I think this packet may be the means of bringing the criminal to justice; and I leave it—a sacred trust—in your charge, Miriam. Guard it well; guard it as your only treasure, until it has served its destined purpose. And now, Miriam, do you know the nature of a vow?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Do you understand its solemnity—its obligation, its inviolability?"
"I think I do, mamma."
"Do you know that in the performance of your vow, if necessary, no toil, no privation, no suffering of mind or body, no dearest interest of your life, no strongest affection of your soul, but must be sacrificed; do you comprehend all this?"
"Yes, mamma; I knew it before, and I have read of Jeptha and his daughter."
"Now, Miriam, kneel down, fold your hands, and give them to me between my own. Look into my eyes. I want you to make a vow to God and to your dying mother, to avenge the death of Marian. Will you bind your soul by such an obligation?"
The child was magnetized by the thrilling eyes that gazed deep into her own. She answered:
"Yes, mamma."
"You vow in the sight of God and all his holy angels, that, as you hope for salvation, you will devote your life with all your faculties of mind and body, to the discovery and punishment of Marian's murderer; and also that you will live a maiden until you become and avenger."
"I vow."
"Swear that no afterthoughts shall tempt you to falter; that happen what may in the changing years, you will not hesitate; that though your interests and affections should intervene, you will not suffer them to retard you in your purpose; that no effort, no sacrifice, no privation, no suffering of mind or body shall be spared, if needful, to the accomplishment of your vow."
"I swear."
"You will do it! You are certain to discover the murderer, and clear up the mystery."
The mental excitement that had carried Edith through this scene subsided, and left her very weak, so that when Thurston Willcoxen soon after called to see her, she was unable to receive him.
The next morning, however, Thurston repeated his visit, and was brought to the bedside of the invalid.
Thurston was frightfully changed, the sufferings of the last month seemed to have made him old—his countenance was worn, his voice hollow, and his manner abstracted and uncertain.
"Edith," he asked, as he took the chair near her head, "do you feel stronger this morning?"
"Yes—I always do in the forenoon"
"Do you feel well enough to talk of Miriam and her future?"
"Oh, yes."
"What do you propose to do with her?"
"I shall leave her to Aunt Henrietta—she will never let the child want."
"But Mrs. Waugh is quite an old lady now. Jacquelina is insane, the commodore and Mrs. L'Oiseau scarcely competent to take care of themselves—and Luckenough a sad, unpromising home for a little girl."
"I know it—oh! I know it; why do you speak of it, since I can do no otherwise?"
"To point out how you may do otherwise, dear Edith. It would have been cruel to mention it else."
She looked up at him with surprise and inquiry.
"Edith, you have known me from my boyhood. You know what I am. Will you leave your orphan daughter to me? You look at me in wonder; but listen, dear Edith, and then decide. Marian—dear martyred saint! loved that child as her own. And I loved Marian—loved her as I had never dreamed it possible for heart to love—I cannot speak of this! it deprives me of reason," he said, suddenly covering his eyes with his hands, while a spasm agitated his worn face. In a few minutes he resumed.
"Look at me, Edith! the death of Marian has brought me to what you see! My youth has melted away like a morning mist. I have not an object in life except to carry out purposes which were dear to her benevolent heart, and which her sudden death has left incomplete. I have not an affection in the world except that which comes through her. I should love this child dearly, and cherish her devotedly for Marian's sake. I shall never change my bachelor life—but I should like to legally adopt little Miriam. I should give her the best educational advantages, and make her the co-heir with my young brother, Paul Douglass, of all I possess. Say, Edith, can you trust your child to me?" He spoke earnestly, fervently, taking her hand and pressing it, and gazing pleadingly into her eyes.
"So you loved Marian—I even judged so when I saw you labor hardest of all for the apprehension of the criminal. Oh, many loved her as much as you! Colonel Thornton, Dr. Weismann, Judge Gordon, Mr. Barnwell, all adored her! Ah! she was worthy of it."
"No more of that, dear Edith, it will overcome us both; but tell me if you will give me your little girl?"
"Dear Thurston, your proposal is as strange and unusual as it is generous. I thank you most sincerely, but you must give me time to look at it and think of it. You are sincere, you are in earnest, you mean all you say. I see that in your face; but I must reflect and take counsel upon such an important step. Go now, dear Thurston, and return to me at this hour to-morrow morning."
Thurston pressed her hand and departed.
The same day Edith had a visit from Mrs. Waugh, Miss Thornton and other friends. And after consulting with them upon the proposal that had been made her, she decided to leave Miriam in the joint guardianship of Mrs. Waugh and Thurston Willcoxen.
And this decision was made known to Thurston when he called the next morning.
A few days after this Edith passed to the world of spirits. And Thurston took the orphan child to his own heart and home.
When Marian recovered consciousness she found herself on board ship and a lady attending to her wants. When she was at last able to ask how she came there the lady nurse told the following story:
"On the evening of Holy Thursday, about the time the storm arose, our vessel lay to opposite a place on St. Mary's coast, called Pine Bluff, and the mate put off in a boat to land a passenger; as they neared the shore they met another boat rowed by two men, who seemed so anxious to escape observation, as to row away as fast as they could without answering our boat's salute. Our mate thought very strange of it at the time; but the mysterious boat was swiftly hid in the darkness, and our boat reached the land. The mate and his man had to help to carry the passenger's trunks up to the top of the bluff, and a short distance beyond, where a carriage was kept waiting for him, and after they had parted from him, they returned down the bluff by a shorter though steeper way; and just as they reached the beach, in the momentary lull of the storm, they heard groans. Immediately the men connected those sounds with the strange boat they had seen row away, and they raised the wick in the lantern, and threw its light around, and soon discovered you upon the sands, moaning, though nearly insensible. They naturally concluded that you had been the victim of the men in the boat, who were probably pirates. Their first impulse was to pursue the carriage, and get you placed within it, and taken to some farmhouse for assistance; but a moment's reflection convinced them that such a plan was futile, as it was impossible to overtake the carriage. There was also no house near the coast. They thought it likely that you were a stranger to that part of the country. And in the hurry and agitation of the moment, they could devise nothing better than to put you in the boat, and bring you on board this vessel. That is the way you came here."
The grateful gaze of Marian thanked the lady, and she asked:
"Tell me the name of my angel nurse."
"Rachel Holmes," answered the lady, blushing gently. "My husband is a surgeon in the United States army. He is on leave of absence now for the purpose of taking me home to see my father and mother—they live in London. I am of English parentage."
Marian feebly pressed her hand, and then said:
"You are very good to ask me no questions, and I thank you with all my heart; for, dear lady, I can tell you nothing."
The next day the vessel which had put into New York Harbor on call, sailed for Liverpool.
Marian slowly improved. Her purposes were not very clear or strong yet—mental and physical suffering and exhaustion had temporarily weakened and obscured her mind. Her one strong impulse was to escape, to get away from the scenes of such painful associations and memories, and to go home, to take refuge in her own native land. The thought of returning to Maryland, to meet the astonishment, the wonder, the conjectures, the inquiries, and perhaps the legal investigation that might lead to the exposure and punishment of Thurston, was insupportable to her heart. No, no! rather let the width of the ocean divide her from all those horrors. Undoubtedly her friends believed her dead—let it be so—let her remain as dead to them. She should leave no kindred behind her, to suffer by her loss—should wrong no human being. True, there were Miriam and Edith! But that her heart was exhausted by its one great, all-consuming grief, it must have bled for them! Yet they had already suffered all they could possibly suffer from the supposition of her death—it was now three weeks since they had reason to believe her dead, and doubtless kind Nature had already nursed them into resignation and calmness, that would in time become cheerfulness. If she should go back, there would be the shock, the amazement, the questions, the prosecutions, perhaps the conviction, and the sentence, and the horrors of a state prison for one the least hair of whose head she could not willingly hurt; and then her own early death, or should she survive, her blighted life. Could these consequences console or benefit Edith or Miriam? No, no, they would augment grief. It was better to leave things as they were—better to remain dead to them—a dead sorrow might be forgotten—living one never! For herself, it was better to take fate as she found it—to go home to England, and devote her newly restored life, and her newly acquired fortune, to those benevolent objects that had so lately occupied so large a share of her heart. Some means also should be found—when she should grow stronger, and her poor head should be clearer, so that she should be able to think—to make Edith and Miriam the recipients of all the benefit her wealth could possibly confer upon them. And so in recollecting, meditating, planning, and trying to reason correctly, and to understand her embarrassed position, and her difficult duty, passed the days of her convalescence. As her mind cleared, the thought of Angelica began to give her uneasiness—she could not bear to think of leaving that young lady exposed to the misfortune of becoming Thurston's wife—and her mind toiled with the difficult problem of how to shield Angelica without exposing Thurston.
A few days after this, Marian related to her kind friends all of her personal history that she could impart, without compromising the safety of others: and she required and received from them the promise of their future silence in regard to her fate.
As they approached the shores of England, Marian improved so fast as to be able to go on deck. And though extremely pale and thin, she could no longer be considered an invalid, when, on the thirtieth day out, their ship entered the mouth of the Mersey. Upon their arrival at Liverpool, it had been the intention of Dr. Holmes and his wife to proceed to London; but now they decided to delay a few hours until they should see Marian safe in the house of her friends. The Rev. Theodore Burney was a retired dissenting clergyman, living on his modest patrimony in a country house a few miles out of Liverpool, and now at eighty years enjoying a hale old age. Dr. Holmes took a chaise and carried Marian and Rachel out to the place. The house was nearly overgrown with climbing vines, and the grounds were beautiful with the early spring verdure and flowers. The old man was overjoyed to meet Marian, and he received her with a father's welcome. He thanked her friends for their care and attention, and pressed them to come and stay several days or weeks. But Dr. Holmes and Rachel simply explained that their visit was to their parents in London, which city they were anxious to reach as soon as possible, and, thanking their host, they took leave of him, of his old wife, and Marian, and departed.
The old minister looked hard at Marian.
"You are pale, my dear. Well, I always heard that our fresh island roses withered in the dry heat of the American climate, and now I know it! But come! we shall soon see a change and what wonders native air and native manners and morning walks will work in the way of restoring bloom."
Marian did not feel bound to reply, and her ill health remained charged to the account of our unlucky atmosphere.
The next morning, the old gentleman took Marian into his library, told her once more how very little surprised, and how very glad he was that instead of writing, she had come in person. He then made her acquainted with certain documents, and informed her that it would be necessary she should go up to London, and advised her to do so just as soon as she should feel herself sufficiently rested. Marian declared herself to be already recovered of fatigue, and anxious to proceed with the business of settlement. Their journey was thereupon fixed for the second day from that time. And upon the appointed morning Marian, attended by the old clergyman, set out for the mammoth capital, where, in due season, they arrived. A few days were busily occupied amid the lumber of law documents, before Marian felt sufficiently at ease to advise her friends, the Holmeses, of her presence in town. Only a few hours had elapsed, after reading her note and address, before she received a call from Mrs. Holmes and her father, Dr. Coleman, a clergyman of high standing in the Church of England. Friendliness and a beautiful simplicity characterized the manners of both father and daughter. Rachel entreated Marian to return with her and make her father's house her home while in London. She spoke with an affectionate sincerity that Marian could neither doubt nor resist, and when Dr. Coleman cordially seconded his daughter's invitation, Marian gratefully accepted the proffered hospitality. And the same day Mr. Burney bade a temporary farewell to his favorite, and departed for Liverpool, and Marian accompanied her friend Rachel Holmes to the house of Dr. Coleman.
* * * * *
We may not pause to trace minutely the labors of love in which Marian sought at once to forget her own existence and to bless that of others.
A few events only it will be necessary to record.
In the very first packet of Baltimore papers received by Dr. Holmes, Marian saw announced the marriage of Angelica Le Roy to Henry Barnwell. She knew by the date, that it took place within two weeks after she sailed from the shores of America. And her anxiety on that young lady's account was set at rest.
After a visit of two months, Dr. Holmes and his lovely wife prepared to return to the United States. And the little fortune that Marian intended to settle upon Edith and Miriam, was intrusted to the care of the worthy surgeon, to be invested in bank stock for their benefit, as soon as he should reach Baltimore. It was arranged that the donor should remain anonymous, or be known only as a friend of Miriam's father.
In the course of a few months, Marian's institution, "The Children's Home," was commenced, and before the end of the first year, it was completed and filled with inmates.