Marian Grey

The night was dark and the clouds black and heavy which hung over Redstone Hall, whose massive walls loomed up through the darkness like some huge sentinel keeping guard over the spacious grounds by which it was surrounded. Within the house all was still, and without there was no sound to break the midnight silence save the sighing of the autumnal wind through the cedar trees, or the roar of the river, which, swollen by the recent heavy rains, went rushing on to meet its twin sister at a point well known in Kentucky, where our story opens, as “The Forks of the Elkhorn.” From one of the lower windows a single light was shining, and its dim rays fell upon the face of a white-haired man, who moaned uneasily in his sleep, as if pursued by some tormenting fear. At last, as the old fashioned clock struck off the hour of twelve, he awoke, and glancing nervously toward the corner, whence the sound proceeded, he whispered, “Have you come again, Ralph Lindsey, to tell me of my sin?”

“What is it, Mr. Raymond?” and a young girl glided to the bedside of the old man, who, taking her hand in his, the better to assure himself of her presence, said, “Marian, is there nothing in that corner yonder—nothing with silvery hair?”

“Nothing,” answered Marian, “nothing but the lamplight shining on the face of the old clock. Did you think there was some one here?”

“Yes—no. Marian, do you believe the dead can come back to us again—when we have done them a wrong—the dead who are buried in the sea, I mean?”

Marian shuddered involuntarily, and cast a timid look toward the shadowy corner, then, conquering her weakness, she answered, “No, the dead cannot come back. But why do you talk so strangely to-night?”

The old man hesitated a moment ere he replied.—“The time has come for me to speak, so that your father can rest in peace. He has been with me more than once in this very room, and to-night I fancied he was here again, asking why I had dealt so falsely with his child.”

“Falsely!” cried Marian, kissing tenderly the hand of the only parent she had ever known. “Not falsely, I am sure, for you have been most kind to me.”

“And yet, Marian,” he said, “I have done you a wrong—a wrong which has eaten into my very soul, and worn my life away. I did not intend to speak of it to-night, but something prompts me to do so, and you must listen. On that night when your father died, and when all in the ship, save ourselves and the watch, were asleep, I laid my hand on his forehead, and swore to be faithful to my trust. Do you hear, Marian—faithful to my trust. You don’t know what that meant, but I know, and I’ve broken my oath to the dying—and from that grave in the ocean he comes to me sometimes, and with the same look upon his face which it wore that Summer afternoon when we laid him in the sea, he asks why justice has not been done to you. Wait, Marian, until I have finished,” he continued, as he saw her about to speak; “I know I have not long to live, and I would make amends; but, Marian, I would rather—oh, so much rather, you should not know the truth until I’m dead. You will forgive me then more readily, won’t you, Marian? Promise me you will forgive the poor old man who has loved you so much—loved you, if possible, better than he loved his only son.”

He paused for her reply, and half bewildered, Marian answered, “I don’t know what you mean—but if, as you say, a wrong has been done, no matter how great that wrong may be, it is freely forgiven for the sake of what you’ve been to me.”

The sick man wound his arm lovingly around her, and bringing her nearer to him, he said, “Bless you, Marian—bless you for that. It makes my deathbed easier. I will leave it in writing—my confession. I cannot tell it now, for I could not bear to see upon your face that you despised me. You wrote to Frederic, and told him to come quickly?”

“Yes,” returned Marian, “I said you were very sick and wished to see him at once.”

For a moment there was silence in the room; then, removing his arm from the neck of the young girl, the old man raised himself upon his elbow and looking her steadily in the face, said, “Marian, could you love my son Frederic?”

The question was a strange one, but Marian Lindsey was accustomed to strange modes of speech in her guardian, and with a slightly heightened color she answered quietly, “I do love him as a brother—”