’LENA RIVERS

by MRS. MARY J. HOLMES

AUTHOR OF

“TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,” “ENGLISH ORPHANS,”
“DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT,” “MARIAN GRAY,”
“ETHELYN’S MISTAKE,” “CAMERON PRIDE,” “EDNA
BROWNING,” “WEST LAWN,” “EDITH LYLE,” ETC.,
ETC.

MDCCCXCVII.


Contents

 PREFACE.
 CHAPTER I. ’LENA.
 CHAPTER II. JOHN.
 CHAPTER III. PACKING UP.
 CHAPTER IV. ON THE ROAD.
 CHAPTER V. MAPLE GROVE.
 CHAPTER VI. THE ARRIVAL.
 CHAPTER VII. MALCOLM EVERETT.
 CHAPTER VIII. SCHEMING.
 CHAPTER IX. FIVE YEARS LATER.
 CHAPTER X. MR. AND MRS. GRAHAM.
 CHAPTER XI. WOODLAWN.
 CHAPTER XII. MRS. GRAHAM AT HOME.
 CHAPTER XIII. MABEL.
 CHAPTER XIV. NELLIE AND MABEL.
 CHAPTER XV. MRS. LIVINGSTONE’S CALLS AND THEIR RESULT.
 CHAPTER XVI. CHRISTMAS GIFTS.
 CHAPTER XVII. FRANKFORT.
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE DEPARTURE.
 CHAPTER XIX. THE VISIT.
 CHAPTER XX. A FATHER’S LOVE.
 CHAPTER XXI. JOEL SLOCUM.
 CHAPTER XXII. THE DAGUERREOTYPE.
 CHAPTER XXIII. THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT.
 CHAPTER XXIV. JOHN JR. AND MABEL.
 CHAPTER XXV. THE BRIDAL.
 CHAPTER XXVI MARRIED LIFE.
 CHAPTER XXVII. THE SHADOW.
 CHAPTER XXVIII. MRS. GRAHAM’S RETURN.
 CHAPTER XXIX. ANNA AND CAPTAIN ATHERTON.
 CHAPTER XXX. THE RESULT.
 CHAPTER XXXI. MORE CLOUDS.
 CHAPTER XXXII. REACTION.
 CHAPTER XXXIII. THE WANDERER.
 CHAPTER XXXIV ’LENA’S FATHER.
 CHAPTER XXXV. EXCITEMENT AT MAPLE GROVE.
 CHAPTER XXXVI. ARRIVAL AT WOODLAWN.
 CHAPTER XXXVII. DURWARD.
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONCLUSION.




PREFACE.


If it be true, as some have said, that a _secret_ is safer in a
_preface_ than elsewhere, it would be worse than folly for me to waste
the “midnight oil,” in the manufacture of an article which no one would
read, and which would serve no purpose, save the adding of a page or so
to a volume perhaps already too large. But I do not think so. I wot of
a few who, with a horror of anything savoring of _humbug_, wade
industriously through a preface, be it never so lengthy, hoping therein
to find the _moral_, without which the story would, of course, be
valueless. To such I would say, seek no further, for though I claim for
“’Lena Rivers,” a moral—yes, half a dozen morals, if you please—I shall
not put them in the preface, as I prefer having them sought after, for
what I have written I wish to have read.

Reared among the rugged hills of the Bay State, and for a time
constantly associated with a class of people known the wide world over
as _Yankees_, it is no more than natural that I should often write of
the places and scenes with which I have been the most familiar. In my
delineations of New England character I have aimed to copy from memory,
and in no one instance, I believe, have I overdrawn the pictures; for
among the New England mountains there lives many a “Grandma Nichols,” a
“Joel Slocum,” or a “Nancy Scovandyke,” while the wide world holds more
than one ’_Lena_, with her high temper, extreme beauty, and rare
combination of those qualities which make the female character so
lovely.

Nearly the same remarks will also apply to my portraitures of Kentucky
life and character, for it has been my good fortune to spend a year and
a half in that state, and in my descriptions of country lanes and
country life, I have with a few exceptions copied from what I saw.
_Mrs. Livingstone_ and _Mrs. Graham_ are characters found everywhere,
while the impulsive _John Jr_., and the generous-hearted _Durward_,
represent a class of individuals who belong more exclusively to the
“sunny south.”

I have endeavored to make this book both a good and an interesting one,
and if I have failed in my attempt, it is too late to remedy it now;
and, such as it is, I give it to the world, trusting that the same
favor and forbearance which have been awarded to my other works, will
also be extended to this.

M. J. H.


BROCKPORT, N. Y., _October_, 1856.

LENA RIVERS.




CHAPTER I.
’LENA.


For many days the storm continued. Highways were blocked up, while
roads less frequented were rendered wholly impassable. The oldest
inhabitants of Oakland had “never seen the like before,” and they shook
their gray heads ominously as over and adown the New England mountains
the howling wind swept furiously, now shrieking exultingly as one by
one the huge forest trees bent before its power, and again dying away
in a low, sad wail, as it shook the casement of some low-roofed
cottage, where the blazing fire, “high piled upon the hearth,” danced
merrily to the sound of the storm-wind, and then, whirling in fantastic
circles, disappeared up the broad-mouthed chimney.

For nearly a week there was scarcely a sign of life in the streets of
Oakland, but at the end of that time the storm abated, and the December
sun, emerging from its dark hiding-place, once more looked smilingly
down upon the white, untrodden snow, which covered the earth for miles
and miles around. Rapidly the roads were broken; paths were made on the
narrow sidewalk, and then the villagers bethought themselves of their
mountain neighbors, who might perchance have suffered from the severity
of the storm. Far up the mountain side in an old yellow farmhouse,
which had withstood the blasts of many a winter, lived Grandfather and
Grandmother Nichols, as they were familiarly called, and ere the
sun-setting, arrangements were made for paying them a visit.

Oakland was a small rural village, nestled among rocky hills, where the
word fashion was seldom heard, and where many of the primitive customs
of our forefathers still prevailed. Consequently, neither the buxom
maidens, nor the hale old matrons, felt in the least disgraced as they
piled promiscuously upon the four-ox sled, which erelong was moving
slowly through the mammoth drifts which lay upon the mountain road. As
they drew near the farmhouse, they noticed that the blue paper curtains
which shaded the windows of Grandma Nichols’ “spare room,” were rolled
up, while the faint glimmer of a tallow candle within, indicated that
the room possessed an occupant. Who could it be? Possibly it was
_John_, the proud man, who lived in Kentucky, and who, to please his
wealthy bride exchanged the plebeian name of Nichols, for that of
_Livingstone_, which his high-born lady fancied was more aristocratic
in its sounding!

“And if it be John,” said the passengers of the ox sled, with whom that
gentleman was no great favorite, “if it be John, we’ll take ourselves
home as fast as ever we can.”

Satisfied with this resolution, they kept on their way until they
reached the wide gateway, where they were met by Mr. Nichols, whose
greeting they fancied was less cordial than usual. With a simple “how
d’ye do,” he led the way into the spacious kitchen, which answered the
treble purpose of dining-room, sitting-room, and cook-room. Grandma
Nichols, too, appeared somewhat disturbed, but she met her visitors
with an air which seemed to say, she was determined to make the best of
her trouble, whatever it might be.

The door of the “spare room” was slightly ajar, and while the visitors
were disrobing, one young girl, more curious than the rest, peered
cautiously in, exclaiming as she did so, “Mother! mother! Helena is in
there on the bed, pale as a ghost.”

“Yes, Heleny is in there,” interrupted Grandma Nichols, who overheard
the girl’s remark. “She got hum the fust night of the storm, and what’s
queerer than all, she’s been married better than a year.”

“Married! Married! Helena married! Who to? Where’s her husband?” asked
a dozen voices in the same breath.

Grandfather Nichols groaned as if in pain, and his wife, glancing
anxiously toward the door of her daughter’s room, said in reply to the
last question, “That’s the worst on’t. He was some grand rascal, who
lived at the suthard, and come up here to see what he could do. He
thought Heleny was handsome, I s’pose, and married her, making her keep
it still because his folks in Car’lina wouldn’t like it. Of course he
got sick of her, and jest afore the baby was born he gin her five
hundred dollars and left her.”

A murmur of surprise ran round the room, accompanied with a look of
incredulity, which Grandma Nichols quickly divined, and while her
withered cheek crimsoned at the implied disgrace, she added in an
elevated tone of voice, “It’s true as the Bible. Old Father Blanchard’s
son, that used to preach here, married them, and Heleny brought us a
letter from him, saying it was true. Here ’tis,—read it yourselves, if
you don’t b’lieve me;” and she drew from a side drawer a letter, on the
back of which, the villagers recognized the well remembered handwriting
of their former pastor.

This proof of Helena’s innocence was hardly relished by the clever
gossips of Oakland, for the young girl, though kind-hearted and gentle,
was far too beautiful to be a general favorite. Mothers saw in her a
rival for their daughters, while the daughters looked enviously upon
her clear white brow, and shining chestnut hair; which fell in wavy
curls about her neck and shoulders. Two years before our story opens,
she had left her mountain home to try the mysteries of millinery in the
city, where a distant relative of her mother was living. Here her
uncommon beauty attracted much attention, drawing erelong to her side a
wealthy young southerner, who, just freed from the restraints of
college life, found it vastly agreeable making love to the fair Helena.
Simple-minded, and wholly unused to the ways of the world, she believed
each word he said, and when at last he proposed marriage, she not only
consented, but also promised to keep it a secret for a time, until he
could in a measure reconcile his father, who he feared might disinherit
him for wedding a penniless bride.

“Wait, darling, until he knows you,” said he, “and then he will gladly
welcome you as his daughter.”

Accordingly, one dark, wintry night, when neither moon nor stars were
visible, Helena stole softly from her quiet room at Mrs. Warren’s, and
in less than an hour was the lawful bride of Harry Rivers, the wife of
the clergyman alone witnessing the ceremony.

“I wish I could take you home at once,” said young Rivers, who was less
a rascal than a coward; “I wish I could take you home at once, but it
cannot be. We must wait awhile.”

So Helena went back to Mrs. Warren’s, where for a few weeks she stayed,
and then saying she was going home, she left and became the mistress of
a neat little cottage which stood a mile or two from the city. Here for
several months young Rivers devoted himself entirely to her happiness,
seeming to forget that there was aught else in the world save his
“beautiful ’Lena,” as he was wont to call her. But at last there came a
change. Harry seemed sad, and absent-minded, though ever kind to
Helena, who strove in vain to learn the cause of his uneasiness.

One morning when, later than usual, she awoke, she missed him from her
side; and on the table near her lay a letter containing the following:—

“Forgive me, darling, that I leave you so abruptly. Circumstances
render it neccessary, but be assured, I shall come back again. In the
mean time, you had better return to your parents, where I will seek
you. Enclosed are five hundred dollars, enough for your present need.
Farewell.


“H. RIVERS.”


There was one bitter cry of hopeless anguish, and when Helena Rivers
again awoke to perfect consciousness, she lay in a darkened room, soft
footsteps passed in and out, kind faces, in which were mingled pity and
reproach, bent anxiously over her, while at her side lay a little
tender thing, her infant daughter, three weeks old. And now there arose
within her a strong desire to see once more her childhood’s home, to
lay her aching head upon her mother’s lap, and pour out the tale of
grief which was crushing the life from out her young heart.

As soon, therefore, as her health would permit, she started for
Oakland, taking the precaution to procure from the clergyman, who had
married her, a letter confirming the fact. Wretched and weary she
reached her home at the dusk of evening, and with a bitter cry fell
fainting in the arms of her mother, who having heard regularly from
her, never dreamed that she was elsewhere than in the employ of Mrs.
Warren. With streaming eyes and trembling hands the old man and his
wife made ready the spare room for the wanderer more than once blessing
the fearful storm which for a time, at least, would keep away the
prying eyes of those who, they feared, would hardly credit their
daughter’s story.

And their fears were right, for many of those who visited them on the
night of which we have spoken, disbelieved the tale, mentally
pronouncing the clergyman’s letter a forgery, got up by Helena to
deceive her parents. Consequently, of the few who from time to time
came to the old farmhouse, nearly all were actuated by motives of
curiosity, rather than by feelings of pity for the young girl-mother,
who, though feeling their neglect, scarcely heeded it. Strong in the
knowledge of her own innocence, she lay day after day, watching and
waiting for one who never came. But at last, as days glided into weeks,
and weeks into months, hope died away, and turning wearily upon her
pillow, she prayed that she might die; and when the days grew bright
and gladsome in the warm spring sun, when the snow was melted from off
the mountain tops, and the first robin’s note was heard by the
farmhouse door, Helena laid her baby on her mother’s bosom, and without
a murmur glided down the dark, broad river, whose deep waters move
onward and onward, but never return.

When it was known in Oakland that Helena was dead, there came a
reaction, and those who had been loudest in their condemnation, were
now the first to hasten forward with offers of kindness and words of
sympathy. But neither tears nor regrets could recall to life the fair
young girl, who, wondrously beautiful even in death, slept calmly in
her narrow coffin, a smile of sadness wreathing her lips, as if her
last prayer had been for one who had robbed her thus early of happiness
and life. In the bright green valley at the foot of the mountain, they
buried her, and the old father, as he saw the damp earth fall upon her
grave, asked that he too might die. But his wife, younger by several
years, prayed to live—live that she might protect and care for the
little orphan, who first by its young mother’s tears, and again by the
waters of the baptismal fountain, was christened HELENA RIVERS;—the
’_Lena_ of our story.




CHAPTER II.
JOHN.


Ten years of sunlight and shadow have passed away, and the little grave
at the foot of the mountain is now grass-grown and sunken. Ten times
have the snows of winter fallen upon the hoary head of Grandfather
Nichols, bleaching his thin locks to their own whiteness and bending
his sturdy frame, until now, the old man lay dying—dying in the same
blue-curtained room, where years agone his only daughter was born, and
where ten years before she had died. Carefully did Mrs. Nichols nurse
him, watching, weeping, and praying that he might live, while little
’Lena gladly shared her grandmother’s vigils, hovering ever by the
bedside of her grandfather, who seemed more quiet when her soft hand
smoothed his tangled hair or wiped the cold moisture from his brow. The
villagers, too, remembering their neglect, when once before death had
brooded over the mountain farmhouse, now daily came with offers of
assistance.

But one thing still was wanting. John, their only remaining child, was
absent, and the sick man’s heart grew sad and his eyes dim with tears,
as day by day went by, and still he did not come. Several times had
’Lena written to her uncle, apprising him of his father’s danger, and
once only had he answered. It was a brief, formal letter, written,
evidently, under some constraint, but it said that he was coming, and
with childish joy the old man had placed it beneath his pillow,
withdrawing it occasionally for ’Lena to read again, particularly the
passage, “Dear father, I am sorry you are sick.”

“Heaven bless him! I know he’s sorry,” Mr. Nichols would say. “He was
always a good boy—is a good boy now. Ain’t he, Martha?”

And mother-like, Mrs. Nichols would answer, “Yes,” forcing back the
while the tears which would start when she thought how long the “good
boy” had neglected them, eighteen years having elapsed since he had
crossed the threshold of his home.

With his hand plighted to one of the village maidens, he had left
Oakland to seek his fortune, going first to New York, then to Ohio, and
finally wending his way southward, to Kentucky. Here he remained,
readily falling into the luxurious habits of those around him, and
gradually forgetting the low-roofed farmhouse far away to the
northward, where dwelt a gray-haired pair and a beautiful young girl,
his parents and his sister. She to whom his vows were plighted was
neither graceful nor cultivated, and when, occasionally, her tall,
spare figure and uncouth manners arose before him, in contrast with the
fair forms around him, he smiled derisively at the thoughts of making
her his wife.

About this time there came from New Orleans a wealthy invalid, with his
only daughter Matilda. She was a proud haughty girl, whose disposition,
naturally unamiable, was rendered still worse by a disappointment from
which she was suffering. Accidentally Mr. Richards, her father, made
the acquaintance of John Nichols, conceiving for him a violent fancy,
and finally securing him as a constant companion. For several weeks
John appeared utterly oblivious to the presence of Matilda who,
accustomed to adulation, began at last to feel piqued at his neglect,
and to strive in many ways to attract his attention.

John, who was ambitious, met her advances more than half way, and
finally, encouraged by her father, offered her his heart and hand.
Under other circumstances, Matilda would undoubtedly have spurned him
with contempt; but having heard that her recreant lover was about
taking to himself a bride, she felt a desire, as she expressed it, “to
let him know she could marry too.” Accordingly, John was accepted, on
condition that he changed the name of Nichols, which Miss Richards
particularly disliked, to that of Livingstone. This was easily done,
and the next letter which went to Oakland carried the news of John’s
marriage with the proud Matilda.

A few months later and Mr. Richards died, leaving his entire property
to his daughter and her husband. John was now richer far than even in
his wildest dreams he had ever hoped to be, and yet like many others,
he found that riches alone could not insure happiness. And, indeed, to
be happy with Matilda Richards, seemed impossible. Proud, avaricious,
and overbearing, she continually taunted her husband with his entire
dependence upon her, carefully watching him, lest any of her hoarded
wealth should find its way to the scanty purse of his parents, of whom
she always spoke with contempt.

Never but once had they asked for aid, and that to help them rear the
little ’Lena. Influenced by his wife, John replied sneeringly, scouting
the idea of Helena’s marriage, denouncing her as his sister, and saying
of her child, that the poor-house stood ready for such as she! This
letter ’Lena had accidentally found among her grandfather’s papers, and
though its contents gave her no definite impression concerning her
mother, it inspired her with a dislike for her uncle, whose coming she
greatly dreaded, for it was confidently expected that she, together
with her grandmother, would return with him to Kentucky.

“You’ll be better off there than here,” said her grandfather one day,
when speaking of the subject. “Your Uncle John is rich, and you’ll grow
up a fine lady.”

“I don’t want to be a lady—I won’t be a lady,” said ’Lena passionately.
“I don’t like Uncle John. He called my mother a bad woman and me a
little brat! I hate him!” and the beautiful brown eyes glittering with
tears flashed forth their anger quite as eloquently as language could
express it.

The next moment ’Lena was bending over her grandfather, asking to be
forgiven for the hasty words which she knew had caused him pain. “I’ll
try to like him,” said she, as the palsied hand stroked her disordered
curls in token of forgiveness, “I’ll try to like him,” adding mentally,
“but I do hope he won’t come.”

It would seem that ’Lena’s wish was to be granted, for weeks glided by
and there came no tidings of the absent one. Daily Mr. Nichols grew
weaker, and when there was no longer hope of life, his heart yearned
more and more to once more behold his son; to hear again, ere he died,
the blessed name of father.

“’Lena,” said Mrs. Nichols one afternoon when her husband seemed worse,
“’Lena, it’s time for the stage, and do you run down to the ‘turn’ and
see if your uncle’s come; something tells me he’ll be here to-night.”

’Lena obeyed, and throwing on her faded calico sunbonnet, she was soon
at the “turn,” a point in the road from which the village hotel was
plainly discernible. The stage had just arrived, and ’Lena saw that one
of the passengers evidently intended stopping, for he seemed to be
giving directions concerning his baggage.

“That’s Uncle John, I most know,” thought she, and seating herself on a
rock beneath some white birches, so common in New England, she awaited
his approach. She was right in her conjecture, for the stranger was
John Livingstone, returned after many years, but so changed that the
jolly landlord, who had known him when a boy, and with whom he had
cracked many a joke, now hardly dared to address him, he seemed so cold
and haughty.

“I will leave my trunk here for a few days,” said John, “and perhaps I
shall wish for a room. Got any decent accommodations?”

“Wonder if he don’t calculate to sleep to hum,” thought the landlord,
replying at the same instant, “Yes, sir, tip-top accommodations. Hain’t
more’n tew beds in any room, and nowadays we allers has a wash-bowl and
pitcher; don’t go to the sink as we used to when you lived round here.”

With a gesture of impatience Mr. Livingstone left the house and started
up the mountain road, where ’Lena still kept her watch. Oh, how that
walk recalled to him the memories of other days, which came thronging
about him as one by one familiar way-marks appeared, reminding him of
his childhood, when he roamed over that mountain-side with those who
were now scattered far and wide, some on the deep, blue sea, some at
the distant west, and others far away across the dark river of death.
He had mingled much with the world since last he had traversed that
road, and his heart had grown callous and indifferent, but he was not
entirely hardened, and when at the “turn” in the road, he came suddenly
upon the tall walnut tree, on whose shaggy bark his name was carved,
together with that of another—a maiden—he started as if smitten with a
heavy blow, and dashing a tear from his eye he exclaimed “Oh that I
were a boy again!”

From her seat on the mossy rock ’Lena had been watching him. She was
very ardent and impulsive, strong in her likes and dislikes, but quite
ready to change the latter if she saw any indications of improvement in
the person disliked. For her uncle she had conceived a great aversion,
and when she saw him approaching, thrusting aside the thistles and
dandelions with his gold-headed cane, she mimicked his motions,
wondering “if he didn’t feel big because he wore a large gold chain
dangling from his jacket pocket.”

But when she saw his emotions beneath the walnut tree, her opinion
suddenly changed. “A very bad man wouldn’t cry,” she thought, and
springing to his side, she grasped his hand, exclaiming, “I know you
are my Uncle John, and I’m real glad you’ve come. Granny thought you
never would, and grandpa asks for you all the time.”

Had his buried sister arisen before him, Mr. Livingstone would hardly
have been more startled, for in form and feature ’Lena was exactly what
her mother had been at her age. The same clear complexion, large brown
eyes, and wavy hair; and the tones of her voice, too, how they thrilled
the heart of the strong man, making him a boy again, guiding the steps
of his baby sister, or bearing her gently in his arms when the path was
steep and stony. It was but a moment, however, and then the vision
faded. His sister was dead, and the little girl before him was her
child—the child of shame he believed, or rather, his wife had said it
so often that he began to believe it. Glancing at the old-womanish garb
in which Mrs. Nichols always arrayed her, a smile of mingled scorn and
pity curled his lips, as he thought of presenting her to his fastidious
wife and elegant daughters; then withdrawing the hand which she had
taken, he said, “And you are ’Lena—’Lena Nichols they call you, I
suppose.”

’Lena’s old dislike began to return, and placing both hands upon her
hips in imitation of her grandmother she replied, “No ’tain’t ’Lena
Nichols, neither. It’s ’Lena Rivers. Granny says so, and the town clark
has got it so on his book. How are my cousins? Are they pretty well?
And how is _Ant_?”

Mr. Livingstone winced, at the same time feeling amused at this little
specimen of Yankeeism, in which he saw so much of his mother. Poor
little ’Lena! how should she know any better, living as she always had
with two old people, whose language savored so much of the days before
the flood! Some such thought passed through Mr. Livingstone’s mind, and
very civilly he answered her concerning the health of her cousins and
aunt; proceeding next to question her of his father, who, she said,
“had never seen a well day since her mother died.”

“Is there any one with him except your grandmother?” asked Mr.
Livingstone; and Lena replied, “Aunt Nancy Scovandyke has been with us
a few days, and is there now.”

At the sound of that name John started, coloring so deeply that ’Lena
observed it, and asked “if he knew Miss Scovandyke?”

“I used to,” said he, while ’Lena continued: “She’s a nice woman, and
though she ain’t any connection, I call her aunt. Granny thinks a sight
of her.”

Miss Scovandyke was evidently an unpleasant topic for Mr. Livingstone,
and changing the subject, he said, “What makes you say _Granny_,
child?”

’Lena blushed painfully. ’Twas the first word she had ever uttered, her
grandmother having taught it to her, and encouraged her in its use.
Besides that, ’Lena had a great horror of anything which she fancied
was at all “stuck up,” and thinking an entire change from _Granny_ to
_Grandmother_ would be altogether too much, she still persisted in
occasionally using her favorite word, in spite of the ridicule it
frequently called forth from her school companions. Thinking to herself
that it was none of her uncle’s business what she called her
grandmother, she made no reply, and in a few moments they came in sight
of the yellow farmhouse, which looked to Mr. Livingstone just as it did
when he left it, eighteen years before. There was the tall poplar, with
its green leaves rustling in the breeze, just as they had done years
ago, when from a distant hill-top he looked back to catch the last
glimpse of his home. The well in the rear was the same—the lilac bushes
in front—the tansy patch on the right and the gable-roofed barn on the
left; all were there; nothing was changed but himself.

Mechanically he followed ’Lena into the yard, half expecting to see
bleaching upon the grass the same web of home-made cloth, which he
remembered had lain there when he went away. One thing alone seemed
strange. The blue paper curtains were rolled away from the “spare room”
windows, which were open as if to admit as much air as possible.

“I shouldn’t wonder if grandpa was worse,” said ’Lena, hurrying him
along and ushering him at once into the sick-room.

At first Mrs. Nichols did not observe him, for she was bending tenderly
over the white, wrinkled face, which lay upon the small, scanty pillow.
John thought “how small and scanty they were,” while he almost
shuddered at the sound of his footsteps upon the uncarpeted floor.
Everything was dreary and comfortless, and his conscience reproached
him that his old father should die so poor, when he counted his money
by thousands.

As he passed the window his tall figure obscured the fading daylight,
causing his mother to raise her head, and in a moment her long, bony
arms were twined around his neck. The cruel letter, his long neglect,
were all forgotten in the joy of once more beholding her “darling boy,”
whose bearded cheek she kissed again and again. John was unused to such
demonstrations of affection, except, indeed, from his little
golden-haired Anna, who was _refined_ and _polished_, and all that,
which made a vast difference, as he thought. Still, he returned his
mother’s greeting with a tolerably good grace, managing, however, to
tear himself from her as soon as possible.

“How is my father?” he asked; and his mother replied, “He grew worse
right away after ’Leny went out, and he seemed so put to’t for breath,
that Nancy went for the doctor——”

Here a movement from the invalid arrested her attention and going to
the bedside she saw that he was awake. Bending over him she whispered
softly, “John has come. Would you like to see him?”

Quickly the feeble arms were outstretched, as if to feel what could not
be seen, for the old man’s eyesight was dim with the shadows of death.

Taking both his father’s hands in his, John said, “Here I am, father;
can’t you see me?”

“No, John, no; I can’t see you.” And the poor man wept like a little
child. Soon growing more calm, he continued: “Your voice is the same
that it was years ago, when you lived with us at home. That hasn’t
changed, though they say your name has. Oh, John, my boy, how could you
do so? ’Twas a good name—my name—and you the only one left to bear it.
What made you do so, oh John, John?”

Mr. Livingstone did not reply, and after a moment his father again
spoke; “John, lay your hand on my forehead. It’s cold as ice. I am
dying, and your mother will be left alone. We are poor, my son; poorer
than you think. The homestead is mortgaged for all it’s worth and there
are only a few dollars in the purse. Oh, I worked so hard to earn them
for her and the girl—Helena’s child. Now, John, promise me that when I
am gone they shall go with you to your home in the west. Promise, and I
shall die happy.”

This was a new idea to John, and for a time he hesitated. He glanced at
his mother; she was ignorant and peculiar, but she was his mother
still. He looked at ’Lena, she was beautiful—he knew that, but she was
odd and old-fashioned. He thought of his haughty wife, his headstrong
son and his imperious daughter. What would they say if he made that
promise, for if he made it he would keep it.

A long time his father awaited his answer, and then he spoke again:
“Won’t you give your old mother a home?”

The voice was weaker than when it spoke before, and John knew that life
was fast ebbing away, for the brow on which his hand was resting was
cold and damp with the moisture of death. He could no longer refuse,
and the promise was given.

The next morning, the deep-toned bell of Oakland told that another soul
was gone, and the villagers as they counted the three score strokes and
ten knew that Grandfather Nichols was numbered with the dead.




CHAPTER III.
PACKING UP.


The funeral was over, and in the quiet valley by the side of his only
daughter, Grandfather Nichols was laid to rest. As far as possible his
father’s business was settled, and then John began to speak of his
returning. More than once had he repented of the promise made to his
father, and as the time passed on he shrank more and more from
introducing his “plebeian” mother to his “lady” wife, who, he knew, was
meditating an open rebellion.

Immediately after his father’s death he had written to his wife,
telling her all, and trying as far as he was able to smooth matters
over, so that his mother might at least have a decent reception. In a
violent passion, his wife had answered, that “she never would submit to
it—never. When I married you,” said she, “I didn’t suppose I was
marrying the ‘old woman,’ young one, and all; and as for my having them
to maintain, I will not, so _Mr. John Nichols_, you understand it.”

When Mrs. Livingstone was particularly angry, she called her husband
_Mr. John Nichols_, and when Mr. John Nichols was particularly angry,
he did as he pleased, so in this case he replied that “he should bring
home as many ‘old women’ and ‘young ones’ as he liked, and she might
help herself if she could!”

This state of things was hardly favorable to the future happiness of
Grandma Nichols, who, wholly unsuspecting and deeming herself as good
as anybody, never dreamed that her presence would be unwelcome to her
daughter-in-law, whom she thought to assist in various ways, “taking
perhaps the whole heft of the housework upon herself—though,” she
added, “I mean to begin just as I can hold out. I’ve hearn of such
things as son’s wives shirkin’ the whole on to their old mothers, and
the minit ’Tilda shows any signs of that, I shall back out, I tell
you.”

John, who overheard this remark, bit his lip with vexation, and then
burst into a laugh as he fancied the elegant Mrs. Livingstone’s dismay
at hearing herself called ’_Tilda_. Had John chosen, he could have
given his mother a few useful hints with regard to her treatment of his
wife, but such an idea never entered his brain. He was a man of few
words, and generally allowed himself to be controlled by circumstances,
thinking that the easiest way of getting through the world. He was very
proud, and keenly felt how mortifying it would be to present his mother
to his fashionable acquaintances; but that was in the future—many miles
away—he wouldn’t trouble himself about it now; so he passed his time
mostly in rambling through the woods and over the hills, while his
mother, good soul, busied herself with the preparations for her
journey, inviting each and every one of her neighbors to “be sure and
visit her if they ever came that way,” and urging some of them to come
on purpose and “spend the winter.”

Among those who promised compliance with this last request, was Miss
Nancy Scovandyke, whom we have once before mentioned, and who, as the
reader will have inferred, was the first love of John Livingstone. On
the night of his arrival, she had been sent in quest of the physician,
and when on her return she learned from ’Lena that he had come, she
kept out of sight, thinking she would wait awhile before she met him.
“Not that she cared the snap of her finger for him,” she said, “only
’twas natural that she should hate to see him.”

But when the time did come, she met it bravely, shaking his hand and
speaking to him as if nothing had ever happened, and while he was
wondering how he ever could have fancied _her_, she, too, was mentally
styling herself “a fool,” for having liked “such a _pussy_, overgrown
thing!” Dearly did Miss Nancy love excitement, and during the days that
Mrs. Nichols was packing up, she was busy helping her to stow away the
“crockery,” which the old lady declared should go, particularly the
“blue set, which she’d had ever since the day but one before John was
born, and which she intended as a part of ’Leny’s settin’ out. Then,
too, John’s wife could use ’em when she had a good deal of company;
’twould save buyin’ new, and every little helped!”

“I wonder, now, if ’Tilda takes snuff,” said Mrs. Nichols, one day,
seating herself upon an empty drygoods box which stood in the middle of
the floor, and helping herself to an enormous pinch of her favorite
Maccaboy; “I wonder if she takes snuff, ’cause if she does, we shall
take a sight of comfort together.”

“I don’t much b’lieve she does,” answered Miss Nancy, whose face was
very red with trying to cram a pair of cracked bellows into the already
crowded top of John’s leathern trunk, “I don’t b’lieve she does, for
somehow it seems to me she’s a mighty nipped-up thing, not an atom like
you nor me.”

“Like enough,” returned Mrs. Nichols, finishing her snuff, and wiping
her fingers upon the corner of her checked apron; “but, Nancy, can you
tell me how in the world I’m ever going to carry this _mop_? It’s bran
new, never been used above a dozen times, and I can’t afford to give it
away.”

At this point, John, who was sitting in the adjoining room, came
forward. Hitherto he had not interfered in the least in his mother’s
arrangements, but had looked silently on while she packed away article
after article which she would never need, and which undoubtedly would
be consigned to the flames the moment her back was turned. The _mop_
business, however, was too much for him, and before Miss Nancy had time
to reply, he said, “For heaven’s sake, mother, how many traps do you
propose taking, and what do you imagine we can do with a mop? Why, I
dare say not one of my servants would know how to use it, and it’s a
wonder if some of the little chaps didn’t take it for a horse before
night.”

“A _nigger_ ride my mop! _my new mop_!” exclaimed Mrs. Nichols, rolling
up her eyes in astonishment, while Miss Nancy, turning to John, said,
“In the name of the people, how do you live without mops? I should
s’pose you’d rot alive!”

“I am not much versed in the mysteries of housekeeping,” returned John,
with a smile; “but it’s my impression that what little cleaning our
floors get is done with a cloth.”

“Wall, if I won’t give it up now,” said Miss Nancy. “As good an
abolutionist as you used to be, make the poor colored folks wash the
floor with a rag, on their hands and knees! It can’t be that you
indulge a hope, if you’ll do such things!”

John made Miss Nancy no answer, but turning to his mother, he said,
“I’m in earnest, mother, about your carrying so many useless things.
_We_ don’t want them. Our house is full now, and besides that, Mrs.
Livingstone is very particular about the style of her furniture, and I
am afraid yours would hardly come up to her ideas of elegance.”

“That chist of drawers,” said Mrs. Nichols, pointing to an
old-fashioned, high-topped bureau, “cost an ocean of money when ’twas
new, and if the brasses on it was rubbed up, ’Tilda couldn’t tell ’em
from gold, unless she’s seen more on’t than I have, which ain’t much
likely, bein’ I’m double her age.”

“The chest does very well for you, I admit,” said John; “but we have
neither use nor room for it, so if you can’t sell it, why, give it
away, or burn it, one or the other.”

Mrs. Nichols saw he was decided, and forthwith ’Lena was dispatched to
Widow Fisher’s, to see if she would take it at half price. The widow
had no fancy for second-hand articles, consequently Miss Nancy was told
“to keep it, and maybe she’d sometime have a chance to send it to
Kentucky. It won’t come amiss, I know, s’posin’ they be well on’t. I
b’lieve in lookin’ out for a rainy day. I can teach ’Tilda economy
yet,” whispered Mrs. Nichols, glancing toward the room where John sat,
whistling, whittling, and pondering in his own mind the best way if
reconciling his wife to what could not well be helped.

’Lena, who was naturally quick-sighted, had partially divined the cause
of her uncle’s moodiness. The more she saw of him the better she liked
him, and she began to think that she would willingly try to cure
herself of the peculiarities which evidently annoyed him, if he would
only notice her a little, which he was not likely to do. He seldom
noticed any child, much less little ’Lena, who he fancied was ignorant
as well as awkward; but he did not know her.

One day when, as usual, he sat whittling and thinking, ’Lena approached
him softly, and laying her hand upon his knee, said rather timidly,
“Uncle, I wish you’d tell me something about my cousins.”

“What about them,” he asked, somewhat gruffly, for it grated upon his
feelings to hear his daughters called cousin by her.

“I want to know how they look, and which one I shall like the best,”
continued ’Lena.

“You’ll like Anna the best,” said her uncle, and ’Lena asked, “Why!
What sort of a girl is she? Does she love to go to school and study?”

“None too well, I reckon,” returned her uncle, adding that “there were
not many little girls who did.”

“Why _I_ do,” said ’Lena, and her uncle, stopping for a moment his
whittling, replied rather scornfully, “_You_! I should like to know
what you ever studied besides the spelling-book!”

’Lena reddened, for she knew that, whether deservedly or not, she bore
the reputation of being an excellent scholar, for one of her age, and
now she rather tartly answered, “I study geography, arithmetic,
grammar, and——” history, she was going to add, but her uncle stopped
her, saying, “That’ll do, that’ll do. You study all these? Now I don’t
suppose you know what one of ’em is.”

“Yes, I do,” said ’Lena, with a good deal of spirit. “Olney’s geography
is a description of the earth; Colburn’s arithmetic is the science of
numbers: Smith’s grammar teaches us how to speak correctly.”

“Why don’t you do it then,” asked her uncle.

“Do what?” said ’Lena, and her uncle continued, “Why don’t you make
some use of your boasted knowledge of grammar? Why, my Anna has never
seen the inside of a grammar, as I know of, but she don’t _talk like
you do_.”

“Don’t _what_, sir?” said ’Lena,

“Don’t _talk like you do_,” repeated her uncle, while ’Lena’s eyes
fairly danced with mischief as she asked, “if that were good grammar.”

Mr. Livingstone colored, thinking it just possible that he himself
might sometimes be guilty of the same things for which he had so
harshly chided ’Lena, of whom from this time he began to think more
favorably. It could hardly be said that he treated her with any more
attention, and still there was a difference which she felt, and which
made her very happy.




CHAPTER IV.
ON THE ROAD.


At last the packing-up process came to an end, everything too poor to
sell, and too good to give away, had found a place—some here, some
there, and some in John’s trunk, among his ruffled bosoms, collars,
dickeys, and so forth. Miss Nancy, who stood by until the last, was
made the receiver of sundry cracked teacups, noseless pitchers, and
iron spoons, which could not be disposed of elsewhere.

And now every box and trunk was ready. Farmer Truesdale’s red wagon
stood at the door, waiting to convey them to the depot, and nothing
remained for Grandma Nichols, but to bid adieu to the old spot,
endeared to her by so many associations. Again and again she went from
room to room, weeping always, and lingering longest in the one where
her children were born, and where her husband and daughter had died. In
the corner stood the old low-post bedstead, the first she had ever
owned, and now how vividly she recalled the time long years before,
when she, a happy maiden, ordered that bedstead, blushing deeply at the
sly allusion which the cabinet maker made to her approaching marriage.
_He_, too, was with her, strong and healthy. Now, he was gone from her
side forever. _His_ couch was a narrow coffin, and the old bedstead
stood there, naked—empty. Seating herself upon it, the poor old lady
rocked to and fro, moaning in her grief, and wishing that she were not
going to Kentucky, or that it were possible now to remain at her
mountain home. Summoning all her courage, she gave one glance at the
familiar objects around her, at the flowers she had planted, and then
taking ’Lena’s hand, went down to the gate, where her son waited.

He saw she had been weeping, and though he could not appreciate the
cause of her tears, in his heart he pitied her, and his voice and
manner were unusually kind as he helped her to the best seat in the
wagon, and asked if she were comfortable. Then his eye fell upon her
dress, and his pity changed to anger as he wondered if she was wholly
devoid of taste. At the time of his father’s death, he purchased decent
mourning for both his mother and ’Lena; but these Mrs. Nichols
pronounced “altogether too good for the nasty cars; nobody’d think any
better of them for being rigged out in their best meetin’ gowns.”

So the bombazine was packed away, and in its place she wore a dark blue
and white spotted calico, which John could have sworn she had twenty
years before, and which was not unlikely, as she never wore out a
garment. She was an enemy to long skirts, hence hers came just to her
ankles, and as her black stockings had been footed with white, there
was visible a dark rim. Altogether she presented a rather grotesque
appearance, with her oblong work-bag, in which were her snuff-box,
brass spectacles and half a dozen “nutcakes,” which would “save John’s
buying dinner.”

Unlike her grandmother’s, ’Lena’s dress was a great deal too long, and
as she never wore pantalets, she had the look of a premature old woman,
instead of a child ten summers old, as she was. Still the uncommon
beauty of her face, and the natural gracefulness of her form, atoned in
a measure for the singularity of her appearance.

In the doorway stood Miss Nancy, and by her side her nephew, Joel
Slocum, a freckle-faced boy, who had frequently shown a preference for
’Lena, by going with her for her grandmother’s cow, bringing her
harvest apples, and letting her ride on his sled oftener than the other
girls at school. Strange to say, his affection was not returned, and
now, notwithstanding he several times wiped both eyes and nose, on the
end of which there was an enormous freck, ’Lena did not relent at all,
but with a simple “Good-bye, Jo,” she sprang into the wagon, which
moved rapidly away.

It was about five miles from the farmhouse to the depot, and when half
that distance had been gone over, Mrs. Nichols suddenly seized the
reins, ordering the driver to stop, and saying, “she must go straight
back, for on the shelf of the north room cupboard she had left a whole
paper of tea, which she couldn’t afford to lose!”

“_Drive on_,” said Johny rather angrily, at the same time telling his
mother that he could buy her a ton of tea if she wanted it.

“But that was already bought, and ’twould have saved so much,” said
she, softly wiping away a tear, which was occasioned partly by her
son’s manner, and partly by the great loss she felt she sustained in
leaving behind her favorite “old hyson.”

This _saving_ was a matter of which Grandma Nichols said so much, that
John, who was himself slightly avaricious, began to regret that he ever
knew the definition of the word _save_. Lest our readers get a wrong
impression of Mrs. Nichols, we must say that she possessed very many
sterling qualities, and her habits of extreme economy resulted more
from the manner in which she had been compelled to live, than from
natural stinginess. For this John hardly made allowance enough, and his
mother’s remarks, instead of restraining him, only made him more lavish
of his money than he would otherwise have been.

When Mrs. Nichols and ’Lena entered the cars, they of course attracted
universal attention, which annoyed John excessively. In Oakland, where
his mother was known and appreciated, he could bear it, but among
strangers, and with those of his own caste, it was different, so
motioning them into the first unoccupied seat, he sauntered on with an
air which seemed to say, “they were nothing to him,” and finding a
vacant seat at the other end of the car, he took possession of it.
Scarcely, however, had he entered into conversation with a gentleman
near him, when some one grasped his arm, and looking up, he saw his
mother, her box in one hand; and an enormous pinch of snuff in the
other.

“John,” said she, elevating her voice so as to drown the noise of the
cars, “I never thought on’t till this minit, but I’d just as lief ride
in the second-class cars as not, and it only costs half as much!”

Mr. Livingstone colored crimson, and bade her go back, saying that if
he paid the fare she needn’t feel troubled about the cost. Just as she
was turning to leave, the loud ring and whistle, as the train neared a
crossing, startled her, and in great alarm she asked if “somethin’
hadn’t bust!”

John made no answer, but the gentleman near him very politely explained
to her the cause of the disturbance, after which, she returned to her
seat. When the conductor appeared, he fortunately came in at the door
nearest John, who pointed out the two, for whom he had tickets, and
then turned again to converse with the gentleman, who, though a
stranger, was from Louisville, Kentucky, and whose acquaintance was
easily made. The sight of the conductor awoke in Mrs. Nichols’s brain a
new idea, and after peering out upon the platform, she went rushing up
to her son, telling him that: “the trunks, box, feather bed, and all,
were every one on ’em left!”

“No, they are not,” said John; “I saw them aboard myself.”

“Wall, then, they’re lost off, for as sure as you’re born, there ain’t
one on ’em in here; and there’s as much as twenty weight of new
feathers, besides all the crockery! Holler to ’em to stop quick!”

The stranger, pitying Mr. Livingstone’s chagrin, kindly explained to
her that there was a baggage car on purpose for trunks and the like,
and that her feather bed was undoubtedly safe. This quieted her, and
mentally styling him “a proper nice man,” she again returned to her
seat.

“A rare specimen of the raw Yankee,” said the stranger to John, never
dreaming in what relation she stood to him.

“Yes,” answered John, not thinking it at all necessary to make any
further explanations.

By this time Mrs. Nichols had attracted the attention of all the
passengers, who watched her movements with great interest. Among these
was a fine-looking youth, fifteen or sixteen years of age, who sat
directly in front of ’Lena. He had a remarkably open, pleasing
countenance, while there was that in his eyes which showed him to be a
lover of fun. Thinking he had now found it in a rich form, he turned
partly round, and would undoubtedly have quizzed Mrs. Nichols
unmercifully, had not something in the appearance of ’Lena prevented
him. This was also her first ride in the cars, but she possessed a tact
of concealing the fact, and if she sometimes felt frightened, she
looked in the faces of those around her, gathering from them that there
was no danger. She knew that her grandmother was making herself
ridiculous, and her eyes filled with tears as she whispered, “Do sit
still, granny; everybody is looking at you.”

The young lad noticed this, and while it quelled in him the spirit of
ridicule, it awoke a strange interest in ’Lena, who he saw was
beautiful, spite of her unseemly guise. She was a dear lover of nature,
and as the cars sped on through the wild mountain scenery, between
Pittsfield and Albany, she stood at the open window, her hands closely
locked together, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes wide with
wonder at the country through which they were passing. At her
grandmother’s suggestion she had removed her bonnet, and the brown
curls which clustered around her white forehead and neck were moved up
and down by the fresh breeze which was blowing. The youth was a
passionate admirer of beauty, come in what garb it might, and now as he
watched, he felt a strong desire to touch one of the glossy ringlets
which floated within his reach. There would be no harm in it, he
thought—“she was only a little girl, and he was _almost a man_—had
tried to shave, and was going to enter college in the fall.” Still he
felt some doubts as to the propriety of the act, and was about making
up his mind that he had better not, when the train shot into the
“tunnel,” and for an instant they were in total darkness. Quick as
thought his hand sought the brown curls, but they were gone, and when
the cars again emerged into daylight, ’Lena’s arms were around her
grandmother’s neck, trying to hold her down, for the old lady, sure of
a _smash-up_ this time, had attempted to rise, screaming loudly for
“_John_!”

The boy laughed aloud—he could not help it; but when ’Lena’s eyes
turned reprovingly upon him, he felt sorry; and anxious to make amends,
addressed himself very politely to Mrs. Nichols, explaining to her that
it was a “tunnel” through which they had passed, and assuring her there
was no danger whatever. Then turning to ’Lena, he said, “I reckon your
grandmother is not much accustomed to traveling.”

“No, sir,” answered ’Lena, the rich blood dyeing her cheek at being
addressed by a stranger.

It was the first time any one had ever said “_sir_” to the boy, and now
feeling quite like patronizing the little girl, he continued: “I
believe old people generally are timid when they enter the cars for the
first time.”

Nothing from ’Lena except a slight straightening up of her body, and a
smoothing down of her dress, but the ice was broken, and erelong she
and her companion were conversing as familiarly as if they had known
each other for years. Still the boy was not inquisitive—he did not ask
her name, or where she was going, though he told her that his home was
in Louisville, and that at Albany he was to take the boat for New York,
where his mother was stopping with some friends. He also told her that
the gentleman near the door, with dark eyes and whiskers, was his
father.

Glancing toward the person indicated, ’Lena saw that it was the same
gentleman who, all the afternoon, had been talking with her uncle. He
was noble looking, and she felt glad that he was the father of the
boy—he was just such a man, she fancied, as ought to be his father—just
such a man as she could wish her father to be—and then ’Lena felt glad
that the youth had asked her nothing concerning her parentage, for,
though her grandmother had seldom mentioned her father in her presence,
there were others ready and willing to inform her that he was a
villain, who broke her mother’s heart.

When they reached Albany, the boy rose, and offering his hand to ’Lena,
said “I suppose I must bid you good-bye, but I’d like right well to go
farther with you.”

At this moment the stranger gentleman came up, and on seeing how his
son was occupied, said smilingly, “So-ho! Durward, you always manage to
make some lady acquaintance.”

“Yes, father,” returned the boy called Durward, “but not always one
like this. Isn’t she pretty,” he added in a whisper.

The stranger’s eyes fell upon ’Lena’s face, and for a moment, as if by
some strange fascination, seemed riveted there; but the crowd pressed
him forward, and ’Lena only heard him reply to his son, “Yes, Durward,
very pretty; but hurry, or we shall lose the boat.”

The next moment they were gone. Leaning from the window, ’Lena tried to
catch another glimpse of him, but in vain. He was gone—she would never
see him again, she thought; and then she fell into a reverie concerning
his home, his mother, his sisters, if he had any, and finally ended by
wishing that she were his sister, and the daughter of his father. While
she was thus pondering, her grandmother, also, was busy, and when ’Lena
looked round for her she was gone. Stepping from the car, ’Lena espied
her in the distance, standing by her uncle and anxiously watching for
the appearance of her “great trunk, little trunk, band-box, and bag.”
Each of these articles was forthcoming, and in a few moments they were
on the ferry-boat crossing the blue waters of the Hudson, Mrs. Nichols
declaring that “if she’d known it wasn’t a bridge she was steppin’
onto, she’d be bound they wouldn’t have got her on in one while.”

“Do sit down,” said ’Lena; “the other people don’t seem to be afraid,
and I’m sure we needn’t.”

This Mrs. Nichols was more willing to do, as directly at her side was
another old lady, traveling for the first time, frightened and anxious.
To her Mrs. Nichols addressed herself, announcing her firm belief that
“she should be blew sky high before she reached Kentucky, where she was
going to live with her son John, who she supposed was well off, worth
twenty negroes or more; but,” she added, lowering her voice, “I don’t
b’lieve in no such, and I mean he shall set ’em free—poor critters,
duddin’ from mornin’ till night without a cent of pay. He says they
call him ‘master,’ but I’ll warrant he’ll never catch me a’callin’ him
so to one on ’em. I promised Nancy Scovandyke that I wouldn’t, and I
won’t!”

Here a little _popcorn_ boy came ’round, which reminded Mrs. Nichols of
her money, and that she hadn’t once looked after it since she started.
Thinking this as favorable a time as she would have, she drew from her
capacious pocket an old knit purse, and commenced counting out its
contents, piece by piece.

“Beware of pickpockets!” said some one in her ear, and with the
exclamation of “Oh the Lord!” the purse disappeared in her pocket, on
which she kept her hand until the boat touched the opposite shore. Then
in the confusion and excitement it was withdrawn, the purse was
forgotten, and when on board the night express for Buffalo it was again
looked for, _it was gone_!

With a wild outcry the horror-stricken matron sprang up, calling for
John, who in some alarm came to her side, asking what she wanted.

“I’ve lost my purse. Somebody’s stole it. Lock the door quick, and
search every man, woman, and child in the car!”

The conductor, who chanced to be present, now came up, demanding an
explanation, and trying to convince Mrs. Nichols how improbable it was
that any one present had her money.

“Stop the train then, and let me get off.”

“Had you a large amount?” asked the conductor.

“Every cent I had in the world. Ain’t you going to let me get off?” was
the answer.

The conductor looked inquiringly at John, who shook his head, at the
same time whispering to his mother not to feel so badly, as he would
give her all the money she wanted. Then placing a ten dollar bill in
her hand, he took a seat behind her. We doubt whether this would have
quieted the old lady, had not a happy idea that moment entered her
mind, causing her to exclaim loudly, “There, now, I’ve just this minute
thought. I hadn’t but _five_ dollars in my purse; t’other fifty I sewed
up in an old night-gown sleeve, and tucked it away in that satchel up
there,” pointing to ’Lena’s traveling bag, which hung over her head.
She would undoubtedly have designated the very corner of said satchel
in which her money could be found, had not her son touched her
shoulder, bidding her be silent and not tell everybody where her money
was, if she didn’t want it stolen.

Mrs. Nichols made no reply, but when she thought she was not observed,
she arose, and slyly taking down the satchel, placed it under her. Then
seating herself upon it, she gave a sigh of relief as she thought,
“they’d have to work hard to get it now, without her knowing it!” Dear
old soul, when arrived at her journey’s end, how much comfort she took
in recounting over and over again the incidents of the robbery,
wondering if it was, as John said, the very man who had so kindly
cautioned her to beware of pickpockets, and who thus ascertained where
she kept her purse. Nancy Scovandyke, too, was duly informed of her
loss, and charged when she came to Kentucky, “to look out on the
ferry-boat for a youngish, good-looking man, with brown frock coat,
blue cravat, and mouth full of white teeth.”

At Buffalo Mr. Livingstone had hard work to coax his mother on board
the steamboat, but he finally succeeded, and as the weather chanced to
be fine, she declared that ride on the lake to be the pleasantest part
of her journey. At Cleveland they took the cars for Cincinnati, going
thence to Lexington by stage. On ordinary occasions Mr. Livingstone
would have preferred the river, but knowing that in all probability he
should meet with some of his friends upon the boat, he chose the route
via Lexington, where he stopped at the Phoenix, as was his usual
custom.

After seeing his mother and niece into the public parlor he left them
for a time, saying he had some business to transact in the city.
Scarcely was he gone when the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hall
announced an arrival, and a moment after, a boy, apparently fifteen
years of age, appeared in the door. He was richly though carelessly
dressed, and notwithstanding the good-humored expression of his rather
handsome face, there was in his whole appearance an indescribable
something which at once pronounced him to be a “fast” boy. A rowdy hat
was set on one side of his head, after the most approved fashion, while
in his hand he held a lighted cigar, which he applied to his mouth when
he saw the parlor was unoccupied, save by an “old woman” and a “little
girl.”

Instinctively ’Lena shrank from him, and withdrawing herself as far as
possible within the recess of the window, pretended to be busily
watching the passers-by. But she did not escape his notice, and after
coolly surveying her for a moment, he walked up to her, saying, “How
d’ye, polywog? I’ll be hanged if I know to what gender you belong—woman
or _gal_—which is it, hey?”

“None of your business,” was ’Lena’s ready answer.

“Spunky, ain’t you,” said he, unceremoniously pulling one of the brown
curls which Durward had so longed to touch. “Seems to me your hair
don’t match the rest of you; wonder if ’tisn’t somebody else’s head set
on your shoulders.”

“No, it ain’t. It’s my own head, and you just let it alone,” returned
’Lena, growing more and more indignant, and wondering if this were a
specimen of Kentucky boys.

“Don’t be saucy,” continued her tormentor; “I only want to see what
sort of stuff you are made of.”

“Made of _dirt_” muttered ’Lena.

“I reckon you are,” returned the boy; “but say, where _did_ you come
from and who _do_ you live with?”

“I came from Massachusetts, and I live with _granny_,” said ’Lena,
thinking that if she answered him civilly, he would perhaps let her
alone. But she was mistaken.

Glancing at “_granny_,” he burst into a loud laugh, and then placing
his hat a little more on one side, and assuming a nasal twang, he said,
“Neow dew tell, if you’re from Massachusetts. How dew you dew, little
Yankee, and how are all the folks to hum?”

Feeling sure that not only herself but all her relations were included
in this insult, ’Lena darted forward hitting him a blow in the face,
which he returned by puffing smoke into hers, whereupon she snatched
the cigar from his mouth and hurled it into the street, bidding him
“touch her again if he dared.” All this transpired so rapidly that Mrs.
Nichols had hardly time to understand its meaning, but fully
comprehending it now, she was about coming to the rescue, when her son
reappeared, exclaiming, “_John_, John Livingstone, Jr., how came you
here?”

Had a cannon exploded at the feet of John Jr., as he was called, he
could not have been more startled. He was not expecting his father for
two or three days, and was making the most of his absence by having
what he called a regular “spree.” Taking him altogether, he was,
without being naturally bad, a spoiled child, whom no one could manage
except his father, and as his father seldom tried, he was of course
seldom managed. Never yet had he remained at any school more than two
quarters, for if he were not sent away, he generally ran away, sure of
finding a champion in his mother, who had always petted him, calling
him, “Johnny darling,” until he one day very coolly informed her that
she was “a silly old fool,” and that “he’d thank her not to ‘Johnny
darling’ him any longer.”

It would be difficult to describe the amazement of John Jr. when ’Lena
was presented to him as his _cousin_, and Mrs. Nichols as his
_grandmother_. Something which sounded very much like an oath escaped
his lips, as turning to his father he muttered, “Won’t mother go into
fits?” Then, as he began to realize the ludicrousness of the whole
affair, he exclaimed, “Rich, good, by gracious!” and laughing loudly,
he walked away to regale himself with another cigar.

Lena began to tremble for her future happiness, if this boy was to live
in the same house with her. She did not know that she had already more
than half won his good opinion, for he was far better pleased with her
antagonistical demonstrations, than he would have been had she cried or
ran from him, as his sister Anna generally did when he teased her.
After a few moments here turned to the parlor, and walking up to Mrs.
Nichols, commenced talking very sociably with her, calling her
“Granny,” and winking slyly at ’Lena as he did so. Mr. Livingstone had
too much good sense to sit quietly by and hear his mother ridiculed by
his son, and in a loud, stern voice he bade the young gentleman “behave
himself.”

“Law, now,” said Mrs. Nichols, “let him talk if he wants to. I like to
hear him. He’s the only grandson I’ve got.”

This speech had the effect of silencing John Jr. quite as much as his
father’s command. If he could tease his grandmother by talking to her,
he would take delight in doing so, but if she _wanted_ him to talk—that
was quite another thing. So moving away from her, he took a seat near
’Lena, telling her her dress was “a heap too short,” and occasionally
pinching her, just to vary the sport! This last, however, ’Lena
returned with so much force that he grew weary of the fun, and
informing her that he was going to a _circus_ which was in town that
evening, he arose to leave the room.

Mr. Livingstone, who partially overheard what he had said, stopped him
and asked “where he was going?”

Feigning a yawn and rubbing his eyes, John Jr. replied that “he was
confounded sleepy and was going to bed.”

“’Lena, where did he say he was going?” asked her uncle.

’Lena trembled, for John Jr. had clinched his fist, and was shaking it
threateningly at her.

“Where did he say he was going?” repeated her uncle.

Poor ’Lena had never told a lie in her life, and now braving her
cousin’s anger, she said, “To the circus, sir. Oh, I wish you had not
asked me.”

“You’ll get your pay for that,” muttered John Jr. sullenly reseating
himself by his father, who kept an eye on him until he saw him safely
in his room.

Much as John Jr. frightened ’Lena with his threats, in his heart he
respected her for telling the truth, and if the next morning on their
way home in the stage, in which his father compelled him to take a
seat, he frequently found it convenient to step on her feet, it was
more from a natural propensity to torment than from any lurking feeling
of revenge. ’Lena was nowise backward in returning his cousinly
attentions, and so between an interchange of kicks, wry faces, and so
forth, they proceeded toward “Maple Grove,” a description of which will
be given in another chapter.




CHAPTER V.
MAPLE GROVE.


The residence of Mr. Livingstone, or rather of Mr. Livingstone’s wife,
was a large, handsome building, such as one often finds in Kentucky,
particularly in the country. Like most planters’ houses, it stood at
some little distance from the street, from which its massive walls,
wreathed with evergreen, were just discernible. The carriage road which
led to it passed first through a heavy iron gate guarded by huge bronze
lions, so natural and life-like, that Mrs. Nichols, when first she saw
them, uttered a cry of fear. Next came a beautiful maple grove,
followed by a long, green lawn, dotted here and there with forest trees
and having on its right a deep running brook, whose waters, farther on
at the rear of the garden, were formed into a miniature fish-pond.

The house itself was of brick—two storied, and surrounded on three
sides with a double piazza, whose pillars were entwined with climbing
roses, honey-suckle, and running vines, so closely interwoven as to
give it the appearance of an immense summer-house. In the spacious yard
in front, tall shade trees and bright green grass were growing, while
in the well-kept garden at the left, bloomed an endless variety of
roses and flowering shrubs, which in their season filled the air with
perfume, and made the spot brilliant with beauty. Directly through the
center of this garden ran the stream of which we have spoken, and as
its mossy banks were never disturbed, they presented the appearance of
a soft, velvety ridge, where each spring the starry dandelion and the
blue-eyed violet grew.

Across the brook two small foot-bridges had been built, both of which
were latticed and overgrown by luxuriant grape-vines, whose dark, green
foliage was now intermingled with clusters of the rich purple fruit. At
the right, and somewhat in the rear of the building, was a group of
linden trees, overshadowing the whitewashed houses of the negroes, who,
imitating as far as possible the taste of their master, beautified
their dwellings with hop-vines, creepers, hollyhocks and the like.
Altogether, it was as ’Lena said, “just the kind of place which one
reads of in stories,” and which is often found at the “sunny south.”
The interior of the building corresponded with the exterior, for with
one exception, the residence of a wealthy Englishman, Mrs. Livingstone
prided herself upon having the best furnished house in the county;
consequently neither pains nor money had been spared in the selection
of the furniture, which was of the most costly kind.

Carrie, the eldest of the daughters, was now about thirteen years of
age. Proud, imperious, deceitful, and self-willed, she was hated by the
servants, and disliked by her equals. Some thought her pretty. _She_
felt sure of it, and many an hour she spent before the mirror, admiring
herself and anticipating the time when she would be a grown-up lady,
and as a matter of course, a belle. Her mother unfortunately belonged
to that class who seem to think that the chief aim in life is to secure
a “brilliant match,” and thinking she could not commence too soon, she
had early instilled into her favorite daughter’s mind the necessity of
appearing to the best possible advantage, when in the presence of
wealth and distinction, pointing out her own marriage as a proof of the
unhappiness resulting from unequal matches. In this way Carrie had
early learned that her father owed his present position to her mother’s
condescension in marrying him—that he was once a poor boy living among
the northern hills—that his parents were poor, ignorant and vulgar—and
that there was with them a little girl, their daughter’s child, who
never had a father, and whom she must never on any occasion call her
cousin.

All this had likewise been told to Anna, the youngest daughter, who was
about ’Lena’s age, but upon her it made no impression. If her father
was once poor, he was in her opinion none the worse for that—and if
_he_ liked his parents, that was a sufficient reason why she should
like them too, and if little ’Lena was an orphan, she pitied her, and
hoped she might sometime see her and tell her so! Thus Anna reasoned,
while her mother, terribly shocked at her low-bred taste, strove to
instill into her mind some of her own more aristocratic notions. But
all in vain, for Anna was purely democratic, loving everybody and
beloved by everybody in return. It is true she had no particular liking
for books or study of any kind, but she was gentle and affectionate in
her manner, and kindly considerate of other people’s feelings. With her
father she was a favorite, and to her he always looked for sympathy,
which she seldom failed to give—not in words, it is true, but whenever
he seemed to be in trouble, she would climb into his lap, wind her arms
around his neck, and laying her golden head upon his shoulder, would
sit thus until his brow and heart grew lighter as he felt there was yet
something in the wide world which loved and cared for him.

For Carrie Mrs. Livingstone had great expectations, but Anna she feared
would never make a “brilliant match.” For a long time Anna meditated
upon this, wondering what a “brilliant match” could mean, and at last
she determined to seek an explanation from Captain Atherton, a bachelor
and a millionaire, who was in the habit of visiting them, and who
always noticed and petted her more than he did Carrie. Accordingly, the
next time he came, and they were alone in the parlor, she broached the
subject, asking him what it meant.

Laughing loudly, the Captain drew her toward him, saying, “Why,
marrying rich, you little novice. For instance, if one of these days
you should be my little wife, I dare say your mother would think you
had made a brilliant match!” and the well-preserved gentleman of forty
glanced complacently at himself in the mirror thinking how probable it
was that his youthfulness would be unimpaired for at least ten years to
come!

Anna laughed, for to her his words then conveyed no serious meaning,
but with more than her usual quickness she replied, that “she would as
soon marry her grandfather.”

With Mrs. Livingstone the reader is partially acquainted. In her youth
she had been pretty, and now at thirty-eight she was not without
pretensions to beauty, notwithstanding her sallow complexion and sunken
eyes, Her hair, which was very abundant, was bright and glossy, and her
mouth, in which the dentist had done his best, would have been
handsome, had it not been for a certain draw at the corners, which gave
it a scornful and rather disagreeable expression. In her disposition
she was overbearing and tyrannical, fond of ruling, and deeming her
husband a monster of ingratitude if ever in any way he manifested a
spirit of rebellion. Didn’t she marry him? and now they were married,
didn’t her money support him? And wasn’t it exceedingly amiable in her
always to speak of their children as _ours_! But as for the rest, ’twas
_my_ house, _my_ servants, _my_ carriage, and _my_ horses. All
_mine_—“Mrs. John Livingstone’s—Miss Matilda Richards that was!”

Occasionally, however, her husband’s spirit was roused, and then, after
a series of tears, sick-headaches, and then spasms, “Miss Matilda
Richards that Was” was compelled to yield her face for many days
wearing the look of a much-injured, heart-broken woman. Still her
influence over him was great, else she had never so effectually
weakened every tie which bound him to his native home, making him
ashamed of his parents and of everything pertaining to them. When her
husband first wrote, to her that his father was dead and that he had
promised to take charge of his mother and ’Lena, she flew into a
violent rage, which was increased ten-fold when she received his second
letter, wherein he announced his intention of bringing them home in
spite of her. Bursting into tears she declared “she’d leave the house
before she’d have it filled up with a lot of paupers. Who did John
Nichols think he was, and who did he think she was! Besides that, where
was he going to put them? for there wasn’t a place for them that she
knew of!”

“Why, mother,” said Anna who was pleased with the prospect of a new
grandmother and cousin, “Why, mother, what a story. There’s the two big
chambers and bedrooms, besides the one next to Carrie’s and mine. Oh,
do put them in there. It’ll be so nice to have grandma and cousin ’Lena
so near me.”

“Anna Livingstone!” returned the indignant lady, “Never let me hear you
say grandma and cousin again.”

“But they be grandma and cousin,” persisted Anna, while her mother
commenced lamenting the circumstance which had made them so, wishing,
as she had often done before, that she had never married John Nichols.

“I reckon you are not the only one that wishes so,” slyly whispered
John Jr., who was a witness to her emotion.

Anna was naturally of an inquiring mind, and her mother’s last remark
awoke within her a new and strange train of thought, causing her to
wonder whose little girl she would have been, her father’s or mother’s,
in case they had each married some one else! As there was no one whose
opinion Anna dared to ask, the question is undoubtedly to this day,
with her, unsolved.

The next morning when Mrs. Livingstone arose, her anger of the day
before was somewhat abated, and knowing from past experience that it
was useless to resist her husband when once he was determined, she
wisely concluded that as they were now probably on the road, it was
best to try to endure, for a time, at least, what could not well be
helped. And now arose the perplexing question, “What should she do with
them? where should she put them that they would be the most out of the
way? for she could never suffer them to be round when she had company.”
The chamber of which Anna had spoken was out of the question, for it
was too nice, and besides that, it was reserved for the children of her
New Orleans friends, who nearly every summer came up to visit her.

At the rear of the building was a long, low room, containing a
fireplace and two windows, which looked out upon the negro quarters and
the hemp fields beyond. This room, which in the summer was used for
storing feather-beds, blankets, and so forth, was plastered, but minus
either paper or paint. Still it was quite comfortable, “better than
they were accustomed to at home,” Mrs. Livingstone said, and this she
decided to give them. Accordingly the negroes were set at work
scrubbing the floor, washing the windows, and scouring the sills, until
the room at least possessed the virtue of being clean. A faded carpet,
discarded as good for nothing, and over which the rats had long held
their nightly revels, was brought to light, shaken, mended, and nailed
down—then came a bedstead, which Mrs. Livingstone had designed as a
Christmas gift to one of the negroes, but which of course would do well
enough for her mother-in-law. Next followed an old wooden
rocking-chair, whose ancestry Anna had tried in vain to trace, and
which Carrie had often proposed burning. This, with two or three more
chairs of a later date, a small wardrobe, and a square table, completed
the furniture of the room, if we except the plain muslin curtains which
shaded the windows, destitute of blinds. Taking it by itself, the room
looked tolerably well, but when compared with the richly furnished
apartments around it, it seemed meager and poor indeed; “but if they
wanted anything better, they could get it themselves. They were welcome
to make any alterations they chose.”

This mode of reasoning hardly satisfied Anna, and unknown to her mother
she took from her own chamber a handsome hearth-rug, and carrying it to
her grandmother’s room, laid it before the fireplace. Coming
accidentally upon a roll of green paper, she, with the help of Corinda,
a black girl, made some shades for the windows, which faced the west,
rendering the room intolerably hot during the summer season. Then, at
the suggestion of Corinda, she looped back the muslin curtains with
some green ribbons, which she had intended using for her “dolly’s
dress.” The bare appearance of the table troubled her, but by
rummaging, she brought to light a cast-off spread, which, though soiled
and worn, was on one side quite handsome.

“Now, if we only had something for the mantel,” said she; “it seems so
empty.”

Corinda thought a moment, then rolling up the whites of her eyes,
replied, “Don’t you mind them little pitchers” (meaning vases) “which
Master Atherton done gin you? They’d look mighty fine up thar, full of
sprigs and posies.”

Without hesitating a moment Anna brought the vases, and as she did not
know the exact time when her grandmother would arrive, she determined
to fill them with fresh flowers every morning.

“There, it looks a heap better, don’t it, Carrie?” said she to her
sister, who chanced to be passing the door and looked in.

“You must be smart,” answered Carrie, “taking so much pains just for
them; and as I live, if you haven’t got those elegant vases that
Captain Atherton gave you for a birthday present! I know mother won’t
like it. I mean to tell her;” and away she ran with the important news.

“There, I told you so,” said she, quickly returning. “She says you
carry them straight back and let the room alone.”

Anna began to cry, saying “the vases were hers, and she should think
she might do what she pleased with them.”

“What did you go and blab for, you great for shame, you?” exclaimed
John Jr., suddenly appearing in the doorway, at the same time giving
Carrie a push, which set her to crying, and brought Mrs. Livingstone to
the scene of action,

“Can’t my vases stay in here? Nobody’ll hurt ’em, and they’ll look so
pretty,” said Anna.

“Can’t that hateful John behave, and let me alone?” said Carrie.

“And can’t Carrie quit sticking her nose in other folks’ business?”
chimed in John Jr.

“Oh Lordy, what a fuss,” said Corinda, while poor Mrs. Livingstone,
half distracted, took refuge under one of her dreadful headaches, and
telling her children “to fight their own battles and let her alone,”
returned to her room.

“A body’d s’pose marster’s kin warn’t of no kind of count,” said Aunt
Milly, the head cook, to a group of sables, who, in the kitchen, were
discussing the furniture of the “trump’ry room,” as they were in the
habit of calling the chamber set apart for Mrs. Nichols. “Yes, they
would s’pose they warn’t of no kind o’ count, the way miss goes on,
ravin’ and tarin’ and puttin’ ’em off with low-lived truck that we
black folks wouldn’t begin to tache with the tongs. Massy knows ef my
ole mother warn’t dead and gone to kingdom come, I should never think
o’ sarvin’ her so, and I don’t set myself up to be nothin’ but an old
nigger, and a black one at that. But Lor’ that’s the way with more’n
half the white folks. They jine the church, and then they think they
done got a title deed to one of them houses up in heaven (that nobody
ever built) sure enough. Goin’ straight thar, as fast as a span of
race-horses can carry ’em. Ki! Won’t they be disappointed, some on ’em,
and Miss Matilda ’long the rest, when she drives up, hosses all a
reekin’ sweat, and spects to walk straight into the best room, but is
told to go to the kitchen and turn hoe-cakes for us niggers, who are
eatin’ at the fust table, with silver forks and napkins——?”

Here old Milly stopped to breathe, and her daughter Vine, who had
listened breathlessly to her mother’s description of the “good time
coming,” asked “when these things come to pass, if Miss Carrie wouldn’t
have to swing the feathers over the table to keep off the flies,
instead of herself?”

“Yes, that she will, child,” returned her mother; “Things is all gwine
to be changed in the wink of your eye. Miss Anna read that very tex’ to
me last Sunday and I knew in a minit what it meant. Now thar’s Miss
Anna, blessed lamb. She’s one of ’em that’ll wear her white gowns and
stay in t’other room, with her face shinin’ like an ile lamp!”

While this interesting conversation was going on in the kitchen, John
Jr., in the parlor was teasing his mother for money, with which to go
up to Lexington the next day. “You may just as well give it to me
without any fuss,” said he, “for if you don’t, I’ll get my bills at the
Phoenix charged. The old man is good, and they’ll trust. But then a
feller feels more independent when he can pay down, and treat a friend,
if he likes; so hand over four or five Vs.”

At first Mrs. Livingstone refused, but her head ached so hard and her
“nerves trembled so,” that she did not feel equal to the task of
contending with John Jr., who was always sure in the end to have his
own way. Yielding at last to his importunities, she gave him fifteen
dollars, charging him to “keep out of bad company and be a good boy.”

“Trust me for that,” said he, and pulling the tail of Anna’s pet
kitten, upsetting Carrie’s work-box, poking a black baby’s ribs with
his walking cane, and knocking down a cob-house, which “Thomas
Jefferson” had been all day building, he mounted his favorite
“Firelock,” and together with a young negro, rode off.

“The Lord send us a little peace now,” said Aunt Milly, tossing her
squalling baby up in the air, and telling Thomas Jefferson not to cry,
“for his young master was done gone off.”

“And I hope to goodness he’ll stay off a spell,” she added, “for thar’s
ole Sam to pay the whole time he’s at home, and if ever thar was a
tickled critter in this world it’s me, when he clar’s out.”

“I’m glad, too,” said Anna, who had been sent to the kitchen to stop
the screaming, “and I wish he’d stay ever so long, for I don’t take a
bit of comfort when he’s at home.”

“Great hateful! I wish he didn’t live here,” said Carrie, gathering up
her spools, thimble and scissors, while Mrs. Livingstone, feeling that
his absence had taken a load from her shoulders, settled herself upon
her silken lounge and tried to sleep.

Amid all this rejoicing at his departure, John Jr. put spurs to the
fleet Firelock, who soon carried him to Lexington, where, as we have
seen, he came unexpectedly upon his father, who, not daring to trust
him on horseback, lest he should play the truant, took him into the
stage with himself, leaving Firelock to the care of the negro.




CHAPTER VI.
THE ARRIVAL.


“Oh, mother, get up quick—the stage has driven up at the gate, and I
reckon pa has come,” said Anna, bursting into the room where her
mother, who was suffering from a headache, was still in bed.

Raising herself upon her elbow, and pushing aside the rich, heavy
curtains, Mrs. Livingstone looked out upon the mud-bespattered vehicle,
from which a leg, encased in a black and white stocking, was just
making its egress. “Oh, heavens!” said she, burying her face again in
the downy pillows. Woman’s curiosity, however, soon prevailed over all
other feelings, and again looking out she obtained a full view of her
mother-in-law, who, having emerged from the coach, was picking out her
boxes, trunks, and so forth. When they were all found, Mr. Livingstone
ordered two negroes to carry them to the side piazza, where they were
soon mounted by three or four little darkies, Thomas Jefferson among
the rest.

“John, _John_” said Mrs. Nichols, “them niggers won’t scent my things,
will they?”

“Don’t talk, granny,” whispered ’Lena, painfully conscious of the
curious eyes fixed upon them by the bevy of blacks, who had come out to
greet their master, and who with sidelong glances at each other, were
inspecting the new comers.

“Don’t talk! why not?” said Mrs. Nichols, rather sharply. “This is a
free country I suppose.” Then bethinking herself, she added quickly,
“Oh, I forgot, ’taint free _here_!”

After examining the satchel and finding that the night gown sleeve was
safe, Mrs. Nichols took up her line of march for the house, herself
carrying her umbrella and band-box, which she would not intrust to the
care of the negroes, “as like enough they’d break the umberell, or
squash her caps.”

“The trumpery room is plenty good enough for ’em,” thought Corinda,
retreating into the kitchen and cutting sundry flourishes in token of
her contempt.

The moment ’Lena came in sight, Mrs. Livingstone exclaimed, “Oh, mercy,
which is the oldest?” and truly, poor ’Lena did present a sorry figure,

Her bonnet, never very handsome or fashionable, had received an ugly
crook in front, which neither her grandmother or uncle had noticed, and
of which John Jr. would not tell her, thinking that the worse she
looked the more fun he would have! Her skirts were not very full, and
her dress hung straight around her, making her of the same bigness from
her head to her feet. Her shoes, which had been given to her by one of
the neighbors, were altogether too large, and it was with considerable
difficulty that she could keep them on, but then as they were a
present, Mrs. Nichols said “it was a pity not to get all the good out
of them she could.”

In front of herself and grandmother, walked Mr. Livingstone, moody,
silent, and cross. Behind them was John Jr., mimicking first ’Lena’s
gait and then his grandmother’s. The negroes, convulsed with laughter,
darted hither and thither, running against and over each other, and
finally disappearing, some behind the house and some into the kitchen,
and all retaining a position from which they could have a full view of
the proceedings. On the piazza stood Anna and Carrie, the one with her
handkerchief stuffed in her mouth, and the other with her mouth open,
astounded at the unlooked-for spectacle.

“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” groaned Mrs. Livingstone.

“Do? Get up and dress yourself, and come and see your new relations:
that’s what I should do,” answered John Jr., who, tired of mimicking,
had run forward, and now rushed unceremoniously into his mother’s
sleeping-room, leaving the door open behind him.

“John Livingstone, what do you mean?” said she, “shut that door this
minute.”

Feigning not to hear her, John Jr. ran back to the piazza, which he
reached just in time to hear the presentation of his sisters.

“This is Carrie, and this is Anna,” said Mr. Livingstone, pointing to
each one as he pronounced her name.

Marching straight up to Carrie and extending her hand, Mrs. Nichols
exclaimed, “Now I want to know if this is Car’line. I’d no idee she was
so big. You pretty well, Car’line?”

Very haughtily Carrie touched the ends of her grandmother’s fingers,
and with stately gravity replied that she was well.

Turning next to Anna, Mrs. Nichols continued, “And this is Anny. Looks
weakly ’pears to me, kind of blue around the eyes as though she was
fitty. Never have fits, do you, dear?”

“No, ma’am,” answered Anna, struggling hard to keep from laughing
outright.

Here Mr. Livingstone inquired for his wife, and on being told that she
was sick, started for her room.

“Sick? Is your marm sick?” asked Mrs. Nichols of John Jr. “Wall, I
guess I’ll go right in and sea if I can’t do somethin’ for her. I’m
tolerable good at nussin’.”

Following her son, who did not observe her, she entered unannounced
into the presence of her elegant daughter-in-law, who, with a little
shriek, covered her head with the bed-clothes. Knowing that she meant
well, and never dreaming that she was intruding, Mrs. Nichols walked up
to the bedside, saying, “How de do, ’Tilda? I suppose you know I’m your
mother—come all the way from Massachusetts to live with you. What is
the matter? Do you take anything for your sickness?”

A groan was Mrs. Livingstone’s only answer.

“Little hystericky, I guess,” suggested Mrs. Nichols, adding that
“settin’ her feet in middlin’ hot water is good for that.”

“She is nervous, and the sight of strangers makes her worse. So I
reckon you’d better go out for the present,” said Mr. Livingstone, who
really pitied his wife. Then calling Corinda, he bade her show his
mother to her room.

Corinda obeyed, and Mrs. Nichols followed her, asking her on the way
“what her surname was, how old she was, if she knew how to read, and if
she hadn’t a good deal rather be free than to be a slave!” to which
Corinda replied, that “she didn’t know what a surname meant, that she
didn’t know how old she was, that she didn’t know how to read, and that
she didn’t know whether she’d like to be free or not, but reckoned she
shouldn’t.”

“A half-witted gal that,” thought Mrs. Nichols, “and I guess ’Tilda
don’t set much store by her.” Then dropping into the wooden
rocking-chair and laying aside her bonnet, she for the first time
noticed that ’Lena was not with her, and asked Corinda to go for her.

Corinda complied, leaving the room just in time to stifle a laugh, as
she saw Mrs. Nichols stoop down to examine the hearth-rug, wondering
“how much it cost when ’twas new.”

We left ’Lena standing on the steps of the piazza.

At a glance she had taken in the whole—had comprehended that there was
no affinity whatever between herself and the objects around her, and a
wild, intense longing filled her heart to be once more among her native
hills. She had witnessed the merriment of the blacks, the scornful curl
of Carrie’s lip, the half-suppressed ridicule of Anna, when they met
her grandmother, and now uncertain of her own reception, she stood
before her cousins not knowing whether to advance or run away. For a
moment there was an awkward silence, and then John Jr., bent on
mischief, whispered to Carrie, “Look at that pinch in her bonnet, and
just see her shoes! Big as little sailboats!”

This was too much for Lena. She already disliked John Jr., and now,
flying into a violent passion, she drew off her shoes, and hurling them
at the young gentleman’s head fled away, away, she knew not, cared not
whither, so that she got out of sight and hearing. Coming at last to
the arbor bridge across the brook in the garden, she paused for breath,
and throwing herself upon a seat, burst into a flood of tears. For
several minutes she sobbed so loudly that she did not hear the sound of
footsteps upon the graveled walk. Anna had followed her, partly out of
curiosity, and partly out of pity, the latter of which preponderated
when she saw how bitterly her cousin was weeping. Going up to her she
said, “Don t cry so, ’Lena. Look up and talk. It’s Anna, your cousin.”

’Lena had not yet recovered from her angry fit, and thinking Anna only
came to tease her, and perhaps again ridicule her bonnet, she tore the
article, from her head, and bending it up double, threw it into the
stream, which carried it down to the fish-pond, where for two or three
hours it furnished amusement for some little negroes, who, calling it a
crab, fished for it with hook and line! For a moment Anna stood
watching the bonnet as it sailed along down the stream, thinking it
looked better there than on its owner’s head, but wondering why ’Lena
had thrown it away. Then again addressing her cousin, she asked why she
had done so?

“It’s a homely old thing, and I hate it,” answered ’Lena, again
bursting into tears. “I hate everybody, and I wish I was dead, or back
in Massachusetts, I don’t care which!”

With her impressions of the “Bay State,” where her mother said folks
lived on “cold beans and codfish,” Anna thought she should prefer the
first alternative, but she did not say so; and after a little she tried
again to comfort ’Lena, telling her “she liked her, or at least she was
going to like her a heap.”

“No, you ain’t,” returned ’Lena. “You laughed at me and granny both. I
saw you do it, and you think I don’t know anything, but I do. I’ve been
through Olney’s geography, and Colburn’s arithmetic twice!”

This was more than Anna could say. She had no scholarship of which to
boast; but she had a heart brimful of love, and in reply to ’Lena’s
accusation of having laughed at her, she replied, “I know I laughed,
for grandma looked so funny I couldn’t help it. But I won’t any more. I
pity you because your mother is dead, and you never had any father, ma
says.”

This made ’Lena cry again, while Anna continued, “Pa’ll buy you some
new clothes I reckon, and if he don’t, I’ll give you some of mine, for
I’ve got heaps, and they’ll fit you I most know. Here’s my mark—”
pointing to a cut upon the door-post. “Here’s mine, and Carrie’s and
brother’s. Stand up and see if you don’t measure like I do,”

’Lena complied, and to Anna’s great joy they were just of a height.

“I’m so glad,” said she. “Now, come to my room and Corinda will fix you
up mighty nice before mother sees you.”

Hand-in-hand the two girls started for the house, but had not gone far
when they heard some one calling, “Ho, Miss ’Lena, whar is you? Ole
miss done want you.” At the same time Corinda made her appearance round
the corner of the piazza.

“Here, Cora,” said Anna. “Come with me to my room; I want you.”

With a broad grin Corinda followed her young mistress, while ’Lena,
never having been accustomed to any negro save the one with whom many
New England children are threatened when they cry, clung closer to
Anna’s side, occasionally casting a timid glance toward the dark-browed
girl who followed them. In the upper hall they met with Carrie, who in
passing ’Lena held back her dress, as if fearing contamination from a
contact with her cousin’s plainer garments. Painfully alive to the
slightest insult, ’Lena reddened, while Anna said, “Never mind—that’s
just like Cad, but nobody cares for _her_.”

Thus reassured ’Lena followed on, until they reached Anna’s room, which
they were about to enter, when the shrill voice of Mrs. Nichols fell
upon their ears, calling, “’Leny, ’Leny, where upon airth is she?”

“Let’s go to her first,” said ’Lena, and leading the way Anna soon
ushered her into her grandmother’s room which, child as she was, ’Lena
readily saw was far different from the handsome apartments of which she
had obtained a passing glance.

But Mrs. Nichols had not thought of this—and was doubtless better
satisfied with her present quarters than she would have been with the
best furnished chamber in the house. The moment her granddaughter
appeared, she exclaimed, “’Leny Rivers, where have you been? I was
worried to death, for fear you might be runnin’ after some of them
paltry niggers. And now whilst I think on’t, I charge you never to go a
nigh ’em; I’d no idee they were such half-naked, nasty critters.”

This prohibition was a novelty to Anna, who spent many happy hours with
her sable-hued companions, never deeming herself the worse for it. Her
grandmother’s first remark, however, struck her still more forcibly,
and she immediately asked, “Grandma, what did you call ’Lena, just now?
’Lena what?”

“I called her by her name, ’Lena Rivers. What should I call her?”
returned Mrs. Nichols.

“Why, I thought her name was ’Lena Nichols; ma said ’twas,” answered
Anna.

Mrs. Nichols was very sensitive to any slight cast upon ’Lena’s birth,
and she rather tartly informed Anna, that “her mother didn’t know
everything,” adding that “’Lena’s father was Mr. Rivers, and there
wasn’t half so much reason why she should be called Nichols as there
was why Anna should, for that was her father’s name, the one by which
he was baptized, the same day with Nancy Scovandyke, who’s jest his
age, only he was born about a quarter past four in the morning, and she
not till some time in the afternoon!”

“But where is Mr. Rivers?” asked Anna more interested in him than in
the exact minute of her father’s birth.

“The Lord only knows,” returned Mrs. Nichols. “Little girls shouldn’t
ask too many questions.”

This silenced Anna, and satisfied her that there was some mystery
connected with ’Lena. The mention of Nancy Scovandyke reminded Mrs.
Nichols of the dishes which that lady had packed away, and anxious to
see if they were safe, she turned to ’Lena saying, “I guess we’ll have
time before dinner to unpack my trunks, for I want to know how the
crockery stood the racket. Anny, you run down and tell your pa to fetch
’em up here, that’s a good girl.”

In her eagerness to know what those weather-beaten boxes contained,
Anna forgot her scheme of dressing ’Lena, and ran down, not to call her
father, but the black boy, Adam. It took her a long time to find him,
and Mrs. Nichols, growing impatient, determined to go herself, spite of
’Lena’s entreaties that she would stay where she was. Passing down the
long stairway, and out upon the piazza, she espied a negro girl on her
hands and knees engaged in cleaning the steps with a cloth. Instantly
remembering her mop, she greatly lamented that she had left it
behind—“’twould come so handy now,” thought she, but there was no help
for it.

Walking up to the girl, whose name she did not know, she said, “Sissy,
can you tell me where _John_ is?”

Quickly “Sissy’s” ivories became visible, as she replied, “We hain’t
got any such nigger as John.”

With a silent invective upon negroes in general, and this one in
particular, Mrs. Nichols choked, stammered, and finally said, “I didn’t
ask for a _nigger_; I want your master, _John_!”

Had the old lady been a Catholic, she would have crossed herself for
thus early breaking her promise to Nancy Scovandyke. As it was, she
mentally asked forgiveness, and as the colored girl “didn’t know where
marster was,” but “reckoned he had gone somewhar,” she turned aside,
and seeking her son’s room, again entered unannounced. Mrs.
Livingstone, who was up and dressed, frowned darkly upon her visitor.
But Mrs. Nichols did not heed it, and advancing forward, she said, “Do
you feel any better, ’Tilda? I’d keep kinder still to-day, and not try
to do much, for if you feel any consarned about the housework, I’d just
as lief see to’t a little after dinner as not.”

“I have all confidence in Milly’s management, and seldom trouble myself
about the affairs of the kitchen,” answered Mrs. Livingstone.

“Wall, then,” returned her mother-in-law, nothing daunted, “Wall, then,
mebby you’d like to have me come in and set with you a while.”

It would be impossible for us to depict Mrs. Livingstone’s look of
surprise and anger at this proposition. Her face alternately flushed
and then grew pale, until at last she found voice to say, “I greatly
prefer being alone, madam. It annoys me excessively to have any one
round.”

“Considerable kind o’ touchy,” thought Mrs. Nichols, “but then the poor
critter is sick, and I shan’t lay it up agin her.”

Taking out her snuff-box, she offered it to her daughter, telling her
that “like enough ’twould cure her headache.” Mrs. Livingstone’s first
impulse was to strike it from her mother’s hand, but knowing how
unladylike that would be, she restrained herself, and turning away her
head, replied, “Ugh! no! The very sight of it makes me sick.”

“How you do talk! Wall, I’ve seen folks that it sarved jest so; but
you’ll get over it. Now there was Nancy Scovandyke—did John ever say
anything about her? Wall, she couldn’t bear snuff till after her
disappointment—John told you, I suppose?”

“No, madam, my husband has never told me anything concerning his
eastern friends, neither do I wish to hear anything of them,” returned
Mrs. Livingstone, her patience on the point of giving out.

“Never told you nothin’ about Nancy Scovandyke! If that don’t beat all!
Why, he was——”

She was prevented from finishing the sentence, which would undoubtedly
have raised a domestic breeze, when Anna came to tell her that the
trunks were carried to her room.

“I’ll come right up then,” said she, adding, more to herself than any
one else, “If I ain’t mistaken, I’ve got a little paper of saffron
somewhere, which I mean to steep for ’Tilda. Her skin looks desput
jandissy!”

When Mr. Livingstone again entered his wife’s room, he found her in a
collapsed state of anger and mortification.

“_John_ Nichols,” said she, with a strong emphasis on the first word,
which sounded very much like _Jarn_, “do you mean to kill me by
bringing that vulgar, ignorant thing here, walking into my room without
knocking—calling me ’_Tilda_, and prating about Nancy somebody——”

John started. His wife knew nothing of his _affaire du cœur_ with Miss
Nancy, and for his own peace of mind ’twas desirable that she should
not. Mentally resolving to give her a few hints, he endeavored to
conciliate his wife, by saying that he knew “his mother was
troublesome, but she must try not to notice her oddities.”

“I wonder how I can help it, when she forces herself upon me
continually,” returned his wife. “I must either deep the doors locked,
or live in constant terror.”

“It’s bad, I know,” said he, smoothing her glossy hair, “but then,
she’s old, you know. Have you seen ’Lena?”

“No, neither do I wish to, if she’s at all like her grandmother,”
answered Mrs. Livingstone.

“She’s handsome,” suggested Mr. Livingstone.

“Pshaw! handsome!” repeated his wife, scornfully, while he replied,
“Yes, handsomer than either of our daughters, and with the same
advantages, I’ve no doubt she’d surpass them both.”

“Those advantages, then, she shall never have,” returned Mrs.
Livingstone, already jealous of a child she had only seen at a
distance.

Mr. Livingstone made no reply, but felt that he’d made a mistake in
praising ’Lena, in whom he began to feel a degree of interest for which
he could not account. He did not know that way down in the depths of
his heart, calloused over as it was by worldly selfishness, there was
yet a tender spot, a lingering memory of his only sister whom ’Lena so
strongly resembled. If left to himself, he would undoubtedly have taken
pride in seeing his niece improve, and as it was, he determined that
she should at home receive the same instruction that his daughters did.
Perhaps he might not send her away to school. He didn’t know how that
would be—his wife held the purse, and taking refuge behind that excuse,
he for the present dismissed the subject. (So much for marrying a
_rich_ wife and nothing else. This we throw in gratis!)

Meantime grandma had returned to her room, at the door of which she
found John Jr. and Carrie, both curious to know what was in those
boxes, one of which had burst open and been tied up with a rope.

“Come, children,” said she, “don’t stay out there—come in.”

“We prefer remaining here,” said Carrie, in a tone and manner so nearly
resembling her mother, that Mrs. Nichols could not refrain from saying,
“chip of the old block!”

“That’s so, by cracky. You’ve hit her this time, granny,” exclaimed
John Jr., snapping his fingers under Carrie’s nose, which being rather
long, was frequently a subject of his ridicule.

“Let me be, John Livingstone,” said Carrie, while ’Lena resolved never
again to use the word “granny,” which she knew her cousin had taken up
on purpose to tease her.

“Come, ’Lena, catch hold and help me untie this rope, I b’lieve the
crockery’s in here,” said Mrs. Nichols to ’Lena, who soon opened the
chest, disclosing to view as motley a variety of articles as is often
seen.

Among the rest was the “blue set,” a part of her “setting out,” as his
grandmother told John Jr., at the same time dwelling at length upon
their great value. Mistaking Carrie’s look of contempt for envy, Mrs.
Nichols chucked her under the chin, telling her “May be there was
something for her, if she was a good girl.”

“Now, Cad, turn your nose up clear to the top of your head,” said John
Jr., vastly enjoying his sister’s vexation.

“Where does your marm keep her china? I want to put this with it,” said
Mrs. Nichols to Anna, who, uncertain what reply to make, looked at
Carrie to answer for her.

“I reckon mother don’t want that old stuff stuck into her
china-closet,” said Carrie, elevating her nose to a height wholly
satisfactory to John Jr., who unbuttoned one of his waistband buttons
to give himself room to laugh.

“Mortal sakes alive! I wonder if she don’t,” returned Mrs. Nichols,
beginning to get an inkling of Carrie’s character, and the estimation
in which her valuables were held.

“Here’s a nice little cupboard over the fireplace; I’d put them here,”
said ’Lena.

“Yes,” chimed in John Jr., imitating both his grandmother and cousin;
“yes, granny, put ’em there; the niggers are _awful critters_ to steal,
and like enough you’d ’lose ’em if they sot in with marm’s!”

This argument prevailed. The dishes were put away in the cupboard,
’Lena thinking that with all his badness John Jr., was of some use
after all. At last, tired of looking on, Anna suggested to ’Lena, who
did not seem to be helping matters forward much, that the should go and
be dressed up as had been first proposed. Readily divining her sister’s
intention, Carrie ran with it to her mother, who sent back word that
“’Lena must mind her own affairs, and let Anna’s dresses alone!”

This undeserved thrust made ’Lena cry, while Anna declared “her mother
never said any such thing,” which Carrie understood as an insinuation
that she had told a falsehood. Accordingly a quarrel of words ensued
between the two sisters, which was finally quelled by John Jr., who
called to Carrie “to come down, as she’d got a letter from _Durward
Bellmont_.”

Durward! How that name made ’Lena’s heart leap! Was it _her_
Durward—the boy in the cars? She almost hoped not, for somehow the idea
of his writing to Carrie was not a pleasant one. At last summoning
courage, she asked Anna who he was, and was told that he lived in
Louisville with his stepfather, Mr. Graham, and that Carrie about two
months before had met him in Frankfort at Colonel Douglass’s, where she
was in the habit of visiting. “Colonel Douglass,” continued Anna, “has
got a right nice little girl whose name is Nellie. Then there’s Mabel
Ross, a sort of cousin, who lives with them part of the time. She’s an
orphan and a great heiress. You mustn’t tell anybody for the world, but
I overheard ma say that she wanted John to marry Mabel, she’s so
rich—but pshaw! he won’t for she’s awful babyish and ugly looking.
Captain Atherton is related to Nellie, and during the holidays she and
Mabel are coming up to spend a week, and I’ll bet Durward is coming
too. Cad teased him, and he said may be he would if he didn’t go to
college this fall. I’ll run down and see.”

Soon returning, she brought the news that it was as she had
conjectured. Durward, who was now travelling, was not going to college
until the next fall and at Christmas he was coming to the country with
his cousin.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Anna. “We’ll have a time, for ma’ll invite them
here, of course. Cad thinks a heap of Durward, and I want so bad to see
him. Don’t you?”

’Lena made no direct reply, for much as she would like to see her
_compagnon du voyage_, she felt an unwillingness to meet him in the
presence of Carrie, who she knew would spare no pains to mortify her.
Soon forgetting Durward, Anna again alluded to her plan of dressing
’Lena, wishing “Cad would mind her own business.” Then, as a new idea
entered her head, she brightened up, exclaiming, “I know what I can do.
I’ll have Corinda curl your hair real pretty. You’ve got beautiful
hair. A heap nicer than my yellow flax.”

’Lena offered no remonstrance, and Corinda, who came at the call of her
young mistress, immediately commenced brushing and curling the bright,
wavy hair which Anna had rightly called beautiful. While this was going
on, Grandma Nichols, who had always adhered to the good old puritanical
custom of dining exactly at twelve o’clock, began to wonder why dinner
was not forthcoming. She had breakfasted in Versailles, but like many
travelers, could not eat much at a hotel, and now her stomach clamored
loudly for food. Three times had she walked back and forth before what
she supposed was the kitchen, and from which a savory smell of
something was issuing, and at last determining to stop and reconnoiter,
she started for the door.

The northern reader at all acquainted with southern life, knows well
that a kitchen there and a kitchen here are two widely different
things—ours, particularly in the country, being frequently used as a
dining-room, while a southern lady would almost as soon think of eating
in the barn as in her cook-room. Like most other planters, Mr.
Livingstone’s kitchen was separate and at some little distance from the
main building, causing grandma to wonder “how the poor critters managed
to carry victuals back and to when it was cold and slippery.”

When Aunt Milly, who was up to her elbows in dough, saw her visitor
approaching, she exclaimed, “Lor’-a-mighty, if thar ain’t ole miss
coming straight into this lookin’ hole! Jeff, you quit that ar’ pokin’
in dem ashes, and knock Lion out that kittle; does you har? And you,
Polly,” speaking to a superannuated negress who was sitting near the
table, “you just shove that ar’ piece of dough, I done save to bake for
you and me, under your char, whar she won’t see it.”

Polly complied, and by this time Mrs. Nichols was at the door,
surveying the premises, and thinking how differently she’d make things
look after a little.

“Does missus want anything?” asked Aunt Milly, and grandma replied,
“Yes, I want to know if ’tain’t nigh about _noon_.”

This is a term never used among the blacks, and rolling up her white
eyes, Aunt Milly answered, “You done got me now, sartin, for this chile
know nothin’ what you mean more’n the deadest critter livin’.”

As well as she could, Mrs. Nichols explained her meaning, and Aunt
Milly replied, “Oh, yes, yes, I know now. ‘Is it most _dinner time?’
Yes—dinner’ll be done ready in an hour. We never has it till two no
day, and when we has company not till three.”

Confident that she should starve, Mrs. Nichols advanced a step or two
into the kitchen, whereupon Aunt Milly commenced making excuses,
saying, “she was gwine to clar up one of these days, and then if Thomas
Jefferson and Marquis De Lafayette didn’t quit that litterin’ they’d
cotch it”

Attracted by the clean appearance of Aunt Polly, who, not having to
work, prided herself upon always being neatly dressed, Mrs. Nichols
walked up to her, and, to use a vulgar expression, the two old ladies
were soon “hand-in-glove,” Mrs. Nichols informing her of her loss, and
how sorry Nancy Scovandyke would feel when she heard of it, and ending
by giving her the full particulars of her husband’s sickness and death.
In return Aunt Polly said that “she was born and bred along with ole
Marster Richards, Miss Matilda’s father, and that she, too, had buried
a husband.”

With a deep sigh, Mrs. Nichols was about, to commiserate her, when Aunt
Polly cut her short by saying, “’Twant of no kind o’ count, as she
never relished him much.”

“Some drunken critter, I warrant,” thought Mrs. Nichols, at the same
time asking what his name was.

“Jeems,” said Aunt Polly.

This was not definite enough for Mrs. Nichols, who asked for the
surname, “Jeems what?”

“Jeems Atherton, I reckon, bein’ he ’longed to ole Marster Atherton,”
said Polly.

For a time Mrs. Nichols had forgotten her hunger but the habit of sixty
years was not so easily broken and she now hinted so strongly of the
emptiness of her stomach that Aunt Polly, emboldened by her
familiarity, said, “I never wait for the rest, but have my cup of tea
or coffee just when I feel like it, and if missus wouldn’t mind takin’
a bite with a nigger, she’s welcome.”

“Say nothin’ about it. We shall all be white in heaven.”

“Dat am de trufe,” muttered Milly, mentally assigning Mrs. Nichols a
more exalted occupation than that of turning hoe-cakes!

Two cups and saucers were forthwith produced, Milly acting as a waiter
for fear Aunt Polly would leave her seat and so disclose to view the
loaf of bread which had been hidden under the chair! Some coffee was
poured from the pot, which still stood on the stove, and then the
little negroes, amused with the novelty of the thing, ran shouting and
yelling that, “ole miss was eatin’ in the kitchen ’long with Lion, Aunt
Polly and the other dogs!”

The coffee being drank, Mrs. Nichols returned to the house, thinking
“what sights of comfort she should take with _Mrs. Atherton_,” whom she
pronounced to be “a likely, clever woman as ever was.”

Scarcely had she reached her room when the dinner-bell rang, every note
falling like an ice-bolt on the heart of ’Lena, who, though hungry like
her grandmother, still greatly dreaded the dinner, fearing her
inability to acquit herself creditably. Corinda had finished her hair,
and Anna, looking over her wardrobe and coming upon the black dress
which her father had purchased for her, had insisted upon ’Lena’s
wearing it. It was of rather more modern make than any of her other
dresses, and when her toilet was completed, she looked uncommonly well.
Still she trembled violently as Anna led her to the dining-room.

Neither Mrs. Nichols nor Mrs. Livingstone had yet made their
appearance, but the latter soon came languidly in, wrapped in a
rose-colored shawl, which John Jr., said “she wore to give a delicate
tint to her yellow complexion.” She was in the worst of humors, having
just been opening her husband’s trunk, where she found the numerous
articles which had been stowed away by Nancy Scovandyke. Very angrily
she had ordered them removed from her sight, and at this very moment
the little negroes in the yard were playing with the cracked bellows,
calling them a “blubber,” and filling them with water to see it run
out!

Except through the window, Mrs. Livingstone had not yet seen ’Lena, and
now dropping into her chair, she never raised her eyes until Anna said,
“Mother, mother, this is ’Lena. Look at her.”

Thus importuned, Mrs. Livingstone looked up, and the frown with which
she was prepared to greet her niece softened somewhat, for ’Lena was
not a child to be looked upon and despised. Plain and humble as was her
dress, there was something in her fine, open face, which at once
interested and commanded respect, John Jr., had felt it; his father had
felt it; and his mother felt it too, but it awoke in her a feeling of
bitterness as she thought how the fair young girl before her might in
time rival her daughters. At a glance, she saw that ’Lena was
beautiful, and that it was quite as much a beauty of intellect as of
feature and form.

“Yes,” thought she, “husband was right when he said that, with the same
advantages, she’d soon outstrip her cousins—but it shall never
be—_never_,” and the white teeth shut firmly together, as the cold,
proud woman bowed a welcome.

At this moment Mrs. Nichols appeared. Stimulated by the example of
’Lena, she, too, had changed her dress, and now in black bombazine,
white muslin cap, and shining silk apron, she presented so respectable
an appearance that her son’s face instantly brightened.

“Come, mother, we are waiting for you,” said he, as she stopped on her
way to ask Vine, the _fly girl_, “how she did, and if it wasn’t hard
work to swing them feathers.”

Not being very bright, Vine replied with a grim, “Dun know, miss.”

Taking her seat next to her son, Mrs. Nichols said when offered a plate
of soup, “I don’t often eat broth, besides that, I ain’t much hungry,
as I’ve just been takin’ a bite with _Miss Atherton_?”

“With whom?” asked Mr. Livingstone, John Jr., Carrie, and Anna, in the
same breath.

“With Miss Polly Atherton, that nice old colored lady in the kitchen,”
said Mrs. Nichols.

The scowl on Mrs. Livingstone’s face darkened visibly, while her
husband, thinking it time to speak, said, “It is my wish, mother, that
you keep away from the kitchen. It does the negroes no good to be
meddled with, and besides that, when you are hungry the servants will
take you something.”

“Accustomed to eat in the kitchen, probably,” muttered Carrie, with all
the air of a young lady of twenty.

“Hold on to your nose, Cad,” whispered John Jr., thereby attracting his
sister’s attention to himself.

By this time the soup was removed, and a fine large turkey appeared.

“What a noble great feller. Gobbler, ain’t it?” asked Mrs. Nichols,
touching the turkey with the knife.

John Jr., roared, and was ordered from the table by his father, while
’Lena, who stepped on her grandmother’s toes to keep her from talking,
was told by that lady “to keep her feet still.” Along with the desert
came ice-cream, which Mrs. Nichols had never before tasted, and now
fancying that she was dreadfully burned, she quickly deposited her
first mouthful upon her plate.

“What’s the matter, grandma? Can’t you eat it?” asked Anna.

“Yes, I kin eat it, but I don’t hanker arter it,” answered her
grandmother, pushing the plate aside.

Dinner being over, Mrs. Nichols returned to her room, but soon growing
weary, she started out to view the premises. Coming suddenly upon a
group of young negroes, she discovered her bellows, the water dripping
from the nose, while a little farther on she espied ’Lena’s bonnet,
which the negroes had at last succeeded in catching, and which, wet as
it was, now adorned the head of Thomas Jefferson! In a trice the old
lady’s principles were forgotten, and she cuffed the negroes with a
right good will, hitting Jeff, the hardest, and, as a matter of course,
making him yell the loudest. Out came Aunt Milly, scolding and
muttering about “white folks tendin’ to thar own business,” and
reversing her decision with regard to Mrs. Nichols’ position in the
next world. Cuff, the watch-dog, whose kennell was close by, set up a
tremendous howling, while John Jr., always on hand, danced a jig to the
sound of the direful music.

“For heaven’s sake, husband, go out and see what’s the matter,” said
Mrs. Livingstone, slightly alarmed at the unusual noise.

John complied, and reached the spot just in time to catch a glimpse of
John Jr.’s heels as he gave the finishing touch to his exploit, while
Mrs. Nichols, highly incensed, marched from the field of battle with
the bonnet and bellows, thinking “if them niggers was only her’n they’d
catch it!”




CHAPTER VII.
MALCOLM EVERETT.


It would be tiresome both to ourselves and our readers, were we to
enumerate the many mortifications which both Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone
were compelled to endure from their mother, who gradually came to
understand her true position in the family. One by one her ideas of
teaching them economy were given up, as was also all hopes of ever
being at all familiar with her daughter, whom, at her son’s request,
she had ceased to call “’Tilda.”

“Mebby you want me to say Miss Livingstone,” said she, “but I shan’t.
I’ll call her Miss Nichols, or Matilda, just which she chooses.”

Of course Mrs. Livingstone chose the latter, wincing, though, every
time she heard it. Dreading a scene which he knew was sure to follow a
disclosure of his engagement with Miss Nancy, Mr. Livingstone had
requested his mother to keep it from his wife, and she, appreciating
his motive, promised secrecy, lamenting the while the ill-fortune which
had prevented Nancy from being her daughter-in-law, and dwelling
frequently upon the comfort she should take were Nancy there in
Matilda’s place. On the whole, however, she was tolerably contented;
the novelty of Kentucky life pleased her, and at last, like most
northern people, she fell in with the habits of those around her. Still
her Massachusetts friends were not forgotten, and many a letter,
wonderful for its composition and orthography, found its way to Nancy
Scovandyke, who wrote in return that “some time or other she should
surely visit Kentucky,” asking further if the “big bugs” didn’t prefer
eastern teachers for their children, and hinting at her desire to
engage in that capacity when she came south!

“Now, that’s the very thing,” exclaimed Mrs. Nichols, folding the
letter (directed wrong side up) and resuming her knitting. “Nancy’s
larnin’ is plenty good enough to teach Caroline and Anny, and I mean to
speak to John about it right away.”

“I wouldn’t do any such thing,” said ’Lena, seeing at a glance how such
a proposal would be received.

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Nichols, and ’Lena replied, “I don’t think Nancy
would suit Aunt Livingstone at all, and besides that, they’ve engaged a
teacher, a Mr. Everett, and expect him next week.”

“You don’t say so?” returned Mrs. Nichols. “I never hearn a word on’t.
Where ’bouts is he from, and how much do they give him a week?”

The latter ’Lena knew nothing about, but she replied that “she believed
he was from Rockford, a village near Rochester, New York.”

“Why, Nancy Scovandyke’s sister lives there. I wouldn’t wonder if he
knew her.”

“Very likely,” returned Lena, catching her bonnet and hurrying off to
ride with Captain Atherton and Anna.

As we have once before observed, Anna was a great favorite with the
captain, who had petted her until John Jr. teased her unmercifully,
calling him her gray-haired lover, and the like. This made Anna
exceedingly sensitive, and now when the captain called for her to ride,
as he frequently did, she refused to go unless the invitation was also
extended to ’Lena, who in this way got many a pleasant ride around the
country. She was fast learning to like Kentucky, and would have been
very happy had her aunt and Carrie been a little more gracious. But the
former seldom spoke to her, and the latter only to ridicule something
which she said or did.

Many and amusing were the disputes between the two girls concerning
their peculiarities of speech, Carrie bidding ’Lena “quit her Yankee
habit of eternally _guessing_,” and ’Lena retorting that “she would
when Carrie stopped her everlasting _reckoning_.” To avoid the remarks
of the neighbors, who she knew were watching her narrowly, Mrs.
Livingstone had purchased ’Lena two or three dresses, which, though
greatly inferior to those worn by Carrie and Anna, were still
fashionably made, and so much improved ’Lena’s looks, that her manners
improved, also, for what child does not appear to better advantage when
conscious of looking well? More than once had her uncle’s hand rested
for a moment on her brown curls, while his thoughts were traversing the
past, and in fancy his fingers were again straying among the silken
locks now resting in the grave. It would seem as if the mother from her
coffin was pleading for her child, for all the better nature of Mr.
Livingstone was aroused; and when he secured the services of Mr.
Everett, who was highly recommended both as a scholar and gentleman, he
determined that ’Lena should share the same advantages with his
daughters. To this Mrs. Livingstone made no serious objection, for as
Mr. Everett would teach in the house, it would not do to debar ’Lena
from the privilege of attending his school; and as the highest position
to which she could aspire was to be governess in some private family,
she felt willing, she said, that she should have a chance of acquiring
the common branches.

And now Mr. Everett was daily expected. Anna, who had no fondness for
books, greatly dreaded his arrival, thinking within herself how many
pranks she’d play off upon him, provided ’Lena would lend a helping
hand, which she much doubted. John Jr., too, who for a time, at least,
was to be placed under Mr. Everett’s instruction, felt in no wise eager
for his arrival, fearing, as he told ’Lena that “between the ‘old man’
and the tutor, he would be kept a little too straight for a gentleman
of his habits;” and it was with no particular emotions of pleasure that
he and Anna saw the stage stop before the gate one pleasant morning
toward the middle of November. Running to one of the front windows,
Carrie, ’Lena, and Anna watched their new teacher, each after her own
fashion commenting upon his appearance.

“Ugh,” exclaimed Anna, “what a green, boyish looking thing! I reckon
nobody’s going to be afraid of him.”

“I say he’s real handsome,” said Carrie, who being thirteen years of
age, had already, in her own mind, practiced many a little coquetry
upon the stranger.

“I like him,” was ’Lena’s brief remark.

Mr. Everett was a pale, intellectual looking man, scarcely twenty years
of age, and appearing still younger so that Anna was not wholly wrong
when she called him boyish. Still there was in his large black eye a
firmness and decision which bespoke the man strong within him, and
which put to flight all of Anna’s preconceived notions of rebellion.
With the utmost composure he returned Mrs. Livingstone’s greeting, and
the proud lady half bit her lip with vexation as she saw how little he
seemed awed by her presence.

Malcolm Everett was not one to acknowledge superiority where there was
none, and though ever polite toward Mrs. Livingstone, there was
something in his manner which forbade her treating him as aught save an
equal. He was not to be trampled down, and for once in her life Mrs.
Livingstone had found a person who would neither cringe to her nor
flatter. The children were not presented to him until dinner time,
when, with the air of a young desperado, John Jr. marched into the
dining-room, eying, his teacher askance, calculating his strength, and
returning his greeting with a simple nod. Mr. Everett scanned him from
head to foot, and then turned to Carrie half smiling at the great
dignity which she assumed. With ’Lena and Anna he seemed better
pleased, holding their hands and smiling down upon them through rows of
teeth which Anna pronounced the whitest she had ever seen.

Mr. Livingstone was not at home, and when his mother appeared, Mrs.
Livingstone did not think proper to introduce her. But if by this
omission she thought to keep the old lady silent, she was mistaken, for
the moment Mrs. Nichols was seated, she commenced with, “Your name is
Everett, I b’lieve?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said he, bowing very gracefully toward her.

“Any kin to the governor that was?”

“No, ma’am, none whatever,” and the white teeth became slightly visible
for a moment, but soon disappeared.

“You are from Rockford, ’Lena tells me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Have you friends there?”

“Yes—or that is, Nancy Scovandyke’s sister, Betsy Scovandyke that used
to be, lives there. May be you know her. Her name is Bacon—Betsy Bacon.
She’s a widder and keeps boarders.”

“Ah,” said he, the teeth this time becoming wholly visible, “I’ve heard
of Mrs. Bacon, but have not the honor of her acquaintance. You are from
the east, I perceive.”

“Law, now! how did you know that!” asked Mrs. Nichols, while Mr.
Everett answered, “I _guessed_ at it,” with a peculiar emphasis on the
word guessed, which led ’Lena to think he had used it purposely and not
from habit.

Mr. Everett possessed in a remarkable degree the faculty of making
those around him both respect and like him, and ere six weeks had
passed, he had won the love of all his pupils. Even John Jr. was
greatly improved, and Carrie seemed suddenly reawakened into a thirst
for knowledge, deeming no task too long, and no amount of study too
hard, if it won the commendation of her teacher. ’Lena, who committed
to memory with great ease, and who consequently did not deserve so much
credit for her always perfect lessons, seldom received a word of
praise, while poor Anna, notoriously lazy when books were concerned,
cried almost every day, because as she said, “Mr. Everett didn’t like
her as he did the rest, else why did he look at her so much, watching
her all the while, and keeping her after school to get her lessons
over, when he knew how she hated them.”

Once Mrs. Livingstone ventured to remonstrate, telling him that Anna
was very sensitive, and required altogether different treatment from
Carrie. “She thinks you dislike her,” said she, “and while she retains
this impression, she will do nothing as far as learning is concerned;
so if you do not like her, try and make her think you do!”

There was a peculiar look in Mr. Everett’s dark eyes as he answered,
“You may think it strange, Mrs. Livingstone, but of all my pupils I
love Anna the best! I know I find more fault with her, and am perhaps
more severe with her than with the rest, but it’s because I would make
her what I wish her to be. Pardon me, madam, but Anna does not possess
the same amount of intellect with her cousin or sister, but by proper
culture she will make a fine, intelligent woman.”

Mrs. Livingstone hardly relished being told that one child was inferior
to the other, but she could not well help herself—Mr. Everett would say
what he pleased—and thus the conference ended. From that time Mr.
Everett was exceedingly kind to Anna, wiping away the tears which
invariably came when told that she must stay with him in the
school-room after the rest were gone; then, instead of seating himself
in rigid silence at a distance until her task was learned, he would sit
by her side, occasionally smoothing her long curls and speaking
encouragingly to her as she pored over some hard rule of grammar, or
puzzled her brains with some difficult problem in Colburn. Erelong the
result of all this became manifest. Anna grew fonder of her books, more
ready to learn, and—more willing to be kept after school!

Ah, little did Mrs. Livingstone think what she was doing when she bade
young Malcolm Everett make her warm-hearted, impulsive daughter _think_
he liked her!




CHAPTER VIII.
SCHEMING.


“Mother, where’s ’Lena’s dress? Hasn’t she got any?” asked Anna, one
morning, about two weeks before Christmas, as she bent over a
promiscuous pile of merinoes, delaines, and plaid silks, her own and
Carrie’s dresses for the coming holidays. “Say, mother, didn’t you buy
’Lena any?”

Thus interrogated, Mrs. Livingstone replied, “I wonder if you think I’m
made of money! ’Lena is indebted to me now for more than she can ever
pay. As long as I give her a home and am at so much expense in
educating her, she of course can’t expect me to dress her as I do you.
There’s Carrie’s brown delaine and your blue one, which I intend to
have made over for her, and she ought to be satisfied with that, for
they are much better than anything she had when she came here.”

And the lady glanced toward the spot where ’Lena sat, admiring the new
things, in which she had no share, and longing to ask the question
which Anna had asked for her, and which had now been answered. John
Jr., who was present, and who knew that Mr. Everett had been engaged to
teach in the family long before it was known that ’Lena was coming, now
said to his cousin, who arose to leave, “Yes, ’Lena, mother’s a model
of generosity, and you’ll never be able to repay her for her kindness
in allowing you to wear the girls’ old duds, which would otherwise be
given to the blacks, and in permitting you to recite to Mr. Everett,
who, of course, was hired on your account.”

The slamming together of the door as ’Lena left the room brought the
young gentleman’s remarks to a close, and wishing to escape the lecture
which he saw was preparing for him, he, too, made his exit.

Christmas was coming, and with it Durward Bellmont, and about his
coming Mrs. Livingstone felt some little anxiety. Always scheming, and
always looking ahead, she was expecting great results from this visit.
Durward was not only immensely wealthy, but was also descended on his
father’s side from one of England’s noblemen. Altogether he was, she
thought, a “decided catch,” and though he was now only sixteen, while
Carrie was but thirteen, lifelong impressions had been made at even an
earlier period, and Mrs. Livingstone resolved that her pretty daughter
should at least have all the advantages of dress with which to set off
her charms. Concerning Anna’s appearance she cared less, for she had
but little hope of her, unless, indeed—but ’twas too soon to think of
that—she would wait, and perhaps in good time ’twould all come round
naturally and as a matter of course. So she encouraged her daughter’s
intimacy with Captain Atherton, who, until Malcolm Everett appeared,
was in Anna’s estimation the best man living. Now, however, she made an
exception in favor of her teacher, “who,” as she told the captain,
“neither wore false teeth, nor kept in his pocket a pair of specks, to
be slyly used when he fancied no one saw him.”

Captain Atherton coughed, colored, laughed, and saying that “Mr.
Everett was a mash kind of a boy,” swore eternal enmity toward him, and
under the mask of friendship—watched! Eleven years before, when Anna
was a baby, Mrs. Livingstone had playfully told the captain, who was
one day deploring his want of a wife, that if he would wait he should
have her daughter. To this he agreed, and the circumstance, trivial as
it was, made a more than ordinary impression upon his mind; and though
he as yet had no definite idea that the promise would ever be
fulfilled, the little girl was to him an object of uncommon interest.
Mrs. Livingstone knew this, and whenever Anna’s future prospects were
the subject of her meditations, she generally fell back upon that fact
as an item not to be despised.

Now, however, her thoughts were turned into another and widely
different channel. Christmas week was to be spent by Durward Bellmont
partly at Captain Atherton’s and partly at her own house, and as Mrs.
Livingstone was not ignorant of the effect a becoming dress has upon a
pretty face, she determined that Carrie should, at least, have that
advantage. Anna, too, was to fare like her sister, while no thought was
bestowed upon poor ’Lena’s wardrobe, until her husband, who accompanied
her to Frankfort, suggested that a certain pattern, which he fancied
would be becoming to ’Lena should be purchased.

With an angry scowl, Mrs. Livingstone muttered something about
“spending so much money for other folks’ young ones.” Then remembering
the old delaines, and knowing by the tone of her husband’s voice that
he was in earnest, she quickly rejoined, “Why, ’Lena’s got two new
dresses at home.”

Never doubting his wife’s word, Mr. Livingstone was satisfied, and
nothing more was said upon the subject. Business of importance made it
necessary for him to go for a few weeks to New Orleans, and he was now
on his way thither, his wife having accompanied him as far as
Frankfort, where he took the boat, while she returned home. When ’Lena
left the room after learning that she had no part in the mass of
Christmas finery, she repaired to the arbor bridge, where she had wept
so bitterly on the first day of her arrival, and which was now her
favorite resort. For a time she sat watching the leaping waters,
swollen by the winter rains, and wondering if it were not possible that
they started at first from the pebbly spring which gushed so cool and
clear from the mountain-side near her old New England home. This
reminded her of where and what she was now—a dependent on the bounty of
those who wished her away, and who almost every day of her life made
her feel it so keenly, too. Not one among them loved her except Anna,
and would not her affection change as they grew older? Then her
thoughts took another direction.

Durward Bellmont was coming—but did she wish to see him? Could she bear
the sneering remarks which she knew Carrie would make concerning
herself? And how would he be affected by them? Would he ask her of her
father? and if so, what had she to say?

Many a time had she tried to penetrate the dark mystery of her birth,
but her grandmother was wholly non-committal. Once, too, when her uncle
seemed kinder than usual, she had ventured to ask him of her father,
and with a frown he had replied, that “the least she knew of him the
better!” Still ’Lena felt sure that he was a good man, and that some
time or other she would find him.

All day long the clouds had been threatening rain, which began to fall
soon after ’Lena entered the arbor, but so absorbed was she in her own
thoughts, that she did not observe it until her clothes were perfectly
dampened; then starting up, she repaired to the house. For several days
she had not been well, and this exposure brought on a severe cold,
which confined her to her room for nearly two weeks. Meantime the
dress-making process went on, Anna keeping ’Lena constantly apprised of
its progress, and occasionally wearing in some article for her
inspection. This reminded ’Lena of her own wardrobe, and knowing that
it would not be attended to while she was sick, she made such haste to
be well, that on Thursday at tea-time she took her accustomed seat at
the table. After supper she lingered awhile in the parlor, hoping
something would be said, but she waited in vain, and was about leaving,
when a few words spoken by Carrie in an adjoining room caught her ear
and arrested her attention.

They were—“And so ’Lena came down to-night. I dare say she thinks
you’ll set Miss Simpson at work upon my old delaine.”

“Perhaps so,” returned Mrs. Livingstone, “but I don’t see how Miss
Simpson can do it, unless you put off having that silk apron
embroidered.”

“I shan’t do any such thing,” said Carrie, glad of an excuse to keep
’Lena out of the way. “What matter is it if she don’t come down when
the company are here? I’d rather she wouldn’t, for she’s so green and
awkward, and Durward is so fastidious in such matters, that I’d rather
he wouldn’t know she’s a relative of ours! I know he’d tell his mother,
and they say she is very particular about his associates.”

’Lena’s first impulse was to defy her cousin to her face—to tell her
she had seen Durward Bellmont, and that he didn’t laugh at her either.
But her next thought was calmer and more rational. Possibly under
Carrie’s influence he might make fun of her, and resolving on no
condition whatever to make herself visible while he was in the house,
she returned to her room, and throwing herself upon the bed, wept until
she fell asleep.

“When is Miss Simpson going to fix ’Lena’s dress?” asked Anna, as day
after day passed, and nothing was said of the brown delaine.

For an instant Miss Simpson’s nimble fingers were still, as she awaited
the answer to a question which had occurred to her several times. She
was a kind-hearted, intelligent girl, find at a glance had seen how
matters stood. She, too, was an orphan, and her sympathies were all
enlisted in behalf of the neglected ’Lena. She had heard from Anna of
the brown delaine, and in her own mind she had determined that it
should be fitted with the utmost taste of which she was capable.

Her speculations, however, were brought to a close by Mrs.
Livingstone’s saying in reply to Anna, that “’Lena seemed so wholly
uninterested, and cared so little about seeing the company, she had
decided not to have the dress fixed until after Christmas week.”

The fiery expression of two large, glittering eyes, which at that
moment peered in at the door, convinced Miss Simpson that her employer
had hardly told the truth, and she secretly determined that ’Lena
should have the dress whether she would or not. Accordingly, the next
time she and Anna were alone, she asked for the delaine, entrusting her
secret to Anna, who, thinking no harm, promised to keep it from her
mother. But to get ’Lena fitted was a more difficult matter. Her spirit
was roused, and for a time she resisted their combined efforts. At
last, however, she yielded, and by working late at night in her own
room, Miss Simpson managed to finished the dress, in which ’Lena really
looked better than did either of her cousins in their garments of far
richer materials. Still she was resolved not to go down, and Anna,
fearing what her mother might say, dared not urge her very strongly
hoping, though, that “something would turn up.”


Durward Bellmont, Nellie Douglass, and Mabel Ross had arrived at
Captain Atherton’s. Mrs. Livingstone and her daughters had called upon
them, inviting them to spend a few days at Maple Grove, where they were
to meet some other young people “selected from the wealthiest families
in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Livingstone said, at the same time patting
the sallow cheek of Mabel, whose reputed hundred thousand she intended
should one day increase the importance of her own family.

The invitation was accepted—the day had arrived, the guests were
momentarily expected, and Carrie, before the long mirror, was admiring
herself, alternately frowning upon John Jr., who was mimicking her
“airs,” and scolding Anna for fretting because ’Lena could not be
induced to join them. Finding that her niece was resolved not to
appear, Mrs. Livingstone, for looks’ sake, had changed her tactics,
saying, “’Lena could come down if she chose—she was sure there was
nothing to prevent.”

Knowing this, Anna had exhausted all her powers of eloquence upon her
cousin. But she still remained inexorable, greatly to the astonishment
of her grandmother who for several days had been suffering from a
rheumatic affection, notwithstanding which she “meant to hobble down if
possible, for” said she, “I want to see this Durward Bellmont. Matilda
says he’s got _Noble_ blood in him. I used to know a family of Nobles
in Massachusetts, and I think like as not he’s some kin!”

Carrie, to whom this remark was made, communicated it to her mother,
who forthwith repaired to Mrs. Nichols’ room, telling her “that ’twas a
child’s party,” and hinting pretty strongly that she was neither wanted
nor expected in the parlor, and would confer a great favor by keeping
aloof.

“Wall, wall,” said Mrs. Nichols, who had learned to dread her
daughter’s displeasure, “I’d as lief stay up here as not, but I do want
’Lena to jine ’em. She’s young and would enjoy it.”

Without a word of answer Mrs. Livingstone walked away, leaving ’Lena
more determined than ever not to go down. When the evening at last
arrived, Anna insisted so strongly upon her wearing the delaine, for
fear of what might happen, that ’Lena consented, curling her hair with
great care, and feeling a momentary thrill of pride as she saw how well
she looked.

“When we get nicely to enjoying ourselves,” said Anna, “you come down
and look through the glass door, for I do want you to see Durward, he’s
so handsome—but there’s the carriage—I must go;” and away ran Anna down
the stairs, while ’Lena flew to one of the front windows to see the
company as they rode up.

First came Captain Atherton’s carriage, and in it the captain and his
maiden sister, together with a pale, sickly-looking girl, whom ’Lena
knew to be Mabel Ross. Behind them rode Durward Bellmont, and at his
side, on a spirited little pony was another girl, thirteen or fourteen
years of age, but in her long riding-dress looking older, because
taller. ’Lena readily guessed that this was Nellie Douglass, and at a
glance she recognized the Durward of the cars—grown handsomer and
taller since then, she thought. With a nimble bound he leaped from his
saddle, kissing his hand to Carrie, who with her sunniest smile ran
past him to welcome Nellie. A pang, not of jealousy, but of an
undefined something, shot through ’Lena’s heart, and dropping the heavy
curtain, she turned away, while the tears gathered thickly in her large
brown eyes.

“Where’s ’Lena?” asked Captain Atherton, of Anna, warming his red
fingers before the blazing grate, and looking round upon the group of
girls gathered near. Glancing at her mother, Anna replied, “She says
she don’t want to come down.”

“Bashful,” returned the captain, while Nellie Douglass asked, “who
’Lena was,” at the same time returning the _pinch_ which John Jr. had
slyly given her as a mode of showing his preference, for Nellie _was_
his favorite.

Fearful of Anna’s reply, Mrs. Livingstone answered, carelessly, “She’s
the child of one of Mr. Livingstone’s poor relations, and we’ve taken
her awhile out of charity.”

At any other time John Jr. would doubtless have questioned his mother’s
word, but now so engrossed was he with the merry, hoydenish Nellie,
that he scarcely heard her remark, or noticed the absence of ’Lena.
With the exception of his cousin, Nellie was the only girl whom John
Jr. could endure—“the rest,” he said, “were so stuck up and affected.”

For Mabel Ross, he seemed to have a particular aversion. Not because
she was so very disagreeable, but because his mother continually
reminded him of what she hoped would one day be, “and this,” he said,
“was enough to make a ‘feller’ hate a girl.” So without considering
that Mabel was not to blame, he ridiculed her unmercifully, calling her
“a bundle of medicine,” and making fun of her thin, sallow face, which
really appeared to great disadvantage when contrasted with Nellie’s
bright eyes and round, rosy cheeks.

When the guests were all assembled, Carrie, not knowing whether Durward
Bellmont would relish plays, seated herself demurely upon the sofa,
prepared to act the dignified young lady, or any other character she
might think necessary.

“Get up, Cad,” said John Jr. “Nobody’s going to act like they were at a
funeral; get up, and let’s play something.”

As the rest seemed to be similarly inclined, Carrie arose, and erelong
the joyous shouts reached ’Lena, making her half wish that she, too,
was there. Remembering Anna’s suggestion of looking through the glass
door she stole softly down the stairs, and stationing herself behind
the door, looked in on the scene. Mr. Everett, usually so dignified,
had joined in the game, claiming “forfeits” from Anna more frequently
than was considered at all necessary by the captain, who for a time
looked jealously on, and then declaring himself as young as any of
them, joined them with a right good will.

“Blind man’s buff,” was next proposed, and ’Lena’s heart leaped up, for
that was her favorite game. John Jr. was first blinded, but he caught
them so easily that all declared he could see, and loud were the calls
for Durward to take his place. This he willingly did, and whether he
could see or not, he suffered them to pass directly under his hands,
thus giving entire satisfaction. On account of the heat of the rooms,
Anna, on passing the glass door, threw it open, and the next time
Durward came round he marched directly into the hall, seizing ’Lena,
who was trying to hide.

Feeling her long curls, he exclaimed, “Anna, you are caught.”

“No, I ain’t Anna; let me go,” said ’Lena, struggling to escape.

This brought all the girls to the spot, while Durward, snatching the
muffler from his eyes, looked down with astonishment upon the trembling
’Lena, who would have escaped had she not been so securely hemmed in.

“Ain’t you ashamed, ’Lena, to be peeking?” asked Carrie, while Durward
repeated—“’_Lena_! ’_Lena_! I’ve seen her before in the cars between
Springfield and Albany; but how came she here?”

“She lives here—she’s our cousin,” said Anna, notwithstanding the
twitch given to her sleeve by Carrie, who did not care to have the
relationship exposed.

“Your cousin,” said Durward, “and where’s the old lady who was with
her?”

“The one she called _granny_?” asked John Jr., on purpose to rouse up
his fiery little cousin.

“No, I don’t call her _granny_, neither—I’ve quit it,” said ’Lena,
angrily, adding, as a sly hit at Kentucky talk, “she’s up _stars_, sick
with the rheumatism.”

“Good,” said Durward, “but why are you not down here with us?”

“I didn’t want to come,” was her reply; and Durward, leading her into
the parlor, continued, “but now that you are here, you must stay.”

“Pretty, isn’t she,” said Nellie, as the full blaze of the chandelier
fell upon ’Lena.

“Rath-er,” was Carrie’s hesitating reply.

She felt annoyed that ’Lena should be in the parlor, and provoked that
Durward should notice her in any way, and at the first opportunity she
told him “how much she both troubled and mortified them, by her
vulgarity and obstinacy,” adding that “she had a most violent temper.”
From Nellie she had learned that Durward particularly disliked
passionate girls, and for this reason she strove to give him the
impression that ’Lena was such an one. Once or twice she fancied him
half inclined to disbelieve her, as he saw how readily ’Lena joined in
their amusements, and how good-humoredly she bore John Jr.’s teasing,
and then she hoped something would occur to prove her words true. Her
wish was gratified.

The next day was dark and stormy, confining the young people to the
house. About ten o’clock the negro who had been to the post-office
returned, bringing letters for the family, among which was one for
’Lena, so curious in its shape and superscription, that even the negro
grinned as he handed it out. ’Lena was not then present, and Carrie,
taking the letter, exclaimed, “Now if this isn’t the last specimen from
Yankeedom. Just listen,—” and she spelled out the direction—“_To Mis
HELL-ENY RIVERS, state of kentucky, county of woodford, Dorsey post
offis, care of Mis nichals_.”

Unobserved by any one, ’Lena had entered the parlor in time to hear
every word, and when Carrie, chancing to espy her, held out the letter,
saying, “Here, _Helleny_, I _guess_ this came from down east,” she
darted forward, and striking the letter from Carrie’s hands stamped
upon it with her foot, declaring “she’d never open it in the world,”
and saying “they might do what they pleased with it for all of her.”

“Read it—may we read it?” eagerly asked Carrie, delighted to see ’Lena
doing such justice to her reputation.

“Yes, read it!” almost screamed ’Lena, and before any one could
interpose a word, Carrie had broken the seal and commenced reading,
announcing, first, that it came from “Joel Slocum!” It was as follows:

“Dear Helleny, mebby you’ll wonder when you see a letter from me, but
I’ll be hanged if I can help ’ritin’, I am so confounded lonesome now
you are gone, that I dun know nothing what to do with myself. So I set
on the great rock where the saxefax grows; and think, and think till it
seems ’s ef my head would bust open. Wall, how do you git along down
amongst them heathenish Kentucks & niggers? I s’pose there ain’t no
great difference between ’em, is there? When I git a little more
larnin’, I b’lieve I’ll come down there to keep school. O, I forgot to
tell you that our old line back cow has got a calf—the prettiest little
critter—Dad has gin her to me, and I call her Helleny, I do, I swow!
And when she capers round she makes me think of the way you danced
‘High putty Martin’ the time you stuck a sliver in your heel—”

Up to this point ’Lena had stood immovable, amid the loud shouts of her
companions, but the fire of a hundred volcanoes burned within and
flashed from her eyes. And now springing forward, she caught the letter
from Carrie’s hand, and inflicting a long scratch upon her forehead,
fled from the room. Had not Durward Bellmont been present, Carrie would
have flown after her cousin, to avenge the insult, and even now she was
for a moment thrown off her guard, and starting forward, exclaimed,
“the tigress!”

Drawing his fine cambric handkerchief from his pocket, Durward gently
wiped the blood from her white brow, saying “Never mind. It is not a
deep scratch.”

“I wish ’twas deeper,” muttered John Jr. “You’d no business to serve
her so mean.”

An angry retort rose to Carrie’s lips, but, just in time to prevent its
utterance, Durward also spoke, saying, “It was too bad to tease her so,
but we were all more or less to blame, and I’m not sure but we ought to
apologize.”

Carrie felt that she would die, almost, before she’d apologize to such
as ’Lena, and still she thought it might be well enough to give Durward
the impression that she was doing, her best to make amends for her
fault. Accordingly, the next time her cousin appeared in the parlor she
was all smiles and affability, talking a great deal to ’Lena, who
returned very short but civil answers, while her face wore a look which
Durward construed into defiance and hatred of everybody and everything.

“Too passionate,” thought he, turning from her to Carrie, whose voice,
modulated to its softest tones, rang out clear and musical, as she
sported and laughed with her moody cousin, appearing the very essence
of sweetness and amiability!

Pity he could not have known how bitterly ’Lena had wept over her hasty
action—not because _he_ witnessed it, but because she knew it was
wrong! Pity he could not have read the tear-blotted note, which she
laid on Carrie’s work-box, and in which was written, “I am sorry,
Carrie, that I hurt you so. I didn’t know what I was about, but I will
try and not get so angry again.”

Pity, too, that he did not see the look of contempt with which Carrie
perused this note; and when the two girls accidentally met in the upper
hall, and ’Lena laid her hand gently on Carrie’s arm, it is a thousand
pities he was not present to see how fiercely she was repulsed, Carrie
exclaiming, “Get out of my sight! _I hate you_, and so do all of them
downstairs, Durward in particular.”

Had he known all this he would have thought differently of ’Lena, who,
feeling that she was not wanted in the parlor, kept herself entirely
aloof, never again appearing during the remainder of his stay. Once
Durward asked for her, and half laughingly Carrie replied, that “she
had not yet recovered from her pouting fit.” Could he have known her
real occupation, he might have changed his mind again. The stormy
weather had so increased Mrs. Nichols’ rheumatic complaint, that now,
perfectly crippled, she lay as helpless as a child, carefully nursed by
’Lena and old Aunt Polly, who, spite of her own infirmities, had
hobbled in to wait upon her friend. Never but once did Mrs. Livingstone
go near her mother’s sick-room—“the smell of herbs made her faint,” she
said! But to do her justice, we must say that she gave Polly
unqualified permission to order anything she pleased for the invalid.

Toward the close of the third day, the company left. Nellie Douglass,
who really liked ’Lena, and wished to bid her good-bye, whispered to
John Jr., asking him to show her the way to his cousin’s room. No one
except members of the family had ever been in Mrs. Nichols’ apartment,
and for a moment John Jr. hesitated, knowing well that Nellie could not
fail to observe the contrast it presented to the other richly-furnished
chambers.

“They ought to be mortified—it’ll serve ’em right,” he thought, at
last, and motioning Nellie to fallow him, he silently led the way to
his grandmother’s room, where their knock was answered by Aunt Polly’s
gruff voice, which bade them “come in.”

They obeyed, but Nellie started back when she saw how greatly inferior
was this room to the others around it. In an instant her eye took in
everything, and she readily comprehended the whole.

“It isn’t my doings, by a jug-full!” whispered John Jr., himself
reddening as he noted the different articles of furniture which had
never before seemed so meager and poor.

On the humble bed, in a half-upright position, lay Mrs. Nichols, white
as the snowy cap-border which shaded her face. Behind her sat ’Lena,
supporting her head, and when Nellie entered, she was carefully pushing
back the few gray locks which had fallen over the invalid’s forehead,
her own bright curls mingling with them, and resting, some on her neck,
and some on her grandmother’s shoulder. A deep flush dyed her cheeks
when she saw Nellie, who thought she had never looked upon a sight more
beautiful.

“I did not know your grandmother was ill,” said she, coming forward and
gently touching the swollen hand which lay outside the counterpane.

Mrs. Nichols was not too ill to talk, and forthwith she commenced a
history of her malady, beginning at the time she first had it when
’Lena’s mother was a year and a day old, frequently quoting Nancy
Scovandyke, and highly entertaining Nellie, who listened until warned
by the sound of the carriage, as it came round to the door, that she
must go.

“We are going back to Uncle Atherton’s,” said she, “but I wanted to bid
you good-bye, and ask you to visit me in Frankfort with your cousins.
Will you do so?”

This was wholly unexpected to ’Lena, who, without replying, burst into
tears. Nellie hardly knew what to do. She seldom cried herself—she did
not like to see others cry—and still she did not blame ’Lena, for she
felt that she could not help it. At last, taking her hand, she bade her
farewell, asking if she should not carry a good-bye to the others.

“Yes, to Mabel,” said ’Lena.

“And not Durward?” asked Nellie.

With something of her old spirit ’Lena answered, “No, he hates
me—Carrie says so.”

“Cad’s a fool,” muttered John Jr., while Nellie rejoined, “Durward
never hated anybody, and even if he did, he would not say so—I mean to
tell him;” and with another good-bye she was gone.

On the stairs she met Durward, who was looking for her, and asked where
she had been.

“To bid ’Lena good-bye; don’t you want to go too?” said Nellie.

“Why, yes, if you are sure she won’t scratch my eyes out,” he returned,
gayly, following his cousin.

“I reckon I’d better tell ’Lena to come out into the hall—she may not
want you in there,” said John Jr., and hastening forward he told his
cousin what was wanted.

Oh, how ’Lena longed to go, but pride, and the remembrance of Carrie’s
words, prevented her, and coldly answering, “No, I don’t wish to see
him,” she turned away to hide the tears and pain which those words had
cost her.

This visit to Grandma Nichols’ room was productive of some good, for
John Jr., did not fail of repeating to his mother the impression which
he saw was made on Nellie’s mind, adding, that “though Durward did not
venture in, Nellie would of course tell him all about it. And then,”
said he, “I wouldn’t give much for his opinion of your treatment of
your mother.”

Angry, because she felt the truth of what her son said, Mrs.
Livingstone demanded “what he’d have her do.”

“Do?” he repeated, “give grandmother a decent room, or else fix that
one up, so it won’t look like the old scratch had been having a
cotillon there. Paper and paint it, and make it look decent.”

Upon this last piece of advice Mrs. Livingstone resolved to act, for
recently several vague rumors had reached her ear, touching her neglect
of her mother-in-law, and she began herself to think it just possible
that a little of her money would be well expended in adding to the
comfort of her husband’s mother. Accordingly, as soon as Mrs. Nichols
was able to sit up, her room underwent a thorough renovation, and
though no great amount of money was expended upon it, it was fitted up
with so much taste that the poor old lady, whom John Jr., ’Lena and
Anna, had adroitly kept out of the way until her room was finished,
actually burst into tears when first ushered into her light, airy
apartment, in which everything looked so cheerful and pleasant.

“’Tilda has now and then a good streak,” said she, while Aunt Milly,
who had taken a great deal of interest in the repairing of the room,
felt inclined to change her favorite theory with regard to her
mistress’ future condition.




CHAPTER IX.
FIVE YEARS LATER.


And in the fair city of elms we again open the scene. It was
commencement at Yale, and the crowd which filled the old Center church
were listening breathlessly to the tide of eloquence poured forth by
the young valedictorian.

Durward Bellmont, first in his studies, first in his class, and first
in the esteem of his fellow-students, had been unanimously chosen to
that post of honor, and as the gathered multitude hung upon his words
and gazed upon his manly beauty, they felt mat a better choice could
not well have been made. At the right of the platform sat a group of
ladies, friends, it would seem, of the speaker, for ever and anon his
eyes turned in that direction, and as if each glance incited him to
fresh efforts, his eloquence increased, until at last no sound save
that of his deep-toned voice was heard, so rapt was every one in the
words of the young orator. But when his speech was ended, there arose
deafening shouts of applause, while bouquets fell in perfect showers at
his feet. Among them was one smaller and more elegant than the rest,
and as if it were more precious, too, it was the first which Durward
took from the floor.

“See, Carrie, he gives you the preference,” whispered one of the young
ladies on the right, and Carrie Livingstone for she it was, felt a
thrill of gratified pride, when she saw how carefully he guarded the
bouquet, which during all the exercises she had made her especial care,
calling attention to it in so many different ways that hardly any one
who saw it in Durward’s possession, could fail of knowing from what
source it same.

But then everybody said they were engaged—so what did it matter?
Everybody but John Jr., who was John Jr. still, and who while openly
denying the engagement, teasingly hinted “that ’twas no fault of
Cad’s.”

For the last three years, Carrie, Nellie, Mabel, and Anna had been
inmates of the seminary in New Haven, and as they were now considered
sufficiently accomplished to enter at once upon all the gayeties of
fashionable life, John Jr. had come on “to see the elephant,” as he
said, and to accompany them home. Carrie had fulfilled the promise of
her girlhood, and even her brother acknowledged that she was handsome
in spite of her _nose_, which like everybody’s else, still continued to
be the most prominent feature of her face. She was proud, too, as well
as beautiful, and throughout the city she was known as the “haughty
southern belle,” admired by some and disliked by many. Among the
students she was not half so popular as her unpretending sister, whose
laughing blue eyes and sunny brown hair were often toasted, together
with the classical brow and dignified bearing of Nellie Douglass, who
had lost some of the hoydenish propensities of her girlhood, and who
was now a graceful, elegant creature just merging into nineteen—the
pride of her widowed father, and the idol still of John Jr., whose
boyish preference had ripened into a kind of love such as only he could
feel.

With poor Mabel Ross it had fared worse, her plain face and dumpy
little figure never receiving the least attention except from Durward
Bellmont, who pitying her lonely condition, frequently left more
congenial society for the sake of entertaining her. Of any one else
Carrie would have been jealous, but feeling sure that Mabel had no
attraction save her wealth, and knowing that Durward did not care for
that, she occasionally suffered him to leave her side, always feeling
amply repaid by the evident reluctance with which he left her society
for that of Mabel’s.

When ill-naturedly rallied by his companions upon his preference for
Carrie, Durward would sometimes laughingly refer them to the old
worn-out story of the fox and the grapes, for to scarcely any one save
himself did Carrie think it worth her while to be even gracious. This
conduct was entirely at variance with her natural disposition, for she
was fond of admiration, come from what source it might, and she would
never have been so cold and distant to all save Durward, had she not
once heard him say that “he heartily despised a _flirt_; and that no
young lady could at all interest him if he suspected her of being a
coquette.”

This, then, was the secret of her reserve. She was resolved upon
winning Durward Bellmont, deeming no sacrifice too great if in the end
it secured the prize. It is true there was one sophomore, a perfumed,
brainless fop, from Rockford, N. Y., who, next to Durward, was
apparently most in favor, but the idea of her entertaining even a
shadow of a liking for Tom Lakin, was too ludicrous to be harbored for
a moment, so his attentions went for naught, public opinion uniting in
giving her to Mr. Bellmont.

With the lapse of years, Anna, too, had greatly improved. The extreme
delicacy of her figure was gone, and though her complexion was as white
and pure as marble, it denoted perfect health. With John Jr. she was
still the favorite sister, the one whom he loved the best. “Carrie was
too stiff and proud,” he said, and though when he met her in New Haven,
after a year’s absence, his greeting was kind and brotherly, he soon
turned from her to Anna and Nellie, utterly neglecting Mabel, who
turned away to her chamber to cry, because no one cared for her.

Frequently had his mother reminded him of the importance of securing a
wealthy bride, always finishing her discourse by speaking of Mr.
Douglass’ small income, and enlarging upon the immense wealth of Mabel
Ross, whose very name had become disagreeable to John Jr. At one time
his father had hoped he, too, would enter college, but the young man
derided the idea of his ever making a scholar, saying, however, more in
sport than in earnest, that “he was willing to enter a store, or learn
a _trade_, so that in case he was ever obliged to earn his own living,
he would have some means of doing it;” but to this his mother would not
listen. He was her “darling boy,” and “his hands, soft and white as
those of a girl, should never become hardened and embrowned by labor!”
So, while his sisters were away at school, he was at home, hunting,
fishing, riding, teasing his grandmother, tormenting the servants, and
shocking his mother by threatening to make love to his cousin ’Lena, to
whom he was at once a pest and a comfort, and who now claims a share of
our attention.

When it was decided to send Carrie and Anna to New Haven, Mr.
Livingstone proposed that ’Lena should also accompany them, but this
plan Mrs. Livingstone opposed with all her force, declaring that _her_
money should never be spent in educating the “beggarly relatives” of
her husband, who in this, as in numerous other matters, was forced to
yield the point. As Mr. Everett’s services were now no longer needed,
he accepted the offer of a situation in the family of General Fontaine,
a high-bred, southern gentleman, whose plantation was distant but half
a mile from “Maple Grove;” and as he there taught a regular school,
having under his charge several of the daughters of the neighboring
planters, it was decided that ’Lena also should continue under his
instruction.

Thus while Carrie and Anna were going through the daily routine of a
fashionable boarding-school, ’Lena was storing her mind with useful
knowledge, and though her accomplishments were not quite so showy as
those of her cousins, they had in them the ring of the pure metal.
Although her charms were as yet but partially developed, she was a
creature of rare loveliness, and many who saw her for the first time,
marveled that aught so beautiful could be real. She had never seen
Durward Bellmont since that remarkable Christmas week, but many a time
had her cheeks flushed with a feeling which she could not define, as
she read Anna’s accounts of the flattering attentions which he paid to
Carrie, who, when at home, still treated her with haughty contempt or
cool indifference.

But for this she did not care. She knew she was loved by Anna, and
liked by John Jr., and she hoped—nay, half believed—that she was not
wholly indifferent to her uncle, who, while he seldom made any show of
his affection, still in his heart admired and felt proud of her. With
his wife it was different. She hated ’Lena—hated her because she was
beautiful and talented, and because in her presence Carrie and Anna
were ever in the shade. Still her niece was too general a favorite in
the neighborhood to allow of open hostility at home, and so the proud
woman ground together her glittering teeth—_and waited_!

Among the many who admired ’Lena, there was no one who gave her such
full and unbounded homage as did her grandmother, whose life at Maple
Grove had been one of shadow, seldom mingled with sunshine. Gradually
had she learned the estimation in which she was held by her son’s wife,
and she felt how bitter it was to eat the bread of dependence. As far
as she was able, ’Lena shielded her from the sneers of her aunt, who
thinking she had done all that was required of her when she fixed their
room, would for days and even weeks appear utterly oblivious of their
presence, or frown darkly whenever chance threw them in her way. She
had raised no objection to ’Lena’s continuing a pupil of Mr. Everett,
who, she hoped, would not prove indifferent to her charms, fancying
that in this way she would sooner be rid of one whom she feared as a
rival of her daughters.

But she was mistaken; for much as Malcolm Everett might admire ’Lena,
another image than hers was enshrined in his heart, and most carefully
guarded was the little golden curl, cut in seeming sport from the head
it once adorned, and, now treasured as a sacred memento of the past.
Believing that it would be so because she wished it to be so, Mrs.
Livingstone had more than once whispered to her female friends her
surmises that Malcolm Everett would marry ’Lena, and at the time of
which we are speaking, it was pretty generally understood that a strong
liking, at least, if not an engagement, existed between them.

Old Captain Atherton, grown more smooth and portly, rubbed his fat
hands complacently, and while applying Twigg’s Preparation to his hair,
congratulated himself that the only rival he had ever feared was now
out of his way. Thinking, too, that ’Lena had conferred a great favor
upon himself by taking Mr. Everett from off his mind, became
exceedingly polite to her, making her little presents and frequently
asking her to ride. Whenever these invitations were accepted, they were
sure to be followed by a ludicrous description to Anna, who laughed
merrily over her cousin’s letters, declaring herself half jealous of
her “gray-haired lover,” as she termed the captain.

All such communications were eagerly seized by Carrie, and fully
discussed in the presence of Durward, who gradually received the
impression that ’Lena was a flirt, a species of womankind which he held
in great abhorrence. Just before he left New Haven, he received a
letter from his stepfather, requesting him to stop for a day or two at
Captain Atherton’s, where he would join him, as he wished to look at a
country-seat near Mr. Livingstone’s, which was now for sale. This plan
gave immense satisfaction to Carrie, and when her brother proposed that
Durward should stop at their father’s instead of the captain’s, she
seconded the invitation so warmly, that Durward finally consented, and
word was immediately sent to Mrs. Livingstone to hold herself in
readiness to receive Mr. Bellmont.

“Oh, I do hope your father will secure Woodlawn,” said Carrie, as in
the parlor of the Burnett House, Cincinnati, they were discussing the
projected purchase.

The other young ladies had gone out shopping, and John Jr., who was
present, and who felt just like teasing his sister, replied, “What do
you care? Mrs. Graham has no daughters, and she won’t fancy such a chit
as you, so it must be Durward’s society that you so much desire, but I
can assure you that your _nose_ will be broken when once he sees our
’Lena.”

Carrie turned toward the window to hide her wrath at this speech, while
Durward asked if “Miss Rivers were so very handsome?”

“_Handsome_!” repeated John. “That don’t begin to express it. _Cad_ is
what I call _handsome_, but ’Lena is beautiful, more beautiful, most
beautiful—now you have it superlatively. Such complexion—such eyes—such
hair—I’ll be hanged if I haven’t been more than half in love with her
myself.”

“I really begin to tremble,” said Durward, laughingly while Carrie
rejoined, “You’ve only to make the slightest advance, and your love
will be returned ten-fold, for ’Lena is very susceptible, and already
encourages several admirers.”

“There, my fair sister, you are slightly mistaken,” interrupted John
Jr., who was going on farther in his remarks, when Durward asked if
“she ever left any _marks_ of her affection,” referring to the scratch
she had given Carrie; who, before her brother had time to speak,
replied that “the _will_ and the _claws_ remained the same, though
common decency kept them hidden when it was necessary.”

“That’s downright slander,” said John Jr., determined now upon
defending his cousin, “’Lena has a high temper, I acknowledge, but she
tries hard to govern it, and for nearly two years I’ve not seen her
angry once, though she’s had every provocation under heaven.”

“She knows _when_ and _where_ to be amiable,” retorted Carrie. “Any one
of her admirers would tell the same story with yourself.”

At this juncture John Jr. was called for a moment from the room, and
Carrie, fearing she had said too much, immediately apologized to
Durward, saying, “it was not often that she allowed herself to speak
against her cousin, and that she should not have done so now, were not
John so much blinded, that her mother, knowing Lena’s ambitious nature,
sometimes seriously feared the consequence. I know,” said she, “that
John fancies Nellie, but ’Lena’s influence over him is very great.”

Durward made no reply, and Carrie continued: “I’m always sorry when I
speak against ’Lena; she is my cousin, and I wouldn’t prejudice any one
against her; so you must forget my unkind remarks, which would never
have been uttered in the presence of a stranger. She _is_ handsome and
agreeable, and you must like her in spite of what I said.”

“I cannot refuse when so fair a lady pleads her cause,” was Durward’s
gallant answer, and as the other young ladies then entered the room,
the conversation ceased.

Meanwhile ’Lena was very differently employed. Nearly a year had
elapsed since she had seen her cousins, and her heart bounded with joy
at the thought of meeting Anna, whom she dearly loved. Carrie was to
her an object of indifference, rather than dislike, and ofttimes had
she thought, “If she would only let me love her.” But it could not be,
for there was no affinity between them. Carrie was proud and
overbearing—jealous of her high-spirited cousin, who, as John Jr. had
said, strove hard to subdue her temper, and who now seldom resented
Carrie’s insults, except when they were leveled at her aged
grandmother.

As we have before stated, news’ had been received at Maple Grove that
Durward would accompany her cousins home. Mr. Graham would, of course,
join him there, and accordingly, extensive preparations were
immediately commenced. An unusual degree of sickness was prevailing
among the female portion of Mrs. Livingstone’s servants, and the very
day before the company was expected, Aunt Milly, the head cook was
taken suddenly ill. Coaxing, scolding, and threatening were alike
ineffectual. The old negress would not say she was well when she
wasn’t, and as Hagar, the next in command, was also sick (_lazy_, as
her mistress called it,) Mrs. Livingstone was herself obliged to
superintend the cookery.

“Crosser than a bar,” as the little darkies said, she flew back and
forth, from kitchen to pantry, her bunch of keys rattling, the corners
of her mouth drawn back, and her hands raised ready to strike at
anything that came in her way. As if there were a fatality attending
her movements, she was unfortunate in whatever she undertook. The cake
was burned black, the custard curdled, the preserves were found to be
working, the big preserve dish got broken, a thunder shower soured the
cream, and taking it all in all, she really had trouble enough to
disconcert the most experienced housekeeper. Still, the few negroes
able to assist, thought “she needn’t be so fetch-ed cross.”

But cross she was, feeling more than once inclined to lay witchcraft to
the charge of old Milly, who comfortably ensconced in bed, listened in
dismay to the disastrous accounts brought her from time to time from
the kitchen, mentally congratulating herself the while upon not being
within hearing of her mistress’ tongue. Once Mrs. Nichols attempted to
help, but she was repulsed so angrily that ’Lena did not presume to
offer her services until the day of their arrival, when, without a
word, she repaired to the chambers, which she swept and dusted,
arranging the furniture, and making everything ready for the comfort of
the travelers. Then descending to the parlors, she went through the
same process there, filled the vases with fresh flowers, looped back
the curtains, opened the piano, wheeled the sofa a little to the right,
the large chair a little to the left, and then going to the
dining-room, she set the table in the most perfect order, doing all so
quietly that her aunt knew nothing of it until it was done. Jake the
coachman, had gone down to Frankfort after them, and as he was not
expected to return until between three and four, dinner was deferred
until that hour.

From sunrise Mrs. Livingstone had worked industriously, until her face
and temper were at a boiling heat. The clock was on the point of
striking three, and she was bending over a roasting turkey, when ’Lena
ventured to approach her, saying, “I have seen Aunt Milly baste a
turkey many a time, and I am sure I can do it as well as she.”

“Well, what of it?” was the uncivil answer.

’Lena’s temper choked her, but forcing it down, she replied: “Why, it
is almost three, and I thought perhaps you would want to cool and dress
yourself before they came. I can see to the dinner, I know I can.
Please let me try.”

Somewhat mollified by her niece’s kind manner, Mrs. Livingstone
resigned her post and repaired to her own room, while ’Lena, confining
her long curls to the top of her head and donning the wide check-apron
which her aunt had thrown aside, set herself at work with a right good
will.

“What dat ar you say?” exclaimed Aunt Milly, lifting her woolly head
from her pillow, and looking at the little colored girl, who had
brought to her the news that “young miss was in de kitchen.” “What dat
ar you tellin’? Miss ’Leny pokin’ ’mong de pots and kittles, and dis
ole nigger lazin’ in bed jes like white folks. Long as ’twas ole miss,
I didn’t seer. Good ’nough for her to roast, blister, and bile; done
get used to it, case she’s got to in kingdom come, no mistake—he!—he!
But little Miss ’Leny, it’s too bad to bake her lamb’s-wool hands and
face, and all de quality comin’: I’ll hobble up thar, if I can stand.”

Suiting the action to the word she got out of bed, and crawling up to
the kitchen, insisted upon taking ’Lena’s place, saying, “she could sit
in her chair and tell the rest what to do.”

For a time ’Lena hesitated, the old woman seemed so faint and weak, but
the sound of wheels decided her. Springing to the sideboard in the
dining-room, she brought Aunt Milly a glass of wine, which revived her
so much that she now felt willing to leave her. By this time the
carriage was at the door, and to escape unobserved was now her great
object. But this she could not do, for as she was crossing the hall,
Anna espied her, and darting forward, seized her around the neck, at
the same time dragging her toward Carrie, who, with Durward’s eye upon
her, _kissed_ her twice; then turning to him, she said, “I suppose you
do not need an introduction to Miss Rivers?”

Durward was almost guilty of the rudeness of staring at the strangeness
of ’Lena’s appearance, for as nearly as she could, she looked like a
fright. Bending over hot stoves and boiling gravies is not very
beneficial to one’s complexion, and ’Lena’s cheeks, neck, forehead, and
nose were of a purplish red—her hair was tucked back in a manner
exceedingly unbecoming, while the broad check-apron, which came nearly
to her feet, tended in nowise to improve her appearance. She felt it
keenly, and after returning Durward’s salutation, she broke away before
Anna or John, Jr., who were both surprised at her looks, had time to
ask a question.

Running up to her room, her first impulse was to cry, but knowing that
would disfigure her still more, she bathed her burning face and neck,
brushed out her curls, threw on a simple muslin dress, and started for
the parlor, of which Durward and Carrie were at that moment the only
occupants. As she was passing the outer door, she observed upon one of
the piazza pillars a half-blown rose, and for a moment stopped to
admire it. Durward, who sat in a corner, did not see her, but Carrie
did, and a malicious feeling prompted her to draw out her companion,
who she felt sure was disappointed in ’Lena’s face. They were speaking
of a lady whom they saw at Frankfort, and whom Carrie pronounced
“perfectly beautiful,” while Durward would hardly admit that she was
even good-looking.

“I am surprised at your taste,” said Carrie, adding, as she noticed the
proximity of her cousin, “I think she resembles ’Lena, and of course
you’ll acknowledge _she_ is beautiful.”

“She _was_ beautiful five years ago, but she’s greatly changed since
then,” answered Durward, never suspecting the exquisite satisfaction
his words afforded Carrie, who replied, “You had better keep that
opinion to yourself, and not express it before Captain Atherton or
brother John.”

“Who takes my name in vain?” asked John Jr., himself appearing at a
side door.

“Oh, John,” said Carrie, “we were just disputing about ’Lena. Durward
does not think her handsome.”

“Durward be hanged!” answered John, making a feint of drawing from his
pocket a pistol which was not there. “What fault has he to find with
’Lena?”

“A little too rosy, that’s all,” said Durward, laughingly, while John
continued, “She _did_ look confounded red and dowdyish, for her. I
don’t understand it myself.”

Here the hem of the muslin dress on which Carrie’s eye had all the
while been resting, disappeared, and as there was no longer an
incentive for ill-natured remarks, the amiable young lady adroitly
changed the conversation.

John Jr. also caught a glimpse of the retreating figure, and started in
pursuit, in the course of his search passing the kitchen, where he was
instantly hailed by Aunt Milly, who, while bemoaning her own aches and
pains, did not fail to tell him how “Miss ’Lena, like aborned angel
dropped right out of ’tarnity, had been in thar, burning her skin to a
fiery red, a-tryin’ to get up a tip-top dinner.”

“So ho!” thought the young man, “that explains it;” and turning on his
heel, he walked back to the house just as the last bell was ringing for
dinner.

On entering the dining-room, he found all the family assembled, except
’Lena. She had excused herself on the plea of a severe headache, and
now in her own room was chiding herself for being so much affected by a
remark accidentally overheard. What did she care if Durward did think
her plain? He was nothing to her, and never would be—and again she
bathed her head, which really was aching sadly.

“And so ’Lena’s got the headache,” said John Jr. “Well, I don’t wonder,
cooking all the dinner as she did.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna, while Mrs. Livingstone’s angry frown
bade her son keep silence,

Filial obedience, however, was not one of John Jr.’s cardinal virtues,
and in a few words, he repeated what Aunt Milly had told him, adding
aside to Durward, “_This_ explains the extreme rosiness which so much
offended your lordship. When next you see her, you’ll change your
mind.”

Suddenly remembering that his grandmother had not been introduced, he
now presented her to Durward. The _Noble’s_ blood had long been
forgotten, but grandma was never at a loss for a subject, and she
commenced talking notwithstanding Carrie’s efforts to keep her still.

“Now I think on’t, Car’line,” said she at last, turning to her
granddaughter, “now I think on’t, what made you propose to have my
dinner sent up to my room. I hain’t et there but once this great while,
and that was the day General Fontaine’s folks were here, and Matilda
thought I warn’t able to come down.”

Durward’s half-concealed smile showed that he understood it all, while
John Jr., in his element when his grandmother was talking, managed, to
lead her on, until she reached her favorite theme—Nancy Scovandyke.
Here a look from her son silenced her, and as dinner was just then
over, Durward missed of hearing that remarkable lady’s history.

Late in the afternoon, as the family were sitting upon the piazza,
’Lena joined them. Her headache had passed away, leaving her face a
shade whiter than usual. The flush was gone from her forehead and nose,
but mindful of Durward’s remark, the roses deepened on her cheek, which
only increased her loveliness.

“I acknowledge that I was wrong—your cousin _is_ beautiful,” whispered
Durward to Carrie, who, mentally hating the beauty which had never
before struck her so forcibly, replied in her softest tones, “I knew
you would, and I hope you’ll be equally ready to forgive her for
winning hearts only to break them, for with that face how can she help
it?”

“A handsome face is no excuse for coquetry,” answered Durward; “neither
can I think Miss Rivers guilty of it. At all events, I mean to venture
a little nearer,” and before Carrie could frame a reasonable excuse for
keeping him at her side, he had crossed ever and taken a seat by ’Lena,
with whom he was soon in the midst of an animated conversation, his
surprise each moment increasing at the depth of intellect she
displayed, for the beauty of her mind was equal to that of her person.
Had it not been for the remembrance of Carrie’s insinuations, his
admiration would have been complete. But anything like coquetry he
heartily despised, and one great secret of his liking for Carrie, was
her evident freedom from that fault. As yet he had seen nothing to
condemn in ’Lena’s conduct. Wholly unaffected, she talked with him as
she would have talked with any stranger, and still there was in her
manner a certain coldness for which he could not account.

“Perhaps she thinks me not worth the winning,” thought he, and in spite
of his principles, he erelong found himself exerting all his powers to
please and interest her.

About tea-time, Captain Atherton rode into the yard, and simultaneously
with his arrival, Mr. Everett came also. Immediately remembering what
he had heard, Durward, in his eagerness to watch ’Lena, failed to note
the crimson flush on Anna’s usually pale cheek, as Malcolm bent over
her with his low-spoken, tender words of welcome, and when the
phthisicky captain, claiming the privilege of an old friend, kissed the
blushing Anna, Durward in his blindness attributed the scornful
expression of ’Lena’s face to a feeling of unwillingness that any save
herself should share the attentions even of the captain! And in this
impression he was erelong confirmed.

Drawing his chair up to Anna, Captain Atherton managed to keep Malcolm
at a distance, while he himself wholly monopolized the young girl, who
cast imploring glances toward her cousin, as if asking for relief. Many
a time, on similar occasions, had ’Lena claimed the attention of the
captain, for the sake of leaving Anna free to converse with Malcolm,
and now understanding what was wanted of her, she nodded in token that
she would come to the rescue. Just then, Mrs. Livingstone, who had kept
an eye upon her niece, drew near, and as she seemed to want a seat;
’Lena instantly arose and offered hers, going herself to the place
where the captain was sitting. Erelong, her lively sallies and the
captain’s loud laugh began to attract Mrs. Livingstone’s attention, and
observing that Durward’s eyes were frequently drawn that way, she
thought proper to make some remarks concerning the impropriety of her
niece’s conduct.

“I do wish,” said she, apparently speaking more to herself than to
Durward, “I do wish ’Lena would learn discretion, and let Captain
Atherton alone, when she knows how much her behavior annoys Mr.
Everett.”

“Is Mr. Everett anything to her!” asked Durward, half hoping that she
would not confirm what Carrie had before hinted.

“If he isn’t he ought to be,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, with an
ominous shake of the head. “Rumor says they are engaged, and though
when questioned she denies it, she gives people abundant reason to
think so, and yet every chance she gets, she flirts with Captain
Atherton, as you see her doing now.”

“What can she or any other young girl possibly want of that old man?”
asked Durward, laughing at the very idea.

“He is _rich_. ’Lena is poor, proud, and ambitious—there lies the
secret,” was Mrs. Livingstone’s reply, and thinking she had said enough
for the present, she excused herself, while she went to give orders
concerning supper.

John Jr., and Carrie, too, had disappeared, and thus left to himself,
Durward had nothing to do but to watch ’Lena, who, as she saw symptoms
of desertion in the anxious glances which the captain cast toward Anna,
redoubled her exertions to keep him at her side, thus confirming
Durward in the belief that she really was what her aunt and Carrie had
represented her to be. “Poor, proud, and ambitious,” rang in his ears,
and as he mistook the mischievous look which ’Lena frequently sent
toward Anna and Malcolm, for a desire to see how the latter was
affected by her conduct, he thought “Fickle as fair,” at the same time
congratulating himself that he had obtained an insight into her real
character, ere her exceeding beauty and agreeable manners had made any
particular impression upon him.

Knowing she had done nothing to offend him, and feeling piqued at his
indifference, ’Lena in turn treated him so coldly, that even Carrie was
satisfied with the phase which affairs had assumed, and that night, in
the privacy of her mother’s dressing-room, expressed her pleasure that
matters were progressing so finely.

“You’ve no idea, mother,” said she, “how much he detests anything like
coquetry. Nellie Douglass thinks it’s a kind of monomania with him, and
I am inclined to believe it is so.”

“In that case,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, “it behooves you, in his
presence, to be very careful how you demean yourself toward other
gentlemen.”

“I haven’t lived nineteen years for nothing,” said Carrie, folding her
soft white hands complacently one over the other.

“Speaking of Nellie Douglass,” continued Mrs. Livingstone, who had long
desired this interview with her daughter, “speaking of Nellie, reminds
me of your brother, who seems perfectly crazy about her.”

“And what if he does ?” asked Carrie, her thoughts far more intent upon
Durward Bellmont than her brother. “Isn’t Nellie good enough for him?”

“Yes, good enough, I admit,” returned her mother, “but I think I can
find a far more suitable match—Mabel Ross, for instance. Her fortune is
said to be immense, while Mr. Douglass is worth little or nothing.”

“When you bring about a union between John Livingstone Jr. and Mabel
Ross, I shall have full confidence in your powers to do anything, even
to the marrying of Anna and Grandfather Atherton,” answered Carrie, to
whom her mother’s schemes were no secret.

“And that, too, I’ll effect, rather than see her thrown away upon a low
bred northerner, who shall never wed her—never;” and the haughty woman
paced up and down her room, devising numerous ways by which her long
cherished three-fold plan should be effected.

The next morning, Durward arose much earlier than was his usual custom,
and going out into the garden he came suddenly upon ’Lena. “This,” said
he, “is a pleasure which I did not expect when I rather unwillingly
tore myself from my pillow.”

All the coldness of the night before was gone, but ’Lena could not so
soon forget, and quite indifferently she answered, that “she learned to
rise early among the New England hills.”

“An excellent practice, and one which more of our young ladies would do
well to imitate,” returned Durward, at the same time speaking of the
beautifying effect which the morning air had upon her complexion.

’Lena reddened, for she recalled his words of yesterday concerning her
plainness, and somewhat sharply she replied, that “any information
regarding her personal appearance was wholly unnecessary, as she knew
very well how she looked.”

Durward bit his lip, and resolving never to compliment her again,
walked on in silence at her side, while ’Lena, repenting of her hasty
words, and desirous of making amends, exerted herself to be agreeable;
and by the time the breakfast-bell rang, Durward mentally pronounced
her “a perfect mystery,” which he would take delight in unraveling!




CHAPTER X.
MR. AND MRS. GRAHAM.


Breakfast had been some time over, when the roll of carriage wheels and
a loud ring at the door, announced the arrival of Mr. Graham, who, true
to his appointment with Durward, had come up to meet him, accompanied
by Mrs. Graham. This lady, who could boast of having once been the
bride of an English lord, to say nothing of belonging to the “very
first family of Virginia,” was a sort of bugbear to Mrs. Livingstone,
who, haughty and overbearing to her equals, was nevertheless cringing
and cowardly in the presence of those whom she considered her
superiors. Never having seen Mrs. Graham, her ideas concerning her were
quite elevated, and now when she came unexpectedly, it quite overcame
her. Unfortunately, too, she was this morning suffering from a nervous
headache, the result of the excitement and late hours of the night
before, and on learning that Mrs. Graham was in the parlor, she fell
back in her rocking-chair, and between a groan and a sigh, declared her
utter inability to see her at present, saying that Carrie must play the
part of hostess until such time as she felt composed enough to
undertake it.

“Oh, I can’t—I _shan’t_—that ends it!” said Carrie, who, though a good
deal dressed on Durward’s account, still felt anxious to give a few
more finishing touches to her toilet, and to see if her hair and
complexion were all right, ere she ventured into the august presence ef
her “mother-in-law elect,” as she confidently considered Mrs. Graham.

“Anna must go, then,” persisted Mrs. Livingstone, who knew full well
how useless it would be to press Carrie farther. “Anna must go—where is
she? Call her, ’Lena.”

But Anna was away over the fields, enjoying with Mr. Everett a walk
which had been planned the night previous, and when ’Lena returned with
the intelligence that she was nowhere to be found, her aunt in great
distress exclaimed, “Mercy me! what will Mrs. Graham think—and Mr.
Livingstone, too, keeps running back and forth for somebody to
entertain her. What shall I do! I can’t go in looking so yellow and
jaded as I now do!”

’Lena’s first thought was to bring her aunt’s powderball, as the surest
way of remedying the yellow skin, but knowing that such an act would be
deeply resented, she quickly repressed the idea, offering instead to go
herself to the parlor.

“_You_! What could _you_ say to her?” returned Mrs. Livingstone, to
whom the proposition was not altogether displeasing.

“I can at least answer her questions,” returned ’Lena and after a
moment her aunt consented, wondering the while how ’Lena, in her plain
gingham wrapper and linen collar, could be willing to meet the
fashionable Mrs. Graham.

“But then,” thought she, “she has so little sensibility, I don’t s’pose
she cares! and why should she? Mrs. Graham will of course look upon her
as only a little above a servant”—and with this complimentary
reflection upon her niece, Mrs. Livingstone retired to her
dressing-room, while ’Lena, with a beating heart and slightly
heightened color, repaired to the parlor.

On a sofa by the window sat Mrs. Graham, and the moment ’Lena’s eye
fell upon her, her fears vanished, while she could hardly repress a
smile at the idea of being afraid of _her_. She was a short, dumpy,
florid looking woman, showily, and as ’Lena thought, _overdressed_ for
morning, as her person was covered with jewelry, which flashed and
sparkled with every movement. Her forehead was very low, and marked by
a scowl of discontent which was habitual, for with everything to make
her happy, Mrs. Graham was far from being so. Exceedingly nervous and
fidgety, she was apt to see only the darker side, and when her husband
and son, who were of exactly opposite temperaments, strove to laugh her
into good spirits, they generally made the matter worse, as she usually
reproached them with having no feeling or sympathy for her.

Accustomed to a great deal of attention, she had fretted herself into
quite a fever at Mrs. Livingstone’s apparent lack of courtesy in not
hastening to receive her, and when ’Lena’s light step was heard in the
hall, she turned toward the door with a frown which seemed to ask why
she had not come sooner. Durward, who was present immediately
introduced his mother, at the same time admiring the extreme dignity of
’Lena’s manner as she received the lady’s greeting, apologizing for her
aunt’s non-appearance, saying “she was suffering from a severe
headache, and begged to be excused for an hour or so.”

“Quite excusable,” returned Mrs. Graham, at the same time saying
something in a low tone about it’s not being her wish to stop there so
early, as she knew _she_ was not expected.

“But perfectly welcome, nevertheless,” ’Lena hastened to say, thinking
that for the time being the reputation of her uncle’s house was resting
upon her shoulders.

“I dare say,” was Mrs. Graham’s ungracious answer, and then her little
gray, deep-set eyes rested upon ’Lena, wondering if she were “a
governess or what?” and thinking it strange that she should seem so
perfectly self-possessed.

Insensibly, too, ’Lena’s manner won upon her, for spite of her
fretfulness, Mrs. Graham at heart was a kindly disposed woman. Ill
health and long years of dissipation had helped to make her what she
was. Besides this, she was not quite happy in her domestic relations,
for though Mr. Graham possessed all the requisites of a kind and
affectionate husband, he could not remove from her mind the belief that
he liked others better then he did herself! ’Twas in vain that he
alternately laughed at and reasoned with her on the subject. She was
not to be convinced, and so poor Mr. Graham, who was really exceedingly
polite and affable to the ladies, was almost constantly provoking the
green-eyed monster by his attentions to some one of the fair sex. In
spite of his nightly “Caudle” lectures, he _would_ transgress again and
again, until his wife’s patience was exhausted, and now she affected to
have given him up, turning for comfort and affection toward Durward,
who was her special delight, “the very apple of her eye—he was so much
like his father, Sir Arthur, who during the whole year that she lived
with him had never once given her cause for jealousy.”

Just before ’Lena entered the parlor Mr. Graham, had for a moment
stepped out with Mr. Livingstone, but soon returning, he, too, was
introduced to the young lady. It was strange, considering ’Lena’s
uncommon beauty, that Mrs. Graham did not watch her husband’s manner,
but for once in her life she felt no fears, and looking from the
window, she failed to note the sudden pallor which overspread his face
when Mr. Livingstone presented to him “Miss Rivers—my niece.”

Mr. Graham was a tall, finely-formed man, with a broad, good-humored
face, whose expression instantly demanded respect from strangers, while
his pleasant, affable deportment universally won the friendship of all
who knew him. And ’Lena was not an exception to the general rule, for
the moment his warm hand grasped hers and his kindly beaming eye rested
upon her, her heart went toward him as a friend, while she wondered why
he looked at her so long and earnestly, twice repeating her name—“Miss
Rivers—_Rivers_.”

From the first, ’Lena had recognized him as the same gentleman whom
Durward had called father in the cars years ago, and when, as if to
apologize for his singular conduct, he asked if they had never met
before, she referred him to that time, saying “she thought it strange
that he should remember her.”

“Old acquaintances—ah—indeed !” and little Mrs. Graham nodded and
fanned, while her round, florid face grew more florid, and her linen
cambric went up to her forehead as if trying to smooth out the scowl
which was of too long standing to be smoothed.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Graham, turning toward his wife, “I had
entirely forgotten the circumstance, but it seems I saw her in the cars
when we took our eastern tour six or seven years ago. You were quite a
little girl then”—turning to ’Lena.

“Only ten,” was the reply, and Mrs. Graham, ashamed of herself and
anxious to make amends, softened considerable toward ’Lena, asking “how
long she had lived in Kentucky—where she used to live—and where her
mother was.”

At this question, Mr. Graham, who was talking with Mr. Livingstone,
suddenly stopped.

“My mother is dead,” answered ’Lena.

“And your father?”

“Gone to Canada!” interrupted Durward, who had heard vague rumors of
’Lena’s parentage, and who did not quite like his mother’s being so
inquisitive.

Mrs. Graham laughed; she always did at whatever Durward said; while Mr.
Graham replied to a remark made by Mr. Livingstone some time before.
Here John Jr. appeared, and after being formally introduced, he seated
himself by his cousin, addressing to her some trivial remark, and
calling her ’_Lena_. It was well for Mr. Graham’s after peace that his
wife was just then too much engrossed with Durward to observe the
effect which that name produced upon him.

Abruptly rising he turned toward Mr. Livingstone, saying, “You were
telling me about a fine species of cactus which you have in your
yard—suppose we go and see it.”

The cactus having been duly examined, praised, and commented upon, Mr.
Graham casually remarked, “Your niece is a fine-looking girl—’Lena, I
think your son called her?”

“Yes, or _Helena_, which was her mother’s name.”

“And her mother was your sister, Helena Livingstone?”

“No, sir, Nichols. I changed my name to gratify a fancy of my wife,”
returned Mr. Livingstone, thinking it better to tell the truth at once.

Again Mr. Graham bent over the cactus, inspecting it minutely, and
keeping his face for a long time concealed from his friend, whose
thoughts, as was usually the case when his sister was mentioned, were
far back in the past. When at last Mr. Graham lifted his head there
were no traces of the stormy emotions which had shaken his very
heart-strings, and with a firm, composed step he walked back to the
parlor, where he found both Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie just paying
their respects to his lady.

Nothing could be more marked than the difference between Carrie’s and
’Lena’s manner toward Mrs. Graham. Even Durward noticed it, and while
he could not sufficiently admire the quiet self-possession of the
latter, who in her simple morning wrapper and linen collar had met his
mother on perfectly equal terms, he for the first time in his life felt
a kind of contempt (pity he called it,) for Carrie, who, in an
elegantly embroidered double-gown confined by a rich cord and tassels,
which almost swept the floor, treated his mother with a fawning
servility as disgusting to him as it was pleasing to the lady in
question. Accustomed to the utmost deference on account of her wealth
and her husband’s station, Mrs. Graham had felt as if something were
withheld from her, when neither Mrs. Livingstone nor her daughters
rushed to receive and welcome her; but now all was forgotten, for
nothing could be more flattering than their attentions. Both mother and
daughter having the son in view, did their best, and when at last Mrs.
Graham asked to be shown to her room, Carrie, instead of ringing for a
servant, offered to conduct her thither herself; whereupon Mrs. Graham
laid her hand caressingly upon her shoulders, calling her a “dear
little pet,” and asking “where she stole those bright, naughty eyes!”

A smothered laugh from John Jr. and a certain low soft sound which he
was in the habit of producing when desirous of reminding his sister of
her _nose_, made the “bright, naughty eyes” flash so angrily, that even
Durward noticed it, and wondered if ’Lena’s temper had not been
transferred to her cousin.

“That young girl—’Lena, I think you call her—is a relative of yours,”
said Mrs. Graham to Carrie, as they were ascending the stairs.

“Ye-es, our cousin, I suppose,” answered Carrie.

“She bears a very aristocratic name, that of Rivers—does she belong to
a Virginia family?”

Carrie looked mysterious and answered, “I never knew anything of her
father, and indeed, I reckon no one does”—then after a moment she
added, “Almost every family has some objectionable relative, with which
they could willingly dispense.”

“Very true,” returned Mrs. Graham, “What a pity we couldn’t all have
been born in England. There, dear, you can leave me now.”

Accordingly Carrie started for the parlor, meeting in the hall her
mother, who was in a sea of trouble concerning the dinner. “Old Milly,”
she said, “had gone to bed out of pure hatefulness, pretending she had
got a _collapse_, as she called it.”

“Can’t Hagar do,” asked Carrie, anxious that Mrs. Graham’s first dinner
with them should be in style.

“Yes, but she can’t do everything—somebody must superintend her, and as
for burning myself brown over the dishes and then coming to the table,
I won’t.”

“Why not make ’Lena go into the kitchen—it won’t hurt her to-day more
than it did yesterday,” suggested Carrie.

“A good idea,” returned her mother, and stepping to the parlor door she
called ’Lena from a most interesting conversation with Mr. Graham, who,
the moment his wife was gone, had taken a seat by her side, and now
seemed oblivious to all else save her.

There was a strange tenderness in the tones of his voice and in the
expression of his eyes as they rested upon her, and Durward, who well
knew his mother’s peculiarities, felt glad that she was not present,
while at the same time he wondered that his father should appear so
deeply interested in an entire stranger.

“’Lena, I wish to speak with you,” said Mrs. Livingstone, appearing at
the door, and ’Lena, gracefully excusing herself, left the room, while
Mr. Graham commenced pacing the floor in a slow, abstracted manner,
ever and anon wiping away the beaded drops which stood thickly on his
forehead.

Meantime, ’Lena, having learned for what she was wanted, went without a
word to the kitchen, though her proud nature rebelled, and it was with
difficulty she could force down the bitter spirit which she felt rising
within her. Had her aunt or Carrie shared her labors, or had the former
_asked_ instead of commanded her to go, she would have done it
willingly. But now in quite a perturbed state of mind she bent over
pastry and pudding, scarcely knowing which was which, until a pleasant
voice at her side made her start, and looking up she saw Anna, who had
just returned from her walk, and who on learning how matters stood,
declared her intention of helping too.

“If there’s anything I like, it’s being in a muss,” said she, and
throwing aside her leghorn flat, pinning up her sleeves, and fastening
back her curls in imitation of ’Lena, she was soon up to her elbows in
cooking—her dress literally covered with flour, eggs, and cream, and
her face as red as the currant jelly which Hagar brought from the china
closet. “There’s a pie fit for a queen or Lady Graham either,” said
she, depositing in the huge oven her first attempt in the pie line.

But alas! Malcolm Everett’s words of love spoken beneath the
wide-spreading sycamore were still ringing in Anna’s ears, so it was no
wonder she _salted_ the custard instead of sweetening it. But no one
noticed the mistake, and when the pie was done, both ’Lena and Hagar
praised its white, uncurdled appearance.

“Now we shall just have time to change our dresses,” said Anna, when
everything pertaining to the dinner was in readiness, but ’Lena,
knowing how flushed and heated she was, and remembering Durward’s
distaste of high colors, announced her determination of not appearing
at the table.

“I shall see that grandma is nicely dressed,” said she, “and you must
look after her a little, for I shall not come down.”

So saying she ran up to her room, where she found Mrs. Nichols in a
great state of fermentation to know “who was below, and what the doin’s
was, I should of gone down,” said she, “but I know’d ’Tilda would be
madder’n a hornet.”

’Lena commended her discretion in remaining where she was, and then
informing her that Mr. Bellmont’s father and mother were there, she
proceeded to make some alterations in her dress. The handsome black
silk and neat lace cap, both the Christmas gift of John Jr., were
donned, and then, staff in hand, the old lady started for the
dining-room, ’Lena giving her numerous charges not to talk much, and on
no account to mention her favorite topic—Nancy Scovandyke!

“Nancy’s as good any day as Miss Graham, if she did marry a live lord,”
was grandma’s mental comment, as the last-mentioned lady, rustling in a
heavy brocade and loaded down with jewelry, took her place at the
table.

Purposely, Mrs. Livingstone omitted an introduction which her husband,
through fear of her, perhaps, failed to give. But not so with John Jr.
To be sure, he cared not a fig, on his grandmother’s account, whether
she were introduced or not, for he well knew she would not hesitate to
make their acquaintance; but knowing how it would annoy his mother and
Carrie, he called out, in a loud tone, “My grandmother, Mrs.
Nichols—Mr. and Mrs. Graham.”

Mr. Graham started so quickly that his wife asked “if anything stung
him.”

“Yes—no,” said he, at the same time indicating that it was not worth
while to mind it.

“Got stung, have you?” said Mrs. Nichols. “Mebby ’twas a
bumble-bee—seems ’sef I smelt one; but like enough it’s the scent on
Car’line’s handkercher.”

Mrs. Graham frowned majestically, but it was entirely lost on grandma,
who, after a time, forgetful of ’Lena’s caution, said, “I b’lieve they
say you’re from Virginny!”

“Yes, madam, Virginia is my native state,” returned Mrs. Graham,
clipping off each word as if it were burning her tongue.

“Anywheres near Richmond?” continued Mrs. Nichols.

“I was born in Richmond, madam.”

“Law, now I who knows but you’re well acquainted with Nancy
Scovandyke’s kin.”

Mrs. Graham turned as red as the cranberry sauce upon her plate, as she
replied, “I’ve not the honor of knowing either Miss Scovandyke or any
of her relatives.”

“Wall, she’s a smart, likely gal, or woman I s’pose you’d call her,
bein’ she’s just the age of my son.”

Here Mrs. Nichols, suddenly remembering ’Lena’s charge, stopped, but
John Jr., who loved to see the fun go on, started her again, by asking
what relatives Miss Scovandyke had in Virginia.

“’Leny told me not to mention Nancy, but bein’ you’ve asked a civil
question, ’tain’t more’n fair for me to answer it. Better’n forty year
ago Nancy’s mother’s aunt——”

“Which would be Miss Nancy’s great-aunt,” interrupted John Jr.

“Bless the boy,” returned the old lady, “he’s got the Nichols’ head for
figgerin’. Yes, Nancy’s great-aunt though she was six years and two
months younger’n Nancy’s mother. Wall, as I was sayin’, she went off to
Virginny to teach music. She was prouder’n Lucifer, and after a spell
she married a southerner, rich as a Jew, and then she never took no
more notice of her folks to hum, than’s ef they hadn’t been. But the
poor critter didn’t live long to enjoy it, for when her first baby was
born, she died. ’Twas a little girl, but her folks in Massachusetts
have never heard a word whether she’s dead or alive. Joel Slocum,
that’s Nancy’s nephew, says he means to go down there some day, and
look her up, but I wouldn’t bother with ’em, for that side of the house
always did feel big, and above Nancy’s folks, thinkin’ Nancy’s mother
married beneath her.”

Mrs. Graham must have enjoyed her dinner very much, for during
grandma’s recital she applied herself assiduously to her plate, never
once looking up, while her face and neck were literally spotted, either
with heat, excitement or anger. These spots at last attracted Mrs.
Nichols’ attention, causing her to ask the lady “if she warn’t pestered
with erysipelas.”

“I am not aware of it, madam,” answered Mrs. Graham, and grandma
replied, “It looks mighty like it to me, and I’ve seen a good deal
on’t, for Nancy Scovandyke has allers had it more or less. Now I think
on’t,” she continued, as if bent on tormenting her companion, “now I
think on’t, you look quite a considerable like Nancy—the same forehead
and complexion—only she’s a head taller. Hain’t you noticed it, John?”

“No, I have not,” answered John, at the same time proposing a change in
the conversation, as he presumed “they had all heard enough of Nancy
Scovandyke.”

At this moment the dessert appeared, and with it Anna’s pie. John Jr.
was the first to taste it, and with an expression of disgust he
exclaimed, “Horror, mother, who made this pie?”

Mrs. Livingstone needed but one glance at her guests to know that
something was wrong, and darting an angry frown at Hagar, who was busy
at a side-table, she wondered “if there ever was any one who had so
much trouble with servants as herself.”

Anna saw the gathering storm, and knowing full well that it would burst
on poor Hagar’s head, spoke out, “Hagar is not in the fault, mother—no
one but myself is to blame. _I_ made the pie, and must have put in salt
instead of sugar.”

“You made the pie!” repeated Mrs. Livingstone angrily, “What business
had you in the kitchen? Pity we hadn’t a few more servants, for then we
should all be obliged to turn drudges.”

Anna was about to reply, when John Jr. prevented her, by asking, “if it
hurt his sister to be in the kitchen any more than it did ’Lena, who,”
he said, “worked there both yesterday and to-day, burning herself until
she is ashamed to appear at the table.”

Mortified beyond measure at what had occurred, Mrs. Livingstone
hastened to explain that her servants were nearly all sick, and that in
her dilemma, ’Lena had volunteered her services, adding by way of
compliment, undoubtedly, that “her niece seemed peculiarly adapted to
such work—indeed, that her forte lay among pots and kettles.”

An expression of scorn, unusual to Mr. Graham, passed over his face,
and in a sarcastic tone he asked Mrs. Livingstone, “if she thought it
detracted from a young lady’s worth, to be skilled in whatever
pertained to the domestic affairs of a family.”

Ready to turn whichever way the wind did, Mrs. Livingstone replied,
“Not at all—not at all. I mean that my daughters shall learn
everything, so that their husbands will find in them every necessary
qualification.”

“Then you confidently expect them to catch husbands some time or
other,” said John Jr., whereupon Carrie blushed, and looked very
interesting, while Anna retorted, “Of course we shall. I wouldn’t be an
old maid for the world—I’d run away first!”

And amidst the laughter which this speech called forth the company
retired from the table. For some time past Mrs. Nichols had walked with
a cane, limping even then. Observing this, Mr. Graham, with his usual
gallantry, offered her his arm, which she willingly accepted, casting a
look of triumph upon her daughter-in-law, who apparently was not so
well pleased. So thorough had been grandma’s training, that she did not
often venture into the parlor without a special invitation from its
mistress, but on this occasion, Mr. Graham led her in there as a matter
of course, and placing her upon the sofa, seated himself by her side,
and commenced questioning her concerning her former home and history.
Never in her life had Mrs. Nichols felt more communicative, and never
before had she so attentive a listener. Particularly did he hang upon
every word, when she told him of her Helena, of her exceeding beauty,
her untimely death, and rascally husband.

“Rivers—Rivers,” said he, “what kind of a looking man was he?”

“The Lord only knows—I never see him,” returned Mrs. Nichols. “But this
much I do know, he was one scandalous villain, and if an old woman’s
curses can do him any harm, he’s had mine a plenty of times.”

“You do wrong to talk so,” said Mr. Graham, “for who knows how bitterly
he may have repented of the great wrong done to your daughter.”

“Then why in the name of common sense don’t he hunt up her child, and
own her—he needn’t be ashamed of ’Leny.”

“Very true,” answered Mr. Graham. “No one need be ashamed of her. I
should be proud to call her my daughter. But as I was saying, perhaps
this Rivers has married a second time, keeping his first marriage a
secret from his wife, who is so proud and high-spirited that now, after
the lapse of years, he dares not tell her for fear of what might
follow.”

“Then she’s a good-for-nothing, stuck-up thing, and he’s a cowardly
puppy! That’s my opinion on ’em, and I’ll tell ’em so, if ever I see
’em!” exclaimed Mrs. Nichols, her wrath waxing warmer and warmer toward
the destroyer of her daughter.

Pausing for breath, she helped herself to a pinch of her favorite
Maccaboy, and then passed it to Mr. Graham, who, to her astonishment,
took some, slyly casting it aside when she did not see him. This
emboldened the old lady to offer it to Mrs. Graham, who, languidly
reclining upon the end of the sofa, sat talking to Carrie, who, on a
low stool at her feet, was looking up into her face as if in perfect
admiration. Without deigning other reply than a haughty shake of the
head, Mrs. Graham cast a deprecating glance toward Carrie, who
muttered, “How disgusting! But for pa’s sake we tolerate it.”

Here ’Lena entered the parlor, very neatly dressed, and looking fresh
and blooming as a rose. There was no vacant seat near except one
between Durward and John Jr., which, at the invitation of the latter,
she accepted. A peculiar smile flitted over Carrie’s face, which was
noticed by Mrs. Graham, and attributed to the right cause. Ere long
Durward, John Jr., ’Lena and Anna, who had joined them, left the house,
and from the window Carrie saw that they were amusing themselves by
playing “Graces.” Gradually the sound of their voices increased, and as
’Lena’s clear, musical laugh rang out above the rest, Mrs. Graham and
Carrie looked out just in time to see Durward holding the struggling
girl, while John Jr., claimed the reward of his having thrown the
“grace hoop” upon her head.

Inexpressily shocked, the precise Mrs. Graham asked, “What kind of a
girl is your cousin?” to which Carrie replied, “You have a fair sample
of her,” at the same time nodding toward ’Lena, who was unmercifully
pulling John Jr.’s ears as a reward for his presumption.

“Rather hoydenish, I should think,” returned Mrs. Graham, secretly
hoping Durward would not become enamored of her.

At length the party left the yard, and repairing to the garden, sat
down in one of the arbor bridges, where they were joined by Malcolm
Everett, who naturally, and as a matter of course, appropriated Anna to
himself, Durward observed this, and when he saw them walk away
together, while ’Lena appeared wholly unconcerned, he began to think
that possibly Mrs. Livingstone was mistaken when she hinted of an
engagement between her niece and Mr. Everett. Knowing John Jr.’s
straightforward way of speaking, he determined to sound him, so he
said, “Your sister and Mr. Everett evidently prefer each other’s
society to ours.”

“Oh, yes,” answered John. “I saw that years ago, when Anna wasn’t
knee-high; and I’m glad of it, for Everett is a mighty fine fellow.”

’Lena, too, united in praising her teacher, until Durward felt certain
that she had never entertained for him any feeling stronger than that
of friendship; and as to her flirting seriously with Captain Atherton,
the idea was too preposterous to be harbored for a single moment. Once
exonerated from these charges, it was strange how fast ’Lena rose in
his estimation, and when John Jr., with a loud yawn, asked if they did
not wish he would leave them alone, more in earnest than in fun Durward
replied, “Yes, yes, do.”

“I reckon I will,” said John, shaking down his tight pants, and pulling
at his long coat sleeves. “I never want anybody round when I’m with
Nellie Douglass.”

So saying, he walked off, leaving Durward and ’Lena alone. That neither
of them felt at all sorry, was proved by the length of time which they
remained together, for when more than an hour afterward Mrs. Graham
proposed to Carrie to take a turn in the garden, she found the young
couple still in the arbor, so wholly engrossed that they neither saw
nor heard her until she stood before them.

’Lena was an excellent horsewoman, and Durward had just proposed a ride
early the next morning, when his mother, forcing down her wrath, laid
her hand on his shoulder, and as if the proposition had come from ’Lena
instead of her son, she said, “No, no, Miss Rivers, Durward can’t go—he
has got to drive me over to Woodlawn, together with Carrie and Anna,
whom I have asked to accompany me; so you see ’twill be impossible for
him to ride with you.”

“Unless she goes with us,” interrupted Durward. “You would like to
visit Woodlawn, would you not, Miss Rivers?”

“Oh, very much,” was ’Lena’s reply, while Mrs. Graham continued, “I am
sorry I cannot extend my invitation to Miss Rivers, but our carriage
will be full, and I cannot endure to be crowded.”

“It has carried six many a time,” said Durward, “and if she will go, I
will take you on my lap, or anywhere.”

Of course ’Lena declined—he knew she would—and determined not to be
outwitted by his mother, whose aim he saw, he continued, “I shan’t
release you from your engagement to ride with me. We will start early
and get back before mother is up, so our excursion will in no way
interfere with my driving her to Woodlawn after breakfast.”

Mrs. Graham was too polite to raise any further objection, but
resolving not to leave them to finish their _tete-a-tete_, she threw
herself upon one of the seats, and commenced talking to her son, while
Carrie, burning with jealousy and vexation, started for the house,
where she laid her grievances before her mother, who, equally enraged,
declared her intention of “hereafter watching the vixen pretty
closely.”

“And she’s going to ride with him to-morrow morning, you say. Well, I
fancy I can prevent that.”

“How?” asked Carrie, eagerly, and her mother replied, “You know she
always rides Fleetfoot, which now, with the other horses, is in the
Grattan woods, two miles away. Of course she’ll order Cæsar to bring
him up to the stable, but I shall countermand that order, bidding him
say nothing to her about it. He dare not disobey me, and when in the
morning she asks for the pony, he can tell her just how it is.”

“Capital! capital!” exclaimed Carrie, never suspecting that there had
been a listener, even John Jr., who all the while was sitting in the
back parlor.

“Whew!” thought the young man. “Plotting, are they? Well, I’ll see how
good I am at counterplotting.”

So, slipping quietly out of the house, he went in quest of his servant,
Bill, telling him to go after Fleetfoot, whom he was to put in the
lower stable instead of the one where she was usually kept; “and then
in the morning, long before the sun is up,” said he, “do you have her
at the door for one of the young ladies to ride.”

“Yes, marster,” answered Bill, looking around for his old straw hat.

“Now, see how quick you can go,” John Jr. continued, adding as an
incentive to haste, that if Bill would get the pony stabled before old
Cæsar, who had gone to Versailles, should return, he would give him ten
cents.

Bill needed no other inducement than the promise of money, and without
stopping to find his hat, he started off bare-headed, upon the run,
returning in the course of an hour and claiming his reward, as Cæsar
had not yet got home.

“All right,” said John Jr., tossing him the silver. “And now remember
to keep your tongue between your teeth.”

Bill had kept too many secrets for his young master to think of
tattling about something which to him seemed of no consequence
whatever, and he walked off, eying his dime, and wishing he could earn
one so easily every day.

Meantime John Jr. sought out ’Lena, to whom he said, “And so you are
going to ride to-morrow morning?”

“How did you know ?” she asked, and John, looking very wise, replied,
that “little girls should not ask too many questions,” adding, that as
he supposed she would of course want Fleetfoot, he had ordered Bill to
have her at the door early in the morning.

“Much obliged,” answered ’Lena. “I was about giving it up when I heard
the pony was in the Grattan woods, for Cæsar is so cross I hated to ask
him to go for her; but now I’ll say nothing to him about it.”

That night when Cæsar was eating his supper in the kitchen, his
mistress suddenly appeared, asking, “if he had received any orders to
go for Fleetfoot.”

The old negro, who was naturally cross, began to scowl, “No, miss, and
Lord knows I don’t want to tote clar off to the Grattan woods
to-night.”

“You needn’t, either, and if any one tells you to go don’t you do it,”
returned Mrs. Livingstone.

“Somebody’s playin’ possum, that’s sartin,” thought Bill, who was
present, and began putting things together. “Somebody’s playin’ possum,
but they don’t catch this child leakin’.”

“Have you told him?” whispered Carrie, meeting her mother in the hall.

Mrs. Livingstone nodded, adding in an undertone, that “she presumed the
ride was given up, as Lena had said nothing to Cæsar about the pony.”

With her mind thus at ease, Carrie returned to the parlor, where she
commenced talking to Mrs. Graham of their projected visit to Woodlawn,
dwelling upon it as if it had been a tour to Europe, and evidently
exulting that ’Lena was to be left behind.




CHAPTER XI.
WOODLAWN.


Next morning, long before the sun appeared above the eastern horizon,
Fleetfoot, attended by Bill, stood before the door saddled and waiting
for its young rider, while near by it was Firelock, which Durward had
borrowed of John Jr. At last ’Lena appeared, and if Durward had admired
her beauty before, his admiration was now greatly increased when he saw
how well she looked in her neatly fitting riding dress and tasteful
straw hat. After bidding her good morning, he advanced to assist her in
mounting, but declining his offer, she with one bound sprang into the
saddle,

“Jumps like a toad,” said Bill. “Ain’t stiff and clumsy like Miss
Carrie, who allus has to be done sot on.”

At a word from Durward they galloped briskly away, the clatter of their
horses’ hoofs arousing and bringing to the window Mrs. Graham, who had
a suspicion of what was going on. Pushing aside the silken curtain, she
looked uneasily after them, wondering if in reality her son cared aught
for the graceful creature at his side, and thinking if he did, how hard
she would labor to overcome his liking. Mrs. Graham was not the only
one who watched them, for fearing lest Bill should not awake, John Jr.
had foregone his morning nap, himself calling up the negro, and now
from his window he, too, looked after them until they entered upon the
turnpike and were lost to view. Then, with some very complimentary
reflections upon Lena’s riding, he returned to his pillow, thinking to
himself, “There’s a girl worth having. By Jove, if I’d never seen
Nellie Douglass, and ’Lena wasn’t my cousin, wouldn’t I keep mother in
the hysterics most of the time!”

On reaching the turnpike, Durward halted, while he asked ’Lena “where
she wished to go.”

“Anywhere you please,” said she, when, for reasons of his own, he
proposed that they should ride over to Woodlawn.

’Lena was certainly excusable if she felt a secret feeling of
satisfaction in thinking she was after all the first of the family to
visit Woodlawn, of which she had heard so much, that it seemed like a
perfect Eldorado. It was a grand old building, standing on a cross road
about three miles from the turnpike, and commanding quite an extensive
view of the country around. It was formerly owned by a wealthy
Englishman, who spent his winters in New Orleans and his summers in the
country. The year before he had died insolvent, Woodlawn falling into
the hands of his creditors, who now offered it for sale, together with
the gorgeous furniture which still remained just as the family had left
it. To the left of the building was a large, handsome park, in which
the former owner had kept a number of deer, and now as Durward and
’Lena rode up and down the shaded avenues, these graceful creatures
would occasionally spring up and bound away with the fleetness of the
wind.

The garden and yard in front were laid out with perfect taste, the
former combining both the useful and the agreeable. A luxurious
grape-vine wreathed itself over the arched entrance, while the wide,
graveled walks were bordered, some with box, and others with choice
flowers, now choked and overgrown with weeds, but showing marks of
great beauty, when properly tended and cared for. At the extremity of
the principal walk, which extended the entire length of the garden, was
a summer house, fitted up with everything which could make it
attractive, during the sultry heat of summer, while farther on through
the little gate was a handsome grove or continuation of the park, with
many well-beaten paths winding through it and terminating finally at
the side of a tiny sheet of water, which within a few years had forced
itself through the limestone soil natural to Kentucky.

Owing to some old feud, the English family had not been on visiting
terms with the Livingstones; consequently, ’Lena had never before been
at Woodlawn, and her admiration increased with every step, and when at
last they entered the house and stood within the elegant drawing-rooms,
it knew no bounds. She remembered the time when she had thought her
uncle’s furniture splendid beyond anything in the world, but it could
not compare with the magnificence around her, and for a few moments she
stood as if transfixed with astonishment. Durward had been highly
amused at her enthusiastic remarks concerning the grounds, and now
noticing her silence, he asked “what was the matter?”

“Oh, I am half-afraid to speak, lest this beautiful room should prove
an illusion and fade away,” said she.

“Is it then so much more beautiful than anything you ever saw before?”
he asked; and she replied, “Oh, yes, far more so,” at the same time
giving him a laughable description of her amazement when she first saw
the inside of her uncle’s house, and ending by saying, “But you can
imagine it all, for you saw me in the cars, and can judge pretty well
what were my ideas of the world.”

Wishing to see if ’Lena would attempt to conceal her former humble mode
of living Durward said, “I have never heard anything concerning your
eastern home and how you lived there—will you please to tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell which will interest you,” answered ’Lena; but
Durward thought there was, and leading her to a sofa, he bade her
commence.

Durward had a peculiar way of making people do what he pleased, and now
at his bidding ’Lena told him of her mountain-home, with its low-roof,
bare walls, and oaken floors—of herself, when, a bare-footed little
girl, she picked _huckleberries_ with _Joel Slocum_! And then, in lower
and more subdued tones, she spoke of her mother’s grave in the valley,
near which her beloved grandfather—the only father she had ever
known—was now sleeping. ’Lena never spoke of her grandfather without
weeping. She could not help it. Her tears came naturally, as they did
when first they told her he was dead, and now laying her head upon the
arm of the sofa, she sobbed like a child.

Durward’s sympathies were all enlisted, and without stopping to
consider the propriety or impropriety of the act, he drew her gently
toward him, trying to soothe her grief, calling her ’_Lena_, and
smoothing back the curls which had fallen over her face. As soon as
possible ’Lena released herself from him, and drying her tears,
proposed that they should go over the house, as it was nearly time for
them to return home. Accordingly, they passed on through room after
room, ’Lena’s quick eye taking in and appreciating everything which she
saw, while Durward was no less lost in admiration of her, for speaking
of herself so frankly as she had done. Many young ladies, he well knew,
would shrink from acknowledging that their home was once in a brown,
old-fashioned house among wild and rugged mountains, and ’Lena’s
truthfulness in speaking not only of this, but many similar things
connected with her early history, inspired him with a respect of her
which he had never before felt for any young lady of his acquaintance.

But little was said by either of them as they went over the house,
until Durward, prompted by something, he could not resist suddenly
asked his companion “how she would like to be mistress of Woodlawn?”

Had it been Carrie to whom this question was put, she would have
blushed and simpered, expecting nothing short of an immediate offer,
but ’Lena quickly replied, “Not at all,” laughingly giving as an
insuperable objection, “the size of the house and the number of windows
she would have to wash!”

With a loud laugh Durward proposed that they should now return home,
and again mounting their horses, they started for Maple Grove, which
they reached just after the family had finished breakfast. With the
first ring of the bell, John Jr., eager not to lose an iota of what
might occur, was at the table, and when his mother and Carrie, anxious
at the non-appearance of Durward and ’Lena, cast wistful glances toward
each other, he very indifferently asked Mrs. Graham “if her son had
returned from his ride.”

“I’ve not seen him,” answered the lady, her scowl deepening and her
lower jaw dropping slightly, as it usually did when she was ill at
ease.

“Who’s gone to ride?” asked Mr. Graham; and John Jr. replied that
Durward and ’Lena had been riding nearly two hours, adding, that “they
must find each other exceedingly interesting to be gone so long.”

This last was for the express benefit of his mother, whose frown kept
company with Mrs. Graham’s scowl. Chopping her steak into mince-meat,
and almost biting a piece from her cup as she sipped her coffee, she at
last found voice to ask, “what horse ’Lena rode!”

“Fleetfoot, of course,” said John Jr., at the same time telling his
father he thought “he ought to give ’Lena a pony of her own, for she
was accounted the best rider in the county, and Fleetfoot was getting
old and clumsy.”

The moment breakfast was over, Mrs. Livingstone went in quest of Cæsar,
whom she abused for disobeying her orders, threatening him with the
calaboose, and anything else which came to her mind. Old Cæsar was
taken by surprise, and being rather slow of speech, was trying to think
of something to say, when John Jr., who had followed his mother, came
to his aid, saying that “he himself had sent Bill for Fleetfoot,” and
adding aside to his mother, that “the next time she and Cad were
plotting mischief he’d advise them to see who was in the back parlor!”

Always ready to suspect ’Lena of evil, Mrs. Livingstone immediately
supposed it was she who had listened; but before she could frame a
reply, John Jr. walked off, leaving her undecided whether to cowhide
Cæsar, ’Lena, or her son, the first of whom, taking advantage of the
pause followed the example of his young master and stole away. The
tramp of horses’ feet was now heard, and Mrs. Livingstone, mentally
resolving that Fleetfoot should be sold, repaired to the door in time
to see Durward carefully lift ’Lena from her pony and place her upon
the ground. Mrs. Graham, Carrie, and Annie were all standing upon the
piazza, and as ’Lena came up the walk, her eyes sparkling and her
bright face glowing with exercise, Anna exclaimed, “Isn’t she
beautiful?” at the same time asking her “where she had been.”

“To Woodlawn,” answered ’Lena.

“To Woodlawn!” repeated Mrs. Graham.

“To Woodlawn!” echoed Mrs. Livingstone, while Carrie brought up the
rear by exclaiming, “To Woodlawn! pray what took you there?”

“The pony,” answered ’Lena, as she passed into the house.

Thinking it best to put Mrs. Graham on her guard, Mrs. Livingstone said
to her, in a low tone, “I would advise you to keep an eye upon your
son, if he is at all susceptible, for there is no bound to ’Lena’s
ambition.”

Mrs. Graham made no direct reply, but the flashing of her little gray
eye was a sufficient answer, and satisfied with the result of her
caution, Mrs. Livingstone reentered the house. Two hours afterward, the
carriage stood at the door waiting to convey the party to Woodlawn. It
had been arranged that Mrs. Graham, Carrie, Anna, and Durward should
ride in the carriage, while Mr. Graham went on horseback. Purposely,
Carrie loitered behind her companions, who being first, of course took
the back seat, leaving her the privilege of riding by the side of
Durward. This was exactly what she wanted, and leaning back on her
elbow, she complacently awaited his coming. But how was she chagrined,
when, in his stead, appeared Mr. Graham, who sprang into the carriage
and took a seat beside her; saying to his wife’s look of inquiry, that
as John Jr. had concluded to go, Durward preferred riding on horseback
with him, adding, in his usually polite way, “And I, you know, would
always rather go with the ladies. But where is Miss Rivers?” he
continued. “Why isn’t she here?”

“Simply because she wasn’t invited, I suppose,” returned his wife,
detecting the disappointment in his face.

“Not invited!” he repeated; “I didn’t know as this trip was of
sufficient consequence to need a special invitation. I thought, of
course, she was here——”

“Or you would have gone on horseback,” said his wife, ever ready to
catch at straws.

Mr. Graham saw the rising jealousy in time to repress the truthful:
answer—“Yes”—while he compromised the matter by saying that “the
presence of three fair ladies ought to satisfy him.”

Carrie was too much disappointed even to smile, and during all the ride
she was extremely taciturn, hardly replying at all to Mr. Graham’s
lively sallies, and winning golden laurels in the opinion of Mrs.
Graham, who secretly thought her husband altogether too agreeable. As
they turned into the long avenue which led to Woodlawn, and Carrie
thought of the ride which ’Lena had enjoyed alone with its owner—for
such was Durward reported to be—her heart swelled with bitterness
toward her cousin, in whom she saw a dreaded rival. But when they
reached the house, and Durward assisted her to alight, keeping at her
side while they walked over the grounds, her jealousy vanished, and
with her sweetest smile she looked up into his face, affecting a world
of childish simplicity, and making, as she believed, a very favorable
impression.

“I wonder if you are as much pleased with Woodlawn as your cousin,”
said Durward, noticing that her mind seemed to be more intent on
foreign subjects than the scenery around her.

“Oh, no, I dare say not,” returned Carrie. “’Lena was never accustomed
to anything until she came to Kentucky, and now I suppose she thinks
she must go into ecstacies over everything, though I sometimes wish she
wouldn’t betray her ignorance quite so often.”

“According to her description, her home in Massachusetts was widely
different from her present one,” said Durward, and Carrie quickly
replied, “I wonder now if she bored you with an account of her former
home! You must have been edified, and had a delightful ride, I
declare.”

“And I assure you I never had a pleasanter one, for Miss Rivers is, I
think, an exceedingly agreeable companion,” returned Durward, beginning
to see the drift of her remarks.

Here Mr. Graham called to his son, and excusing himself from Carrie, he
did not again return to her until it was time to go home. Meantime, at
Maple Grove, Mrs. Livingstone, in the worst possible humor, was finding
fault with poor ’Lena, accusing her of eavesdropping, and asking her if
she did not begin to believe the old adage, that listeners never heard
any good of themselves. In perfect astonishment ’Lena demanded what she
meant, saying she had never, to her knowledge, been guilty of
listening.

Without any explanation, whatever, Mrs. Livingstone declared herself
“satisfied now, for a person who would listen and then deny it, was
capable of almost anything.”

“What do you mean, madam ?” said ’Lena, her temper getting the
ascendency. “Explain yourself, for no one shall accuse me of lying
without an attempt to prove it.”

With a sneer Mrs. Livingstone replied, “I wonder what you can do! Will
you bring to your assistance some one of your numerous admirers?”

“Admirers! What admirers?” asked ’Lena, and her aunt replied, “I’ll
give you credit for feigning the best of any one I ever saw, but you
can’t deceive me. I know very well of your intrigues to entrap Mr.
Bellmont. But it is not strange that you should inherit something of
your mother’s nature; and you know what she was!”

This was too much, and with eyes flashing fire through the glittering
tears, which shone like diamonds, ’Lena sprang to her feet, exclaiming,
“Yes, I do know what she was. She was a far more worthy woman than you,
and if in my presence you dare again breathe aught against her name,
you shall rue it——”

“That she shall, so help me heaven,” murmured a voice near, which
neither Mrs. Livingstone nor ’Lena heard, nor were they aware of any
one’s presence until Mr. Graham suddenly appeared in the doorway.

At his wife’s request he had exchanged places with his son, and riding
on before the rest, had reached home first, being just in time to
overhear the last part of the conversation between Mrs. Livingstone and
’Lena. Instantly changing her manner, Mrs. Livingstone motioned her
niece from the room, heaving a deep sigh as the door closed after her,
and saying that “none but those who had tried it knew what a thankless
job it was to rear the offspring of others.”

There was a peculiar look in Mr. Graham’s eyes, as he answered, “In
your case I will gladly relieve you, if my wife is willing. I have
taken a great fancy to Miss Rivers, and would like to adopt her as my
daughter. I will speak to Mrs. Graham to-night.”

Much as she disliked ’Lena, Mrs. Livingstone would not for the world
have her become an inmate of Mr. Graham’s family, where she would be
constantly thrown in Durward’s way; and immediately changing her
tactics, she replied, “I thank you for your kind offer, but I know my
husband would not think of such a thing; neither should I be quite
willing for her to leave us, much as she troubles me.”

Mr. Graham bowed stiffly, and left the house. That night, after he had
retired to his room, he seemed unusually distracted, pacing up and down
the apartment, occasionally pausing to gaze out into the moonlit sky,
and then resuming his measured tread. At last nerving himself to brave
the difficulty, he stopped before his wife, to whom he made known his
plan of adopting ’Lena.

“It seems hasty, I know,” said he, “but she is just the kind of person
I would like to have round—just such a one as I would wish my daughter
to be if I had one. In short, I like her, and with your consent I will
adopt her as my own, and take her from this place where I know she’s
not wanted. What say you, Lucy?”

“Will you adopt the old woman too?” asked Mrs. Graham, whose face was
turned away so as to hide its expression.

“That is an after consideration,” returned her husband, “but if you are
willing, I will either take her to our home, or provide for her
elsewhere—but come, what do you say?”

All this time Mrs. Graham had sat bolt upright, her little dumpling
hands folded one within the other, the long transparent nails making
deep indentures in the soft flesh, and her gray eyes emitting _green_
gleams of scorn. The answer her husband sought came at length, and was
characteristic of the woman. Hissing out the words from between her
teeth, she replied, “When I take ’Lena Rivers into my family for my
husband and son to make love to, alternately, I shall be ready for the
lunatic asylum at Lexington.”

“And what objection have you to her?” asked Mr. Graham; to which his
wife replied, “The very fact, sir, that you wish it, is a sufficient
reason why I will not have her; besides that, you must misjudge me
strangely if you think I’d be willing for my son to come daily in
contact with a girl of her doubtful parentage.”

“What know you of her parentage?” said Mr. Graham, his lips turning
slightly pale.

“Yes, what do I know?” answered his wife. “Her father, if she has any,
is a rascal, a villain——”

“Yes, yes, all of that,” muttered Mr. Graham, while his wife continued,
“And her mother a poor, low, mean, ignorant——”

“Hold!” thundered Mr. Graham. “You shall not speak so of any woman of
whom you know nothing, much less of ’Lena Rivers’ mother.”

“And pray what do you know of her—is she an old acquaintance?” asked
Mrs. Graham, throwing into her manner as much of insolence as possible.

“I know,” returned Mr. Graham, “that ’Lena’s mother could be nothing
else than respectable.”

“Undoubtedly; but of this be assured—the daughter shall never, by my
permission, darken my doors,” said Mrs. Graham, growing more and more
excited, and continuing—“I know you of old, Harry Graham; and I know
now that your great desire to secure Woodlawn was so as to be near her,
but it shan’t be.”

In her excitement, Mrs. Graham forgot that it was herself who had first
suggested Woodlawn as a residence, and that until within a day or two
her husband and ’Lena were entire strangers. But this made no
difference. She was bent upon being unreasonable, and for nearly an
hour she fretted and cried, declaring herself the most abused of her
sex, and wishing she had never seen her husband, who, in his heart,
warmly seconded that wish, wisely resolving not to mention the
offending ’Lena again in the presence of his wife.

The next day the bargain for Woodlawn was completed; after which, Mr.
and Mrs. Graham, together with Durward, returned to Louisville,
intending to take possession of their new home about the first of
October.




CHAPTER XII.
MRS. GRAHAM AT HOME.


As the summer advanced, extensive preparations were commenced for
repairing Woodlawn, which was to be fitted up in a style suited to the
luxurious taste of its rightful owner, which, as report said, was in
reality Durward. He had conceived a fancy for the place five years
before, when visiting in the neighborhood, and on learning that it was
for sale, he had purchased it, at the suggestion of his mother,
proposing to his father that for a time, at least, he should be its
nominal possessor. What reason he had for this he hardly knew himself,
unless it was that he disliked being flattered as a man of great
wealth, choosing rather to be esteemed for what he really was.

And, indeed, few of his age were more generally beloved than was he.
Courteous, kind-hearted, and generous almost to a fault, he gained
friends wherever he went, and it was with some reason that Mrs. Graham
thought herself blessed above mothers, in the possession of such a son.
“He is so like me,” she would say, in speaking of his many virtues,
when, in fact, there was scarcely anything in common between them, for
nearly all of Durward’s sterling qualities were either inherited from
his own father, or the result of many years’ companionship with his
stepfather. Possessed of the most exquisite taste, he exercised it in
the arrangement of Woodlawn, which, under his skillful management,
began in a few weeks to assume a more beautiful appearance than it had
ever before worn.

Once in two weeks either Mr. Graham or Durward came out to see how
matters were progressing, the latter usually accepting Mrs.
Livingstone’s pressing invitation to make her house his home. This he
was the more willing to do, as it threw him into the society of ’Lena,
who was fast becoming an object of absorbing interest to him. The more
he saw of her, the more was his admiration increased, and oftentimes,
when joked concerning his preference for Carrie, he smiled to think how
people were deceived, determining, however, to keep his own secret
until such time as he should be convinced that ’Lena was all he could
desire in a wife. For her poverty and humble birth he cared nothing. If
she were poor, he was rich, and he possessed too much good sense to
deem himself better than she, because the blood of a nobleman flowed in
his veins. He knew that she was highly gifted and beautiful, and could
he be assured that she was equally true-hearted, he would not hesitate
a moment.

But Mrs. Livingstone’s insinuation that she was a heartless coquette,
troubled him, and though he could not believe it without more proof
than he had yet received, he determined to wait and watch, studying her
character, the while, to see if there was in her aught of evil. In this
state of affairs, it was hardly more than natural that his manner
toward her should be rather more reserved than that which he assumed
toward Carrie, for whom he cared nothing, and with whom he talked
laughed, and rode, forgetting her the moment she was out of his sight,
and never suspecting how much importance she attached to his every word
and look, construing into tokens of admiration the most casual remark,
such as he would utter to any one. This was of advantage to ’Lena, for,
secure of their prize, both Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie, for a time, at
least, ceased to persecute her, seldom speaking of her in Durward’s
presence, and, as a general thing, acting as though she were not in
existence.

John Jr., too, who had imposed upon himself the duty of watching his
mother and sister, seeing no signs of hostility, now withdrew his
espionage, amusing himself, instead, by galloping three times a week
over to Frankfort, the home of Nellie Douglass, and by keeping an eye
upon Captain Atherton, who, as a spider would watch a fly, was lying in
wait for the unsuspecting Anna.

At last all was in readiness at Woodlawn for the reception of Mrs.
Graham, who came up early in October, bringing with her a larger train
of house servants than was often seen in Woodford county. About three
weeks after her arrival, invitations were issued for a party or “house
warming,” as the negroes termed it. Nero, Durward’s valet, brought the
tiny notes to Mr. Livingstone’s, giving them into the care of Carrie,
who took them immediately to her mother’s room.

“It’s Durward’s handwriting,” said she, glancing at the
superscriptions, and reading as she did so—“Mr. and Mrs.
Livingstone”—“Mr. John Livingstone, Jr.”—“Miss Carrie
Livingstone”—“Miss Anna Livingstone”—“_Miss ’Lena Rivers_;” and here
she stopped, in utter dismay, continuing, as her mother looked up
inquiringly—“And as I live, one for _grandma_—‘MRS. MARTHA NICHOLS!’”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, reaching out her hand for the
billet. “Yes, ’tis Mrs. Martha Nichols!—what can it mean?”

A peep behind the scenes would have told her what it meant. For once in
his life Mr. Graham had exercised the right of being master in his own
house, declaring that if Mrs. Nichols were not invited with the family,
there should be no party at all. Mrs. Graham saw that he was in
earnest, and yielded the point, knowing that in all probability the old
lady would not be permitted to attend. Her husband had expected a like
opposition with regard to ’Lena, but he was disappointed, for his wife,
forgetting her declaration that ’Lena should never darken her doors and
thinking it would not do to slight her, consented that, on her uncle’s
account, she should be invited. Accordingly, the notes were despatched,
producing the effect we have seen.

“How perfectly ridiculous to invite grandma!” said Carrie. “It’s bad
enough to have ’Lena stuck in with us, for of course _she’ll_ go.”

“Why of course?” asked Mrs. Livingstone. “The invitations are at my
disposal now; and if I choose to withhold two of them, no one will be
blamed but Nero, who was careless and dropped them! ’Lena has nothing
decent to wear, and I don’t feel like expending much more for a person
so ungrateful as she is. You ought to have heard how impudent she was
that time you all went to Woodlawn.”

Then followed a one-sided description of that morning’s occurrence,
Mrs. Livingstone working herself up to such a pitch of excitement, that
before her recital was finished, she had determined at all events to
keep back ’Lena’s invitation, as a method of punishing her for her
“insolence,” as she termed it.

“Mrs. Graham will thank me for it, I know,” said she, “for she cannot
endure her; and besides that, I don’t think ’Lena expects to be
invited, so there’s no harm done.”

Carrie was not yet quite so hardened as her mother, and for a moment
her better nature shrank from so mean a transaction, which might, after
all, be found out, involving them in a still worse difficulty; but as
the thought flashed upon her that possibly ’Lena might again attract
Durward toward her, she assented, and they were about putting the notes
aside, when John Jr. came in, catching up his grandmother’s note the
first thing, and exclaiming, “Oh, _rich_!—_capital_! I hope she’ll go!”
Then, before his mother could interpose a word, he darted away in quest
of Mrs. Nichols, whose surprise was fully equal to that of Mrs.
Livingstone and Carrie.

“Now, you don’t say I’ve got an invite,” said she, leaving the
darning-needle in the stocking-heel which she was mending, and wiping
her steel-bowed spectacles. “Come, ’Leny, you read it, that’s a good
girl.”

’Lena complied, and taking the note from her cousin’s hand, read that
Mrs. Graham would be at home Thursday evening, etc.

“But where’s the invite? That don’t say anything about _me_!” said Mrs.
Nichols, beginning to fear that it was a humbug after all.

As well as they could, ’Lena and John Jr. explained it to her, and
then, fully convinced that she was really invited, Mrs. Nichols began
to wonder what she should wear, and how she should go, asking John “if
he couldn’t tackle up and carry her in the shay,” as she called the
single buggy.

“Certainly,” answered John Jr. willing to do anything for the sake of
the fun which he knew would ensue from his grandmother’s attendance.

’Lena thought otherwise, for much as she desired to gratify her
grandmother, she would not for the world expose her to the ridicule
which her appearance at a fashionable party would call forth. Glancing
reprovingly at her cousin, she said, “I wouldn’t think of going,
grandma, for you are lame and old, and there’ll be so many people
there, all strangers, too, that you won’t enjoy it at all. Besides
that, we’ll have a nice time at home together—-I’ll read to you all the
evening.”

“_We_,” repeated John Jr. “Pray, are you not going?”

“Not without an invitation,” said ’Lena smilingly.

“True, true,” returned her cousin. “It’s downstairs, I dare say. I only
stopped to look at this. I’ll go and get yours now.”

Suiting the action to the word, he descended to his mother’s room,
asking for “’Lena’s card.”

“’Lena’s card! What do you mean?” said Mrs. Livingstone, looking up
from the book she was reading, while Carrie for a moment suspended her
needle-work.

“’Lena’s invitation; you know well enough what I mean,” returned John
Jr., tumbling over the notes which lay upon the table, and failing to
find the one for which he was seeking.

“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Graham for it, I presume, as it’s not here,”
was Mrs. Livingstone’s quiet answer.

“Thunder!” roared John Jr., “’Lena not invited! That’s a smart caper.
But there’s some mistake about it, I know. Who brought them?”

“Nero brought them,” said Carrie, “and I think it is strange that
grandmother should be invited and ’Lena left out. But I suppose Mrs.
Graham has her reasons. She don’t seem to fancy ’Lena much.”

“Mrs. Graham go to grass,” muttered John Jr., leaving the room and
slamming the door after him with great violence.

’Twas a pity he did not look in one of the drawers of his mother’s
work-box, for there, safe and sound, lay the missing note! But he did
not think of that. He only knew that ’Lena was slighted, and for the
next two hours he raved and fretted, sometimes declaring he would not
go, and again wishing Mrs. Graham in a temperature but little suited to
her round, fat proportions.

“Wall, if they feel too big to invite ’Leny, they needn’t expect to see
me there, that’s just all there is about it,” said grandma, settling
herself in her rocking-chair, and telling ’Lena “she wouldn’t care an
atom if she’s in her place.”

But ’Lena did care. No one likes to be slighted, and she was not an
exception to the general rule. Owing to her aunt’s skillful management
she had never yet attended a large party, and it was but natural that
she should now wish to go. But it could not be, and she was obliged to
content herself with the hopes of a minute description from Anna;
Carrie she would not trust, for she well knew that whatever she told
would be greatly exaggerated.

Mrs. Graham undoubtedly wished to give her friends ample time to
prepare, for her invitations were issued nearly a week in advance. This
suited Carrie, who had a longer time to decide upon what would be
becoming, and when at last a decision was made, she could do nothing
but talk about her dress, which really was beautiful, consisting of a
pink and white silk, with an over-skirt of soft, rich lace. This, after
it was completed, was tried on at least half a dozen times, and the
effect carefully studied before the long mirror. Anna, who cared much
less for dress than her sister, decided upon a black flounced skirt and
velvet basque. This was Mr. Everett’s taste, and whatever suited him
suited her.

“I do think it’s too bad that ’Lena is not invited,” said she one day,
when Carrie, as usual, was discussing the party. “She would enjoy it so
much. I don’t understand, either, why she is omitted, for Mr. Graham
seemed to like her, and Durward too——”

“A great ways off, you mean,” interrupted Carrie. “For my part, I see
nothing strange in the omission. It is no worse to leave her out than
scores of others who will not be invited.”

“But to come into the house and ask all but her,” said Anna. “It does
not seem right. She is as good as we are.”

“That’s as people think,” returned Carrie, while John Jr., who was just
going out to ride, and had stopped a moment at the door, exclaimed,
“Zounds, Cad, I wonder if you fancy yourself better than ’Lena Rivers.
If you do, you are the only one that thinks so. Why, you can’t begin to
compare with her, and it’s a confounded shame that she isn’t invited,
and so I shall tell them if I have a good chance.”

“You’ll look smart fishing for an invitation, won’t you?” said Carrie,
her fears instantly aroused, but John Jr. was out of her hearing almost
before the words were uttered.

Mounting Firelock, he started off for Versailles, falling in with
Durward, who was bound for the same place. After the usual greetings
were exchanged, Durward said, “I suppose you are all coming on Thursday
night?”

“Yes,” returned John Jr., “I believe the old folks, Cad, and Anna
intend doing so.”

“But where’s Miss Rivers? Doesn’t she honor us with her presence?”
asked Durward, in some concern.

John Jr.’s first impulse, as he afterwards said, was “to knock him off
from his horse,” but a second thought convinced him there might be some
mistake; so he replied that “it was hardly to be supposed Miss Rivers
would attend without an invitation—she wasn’t quite so verdant as
that!”

“Without an invitation!” repeated Durward, stopping short in the road.
“’Lena not invited! It isn’t so! I directed one to her myself, and gave
it to Nero, together with the rest which were designed for your family.
He must have lost it. I’ll ask him the moment I get home, and see that
it is all made right. She must come, any way, for I wouldn’t give——”

Here he stopped, as if he had said too much, but John Jr. finished the
sentence for him.

“Wouldn’t give a picayune for the whole affair without her—that’s what
you mean, and why not say so? I speak right out about Nellie, and she
isn’t one half as handsome as ’Lena.”

“It isn’t ’Lena’s beauty that I admire altogether,” returned Durward.
“I like her for her frankness, and because I think her conduct is
actuated by the best of principles; perhaps I am mistaken——”

“No, you are not,” again interrupted John Jr., “’Lena is just what she
seems to be. There’s no deception in her. She isn’t one thing to-day
and another to-morrow. Spunky as the old Nick, you know, but still she
governs her temper admirably, and between you and me, I know I’m a
better man than I should have been had she never come to live with us.
How well I remember the first time I saw her,” he continued, repeating
to Durward the particulars of their interview in Lexington, and
describing her introduction to his sisters. “From the moment she
refused to tell that lie for me, I liked her,” said he, “and when she
dealt me that blow in my face, my admiration was complete.”

Durward thought he could dispense with the blow, but he laughed
heartily at John’s description of his spirited cousin, thinking, too,
how different was his opinion of her from that which his mother
evidently entertained. Still, if Mrs. Livingstone was prejudiced, John
Jr. might also be somewhat biased, so he would not yet make up his
mind; but on one thing he was resolved—she should be invited, and for
fear of contingencies, he would carry the card himself.

Accordingly, on his return home, Nero was closely questioned, and
negro-like, called down all manner of evil upon himself “if he done
drapped the note any whar. ’Strue as I live and breathe, Mas’r
Bellmont,” said he, “I done carried Miss ’Leny’s invite with the rest,
and guv ’em all to the young lady with the big nose!”

Had Durward understood Mrs. Livingstone a little better, he might have
believed him; but now it was but natural for him to suppose that Nero
had accidentally dropped it. So he wrote another, taking it himself,
and asking for “Miss Rivers.” Carrie, who was in the parlor and saw him
coming up to the house, instantly flew to the glass, smoothing her
collar, puffing out her hair a little more, pinching her cheek, which
was not quite so red as usual, and wishing that she was alone. But
unfortunately, both Anna and ’Lena were present, and as there was no
means of being rid of them, she retained her seat at the piano,
carelessly turning over the leaves of her music book, when the door
opened and Corinda, not Durward, appeared.

“If you please, Miss ’Lena,” said the girl, “Marster Bellmont want to
speak with you in the hall.”

“With ’Lena! How funny!” exclaimed Carrie. “Are you sure it was ’Lena?”

“Yes, sure—he done ask for Miss Rivers.”

“Ask him in, why don’t you?” said Carrie, suspecting his errand, and
thinking to keep herself from all suspicion by appearing “wonderfully
pleased” that ’Lena was not intentionally neglected. Before Corinda
could reply, ’Lena had stepped into the hall, and was standing face to
face with Durward, who retained her hand, while he asked if “she really
believed they, intended to slight her,” at the same time explaining how
it came to his knowledge, and saying “he hoped she would not fail to
attend.”

’Lena hesitated, but he pressed her so hard, saying he should surely
think she distrusted them if she refused, that she finally consented,
and he took his leave, playfully threatening to come for her himself if
she were not there with the rest.

“You feel better, now, don’t you ?” said Carrie with a sneer, as ’Lena
re-entered the parlor.

“Yes, a great deal,” was ’Lena’s truthful answer.

“Oh, I’m real glad!” exclaimed Anna. “I most knew ’twas a mistake all
the time, and I did so want you to go. What will you wear? Let me see.
Why, you haven’t got anything suitable, have you?”

This was true, for ’Lena had nothing fit for the occasion, and she was
beginning to wish she had not been invited, when her uncle came in, and
to him Anna forthwith stated the case, saying ’Lena must have a new
dress, and suggesting embroidered muslin.

“How ridiculous!” muttered Carrie, thrumming away at the piano.
“There’s no time to make dresses now. They should have invited her
earlier.”

“Isn’t Miss Simpson still here?” asked her father.

Anna replied that she was, and then turning to ’Lena, Mr. Livingstone
asked if “she wanted to go very much.”

The tears which shone in her eyes were a sufficient answer, and when at
supper that night, inquiry was made for Mr. Livingstone, it was said
that he had gone to Frankfort.

“To Frankfort!” repeated his wife. “What has he gone there for?”

No one knew until late in the evening, when he returned home, bringing
with him ’Lena’s dress, which Anna pronounced “the sweetest thing she
ever saw,” at the same time running with it to her cousin. There was
company in the parlor, which for a time kept down the gathering storm
in Mrs. Livingstone’s face, but the moment they were gone, and she was
alone with her husband in their room, it burst forth, and in angry
tones she demanded “what he meant by spending her money in that way,
and without her consent?”

Before making any reply, Mr. Livingstone stepped to her work-box, and
opening the little drawer, held to view the missing note. Then turning
to his wife, whose face was very pale, he said, “This morning I made a
discovery which exonerates Nero from all blame. I understand it fully,
and while I knew you were capable of almost anything, I must say I did
not think you would be guilty of quite so mean an act. Stay,” he
continued, as he saw her about to speak, “you are my wife, and as ’Lena
is at last invited, your secret is safe, but remember, it must not be
repeated. You understand me, do you?”

Mrs. Livingstone was struck dumb with mortification and
astonishment—the first, that she was detected, and the last, that her
husband dare assume such language toward her. But he had her in his
power—she knew that—and for a time it rendered her very docile, causing
her to consult with Miss Simpson concerning the fitting of ’Lena’s
dress, herself standing by when it was done, and suggesting one or two
improvements, until ’Lena, perfectly bewildered, wondered what had come
over her aunt, that she should be so unusually kind. Carrie, too,
learning from her mother how matters stood, thought proper to change
her manner, and while in her heart she hoped something would occur to
keep ’Lena at home, she loudly expressed her pleasure that she was
going, offering to lend her several little ornaments, and doing many
things which puzzled ’Lena, who readily saw that she was feigning what
she did not feel.

Meanwhile, grandma, learning that ’Lena was invited, declared her
intention of going. “I shouldn’t of gin up in the first on’t,” said
she, “only I wanted to show ’em proper resentment; but now it’s
different, and I’ll go, anyway—’Tilda may say what she’s a mind to.”

It was in vain that ’Lena reasoned the case. Grandma was decided, and
it was not until both her son and daughter interfered, the one advising
and the other commanding her to stay at home, that she yielded with a
burst of tears, for grandma was now in her second childhood, and easily
moved. It was terrible to ’Lena to see her grandmother weep, and
twining her arms around her neck, she tried to soothe her, saying, “she
would willingly stay at home with her if she wished it.”

Mrs. Nichols was not selfish enough to suffer this. “No, ’Leny,” said
she, “I want you to go and enjoy yourself while you are young, for
you’ll sometime be old and in the way;” and the old creature covered
her face with her shriveled hands and wept.

But she was of too cheerful a nature long to remember grief, and drying
her tears, she soon forgot her trouble in the pride and satisfaction
which she felt when she saw how well the white muslin became ’Lena,
who, John Jr., said, never looked so beautifully as she did when
arrayed for the party. Mr. Livingstone had not been sparing of his
money when he purchased the party dress, which was a richly embroidered
muslin, and fell in soft folds around ’Lena’s graceful figure. Her long
flowing curls were intertwined with a few natural flowers, her only
attempt at ornament of any kind, and, indeed, ornaments would have been
sadly out of place on ’Lena.

It was between nine and ten when the party from Maple Grove reached
Woodlawn, where they found a large company assembled, some in the
drawing-rooms below, and others still lingering at the toilet in the
dressing chamber. Among these last were Nellie Douglass and Mabel Ross,
the latter of whom Mrs. Livingstone was perfectly delighted to see,
overwhelming her with caresses, and urging her to stop for awhile at
Maple Grove.

“I shall be so glad to have you with us, and the country air will do
you so much good, that you must not refuse,” said she, pinching Mabel’s
sallow cheek, and stroking her straight, glossy hair, which, in
contrast with the bandeau of pearls that she wore, looked dark as
midnight.

Spite of her wealth, Mabel had long been accustomed to neglect, and
there was something so kind in Mrs. Livingstone’s _motherly_ demeanor,
that the heart of the young orphan warmed toward her, and tears
glittered in her large, mournful eyes, the only beauty, save her hair,
of which she could boast. Very few had ever cared for poor Mabel, who,
though warm-hearted and affectionate, required to be known in order to
be appreciated, and as she was naturally shy and retiring, there were
not many who felt at all acquainted with her. Left alone in the world
at a very early age, she had never known what it was to possess a real,
disinterested friend, unless we except Nellie Douglass, who, while
there was nothing congenial between them, had always tried to treat
Mabel as she herself would wish to be treated, were she in like
circumstances.

Many had professed friendship for the sake of the gain which they knew
would accrue, for she was generous to a fault, bestowing with a lavish
hand upon those whom she loved, and who had too often proved false,
denouncing her as utterly spiritless and insipid. So often had she been
deceived, that now, at the age of eighteen, she had learned to distrust
her fellow creatures, and oftentimes in secret would she weep bitterly
over her lonely condition, lamenting the plain face and unattractive
manners, which she fancied rendered her an object of dislike. Still
there was about her a depth of feeling of which none had ever dreamed,
and it only required a skillful hand to mold her into an altogether
different being. She was, perhaps, too easily influenced, for in spite
of her distrust, a pleasant word or kind look would win her to almost
anything.

Of this weakness Mrs. Livingstone seemed well aware, and for the better
accomplishment of her plan, she deemed it necessary that Mabel should
believe her to be the best friend she had in the world. Accordingly,
she now flattered and petted her, calling her “darling,” and “dearest,”
and urging her to stop at Maple Grove, until she consented, “provided
Nellie Douglas were willing.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” answered Nellie, whose gay, dashing disposition
poorly accorded with the listless, sickly Mabel, and who felt it rather
a relief than otherwise to be rid of her.

So it was decided that she should stay at Maple Grove, and then Mrs.
Livingstone, passing her arm around her waist, whispered, “Go down with
me,” at the same time starting for the parlor, followed by her
daughters, Nellie, and ’Lena. In the hall they met with John Jr. He had
heard Nellie’s voice, and stationing himself at the head of the stairs,
was waiting her appearance.

“Miss Ross,” said Mrs. Livingstone to her son, at the same time
indicating her willingness to give her into his care.

But John Jr. would not take the hint. Bowing stiffly to Mabel, he
passed on toward Nellie, in his eagerness stepping on Carrie’s train
and drawing from her an exclamation of anger at his awkwardness. Mrs.
Livingstone glanced backward just in time to see the look of affection
with which her son regarded Nellie, as she placed her soft hand
confidingly upon his arm, and gazed upward smilingly into his face. She
dared not slight Miss Douglass in public, but with a mental invective
against her, she drew Mabel closer to her side, and smoothing down the
heavy folds of her _moire antique_, entered the drawing-room, which was
brilliantly lighted, and filled with the beauty and fashion of
Lexington, Frankfort, and Versailles.

At the door they met Durward, who, as he took ’Lena’s hand, said, “It
is well you remembered your promise, for I was about starting after
you.” This observation did not escape Mrs. Livingstone, who, besides
having her son and Nellie under her special cognizance, had also an eye
upon her niece and Anna. Her espionage of the latter, however, was not
needed immediately, owing to her being straightway appropriated by
Captain Atherton, who, in dainty white kids, and vest to match (the
color not the material), strutted back and forth with Anna tucked under
his arm, until the poor girl was ready to cry with vexation.

When the guests had nearly all arrived, both Mr. Graham and Durward
started for ’Lena, the latter reaching her first, and paying her so
many little attentions, that the curiosity of others was aroused, and
frequently was the question asked, “Who is she, the beautiful young
lady in white muslin and curls?”

Nothing of all this escaped Mrs. Livingstone, and once, in passing near
her niece, she managed to whisper, “For heaven’s sake don’t show your
ignorance of etiquette by taxing Mr. Bellmont’s good nature any longer.
It’s very improper to claim any one’s attention so long, and you are
calling forth remarks.”

Then quickly changing the whisper into her softest tones, she said to
Durward, “How _can_ you resist such beseeching glances as those ladies
send toward you?” nodding to a group of girls of which Carrie was one.

’Lena colored scarlet, and gazed wistfully around the room in quest of
some other shelter when Durward should relinquish her, as she felt he
would surely do, but none presented itself. Her uncle was playing the
agreeable to Miss Atherton, Mr. Graham to some other lady, while John
Jr. kept closely at Nellie’s side, forgetful of all else.

“What shall I do?” said ’Lena, unconsciously and half aloud.

“Stay with me,” answered Durward, drawing her hand further within his
arm, and bending upon her a look of admiration which she could not
mistake.

Several times they passed and repassed Mrs. Graham, who was highly
incensed at her son’s proceedings, and at last actually asked him “if
he did not intend noticing anyone except Miss Rivers,” adding, as an
apology for her rudeness (for Mrs. Graham prided herself upon being
very polite in her own house), “she has charms enough to win a dozen
gallants, but there are others here who need attention from you.
There’s Miss Livingstone, you’ve hardly spoken with her to-night.”

Thus importuned, Durward released ’Lena and walked away, attaching
himself to Carrie, who clung to him closer, if possible, than did the
old captain to Anna. About this time Mr. Everett came. He had been
necessarily detained, and now, after paying his respects to the host
and hostess, he started in quest of Anna, who was still held “in
durance vile” by the captain. But the moment she saw Malcolm, she
uttered a low exclamation of joy, and without a single apology, broke
abruptly away from her ancient cavalier, whose little watery eyes
looked daggers after her for an instant; then consoling himself with
the reflection that he was tolerably sure of her, do what she would, he
walked up to her mother, kindly relieving her for a time of her charge,
who was becoming rather tiresome. Frequently, by nods, winks, and
frowns, had Mrs. Livingstone tried to bring her son to a sense of his
improper conduct in devoting himself exclusively to one individual, and
neglecting all others.

But her efforts were all in vain. John Jr. was incorrigible, slyly
whispering to Nellie, that “he had no idea of beauing a medicine
chest.” This he said, referring to Mabel’s ill health, for among his
other oddities, John Jr. had a particular aversion to sickly ladies. Of
course Nellie reproved him for his unkind remarks, at the same time
warmly defending Mabel, “who,” she said, “had been delicate from
infancy, and suffered far more than was generally suspected.”

“Let her stay at home, then,” was John Jr.’s answer, as he led Nellie
toward the supper-room, which the company were just then entering.

About an hour after supper the guests began to leave, Mrs. Livingstone
being the first to propose going. As she was ascending the stairs, John
Jr. observed that Mabel was with her, and turning to ’Lena, who now
leaned on his arm, he said, “There goes the future Mrs. John Jr.—so
mother thinks!”

“Where?” asked ’Lena, looking around.

“Why, there,” continued John, pointing toward Mabel. “Haven’t you
noticed with what parental solicitude mother watches over her?”

“I saw them together,” answered ’Lena, “and I thought it very kind in
my aunt, for no one else seemed to notice her, and I felt sorry for
her. She is going home with us, I believe.”,

“Going home with _us_!” repeated John Jr. “In the name of the people,
what is she going home with us for?”

“Why,” returned ’Lena, “your mother thinks the country air will do her
good.”

“_Un_-doubtedly,” said John, with a sneer. “Mother’s motives are
usually very disinterested. I wonder she don’t propose to the old
captain to take up _his_ quarters with us, so she can nurse him!”

With this state of feeling, it was hardly natural that John Jr. should
be very polite toward Mabel, and when his mother asked him to help her
into the carriage, he complied so ungraciously, that Mabel observed it,
and looked wonderingly at her _patroness_ for an explanation.

“Only one of his freaks, love—he’ll get over it,” said Mrs.
Livingstone, while poor Mabel, sinking back amoung the cushions, wept
silently, thinking that everybody hated her.

When ’Lena came down to bid her host and hostess good-night, the former
retained her hand, while he expressed his sorrow at her leaving so
soon. “I meant to have seen more of you,” said he, “but you must visit
us often—will you not?”

Neither the action nor the words escaped Mrs. Graham’s observation, and
the lecture which she that night read her offending spouse, had the
effect to keep him awake until the morning was growing gray in the
east. Then, when he was asleep, he so far forgot himself and the
wide-open ears beside him as actually to breathe the name of ’Lena in
his dreams!

Mrs. Graham needed no farther confirmation of her suspicions, and at
the breakfast-table next morning, she gave her son a lengthened account
of her husband’s great sin in dreaming of a young girl, and that girl
’Lena Rivers. Durward laughed heartily and then, either to tease his
mother, or to make his father’s guilt less heinous in her eyes, he
replied, “It is a little singular that our minds should run in the same
channel, for, I, too, dreamed of ’Lena Rivers!”

Poor Mrs. Graham. A double task was now imposed upon her—that of
watching both husband and son; but she was accustomed to it, for her
life, since her second marriage, had been one continued series of
watching for evil where there was none. And now, with a growing hatred
toward ’Lena, she determined to increase her vigilance, feeling sure
she should discover something if she only continued faithful to the
end.




CHAPTER XIII.
MABEL.


The morning following the party, Mr. Livingstone’s family were
assembled in the parlor, discussing the various events of the previous
night. John Jr., ’Lena, and Anna declared themselves to have been
highly pleased with everything, while Carrie in the worst of humors,
pronounced it “a perfect bore,” saying she never had so disagreeable a
time in all her life, and ending her ill-natured remarks by a malicious
thrust at ’Lena, for having so long kept Mr. Bellmont at her side.

“I suppose you fancy he would have looked better with you, but I think
he showed his good taste by preferring ’Lena,” said John Jr.; then
turning toward the large easy-chair, where Mabel sat, pale, weary, and
spiritless, he asked “how she had enjoyed herself.”

With the exception of his accustomed “good-morning,” this was the first
time he had that day addressed her, and it was so unexpected, that it
brought a bright glow to her cheek, making John Jr. think she was “not
so horribly ugly after all.”

But she was very unfortunate in her answer, which was, “that on account
of her ill health, she seldom enjoyed anything of the kind.” Then
pressing her hand upon her forehead, she continued, “My head is aching
dreadfully, as a punishment for last night’s dissipation.”

Three times before, he had heard her speak of her aching head, and now,
with an impatient gesture, he was turning away, when his mother said,
“Poor girl, she really looks miserable. I think a ride would do her
good. Suppose you take her with you—I heard you say you were going to
Versailles.”

If there was anything in which Mabel excelled, it was horsemanship, she
being a better rider, if possible; than ’Lena, and now, at Mrs.
Livingstone’s proposition, she looked up eagerly at John Jr., who
replied,

“Oh, hang it all! mother, I can’t always be bothered with a girl;” then
as he saw how Mabel’s countenance fell, he continued, “Let ’Lena ride
with her—she wants to, I know.”

“Certainly,” said ’Lena, whose heart warmed toward the orphan girl,
partly because she was an orphan, and partly because she saw that she
was neglected and unloved.

As yet Mabel cared nothing for John Jr., nor even suspected his
mother’s object in detaining her as a guest. So when ’Lena was proposed
as a substitute she seemed equally well pleased, and the young man, as
he walked off to order the ponies, mentally termed himself a bear for
his rudeness; “for after all,” thought he, “it’s mother who has designs
upon me, not Mabel. She isn’t to blame.”

This opinion once satisfactorily settled, it was strange how soon John
Jr. began to be sociable with Mabel, finding her much more agreeable
than he had at first supposed, and even acknowledging to ’Lena that
“she was a good deal of a girl, after all, were it not for her
everlasting headaches and the smell of medicine,” which he declared she
always carried about with her.

“Hush-sh,” said ’Lena—“you shan’t talk so, for she is sick a great
deal, and she does not feign it, either.”

“Perhaps not,” returned John Jr., “but she can at least keep her
_miserable feelings_ to herself. Nobody wants to know how many times
she’s been blistered and bled!”

Still John Jr. acknowledged that there were somethings in Mabel which
he liked, for no one could live long with her and not admire her
gentleness and uncommon sweetness of disposition, which manifested
itself in numerous little acts of kindness to those around her. Never
before in her life had she been so constantly associated with a young
gentleman, and as she was quite susceptible, it is hardly more than
natural that erelong thoughts of John Jr. mingled in both her sleeping
and waking dreams. She could not understand him, but the more his
changeful moods puzzled her, the more she felt interested in him, and
her eyes would alternately sparkle at a kind word from him, or fill
with tears at the abruptness of his speeches; while he seemed to take
special delight in seeing how easily he could move her from one extreme
to the other.

Silently Mrs. Livingstone looked on, carefully noting each change, and
warily calculating its result. Not once since Mabel became an inmate of
her family had she mentioned her to her son, for she deemed it best to
wait, and let matters take their course. But at last, anxious to know
his real opinion, she determined to sound him. Accordingly, one day
when they were alone, she spoke of Mabel, asking him if he did not
think she improved upon acquaintance, at the same time enumerating her
many excellent qualities, and saying that whoever married her would get
a prize, to say nothing of a fortune.

Quickly comprehending the drift of her remarks, John Jr. replied, “I
dare say, and whoever wishes for both prize and fortune, is welcome to
them for all me.”

“I thought you liked Mabel,” said his mother; and John answered, “So I
do like her, but for pity’s sake, is a man obliged to marry every girl
he likes? Mabel does very well to tease and amuse one, but when you
come to the marrying part, why, that’s another thing.”

“And what objection have you to her,” continued his mother, growing
very fidgety and red.

“Several,” returned John, “She has altogether too many aches and pains
to suit me; then she has no spirit whatever; and last, but not least, I
like somebody else. So, mother mine, you may as well give up all hopes
of that hundred thousand down in Alabama, for I shall never marry Mabel
Ross, never.”

Mrs. Livingstone was now not only red and fidgety but very angry, and,
in an elevated tone of voice, she said, “I s’pose it’s Nellie Douglass
you mean, but if you knew all of her that I do, I reckon——”

Here she paused, insinuating that she could tell something dreadful, if
she would! But John Jr. took no notice of her hints, and when he got a
chance, he replied, “You are quite a Yankee at guessing, for if Nellie
will have me, I surely will have her.”

“Marry her, then,” retorted his mother—“marry her with all her poverty,
but for heaven’s sake, don’t give so much encouragement to a poor
defenseless girl.”

Wishing Mabel in Guinea, and declaring he’d neither speak to nor look
at her again, if common civilities were construed into encouragement,
John Jr. strode out of the room, determining, as the surest method of
ending the trouble, to go forthwith to Nellie, and in a plain,
straight-forward way make her an offer of himself. With him, to will
was to do, and in about an hour he was descending the long hill which
leads into Frankfort. Unfortunately, Nellie had gone for a few weeks to
Madison, and again mounting Firelock, the young man galloped back,
reaching home just as the family were sitting down to supper. Not
feeling hungry, and wishing to avoid, as long as possible, the sight of
his mother and Mabel, whom he believed were leagued against him, he
repaired to the parlor, whistling loudly, and making much more noise
than was at all necessary.

“If you please, Mr. Livingstone, won’t you be a little more quiet, for
my head aches so hard to-night,” said a languid voice, from the depths
of the huge easy-chair which stood before the glowing grate.

Glancing toward what he had at first supposed to be a bundle of shawls,
John Jr. saw Mabel Ross, her forehead bandaged up and her lips white as
ashes, while the purple rings about her heavy eyes, told of the pain
she was enduring.

“Thunder!” was John’s exclamation, as he strode from the room, slamming
together the door with unusual force.

When Mrs. Livingstone came in from supper, with a cup of hot tea and a
slice of toast for Mabel, she was surprised to find her sobbing like a
child. It did not take long for her to learn the cause, and then, as
well as she could, she soothed her, telling her not to mind John’s
freaks—it was his way, and he always had a particular aversion to sick
people, never liking to hear them talk of their ailments. This hint was
sufficient for Mabel, who ever after strove hard to appear well and
cheerful in his presence. But in no way, if he could help it, would he
notice her.

Next to Mrs. Livingstone, ’Lena was Mabel’s best friend, and when she
saw how much her cousin’s rudeness and indifference pained her, she
determined to talk with him about it, So the first time they were
alone, she broached the subject, speaking very kindly of Mabel, and
asking if he had any well-grounded reason for his uncivil treatment of
her. There was no person in the world who possessed so much influence
over John Jr. as did ’Lena, and now, hearing her patiently through, he
replied, “I know I’m impolite to Mabel, but hang me if I can help it.
She is so flat and silly, and takes every little attention from me as a
declaration of love. Still, I don’t blame her as much as I do mother,
who is putting her up to it, and if she’d only go home and mind her own
business, I should like her well enough.”

“I don’t understand you,” said ’Lena, and her cousin continued; “Why,
when Mabel first came here, I do not think she knew what mother was
fishing for, so she was not so much at fault, but she does now——”

“Are you sure?” interrupted ’Lena, and John Jr. replied, “She’s a
confounded fool if she don’t. And what provokes me, is to think she’ll
still keep staying here, when modesty, if nothing else, should prompt
her to leave. You wouldn’t catch Nellie doing so. Why, she’ll hardly
come her at all, for fear folks will say she comes to see me, and
that’s why I like her so well.”

“I think you are mistaken with regard to Mabel,” said Lena, “for I’ve
no idea she’s in love with you a bit more than I am. I dare say she
likes you well enough, for there’s nothing in you to dislike.”

“Thank you,” interrupted John Jr., returning the compliment with a
kiss, a liberty he often took with her.

“Behave, can’t you?” said ’Lena, at the same time continuing—“No, I
don’t suppose Mabel is dying for you at all. All of us girls like to
receive attention from you gentlemen, and she’s not an exception.
Besides that, you ought to be polite to her, because she’s your
mother’s guest, if for nothing else. I don’t ask you to love her,” said
she, “but I do ask you to treat her well. Kind words cost nothing, and
they go far toward making others happy.”

“So they do,” answered John, upon whom ’Lena’s words were having a good
effect. “I’ve nothing under heaven against Mabel Ross, except that
mother wants me to marry her; but if you’ll warrant me that the young
lady herself has no such intentions, why, I’ll do my very best.”

“I’ll warrant you,” returned ’Lena, who really had no idea that Mabel
cared aught in particular for her cousin, and satisfied with the result
of her interview she started to leave the room.

As she reached the door, John Jr. stopped her, saying, “You are sure
she don’t care for me?”

“Perfectly sure,” was ’Lena’s answer.

“The plague, she don’t,” thought John, as the door closed upon ’Lena;
and such is human nature, that the young man began to think that if
Mabel didn’t care for him, he’d see if he couldn’t make her, for after
all, there was something pleasant in being liked, even by Mabel!

The next day, as the young ladies were sitting together in the parlor,
John Jr. joined them, and after wringing Carrie’s nose, pulling ’Lena’s
and Anna’s curls, he suddenly upset Mabel’s work-box, at the same time
slyly whispering to his cousin, “Ain’t I coming round?”

Abrupt as this proceeding, was, it pleased Mabel, who with the utmost
good humor, commenced picking up her things, John Jr. assisting her,
and managing once to bump his head against hers! After this, affairs at
Maple Grove glided on as smoothly as even Mrs. Livingstone could wish.
John and Mabel were apparently on the most amicable terms, he deeming
’Lena’s approbation a sufficient reward for the many little attentions
which he paid to Mabel, and she, knowing nothing of all that had
passed, drinking in his every word and look, learning to live upon his
smile, and conforming herself, as far as possible, to what she thought
would best please him.

Gradually, as she thought it would do, Mrs. Livingstone unfolded to
Mabel her own wishes, saying she should be perfectly happy could she
only call her “daughter,” and hinting that such a thing “by wise
management could easily be brought about.” With a gush of tears the
orphan girl laid her head in Mrs. Livingstone’s lap, mentally blessing
her as her benefactress, and thanking the Giver of all good for the
light and happiness which she saw dawning upon her pathway.

“John is peculiar,” said Mrs. Livingstone, “and if he fancied you liked
him very much, it might not please him as well as indifference on your
part.”

So, with this lesson, Mabel, for the first time in her life attempted
to act as she did not feel, feigning carelessness or indifference when
every pulse of her heart was throbbing with joy at some little
attention paid her by John Jr., who could be very agreeable when he
chose, and who, observing her apparent indifference, began to think
that what ’Lena had said was true, and that Mabel really cared nothing
for him. With this impression he exerted himself to be agreeable,
wondering how her many good qualities had so long escaped his
observation.

“There is more to her than I supposed,” said he one day to ’Lena, who
was commending him for his improved manner. “Yes, a heap more than I
supposed. Why, I really like her!”

And he told the truth, for with his prejudice laid aside, he, as is
often the case, began to find virtues in her the existence of which he
had never suspected. Frequently, now, he talked, laughed, and rode with
her, praising her horsemanship, pointing out some points wherein it
might be improved, and never dreaming the while of the deep affection
his conduct had awakened in the susceptible girl.

“Oh, I am so happy,” said she one day to ’Lena, who was speaking of her
improved health. “I never thought it possible for _me_ to be so happy.
I dreaded to come here at first, but now I shall never regret it,
never.”

She was standing before the long mirror in the parlor, adjusting the
feathers to her tasteful velvet cap, which, with her neatly fitting
riding-dress, became her better than anything else. The excitement of
her words sent a deep glow to her cheek, while her large black eyes
sparkled with unusual brilliancy. She was going out with John Jr., who,
just as she finished speaking, appeared in the doorway, and catching a
glimpse of her face, exclaimed in his blunt, jocose way, “Upon my word,
Meb, if you keep on, you’ll get to be quite decent looking in time.”

’Twas the first compliment of the kind he had ever paid her, and
questionable as it was, it tended to strengthen her fast forming belief
that her affection for him was returned.

“I can’t expect him to do anything like other people, he’s so odd,”
thought she, and yet it was this very oddness which charmed her.

At length Nellie, who had returned from Madison, and felt rather
lonely, wrote to Mabel, asking her to come home. This plan Mrs.
Livingstone opposed, but Mabel was decided, and the week before
Christmas was fixed upon for her departure. John Jr., anxious to see
Nellie, proposed accompanying her, but when the day came he was
suffering from a severe cold, which rendered his stay in the house
absolutely necessary. So his mother, who had reasons of her own for
doing so, went in his stead. Carrie, who never had any fancy for Mabel,
and only endured her because she was rich, was coolly polite, merely
offering her hand, and then resumed the novel she was reading, even
before Mabel had left. Anna and ’Lena bade her a more affectionate
adieu, and then advancing toward John Jr., who, in his dressing-gown
and slippers, reclined upon the sofa, she offered him her hand.

As if to atone for his former acts of rudeness, the young man
accompanied her to the door, playfully claiming the privilege of taking
leave just as his sister and cousin had done.

“It’s only me, you know,” said he, imprinting upon her forehead a kiss
which sent the rich blood to her neck and face.

John Jr. would not have dared to take that liberty with Nellie, while
Mabel, simple-hearted, and wholly unused to the world, saw in it a
world of meaning, and for a long time after the carriage roiled away
from Maple Grove the bright glow on her cheek told of happy thoughts
within.

“Did my son say anything definite to you before you left?” asked Mrs.
Livingstone, as they came within sight of the city.

“No, madam,” answered Mabel, and Mrs. Livingstone continued, “That’s
strange. He confessed to me that he—ah—he—loved you, and I supposed he
intended telling you so; but bashfulness prevented, I dare say!”

Accustomed as she was to equivocation, this down-right falsehood cost
Mrs. Livingstone quite an effort, but she fancied the case required it,
and after a few twinges, her conscience felt easy, particularly when
she saw how much satisfaction her words gave to her companion, to whom
the improbability of the affair never occurred. Could she have known
how lightly John Jr. treated the matter, laughingly describing his
leave-taking to his sisters and ’Lena, and saying, “Meb wasn’t the
worst girl in the world, after all,” she might not have been so easily
duped.

But she did not know all this, and thus was the delusion perfect.




CHAPTER XIV.
NELLIE AND MABEL.


Nellie Douglass sat alone in her chamber, which was filled with
articles of elegance and luxury, for her father, though far from being
wealthy, still loved to surround his only daughter with everything
which could increase her comfort. So the best, the fairest, and the
most Costly was always for her, his “darling Nellie,” as he called her,
when with bounding footsteps she flew to greet him on his return at
night, ministering to his wants in a thousand ways, and shedding over
his home such a halo of sunshine that ofttimes he forgot that he was a
lonely widower, while in the features of his precious child he saw
again the wife of his bosom, who years before had passed from his side
forever.

But not on him were Nellie’s thoughts resting, as she sat there alone
that afternoon. She was thinking of the past—of John Livingstone, and
the many marked attentions, which needed not the expression of words to
tell her she was beloved. And freely did her heart respond. That John
Jr. was not perfect, she knew, but he was noble and generous, and so
easily influenced by those he loved, that she knew it would be an easy
task to soften down some of the rougher shades of his character. Three
times during her absence had he called, expressing so much
disappointment, that with woman’s ready instinct she more than half
divined his intentions, and regretted that she was gone. But Mabel was
coming to-day, and he was to accompany her, for so had ’Lena written,
and Nellie’s cheeks glowed and her heart beat high, as she thought of
what might occur. She knew well that in point of wealth she was not his
equal, for though mingling with the first in the city, her father was
poor—but one of John Jr.’s nature would never take that into
consideration. They had known each other from childhood, and he had
always evinced for her the same preference which he now manifested.
Several weeks had elapsed since she had seen him, and now, rather
impatiently, she awaited his arrival,

“If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Livingstone and Miss Mabel are in the
parlor,” said a servant, suddenly appearing and interrupting her
reverie.

“Mrs. Livingstone!” she repeated, as she glanced at herself in a
mirror, and rearranged one side of her shining hair, “Mrs.
Livingstone!—and so _he_ has not come. I wonder what’s the matter!” and
with a less joyous face she descended to the back parlor, where, with
rich furs wrapped closely about her, as if half frozen, sat Mrs.
Livingstone, her quick eye taking an inventory of every article of
furniture, and her proud spirit whispering to herself, “Poverty,
poverty.”

With a cry of joy, Mabel flew to meet Nellie, who, while welcoming her
back, congratulated her upon her improved health and looks, saying,
“the _air_ of Maple Grove must have agreed with her;” then turning
toward Mrs. Livingstone, who saw in her remark other meaning than the
one she intended, she asked her to remove her wrappings, apologizing at
the same time for the fire being so low.

“Father is absent most of the day,” said she; “and as I am much in my
chamber, we seldom keep a fire in the front parlor.”

“Just as well,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, removing her heavy furs.
“One fire is _cheaper_ than two, and in these times I suppose it is
necessary for some people to economize.”

Nellie colored, not so much at the words as at the manner of her
visitor. After a moment, Mrs. Livingstone again spoke, looking straight
in Nellie’s face.

“My son was very anxious to ride over with Mabel, but a bad cold
prevented him, so she rather unwillingly took me as a substitute.”

Here not only Nellie, but Mabel, also colored, and the latter left the
room. When she was gone, Nellie remarked upon the visible improvement
in her health.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Livingstone, settling herself a little more easily in
her chair, “Yes, Mabel isn’t the same creature she was when she came to
us, but then it’s no wonder, for love, you know, will work miracles.”

No answer from Nellie, who almost instinctively felt what was coming
next.

“Upon my word, Miss Douglass, you’ve no curiosity whatever. Why don’t
you ask with whom Mabel is in love?”

“Who is it?” laughingly asked Nellie, nervously playing with the tassel
of her blue silk apron.

After a moment, Mrs. Livingstone replied, “It may seem out of place for
me to speak of it, but I know you, Miss Douglass, for a girl of
excellent sense, and feel sure you will not betray me to either party.”

“Certainly not,” answered Nellie, rather haughtily, while her tormentor
continued: “Well, then, it is my son, and I assure you, both myself and
husband are well pleased that it should be so. From the moment I first
saw Mabel, I felt for her a motherly affection for which I could not
account, and if I were now to select my future daughter-in-law, I
should prefer her to all others.”

Here ensued a pause which Nellie felt no inclination to break, and
again Mrs. Livingstone spoke: “It may be a weakness, but I have always
felt anxious that John should make a match every way worthy of him,
both as to wealth and station. Indeed, I would hardly be willing for
him to marry one whose fortune is less than Mabel’s. But I need have no
fears, for John has his own views on that subject, and though he may
sometimes be attentive to girls far beneath him, he is pretty sure in
the end to do as I think best!”

Poor Nellie! How every word sank into her soul, torturing her almost to
madness. She did not stop to consider the improbability of what she
heard. Naturally impulsive and excitable, she believed it all, for if
John Jr. really loved her, as once she had fondly believed, had there
not been a thousand opportunities for him to tell her so? At this
moment Mabel reentered the parlor, and Nellie, on the plea of seeing to
the dinner, left the room, going she scarce knew whither, until she
found herself in a little arbor at the foot of the garden, where many
and many a time John Jr. had sat with her, and where he would never sit
again—so she thought, so she believed—and throwing herself upon one of
the seats, she struggled hard to school herself to meet the worst—to
conquer the bitter resentment which she felt rising within her toward
Mabel, who had supplanted her in the affections of the only one she had
ever loved.

Nellie had a noble, generous nature, and after a few moments of calmer
reflection, she rose up, strengthened in her purpose of never suffering
Mabel to know how deeply she had wronged her. “She is an orphan—a
lonely orphan,” thought she, “and God forbid that through me one drop
of bitterness should mingle in her cup of joy.”

With a firm step she walked to the kitchen, gave some additional orders
concerning the dinner, and then returned to the parlor, half shuddering
when Mabel came near her, and then with a strong effort pressing the
little blue-veined hand laid so confidingly upon her own. Dinner being
over, Mrs. Livingstone, who had some other calls to make, took her
leave, bidding a most affectionate adieu to Mabel, who clung to her as
if she had indeed been her mother.

“Good-bye, darling Meb,” said she. “I shall come for you to visit us
erelong.” Turning to Nellie, she said, “Do take care of her health,
which you know is now precious to more than one;” then in a whisper she
added, “Remember that what I have told you is sacred.”

The next moment she was gone, and mechanically, Nellie returned to the
parlor, together with Mabel, whose unusual buoyancy of spirits
contrasted painfully with the silence and sadness which lay around her
heart. That night, Mr. Douglass had some business in the city, and the
two girls were left alone. The lamps were unlighted, for the full
golden moonlight, which streamed through the window-panes, suited
better the mood of Nellie, who leaning upon the arm of the sofa, looked
listlessly out upon the deep beauty of the night. Upon a little stool
at her feet sat Mabel, her head resting on Nellie’s lap, and her hand
searching in vain for another, which involuntarily moved farther and
farther away, as hers advanced.

At length she spoke: “Nellie, dear Nellie—there is something I want so
much to tell you—if you will hear it, and not think me foolish.”

With a strong effort, the hand which had crept away under the
sofa-cushion, came back from its hiding-place, and rested upon Mabel’s
brow, while Nellie’s voice answered, softly and slow, “What is it,
Mabel? I will hear you.”

Briefly, then, Mabel told the story of her short life, beginning at the
time when a frowning nurse tore her away from her dead mother, chiding
her for her tears, and threatening her with punishment if she did not
desist. “Since then,” said she, “I have been so lonely—how lonely, none
but a friendless orphan can know. No one has ever loved me, or if for a
time they seemed to, they soon grew weary of me, and left me ten times
more wretched than before. I never once dreamed that—that Mr.
Livingstone could care aught for one so ugly as I know I am. I thought
him better suited for you, Nellie. (How cold your hand is, but don’t
take it away, for it cools my forehead.”)

The icy hand was not withdrawn, and Mabel continued: “Yes, I think him
better suited to you, and when his mother told me that he loved me, and
that he would, undoubtedly, one day make me his wife, it was almost too
much for me to believe, but it makes me so happy—oh, so happy.”

“And he—he, too, told you that he loved you?” said Nellie, very low,
holding her breath for the answer.

“Oh, no—_he_ never told me in _words_. ’Twas his mother that told me—he
only _acted_!”

“And what did he do?” asked Nellie, smiling in spite of herself, at the
simplicity of Mabel, who, without any intention of exaggerating,
proceeded to tell what John Jr. had said and done, magnifying every
attention, until Nellie, blinded as she was by what his mother had
said, was convinced that, at all events, he was not true to herself. To
be sure, he had never told her he loved her in words; but in actions he
had said it many a time, and if he could do the same with Mabel, he
must be false either to one or the other. Always frank and open-hearted
herself, Nellie despised anything like deception in others, and the
high opinion she had once entertained for John Jr., was now greatly
changed.

Still, reason as she would, Nellie could not forget so easily, and the
hour of midnight found her restless and wakeful. At length, rising up
and leaning upon her elbow, she looked down upon the face of Mabel, who
lay sleeping sweetly at her side. Many and bitter were her thoughts,
and as she looked upon her rival, marking her plain features and sallow
skin, an expression of scorn flitted for an instant across her face.

“And _she_ is preferred to me!” said she. “Well, let it be so, and God
grant I may not hate her.”

Erelong, better feelings came to her aid, and with her arms wound round
Mabel’s neck, as if to ask forgiveness for her unkind thoughts, she
fell asleep.




CHAPTER XV.
MRS. LIVINGSTONE’S CALLS AND THEIR RESULT.


After leaving Mr. Douglass’s, Mrs. Livingstone ordered her coachman to
drive her around to the house of Mrs. Atkins, where she was frequently
in the habit of stopping, partly as a matter of convenience when
visiting in town, and partly to learn the latest news of the day, for
Mrs. Atkins was an intolerable gossip. Without belonging exactly to the
higher circles, she still managed to keep up a show of intimacy with
them, possessing herself with their secrets, and kindly intrusting them
to the keeping of this and that “dear friend.”

From her, had Mrs. Livingstone learned to a dime the amount of Mr.
Douglass’ property, and how he was obliged to economize in various
ways, in order to keep up the appearance of style. From her, too, had
she learned how often her son was in the habit of calling there, and
what rumor said concerning those calls, while Mrs. Atkins had learned,
in return, that the ambitious lady had other views for John, and that
anything which she, Mrs. Atkins, could do to further the plans of her
friend, would be gratefully received. On this occasion she was at home,
and of course delighted to meet Mrs. Livingstone.

“It is such an age since I’ve seen you, that I began to fear you were
offended at something,” said she, as she led the way into a cozy little
sitting-room, where a cheerful wood fire was blazing on the nicely
painted hearth. “Do sit down and make yourself as comfortable as you
can, on such poor accommodations. I have just finished dinner but will
order some for you.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, “I dined at Mr. Douglass’s—thank
you.”

“Ah, indeed,” returned Mrs. Atkins, feeling a good deal relieved, for
to tell the truth, her larder, as was often the case, was rather empty.
“Dined at Mr. Douglass’s! Of course, then, nothing which I could offer
you could be acceptable, after one of his sumptuous meals. I suppose
Nellie brought out all her mother’s old silver, and made quite a
display. It’s a wonder to me how they hold their heads so high, and
folks notice them as they do, for between you and me, I shouldn’t be
surprised to hear of his failing any minute.”

“Is it possible?” said Mrs. Livingstone.

“Why, yes,” returned Mrs. Atkins. “There’s nothing to prevent it, they
say, except a moneyed marriage on the part of Nellie, who seems to be
doing her best.”

“Has she any particular one in view?” asked Mrs. Livingstone, and Mrs.
Atkins, aware of Mrs. Livingstone’s aversion to the match, replied,
“Why, you know she tried to get your son——”

“But didn’t succeed,” interrupted Mrs. Livingstone.

“No, didn’t succeed. You are right. Well, now it seems she’s spreading
sail for a Mr. Wilbur, of Madison——”

Mrs. Livingstone’s eyes sparkled eagerly, and, not to lose one word,
she drew her chair nearer to her friend, who proceeded; “He’s a rich
bachelor—brother to Mary Wilbur, Nellie’s most intimate friend. You’ve
heard of her?”

“Yes, yes,” returned Mrs. Livingstone. “Hasn’t Nellie been visiting
her?”

“Her or her brother,” answered Mrs. Atkins. “Mary’s health is poor, and
you know it’s mighty convenient for Nellie to go there, under pretense
of staying with her,”

“Exactly,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, with a satisfied smile, and
another hitch of her chair toward Mrs. Atkins, who, after a moment,
continued: “The brother came home with Nellie, stayed over Sunday, rode
out with her Monday, indorsed ever so many notes for her father, so I
reckon, and then went home. If that don’t mean something, then I’m
mistaken”—and Mrs. Atkins rang for a glass of wine and a slice of cake.

After an hour’s confidential talk, in which Mrs. Livingstone told of
Mabel’s prospects, and Mrs. Atkins told how folks who were at Mr.
Graham’s party praised ’Lena Rivers’ beauty, and predicted a match
between her and Mr. Bellmont, the former rose to go; and calling upon
one or two others, and by dint of quizzing and hinting, getting them to
say “they shouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Wilbur did like Nellie
Douglas,” she started for home, exulting to think how everything seemed
working together for her good, and how, in the denouement, nothing
particular could be laid to her charge.

“I told Nellie no falsehood,” thought she. “I did not say John loved
Mabel; I only said she loved him, leaving all else for her to infer.
And it has commenced operating, too. I could see it in the spots on her
face and neck, when I was talking. Nellie’s a fine girl, though, but
too poor for the Livingstones;” and with this conclusion, she told the
coachman to drive faster, as she was in a hurry to reach home.

Arrived at Maple Grove, she found the whole family, grandma and all,
assembled in the parlor, and with them Durward Bellmont. His arm was
thrown carelessly across the back of ’Lena’s chair, while he
occasionally bent forward to look at a book of prints which she was
examining. The sight of him determined her to wait a little ere she
retailed her precious bit of gossip to her son. He was Nellie’s cousin,
and as such, would in all probability repeat to her what he heard.
However communicative John Jr. might be in other respects, she knew he
would never discuss his heart-troubles with any one, so, upon second
thought, she deemed it wiser to wait until they were alone.

Durward and ’Lena, however, needed watching, and by a little
maneuvering, she managed to separate them, greatly to the satisfaction
of Carrie, who sat upon the sofa, one foot bent under her, and the
other impatiently tapping the carpet. From the moment Durward took his
seat by her cousin, she had appeared ill at ease, and as he began to
understand her better, he readily guessed that her silent mood was
owing chiefly to the attentions he paid to ’Lena, and not to a nervous
headache, as she said, when her grandmother, inquiring the cause of her
silence, remarked, that “she’d been chipper enough until Mr. Bellmont
came in.”

But he did not care. He admired ’Lena, and John Jr. like, it made but
little difference with him who knew it. Carrie’s freaks, which he
plainly saw, rather amused him than otherwise, but of Mrs. Livingstone
he had no suspicion whatever. Consequently, when she sent ’Lena from
the room on some trifling errand, herself appropriating the vacated
seat, he saw in it no particular design, but in his usual pleasant way
commenced talking with Carrie, who brightened up so much that grandma
asked “if her headache wasn’t e’en-a’most well!”

When ’Lena returned to the parlor, Durward was proposing a surprise
visit to Nellie Douglass some time during the holidays. “We’ll invite
Mr. Everett, and all go down. What do you say, girls?” said he, turning
toward Carrie and Anna, but meaning ’Lena quite as much as either of
them.

“Capital,’ answered Anna, visions of a long ride with Malcolm instantly
passing before her mind.

“I should like it very much,” said Carrie, visions of a ride with
Durward crossing her mind.

“And I too,” said ’Lena, laying her hand on John Jr.’s shoulder, as if
he would of course be her escort.

Carrie’s ill-nature had not all vanished, and now, in a slightly
insolent tone, she said, “How do you know you are included?”

’Lena was about to reply, when Durward, a little provoked at Carrie’s
manner, prevented her by saying “Of course I meant Miss Rivers, and I
will now do myself the honor of asking her to ride with me, either on
horseback or in a carriage, just as she prefers.”

In a very graceful manner ’Lena accepted the invitation saying that
“she always preferred riding on horse back, but as the pony which she
usually rode had recently been sold, she would be content to go in any
other way.”

“Fleetfoot sold! what’s that for?” asked Anna; and her mother replied,
“We’ve about forty horses on our hands now, and as Fleetfoot was seldom
used by any one except ’Lena, your father thought we couldn’t afford to
keep him.”

She did not dare tell the truth of the matter, and say that ever since
the morning when ’Lena rode to Woodlawn with Durward, Fleetfoot’s fate
had been decreed. Repeatedly had she urged the sale upon her husband,
who, wearied with her importunity, at last consented, selling him to a
neighboring planter, who had taken him away that very day.

“That’s smart,” said John Jr. looking at his father, who had not
spoken. “What is ’Lena going to ride, I should like to know.”

’Lena pressed his arm to keep him still, but he would not heed her.
“Isn’t there plenty of feed for Fleetfoot?”

“Certainly,” answered his father, compelled now to speak; “plenty of
feed, but Fleetfoot was getting old and sometimes stumbled. Perhaps
we’ll get ’Lena a better and younger horse.”

This was said in a half timid way, which brought the tears to ’Lena’s
eyes, for at the bottom of it all she saw her aunt, who sat looking
into the glowing grate, apparently oblivious to all that was passing
around her.

“That reminds me of Christmas gifts,” said Durward, anxious to change
the conversation. “I wonder how many of us will get one?”

Ere there was any chance for an answer a servant appeared at the door,
asking Mrs. Livingstone for some medicine for old Aunt Polly, the
superannuated negress, who will be remembered as having nursed Mrs.
Nichols during her attack of rheumatism, and for whom grandma had
conceived a strong affection. For many days she had been very ill,
causing Mrs. Livingstone to wonder “what old niggers wanted to live
for, bothering everybody to death.”

The large stock of abolitionism which Mrs. Nichols had brought with her
from Massachusetts was a little diminished by force of habit, but the
root was there still, in all its vigor, and since Aunt Polly’s illness
she had been revolving in her mind the momentous question, whether she
would not be most guilty if Polly were suffered to die in bondage.

“I promised Nancy Scovandyke,” said she, “that I’d have some on ’em set
free, but I’ll be bound if ’taint harder work than I s’posed ’twould
be.”

Still Aunt Polly’s freedom lay warm at grandma’s heart and now when she
was mentioned together with “Christmas gifts,” a bright idea entered
her mind,

“John,” said she to her son, when Corinda had gone with the medicine,
“John, have you ever made me a Christmas present since I’ve been here?”

“I believe not,” was his answer.

“Wall,” continued grandma, “bein’s the fashion, I want you to give me
somethin’ this Christmas, will you?”

“Certainly,” said he, “what is it?”

Grandma replied that she would rather not tell him then—she would wait
until Christmas morning, which came the next Tuesday, and here the
conversation ended. Soon after, Durward took his leave, telling ’Lena
he should call for her on Thursday.

“That’s a plaguy smart feller,” said grandma, as the door closed upon
him; “and I kinder think he’s got a notion after ’Leny.”

“Ridiculous!” muttered Mrs. Livingstone, while Carrie added, “Just
reverse it, and say she has a notion after him!”

“Shut up your head,” growled John Jr. “You are only angry because he
asked her to accompany him, instead of yourself. I reckon he knows what
he’s about.”

“I reckon he does, too!” said Mrs. Livingstone, with a peculiar smile,
which nettled ’Lena more than any open attack would have done.

With the exception of his mother, John Jr. was the last to leave the
parlor, and when all the rest were gone, Mrs. Livingstone seized her
opportunity for telling him what she had heard. Taking a light from the
table, he was about retiring, when she said, “I learned some news
to-day which a little surprised me.”

“Got it from Mother Atkins, I suppose,” answered John, still advancing
toward the door.

“Partly from her, and partly from others,” said his mother, adding, as
she saw him touch the door-knob, “It’s about Nellie Douglass.”

This was sufficient to arrest his attention, and turning about, he
asked, “What of her?”

“Why, nothing of any great consequence, as I know of,” said Mrs.
Livingstone, “only people in Frankfort think she’s going to be
married.”

“_I_ think so, too,” was John’s mental reply, while his verbal one was,
“Married! To whom?”

“Did you ever hear her speak of Mary Wilbur?”

“Yes, she’s been staying with her ever since Mrs. Graham’s party.”

“Well, Mary it seems has a brother, a rich old bachelor, who they say
is very attentive to Nellie. He came home with her from Madison,
staying at her father’s the rest of the week, and paying her numberless
attentions, which——”

“_I don’t believe it_,” interrupted John Jr., striking his fist upon
the table, to which he had returned.

“Neither did I, at first,” said his mother, “but I heard it in so many
places that there must be something in it. And I’m sure it’s a good
match. He is rich, and willing, they say, to help her father, who is in
danger of failing any moment.”

Without knowing it, John Jr. was a little inclined to be jealous,
particularly of those whom he loved very much, and now suddenly
remembering to have heard Nellie speak in high terms of Robert Wilbur,
he began to feel uneasy, lest what his mother had said were true. She
saw her advantage, and followed it up until, in a fit of anger, he
rushed from the room and repaired to his own apartment, where for a
time he walked backward and forward, chafing like a caged lion, and
wishing all manner of evil upon Nellie, if she were indeed false to
him.

He was very excitable, and at last worked himself up to such a pitch,
that he determined upon starting at once for Frankfort, to demand of
Nellie if what he had heard were true! Upon cooler reflection, however,
he concluded not to make a “perfect fool of himself,” and plunging into
bed, he fell asleep, as what man will not be his trouble what it may.




CHAPTER XVI.
CHRISTMAS GIFTS.


The sunlight of a bright Christmas morning had hardly dawned upon the
earth, when from many a planter’s home in the sunny south was heard the
joyful cry of “Christmas Gift,” “Christmas Gift,” as the negroes ran
over and against each other, hiding ofttimes, until some one came
within hailing distance, when their loud “Christmas Gift” would make
all echo again. On this occasion, every servant at Maple Grove was
remembered, for Anna and ’Lena had worked both early and late in
preparing some little present, and feeling amply compensated for their
trouble, when they saw how much happiness it gave. Mabel, too, while
she stayed, had lent a helping hand, and many a blessing was that
morning invoked upon her head from the hearts made glad by her generous
gifts. Carrie, when asked to join them, had turned scornfully away,
saying “she’d plenty to do, without working for niggers; who could not
appreciate it.”

So all her leisure hours were spent in embroidering a fine cambric
handkerchief, intended as a present for Mrs. Graham, and which with a
delicate note was, the evening previous, sent to Woodlawn, with
instructions to have it placed next morning on Mrs. Graham’s table. Of
course Mrs. Graham felt in duty bound to return the compliment, and
looking over her old jewelry, she selected a diamond ring which she had
formerly worn, but which was now too small for her fat chubby fingers.
This was immediately forwarded to Maple Grove, reaching there just as
the family were rising from the breakfast-table.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful—splendid—magnificent!” were Carrie’s
exclamations, while she praised Mrs. Graham’s generosity, secretly
wondering if “Durward did not have something to do with it.”

On this point she was soon set right, for the young man himself erelong
appeared, and after bidding them all a “Merry Christmas,” presented
Anna with a package which, on being opened, proved to be a large and
complete copy of Shakspeare, elegantly bound, and bearing upon its
heavy golden clasp the words “Anna Livingstone, from Durward,”

“This you will please accept from me,” said he. “Mother, I believe, has
sent Carrie something, and if ’Lena will step to the door, she will see
her gift from father, who hopes it will give her as much pleasure to
accept it, as it does him to present it.”

“What can it be?” thought Carrie, rising languidly from the sofa, and
following ’Lena and her sister to the side door, where stood one of Mr.
Graham’s servants, holding a beautiful gray pony, all nicely equipped
for riding.

Never dreaming that this was intended for ’Lena, Carrie looked vacantly
around, saying, “Why, where is it? I don’t see anything.”

“Here,” said Durward, taking the bridle from the negro’s hand, and
playfully throwing it across ’Lena’s neck, “Here it is—this pony, which
we call Vesta. Vesta, allow me to introduce you and your new mistress,
Miss ’Lena, to each other,” and catching her up, as if she had been a
feather, he placed her in the saddle. Then, at a peculiar whistle, the
well-trained animal started off upon an easy gallop, bearing its burden
lightly around the yard, and back again to the piazza.

“Do you like her ?” he asked of ’Lena, extending his arms to lift her
down.

For a moment ’Lena could not speak, her heart was so full. But at last,
forcing down her emotion, she replied, “Oh, very, very much; but it
isn’t for me, I know—there must be some mistake. Mr. Graham never
intended it for me.”

“Yes, he did,” answered Durward. “He has intended it ever since the
morning when you and I rode to Woodlawn. A remark which your cousin
John made at the table, determined him upon him buying and training a
pony for you. So here it is, and as I have done my share toward
teaching her, you must grant me the favor of riding her to Frankfort
day after to-morrow.”

“Thank you, thank you—you and Mr. Graham too—a thousand times,” said
’Lena, winding her arms around the neck of the docile animal, who did
her best to return the caress, rubbing her face against ’Lena, and
evincing her gentleness in various ways.

By this time Mr. Livingstone had joined them, and while he was admiring
the pony, Durward said to him, “I am commissioned by my father to tell
you that he will defray all the expense of keeping Vesta.”

“Don’t mention such a thing again,” hastily interposed Mr. Livingstone.
“I can keep fifty horses, if I choose, and nothing will give me more
pleasure than to take care of this one for ’Lena, who deserves it if
any one does.”

“That’s my Christmas gift from you, uncle, isn’t it?” asked ’Lena, the
tears gushing from her shining, brown eyes. “And now please may I
return it?”

“Certainly,” said he, and with a nimble spring she caught him around
the neck, imprinting upon his lips the first and only kiss she had ever
given him; then, amid blushes and tears, which came from a heart full
of happiness, she ran away upstairs followed by the envious eyes of
Carrie, who repaired to her mother’s room, where she stated all that
had transpired—“How Mr. Graham had sent ’Lena a gray pony—how she had
presumed to accept it—and how, just to show off before Mr. Bellmont,
she had wound her arms around its neck, and then actually _kissed pa_!”

Mrs. Livingstone was equally indignant with her daughter, wondering if
Mr. Graham had lost his reason, and reckoning his wife knew nothing
about Vesta! But fret as she would, there was no help for it. Vesta
belonged to ’Lena—Mr. Livingstone had given orders to have it
well-cared for—and worse than all the rest, ’Lena was to accompany
Durward to Frankfort. Something must be done to meet the emergency, but
what, Mrs. Livingstone didn’t exactly know, and finally concluded to
wait until she saw Mrs. Graham.

Meantime grandma had claimed from her son her promised Christmas gift,
which was nothing less than “the freedom of old Aunt Polly.”

“You won’t refuse me, John, I know you won’t,” said she, laying her
bony hand on his. “Polly’s arnt her freedom forty times over, even
s’posin’ you’d a right to her in the fust place which I and Nancy
Scovandyke both doubt; so now set down like a man, make out her free
papers, and let me carry ’em to her right away.”

Without a word Mr. Livingstone complied with his mother’s request,
saying, as he handed her the paper, “It’s not so much the fault of the
south as of the north that every black under heaven is not free.”

Grandma looked aghast. Her son, born, brought up, and baptized in a
purely orthodox atmosphere, to hold such treasonable opinions in
opposition to everything he’d ever been taught in good old
Massachusetts! She was greatly shocked, but thinking she could not do
the subject justice, she said, “Wall, wall, it’s of no use for you and
I to arger the pint, for I don’t know nothin’ what I want to say, but
if Nancy Scovandyke was here, she’d convince you quick, for she’s good
larnin’ as any of the gals nowadays.”

So saying, she walked away to Polly’s cabin. The old negress was better
to-day, and attired in the warm double-gown which Mabel had purchased
and ’Lena had made, she sat up in a large, comfortable rocking-chair
which John Jr. had given her at the commencement of her illness, saying
it was “his Christmas gift in advance.” Going straight up to her,
grandma laid the paper in her lap, bidding her “read it and thank the
Lord.”

“Bless missus’ dear old heart,” said Aunt Polly, “I can’t read a word.”

“Sure enough,” answered Mrs. Nichols, and taking up the paper she read
it through, managing to make the old creature comprehend its meaning.

“Praise the Lord! praise Master John, and all the other apostles!”
exclaimed Aunt Polly, clasping together her black, wrinkled hands,
while tears of joy coursed their way down her cheeks. “The breath of
liberty is sweet—sweet as sugar,” she continued, drawing long
inspirations as if to make up for lost time.

Mrs. Nichols looked on, silently thanking God for having made her an
humble instrument in contributing so much to another’s happiness.

“Set down,” said Aunt Polly, motioning toward a wooden bottomed chair;
“set down, and let’s us talk over this great meracle, which I’ve prayed
and rastled for mighty nigh a hundred times, without havin’ an atom of
faith that ’twould ever be.”

So Mrs. Nichols sat down, and for nearly an hour the old ladies talked,
the one of her newly-found freedom, and the other of her happiness in
knowing that “’twasn’t for nothin’ she was turned out of her old home
and brought away over land and sea to Kentucky.”




CHAPTER XVII.
FRANKFORT.


Thursday morning came, bright, sunshiny and beautiful, and at about ten
o’clock ’Lena, dressed and ready for her ride, came down to the parlor,
where she found John Jr. listlessly leaning upon the table with his
elbows, and drumming with his fingers.

“Come, cousin,” said she, “why are you not ready?”

“Ready for what?” he answered, without raising his head.

“Why, ready for our visit,” replied Lena, at the same time advancing
nearer, to see what ailed him.

“All the visit I make to-day won’t hurt me, I reckon,” said he; pushing
his hat a little more to one side and looking up at ’Lena, who, in some
surprise, asked what he meant.

“I mean what I say,” was his ungracious answer; “I’ve no intention
whatever of going to Frankfort.”

“Not going?” repeated ’Lena. “Why not? What will Carrie do?”

“Stick herself in with you and Durward, I suppose,” said John Jr., just
as Carrie entered the room, together with Mr. Bellmont, Malcolm, and
Anna.

“Not going?—of course then I must stay at home, too,” said Carrie,
secretly pleased at her brother’s decision.

“Why of course?” asked Durward, who, in the emergency, felt constrained
to offer his services to Carrie though he would greatly have preferred
’Lena’s company alone. “The road is wide enough for three, and I am
fully competent to take charge of two ladies. But why don’t you go?”
turning to John Jr.

“Because I don’t wish to. If it was anywhere in creation but there, I’d
go,” answered the young man; hastily leaving the room to avoid all
further argument.

“He does it just to be hateful and annoy me,” said Carrie, trying to
pout, but making a failure, for she had in reality much rather go under
Durward’s escort than her brother’s.

The horses were now announced as ready, and in a few moments the little
party were on their way, Carrie affecting so much fear of her pony that
Durward at last politely offered to lead him a while. This would of
course bring him close to her side, and after a little well-feigned
hesitation, she replied, “I am sorry to trouble you, but if you would
be so kind——”

’Lena saw through the ruse, and patting Vesta gently, rode on in
advance, greatly to the satisfaction of Carrie, and greatly to the
chagrin of Durward, who replied to his loquacious companion only in
monosyllables. Once, indeed, when she said something concerning ’Lena’s
evident desire to show off her horsemanship, he answered rather coolly,
that “he’d yet to discover in Miss Rivers the least propensity for
display of any kind.”

“You’ve never lived with her,” returned Carrie, and here the
conversation concerning ’Lena ceased.

Meantime, Nellie Douglass was engaged in answering a letter that
morning received from Mary Wilbur. A few years before, Mary had spent
some months in Mr. Douglass’s family, conceiving a strong affection for
Nellie, whom she always called her sister, and with whom she kept up a
regular correspondence. Mary was an orphan, living with her only
brother Robert, who was a bachelor of thirty or thirty-five. Once she
had ventured to hope that Nellie would indeed be to her a sister, but
fate had decreed it otherwise, and her brother was engaged to a lady
whom he found a school-girl in Montreal, and who was now at her own
home in England. This was well-known to Nellie, but she did not deem it
a matter of sufficient importance to discuss, so it was a secret in
Frankfort, where Mr. Wilbur’s polite attentions to herself was a
subject of considerable remark. For a long time Mary had been out of
health, and the family physician at last said that nothing could save
her except a sea voyage, and as her brother was about going to Europe
to consummate his marriage, it was decided that she should accompany
him. This she was willing to do, provided Nellie Douglass would go too.

“It would be much pleasanter,” she said, “having some female companion
besides her attendant, and then, too, Nellie had relatives in England;”
so she urged her to accompany them, offering to defray all expenses for
the pleasure of her society.

Since Nellie’s earliest recollection, her fondest dreams had been of
England, her mother’s birthplace; and now when so favorable an
opportunity for visiting it was presented, she felt strongly tempted to
say “Yes.” Still, she would give Mary no encouragement until she had
seen her father and John Jr., the latter of whom would influence her
decision quite as much as the former. But John Jr. no longer loved
her—she was sure of that—and with her father’s consent she had half
determined to go. Still she was undecided, until a letter came from
Mary, urging her to make up her mind without delay, as they were to
sail the 15th of January.

“Brother is so sensitive concerning his love affairs,” wrote Mary,
“that whether you conclude to join us or not, you will please say
nothing about his intended marriage.”

Nellie had seated herself to answer this letter, when a servant came
up, saying that “Marster Bellmont, all the Livingstones, and a heap
more were downstars, and had sent for her.”

She was just writing, “I will go,” when this announcement came, and
quickly suspending her pen, she thought, “He’s come, at last. It may
all be a mistake. I’ll wait.” With a beating heart she descended to the
parlor, where she politely greeted Mr. Everett and Durward, and then
anxiously glanced around for the missing one. Mabel, who felt a similar
disappointment, ventured to inquire for him, in a low tone, whereupon
Carrie replied, loudly enough for Nellie to hear, “Oh, pray don’t speak
of that bear. Why, you don’t know how cross he’s been ever since—let me
see—ever since you came away. He doesn’t say a civil word to anybody,
and I really wish you’d come back before he kills us all.’

“Did you invite him to come ?” said Nellie.

“To be sure we did,” answered Carrie, “and he said, ‘anywhere in
creation but there.’”

Nellie needed no further confirmation, and after conversing awhile with
her guests, she begged leave to be excused for a few moments, while she
finished a letter of importance, which must go out in the next mail.
Alone in her room, she wavered, but the remembrance of the words,
“anywhere in creation but there,” decided her, and with a firm hand she
wrote to Mary that she would go. When the letter was finished and sent
to the office, Nellie returned to her visitors, who began to rally her
concerning the important letter which must be answered.

“Now, coz,” said Durward, pulling her down upon the sofa by his side,
“now, coz, I claim a right to know something about this letter. Was it
one of acceptance or rejection?”

“Acceptance, of course,” answered Nellie, who, knowing no good reason
why her intended tour should be kept a secret, proceeded to speak of
it, telling how they were to visit Scotland, France, Switzerland, and
Italy, and almost forgetting, in her enthusiasm, how wretched the
thought of the journey made her.

“And Miss Wilbur’s brother is to be your escort—he is unmarried, I
believe?” said Durward, looking steadily upon the carpet.

In a moment Nellie would have told of his engagement, and the object of
his going, but she remembered Mary’s request in time, and the blush
which the almost committed mistake called to her cheek, was construed
by all into a confession that there was something between her and Mr.
Wilbur.

“That accounts for John’s sudden churlishness,” thought ’Lena,
wondering how Nellie could have deceived him so.

“Oh, I see it all,” exclaimed Mabel. “I understand now what has made
Nellie so absent-minded and restless these many days. She was making up
her mind to become Mrs. Wilbur, while I fancied she was offended with
me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” answered Nellie, without smiling in the
least. “Mary Wilbur wishes me to accompany her to Europe, and I intend
doing so. Her brother is nothing to me, nor ever will be.”

“Quite a probable story,” thought Mr. Everett, without forming his
reflections into words.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, a violent ringing of the door-bell,
and a heavy tramp in the hall, announced some new arrival, and Nellie
was about opening the parlor door, when who should appear but John Jr.!
From his room he had watched the departure of the party, one moment
wishing he was with them, and the next declaring he’d never go to
Frankfort again so long as he lived! At length inclination getting the
ascendency of his reason, he mounted Firelock, and rushing furiously
down the ’pike, never once slackened his speed until the city was in
sight.

“I dare say she’ll think me a fool,” thought he, “tagging her round,
but she needn’t worry. I only want to show her how little her pranks
affect me.”

With these thoughts he could not fail to meet Nellie otherwise than
coldly, while she received him with equal indifference, calling him Mr.
Livingstone, and asking if he were cold, with other questions, such as
any polite hostess would ask of her guest. But her accustomed smile and
usual frankness of manner were gone, and while John Jr. felt it keenly,
he strove under a mask of indifference, to conceal his chagrin. Mabel
seemed delighted to see him, and for want of something better to do, he
devoted himself to her, calling her Meb, and teasing her about her
“Indian locks,” as he called her straight, black hair. Could he have
seen the bitter tears which Nellie constantly forced back, as she moved
carelessly among her guests, far different would have been his conduct.
But he only felt that she had been untrue to him, and in his anger he
was hardly conscious of what he was doing.

So when Mabel said to him, “Nellie is going to Europe with Mr. Wilbur
and Mary,” he replied, “Glad of it—hope she’ll”—be drowned, he
thought—“have a good time,” he said—and Nellie, who heard all, never
guessed how heavily the blow had fallen, or that the hand so suddenly
placed against his heart, was laid there to still the wild throbbing
which he feared she might hear.

When next he spoke, his voice was very calm, as he asked when she was
going, and how long she intended to be gone. “What! so soon?” said he,
when told that she sailed the 15th of January, and other than that, not
a word did he say to Nellie concerning her intended visit, until just
before they left for home. Then for a moment he stood alone with her in
the recess of a window. There was a film upon his eyes as he looked
upon her, and thought it might be for the last time. There was anguish,
too, in his heart, but it did not mingle in the tones of his voice,
which was natural, and, perhaps, indifferent, as he said, “Why do you
go to Europe, Nellie?”

Quickly, and with something of her olden look, she glanced up into his
face, but his eyes, which would not meet hers, lest they should betray
themselves, were resting upon Mabel, who, on a stool across the room,
was petting and caressing a kitten. ’Twas enough, and carelessly Nellie
answered, “Because I want to; what do you suppose?”

Without seeming to hear her answer, the young man walked away to where
Mabel sat, and commenced teasing her and her kitten, while Nellie,
maddened with herself, with him, with everybody, precipitately left the
room, and going to her chamber hastily, and without a thought as to
what she was doing, gathered together every little token which John Jr.
had given her, together with his notes and letters, written in his own
peculiar and scarcely legible hand. Tying them in a bundle, she wrote
with unflinching nerve, “Do thou likewise,” and then descending to the
hall, laid it upon the hat-stand, managing, as he was leaving, to place
it unobserved in his hand. Instinctively he knew what it was, glanced
at the three words written thereon, and in a cold, sneering voice,
replied, “I will, with pleasure.”

And thus they parted.




CHAPTER XVIII.
THE DEPARTURE.


“John, how would you like to take a trip to New York—the city, I mean?”
said Mr. Livingstone, to his son, one morning about two weeks following
the events narrated in the last chapter.

“Well enough—why do you ask?” answered John.

“Because,” said his father, “I have to-day received a letter which
makes it necessary for one of us to be there the 15th, and as you are
fond of traveling, I had rather you would go. You had better start
immediately—say to-morrow.”

John Jr. started from his chair. To-morrow she left her home—the 15th
she sailed. He might see her again, though at a distance, for she
should never know he followed her! Since that night in Frankfort he had
not looked upon her face, but he had kept his promise, returning to her
everything—everything except a withered rose-bud, which years before,
when but a boy, he had twined among the heavy braids of her hair, and
which she had given back to him, playfully fastening it in the
button-hole of his roundabout! How well he remembered that day. She was
a little romping girl, teasing him unmercifully about his _flat feet_
and _big hands_, chiding him for his _negro slang_, as she termed his
favorite expressions, and with whatever else she did, weaving her image
into his heart’s best and noblest affections, until he seemed to live
only for her, But now ’twas changed—terribly changed. She was no longer
“his Nellie,” the Nellie of his boyhood’s love; and with a muttered
curse and a tear, large, round, and hot, such as only John Jr. could
shed, he sent her back every memento of the past, all save that
rose-bud, with which he could not part, it seemed so like his early
hopes—withered and dead.

Nellie was alone, preparing for her journey, when the box containing
the treasures was handed her. Again and again she examined to see if
there were not one farewell word, but there was nothing save, “Here
endeth the first lesson!” followed by two exclamation points, which
John Jr. had dashed off at random. Every article seemed familiar to her
as she looked them over, and everything was there but one—she missed
the rose-bud—and she wondered at the omission for she knew he had it in
his possession. He had told her so not three months before. Why, then,
did he not return it? Was it a lingering affection for her which
prompted the detention? Perhaps so, and down in Nellie’s heart was one
warm, bright spot, the memory of that bud, which grew green and fresh
again, as on the day when first it was torn from its parent stem.

When it was first known at Maple Grove, that Nellie was going to
Europe, Mrs. Livingstone, who saw in the future the full consummation
of her plans, proposed that Mabel should spend the period of Nellie’s
absence with her. But to this Mr. Douglass would not consent.

“He could not part with both his daughters,” he said, and Mabel decided
to remain, stipulating that ’Lena, of whom she was very fond, should
pass a portion of the time with her.

“All the time, if she chooses,” said Mr. Douglass, who also liked
’Lena, while Nellie, who was present, immediately proposed that she
should take music lessons of Monsieur Du Pont, who had recently come to
the city, and who was said to be a superior teacher. “She is fond of
music,” said she, “and has always wanted to learn, but that aunt of
hers never seemed willing; and this will be a good opportunity, for she
can use my piano all the time if she chooses.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Mabel, generously thinking how she would pay the
bills, and how much she would assist ’Lena, for Mabel was an excellent
musician, singing and playing admirably.

When this plan was proposed to ’Lena, she objected, for two reasons.
The first, that she could not leave her grandmother, and second, that
much as she desired the lessons, she would not suffer Mabel to pay for
them, and she had no means of her own. On the first point she began to
waver, when Mrs. Nichols, who was in unusually good health, insisted
upon her going.

“It will do you a sight of good,” said she, “and there’s no kind of use
why you should stay hived up with me. I’d as lief be left alone as not,
and I shall take comfort thinkin’ you’re larnin’ to play the pianner,
for I’ve allus wondered ’Tildy didn’t set you at Car’line’s. So, go,”
the old lady continued, whispering in ’Lena’s ear, “Go, and mebby some
day you’ll be a music teacher, and take care of us both.”

Still, ’Lena hesitated at receiving so much from Mabel, who, after a
moment’s thought, exclaimed, “Why, I can teach you myself! I should
love to dearly. It will be something to occupy my mind; and my
instructors have frequently said that I was capable of teaching
advanced pupils, if I chose. You’ll go now, I know”—and Mabel plead her
cause so well, that ’Lena finally consented, saying she should come
home once a week to see her grandmother.

“A grand arrangement, I must confess,” said Carrie, when she heard of
it. “I should think she sponged enough from her connections, without
living on other folks, and poor ones, too, like Mr. Douglass.”

“How ridiculous you talk,” said John Jr., who was present. “You’d be
perfectly willing to spend a year at Mr. Graham’s, or Mr. Douglass’s
either, if he had a son whom you considered an eligible match. Then as
to his being so poor, that’s one of Mother Atkins’ yarns, and she knows
everybody’s history, from Noah down to the present day. For ’Lena’s
sake I am glad to have her go, though heaven knows what I shall do
without her.”

Mrs. Livingstone, too, was secretly pleased, for she would thus be more
out of Durward’s way, and the good lady was again becoming somewhat
suspicious. So when her husband objected, saying ’Lena could take
lessons at home if she liked, she quietly overruled him, giving many
good reasons why ’Lena should go, and finally saying that if Mrs.
Nichols was very lonely without her, she might spend her evenings in
the parlor when there was no company present! So it was decided that
’Lena should go, and highly pleased with the result of their call, Mr.
Douglass and Mabel returned to Frankfort.

At length the morning came when Nellie was to start on her journey. Mr.
Wilbur had arrived the night before, together with his sister, whose
marble cheek and lusterless eye even then foretold the lonely grave
which awaited her far away ’neath a foreign sky. Durward and Mr.
Douglass accompanied them as far as Cincinnati, where they took the
cars for Buffalo. Just before it rolled from the depot, a young man
closely muffled, who had been watching our party, sprang into a car
just in the rear of the one they had chosen, and taking the first
vacant seat, abandoned himself to his own thoughts, which must have
been very absorbing, as a violent shake was necessary, ere he heeded
the call of “Your ticket, sir.”

Onward, onward flew the train, while faster and faster Nellie’s tears
were dropping. They had gushed forth when she saw the quivering chin
and trembling lips of her gray-haired father, as he bade his only child
good-bye, and now that he was gone, she wept on, never heeding her
young friend, who strove in vain to call her attention to the fast
receding hills of Kentucky, which she—Mary—was leaving forever. Other
thoughts than those of her father mingled with Nellie’s tears, for she
could not forget John Jr., nor the hope cherished to the last that he
would come to say farewell. But he did not. They had parted in
coldness, if not in anger, and she might never see him again.

“Come, cheer up, Miss Douglass; I cannot suffer you to be so sad,” said
Mr. Wilbur, placing himself by Nellie, and thoughtlessly throwing his
arm across the back of the seat, while at the same time he bent
playfully forward to peep under her bonnet.

And Nellie did look up, smiling through her tears, but she did not
observe the flashing eyes which watched her through the window at the
rear of the car. Always restless and impatient of confinement, John Jr.
had come out for a moment upon the platform, ostensibly to take the
air, but really to see if it were possible to get a glimpse of Nellie.
She was sitting not far from the door, and he looked in, just in time
to witness Mr. Wilbur’s action, which he of course construed just as
his jealousy dictated.

“Confounded fool!” thought he. “_I_ wouldn’t hug Nellie in the cars in
good broad daylight, even if I was married to her!”

And returning to his seat; he wondered which was the silliest, “for
Nellie to run off with Mr. Wilbur, or for himself to run after her. Six
of one and half a dozen of the other, I reckon,” said he; at the same
time wrapping himself in his shawl, he feigned sleep at every station,
for the sake of retaining his entire seat, and sometimes if the crowd
was great, going so far as to snore loudly!

And thus they proceeded onward, Nellie never suspecting the close
espionage kept upon her by John Jr., who once in the night, at a
crowded depot, passed so closely to her that he felt her warm breath on
his cheek. And when, on the morning of the 15th, she sailed, she little
thought who it was that followed her down to the water’s edge, standing
on the last spot where she had stood, and watching with a swelling
heart the vessel which bore her away.

“I’m nothing better than a walking dead man, now,” said he, as he,
retraced his steps back to his hotel. “Nellie’s gone, and with her all
for which I lived, for she’s the only girl except ’Lena who isn’t a
libel on the sex—or, yes—there’s Anna—does as well as she knows how—and
there’s Mabel, a little simpleton, to be sure, but amiable and
good-natured, and on the whole, as smart as they’ll average. ’Twas kind
in her, anyway, to offer to pay ’Lena’s music bills.”

And with these reflections, John Jr. sought out the men whom he had
come to see, transacted his business, and then started for home, where
he found his mother in unusually good spirits. Matters thus far had
succeeded even beyond her most sanguine expectations. Nellie was gone
to Europe, and the rest she fancied would be easy. ’Lena, too, was
gone, but the result of this was not what she had hoped. Durward had
been at Maple Grove but once since ’Lena left, while she had heard of
his being in Frankfort several times.

“Something must be done”—her favorite expression and in her difficulty
she determined to call upon Mrs. Graham, whom she had not seen since
Christmas. “It is quite time she knew about the gray pony, as well as
other matters,” thought she, and ordering the carriage, she set out one
morning for Woodlawn, intending to spend the day if she found its
mistress amiably disposed, which was not always the case.




CHAPTER XIX.
THE VISIT.


Mrs. Graham reclined upon a softly-cushioned sofa, her tasteful lace
morning-cap half falling from her head, and her rich cashmere gown
flowing open, so as to reveal the flounced cambric skirt which her
sewing-girl had sat up till midnight to finish. A pair of delicate
French slippers pinched rather than graced her fat feet, one of which
angrily beat the carpet, as if keeping time to its mistress’ thoughts.
Nervous and uncomfortable was the lady of Woodlawn this morning, for
she had just passed through a little conjugal scene with her husband,
whom she had called a _brute_, lamenting the dispensation of Providence
which took from her “her beloved Sir Arthur, who always thought
whatever she said was right,” and ending by throwing herself in the
most theatrical manner upon the sofa in the parlor, where, with both
her blood and temper at a boiling heat, she lay, when her waiting-maid,
but recently purchased, announced the approach of a carriage.

“Mercy,” exclaimed the distressed lady, “whose is it? I hope no one
will ask for me.”

“Reckon how it’s Marster Livingstone’s carriage, ’case thar’s Tom on
the box,” answered the girl, who had her own private reason for knowing
Tom at any distance.

“Mrs. Livingstone, I’ll venture to say,” groaned Mrs. Graham, burying
her lace cap and flaxen hair still farther in the silken cushions.
“Just because I stopped there a few days last summer, she thinks she
must run here every week; and there’s no way of escaping her. Do shut
that blind; it lets in so much light. There, would you think I’d been
crying?”

“Lor, no,” returned the stupid servant, “Lor, no; I should sooner think
your eyes and face were swelled with _pisen_.”

“The Lord help me,” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, “you don’t begin to know as
much as poor Charlotte did. She was a jewel, and I don’t see anything
what she wanted to die for, just as I had got her well trained; but
that’s all the thanks I ever get for my goodness. Now go quick, and
tell her I’ve got an excruciating headache.”

“If you please, miss,” said the girl, trying in vain to master the big
word, “if you please, give me somethin’ shorter, ’case I done forgit
that ar, sartin’.”

“Fool! Idiot!” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, hurling, for want of something
better, one of her satin slippers at the woolly head, which dodged out
of the door in time to avoid it.

“Is your mistress at home?” asked Mrs. Livingstone, and Martha,
uncertain what answer she was to make, replied, “Yes—no—I dun know,
’case she done driv me out afore I know’d whether she was at home or
not.”

“Martha, show the lady this way,” called out Mrs. Graham, who was
listening. “Ah, Mrs. Livingstone, is it you. I’m glad to see you,” said
she, half rising and shading her swollen eyes with her hand, as if the
least effort were painful. “You must excuse my dishabille, for I am
suffering from a bad headache, and when Martha said some one had come,
I thought at first I could not see them, but you are always welcome.
How have you been this long time, and why have you neglected me so,
when you know how I must feel the change from Louisville, where I was
constantly in society, to this dreary neighborhood?” and the lady lay
back upon the sofa, exhausted with and astonished at her own eloquence.

Mrs. Livingstone was quite delighted with her friend’s unusual
cordiality, and seating herself in the large easy-chair, began to make
herself very agreeable, offering to bathe Mrs. Graham’s aching head,
which kind offer the lady declined, bethinking herself of sundry gray
hairs, which a close inspection would single out from among her flaxen
tresses.

“Are your family all well?” she asked; to which Mrs. Livingstone
replied that they were, at the same time speaking of her extreme
loneliness since Mabel left them.

“Ah, you mean the little dark-eyed brunette, whom I saw with you at my
party. She was a nice-looking girl—showed that she came of a good
family. I think everything of that. I believe I’d rather Durward would
marry a poor aristocrat, than a wealthy plebeian—one whose family were
low and obscure.”

Mrs. Livingstone wondered what she thought of her family, the
Livingstones. The Richards’ blood she knew was good, but the Nichols’
was rather doubtful. Still, she would for once make the best of it, so
she hastened to say that few American ladies were so fortunate as Mrs.
Graham had been in marrying a noble man. “In this country we have no
nobility, you know,” said she, “and any one who gets rich and into good
society, is classed with the first.”

“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Graham, “but in my mind there’s a great
difference. Now, Mr. Graham’s ancestors boast of the best blood of
South Carolina, while my family, everybody knows, was one of the first
in Virginia, so if Durward had been Mr. Graham’s son instead of Sir
Arthur’s, I should be just as proud of him, just as particular whom he
married.”

“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, a little piqued, for there was
something in Mrs. Graham’s manner which annoyed her—“certainly—I
understand you. I neither married a nobleman, nor one of the best
bloods of South Carolina, and still I should not be willing for my son
to marry—let me see—well, say ’Lena Rivers.”

“’Lena Rivers !” repeated Mrs. Graham—“why, I would not suffer Durward
to look at her, if I could help it. She’s of a horridly low family on
both sides, as I am told.”

This was a home thrust which Mrs. Livingstone could not endure quietly,
and as she had no wish to defend the royalty of a family which she
herself despised, she determined to avenge the insult by making her
companion as uncomfortable as possible. So she said, “Perhaps you are
not aware that your son’s attentions to this same ’Lena Rivers, are
becoming somewhat marked.”

“No, I was not aware of it,” and the greenish-gray eyes fastened
inquiringly upon Mrs. Livingstone, who continued: “It is nevertheless
true, and as I can appreciate your feelings, I thought it might not be
out of place for me to warn you.”

“Thank you,” returned Mrs. Graham, now raising herself upon her elbow,
“Thank you—-but do you know anything positive? What has Durward done?”

“’Lena is in Frankfort now, at Mr. Douglass’s,” answered Mrs.
Livingstone, “and your son is in the constant habit of visiting there;
besides that, he invited her to ride with him when they all went to
Frankfort—’Lena upon the gray pony which your husband gave her as a
Christmas present.”

Mrs. Livingstone had touched the right spot. ’Twas the first intimation
of Vesta which Mrs. Graham had received, and now sitting bolt upright,
she demanded what Mrs. Livingstone meant. “My husband give ’Lena Rivers
a pony! Harry Graham do such a thing! It can’t be possible. There must
be some mistake.”

“I think not,” returned Mrs. Livingstone. “Your son came over with it,
saying ‘it was a present from his father, who sent it, together with
his compliments.’”

Back among her cushions tumbled Mrs. Graham, moaning, groaning, and
pronouncing herself wholly heart-broken. “I knew he was bad,” said she,
“but I never dreamed it had come to this. And I might have known it,
too, for from the moment he first saw that girl, he has acted like a
crazy creature. Talks about her in his sleep—wants me to adopt
her—keeps his eyes on her every minute when he’s where she is; and to
crown all, without consulting me, his lawful wife, he has made her a
present, which must have cost more than a hundred dollars! And she
accepted it—the vixen!”

“That’s the worst feature in the case,” said Mrs. Livingstone. “I have
always been suspicious of ’Lena, knowing what her mother was, but I
must confess I did not think her quite so presumptuous as to accept so
costly a present from a gentleman, and a married one, too. But she has
a peculiar way of making them think what she does is right, and neither
my husband nor John Jr. can see any impropriety in her keeping Vesta.
Carrie wouldn’t have done such a thing.”

“Indeed she wouldn’t. She is too well-bred for that,” said Mrs. Graham,
who had been completely won by Carrie’s soft speeches and fawning
manner.

This compliment to her daughter pleased Mrs. Livingstone, who
straightway proceeded to build Carrie up still higher, by pulling ’Lena
down. Accordingly, every little thing which she could remember, and
many which she could not, were told in an aggravated manner, until
quite a case was made out, and ’Lena would never have recognized
herself in the artful, designing creature which her aunt kindly
pictured her to be.

“Of course,” said she, “if you ever repeat this, you will not use my
name, for as she is my husband’s niece it will not look well in me to
be proclaiming her vices, except in cases where I think it my duty.”

Mrs. Graham was too much absorbed in her own reflections to make a
reply, and as Mrs. Livingstone saw that her company was hardly desired,
she soon arose to go, asking Mrs. Graham “why she did not oftener visit
Maple Grove.”

When Mrs. Graham felt uncomfortable, she liked to make others so, too,
and to her friend’s question she answered, “I may as well be plain as
not, and to tell you the truth, I should enjoy visiting you very much,
were it not for one thing. That mother of yours——”

“Of my husband’s,” interrupted Mrs. Livingstone and Mrs. Graham
continued just where she left off.

“Annoys me exceedingly, by eternally tracing in me a resemblance to
some down-east creature or other—what is her name—Sco—Sco—Scovandyke;
yes, that’s it—Scovandyke. Of course it’s not pleasant for me to be
told every time I meet your mother——”

“Mr. Livingstone’s mother,” again interrupted the lady.

“That I look like some of her acquaintances, for I contend that
families of high birth bear with them marks which cannot be mistaken.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Mrs. Livingstone, adding, that “she was
herself continually annoyed by Mrs. Nichols’s vulgarity, but her
husband insisted that she should come to the table, so what could she
do?”

And mutually troubled, the one about her husband, and the other about
her husband’s mother, the two amiable ladies parted.

Scarcely was Mrs. Livingstone gone when Mr. Graham entered the room,
finding his wife, who had heard his footsteps, in violent hysterics. He
had seen her so too often to be alarmed, and was about to pull the
bellrope, when she found voice to bid him desist, saying it was himself
who was killing her by inches, and that the sooner she was dead, the
better she supposed he would like it. “But, for my sake,” she added, in
a kind of howl, between crying and scolding, “do try to behave yourself
during the short time I have to live, and not go to giving away ponies,
and mercy knows what.”

Now, Mr. Graham was not conscious of having looked at a lady, except
through the window, for many days, and when his wife first attacked
him, he was at a great loss to understand; but as she proceeded it all
became plain, and on the whole, he felt glad that the worst was over.
He would not acknowledge, even to himself, that he was afraid of his
wife, still he had a little rather she would not always know what he
did. He supposed, as a matter of course, that she would, earlier or
later, hear of his present to ’Lena, and he well knew that such an
event would surely be followed by a storm, but after what had taken
place between them that morning, he did not expect so much feeling, for
he had thought her wrath nearly expended. But Mrs. Graham was capable
of great things—as she proved on this occasion, taunting her husband
with his preference for ’Lena, accusing him of loving her better than
he did herself, and asking him plainly, if it were not so.

“Say,” she continued, stamping her foot (the one without a slipper),
“say—I will be answered. Don’t you like ’Lena better than you do me?”

Mr. Graham was provoked beyond endurance, and to the twice repeated
question, he at length replied, “God knows I’ve far more reason to love
her than I have you.” At the same moment he left the room, in time to
avoid a sight of the collapsed state into which his horrified wife who
did not expect such an answer, had fallen.

“Can I tell her? oh, dare I tell her?” he thought, as he wiped the
drops of perspiration from his brow, and groaned in the bitterness of
his spirit. Terribly was he expiating his fault, but at last he grew
calmer, and cowardice (for he was cowardly, else he had never been what
he was) whispered, “Wait yet awhile. Anything for domestic peace.”

So the secret was buried still deeper in his bosom, he never thinking
how his conduct would in the end injure the young girl, dearer to him
far than his own life. While he sat thus alone in his room, and as his
wife lay upon her sofa, Durward entered the parlor and began
good-humoredly to rally his mother upon her wobegone face, asking what
was the matter now.

“Oh, you poor boy, you,” she sobbed, “you’ll soon have no mother to go
to, but you must attribute my death wholly to your stepfather, who
alone will be to blame for making you an orphan!”

Durward knew his mother well, and he thought he knew his father too,
and while he respected him, he blamed her for the unreasonable whims of
which he was becoming weary. He knew there had been a jar in the
morning, but he had supposed that settled, and now, when he found his
mother ten times worse than ever, he felt half vexed, and said, “Do be
a woman mother, and not give way to such fancies. I really wonder
father shows as much patience with you as he does, for you make our
home very unpleasant; and really,” he continued, in a laughing tone,
“if this goes on much longer, I shall, in self-defense, get me a wife
and home of my own.”

“And if report is true, that wife will be ’Lena Rivers,” said Mrs.
Graham, in order to try him.

“Very likely—I can’t tell what may be,” was his answer; to which Mrs.
Graham replied, “that it would be extremely pleasant to marry a bride
with whom one’s father was in love.”

“How ridiculous!” Durward exclaimed. “As though my father cared aught
for ’Lena, except to admire her for her beauty and agreeable manners.”

“But, he’s acknowledged it. He’s just told me, ‘God knew he loved her
better than he did me.’ What do you think of that?”

“Did Mr. Graham say that?” asked Durward, looking his mother directly
in her face.

“Yes he did, not fifteen minutes before you came in, and it’s not a
secret either. Others know it and talk about it. Think of his giving
her that pony.”

Durward was taken by surprise. Knowing none of the circumstances, he
felt deeply pained at his father’s remark. He had always supposed he
liked ’Lena, and he was glad of it, too, but to love her more than his
own wife, was a different thing, and for the first time in his life
Durward distrusted his father. Still, ’Lena was not to blame; there was
comfort in that, and that very afternoon found him again at her side,
admiring her more and more, and learning each time he saw her to love
her better. And she—she dared not confess to herself how dear he was to
her—she dared not hope her affection was returned. She could not think
of the disappointment the future might bring, so she lived on the
present, waiting anxiously for his coming, and striving hard to do the
things which she thought would please him best.

True to her promise, Mabel had commenced giving her instructions upon
the piano, and they were in the midst of their first lesson, when who
should walk in, but Monsieur Du Pont, bowing, and saying “he had been
hired by von nice gentleman, to give Mademoiselle Rivers lessons in
musique.”

’Lena immediately thought of her uncle, who had once proposed her
sharing in the instructions of her cousin, but who, as usual, was
overruled by his wife.

“’Twas my uncle, was it not?” she asked of Du Pont, who replied, “I
promised not to tell. He say, though, he connected with mademoiselle.”

And ’Lena, thinking it was of course Mr. Livingstone, who, on his
wife’s account, wished it a secret, readily consented to receive Du
Pont as a teacher in place of Mabel, who still expressed her
willingness to assist her whenever it was necessary. Naturally fond of
music, ’Lena’s improvement was rapid, and when she found how gratified
Durward appeared, she redoubled her exertions, practicing always five,
and sometimes six hours a day.




CHAPTER XX.
A FATHER’S LOVE.


When it was known at Maple Grove that ’Lena was taking lessons of Du
Pont, it was naturally supposed that Mabel, as she had first proposed,
paid the bills.

“Mighty kind in her, and no mistake,” said John Jr., throwing aside the
stump of a cigar which he had been smoking, and thinking to himself
that “Mabel was a nice girl, after all.”

The next day, finding the time hang heavily upon his hands, he suddenly
wondered why he had never thought to call upon ’Lena. “To be sure, I’ll
feel awfully to go where Nellie used to be, and know she is not there,
but it’s lonesomer than a graveyard here, and I’m bound to do
something.”

So saying, he mounted Firelock and started off, followed by no regrets
from his mother or sisters, for since Nellie went away he had been
intolerably cross and fault-finding. He found a servant in the door, so
he was saved the trouble of ringing, and entering unannounced, walked
noiselessly to the parlor-door, which was ajar. ’Lena, as usual, sat at
the piano, wholly absorbed, while over her bent Mabel, who was
assisting her in the lesson, speaking encouragingly, and patiently
helping her through all the difficult places. Mabel’s health was
improved since first we saw her, and though she was still plain—ugly,
many would say—there was something pleasing in her face, and in the
expression of her black, eyes, which looked down so kindly upon ’Lena.
John Jr. noticed it, and never before had Mabel appeared to so good
advantage to him as she did at that moment, as he watched her through
the open door.

At last the lesson was finished, and rising up, ’Lena said, “I know I
should never learn if it were not for you,” at the same time winding
her arm about Mabel’s neck and kissing her glowing cheek.

“Let me have a share of that,” exclaimed John Jr., stepping forward and
clasping both the girls in his arms ere they were aware of his
presence.

With a gay laugh they shook him off, and ’Lena, leading him to the
sofa, sat down beside him, asking numerous questions about home and her
grandmother. John answered them all, and then, oh how he longed to ask
if there had come any tidings of the absent one; but he would not—she
had left him of her own accord, and he had sworn never to inquire for
her. So he sat gazing dreamily upon her piano, the chair she used to
occupy and the books she used to read, until ’Lena, either divining his
thoughts, or fancying he would wish to know, said, “We’ve not heard
from Nellie since she left us.”

“You didn’t expect to, so soon, I suppose,” was John’s indifferent
reply.

“Why, no, not unless they chanced to speak a ship. I wish they’d taken
a steamer instead of a sailing vessel,” said ’Lena.

“I suppose Mr. Wilbur had an eye upon the long, cosy chats he could
have with Nellie, looking out upon the sea,” was John’s answer, while
Mabel quickly rejoined, that “he had chosen a sailing vessel solely on
Mary’s account.”

In the midst of their conversation, the door-bell rang; and a moment
after, Durward was ushered into the parlor. “He was in town on
business,” he said, “and thought he would call.”

Scarcely had he taken his seat, when again the door opened, this time
admitting Mr. Graham, who was returning from Louisville, and had also
found it convenient to call. Involuntarily Durward glanced toward
’Lena, but her face was as calm and unruffled as if the visitor had
been her uncle.

“All right there,” thought he, and withdrawing his eyes from her, he
fixed them upon his father, who he fancied seemed somewhat disconcerted
when he saw him there. Mentally blaming himself for the distrust which
he felt rising within him, he still determined to watch, and judge for
himself how far his mother’s suspicions were correct. Taking up a book
which lay near, he pretended to be reading, while all the time his
thoughts were elsewhere. It was ’Lena’s lesson-day, and erelong Du Pont
came in, appearing both pleased and surprised when he saw Mr. Graham.

“I hope you don’t expect me to expose my ignorance before all these
people,” said ’Lena, as Du Pont motioned her to the stool.

“Suppose we adjourn to another room,” said Mabel, leading the way and
followed by John Jr. only.

Durward at first thought of leaving also, and arose to do so, but on
observing that his father showed no intention of going, he resumed his
seat and book, poring over the latter as intently as if it had not been
wrong side up!

“Does monsieur incline to stay,” asked Du Pont, as Mr. Graham took his
station at the end of the piano.

“Certainly,” answered Mr. Graham, “unless Miss Rivers insists upon my
leaving, which I am sure she would not do if she knew how much interest
I take in her progress.”

So, during the entire lesson, Mr. Graham stood there, his eyes fixed
upon ’Lena with a look which puzzled Durward, who from behind his book
was watching him. Admiration, affection, pity and remorse, all seemed
mingled in the expression of his face, and as Durward watched, he felt
that there was a something which he could not fathom.

“I never knew he was so fond of music,” thought he—“I mean to put him
to the test.”

Accordingly, when Du Pont was gone, he asked Mabel, who he knew was an
excellent pianist, to favor him with one of her very best
pieces—“something lively and new which will wake us up,” said he.

Mabel would greatly have preferred remaining with John Jr., but she was
habitually polite, always playing when invited, and now taking her seat
at the piano, she brought out sounds far different from those of a new
performer. But Mr. Graham, if he heard it, did not heed it, his eyes
and ears being alone for ’Lena. Seating himself near her, he commenced
talking to her in an undertone, apparently oblivious to everything else
around him, and it was not until Durward twice asked how he liked
Mabel’s playing, that he heard a note. Then, starting up and going
toward the instrument, he said, “Ah, yes, that was a fine march, (’twas
the ‘Rainbow Schottish,’ then new,) please repeat it, or something just
like it!”

Durward bit his lip, while Mabel, in perfect good humor, dashed off
into a spirited quickstep, receiving but little attention from Mr.
Graham, who seemed in a strange mood to-day, scribbling upon a piece of
white paper which lay upon the piano, and of which Durward managed to
get possession, finding thereon the name, “Helena Nichols,” to which
was added that of “Rivers,” the Nichols being crossed out. It would
seem as if both father and son were determined each to outstay the
other, for hour after hour went by and neither spoke of leaving,
although John Jr. had been gone some time. At last, as the sun was
setting, Durward arose to go, asking if his father contemplated
spending the night; “and if so,” said he, with a meaning in his manner,
“where shall I tell my mother I left you?”

This roused Mr. Graham, who said he was only waiting for his son to
start, adding, that “he could not find it in his heart to tear him away
from two so agreeable ladies, for he well remembered the weakness of
his own youth.”

“In your second youth, now, I fancy,” thought Durward, watching him as
he bade ’Lena and Mabel goodbye, and not failing to see how much longer
he held the hand of the former than he did of the latter.

“Does she see as I do, or not?” thought he, as he took the hand his
father dropped, and looked earnestly into the clear, brown eyes, which
returned his inquiring glance with one open and innocent as a little
child.

“All right here,” again thought Durward, slightly pressing the soft,
warm hand he held in his own, and smiling down upon her when he saw how
quickly that pressure brought the tell-tale blood to her cheek.

 * * * * *

“Durward,” said Mr. Graham, after they were out of the city, “I have a
request to make of you.”

“Well.”

The answer was very short and it was several minutes ere Mr. Graham
again spoke.

“You know your mother as well as I do——”

“Well.”

Another silence, and Mr. Graham continued; “You know how groundlessly
jealous she is of me—and it may be just as well for her not to know
that——”

Here he paused, and Durward finished the sentence for him.

“Just as well for her not to know that you’ve spent the afternoon with
’Lena Rivers; is that it?”

“That’s it—yes—yes”—answered Mr. Graham, adding, ere Durward had time
to utter the angry words which he felt rising within him, “I wish you’d
marry ’Lena.”

This was so sudden—so different from anything which Durward had
expected, that he was taken quite by surprise, and it was some little
time ere he answered,

“Perhaps I shall.”

“I wish you would,” continued Mr. Graham, “I’d willingly give every
dollar I’m worth for the privilege of calling her my daughter.”

Durward was confounded, and knew not what to think. If his father had
an undue regard for ’Lena, why should he wish to see her the wife of
another, and that other his son? Was it his better and nobler nature
struggling to save her from evil, which prompted the wish? Durward
hoped so—he believed so; and the confidence which had so recently been
shaken was fully restored, when, by the light of the hall lamp at home,
he saw how white and almost ghostly was the face which, ere they
entered the drawing-room, turned imploringly upon him, asking him “to
be careful.”

Mrs. Graham had been in a fit of the sulks ever since the morning of
Mrs. Livingstone’s call, and now, though she had not seen her husband
for several days, she merely held out her hand, turning her head,
meantime, and replying to his questions in a low, quiet kind of a
much-injured-woman way, as provoking as it was uncalled for.

 * * * * *

“Father’s suggestion was a good one,” thought Durward, when he had
retired to rest. “’Lena is too beautiful to be alone in the world. I
will propose to her at once, and she will thus be out of danger.”

But what should he do with her? Should he bring her there to Woodlawn,
where scarcely a day passed without some domestic storm? No, his home
should be full of sunlight, of music and flowers, where no angry word
or darkening frown could ever find entrance; and thus dreaming of a
blissful future, when ’Lena should be his bride, he fell asleep.




CHAPTER XXI.
JOEL SLOCUM.


In this chapter it may not be out of place to introduce an individual
who, though not a very important personage, is still in some degree
connected with our story. On the night when Durward and his father were
riding home from Frankfort, the family at Maple Grove, with the
exception of grandma, were as usual assembled in the parlor. John Jr.
had returned, and purposely telling his mother and Carrie whom he had
left with ’Lena, had succeeded in putting them both into an
uncomfortable humor, the latter secretly lamenting the mistake which
she had committed in suffering ’Lena to stay with Mabel. But it could
not be remedied now. There was no good reason for calling her home, and
the lady broke at least three cambric-needles in her vigorous jerks at
the handkerchief she was hemming.

A heavy tread upon the piazza, a loud ring of the bell, and Carrie
straightened up, thinking it might possibly be Durward, who had called
on his way home, but the voice was strange, and rather impatiently she
waited.

“Does Mr. John Livingstone live here?” asked the stranger of the negro
who answered the summons.

“Yes, sir,” answered the servant, eyeing the new comer askance.

“And is old Miss Nichols and Helleny to hum?”

The negro grinned, answering in the affirmative, and asking the young
man to walk in.

“Wall, guess I will,” said he, advancing a few steps toward the parlor
door. Then suddenly halting, he added, more to himself than to the
negro, “Darned if I don’t go the hull figger, and send in my card as
they do to Boston.”

So saying, he drew from his pocket an embossed card, and bending his
knee for a table, he wrote with sundry nourishes, “Mr. Joel Slocum,
Esq., Slocumville, Massachusetts.”

“There, hand that to your _boss_,” said he, “and tell him I’m out in
the entry.” At the same time he stepped before the hat-stand, rubbing
up his oily hair, and thinking “Mr. Joel Slocum would make an
impression anywhere.”

“Who is it, Ben ?” whispered Carrie.

“Dunno, miss,” said the negro, passing the card to his master, and
waiting in silence for his orders.

“Mr. Joel Slocum, Esq., Slocumville, Massachusetts,” slowly read Mr.
Livingstone, wondering where he had heard that name before.

“Who?” simultaneously asked Carrie and Anna, while their mother looked
wonderingly up.

Instantly John Jr. remembered ’Lena’s love-letter, and anticipating
fun, exclaimed, “Show him in, Ben—show him in.”

While Ben is showing him in, we will introduce him more fully to our
readers, promising that the picture is not overdrawn, but such as we
saw it in our native state. Joel belonged to that extreme class of
Yankees with which we sometimes, though not often meet. Brought up
among the New England mountains, he was almost wholly ignorant of what
really belonged to good manners, fancying that he knew everything, and
sneering at those of his acquaintance who, being of a more quiet turn
of mind, were content to settle down in the home of their fathers,
caring little or nothing for the world without. But as for him, “he was
bound,” he said, “to see the elephant, and if his brothers were green
enough to stay tied to their mother’s apron strings, they might do it,
but he wouldn’t. No, _sir_! he was going to make something of himself.”

To effect this, about two years before the time of which we are
speaking, he went to Boston to learn the art of daguerreotype-taking,
in which he really did seem to excel, returning home with some money, a
great deal of vanity, and a strong propensity to boast of what he had
seen. Recollections of ’Lena, his early, and, as he sentimentally
expressed it, “his undying, all-enduring” love, still haunted him, and
at last he determined upon a tour to Kentucky, purchasing for the
occasion a rather fantastic suit, consisting of greenish pants, blue
coat, red vest, and yellow neck-handkerchief. These he laid carefully
by in his trunk until he reached Lexington, where he intended stopping
for a time, hanging out a naming sign, which announced his presence and
capabilities.

After spending a few days in the city, endeavoring to impress its
inhabitants with a sense of his consequence, and mentally styling them
all “Know Nothings,” be-cause they did not seem to be more affected, he
one afternoon donned his best suit, and started for Mr. Livingstone’s,
thinking he should create a sensation there, for wasn’t he as good as
anybody? Didn’t he learn his trade in Boston, the very center and
source of all the _isms_ of the day, and ought not Mr. Livingstone to
feel proud of such a guest, and wouldn’t ’Lena stare when she saw him
so much improved from what he was when they picked _checkerberries_
together?

With this comfortable opinion of himself, it is not at all probable
that he felt any misgivings when Ben ushered him at once into the
presence of Mr. Livingstone’s family, who stared at him in unfeigned
astonishment. Nothing daunted, he went through with the five changes of
a bow, which he had learned at a dancing-school, bringing himself up
finally in front of Mr. Livingstone, and exclaiming,

“How-dy-do?—Mr. Livingstone, I s’pose, it comes more natural to say
cousin John, I’ve heard Miss Nichols and Aunt Nancy talk of you since I
was knee high, and seems as how you must be related. How is the old
lady, and Helleny, too? I don’t see ’em here, though I thought, at
fust, this might be her,” nodding to Anna.

Mr. Livingstone was confounded, while his wife had strong intentions of
ordering the intruder from the room, but John Jr. had no such idea. He
liked the fun, and now coming forward, said, “Mr. Slocum, as your card
indicates, allow me the pleasure of presenting you to my mother—and
sisters,” at the same time ringing the bell, he ordered a servant to go
for his grandmother.

“Ah, ladies, how-dy-do? Hope you are well till we are better
acquainted,” said Joel, bowing low, and shaking out the folds of his
red silk handkerchief, strongly perfumed with peppermint.

Mrs. Livingstone did not even nod, Carrie but slightly, while Anna
said, “Good-evening, Mr. Slocum.”

Quickly observing Mrs. Livingstone’s silence, Joel turned to John Jr.,
saying, “Don’t believe she heard you—deaf, mebby?”

John Jr. nodded, and at that moment grandma appeared, in a great flurry
to know who wanted to see her.

Instantly seizing her hand, Joel exclaimed, “Now Aunt Martha, if this
ain’t good for sore eyes. How _do_ you do ?”

“Pretty well, pretty well,” she returned, “but you’ve got the better of
me, for I don’t know more’n the dead who you be.”

“Now how you talk,” said Joel. “If this don’t beat all my fust wife’s
relations. Why, I should have known you if I’d met you in a
porridge-pot. But then, I s’pose I’ve altered for the better since I
see you. Don’t you remember Joel Slocum, that used to have kind of a
snickerin’ notion after Helleny?”

“Why-ee, I guess I do,” answered grandma, again seizing his hand.
“Where did you come from, and why didn’t your Aunt Nancy come with you?

“’Tilda, this is Nancy Scovandyke’s sister’s boy. Caroline and Anny,
this is Joel; you’ve heard tell of him.”

“I’ve been introduced, thank you,” said Joel, taking a seat near
Carrie, who haughtily gathered up the ample folds of her dress, lest it
should be polluted.

“Bashful critter, but she’ll get over it by the time she’s seen as much
of the world as I have,” soliloquized Joel; at the same time thinking
to make some advances, he hitched a little nearer, and taking hold of a
strip of embroidery on which she was engaged, he said, “Now, du tell,
if they’ve got to workin’ with floss way down here. Waste of time, I
tell ’em, this makin’ holes for the sake of sewin’ ’em up. But law!” he
added, as he saw the deepening scowl on Carrie’s face, “wimmin may jest
as well by putterin’ about that as anything else, for their time ain’t
nothin’ moren’ an old settin’ hen’s.”

This speech called forth the first loud roar in which John Jr. had
indulged since Nellie went away, and now settling back in his chair, he
gave vent to his feelings in peals of laughter, in which Joel also
joined, thinking he’d said something smart. When at last he’d finished
laughing, he thought again of ’Lena, and turning to Mrs. Livingstone,
asked where she was, raising his voice to a high key on account of her
supposed deafness.

“Did you speak to me?” asked the lady, with a look which she meant
should annihilate him, and in a still louder tone Joel repeated his
question, asking Anna, aside, if her mother had ever tried
“McAllister’s All-Healing Ointment,” for her deafness, saying it had
“nighly cured his grandmother when she was several years older than
Mrs. Livingstone.”

“Much obliged for your prescription, which, fortunately, I do not
need,” said Mrs. Livingstone, angrily, while Joel thought, “how strange
it was that deaf people would always hear in the wrong time!”

“Mother don’t seem inclined to answer your question concerning ’Lena,”
said John Jr., “so I will do it for her. She is in Frankfort, taking
music lessons. You used to know her, I believe.”

“Lud, yes! I chased her once with a streaked snake, and if she didn’t
put ’er through, then I’m no ‘Judge. Takin’ music lessons, is she? I’d
give a fo’ pence to hear her play.”

“Are you fond of music?” asked John Jr., in hopes of what followed.

“Wall, I wouldn’t wonder much if I was,” answered Joel, taking a
tuning-fork from his pocket and striking it upon the table. “I’ve kep’
singin’ school one term, besides leadin’ the Methodis’ choir in
Slocumville: so I orto know a little somethin’ about it.”

“Perhaps you play, and if so, we’d like to hear you,” continued John
Jr., in spite of the deprecating glance cast upon him by Carrie.

“Not such a dreadful sight,” answered Joel, sauntering toward the piano
and drumming a part of “Auld Lang Syne.” “Not such a dreadful sight,
but I guess these girls do. Come, girls, play us a jig, won’t you?”

“Go, Cad, it won’t hurt you,” whispered John, but Carrie was immovable,
and at last, Anna, who entered more into her brother’s spirit, took her
seat at the instrument, asking what he would have.

“Oh, give us ‘Money Musk,’ ‘Hail Columby,’ ‘Old Zip Coon,’ or anything
to raise a feller’s ideas.”

Fortunately, Anna’s forte lay in playing old music, which she preferred
to more modern pieces, and, Joel was soon beating time to the lively
strains of “Money Musk.”

“Wall, I declare,” said he, when it was ended, “I don’t see but what
you Kentucky gals play most as well as they do to hum. I didn’t s’pose
many on you ever seen a pianner. Come,” turning to Carrie, “less see
what you can do. Mebby you’ll beat her all holler,” and he offered his
hand to Carrie, who rather petulantly said she “must be excused.”

“Oh, get out,” he continued. “You needn’t feel so bashful, for I shan’t
criticise you very hard. I know how to feel fer new beginners.”

“Have you been to supper, Mr. Slocum ?” asked Mr. Livingstone, pitying
Carrie, and wishing to put an end to the performance.

“No, I hain’t, and I’m hungrier than a bear,” answered Joel, whereupon
Mrs. Nichols, thinking he was her guest, arose, saying she would see
that he had some.

When both were gone to the dining-room, Mrs. Livingstone’s wrath boiled
over.

“That’s what comes of harboring your relatives,” said she, looking
indignantly upon her husband, and adding that she hoped “the insolent
fellow did not intend staying all night, for if he did he couldn’t.”

“Do you propose turning him into the street?” asked Mr. Livingstone,
looking up from his paper.

“I don’t propose anything, except that he won’t stay in my house, and
you needn’t ask him.”

“I hardly think an invitation is necessary, for I presume he expects to
stay,” returned Mr. Livingstone; while John Jr. rejoined, “Of course he
does, and if mother doesn’t find him a room, I shall take him in with
me, besides going to Frankfort with him to-morrow.”

This was enough, for Mrs. Livingstone would do almost anything rather
than have her son seen in the city with that specimen. Accordingly,
when the hour for retiring arrived, she ordered Corinda to show him
into the “east chamber,” a room used for her common kind of visitors,
but which Joel pronounced “as neat as a fiddle.”

The next morning he announced his intention of visiting Frankfort,
proposing to grandma that she should accompany him, and she was about
making up her mind to do so, when ’Lena and Mabel both appeared in the
yard. They had come out for a ride, they said, and finding the morning
so fine, had extended their excursion as far as Maple Grove, sending
their servant back to tell where they were going. With his usual
assurance, Joel advanced toward ’Lena, greeting her tenderly, and
whispering in her ear that “he found she was greatly improved as well
as himself,” while ’Lena wondered in what the improvement consisted.
She had formerly known him as a great, overgrown, good-natured boy, and
now she saw him a “conceited gawky.” Still, her manner was friendly
toward him, for he had come from her old home, had breathed the air of
her native hills, and she well remembered how, years ago, he had with
her planted and watered the flowers which he told her were still
growing at her mother’s grave.

And yet there was something about her which puzzled Joel, who felt that
the difference between them was great. He was disappointed, and the
declaration which he had fully intended making was left until another
time, when, as he thought, “he shouldn’t be so confounded shy of her.”
His quarters, too, at Maple Grove were not the most pleasant, for no
one noticed him except grandma and John Jr., and with the conviction
that “the Kentuckians didn’t know what politeness meant,” he ordered
his horse after dinner, and started back to Lexington, inviting all the
family to call and “set for their picters,” saying that “seein’ ’twas
them, he’d take ’em for half price.”

As he was leaving the piazza, he turned back, and drawing a large,
square case from his pocket, passed it to ’Lena, saying it was a
daguerreotype of her mountain home, which he had taken on purpose for
her, forgetting to give it to her until that minute. The look of joy
which lighted up ’Lena’s face made Joel almost repent of not having
said to her what he intended to, but thinking he would wait till next
time, he started off, his heart considerably lightened by her warm
thanks for his thoughtfulness.




CHAPTER XXII.
THE DAGUERREOTYPE.


“Look, grandmother!—a picture of our old home. Isn’t it natural?”
exclaimed Lena, as she ran back to the parlor.

Yes, it was natural, and the old lady’s tears gushed forth the moment
she looked upon it. There was the well, the garden, the gate partially
open, the barn in the rear, now half fallen down, the curtain of the
west window rolled up as it was wont to be, while on the doorstep,
basking in the warm sunshine, lay a cat, which Mrs. Nichols’ declared
was hers.

“John ought to see this,” said she, wiping the tears from her eyes, and
turning towards the door, which at that moment opened, admitting her
son, together with Mr. Graham, who had accidentally called. “Look here,
John,” said she, calling him to her side—“Do you remember this?”

The deep flush which mounted to John’s brow, showed that he did, and
his mother, passing it toward Mr. Graham, continued: “It is our old
home in Massachusetts. There’s the room where John and Helleny both
were born, and where Helleny and her father died. Oh, it seems but
yesterday since she died, and they carried her out of this door, and
down the road, there—do you see?”

This question, was addressed to Mr. Graham, who, whether he saw or not,
made no answer, but walked to the window and looked out, upon the
prospect beyond, which for him had no attractions then. The sight of
that daguerreotype had stirred up many bitter memories, and for some
time he stood gazing vacantly through the window, and thinking—who
shall say of what? It would seem that the daguerreotype possessed a
strong fascination for him, for after it had been duly examined and
laid down, he took it in his hand, inspecting it minutely, asking where
it was taken, and if it would be possible to procure a similar one.

“I have a fancy for such scenes,” said he, “and would like to have just
such a picture. Mr. Slocum is stopping in Lexington, you say. He can
take one from this, I suppose. I mean to see him;” and with his usual
good-morning, he departed.

Two weeks from this time Durward again went down to Frankfort,
determining, if a favorable opportunity presented itself, to offer
’Lena his heart and fortune.

He found her alone, Mabel having gone out to spend the day. For a time
they conversed together on indifferent topics, each one of which was
entirely foreign from that which lay nearest Durward’s heart. At last
the conversation turned upon Joel Slocum, of whose visit Durward had
heard.

“I really think, ’Lena,” said he, laughingly, “that you ought to
patronize the poor fellow, who has come all this distance for the sake
of seeing you. Suppose you have your daguerreotype taken for me, will
you?”

Durward was in earnest, but with a playful shake of her brown curls,
’Lena answered lightly, “Oh, no, no. I have never had my picture taken
in my life, and I shan’t begin with Joel.”

“Never had it taken!” repeated Durward, in some surprise.

“No, never,” said ’Lena, and Durward continued drawing her nearer to
him, “It is time you had, then. So have it taken for me. I mean what I
say,” he continued, as he met the glance of her merry eyes. “There is
nothing I should prize more than your miniature, except, indeed the
original, which you will not refuse me, when I ask it, will you?”

’Lena’s mirth was all gone—she knew he was in earnest now. She felt it
in the pressure of his arm, which encircled her waist; she saw it in
his eye, and heard it in the tones of his voice. But what should she
say? Closer he drew her to his side; she felt his breath upon her
cheek; and an inaudible answer trembled on her lips, when noiselessly
through the door came _Mr. Graham_, starting when he saw their
position, and offering to withdraw if he was intruding. ’Lena was
surprised and excited, and springing up, she laid her hand upon his arm
as he was about to leave the room, bidding him stay and saying he was
always welcome there.

So he stayed, and with the first frown upon his brow which ’Lena had
ever seen, Durward left—left without receiving an answer to his
question, or even referring to it again, though ’Lena accompanied him
to the door, half dreading, yet hoping, he would repeat it. But he did
not, and wishing her much pleasure in his father’s company, he walked
away, writing in his heart bitter things against _him_, not her. On his
way home he fell in with Du Pont, who, Frenchman-like, had taken a
little too much wine, and was very talkative.

“Vous just come from Mademoiselle Rivers,” said he. “She be von fine
girl. What relation be she to Monsieur Graham?”

“None whatever. Why do you ask?”

“Because he pay her musique lessons and——”

Here Du Pont suddenly remembered his promise, so he kept back Mr.
Graham’s assertion that he was a near relative, adding in its place,
that “he thought probable he related; but you no tell,” said he, “for
Monsieur bid me keep secret and I forgot.”

Here, having reached a cross-road, they parted, and again Durward wrote
down bitter things against his father, for what could be his object in
wishing it kept a secret that he was paying for ’Lena’s lessons, or why
did he pay for them at all—and did ’Lena know it? He thought not, and
for a time longer was she blameless in his eyes.

On reaching home he found both the parlor and drawing-room deserted,
and upon inquiry learned that his mother was in her own room.
Something, he could hardly tell what, prompted him to knock for
admission, which being granted, he entered, finding her unusually pale,
with the trace of tears still upon her cheek. This of itself was so
common an occurrence, that he would hardly have observed it had not
there been about her a look of unfeigned distress which he had seldom
seen before.

“What’s the matter, mother?” said he, advancing toward her; “What has
happened to trouble you?”

Without any reply, Mrs. Graham placed in his hand a richly-cased
daguerreotype, and laying her head upon the table, sobbed aloud. A
moment Durward stood transfixed to the spot, for on opening the case,
the fair, beautiful face of ’Lena Rivers looked smilingly out upon him!

“Where did you get this, mother?—how came you by it?” he asked, and she
answered, that in looking through her husband’s private drawer, the key
of which she had accidentally found in his vest pocket, she had come
upon it, together with a curl of soft chestnut-brown hair which she
threw across Durward’s finger, and from which he recoiled as from a
viper’s touch.

For several minutes not a word was spoken by either, and then Mrs.
Graham, looking him in the face, said, “You recognize that countenance,
of course?”

“I do,” he replied, in a voice husky with emotion, for Durward was
terribly moved.

Twice had ’Lena asserted that never in her life had her daguerreotype
been taken, and yet he held it in his hands; there was no mistaking
it—the same broad, open brow—the same full, red lips—the same smile—and
more than all, the same clustering ringlets, though arranged a little
differently from what she usually wore them, the hair on the picture
being combed smoothly over the forehead, while ’Lena’s was generally
brushed up after the style of the prevailing fashion. Had Durward
examined minutely, he might have found other points of difference, but
he did not think of that. A look had convinced him that ’twas ’Lena—his
’Lena, he had fondly hoped to call her. But that was over now—she had
deceived him—told him a deliberate falsehood—refused him her
daguerreotype and given it to his father, whose secrecy concerning it
indicated something wrong. His faith was shaken, and yet for the sake
of what she had been to him, he would spare her good name. He could not
bear to hear the world breathe aught against her, for possibly she
might be innocent; but no, there was no mistaking the falsehood, and
Durward groaned in bitterness as he handed the picture to his mother,
bidding her return it where she found it. Mrs. Graham had never seen
her son thus moved, and obeying him, she placed her hand upon his arm,
asking, “why he was so affected—what she was to him?”

“Everything, everything,” said he, laying his face upon the table.
“’Lena Rivers was all the world to me. I loved her as I shall never
love again.”

And then, without withholding a thing, Durward told his mother all—how
he had that very morning gone to Frankfort with the intention of
offering ’Lena his hand—how he had partially done so, when they were
interrupted by the entrance of a visitor, he did not say whom.

“Thank heaven for your escape. I can bear your father’s conduct, if it
is the means of saving you from her,” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, while her
son continued: “And now, mother, I have a request to make of you—a
request which you must grant. I have loved ’Lena too well to cease from
loving her so soon. And though I can never again think to make her my
wife, I will not hear her name lightly spoken by the world, who must
never know what we do. Promise me, mother, to keep secret whatever you
may know against her.”

“Do you think me bereft of my senses,” asked Mrs. Graham petulantly,
“that I should wish to proclaim my affairs to every one?”

“No, no, mother,” he answered, “but you are easily excited, and say
things you had better not. Mrs. Livingstone bears ’Lena no good will,
you know, and sometimes when she is speaking disparagingly of her, you
may be thrown off your guard, and tell what you know. But this must not
be. Promise me, mother, will you?”

Durward was very pale, and the drops of sweat stood thickly about his
mouth as he asked this of his mother who, mentally congratulating
herself upon her son’s escape, promised what he asked, at the same time
repeating to him all that she heard from Mrs. Livingstone concerning
’Lena, until Durward interrupted her with, “Stop, stop, I’ve heard
enough. Nothing which Mrs. Livingstone could say would have weighed a
straw, but the conviction of my own eyes and ears have undeceived me,
and henceforth ’Lena and I are as strangers.”

Nothing could please Mrs. Graham better, for the idea of her son’s
marrying a poor, unknown girl, was dreadful, and though she felt
indignant toward her husband so peculiar was her nature that she would
not have had matters otherwise if she could and when Durward, who
disliked _scenes_, suggested the propriety of her not speaking to his
father on the subject at present he assented, saying that it would be
more easy for her to refrain, as she was intending to start for
Louisville on the morrow.

“I’ve been contemplating a visit there for some time and before Mr.
Graham left home this morning, I had decided to go,” said she, at the
same time proposing that Durward should accompany her.

To this consented willingly, for in the first shock of his
disappointment, a change of place and scene was what he most desired.
The hot blood of the south, which burned in his veins, seemed all on
fire, and he felt that he could not, for the present, at least be daily
associated with his stepfather. An absence of several days, he thought,
might have the effect of calming him down. It was accordingly decided
that he should on the morrow, start with her for Louisville, to be gone
two weeks; and with this understanding they parted, Durward going to
his own chamber, there to review the past and strive, if possible, to
efface from his heart every memory of ’Lena, whom he had loved so well.
But ’twas all in vain; he could not so soon forget her and far into the
hours of night he sat alone striving to frame some excuse for her
conduct. The fact that his father possessed her daguerreotype might
possibly be explained, without throwing censure upon her; but the
falsehood—never; and with the firm conviction that she was lost to him
forever, he at last retired to rest, just as the clock in the ball
below proclaimed the hour of midnight.

Meantime, Mrs. Graham was pondering in her own mind the probable result
of a letter which, in the heat of passion, she had that day dispatched
to ’Lena, accusing her of “marring the domestic peace of a hitherto
happy family,” and while she cast some reflections upon her birth,
commanding her never, under any circumstances, “to venture into her
presence!”

This cruel letter had been sent to the office before Durward’s return,
and as she well knew how much he would disapprove of it, she resolved
not to tell him, secretly hoping ’Lena would keep her own counsel.
“Base creature!” said she, “to give my husband her likeness—but he
shall never see it again;” and with stealthy step she advanced toward
the secret drawer, which she again opened, and taking from it both
daguerreotype and ringlet, locked it, replacing the key in the pocket
where she found it. Then seizing the long, bright curl, she hurled it
into the glowing grate, shuddering as she did so, and trembling, as if
she really knew a wrong had been done to the dead.

Opening the case, she looked once more upon the hated features, which
now seemed to regard her mournfully, as if reproaching her for what she
had done. No part of the dress was visible—nothing except the head and
neck, which was uncovered, and over which fell the chestnut curls,
whose companion so recently lay seething and scorching on the burning
coals.

There was a footstep without—her husband had returned—and quick as
thought was the daguerreotype concealed, while Mrs. Graham, forcing
down her emotion, took up a book, which she seemed to be intently
reading when her husband entered. After addressing to her a few
commonplace remarks, all of which she answered civilly, he went to the
wardrobe, and on pretense of looking for his knife, which, he said he
believed he left in his vest pocket, he took out the key, and then
carelessly proceeded to unlock his private drawer, his wife watching
him the while, and keenly enjoying his look of consternation when he
saw that his treasure was gone. Again and again was his drawer
searched, but all to no purpose, and casting an anxious glance toward
his wife, whose face, for a wonder, betrayed no secret, he commenced
walking the floor in a very perturbed state of mind, his wife exulting
in his discomfiture, and thinking herself amply avenged for all that
she had endured.

At last he spoke, telling her of a letter which he had that day
received from South Carolina, containing the news of the death of a
distant relative, who had left him some property. “It is not necessary
for me to be there in person,” said he, “but still I should like to
visit my old home once more. What do you think of it?”

“Go, by all means,” said she, glad of anything which would place
distance between him and ’Lena. “No one can attend to your business
one-half as well as yourself. When will you start if you go?”

“Immediately—before your return from Louisville—unless you wish to
accompany me.”

“I’m afraid I should be an incumbrance, and would rather not,” said
she, in a way which puzzled him, causing him to wonder what had come
over her.

“You can do as you choose,” said he, “but I should be glad of your
company.”

“No, I thank you,” was her laconic reply, as she, in turn, wondered
what had come over him.

The next morning the carriage came up to the door to convey Mrs. Graham
and Durward to Frankfort. The latter was purposely late, and he did not
see his father until he came down, traveling-bag in hand, to enter the
carriage. Then Mr. Graham asked, in some surprise, “where he was
going?”

“With my mother to Louisville, sir,” answered Durward, stiffly. “I am
not willing she should travel alone, if you are;” and he sprang into
the carriage, ordering the coachman to drive off ere another word could
be spoken.

“Gone, when I had nerved myself to tell him everything!—my usual luck!”
mused Mr. Graham, as he returned to the house, and sure of no prying
eyes, recommenced his search for the daguerreotype, which was nowhere
to be found. Could she have found it? Impossible! for it was not in her
jealous nature to have held her peace; and again he sought for it, but
all to no purpose, and finally thinking he must have taken it with him
and lost it, he gave it up, mourning more for the loss of the curl,
which could never, never be replaced, while the picture might be found.

“Why do I live so?” thought he, as he nervously paced the room. “My
life is one of continual fear and anxiety, but it shall be so no
longer. I’ll tell her all when she returns. I’ll brave the world, dare
her displeasure, take ’Lena home, and be a man.”

Satisfied with this resolution, and nothing doubting that he should
keep it, he started for Versailles, where he had an engagement with a
gentleman who transacted business for him in Lexington.




CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT.


Mabel had gone out, and ’Lena sat alone in the little room adjoining
the parlor which Mr. Douglass termed his library, but which Nellie had
fitted up for a private sewing-room. It was ’Lena’s favorite resort
when she wished to be alone, and as Mabel was this morning absent, she
had retired thither, not to work, but to think—to recall every word and
look of Durward’s, to wonder when and how he would repeat the question,
the answer to which had been prevented by Mr. Graham.

Many and blissful were her emotions as she sat there, wondering if it
were not a bright dream, from which she would too soon awaken, for
could it be that one so noble, so good, and so much sought for as
Durward Bellmont had chosen her, of all others, to be his bride? Yes,
it must be so, for he was not one to say or act what he did not mean;
he would come that day and repeat what he had said before; and she
blushed as she thought what her answer would be.

There was a knock on the door, and a servant entered, bringing her a
letter, which she eagerly seized, thinking it was from him. But ’twas
not his writing, though bearing the post-mark of Versailles. Hastily
she broke the seal, and glancing at the signature, turned pale, for it
was “Lucy Graham,” his mother, who had written, but for what, she could
not guess. A moment more and she fell back on the sofa, white and rigid
as a piece of marble. ’Twas a cruel and insulting letter, containing
many dark insinuations, which she, being wholly innocent; could not
understand. She knew indeed, that Mr. Graham had presented her with
Vesta, but was there anything wrong in that? She did not think so, else
she had never taken her. Her uncle, her cousin, and Durward, all three
approved of her accepting it, the latter coming with it himself—so it
could not be that; and for a long time Lena wept passionately,
resolving one moment to answer the letter as it deserved determining,
the next, to go herself and see Mrs. Graham face to face; and then
concluding to treat it with silent contempt, trusting that Durward
would erelong appear and make it all plain between them.

At last, about five o’clock, Mabel returned, bringing the intelligence
that Mrs. Graham was in the city, at the Weisiger House, where she was
going to remain until the morrow. She had met with an accident, which
prevented her arrival in Frankfort until the train which she was
desirous of taking had left.

“Is her husband with her?” asked ’Lena, to which Mabel replied, that
she understood she was alone.

“Then I’ll see her and know what she means,” thought ’Lena, trembling,
even then, at the idea of venturing into the presence of the cold,
haughty woman.


Supper was over at the Weisiger House, and in a handsome private parlor
Mrs. Graham lay, half asleep, upon the sofa, while in the dressing-room
adjoining Durward sat, trying to frame a letter which should tell poor
’Lena that their intimacy was forever at an end. For hours, and until
the last gleam of daylight had faded away, he had sat by the window,
watching each youthful form which passed up and, down the busy street,
hoping to catch a glimpse of her who once had made his world. But his
watch was in vain, and now he had sat down to write, throwing aside
sheet after sheet, as he thought its beginning too cold, too harsh, or
too affectionate. He was about making up his mind not to write at all,
but to let matters take their course, when a knock at his mother’s
door, and the announcement that a lady wished to see her arrested his
attention.

“Somebody want to see me? Just show her up,” said Mrs. Graham,
smoothing down her flaxen hair, and wiping from between her eyes a spot
of powder which the opposite mirror revealed.

In a moment the visitor entered—a slight, girlish form, whose features
were partially hidden from view by a heavy lace veil, which was thrown
over her satin hood. A single glance convinced Mrs. Graham that it was
a lady, a well-bred lady, who stood before her, and very politely she
bade her be seated.

Rather haughtily the proffered chair was declined, while the veil was
thrown aside, disclosing to the astonished gaze of Mrs. Graham the face
of ’Lena Rivers, which was unnaturally pale, while her dark eyes grew
darker with the intensity of her feelings.

“’Lena Rivers! why came you here?” she asked, while at the mention of
that name Durward started to his feet, but quickly resumed his seat,
listening with indescribable emotions to the sound of a voice which
made every nerve quiver with pain.

“You ask me why I am here, madam,” said ’Lena. “I came to seek an
explanation from you—to know of what I am accused—to ask why you wrote
me that insulting letter—me, an orphan girl, alone and unprotected in
the world, and who never knowingly harmed you or yours.”

“Never harmed me or mine!” scornfully repeated Mrs. Graham. “Don’t add
falsehood to your other sins—though, if you’ll lie to my son, you of
course will to me, his mother.”

“Explain yourself, madam, if you please,” exclaimed ’Lena, her olden
temper beginning to get the advantage of her.

“And what if I do not please?” sneeringly asked Mrs. Graham.

“Then I will compel you to do so, for my good name is all I have, and
it shall not be wrested from me without an effort on my part to
preserve it,” answered ’Lena.

“Perhaps you expect my husband to stand by you and help you. I am sure
it would be very ungentlemanly in him to desert you, now,” said Mrs.
Graham, her manner conveying far more meaning than her words.

’Lena trembled from head to foot, and her voice was hardly distinct as
she replied, “Will you explain yourself, or will you not? What have I
done, that you should treat me thus?”

“Done? Done enough, I should think! Haven’t you whiled him away from me
with your artful manners? Has he ever been the same man since he saw
you? Hasn’t he talked of you in his sleep? made you most valuable
presents which a true woman would have refused? and in return, haven’t
you bestowed upon him your daguerreotype, together with a lock of your
hair, on which you no doubt pride yourself, but which to me and my son
seem like so many coiling serpents?”

’Lena had sat down. She could stand no longer, and burying her face in
her hands, she waited until Mrs. Graham had finished. Then, lifting up
her head, she replied in a voice far more husky than the one in which
she before had spoken—“You accuse me wrongfully, Mrs. Graham, for as I
hope for heaven, I never entertained a feeling for your husband which I
would not have done for my own father, and indeed, he has seemed to me
more like a parent than a friend——”

“Because you fancied he might some day be one, I dare say,” interrupted
Mrs. Graham.

’Lena paid no attention to this sarcastic remark, but continued: “I
know I accepted Vesta, but I never dreamed it was wrong, and if it was,
I will make amends by immediately returning her, for much as I love
her, I shall never use her again.”

“But the daguerreotype?” interrupted Mrs. Graham, anxious to reach that
point. “What have you to say about the daguerreotype? Perhaps you will
presume to deny that, too.”

Durward had arisen, and now in the doorway watched ’Lena, whose dark
brown eyes flashed fire as she answered, “It is false, madam. You know
it is false. I never yet have had my picture taken.”

“But he has it in his possession; how do you account for that?”

“Again I repeat, that is false!” said ’Lena, while Mrs. Graham,
strengthened by the presence of her son, answered, “I can prove it,
miss.”

“I defy you to do so,” said ’Lena, strong in her own innocence.

“Shall I show it to her, Durward,” asked Mrs. Graham, and ’Lena,
turning suddenly round, became for the first time conscious of his
presence.

With a cry of anguish she stretched her arms imploringly toward him,
asking him, in piteous tones, to save her from his mother. Durward
would almost have laid down his life to prove her innocent, but he felt
that could not be. So he made her no reply, and in his eye she read
that he, too, was deceived. With a low, wailing moan she again covered
her face with her hands, while Mrs. Graham repeated her question,
“Shall I show it to her?”

Durward was not aware that she had it in her possession, and he
answered, “Why do you ask, when you know you cannot do so?”

Oh, how joyfully ’Lena started up; he did not believe it, after all,
and if ever a look was expressive of gratitude, that was which she gave
to Durward, who returned her no answering glance, save one of pity; and
again that wailing cry smote painfully on his ear. Taking the case from
her pocket, Mrs. Graham advanced toward ’Lena, saying, “Here, see for
yourself, and then deny it if you can.”

But ’Lena had no power to take it. Her faculties seemed benumbed and
Durward, who, with folded arms and clouded brow stood leaning against
the mantel, construed her hesitation into guilt, which dreaded to be
convicted.

“Why don’t you take it?” persisted Mrs. Graham. “You defied me to prove
it, and here it is. I found it in my husband’s private drawer, together
with one of those long curls, which last I burned out of my sight.”

Durward shuddered, while ’Lena involuntarily thought of the mass of
wavy tresses which they had told her clustered around her mother’s
face, as she lay in her narrow coffin. Why thought she of her mother
then? Was it because they were so strangely alike, that any allusion to
her own personal appearance always reminded her of her lost parent?
Perhaps so. But to return to our story ’Lena would have sworn that the
likeness was not hers, and still an undefined dread crept over her,
preventing her from moving.

“You seem so unwilling to be convinced, allow me to assist you,” said
Mrs. Graham, at the same time unclasping the case and holding to view
the picture, on which with wondering eyes, ’Lena gazed in astonishment.

“It is I—it is; but oh, heaven, how came he by it?” she gasped, and the
next moment she fell fainting at Durward’s feet.

In an instant he was bending over her, his mother exclaiming, “Pray,
don’t touch her—she does it for effect.”

But he knew better. He knew there was no feigning the corpse-like
pallor of that face, and pushing his mother aside, he took the
unconscious girl in his arms, and bearing her to the sofa, laid her
gently upon it, removing her hand and smoothing back from her cold brow
the thick, clustering curls which his mother had designated as “coiling
serpents.”

“Do not ring and expose her to the idle gaze of servants,” said he, to
his mother, who had seized the bell-rope. “Bring some water from your
bedroom, and we will take charge of her ourselves.”

There was something commanding in the tones of his voice, and Mrs.
Graham, now really alarmed at the deathly appearance of ’Lena, hastened
to obey. When he was alone, Durward bent down, imprinting upon the
white lips a burning kiss—the first he had ever given her. In his heart
he believed her unworthy of his love, and yet she had never seemed
one-half so dear to him as at that moment, when she lay there before
him helpless as an infant, and all unmindful of the caresses which he
lavished upon her. “If it were indeed death;” he thought, “and it had
come upon her while yet she was innocent, I could have borne it, but
now I would I had never seen her;” and the tears which fell like rain
upon her cheek, were not unworthy of the strong man who shed them. The
cold water with which they profusely bathed her face and neck, restored
her, and then Durward, who could bear the scene no longer, glided
silently into the next room.

When he was gone, Mrs. Graham, who seemed bent upon tormenting ’Lena,
asked “what she thought about it now?”

“Please don’t speak to me again, for I am very, very wretched,” said
’Lena softly, while Mrs. Graham continued: “Have you nothing to offer
in explanation?”

“Nothing, nothing—it is a dark mystery to me, and I wish that I was
dead,” answered ’Lena, sobbing passionately.

“Better wish to live and repent,” said Mrs. Graham, beginning to read
her a long sermon on her duty, to which ’Lena paid no attention, and
the moment she felt that she could walk, she arose to go.

The moon was shining brightly, and as Mr. Douglass lived not far away,
Mrs. Graham did not deem an escort necessary. But Durward thought
differently. He could not walk with her side by side, as he had often
done before, but he would follow at a distance, to see that no harm
came near her. There was no danger of his being discovered, for ’Lena
was too much absorbed in her own wretchedness to heed aught about her,
and in silence he walked behind her until he saw the door of Mr.
Douglass’s house close upon her. Then feeling that there was an
inseparable barrier between them, he returned to his hotel, where he
found his mother exulting over the downfall of one whom, for some
reason, she had always disliked.

“Didn’t she look confounded, though, when I showed her the picture?”
said she; to which Durward replied, by asking “when and why she sent
the letter.”

“I did it because I was a mind to, and I am not sorry for it, either,”
was Mrs. Graham’s crusty answer, whereupon the conversation was
dropped, and as if by a tacit agreement, the subject was not again
resumed during their stay in Louisville.


It would be impossible to describe ’Lena’s emotion as she returned to
the house. Twice in the hall was she obliged to grasp at the banister
to keep from falling, and knowing that such excessive agitation would
be remarked, she seated herself upon the stairs until she felt composed
enough to enter the parlor. Fortunately, Mabel was alone, and so
absorbed in the fortunes of “Uncle True and little Gerty,” as scarcely
to notice ’Lena at all. Once, indeed, as she sat before the grate so
motionless and still, Mabel looked up, and observing how white she was,
asked what was the matter.

“A bad headache,” answered ’Lena, at the same time announcing her
intention of retiring.

“Alone in her room, her feelings gave way, and none save those who like
her have suffered, can conceive of her anguish, as prostrate upon the
floor she lay, her long silken curls falling about her white face,
which looked ghastly and haggard by the moonlight that fell softly
about her, as if to soothe her woe.

“What is it,” she cried aloud—“this dark mystery, which I cannot
explain.”

The next moment she thought of Mr. Graham. He could explain it—he must
explain it. She would go to him the next day, asking him what it meant.
She felt sure that he could make it plain, for suspicious as matters
looked, she exculpated him from any wrong intention toward her. Still
she could not sleep, and when the gray morning light crept in, it found
her too much exhausted to rise.

For several days she kept her room, carefully attended by Mabel and her
grandmother, who, at the first intimation of her illness, hastened down
to nurse her. Every day did ’Lena ask of Mr. Douglass if Mr. Graham had
been in the city, saying that the first time he came she wished to see
him. Days, however, went by, and nothing was seen or heard from him,
until at last John Jr.; who visited her daily, casually informed her
that Mr. Graham had been unexpectedly called away to South Carolina. A
distant relative of his had died, bequeathing him a large property,
which made it necessary for him to go there immediately; so without
waiting for the return of his wife, he had started off, leaving
Woodlawn alone.

“Gone to South Carolina!” exclaimed ’Lena. “When will he return?”

“Nobody knows. He’s away from home more than half the time, just as I
should be if Mrs. Graham were my wife,” answered John Jr., at the same
time playfully remarking that ’Lena need not look so blank, as it was
not Durward who had gone so far.

For an instant ’Lena resolved to tell him everything and ask him what
to do, but knowing how impetuous he was when at all excited, she
finally decided to keep her own secret, determining, however, to write
to Mr. Graham, as soon as she was able. Just before John Jr. left her,
she called him to her side, asking him if he would do her the favor of
seeing that Vesta was sent back to Woodlawn, as she did not wish for
her any longer.

“What the plague is that for—has mother been raising a row?” asked John
Jr., and ’Lena replied, “No, no, your mother has nothing to do with it.
I only want Vesta taken home. I cannot at present tell you why, but I
have a good reason, and some time, perhaps, I’ll explain. You’ll do it,
won’t you?”

With the determination of questioning Durward as to what had happened,
John Jr. promised, and when Mrs. Graham and her son returned from
Louisville, they found Vesta safely stabled with their other horses,
while the saddle with its tiny slipper hung upon a beam, and seemingly
looked down with reproach upon Durward, who turned away with a bitter
pang as he thought of the morning when he first took it to Maple Grove.

The next day was dark and rainy, precluding all outdoor exercise, and
weary, sad, and spiritless, Durward repaired to the library, where, for
an hour or more, he sat musing dreamily of the past—of the morning,
years ago, when first he met the little girl who had since grown so
strongly into his love, and over whom so dark a shadow had fallen. A
heavy knock at the door, and in a moment John Jr. appeared, with
dripping garments and a slightly scowling face. There was a faint
resemblance between him and ’Lena, manifest in the soft, curling hair
and dark, lustrous eyes. Durward had observed it before—he thought of
it now—and glad to see any one who bore the least resemblance to her,
he started up, exclaiming, “Why, Livingstone, the very one of all the
world I am glad to see.”

John made no reply, but shaking the rain-drops from his overcoat, which
he carelessly threw upon the floor, he took a chair opposite the grate,
and looking Durward fully in the face, said, “I’ve come over, Bellmont,
to ask you a few plain, unvarnished questions, which I believe you will
answer truthfully. Am I right?”

“Certainly, sir—go on,” was Durward’s reply.

“Well, then, to begin, are you and ’Lena engaged?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you been engaged?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you ever expect to be engaged?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you quarreled?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know why she wished to have Vesta sent home?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Will you tell me?”

“No, sir,” said Durward, determined, for ’Lena’s sake, that no one
should wring from him the secret.

John Jr. arose, jammed both hands into his pockets—walked to the
window—made faces at the weather—walked back to the grate—made faces at
that—kicked it—and then turning to Durward, said, “There’s the old Nick
to pay, somewhere.”

Nothing from Durward, who only felt bound to answer direct questions.

“I tell you, there’s the old Nick to pay, somewhere,” continued John,
raising his voice. “I knew it all the while ’Lena was sick. I read it
in her face when I told her Mr. Graham had gone south——”

A faint sickness gathered around Durward’s heart, and John Jr.
proceeded: “She wouldn’t tell me, and I’ve come to you for information.
Will you give it to me?”

“No, sir,” said Durward. “The nature of our trouble is known only to
ourselves and one other individual, and I shall never divulge the
secret.”

“Is that other individual my mother?”

“No, sir.”

“Is it Cad?”

“No, sir.”

“Had they any agency in the matter?”

“None, whatever, that I know of.”

“Then I’m on the wrong track, and may as well go home,” said John Jr.,
starting for the door, where he stopped, while he added, “If, Bellmont,
I ever do hear of your having misled me in this matter——” He did not
finish the sentence in words, but playfully producing a revolver, he
departed. The next moment he was dashing across the lawn, the mud
flying in every direction, and himself thinking how useless it was to
try to unravel a love quarrel.

In the meantime, ’Lena waited impatiently for an answer to the letter
which she had sent to Mr. Graham, but day after day glided by, and
still no tidings came. At last, as if everything had conspired against
her, she heard that he was lying dangerously ill of a fever at Havana,
whither he had gone in quest of an individual whose presence was
necessary in the settlement of the estate.

The letter which brought this intelligence to Mrs. Graham, also
contained a request that she would come to him immediately, and within
a few days after its receipt, she started for Cuba, together with
Durward, who went without again seeing ’Lena.

They found him better than they expected. The danger was past, but he
was still too weak to move himself, and the physician said it would be
many weeks ere he was able to travel. This rather pleased Mrs. Graham
than otherwise. She was fond of change, and had often desired to visit
Havana, so now that she was there, she made the best of it, and for
once in her life enacted the part of a faithful, affectionate wife.

Often, during intervals of mental aberration, Mr. Graham spoke of
“Helena,” imploring her forgiveness for his leaving her so long, and
promising to return. Sometimes he spoke of her as being dead, and in
piteous accents he would ask of Durward to bring him back his
“beautiful ’Lena,” who was sleeping far away among the New England
mountains.

One day when the servant, as usual, came in with their letters, he
brought one directed to Mr. Graham, which had been forwarded from
Charleston, and which bore the post-marks of several places, it having
been sent hither and thither, ere it reached its place of destination.
It was mailed at Frankfort, Kentucky, and in the superscription Durward
readily recognized the handwriting of ’Lena.

“Worse and worse,” thought he, now fully assured of her worthlessness.

For a moment he felt tempted to break the seal, but from this act he
instinctively shrank, thinking that whatever it might contain, it was
not for him to read it. But what should he do with it? Must he give it
to his mother who already had as much as she could bear? No, ’twas not
best for her to know aught about it, and as the surest means of
preventing its doing further trouble, he destroyed it—burned it to
ashes—repenting the next moment of the deed, wishing he had read it,
and feeling not that he had wronged the dead, as his mother did when
she burned the chestnut curl, but as if he had done a wrong to ’Lena.

In the course of two months he went back to Woodlawn, leaving his
father and mother to travel leisurely from place to place, as the still
feeble state of the former would admit. ’Lena, who had returned from
Frankfort, trembled lest he should come to Maple Grove, but he seemed
equally desirous of avoiding a meeting, and after lingering about
Woodlawn for several days, he suddenly departed for Louisville, where,
for a time, we leave him, while we follow the fortunes of others
connected with our story.




CHAPTER XXIV.
JOHN JR. AND MABEL.


Time and absence had gradually softened John Jr.’s feelings toward
Nellie. She was not married to Mr. Wilbur—possibly she never would
be—and if on her return to America he found her the same, he would lose
no time in seeing her, and, if possible, secure her to himself. Such
was the tenor of his thoughts, as on one bright morning in June he took
his way to Lexington, whither he was going on business for his father.
Before leaving the city, he rode down to the depot, as was his usual
custom, reaching there just as the cars bound for Frankfort were
rolling away. Upon the platform of the rear car stood an acquaintance
of his, who called out, “Halloo, Livingstone, have you heard the news?”

“News, no. What news?” asked John Jr., following after the fast moving
train.

“Bob Wilbur and Nellie Douglass are married,” screamed the young man,
who, having really heard of Mr. Wilbur’s marriage, supposed it must of
course be with Nellie.

John Jr. had no doubt of it, and for a moment his heart fainted beneath
the sudden blow. But he was not one to yield long to despair, and soon
recovering from the first shock, he raved in uncontrollable fury,
denouncing Nellie as worthless, fickle, and good for nothing, mentally
wishing her much joy with her husband, who in the same breath he hoped
“would break his confounded neck,” and ending his tirade by solemnly
vowing to offer himself to the first girl he met, whether black or
white!

Full of this resolution he put spurs to Firelock and sped away over the
turnpike, looking neither to the right nor the left, lest a chance
should offer for the fulfillment of his vow. It was the dusk of evening
when he reached home, and giving his horse into the care of a servant,
he walked with rapid strides into the parlor, starting back as he saw
_Mabel Ross_, who, for a few days past, had been visiting at Maple
Grove.

“There’s no backing out,” thought he. “It’s my destiny, and I’ll meet
it like a man. Nellie spited me, and I’ll let her know how good it
feels.”

“Mabel,” said he, advancing toward her, “will you marry me? Say yes or
no quick.”

This was not quite the kind of wooing which Mabel had expected. ’Twas
not what she read of in novels, but then it was in keeping with the
rest of John Jr.’s conduct, and very frankly and naturally she answered
“Yes.”

“Very well,” said he, beginning to feel better already, and turning to
leave the room—“Very well, you fix the day, and arrange it all
yourself, only let it be very soon, for now I’ve made up my mind, I’m
in a mighty hurry.”

Mabel laughed, and hardly knowing whether he were in earnest or not,
asked “if she should speak to the minister, too.”

“Yes, no,” said he. “Just tell mother, and she’ll fix it all right.
Will you?”

And he walked away, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, except that he
was engaged. Engaged! The very idea seemed to add new dignity to _him_,
while it invested Mabel with a charm she had not hitherto possessed.
John Jr. liked everything that belonged to him exclusively, and Mabel
now was his—his wife she would be—and when next he met her in the
drawing-room, his manner toward her was unusually kind, attracting the
attention of his mother, who wondered at the change. One after another
the family retired, until there was no one left in the parlor except
Mabel and Mrs. Livingstone, who, as her husband chanced to be absent,
had invited her young visitor to share her room. When they were alone,
Mabel, with many blushes and a few tears, told of all that had
occurred, except, indeed, of John’s manner of proposing, which she
thought best not to confide to a third person.

Eagerly Mrs. Livingstone listened, mentally congratulating herself upon
the completion of her plan without her further interference, wondering
the while how it had been so suddenly brought about, and half trembling
lest it should prove a failure after all. So when Mabel spoke of John
Jr.’s wish that the marriage should be consummated immediately, she
replied, “Certainly—by all means. There is no necessity for delay. You
can marry at once, and get ready afterwards. It is now the last of
June. I had thought of going to Saratoga in July, and a bride is just
the thing to give eclat to our party.”

“But,” answered Mabel, who hardly fancied a wedding without all the
usual preparations, which she felt she should enjoy so much, “I cannot
think of being married until October, when Nellie perhaps will be
here.”

Nellie’s return was what Mrs. Livingstone dreaded, and very ingeniously
she set herself at work to put aside Mabel’s objections, succeeding so
far that the young girl promised compliance with whatever she should
think proper. The next morning, as John Jr. was passing through the
hall, she called him into her room, delicately broaching the subject of
his engagement, saying she knew he could not help loving a girl
possessed of so many excellent qualities as Mabel Ross. Very patiently
John Jr. heard her until she came to speak of love. Then, in much
louder tones than newly engaged men are apt to speak of their
betrothed, he exclaimed, “Love! Fudge! If you think I’m marrying Mabel
for love, you are greatly mistaken, I like her, but love is out of the
question.”

“Pray what are you marrying her for? Her property?”

“Property!” repeated John, with a sneer, “I’ve seen the effect of
marrying for property, and I trust I’m not despicable enough to try it
for myself. No, madam, I’m not marrying her for money—but to spite
Nellie Douglass, if you must know the reason. I’ve loved her as I shall
never again love womankind, but she cheated me. She’s married to Robert
Wilbur, and now I’ve too much spirit to have her think _I_ care. If she
can marry, so can I—she isn’t the only girl in the world—and when I
heard what she had done, I vowed I’d offer myself to the first female I
saw. As good or bad luck would have it, ’twas Mabel, who you know said
yes, of course, for I verily believe she likes me far better than I
deserve. What kind of a husband I shall make, the Lord only knows, but
I’m in for it. My word is passed, and the sooner you get us tied
together the better, but for heaven’s sake, don’t go to making a great
parade. Mabel has no particular home. She’s here now, and why not let
the ceremony take place here. But fix it to suit yourselves, only don’t
let me hear you talking about it, for fear I’ll get sick of the whole
thing.”

This was exactly what Mrs. Livingstone desired. She had the day before
been to Frankfort herself, learning from Mrs. Atkins of Mr. Wilbur’s
marriage with the English girl. She knew her son was deceived, and it
was highly necessary that he should continue so. She felt sure that
neither her daughters, Mabel, nor ’Lena knew of Mr. Wilbur’s marriage,
and she resolved they should not. It was summer, and as many of their
city friends had left Frankfort for places of fashionable resort, they
received but few calls; and by keeping them at home until the wedding
was over, she trusted that all would be safe in that quarter. Durward,
too, was fortunately absent, so she only had to deal with Mabel and
John Jr. The first of these she approached very carefully, casually
telling her of Mr. Wilbur’s marriage, and then hastily adding, “But
pray don’t speak of it to any one, as there are special reasons why it
should not at present be discussed. Sometime I may tell you the
reason.”

Mabel wondered why so small a matter should be a secret, but Mrs.
Livingstone had requested her to keep silence and that was a sufficient
reason why she should do so. The next step was to win her consent for
the ceremony to take place there, and in the course of three weeks,
saying that it was her son’s wish. But on this point she found more
difficulty than she had anticipated, for Mabel shrank from being
married at the house of his father.

“It didn’t look right,” said she, “and she knew Mr. Douglass would not
object to having it there.”

Mrs. Livingstone knew so, too, but there was too much danger in such an
arrangement, and she replied, “Of course not, if you request it, but
will it be quite proper for you to ask him to be at all that trouble
when Nellie is gone, and there is no one at home to superintend?”

So after a time Mabel was convinced, thinking, though, how differently
everything was turning out from what she expected. Three weeks from
that night was fixed upon for the bridal, to which but few were to be
invited, for Mrs. Livingstone did not wish to call forth remark.

“Everything should be done quietly and in order,” she said, “and then,
when autumn came, she would give a splendid party in honor of the
bride.”

Mr. Douglass, when told of the coming event by Mrs. Livingstone, who
would trust no one else, expressed much surprise, saying he greatly
preferred that the ceremony should take place at his own house.

“Of course,” returned the oily-tongued woman, “of course you had, but
even a small wedding party is a vast amount of trouble, and in Nellie’s
absence you would be disturbed. Were she here I would not say a word,
but now I insist upon having it my own way, and indeed, I think my
claim upon Mabel is the strongest.”

Silenced, but not quite convinced, Mr. Douglass said no more, thinking,
meanwhile, that if he only _could_ afford it, Mabel should have a
wedding worthy of her. But he could not; he was poor, and hence Mrs.
Livingstone’s arguments prevailed the more easily. Fortunately for her,
John Jr. manifested no inclination to go out at all. A kind of torpor
seemed to have settled upon him, and day after day he remained at home,
sometimes in a deep study in his own room, and sometimes sitting in the
parlor, where his very unlover-like deportment frequently brought tears
to Mabel’s eyes, while Carrie loudly denounced him as the most clownish
fellow she ever saw.

“I hope you’ll train him, Mabel,” said she, “for he needs it. He ought
to have had Nellie Douglass. She’s a match for him. Why didn’t you have
her, John?”

With a face dark as night, he angrily requested Carrie “to mind her own
business,” saying “he was fully competent to take charge of himself,
without the interference of either wife or sister.”

“Oh, what if he should look and talk so to me!” thought Mabel,
shuddering as a dim foreboding of her sad future came over her.

’Lena who understood John Jr. better than any one else, saw that all
was not right. She knew how much he had loved Nellie; she believed he
loved her still; and why should he marry another? She could not tell,
and as he withheld his confidence from her, appearing unusually moody
and cross, she dared not approach him. At last, having an idea of what
she wanted, and willing to give her a chance, he one day, when they
were alone, abruptly asked her what she thought of his choice.

“If you ask me what I think of Mabel,” said she, “I answer that I
esteem her very highly, and the more I know her the better I love her.
Still, I never thought she would be your wife.”

“Ah—indeed!—never thought she would, hey?” answered John, beginning to
grow crusty, and elevating his feet to the top of the mantel. “You see
now what _thought_ did; but what is your objection to her?”

“Nothing, nothing,” returned ’Lena. “Mabel is amiable, gentle, and
confiding, and will try to be a good wife.”

“What the deuce are you grumbling for, then?” interrupted John Jr. “Do
you want me yourself? If you do, just say the word, and it shall be
done! I’m bound to be married, and I’d sooner have you than anybody
else. Come, what do you say?”

’Lena smiled, while she disclaimed any intention toward her cousin,
who, resuming the position which in his excitement he had slightly
changed, continued: “I have always dealt fairly with you, ’Lena, and
now I tell you truly, I have no particular love for Mabel, although I
intend making her my wife, and heartily wish she was so now.”

’Lena started, and clasping John’s arm, exclaimed, “Marry Mabel and not
love her! You cannot be in earnest. You will not do her so great a
wrong—you shall not.”

“I don’t know how you’ll help it, unless you meddle with what does not
concern you,” said John. “I am doing her no wrong, I never told her I
loved her—never acted as though I did, and if she is content to have me
on such terms, it’s nobody’s business. She loves me half to death, and
if the old adage be true that love begets love, I shall learn to love
her, and when I do I’ll let you know.”

So saying, the young man shook down his pants, which had become
disarranged, and walked away, leaving ’Lena to wonder what course she
had better pursue. Once she resolved on telling Mabel all that had
passed between them, but the next moment convinced her that, as he had
said, she would be meddling, so she decided to say nothing, silently
hoping that affairs would turn out better than she feared.

It was Mabel’s wish that ’Lena and Anna should be her bridesmaids,
Durward and Malcolm officiating as groomsmen, and as Mr. Bellmont was
away, she wrote to him requesting his attendance, but saying she had
not yet mentioned the subject to ’Lena. Painful as was the task of
being thus associated with ’Lena, Durward felt that to refuse might
occasion much remark, so he wrote to Mabel that “he would comply with
her request, provided Miss Rivers were willing.”

“Of course she’s willing,” said Mabel to herself, at the same time
running with the letter to ’Lena, who, to her utter astonishment, not
only refused outright, but also declined giving any particular reason
for her doing so. “Carrie will suit him much better than I,” said she,
but unfortunately, Carrie, who chanced to be present, half hidden in
the recess of a window, indignantly declined “going Jack-at-a-pinch”
with any one, so Mabel was obliged to content herself with Anna and Mr.
Everett.

But here a new difficulty arose, for Mrs. Livingstone declared that the
latter should not be invited, and Anna, in a fit of anger, insisted
that if _he_ were not good enough to be present, neither was she, and
she should accordingly remain in her own room. Poor Mabel burst into
tears, and when, a few moments afterward, John Jr. appeared, asking
what ailed her, she hid her face in his bosom and sobbed like a child.
Then, frightened at her own temerity, for he gave her no answering
caress, she lifted up her head, while with a quizzical expression John
Jr. said, “So-ho, Meb, seems to me you’ve taken to crying on my jacket
a little in advance. But what’s the matter?”

In a few words Mabel told him how everything went wrong, how neither
’Lena, Carrie, nor Anna would be her bridesmaids, and how Anna wouldn’t
see her married because Malcolm was not invited.

“I can manage that,” said John Jr. “Mr. Everett _shall_ be invited, so
just shut up crying, for if there’s anything I detest, it’s a woman’s
sniveling;” and he walked off thinking he had begun just as he meant to
hold out.




CHAPTER XXV.
THE BRIDAL.


’Twas Mabel’s wedding night, and in one of the upper rooms of Mr.
Livingstone’s house she stood awaiting the summons to the parlor. They
had arrayed her for the bridal; Mrs. Livingstone, Carrie, ’Lena, Anna,
and the seamstress, all had had something to do with her toilet, and
now they had left her for a time with him who was so soon to be her
husband. She knew—for they had told her—she was looking uncommonly
well. Her dress, of pure white satin, was singularly becoming; pearls
were interwoven in the heavy braids of her raven hair; the fleecy folds
of the rich veil, which fell like a cloud around her, swept the floor.
In her eye there was an unusual sparkle and on her cheek an unwonted
bloom.

Still Mabel was not happy. There was a heavy pain at her heart—a
foreboding of coming evil—and many an anxious glance she cast toward
the stern, silent man, who, with careless tread, walked up and down the
room, utterly regardless of her presence, and apparently absorbed in
bitter reflections. Once only had she ventured to speak, and then, in
childlike simplicity, she had asked him “how she looked.”

“Well enough,” was his answer, as, without raising his eyes, he
continued his walk.

The tears gathered in Mabel’s eyes—she could not help it; drop after
drop they came, falling upon the marble table, until John Jr., who saw
more than he pretended, came to her side, asking “why she wept.”

Mabel was beginning to be terribly afraid of him, and for a moment she
hesitated, but at length, summoning all her courage, she wound her arms
about his neck, and in low, earnest tones said, “Tell me truly, do you
wish to marry me?”

“And suppose I do not?” he asked, with the same stony composure.

Stepping backward, Mabel stood proudly erect before him, and answered,
“Then would I die rather than wed you!”

There was something in her appearance and attitude peculiarly
attractive to John Jr. Never in his life had he felt so much interested
in her, and drawing her toward him and placing his arm around her, he
said, gently, “Be calm, little Meb, you are nervous to-night. Of course
I wish you to be my wife, else I had not asked you. Are you satisfied?”

The joyous glance of the dark eyes lifted so confidingly to his, was a
sufficient answer, and as if conscious of the injustice he was about to
do her, John Jr. bent for an instant over her slight figure, mentally
resolving, that so far as in him lay he would be true to his trust.
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Livingstone herself looked in,
pale, anxious, and expectant. Mr. Douglass, who was among the invited
guests, had arrived, and _must_ have an interview with John Jr. ere the
ceremony. ’Twas in vain she attempted politely to waive his request. He
_would_ see him, and distracted with fear, she had at last conducted
him into the upper hall, and out upon an open veranda, where in the
moonlight he awaited the coming of the bridegroom, who, with some
curiosity, approached him, asking what he wanted.

“It may seem strange to you,” said Mr. Douglass, “that I insist upon
seeing you now, when another time might do as well, but I believe in
having a fair understanding all round.”

“Meddling old rascal!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, who, of course, was
within hearing, bending her ears so as not to lose a word.

But in this she was thwarted, for drawing nearer to John Jr., Mr.
Douglass said, so low as to prevent her catching anything further, save
the sound of his voice:

“I do not accuse you of being at all mercenary, but such things have
been, and there has something come to my knowledge to-day, which I deem
it my duty to tell you, so that hereafter you can neither blame me nor
Mabel.”

“What is it?” asked John Jr., and Mr. Douglass replied, “To be brief,
then, Mabel’s large fortune is, with the exception of a few thousands,
of which I have charge, all swept away by the recent failure of the
Planters’ Bank, in which it was invested. I heard of it this morning,
and determined on telling you, knowing that if you loved her for
herself, it would make no difference, while if you loved her for her
money, it were far better to stop here.”

Nothing could have been further from John’s thoughts than a desire for
Mabel’s wealth, which, precious as it seemed in his mother’s eyes, was
valueless to him, and after a moment’s silence, in which he was
thinking what a rich disappointment it would be to his mother, who, he
knew, prized Mabel only for her money, he exclaimed, “Good, I’m glad of
it. I never sought Mabel’s hand for what there was in it, and I’m more
ready to marry her now than ever. But,” he added, as a sudden impulse
of good came over him, “She need not know it; it would trouble her
uselessly, and for the present we’ll keep it from her.”

John Jr. had always been a puzzle to Mr. Douglass, who by turns
censured and admired him, but now there was but one feeling in his
bosom toward him, and that was one of unbounded respect. With a warm
pressure of the hand he turned away, thinking, perchance, of his fair
young daughter, who, far away o’er the Atlantic waves, little dreamed
of the scene on which that summer moon was shining. As the conference
ended; Mrs. Livingstone, who had learned nothing, glided, from her
hiding-place, eagerly scanning her son’s face to see if there was aught
to justify her fears. But there was nothing, and with her heart beating
at its accustomed pace, she descended the stairs in time to meet
Durward, who, having reached Woodlawn that day, had not heard of
’Lena’s decision.

“This way, Marster Bellmont—upstars is the gentleman’s room,” said the
servant in attendance, and ascending the stairs, Durward met with Anna,
asking her for her cousin.

“In there—go in,” said Anna, pointing to a half-open door, and then
hurrying away to meet Malcolm, whose coming she had seen from the
window.

Hesitatingly, Durward approached the chamber indicated, and as his
knock met with no response, he ventured at last to enter unannounced
into the presence of ’Lena, whom he had not met since that
well-remembered night. Tastefully attired for the wedding in a simple
white muslin, she sat upon a little stool with her face buried in the
cushions of the sofa. She had heard his voice in the lower hall, and
knowing she must soon meet him, she had for a moment abandoned herself
to the tumult of bitter thoughts, which came sweeping over her in that
trying hour. She was weeping—he knew that by the trembling of her
body—and for an instant everything was forgotten.

Advancing softly toward her, he was about to lay his hand upon those
clustering curls which fell unheeded around her, when the thought that
from among them had been cut the hated tress which his mother had cast
into the flames, arrested his hand, and he was himself again. Forcing
down his emotion, he said, calmly, “Miss Rivers,” and starting quickly
to her feet, ’Lena demanded proudly what he would have, and why he was
there.

“Pardon me,” said he, as he marked her haughty bearing and glanced at
her dress, which was hardly in accordance with that of a bridesmaid; “I
supposed I was to be groomsman—am I mistaken?”

“So far as I am concerned you are, sir. I knew nothing of Mabel’s
writing to you, or I should have prevented it, for after what has
occurred, you cannot deem me weak enough to lend myself to such an
arrangement.”

And ’Lena walked out of the room, while Durward looked after her in
amazement, one moment admiring her spirit, and the next blaming Mabel
for not informing him how matters stood. “But there’s no help for it
now,” thought he, as he descended the stairs and made his way into the
parlor, whither ’Lena had preceded him.

And thus ended an interview of which ’Lena had thought so much, hoping
and praying that it might result in a reconciliation. But it was all
over now—the breach was wider than ever—with half-benumbed faculties
she leaned on the window, unconscious of the earnest desire he felt to
approach her, for there was about her a strange fascination which it
required all his power to resist.

When at last all was in readiness, a messenger was dispatched to John
Jr., who, without a word, offered his arm to Mabel, and descending the
broad staircase, they stood within the parlor in the spot which had
been assigned them. Once during the ceremony he raised his eyes,
encountering those of ’Lena, fixed upon him so reproachfully that with
a scowl he turned away. Mechanically he went through with his part of
the service, betraying no emotion whatever, until the solemn words
which made them one were uttered. Then, when it was over—when he was
bound to her forever—he seemed suddenly to awake from his apathy and
think of what he had done. Crowding around him, they came with words of
congratulation—all but ’Lena, who tarried behind, for she had none to
give. Wretched as she was herself, she pitied the frail young bride,
whose half-joyous, half-timid glances toward the frigid bridegroom,
showed that already was she sipping from the bitter cup whose very
dregs she was destined to drain.

In the recess of a window near to John Jr., Mr. Douglass and Durward
stood, speaking together of Nellie, and though John shrank from the
sound of her name, his hearing faculties seemed unusually sharpened,
and he lost not a word of what they were saying.

“So Nellie is coming home in the autumn, I am told,” said Durward, “and
I am glad of it, for I miss her much. But what is it about Mr. Wilbur’s
marriage. Wasn’t it rather unexpected?”

“No, not very. Nellie knew before she went that he was engaged to Miss
Allen, but at his sister’s request she kept it still. He found her at a
boarding-school in Montreal, several years ago.”

“Will they remain in Europe?”

“For a time, at least, until Mary is better—but Nellie comes home with
some friends from New Haven, whom she met in Paris;” then in a low tone
Mr. Douglass added, “I almost dread the effect of this marriage upon
her, for I am positive she liked him better than anyone else.”

The little white, blue-veined hand which rested on that of John Jr.,
was suddenly pressed so spasmodically, that Mabel looked up inquiringly
in the face which had no thought for her, for Mr. Douglass’s words had
fallen upon him like a thunderbolt, crushing him to the earth, and for
a moment rendering him powerless. Instantly he comprehended it all. He
had deceived himself, and by his impetuous haste lost all that he held
most dear on earth. There was a cry of faintness, a grasping at empty
space to keep from falling, and then forth into the open air they led
the half-fainting man, followed by his frightened bride, who tenderly
bathed his damp, cold brow, unmindful how he shrank from her,
shuddering as he felt the touch of her soft hand, and motioning her
aside when she stooped to part from his forehead the heavy locks of his
hair.

That night, the pale starlight of another hemisphere kept watch over a
gentle girl, who ’neath the blue skies of sunny France, dreamed of her
distant home across the ocean wave; of the gray-haired man, who, with
every morning light and evening shade, blessed her as his child; of
another, whose image was ever present with her, whom from her childhood
she had loved, and whom neither time nor distance could efface from her
memory.

Later, and the silvery moon looked mournfully down upon the white,
haggard face and heavy bloodshot eye of him who counted each long,
dreary hour as it passed by, cursing the fate which had made him what
he was, and unjustly hardening his heart against his innocent
unsuspecting wife.




CHAPTER XXVI
MARRIED LIFE.


For a short time after their marriage, John Jr. treated Mabel with at
least a show of attention, but he was not one to act long as he did not
feel. Had Nellie been, indeed, the wife of another, he might in time
have learned to love Mabel as she deserved, but now her presence only
served to remind him of what he had lost, and at last he began to shun
her society, never seeming willing to be left with her alone, and
either repulsing or treating with indifference the many little acts of
kindness which her affectionate nature prompted. To all this Mabel was
not blind, and when once she began to suspect her true position, it was
easy for her to fancy slights where none were intended.

Thus, ere she had been two months a wife, her life was one of constant
unhappiness, and, as a matter of course, her health, which had been
much improved, began to fail. Her old racking headaches returned with
renewed force, confining her for whole days to her room, where she lay
listening in vain for the footsteps which never came, and tended only
by ’Lena, who in proportion as the others neglected her, clung to her
more and more. The trip to Saratoga was given up, John Jr. in the
bitterness of his disappointment bitterly refusing to go, and saying
there was nothing sillier than for a newly-married couple to go riding
around the country, disgusting sensible people with their fooleries. So
with a burst of tears Mabel yielded and her bridal tour extended no
further than Frankfort, whither her husband _did_ once accompany her,
dining out even then with an old schoolmate whom he chanced to meet,
and almost forgetting to call at Mr. Douglass’s for Mabel when it was
time to return home.

Erelong, too, another source of trouble arose, which shipwrecked
entirely the poor bride’s happiness. By some means or other it at last
came to Mrs. Livingstone’s knowledge that Mabel’s fortune was not only
all gone, but that her son had known it in time to prevent his marrying
her. Owing to various losses her own property had for a few years past
been gradually diminishing, and when she found that Mabel’s fortune,
which she leaned upon as an all-powerful prop, was swept away, it was
more than she could bear peaceably; and in a fit of disappointed rage
she assailed her son, reproaching him with bringing disgrace upon the
family by marrying a poor, homely, sickly girl, who would be forever
incurring expense without any means of paying it! For once, however,
she found her match, for in good round terms John Jr. bade her “go to
thunder,” his favorite point of destination for his particular friends,
at the same time saying, “he didn’t care a dime for Mabel’s money. It
was you,” said he, “who kept your eye on that, aiding and abetting the
match, and now that you are disappointed, I’m heartily glad of it.”

“But who is going to pay for her board,” asked Mrs. Livingstone.
“You’ve no means of earning it, and I hope you don’t intend to sponge
out of me, for I think I’ve enough paupers on my hands already!”

“_Board_!” roared John Jr. in a towering passion. “While you thought
her rich, you gave no heed to board or anything else; and since she has
become poor, I do not think her appetite greatly increased. You taunt
me, too, with having no means of earning my own living. Whose fault is
it?—tell me that. Haven’t you always opposed my having a profession?
Didn’t you _pet_ and _baby_ ‘Johnny’ when a boy, keeping him always at
your apron strings, and now that he’s a man, he’s not to be turned
adrift. No, madam, I shall stay, and Mabel, too, just as long as I
please.”

Gaining no satisfaction from him, Mrs. Livingstone turned her battery
upon poor Mabel, treating her with shameful neglect, intimating that
she was in the way; that the house was full, and that she never
supposed John was going to settle down at home for her to support; he
was big enough to look after himself, and if he chose to marry a wife
who had nothing, why let them go to work, as other folks did.

Mabel listened in perfect amazement, never dreaming what was meant, for
John Jr. had carefully kept from her a knowledge of her loss,
requesting his mother to do the same in such decided terms, that, hint
as strongly as she pleased, she dared not tell the whole, for fear of
the storm which was sure to follow. All this was not, of course,
calculated to add to Mabel’s comfort, and day by day she grew more and
more unhappy, generously keeping to herself, however, the treatment
which she received from Mrs. Livingstone.

“He will only dislike me the more if I complain to him of his mother,”
thought she, so the secret was kept, though she could not always
repress the tears which would start when she thought how wretched she
was.

We believe we have said elsewhere, that if there was anything
particularly annoying to John Jr., it was a sick or crying woman, and
now, when he so often found Mabel indisposed or weeping, he grew more
morose and fault-finding, sometimes wantonly accusing her of trying to
provoke him, when, in fact, she had used every means in her power to
conciliate him. Again, conscience-smitten, he would lay her aching head
upon his bosom, and tenderly bathing her throbbing temples, would
soothe her into a quiet sleep, from which she always awoke refreshed,
and in her heart forgiving him for all he had made her suffer. At such
times, John would resolve never again to treat her unkindly, but alas!
his resolutions were too easily broken. Had he married Nellie, a more
faithful, affectionate husband there could not have been. But now it
was different. A withering blight had fallen upon his earthly
prospects, and forgetting that he alone was to blame, he unjustly laid
the fault upon his innocent wife, who, as far as she was able, loved
him as deeply as Nellie herself could have done.

One morning about the first of September, John Jr. received a note,
informing him that several of his young associates were going on a
three days’ hunting excursion, in which they wished him to join. In the
large easy-chair, just before him, sat Mabel, her head supported by
pillows and saturated with camphor, while around her eyes were the dark
rings which usually accompanied her headaches. Involuntarily John Jr.
glanced toward her. Had it been Nellie, all the pleasures of the world
could not have induced him to leave her, but Mabel was altogether
another person, and more for the sake of seeing what she would say,
than from any real intention of going, he read the note aloud; then
carelessly throwing it aside, he said, “Ah, yes, I’ll go. It’ll be rare
fun camping out these moonlight nights.”

Much as she feared him, Mabel could not bear to have him out of her
sight, and now, at the first intimation of his leaving her, her lip
began to tremble, while tears filled her eyes and dropped upon her
cheeks. This was enough, and mentally styling her “a perfect cry baby,”
he resolved to go at all hazards.

“I don’t think you ought to leave Mabel, she feels so badly,” said
Anna, who was present.

“I want to know if little Anna’s got so she can dictate me, too,”
answered John, imitating her voice, and adding, that “he reckoned Mabel
would get over her bad feelings quite as well without him as with him.”

More for the sake of opposition than because she really cared, Carrie,
too, chimed in, saying that “he was a pretty specimen of a three
months’ husband,” and asking “how he ever expected to answer for all of
Mabel’s tears and headaches.”

“Hang her tears and headaches,” said he, beginning to grow angry. “She
can get one up to order any time, and for my part, I am getting
heartily tired of the sound of aches and pains.”

“Please _don’t_ talk so,” said Mabel, pressing her hands upon her
aching head, while ’Lena sternly exclaimed, “Shame on you, John
Livingstone. I am surprised at you, for I did suppose you had some
little feeling left.”

“Miss Rivers can be very eloquent when she chooses, but I am happy to
say it is entirely lost on me,” said John, leaving the room and
shutting the door with a bang, which made every one of Mabel’s nerves
quiver anew.

“What a perfect brute,” said Carrie, while ’Lena and Anna drew nearer
to Mabel, the one telling her “she would not care,” and the other
silently pressing the little hand which instinctively sought hers, as
if sure of finding sympathy.

At this moment Mrs. Livingstone came in, and immediately Carrie gave a
detailed account of her brother’s conduct, at the same time referring
her mother for proof to Mabel’s red eyes and swollen face.

“I never interfere between husband and wife,” said Mrs. Livingstone
coolly, “but as a friend, I will give Mabel a bit of advice. Without
being at all personal, I would say that few women have beauty enough to
afford to impair it by eternally crying, while fewer men have patience
enough to bear with a woman who is forever whining and complaining,
first of this and then of that. I don’t suppose that John is so much
worse than other people, and I think he bears up wonderfully,
considering his disappointment.”

Here the lady flounced out of the room, leaving the girls to stare at
each other in silence, wondering what she meant. Since her marriage,
Mabel had occupied the parlor chamber, which connected with a cozy
little bedroom and dressing-room adjoining. These had at the time been
fitted up and furnished in a style which Mrs. Livingstone thought
worthy of Mabel’s wealth, but now that she was poor, the case was
altered, and she had long contemplated removing her to more inferior
quarters. “She wasn’t going to give her the very best room in the
house. No, indeed, she wasn’t—wearing out the carpets, soiling the
furniture, and keeping everything topsy-turvy.”

She understood John Jr. well enough to know that it would not do to
approach him on the subject, so she waited, determining to carry out
her plans the very first time he should be absent, thinking when it was
once done, he would submit quietly. On hearing that he had gone off on
a hunting excursion, she thought, “Now is my time,” and summoning to
her assistance three or four servants, she removed everything belonging
to John Jr. and Mabel, to the small and not remarkably convenient room
which the former had occupied previous to his marriage.

“What are you about?” asked Anna, who chanced to pass by and looked in.

“About my business,” answered Mrs. Livingstone. I’m not going to have
my best things all worn out, and if this was once good enough for John
to sleep in, it is now.”

“But will Mabel like it?” asked Anna, a little suspicious that her
sister-in-laww’s rights were being infringed.

“Nobody cares whether she is pleased or not,” said Mrs. Livingstone.
“If she don’t like it, all she has to do is to go away.”

“Lasted jest about as long as I thought ’twood,” said Aunt Milly, when
she heard what was going on. “Ile and crab-apple vinegar won’t mix,
nohow, and if before the year’s up old miss don’t worry the life out of
that poor little sickly critter, that looks now like a picked chicken,
my name ain’t Milly Livingstone.”

The other negroes agreed with her. Constantly associated with the
family, they saw things as they were, and while Mrs. Livingstone’s
conduct was universally condemned, Mabel was a general favorite. After
Mrs. Livingstone had left the room, Milly, with one or two others,
stole up to reconnoiter.

“Now I ’clar’ for’t,” said Milly, “if here ain’t Marster John’s
bootjack, fish-line, and box of tobacky, right out in far sight, and
Miss Mabel comin’ in here to sleep. ’Pears like some white folks hain’t
no idee of what ’longs to good manners. Here, Corind, put the jack in
thar, the fish-line thar, the backy thar, and heave that ar other
thrash out o’door,” pointing to some geological specimens which from
time to time John Jr. had gathered, and which his mother had not
thought proper to molest.

Corinda obeyed, and then Aunt Milly, who really possessed good taste,
began to make some alterations in the arrangement of the furniture, and
under her supervision the room began to present a more cheerful and
inviting aspect.

“Get out with yer old airthen candlestick,” said she, turning up her
broad nose at the said article, which stood upon the stand. “What’s
them tall frosted ones in the parlor chamber for, if ’tain’t to use.
Go, Corind, and fetch ’em.”

But Corinda did not dare, and Aunt Milly went herself, taking the
precaution to bring them in the tongs, so that in the _denouement_ she
could stoutly deny having even “tached ’em, or even had ’em in her
hands!” (So much for a subterfuge, where there is no moral training.)

When Mabel heard of the change, she seemed for a moment stupefied. Had
she been consulted, had Mrs. Livingstone frankly stated her reasons for
wishing her to take another room, she would have consented willingly,
but to be thus summarily removed without a shadow of warning, hardly
came up to her ideas of justice. Still, there was no help for it, and
that night the bride of three months watered her lone pillow with
tears, never once closing her heavy eyelids in sleep until the dim
morning light came in through the open window, and the tread of the
negroes’ feet was heard in the yard below. Then, for many hours, the
weary girl slumbered on, unconscious of the ill-natured remarks which
her non-appearance was eliciting from Mrs. Livingstone, who said “it
was strange what airs some people would put on; perhaps Mistress Mabel
fancied her breakfast would be sent to her room, or kept warm for her
until such time as she chose to appear, but she’d find herself
mistaken, for the servants had enough to do without waiting upon her,
and if she couldn’t come up to breakfast, why, she must wait until
dinner time.”

’Lena and Milly, however, thought differently. Softly had the latter
stolen up to her cousin’s room, gazing pityingly upon the pale, worn
face, whose grieved, mournful expression told of sorrow which had come
all too soon.

“Let her sleep; it will do her good,” said ’Lena, adjusting the
bed-clothes, and dropping the curtain so that the sunlight should not
disturb her, she left the chamber.

An hour after, on entering the kitchen, she found Aunt Milly preparing
a rich cream toast, which, with a cup of fragrant black tea, were to be
slyly conveyed to Mabel, who was now awake.

“Reckon thar don’t nobody starve as long as this nigger rules the
roost,” said Milly, wiping one of the silver tea-spoons with a corner
of her apron, and then placing it in the cup destined for Mabel, who,
not having seen her breakfast prepared, relished it highly, thinking
the world was not, after all, so dark and dreary, for there were yet a
few left who cared for her.

Her headache of the day before still remained, and ’Lena suggested that
she should stay in her room, saying that she would herself see that
every necessary attention was paid her. This she could the more readily
do, as Mrs. Livingstone had gone to Versailles with her husband. That
afternoon, as Mabel lay watching the drifting clouds as they passed and
repassed before the window, her ear suddenly caught the sound of
horses’ feet. Nearer and nearer they came, until with a cry of delight
she hid her face in the pillows, weeping for very joy—for John Jr. had
come home! She could not be mistaken, and if there was any lingering
doubt, it was soon lost in certainty, for she heard his voice in the
hall below, his footsteps on the stairs. He was coming, an unusual
thing, to see her first.

But how did he know she was there, in his old room? He did not know it;
he was only coming to put his rifle in its accustomed place, and on
seeing the chamber filled with the various paraphernalia of a woman’s
toilet, he started, with the exclamation, “What the deuce! I reckon
I’ve got into the wrong pew,” and was going away, when Mabel called him
back. “Meb, you here?” said he. “_You_ in this little tucked-up hole,
that I always thought too small for me and my traps! What does it
mean?”

Mabel had carefully studied the tones of her husband’s voice, and
knowing from the one he now assumed that he was not displeased with
her, the sense of injustice done her by his mother burst out, and
throwing her arms around his neck, she told him everything connected
with her removal, asking what his mother meant by saying, “she should
never get anything for their board,” and begging him “to take her away
where they could live alone and be happy.”

Since he had left her, John Jr. had _thought_ a great deal, the result
of which was, that he determined on returning home much sooner than he
at first intended, promising himself to treat Mabel decently, and if
possible win back the respect of ’Lena, which he knew he had lost. To
his companions, who urged him to remain, he replied that “he had left
his wife sick, and he could not stay longer.”

It cost him a great effort to say “my wife,” for never before had he so
called her, but he felt better the moment he had done so, and bidding
his young friends adieu, he started for home with the same impetuous
speed which usually characterized his riding. He had fully expected to
meet Mabel in the parlor, and was even revolving in his own mind the
prospect of kissing her, provided ’Lena were present. “That’ll prove to
her,” thought he, “that I am not the hardened wretch she thinks I am;
so I’ll do it, if Meb doesn’t happen to be all bound up in camphor and
aromatic vinegar, which I can’t endure, anyway.”

Full of this resolution he had hastened home, going first to his old
room, where he had come so unexpectedly upon Mabel that for a moment he
scarcely knew what to say. By the time, however, that she had finished
her story, his mind was pretty well made up.

“And so it’s mother’s doings, hey?” said he, violently pulling the
bell-rope, and then walking up and down the room until Corinda appeared
in answer to his summons.

“How many blacks are there in the kitchen?” he asked.

“Six or seven, besides Aunt Polly,” answered Corinda.

“Very well. Tell every man of them to come up here, quick.”

Full of wonder Corinda departed, carrying the intelligence, and adding
that “Marster John looked mighty black in the face”, and she reckoned
some on ’em would catch it, at the same time, for fear of what might
happen, secretly conveying back to the safe the piece of cake which, in
her mistress’ absence, she had stolen! Aunt Milly’s first thought was
of the frosted candlesticks, and by way of impressing upon Corinda a
sense of what she might expect if in any way she implicated her, she
gave her a cuff in advance, bidding her “be keerful how she blabbed”,
then heading the sable group, she repaired to the chamber, where John
Jr. was awaiting them.

Advancing toward them, as they appeared in the doorway, he said, “Take
hold here, every one of you, and move these things back where they came
from.”

“Don’t, oh don’t,” entreated Mabel, but laying his hand over her mouth,
John Jr. bade her keep still, at the same time ordering the negroes “to
be quick.”

At first the younger portion of the blacks stood speechless, but Aunt
Milly, comprehending the whole at once, and feeling glad that her
mistress had her match in her son, set to work with a right good will,
and when about dusk Mrs. Livingstone came home, she was astonished at
seeing a light in the parlor chamber, while occasionally she could
discern the outline of a form moving before the window. What could it
mean? Perhaps they had company, and springing from the carriage she
hastened into the house, meeting ’Lena in the hall, and eagerly asking
who was in the front chamber.

“I believe,” said ’Lena, “that my cousin is not pleased with the
change, and has gone back to the front room.”

“The impudent thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, ignorant of her son’s
return, and as a matter of course attributing the whole to Mabel.

Darting up the stairs, she advanced toward the chamber and pushing open
the door stood face to face with John Jr., who, with hands crammed in
his pockets and legs crossed, was leaning against the mantel, waiting
and ready for whatever might occur.

“John Livingstone!” she gasped in her surprise.

“That’s my name,” he returned, quietly enjoying her look of amazement.

“What do you mean?” she continued.

“Mean what I say,” was his provoking answer.

“What have you been about?” was her next question, to which he replied,
“Your eyesight is not deficient—you can see for yourself.”

Gaining no satisfaction from him, Mrs. Livingstone now turned upon
Mabel, abusing her until John Jr. sternly commanded her to desist,
bidding her “confine her remarks to himself, and let his wife alone, as
she was not in the least to blame.”

“Your wife!” repeated Mrs. Livingstone—“very affectionate you’ve grown,
all at once. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that you married her to spite
Nellie, who you then believed was the bride of Mr. Wilbur, but you
surely remember how you fainted when you accidentally learned your
mistake.”

A cry from Mabel, who fell back, fainting, among the pillows, prevented
Mrs. Livingstone from any further remarks, and satisfied with the
result of her visit, she walked away, while John Jr., springing to the
bedside, bore his young wife to the open window, hoping the cool night
air would revive her. But she lay so pale and motionless in his arms,
her head resting so heavily upon his shoulder, that with a terrible
foreboding he laid her back upon the bed, and rushing to the door,
shouted loudly, “Help—somebody—come quick—Mabel is dead, I know she
is.”

’Lena heard the cry and hastened to the rescue, starting back when she
saw the marble whiteness of Mabel’s face.

“I didn’t kill her, ’Lena. God knows I didn’t. Poor little Meb,” said
John Jr., quailing beneath ’Lena’s rebuking glance, and bending
anxiously over the slight form which looked so much like death.

But Mabel was not dead. ’Lena knew it by the faint fluttering of her
heart, and an application of the usual remedies sufficed, at last, to
restore her to consciousness. With a long-drawn sigh her eyes unclosed,
and looking earnestly in ’Lena’s face, she said, “Was it a dream,
’Lena? Tell me, was it all a dream?”—then, as she observed her husband,
she added, shudderingly, “No, no, not a dream. I remember it all now.
And I wish I was dead.”

Again ’Lena’s rebuking glance went over to John Jr., who, advancing
nearer to Mabel, gently laid his hand upon her white brow, saying,
softly, “Poor, poor Meb.”

There was genuine pity in the tones of his voice, and while the hot
tears gushed forth, the sick girl murmured, “Forgive me, John, I
couldn’t help it. I didn’t know it, and now, if you say so, I’ll go
away, alone—where you’ll never see me again.”

She comprehended it all. Her mother-in-law had rudely torn away the
veil, and she saw why she was there—knew why he had sought her for his
wife—understood all his coldness and neglect; but she had no word of
reproach for him, her husband, and from the depths of her crushed heart
she forgave him, commiserating him as the greater sufferer.

“May be I shall die,” she whispered, “and then——”

She did not finish the sentence, neither was it necessary, for John Jr.
understood what she meant, and with his conscience smiting him as it
did, he felt half inclined to declare, with his usual impulsiveness,
that it should never be; but the rash promise was not made, and it was
far better that it should not be.




CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SHADOW.


Mabel’s nerves had received too great a shock to rally immediately, and
as day after day went by, she still kept her room, notwithstanding the
very pointed hints of her mother-in-law that “she was making believe
for the sake of sympathy.” Why didn’t she get up and go out
doors—anybody would be sick to be flat on their back day in and day
out; or did she think she was spiting her by showing what muss she
could keep the “best chamber” in if she chose?

This last was undoubtedly the grand secret of Mrs. Livingstone’s
dissatisfaction. Foiled in her efforts to dislodge them, she would not
yield without an attempt at making Mabel, at least, as uncomfortable in
mind as possible. Accordingly, almost every day when her son was not
present, she conveyed from the room some nice article of furniture,
substituting in its place one of inferior quality, which was quite good
enough, she thought, for a penniless bride.

“’Pears like ole miss goin’ to make a clean finish of her dis time,”
said Aunt Milly, who watched her mistress’ daily depredations. “Ole Sam
done got title deed of her, sure enough. Ki! won’t she ketch it in
t’other world, when he done show her his cloven foot, and won’t she
holler for old Milly to fotch her a drink of water? not particular
then—drink out of the bucket, gourd-shell, or anything; but dis
nigger’ll sign her post in de parlor afore she’ll go.”

“Why, Milly,” said ’Lena, who overheard this colloquy, “don’t you know
it’s wrong to indulge in such wicked thoughts?”

“Bless you, child,” returned the old negress, “she ’sarves ’em all for
treatin’ that poor, dear lamb so. I’d ’nihilate her if I’s Miss Mabel.”

“No, no, Milly,” said Aunt Polly, who was present. “You must heap coals
of fire on her head.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it—she orto have ’em,” quickly responded Milly,
thinking Polly’s method of revenge the very best in the world, provided
the coals were “bilin’ hot,” and with this reflection she started
upstairs, with a bowl of nice, warm gruel she had been preparing for
the invalid.

Several times each day Grandma Nichols visited Mabel’s room, always
prescribing some new tea of herbs, whose healing qualities were
wonderful, having effected cures in every member of Nancy Scovandyke’s
family, that lady herself, as a matter of course, being first included.
And Aunt Milly, with the faithfulness characteristic of her race, would
seek out each new herb, uniting with it her own simple prayer that it
might have the desired effect. But all in vain, for every day Mabel
became weaker, while her dark eyes grew larger and brighter, anon
lighting up with joy as she heard her husband’s footsteps in the hall,
and again filling with tears as she glanced timidly into his face, and
thought of the dread reality.

“Maybe I shall die,” was more than once murmured in her sleep, and John
Jr., as often as he heard those words, would press her burning hands,
and mentally reply, “Poor little Meb.”

And all this time no one thought to call a physician, until Mr.
Livingstone himself at last suggested it. At first he had felt no
interest whatever in his daughter-in-law, but with him force of habit
was everything, and when she no longer came among them, he missed
her—missed her languid steps upon the stairs and her childish voice in
the parlor. At last it one day occurred to him to visit her. She was
sleeping when he entered the room, but he could see there had been a
fearful change since last he looked upon her, and without a word
concerning his intentions, he walked to the kitchen, ordering one of
his servants to start forthwith for the physician, whose residence was
a few miles distant.

Mrs. Livingstone was in the front parlor when he returned, in company
with Doctor Gordon, and immediately her avaricious spirit asked who
would pay the bill, and why was he sent for. Mabel did not need him—she
was only babyish and spleeny—and so she told the physician, who,
however, did not agree with her. He did not say that Mabel would die,
but he thought so, for his experienced eye saw in her infallible signs
of the disease which had stricken down both her parents, and to which,
from her birth, she had been a prey. Mabel guessed as much from his
manner, and when again he visited her, she asked him plainly what he
thought.

She was young—a bride—surrounded apparently by everything which could
make her happy, and the physician hesitated, answering her evasively,
until she said, “Do not fear to tell me truly, for I want to die. Oh, I
long to die,” she continued, passionately clasping her thin white hands
together.

“That is an unusual wish in one so young,” answered the physician, “but
to be plain with you, Mrs. Livingstone, I think consumption too deeply
seated to admit of your recovery. You may be better, but never well.
Your disease is hereditary, and has been coming on too long.”

“It is well,” was Mabel’s only answer, as she turned wearily upon her
side and hid her face in the pillows.

For a long time she lay there, thinking, weeping, and thinking again,
of the noisome grave through which she must pass, and from which she
instinctively shrank, it was so dark, so cold, and dreary. But Mabel
had trusted in One who she knew would go with her down into the lone
valley—whose arm she felt would uphold her as she crossed the dark,
rolling stream of death; and as if her frail bark were already safely
moored upon the shores of the eternal river, she looked back dreamily
upon the world she had left, and as she saw what she felt would surely
be, she again murmured through her tears, “It is well.”

That night, when John Jr. came up to his room, he appeared somewhat
moody and cross, barely speaking to Mabel, and then walking up and down
the room with the heavy tread which always indicated a storm within. He
had that day been to Frankfort, hearing that Nellie was really coming
home very soon—very possibly she was now on her way. Of course she
would visit Mabel, when she heard she was sick, and of course he must
meet her face to face, must stand with her at the bedside of _his wife_
and that wife Mabel. In his heart he did not accuse the latter of
feigning her illness, but he wished she would get well faster, so that
Nellie need not feel obliged to visit her. She could at least make an
effort—a great deal depended upon that—and she had now been confined to
her room three or four weeks.

Thus he reflected as he walked, and at last his thoughts formed
themselves into words. Stopping short at the foot of the bed, he said
abruptly and without looking her in the face, “How do you feel
tonight?”

The stifled cough which Mabel tried to suppress because it was
offensive to him, brought a scowl to his forehead, and in imagination
he anticipated her answer, “I do not think I am any better.”

“And I don’t believe you try to be,” sprang to his lips, but its
utterance was prevented by a glance at her face, which by the
flickering lamplight looked whiter than ever.

“Nellie is coming home in a few weeks,” he said at length, with his
usual precipitancy.

’Twas the first time Mabel had heard that name since the night when her
mother-in-law had rang it in her ears, and now she started so quickly,
that the offending cough could not be forced back, and the coughing fit
which followed was so violent that John Jr., as he held the bowl to her
quivering lips, saw that what she had raised was streaked with blood.
But he was unused to sickness, and he gave it no farther thought,
resuming the conversation as soon as she became quiet.

“To be plain, Meb,” said he, “I want you to hurry and get well before
Nellie comes—for if you are sick she’ll feel in duty bound to visit
you, and I’d rather face a loaded cannon than her.”

Mabel was too much exhausted to answer immediately, and she lay so long
with her eyes closed that John Jr., growing impatient, said, “Are you
asleep, Meb?”

“No, no,” said she, at the same time requesting him to take the vacant
chair by her side, as she wished to talk with him.

John Jr. hated to be talked to, particularly by her, for he felt that
she had much cause to reproach him; but she did not, and as she
proceeded, his heart melted toward her in a manner which he had never
thought possible. Very gently she spoke of her approaching end as sure.

“You ask me to make haste and be well,” said she, “but it cannot be. I
shall never go out into the bright sunshine again, never join you in
the parlor below, and before the cold winds of winter are blowing, I
shall be dead. I hope I shall live until Nellie comes, for I must see
her, I must make it right between her and you. I must tell her to
forgive you for marrying me when you loved only her; and she will
listen—she won’t refuse me, and when I am gone you’ll be happy
together.”

John Jr. did not speak, but the little hand which nervously moved
toward him was met more than half-way, and thus strengthened, Mabel
continued: “You must sometimes think and speak of Mabel when she is
dead. I do not ask you to call me wife. I do not wish it, but you must
forget how wretched I have made you, for oh, I did not mean it, and had
I sooner known what I do now, I would have died ere I had caused you
one pang of sorrow.”

Afterward, when it was too late, John Jr. would have given worlds to
recall that moment, that he might tell the broken-hearted girl how
bitterly he, too, repented of all the wrong he had done her; but he did
not say so then—he could only listen, while he mentally resolved that
if Mabel were indeed about to die, he would make the remainder of her
short life happy, and thus atone, as far as possible, for the past. But
alas for John Jr., his resolutions were easily broken, and as days and
weeks went by, and there was no perceptible change in her, he grew
weary of well-doing, absenting himself whole days from the sick-room,
and at night rather unwillingly resuming his post as watcher, for Mabel
would have no one else.

Since Mabel’s illness he had occupied the little room adjoining hers,
and often when in the still night he lay awake, watching the shadow
which the lamp cast upon the wall, and thinking of her for whom the
light was constantly kept burning, his conscience would smite him
terribly, and rising up, he would steal softly to her bedside to see if
she were sleeping quietly. But anon he grew weary of this, too; the
shadow on the wall troubled him, it kept him awake; it was a continual
reproach, and he must be rid of it, somehow. He tried the experiment of
closing his door, but Mabel knew the moment he attempted it, and he
could not refuse her when she asked him to leave it open.

John Jr. grew restless, fidgety, and nervous. Why need the lamp be kept
burning? He could light it when necessary; or why need he sleep there,
when some one else would do as well? He thought of ’Lena—she was just
the one, and the next day he would speak to her. To his great joy she
consented to relieve him awhile, provided Mabel were willing; but she
was not, and John Jr. was forced to submit. He was not accustomed to
restraint, and every night matters grew worse and worse. The shadow
annoyed him exceedingly. If he slept, he dreamed that it kept a
glimmering watch over him, and when he awoke, he, in turn, watched over
that, until the misty day-light came to dissipate the phantom.

About this time several families from Frankfort started for New
Orleans, where they were wont to spend the winter, and irresistibly,
John Jr. became possessed of a desire to visit that city, too. Mabel
would undoubtedly live until spring, now that the trying part of autumn
was past and there could be no harm in his leaving her for awhile, when
he so much needed rest. Accordingly, ’Lena was one day surprised by his
announcing his intended trip.

“But you cannot be in earnest,” she said; “you surely will not leave
Mabel now.”

“And why not?” he asked. “She doesn’t grow any worse, and won’t until
spring, and this close confinement is absolutely killing me! Why, I’ve
lost six pounds in six months, and you’ll see to her, I know you will.
You’re a good girl, and I like you, if I did get angry with you, weeks
ago when I went a hunting.”

’Lena knew he ought not to go, and she tried hard to convince him of
the fact, telling him how much pleasure she had felt in observing his
improved manner toward Mabel, and that he must not spoil it now.

“It’s no use talking,” said he, “I’m bent on going somewhere. I’ve
tried to be good, I know, but the fact is, I can’t stay _put_. It isn’t
my nature. I shan’t tell Meb till just before I start, for I hate
scenes.”

“And suppose she dies while you are gone?” asked ’Lena.

John was beginning to grow impatient, for he knew he was wrong, and
rather tartly he answered, as he left the room, “Give her a decent
burial, and present the bill to mother!”

“The next morning, as ’Lena sat alone with Mabel, John Jr. entered,
dressed and ready for his journey. But he found it harder telling his
wife than he had anticipated. She looked unusually pale this morning.
The sallowness of her complexion was all gone, and on either cheek
there burned a round, bright spot. ’Lena had just been arranging her
thick, glossy hair, and now, wholly exhausted, she reclined upon her
pillows, while her large black eyes, unnaturally bright, sparkled with
joy at the sight of her husband. But they quickly filled with tears
when told that he was going away, and had come to say good-bye.

“It’s only to New Orleans and back,” he said, as he saw her changing
face. “I shan’t be gone long, and ’Lena will take care of you a heap
better than I can.”

“It isn’t that,” answered Mabel, wiping her tears away. “Don’t go,
John. Wait a little while. I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“You are nervous,” said he, playfully lapping her white cheek. “You’re
not going to die. You’ll live to be grandmother yet, who knows? But I
must be off or lose the train. Good bye, little Meb,” grasping her
hand, “Good-bye, ’Lena. I’ll bring you both something nice—good-bye.”

When she saw that he was going, Mabel asked him to come back to her
bedside just for one moment. He could not refuse, and winding her long,
emaciated arms around his neck, she whispered, “Kiss me once before you
go. I shall never ask it again, and ’twill make me happier when you are
gone.”

“A dozen times, if you like,” said he, giving her the only husband’s
kiss she had ever received.

For a moment longer she detained him, while she prayed silently for
heaven’s blessing on his wayward head, and then releasing him, she bade
him go. Had he known of all that was to follow, he would not have left
her, but he believed as he said, that she would survive the winter, and
with one more kiss upon her brow, where the perspiration was standing
thickly, he departed. The window of Mabel’s room commanded a view of
the turnpike, and when the sound of horses’ feet was heard on the lawn,
she requested ’Lena to lead her to the window, where she stood watching
him until a turn in the road hid him from her sight.

“’Tis the last time,” said she, “and he will never know how much this
parting cost me.”

That night, as they were alone in the gathering twilight, Mabel said,
“If I die before Nellie comes I want you to tell her how it all
happened, and that she must forgive him, for he was not to blame.”

“I do not understand you,” said ’Lena, and then, in broken sentences,
Mabel told what her mother-in-law had said, and how terribly John was
deceived. “Of course he couldn’t love me after that,” said she, “and
it’s right that I should die. He and Nellie were made for each other,
and if the inhabitants of heaven are allowed to watch over those they
loved on earth, I will ask to be always near them. You will tell her,
won’t you?”

’Lena promised, adding that she thought Mabel would see Nellie herself
as she was to sail from Liverpool the 20th, and a few days proved her
conjecture correct. Entering Mabel’s room one morning about a week
after John’s departure, she brought the glad news that Nellie had
returned, and would be with them to-morrow.

The next day Nellie came, but she, too, was changed. The roundness of
her form and face was gone; the rose had faded from her cheek, and her
footsteps were no longer light and bounding as of old. She knew of John
Jr.’s absence or she would not have come, for she could not meet him
face to face. She had heard, too, of his treatment of Mabel, and while
she felt indignant toward him, she freely forgave his innocent wife,
who she felt had been more sinned against than sinning.

With a faint cry Mabel started from her pillow, and burying her face on
Nellie’s neck, wept like a child. “You do not hate me,” she said at
last, “or you would not have come so soon.”

“Hate you?—no,” answered Nellie. “I have no cause for hating _you_.”

“And you will stay with me until I die—until he comes home—and forgive
him, too,” Mabel continued.

“I can promise the first, but the latter is harder,” said Nellie, her
cheeks burning with anger as she gazed on the wreck before her.

“But you must, you will,” exclaimed Mabel, rapidly telling all she
knew; then falling back upon the pillow, she added, “You’ll forgive him
Nellie?”

As time passed on, Mabel grew weaker and weaker, clinging closer to
Nellie as she felt the dark shadow of death creeping gradually over
her.

“If he’d only come,” she would say, “and I could place your hand in his
before I died.”

But it was not to be. Day after day John Jr. lingered, dreading to
return, for he knew Nellie was there, and he could not meet her, he
thought, at the bedside of Mabel. So he tarried until a letter from
’Lena, which said that Mabel would die, decided him, and rather
reluctantly he started homeward. Meantime Mabel, who knew nothing of
her loss, conceived the generous idea of willing all her possessions to
her recreant husband.

“Perhaps he’ll think more kindly of me,” said she to his father, to
whom she first communicated her plan, and Mr. Livingstone felt that he
could not undeceive her.

Accordingly, a lawyer was summoned from Frankfort, and the will duly
drawn up, signed, sealed, and delivered into the hands of Mr.
Livingstone, whose wife, with a mocking laugh, bade him “guard it
carefully, it was so valuable.”

“It shows her goodness of heart, at least,” said he, and possibly Mrs.
Livingstone thought so, too, for from that time her manner softened
greatly toward her daughter-in-law.


It was midnight at Maple Grove. On the table, in its accustomed place,
the lamp was burning dimly, casting the shadow upon the wall, whilst
over the whole room a darker shadow was brooding. The window was open,
and the cool night air came softly in, lifting the masses of raven hair
from off the pale brow of the dying. Tenderly above her Nellie and
’Lena were bending. They had watched by her many a night, and now she
asked them not to leave her, not to disturb a single one—she would
rather die alone.

The sound of horses’ hoofs rang out on the still air, but she did not
heed it. Nearer and nearer it came, over the lawn, up the graveled
walk, through the yard, and Nellie’s face blanched to an unnatural
whiteness as she thought who that midnight-rider was. Arrived in
Frankfort only an hour before, he had hastened forward, impelled by a
something he could not resist. From afar he had caught the glimmering
light, and he felt he was not too late. He knew how to enter the house,
and on through the wide hall and up the broad staircase he came, until
he stood in the chamber, where before him another guest had entered,
whose name was Death!

Face to face he stood with Nellie Douglass, and between them lay _his_
wife—_her_ rival—the white hands folded meekly upon her bosom, and the
pale lips just as they had breathed a prayer for him.

“Mabel! She is dead!” was all he uttered, and falling upon his knees,
he buried his face in the pillow, while half scornfully, half
pityingly, Nellie gazed upon him.

There was much of bitterness in her heart toward him, not for the wrong
he had done her, but for the sake of the young girl, now passed forever
away. ’Lena felt differently. His silent grief conquered all
resentment, and going to his side, she told him how peacefully Mabel
had died—how to the last she had loved and remembered him, praying that
he might be happy when she was gone,

“Poor little Meb, she deserved a better fate,” was all he said, as he
continued his kneeling posture, until the family and servants, whom
Nellie had summoned, came crowding round, the cries of the latter
grating on the ear, and seeming sadly out of place for her whose short
life had been so dreary, and who had welcomed death as a release from
all her pain.

It was Mrs. Livingstone’s wish that Mabel should be arrayed in her
bridal robes, but with a shudder at the idle mockery, John Jr.
answered, “No,” and in a plain white muslin, her shining hair arrayed
as she was wont to wear it, they placed her in her coffin, and on a
sunny slope where the golden sunlight and the pale moonbeams latest
fell, and where in spring the bright green grass and the sweet wild
flowers are earliest seen, laid her down to sleep.

That night, when all around was still, John Jr. lay musing sadly of the
past. His affection for Mabel had been slight and variable, but now
that she was gone, he missed her. The large easy-chair, with its
cushions and pillows, was empty, and as he thought of the pale, dark
face and aching head he had so often seen reclining there, and which he
would never see again, he groaned in bitterness of spirit, for well he
knew that he had helped to break the heart now lying cold and still
beneath the coffin-lid. There was no shadow on the wall, for the lamp
had gone out with the young life for whom it had been kept burning, but
many a shadow lay dark and heavy across his heart.

With the sun-setting a driving rain had come on, and as the November
wind went howling past the window, and the large drops beat against the
casement, he thought of the lonesome little grave on which that rain
was falling; and shuddering, he hid his face in the pillows, asking to
be forgiven, for he knew that all too soon that grave was made, and he
had helped to make it. At last, long after the clock had told the hour
of midnight, he arose, and lighting the lamp which many a weary night
had burned for _her_, he placed it where the shadow would fall upon the
wall as it had done of old. It was no longer a phantom to annoy him,
and soothed by its presence, he fell asleep, dreaming that Mabel had
come back to bring him her forgiveness, but when he essayed to touch
her, she vanished from his sight, and there was nothing left save that
shadow on the wall.




CHAPTER XXVIII.
MRS. GRAHAM’S RETURN.


Mr. and Mrs. Graham had returned to Woodlawn, the former remaining but
a day and night, and then, without once seeing ’Lena, departing for
Europe, where business, either fancied or real, called him. Often, when
lying weary and sick in Havana, had he resolved on revealing to his
wife the secret which he felt was wearing his life away, but the
cowardice of his nature seemed increased by physical weakness, and from
time to time was the disclosure postponed, while the chain of evidence
was fearfully lengthening around poor ’Lena, to whom Mrs. Graham had
transferred the entire weight of her displeasure.

Loving her husband as well as such as she could love, she was ever
ready to forgive when she saw any indications of reform on his part,
and as during all their journey he had never once given her cause for
offense, she began to attribute his former delinquencies wholly to
’Lena; and when he proposed a tour to Europe she readily sanctioned it,
hoping that time and absence would remove from his mind all thoughts of
the beautiful girl, who she thought was her rival. Still, though she
would not confess it, in her heart she did not believe ’Lena guilty
except so far as a desire to attract Mr. Graham’s attention would make
her so.

For this belief she had a good and potent reason. The daguerreotype
which had caused so much trouble was still in her possession, guarded
carefully from her husband, who never suspecting the truth, supposed he
had lost it. Frequently had Mrs. Graham examined the picture, each time
discovering some point of difference between it and its supposed
original. Still she never for a moment doubted that it was ’Lena, until
an event occurred which convinced her of the contrary, leaving her,
meantime, more mystified than ever.

On their way home from Havana, Mr. Graham had proposed stopping a day
in Cincinnati, taking rooms at the Burnet House, where the first
individual whom they saw at the table was our old acquaintance, Joel
Slocum. Not finding his business as profitable in Lexington as he could
wish, he had recently removed to Cincinnati. Here his aspiring mind had
prompted him to board at the Burnet House, until he’d seen the “Ohio
elephant,” when he intended retiring to one of the cheaper
boarding-houses. The moment he saw Mr. Graham, a grin of recognition
became visible on his face, bringing to view a row of very long and
very yellow teeth, apparently unacquainted with the use of either water
or brush.

“Who is that loafer who seems to know you?” asked Mrs. Graham,
directing her husband’s attention toward Joel.

Mr. Graham replied that “he had once seen him in Lexington, and that he
took daguerreotypes.”

The moment dinner was over, Joel came forward, going through with one
of his wonderful bows, and exclaiming, with his peculiar nasal twang,
“Now you don’t say this is you. And this is your old woman, I s’pose.
Miss Graham, how-dy-du? Darned if you don’t look like Aunt Nancy, only
she’s lean and you are squatty. S’posin’ you give me a call and get
your picters taken. I didn’t get an all-killin’ sight of practice in
Lexington, for the plaguy greenhorns didn’t know enough to patternize
me, and ’taint a tarnation sight better here; but you,” turning to Mr.
Graham, “employed me once, and pretended to be suited.”

Mr. Graham turned scarlet, and saying something in an undertone to
Joel, gave his wife his arm, leading her to their room, where he made
an excuse for leaving her awhile. Looking from the window a moment
after, Mrs. Graham saw him walking down the street in close
conversation with Joel, who, by the way of showing his importance,
lifted his white beaver to almost every man he met. Instantly her
curiosity was roused, and when her husband returned, every motion of
his was narrowly watched, the espionage resulting in the conviction
that there was something in his possession which he did not wish her to
see. Once, when she came unexpectedly upon him, he hastily thrust
something into his pocket, appearing so much confused that she resolved
to ferret out the secret.

Accordingly, that night, when assured by his heavy breathing that he
was asleep, she crept softly from his side, and rummaging his pockets,
found a daguerreotype, which by the full moonlight she saw was a
_fac-simile_ of the one she had in her possession. The arrangement of
the hair—everything—was the same, and utterly confounded, she stood
gazing first at one and then at the other, wondering what it meant.
Could ’Lena be in the city? She thought not, and even if she were, the
last daguerreotype was not so much like her, she fancied, as the first.
At all events, she did not dare secrete it as she had done its
companion, and stealthily returning it to its place, she crept back to
bed.

The next night they reached Woodlawn, where they learned that Mabel was
buried that day. Of course ’Lena could not have been absent from home.
Mrs. Graham felt convinced of that, and gradually the conviction came
upon her that another than ’Lena was the original of the
daguerreotypes. And yet she was not generous enough to tell Durward so.
She knew he was deceived—she wished him to remain so—and to effect it,
she refrained from seeking an explanation from her husband, fearing
lest ’Lena should be proved innocent. Her husband knew there was a
misunderstanding between Durward and ’Lena, and if she were to ask him
about the pictures, he would, she thought, at once suspect the cause of
that misunderstanding, and as a matter of course, exonerate ’Lena from
all blame. The consequence of this she foresaw, and therefore she
resolved upon keeping her own counsel, satisfied if in the end she
prevented Durward from making ’Lena his wife.

To effect this, she endeavored, during the winter, to keep the matter
almost constantly before Durward’s mind, frequently referring to
’Lena’s agitation when she first learned that Mr. Graham had started
for Europe. She had called with her son at Maple Grove on the very day
of her husband’s departure. ’Lena had not met the lady before, since
that night in Frankfort, and now, with the utmost hauteur, she returned
her nod, and then, too proud to leave the room, resumed her seat near
the window directly opposite the divan on which Durward was seated with
Carrie.

She did not know before of Mrs. Graham’s return, and when her aunt
casually asked, “Did your husband come back with you?” she
involuntarily held her breath for the answer, which, when it came, sent
the blood in torrents to her face and neck, while her eyes sparkled
with joy. She should see him—he would explain everything—and she should
be guiltless in Durward’s sight. This was the cause of her joy, which
was quickly turned into sorrow by Mrs. Graham’s adding,

“But he started this morning for Europe, where he will remain three
months, and perhaps longer, just according to his business.”

The bright flush died away, and was succeeded by paleness, which did
not escape the observation or either mother or son, the latter of whom
had watched her from the first, noting each change, and interpreting it
according to his fears.

“’Lena, ’Lena, how have I been deceived!” was his mental cry as she
precipitately left the room, saying to her aunt, who asked what was the
matter, that she was faint and dizzy. Death had been but yesterday
within their walls, and as if softened by its presence, Mrs.
Livingstone actually spoke kindly of her niece, saying, that “constant
watching with poor, dear Mabel had impaired her health.”

“Perhaps there are other causes which may affect her,” returned Mrs.
Graham, with a meaning look, which, though lost on Mrs. Livingstone,
was noticed by Durward, who soon proposed leaving.

On their way home, his mother asked if he observed ’Lena when Mr.
Graham was mentioned.

Without saying that he did, Durward replied, “I noticed your remark to
Mrs. Livingstone, and was sorry for it, for I do not wish you to say a
word which will throw the least shade of suspicion upon ’Lena. Her
reputation as yet is good, and you must not be the first to say aught
against it.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” answered Mrs. Graham, anxious to conciliate her
son, but she found it a harder matter to refrain than she had first
supposed.

’Lena was to her a constant eye-sore, and nothing but the presence of
Durward prevented her from occasionally giving vent in public to
expressions which would have operated unfavorably against the young
girl, and when at last circumstances occurred which gave her, as she
thought, liberty to free her mind, she was only too willing to do so.
Of those circumstances, in which others besides ’Lena were concerned,
we will speak in another chapter.




CHAPTER XXIX.
ANNA AND CAPTAIN ATHERTON.


Malcolm Everett’s engagement with General Fontaine had expired, and as
was his original intention, he started for New York, first seeking an
interview with Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone, of whom he asked their
daughter Anna in marriage, at the same time announcing the startling
fact that they had been engaged for more than a year. “I do not ask you
for her now,” said he, “for I am not in a situation to support her as I
would wish to, but that time will come ere long, I trust, and I can
assure you that her happiness shall be the first object of my life.”

There was no cringing on the part of Malcolm Everett. He was unused to
that, and as an equal meets an equal, he met them, made known his
request, and then in silence awaited their answer. Had Mrs. Livingstone
been less indignant, there would undoubtedly have ensued a clamorous
call for hartshorn and vinaigrette, but as it was, she started up, and
confronting the young man, she exclaimed, “How dare you ask such a
thing? _My_ daughter marry _you_!”

“And why not, madam?” he answered, coolly, while Mrs. Livingstone
continued: “_You_, a low-born Yankee, who have been, as it were, an
hireling. _You_ presume to ask for _my_ daughter!”

“I do,” he answered calmly, with a quiet smile, ten-fold more
tantalizing than harsh words would have been, “I do. Can I have her
with your consent?”

“Never, so long as I live. I’d sooner see her dead than wedded to
vulgar poverty.”

“That is your answer. Very well,” said Malcolm, bowing stiffly. “And
now I will hear yours,” turning to Mr. Livingstone, who replied, that
“he would leave the matter entirely with his wife—it was nothing to
him—he had nothing personal against Mr. Everett—he rather liked him
than otherwise, but he hardly thought Anna suited to him, she had been
brought up so differently;” and thus evasively answering, he walked
away.

“Cowardly fool!” muttered Mrs. Livingstone, as the door closed upon
him. “If I pretended to be a man, I’d be one;” then turning to Malcolm,
she said, “Is there anything further you wish to say?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “I have honorably asked you for your daughter.
You have refused her, and must abide the consequence.”

“And pray what may that be?” she asked, and he answered: “She will soon
be of an age to act for herself, and though I would far rather take her
with your consent, I shall not then hesitate to take her without, if
you still persist in opposing her.”

“There is the door,” said Mrs. Livingstone rising.

“I see it, madam,” answered Malcolm, without deigning to move.

“Oblige me by passing out,” continued Mrs. Livingstone. “Insolent
creature, to stand here threatening to elope with my daughter, who has
been destined for another since her infancy.”

“But she shall never become the bride of that old man,” answered
Malcolm. “I know your schemes. I’ve seen them all along, and I will
frustrate them, too.”

“You cannot,” fiercely answered Mrs. Livingstone. “It shall be ere
another year comes round, and when you hear that it is so, know that
you hastened it forward;” and the indignant lady, finding that her
opponent was not inclined to move, left the room herself, going in
quest of Anna, whom she determined to watch for fear of what might
happen.

But Anna was nowhere to be found, and in a paroxysm of rage she alarmed
the household, instituting a strict search, which resulted in the
discovery of Anna beneath the same sycamore where Malcolm had first
breathed his vows, and whither she had repaired to await the decision
of her parents.

“I expected as much,” said she, when told of the result, “but it
matters not. I am yours, and I’ll never marry another.”

The approach of the servants prevented any further conversation, and
with a hurried adieu they parted. A few days afterward, as Mrs.
Livingstone, sat in her large easy-chair before the glowing grate,
Captain Atherton was announced, and shown at once into her room. To do
Mrs. Livingstone justice, we must say that she had long debated the
propriety of giving Anna, in all the freshness of her girlhood, to a
man old as her father, but any hesitancy she had heretofore felt, had
now vanished. The crisis had come, and when the captain, as he had two
or three times before done, broached the subject, urging her to a
decision, she replied that she was willing, provided Anna’s consent
could be gained.

“Pho! that’s easy enough,” said the captain, complacently rubbing
together his fat hands and smoothing his colored whiskers—“Bring her in
here, and I’ll coax her in five minutes.”

Anna was sitting with her grandmother and ’Lena, when word came that
her mother wished to see her, the servant adding, with a titter, that
“Mas’r Atherton thar too.”

Instinctively she knew why she was sent for, and turning white as
marble, she begged her cousin to go with her. But ’Lena refused,
soothing the agitated girl, and begging her to be calm. “You’ve only to
be decided,” said she, “and it will soon be over. Captain Atherton, I
am sure, will not insist when he sees how repugnant to your feelings it
is.”

But Anna knew her own weakness—she could never say, in her mother’s
presence, what she felt—and trembling like an aspen, she descended the
stairs, meeting in the lower hall her brother, who asked what was the
matter.

“Oh, John, John,” she cried, “Captain Atherton is in there with mother,
and they have sent for me. What shall I do?”

“Be a woman,” answered John Jr. “Tell him _no_ in good broad English,
and if the old fellow insists, I’ll blow his brains out!”

But the Captain did not insist. He was too cunning for that, and when,
with a burst of tears, Anna told him she could not be his wife because
she loved another, he said, good-humoredly, “Well, well, never mind
spoiling those pretty blue eyes. I’m not such an old savage as you
think me. So we’ll compromise the matter this way. If you really love
Malcolm, why, marry him, and on your bridal day I’ll make you a present
of a nice little place I have in Frankfort; but if, on the other hand,
Malcolm proves untrue, you must promise to have me. Come, that’s a fair
bargain. What do you say?”

“Malcolm will never prove untrue,” answered Anna.

“Of course not,” returned the captain. “So you are safe in promising.’

“But what good will it do you?” queried Anna.

“No good, in particular,” said the captain. “It’s only a whim of mine,
to which I thought you might perhaps agree, in consideration of my
offer.”

“I do—I will,” said Anna, thinking the captain not so bad after all.

“There’s mischief somewhere, and I advise you to watch,” said John Jr.,
when he learned from Anna the result of the interview.

But week after week glided by. Mrs. Livingstone’s persecutions ceased,
and she sometimes herself handed to Anna Malcolm’s letters, which came
regularly, and when about the first of March Captain Atherton himself
went off to Washington, Anna gave her fears to the wind, and all the
day long went singing about the house, unmindful of the snare laid for
her unsuspecting footsteps. At length Malcolm’s letters suddenly
ceased, and though Anna wrote again and again, there came no answer.
Old Cæsar, who always carried and brought the mail for Maple Grove, was
questioned, but he declared he “done got none from Mas’r Everett,” and
suspicion in that quarter was lulled. Unfortunately for Anna, both her
father and John Jr. were now away, and she had no counselor save ’Lena,
who once, on her own responsibility, wrote to Malcolm, but with a like
success, and Anna’s heart grew weary with hope deferred. Smilingly Mrs.
Livingstone looked on, one moment laughing at Anna for what she termed
love-sickness, and the next advising her to be a woman, and marry
Captain Atherton. “He was not very old—only forty-three—and it was
better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave!”

Thus the days wore on, until one evening just as the family were
sitting down to tea they were surprised by a call from the captain, who
had returned that afternoon, and who, with the freedom of an old
friend, unceremoniously entered the supper-room, appropriating to
himself the extra plate which Mrs. Livingstone always had upon the
table. Simultaneously with him came Cæsar, who having been to the
post-office, had just returned, bringing, besides other things, a paper
for Carrie, from her old admirer, Tom Lakin, who lived in Rockford, at
which place the paper was printed. Several times had Tom remembered
Carrie in this way, and now carelessly glancing at the first page, she
threw it upon the floor, whence it was taken by Anna, who examined it
more minutely glancing, as a matter of course, to the marriage notices.

Meantime the captain, who was sitting by ’Lena, casually remarked, “Oh,
I forgot to tell you that I saw Mr. Everett in Washington.”

“Mr. Everett—Malcolm Everett?” said ’Lena, quickly.

“Yes, Malcolm Everett,” answered the captain.

“He is there spending the honeymoon with his bride!”

’Lena’s exclamation of astonishment was prevented by a shriek from
Anna, who had that moment read the announcement of Mr. Everett’s
marriage, which was the first in the list. It was Malcolm H.
Everett—there could be no mistake—and when ’Lena reached her cousin’s
side, she found that she had fainted. All was now in confusion, in the
midst of which the Captain took his leave, having first managed to
speak a few words in private with Mrs. Livingstone.

“Fortune favors us,” was her reply, as she went back to her daughter,
whose long, death-like swoon almost wrung from her the secret.

But Anna revived, and with the first indication of returning
consciousness, the cold, hard woman stifled all her better feelings,
and then tried to think she was acting only for the good of her child.
For a long time Anna appeared to be in a kind of benumbed torpor,
requesting to be left alone, and shuddering if Mr. Everett’s name were
mentioned in her presence. It was in vain that ’Lena strove to comfort
her, telling her there might be some mistake. Anna refused to listen,
angrily bidding ’Lena desist, and saying frequently that she cared but
little what became of herself now. A species of recklessness seemed to
have taken possession of her, and when her mother one day carelessly
remarked that possibly Captain Atherton would claim the fulfillment of
her promise, she answered, in the cold, indifferent tone which now
marked her manner of speaking, “Let him. I am ready and willing for the
sacrifice.”

“Are you in earnest?” asked Mrs. Livingstone, eagerly.

“In earnest? Yes—try me and see,” was Anna’s brief answer, which
somewhat puzzled her mother, who would in reality have preferred
opposition to this unnatural passiveness.

But anything to gain her purpose, she thought, and drawing Anna closely
to her side, she very gently and affectionately told her how happy it
would make her could she see her the wife of Captain Atherton, who had
loved and waited for her so long, and who would leave no wish, however
slight, ungratified. And Anna, with no shadow of emotion on her calm,
white face, consented to all that her mother asked, and when next the
captain came, she laid her feverish hand in his, and with a strange,
wild light beaming from her dark blue eyes, promised to share his
fortunes as his wife.

“’Twill be winter and spring,” said she, with a bitter, mocking laugh,
“’Twill be winter and spring, but it matters not.”

Many years before, when a boy of eighteen, Captain Atherton had loved,
or fancied he loved, a young girl, whose very name afterward became
hateful to him, and now, as he thought of Anna’s affection for Malcolm,
he likened it to his own boyish fancy, believing she would soon get
over it, and thank him for what he had done.

That night Anna saw the moon and stars go down, bending far out from
her window, that the damp air might cool her burning brow, and when the
morning sun came up the eastern horizon, its first beams fell on the
golden curls which streamed across the window-sill, her only pillow the
livelong night. On ’Lena’s mind a terrible conviction was fastening
itself—Anna was crazed. She saw it in the wildness of her eye, in the
tones of her voice, and more than all, in the readiness with which she
yielded herself to her mother’s schemes, “But it shall not be,” she
thought, “I will save her,” and then she knelt before her aunt,
imploring her to spare her daughter—not to sacrifice her on the altar
of mammon.

But Mrs. Livingstone turned angrily away, telling her to mind her own
affairs. Then ’Lena sought her cousin, and winding her arms around her
neck, besought of her to resist—to burst the chain which bound her, and
be free. But with a shake other head, Anna bade her go away. “Leave me,
’Lena Rivers,” she said, “leave me to work out my destiny. It is
decreed that I shall be his wife, and I may not struggle against it.
Each night I read it in the stars, and the wind, as it sighs through
the maple trees, whispers it to my ear.”

“Oh, if my aunt could see her now,” thought ’Lena but as if her
mother’s presence had a paralyzing power, Anna, when with her, was
quiet, gentle, and silent, and if Mrs. Livingstone sometimes missed her
merry laugh and playful ways, she thought the air of dignity which
seemed to have taken their place quite an improvement, and far more in
keeping with the bride-elect of Captain Atherton.

About this time Mr. Livingstone returned, appearing greatly surprised
at the phase which affairs had assumed in his absence, but when ’Lena
whispered to him her fears, he smilingly answered, “I reckon you’re
mistaken. Her mother would have found it out—where is she?”

In her chamber at the old place by the open window they found her, and
though she did not as usual spring eagerly forward to meet her father,
her greeting was wholly natural; but when Mr. Livingstone, taking her
upon his knee, said gently, “They tell me you are to be married soon,”
the wildness came back to her eye, and ’Lena wondered he could not see
it. But he did not, and smoothing her disordered tresses, he said,
“Tell me, my daughter, does this marriage please you? Do you enter into
it willingly?”

For a moment there was a wavering, and ’Lena held her breath to catch
the answer, which came at last, while the eyes shone brighter than
ever—“Willing? yes, or I should not do it; no one compels me, else I
would resist.”

“Woman’s nature,” said Mr. Livingstone, laughingly, while ’Lena turned
away to hide her tears.

Day after day preparations went on, for Mrs. Livingstone would have the
ceremony a grand and imposing one. In the neighborhood, the fast
approaching event was discussed, some pronouncing it a most fortunate
thing for Anna, who could not, of course, expect to make so eligible a
match as her more brilliant sister, while others—the sensible
portion—wondered, pitied, and blamed, attributing the whole to the
ambitious mother, whose agency in her son’s marriage was now generally
known. At Maple Grove closets, chairs, tables, and sofas were loaded
down with finery, and like an automaton, Anna stood up while they
fitted to her the rich white satin, scarcely whiter than her own face,
and Mrs. Livingstone, when she saw her daughter’s indifference, would
pinch her bloodless cheeks, wondering how she could care so little for
her good fortune.

Unnatural mother!—from the little grave on the sunny slope, now
grass-grown and green, came there no warning voice to stay her in her
purpose? No; she scarcely thought of Mabel now, and with unflinching
determination she kept on her way.

But there was one who, night and day, pondered in her mind the best way
of saving Anna from the living death to which she would surely awake,
when it was too late. At last she resolved on going herself to Captain
Atherton, telling him just how it was, and if there was a spark of
generosity in his nature, she thought he would release her cousin. But
this plan required much caution, for she would not have her uncle’s
family know of it, and if she failed, she preferred that it should be
kept a secret from the world. There was then no alternative but to go
in the night, and alone. She did not now often sit with the family, and
she knew they would not miss her. So, one evening when they were as
usual assembled in the parlor, she stole softly from the house, and
managing to pass the negro quarters unobserved, she went down to the
lower stable, where she saddled the pony she was now accustomed to
ride, and leading him by a circuitous path out upon the turnpike,
mounted and rode away.

The night was moonless, and the starlight obscured by heavy clouds, but
the pale face and golden curls of Anna, for whose sake she was there
alone, gleamed on her in the darkness, and ’Lena was not afraid.
Once—twice—she thought she caught the sound of another horse’s hoofs,
but when she stopped to listen, all was still, and again she pressed
forward, while her pursuer (for ’Lena was followed) kept at a greater
distance. Durward had been to Frankfort, and on his way home had
stopped at Maple Grove to deliver a package. Stopping only a moment, he
reached the turnpike just after ’Lena struck into it. Thinking it was a
servant, he was about to pass her, when her horse sheered at something
on the road-side, and involuntarily she exclaimed, “Courage, Dido,
there’s nothing to fear.”

Instantly he recognized her voice, and was about to overtake and speak
to her, but thinking that her mission was a secret one, or she would
not be there alone, he desisted. Still he could not leave her thus. Her
safety might be endangered, and reining in his steed, and accommodating
his pace to hers, he followed without her knowledge. On she went until
she reached the avenue leading to “Sunnyside,” as Captain Atherton
termed his residence, and there she stopped, going on foot to the
house, while, hidden by the deep darkness Durward waited and watched.

Half timidly ’Lena rang the door-bell, dropping her veil over her face
that she might not be recognized. “I want to see your master,” she said
to the woman who answered her ring, and who in some astonishment
replied, “Bless you, miss, Mas’r Atherton done gone to Lexington and
won’t be home till to-morry.”

“Gone!” repeated ’Lena in a disappointed tone. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Is you the new miss what’s comin’ here to live?” asked the negro, who
was Captain Atherton’s house keeper.

Instantly the awkwardness of her position flashed upon ’Lena, but
resolving to put a bold face on the matter, she removed her veil,
saying, playfully, “You know me now, Aunt Martha.”

“In course I do,” answered the negro, holding up both hands in
amazement, “but what sent you here this dark, unairthly night?”

“Business with your master,” and then suddenly remembering that among
her own race Aunt Martha was accounted an intolerable gossip, she began
to wish she had not come.

But it could not now be helped, and turning away, she walked slowly
down the avenue, wondering what the result would be. Again they were in
motion, she and Durward, who followed until he saw her safe home, and
then, glad that no one had seen her but himself, he retraced his steps,
pondering on the mystery which he could not fathom. After ’Lena left
Sunnyside, a misty rain came on, and by the time she reached her home,
her long riding-dress was wet and drizzled, the feathers on her cap
were drooping, and to crown all, as she was crossing the hall with
stealthy step, she came suddenly upon her aunt, who, surprised at her
appearance, demanded of her where she had been. But ’Lena refused to
tell, and in quite a passion Mrs. Livingstone laid the case before her
husband.

“Lena had been off that dark, rainy night, riding somewhere with
somebody, she wouldn’t tell who, but she (Mrs. Livingstone) most knew
if was Durward, and something must be done.”

Accordingly, next day; when they chanced to be alone, Mr. Livingstone
took the opportunity of questioning ’Lena, who dared not disobey him,
and with many tears she confessed the whole, saying that “if it were
wrong she was very sorry.”

“You acted foolishly, to say the least of it,” answered her uncle,
adding, dryly, that he thought she troubled herself altogether too much
about Anna, who seemed happy and contented.

Still he was ill at ease. ’Lena’s fears disturbed him, and for many
days he watched his daughter narrowly, admitting to himself that there
was something strange about her. But possibly all engaged girls acted
so; his wife said they did; and hating anything like a scene, he
concluded to let matters take their course, half hoping, and half
believing, too, that something would occur to prevent the marriage.
What it would be, or by what agency it would be brought about, he
didn’t know, but he resolved to let ’Lena alone, and when his wife
insisted upon his “lecturing her soundly for meddling,” he refused,
venturing even to say, that, “she hadn’t meddled.”

Meantime a new idea had entered ’Lena’s mind. She would write to Mr.
Everett. There might yet be some mistake; she had read of such things
in stories, and it could do no harm. Gradually as she wrote, hope grew
strong within her, and it became impressed upon her that there had been
some deep-laid, fiendish plot. If so, she dared not trust her letter
with old Cæsar, who might be bribed by his mistress. And how to convey
it to the office was now the grand difficulty. As if fortune favored
her plan, Durward, that very afternoon, called at Maple Grove, being as
he said, on his way to Frankfort.

’Lena would have died rather than ask a favor of him for herself, but
to save Anna she could do almost any thing. Hastily securing the
letter, and throwing on her sun-bonnet, she sauntered down the lawn and
out upon the turnpike, where by the gate she awaited his coming.

“’Lena—excuse me—Miss Rivers, is it you?” asked Durward, touching his
hat, as in evident confusion she came forward, asking if she could
trust him.

“Trust me? Yes, with anything,” answered Durward, quickly dismounting,
and forgetting everything save the bright, beautiful face which looked
up to him so eagerly.

“Then,” answered ’Lena, “take this letter and see it deposited safely,
will you?”

Glancing at the superscription, Durward felt his face crimson, while he
instantly remembered what Mrs. Livingstone had once said concerning
’Lena’s attachment to Mr. Everett.

“Sometime, perhaps, I will explain,” said ’Lena, observing the
expression of his countenance, and then adding, with some bitterness,
“I assure you there is no harm in it.”

“Of course not,” answered Durward, again mounting his horse, and riding
away more puzzled than ever, while ’Lena returned to the house, which
everywhere gave tokens of the approaching nuptials.

Already had several costly bridal gifts arrived, and among them was a
box from the captain, containing a set of diamonds, which Mrs.
Livingstone placed in her daughter’s waving hair, bidding her mark
their effect. But not a muscle of Anna’s face changed; nothing moved
her; and with the utmost indifference she gazed on the preparations
around her. A stranger would have said ’Lena was the bride, for, with
flushed cheeks and nervously anxious manner, she watched each sun as it
rose and set, wondering what the result would be. Once, when asked whom
she would have for her bridesmaid and groomsman, Anna had answered,
“Nellie and John!” but that could not be, for the latter had imposed
upon himself the penance of waiting a whole year ere he spoke to Nellie
of that which lay nearest his heart, and in order the better to keep
his vow, he had gone from home, first winning from her the promise that
she would not become engaged until his return. And now, when he learned
of his sister’s request, he refused to come, saying, “if she would make
such a consummate fool of herself, he did not wish to see her.”

So Carrie and Durward were substituted, and as this arrangement brought
the latter occasionally to the house, ’Lena had opportunities of asking
him if there had yet come any answer to her letter; and much oftener
than he would otherwise have done, Durward went down to Frankfort, for
he felt that it was no unimportant matter which thus deeply interested
’Lena. At last, the day before the bridal came, Durward had gone to the
city, and in a state of great excitement ’Lena awaited his return,
watching with a trembling heart as the sun went down behind the western
hills. Slowly the hours dragged on, and many a time she stole out in
the deep darkness to listen, but there was nothing to be heard save the
distant cry of the night-owl, and she was about retracing her steps for
the fifth time, when from behind a clump of rose-bushes started a
little dusky form, which whispered softly, “Is you Miss ’Leny?”

Repressing the scream which came near escaping her lips, ’Lena
answered, “Yes; what do you want?” while at the same moment she
recognized a little hunch back belonging to General Fontaine.

“Marster Everett tell me to fotch you this, and wait for the answer,”
said the boy, passing her a tiny note.

“Master Everett! Is he here?” she exclaimed, catching the note and
re-entering the house, where by the light of the hall lamp she read
what he had written.

It was very short, but it told all—how he had written again and again,
receiving no answer, and was about coming himself when a severe illness
prevented. The marriage, he said, was that of his uncle, for whom he
was named, and who had in truth gone on to Washington, the home of his
second wife. It closed by asking her to meet him, with Anna, on one of
the arbor bridges at midnight. Hastily tearing a blank leaf from a book
which chanced to be lying in the hall, ’Lena wrote, “We will be there,”
and giving it to the negro, bade him hasten back.

There was no longer need to wait for Durward, who, if he got no letter,
was not to call, and trembling in every nerve, ’Lena sought her
chamber, there to consider what she was next to do. For some time past
Carrie had occupied a separate room from Anna, who, she said disturbed
her with her late hours and restless turnings, so ’Lena’s part seemed
comparatively easy. Waiting until the house was still, she entered
Anna’s room, finding her, as she had expected, at her old place by the
open window, her head resting upon the sill, and when she approached
nearer, she saw that she was asleep.

“Let her sleep yet awhile,” said she; “it will do her good.”

In the room adjoining lay the bridal dress, and ’Lena’s first impulse
was to trample it under her feet, but passing it with a shudder, she
hastily collected whatever she thought Anna would most need. These she
placed in a small-sized trunk, and then knowing it was done, she
approached her cousin, who seemed to be dreaming, for she murmured the
name of “Malcolm.”

“He is here, love—he has come to save you,” she whispered, while Anna,
only partially aroused, gazed at her so vacantly, that ’Lena’s heart
stood still with fear lest the poor girl’s reason were wholly gone.
“Anna, Anna,” she said, “awake; Malcolm is here—in the garden, where
you must meet him—come.”

“Malcolm is married,” said Anna, in a whisper—married—and my bridal
dress is in there, all looped with flowers; would you like to see it?”

“Our Father in heaven help me,” cried ’Lena, clasping her hands in
anguish, while her tears fell like rain on Anna’s upturned face.

This seemed to arouse her, for in a natural tone she asked why ’Lena
wept. Again and again ’Lena repeated to her that Malcolm had come—that
he was not married—that he had come for her; and as Anna listened, the
torpor slowly passed away—the wild light in her eyes grew less bright,
for it was quenched by the first tears she had shed since the shadow
fell upon her; and when ’Lena produced the note, and she saw it was
indeed true, the ice about her heart was melted, and in choking,
long-drawn sobs, her pent-up feelings gave way, as she saw the gulf
whose verge she had been treading. Crouching at ’Lena’s feet, she
kissed the very hem of her garments, blessing her as her preserver, and
praying heaven to bless her, also. It was the work of a few moments to
array her in her traveling dress, and then very cautiously ’Lena led
her down the stairs, and out into the open air.

“If I could see father once,” said Anna; but such an act involved too
much danger, and with one lingering, tearful look at her old home, she
moved away, supported by ’Lena, who rather dragged than led her over
the graveled walk.

As they approached the arbor bridge, they saw the glimmering light of a
lantern, for the night was intensely dark, and in a moment Anna was
clasped in the arms which henceforth were to shelter her from the
storms of life. Helpless as an infant she lay, while ’Lena, motioning
the negro who was in attendance to follow her, returned to the house
for the trunk, which was soon safely deposited in the carriage at the
gate.

“Words cannot express what I owe you,” said Malcolm, when he gave her
his hand at parting, “but of this be assured, so long as I live you
have in me a friend and brother.” Turning back for a moment, he added,
“This flight is, I know, unnecessary, for I could prevent to-morrow’s
expected event in other ways than this, but revenge is sweet, and I
trust I am excusable for taking it in my own way.”

Anna could not speak, but the look of deep gratitude which beamed from
her eyes was far more eloquent than words. Upon the broad piazza ’Lena
stood until the last faint sound of the carriage wheels died away;
then, weary and worn, she sought her room, locking Anna’s door as she
passed it, and placing the key in her pocket. Softly she crept to bed
by the side of her slumbering grandmother, and with a fervent prayer
for the safety of the fugitives, fell asleep.




CHAPTER XXX.
THE RESULT.


The loud ringing of the breakfast-bell aroused ’Lena from her heavy
slumber, and with a vague consciousness of what had transpired the
night previous, she at first turned wearily upon her pillow, wishing it
were not morning; but soon remembering all, she sprang up, and after a
hasty toilet, descended to the breakfast-room, where another chair was
vacant, another face was missing. Without any suspicion of the truth,
Mrs. Livingstone spoke of Anna’s absence, saying she presumed the poor
girl was tired and sleepy, and this was admitted as an excuse for her
tardiness. But when breakfast was over and she still did not appear,
Corinda was sent to call her, returning soon with the information that
“she’d knocked and knocked, but Miss Anna would not answer, and when
she tried the door she found it locked.”

Involuntarily Mr. Livingstone glanced at ’Lena; whose face wore a
scarlet hue as she hastily quitted the table. With a presentiment of
something, he himself started for Anna’s room; followed by his wife and
Carrie, while ’Lena, half-way up the stairs, listened breathlessly for
the result. It was useless knocking for admittance, for there was no
one within to bid them enter, and with a powerful effort Mr.
Livingstone burst the lock. The window was open, the lamp was still
burning, emitting a faint, sickly odor; the bed was undisturbed, the
room in confusion, and Anna was gone. Mrs. Livingstone’s eye took in
all this at a glance, but her husband saw only the latter, and ere he
was aware of what he did, a fervent “Thank heaven,” escaped him.

“She’s gone—run away—dead, maybe,” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, wringing
her hands in unfeigned distress, and instinctively drawing nearer to
her husband for comfort.

By this time ’Lena had ventured into the room, and turning toward her,
Mr. Livingstone said, very gently, “’Lena, where is our child?”

“In Ohio, I dare say, by this time, as she took the night train at
Midway for Cincinnati,” said ’Lena, thinking she might as well tell the
whole at once.

“In Ohio!” shrieked Mrs. Livingstone, fiercely grasping ’Lena’s arm.
“What has she gone to Ohio for? Speak, ingrate, for you have done the
deed—I am sure of that!”

“It was Mr. Everett’s wish to return home that way I believe,” coolly
answered ’Lena, without quailing in the least from the eyes bent so
angrily upon her.

Instantly Mrs. Livingstone’s fingers loosened their grasp, while her
face grew livid with mingled passion and fear. Her fraud was
discovered—her stratagem had failed—and she was foiled in this, her
second darling scheme. But she was yet to learn what agency ’Lena had
in the matter, and this information her husband obtained for her. There
was no anger in the tones of his voice when he asked his niece to
explain the mystery, else she might not have answered, for ’Lena could
not be driven. Now, however, she felt that he had a right to know, and
she told him all she knew; what she had done herself and why she had
done it; that General Fontaine, to whom Malcolm had gone in his
trouble, had kindly assisted him by lending both servants and carriage;
but upon the intercepted letters she could throw no light.

“’Twas a cursed act, and whoever was guilty of it is unworthy the name
of either man or woman,” said Mr. Livingstone, while his eye rested
sternly upon his wife.

She knew that he suspected her, but he had no proof, and resolving to
make the best of the matter, she, too, united with him in denouncing
the deed, wondering who could have done it, and meanly suggesting Maria
Fontaine, a pupil of Mr. Everett’s, who had, at one time, felt a slight
preference for him. But this did not deceive her husband—neither did it
help her at all in the present emergency. The bride was gone, and
already she felt the tide of scandal and gossip which she knew would be
the theme of the entire neighborhood. Still, if her own shameful act
was kept a secret she could bear it, and it must be. No one knew of it
except Captain Atherton and Cæsar, the former of whom would keep his
own counsel, while fear of a passport down the river, the negroes’
dread, would prevent the latter from telling.

Accordingly, her chagrin was concealed, and affecting to treat the
whole matter as a capital joke, worthy of being immortalized in
romance, she returned to her room, and hastily writing a few lines,
rang the bell for Cæsar who soon appeared, declaring that “as true as
he lived and breathed and drew the breath of life, he’d done gin miss
every single letter afore handin’ ’em to anybody else.”

“Shut your mouth and mind you keep it shut, or you’ll find yourself in
New Orleans,” was Mrs. Livingstone’s very lady-like response, as she
handed him the note, bidding him take it to Captain Atherton.

For some reason or other the captain this morning was exceedingly
restless, walking from room to room, watching the clock, then the sun,
and finally, in order to pass the time away, trying on his wedding
suit, to see how he was going to look! Perfectly satisfied with his
appearance, he was in imagination going through the ceremony, and had
just inclined his head in token that he would take Anna for his wife,
when Mrs. Livingstone’s note was handed him. At first he could hardly
believe the evidence of his own eyes.

Anna gone!—run away with Mr. Everett! It could not be, and sinking into
a chair, he felt, as he afterwards expressed it, “mighty queer and
shaky.”

But Mrs. Livingstone had advised him to put a bold face on it, and
this, upon second thought, he determined to do. Hastily changing his
dress, now useless, he mounted his steed, and was soon on his way
toward Maple Grove, a new idea dawning upon his mind, and ere his
arrival, settling itself into a fixed purpose. From Aunt Martha he had
heard of ’Lena’s strange visit, and he now remembered the many times
she had tried to withdraw him from Anna, appropriating him to herself
for hours. The captain’s vanity was wonderful. Sunnyside needed a
mistress—he needed a wife, ’Lena was poor—perhaps she liked him—and if
so there might be a wedding, after all. She was beautiful, and would
sustain the honors of his house with a better grace, he verily
believed, than Anna! Full of these thoughts, he reached Maple Grove,
where he found Durward, to whom Mrs. Livingstone had detailed the whole
circumstance, dwelling long upon ’Lena’s meddling propensities, and
charging the whole affair upon her.

“But she knew what she was about—she had an object in view,
undoubtedly,” she added, glad of an opportunity to give vent to her
feelings against ’Lena.

“Pray, what was her object?” asked Durward, and Mrs. Livingstone
replied, “I told you once that ’Lena was ambitious, and I have every
reason to believe she would willingly marry Captain Atherton,
notwithstanding he is so much older.”

She forgot that there was the same disparity between the captain and
Anna as between him and ’Lena, but Durward did not, and with a derisive
smile he listened, while she proceeded to give her reasons for thinking
that a desire to supplant Anna was the sole object which ’Lena had in
view, for what else could have prompted that midnight ride to
Sunnyside. Again Durward smiled, but before he could answer, the
bride-groom elect stood before them, looking rather crestfallen, but
evidently making a great effort to appear as usual.

“And so the bird has flown?” said he, “Well, it takes a Yankee, after
all, to manage a case, but how did he find it out?”

Briefly Mrs. Livingstone explained to him Lena’s agency in the matter,
omitting, this time, to impute to her the same motive which she had
done when stating the case to Durward.

“So ’Lena is at the bottom of it?” said he, rubbing his little fat, red
hands. “Well, well, where is she? I’d like to see her.”

“Corinda, tell ’Lena she is wanted in the parlor,” said Mrs.
Livingstone, while Durward, not wishing to witness the interview, arose
to go, but Mrs. Livingstone urged him so hard to stay, that he at last
resumed his seat on the sofa by the side of Carrie.

“Captain Atherton wishes to question you concerning the part you have
taken in this elopement,” said Mrs. Livingstone, sternly, as ’Lena
appeared in the doorway.

“No, I don’t,” said the captain, gallantly offering ’Lena a chair. “My
business with Miss Rivers concerns herself.”

“I am here, sir, to answer any proper question,” said ’Lena, proudly,
at the same time declining the proffered seat.

“There’s an air worthy of a queen,” thought the captain, and
determining to make his business known at once, he arose, and turning
toward Mrs. Livingstone, Durward and Carrie, whom he considered his
audience, he commenced: “What I am about to say may seem strange, but
the fact is, I want a wife. I’ve lived alone long enough. I waited for
Anna eighteen years, and now’s she gone. Everything is in readiness for
the bridal; the guests are invited; nothing wanting but the bride. Now
if I _could_ find a substitute.”

“Not in me,” muttered Carrie, drawing nearer to Durward, while with a
sarcastic leer the captain continued: “Don’t refuse before you are
asked, Miss Livingstone. I do not aspire to the honor of your hand, but
I do ask Miss Rivers to be my wife—here before you all. She shall live
like a princess—she and her grandmother both. Come, what do you say?
Many a poor girl would jump at the chance.”

The rich blood which usually dyed ’Lena’s cheek was gone, and pale as
the marble mantel against which she leaned, she answered, proudly, “I
would sooner die than link my destiny with one who could so basely
deceive my cousin, making her believe it was her betrothed husband whom
he saw in Washington instead of his uncle! Marry you? Never, if I beg
my bread from door to door!”

“Noble girl!” came involuntarily from the lips of Durward, who had held
his breath for her answer, and who now glanced triumphantly at Mrs.
Livingstone, whose surmises were thus proved incorrect.

The captain’s self-pride was touched, that a poor, humble girl should
refuse him with his half million. A sense of the ridiculous position in
which he was placed maddened him, and in a violent rage he replied,
“You won’t, hey? What under heavens have you hung around me so for,
sticking yourself in between me and Anna when you knew you were not
wanted?”

“I did it, sir, at Anna’s request, to relieve her—and for nothing
else.”

“And was it at her request that you went alone to Sunnyside on that
dark, rainy night?” chimed in Mrs. Livingstone.

“No, madam,” said ’Lena, turning toward her aunt. “I had in vain
implored of you to save her from a marriage every way irksome to her,
when in her right mind, but you would not listen, and I resolved to
appeal to the captain’s better nature. In this I failed, and then I
wrote to Mr. Everett, with the result which you see.”

In her first excitement Mrs. Livingstone had forgotten to ask who was
the bearer of ’Lena’s letter, but remembering it now, she put the
question. ’Lena would not implicate Durward without his permission, but
while she hesitated, he answered for her, “_I_ carried that letter,
Mrs. Livingstone, though I did not then know its nature. Still if I
had, I should have done the same, and the event has proved that I was
right in so doing.”

“Ah, indeed!” said the captain growing more and more nettled and
disagreeable. “Ah, indeed! Mr. Bellmont leagued with Miss Rivers
against me. Perhaps she would not so bluntly refuse an offer coming
from you, but I can tell you it won’t sound very well that the Hon.
Mrs. Bellmont once rode four miles alone in the night to visit a
bachelor. Ha! ha! Miss ’Lena; better have submitted to my terms at
once, for don’t you see I have you in my power?”

“And if you ever use that power to her disadvantage you answer for it
to me; do you understand?” exclaimed Durward, starting up and
confronting Captain Atherton, who, the veriest coward in the world,
shrank from the flashing of Durward’s eye, and meekly answered, “Yes,
yes—yes, yes, I won’t, I won’t. I don’t want to fight. I like ’Lena. I
don’t blame Anna for running away if she didn’t want me—but it’s left
me in a deuced mean scrape, which I wish you’d help me out of.”

Durward saw that the captain was in earnest, and taking his proffered
hand, promised to render him any assistance in his power, and advising
him to be present himself in the evening, as the first meeting with his
acquaintances would thus be over. Upon reflection, the captain
concluded to follow this advice, and when evening arrived and with it
those who had not heard the news, he was in attendance, together with
Durward, who managed the whole affair so skillfully that the party
passed off quite pleasantly, the disappointed guests playfully
condoling with the deserted bridegroom, who received their jokes with a
good grace, wishing himself, meantime, anywhere but there.

That night, when the company were gone and all around was silent, Mrs.
Livingstone watered her pillow with the first tears she had shed for
her youngest born, whom she well knew _she_ had driven from home, and
when her husband asked what they should do, she answered with a fresh
burst of tears, “Send for Anna to come back.”

“And Malcolm, too?” queried Mr. Livingstone, knowing it was useless to
send for one without the other.

“Yes, Malcolm too. There’s room for both,” said the weeping mother,
feeling how every hour she should miss the little girl, whose presence
had in it so much of sunlight and joy.

But Anna would not return. Away to the northward, in a fairy cottage
overhung with the wreathing honeysuckle and the twining grape-vine,
where the first summer flowers were blooming and the song-birds were
caroling all the day long, her home was henceforth to be, and though
the letter which contained her answer to her father’s earnest appeal
was stained and blotted, it told of perfect happiness with Malcolm, who
kissed away her tears as she wrote, “Tell mother I cannot come.”




CHAPTER XXXI.
MORE CLOUDS.


Since the morning when Durward had so boldly avowed himself ’Lena’s
champion, her health and spirits began to improve. That she was not
wholly indifferent to him she had every reason to believe, and
notwithstanding the strong barrier between them, hope sometimes
whispered to her of a future, when all that was now so dark and
mysterious should be made plain. But while she was thus securely
dreaming, a cloud, darker and deeper than any which had yet
overshadowed her, was gathering around her pathway. Gradually had the
story of her ride to Captain Atherton’s gained circulation, magnifying
itself as it went, until at last it was currently reported that at
several different times had she been seen riding away from Sunnyside at
unseasonable hours of the night, the time varying from nine in the
evening to three in the morning according to the exaggerating powers of
the informer.

But few believed it, and yet such is human nature, that each and every
one repeated it to his or her neighbor, until at last it reached Mrs.
Graham, who, forgetting the caution of her son, said, with a very wise
look, that “she was not at all surprised—she had from the first
suspected ’Lena, and she had the best of reasons for so doing!”

Of course Mrs. Graham’s friend was exceedingly anxious to know what she
meant, and by dint of quizzing, questioning and promising never to
tell, she at last drew out just enough of the story to know that Mr.
Graham had a daguerreotype which looked just like ’Lena, and that Mrs.
Graham had no doubt whatever that she was in the habit of writing to
him. This of course was repeated, notwithstanding the promise of
secrecy, and many of the neighbors suddenly remembered some little
circumstance trivial in itself, but all going to swell the amount of
evidence against poor ’Lena, who, unconscious of the gathering storm,
did not for a time observe the sidelong glances cast toward her
whenever she appeared in public.

Erelong, however, the cool nods and distant manners of her
acquaintances began to attract her attention, causing her to wonder
what it all meant. But there was no one of whom she would ask an
explanation. John Jr. was gone—Anna was gone—and to crown all, Durward,
too, left the neighborhood just as the first breath of scandal was
beginning to set the waves of gossip in motion. In his absence, Mrs.
Graham felt no restraint, whatever, and all that she knew, together
with many things she didn’t know, she told, until it became a matter of
serious debate whether ’Lena ought not to be _cut_ entirely. Mrs.
Graham and her clique decided in the affirmative, and when Mrs.
Fontaine, who was a weak woman, wholly governed by public opinion, gave
a small party for her daughter Maria, ’Lena was purposely omitted.
Hitherto she had been greatly petted and admired by both Maria and her
mother, and she felt the slight sensibly, the more so, as Carrie darkly
hinted that girls who could not behave themselves must not associate
with respectable people. “’Leny not invited!” said Mrs. Nichols,
espousing the cause of her granddaughter. “What’s to pay, I wonder?
Miss Fontaine and the gineral, too, allus appeared to think a sight on
her.”

“I presume the _general_ does now,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, “but
it’s natural that Mrs. Fontaine should feel particular about the
reputation of her daughter’s associates.”

“And ain’t ’Leny’s reputation as good as the best on ’em,” asked Mrs.
Nichols, her shriveled cheeks glowing with insulted pride.

“It’s the general opinion that it might be improved,” was Mrs.
Livingstone’s haughty answer, as she left her mother-in-law to her own
reflections.

“It’ll kill her stone dead,” thought Mrs. Nichols, revolving in her own
mind the propriety of telling ’Lena what her aunt had said. “It’ll kill
her stone dead, and I can’t tell her. Mebby it’ll blow over pretty
soon.”

That afternoon several ladies, who were in the habit of calling upon
’Lena, came to Maple Grove, but not one asked for her, and with her
eyes and ears now sharpened, she fancied that once, as she was passing
the parlor door, she heard her own name coupled with that of Mr.
Graham. A startling light burst upon her, and staggering to her room,
she threw herself, half fainting, upon the bed, where an hour
afterwards she was found by Aunt Milly.

The old negress had also heard the story in its most aggravated form,
and readily divining the cause of ’Lena’s grief, attempted to console
her, telling her “not to mind what the good-for-nothin’ critters said;
they war only mad ’cause she’s so much handsomer and trimmer built.”

“You know, then,” said ’Lena, lifting her head from the pillow. “You
know what it is; so tell me, for I shall die if I remain longer in
suspense.”

“Lor’ bless the child,” exclaimed old Milly, “to think she’s the very
last one to know, when it’s been common talk more than a month!”

“What’s been common talk? What is it?” demanded ’Lena; and old Milly,
seating herself upon a trunk, commenced: “Why, honey, hain’t you hearn
how you done got Mr. Graham’s pictur and gin him yourn ’long of one of
them curls—how he’s writ and you’ve writ, and how he’s gone off to the
eends of the airth to get rid on you—and how you try to cotch young
Mas’r Durward, who hate the sight on you—how you waylay him one day,
settin’ on a rock out by the big gate—and how you been seen mighty nigh
fifty times comin’ home afoot from Captain Atherton’s in the night,
rainin’ thunder and lightnin’ hard as it could pour—how after you done
got Miss Anna to ’lope, you ax Captain Atherton to have you, and git
mad as fury ’cause he ’fuses—and how your mother warn’t none too
likely, and a heap more that I can’t remember—hain’t you heard of none
on’t?”

“None, none,” answered ’Lena, while Milly continued, “It’s a sin and
shame for quality folks that belong to the meetin’ to pitch into a poor
’fenseless girl and pick her all to pieces. Reckon they done forgot
what our Heabenly Marster told ’em when he lived here in old Kentuck,
how they must dig the truck out of thar own eyes afore they go to
meddlin’ with others; but they never think of him these days, ’cept
Sundays, and then as soon as meetin’ is out they done git together and
talk about you and Mas’r Graham orfully. I hearn ’em last Sunday, I and
Miss Fontaine’s cook, Cilly, and if they don’t quit it, thar’s a heap
on us goin’ to leave the church!”

’Lena smiled in spite of herself, and when Milly, who arose to leave
the room, again told her not to care, as all the blacks were for her,
she felt that she was not utterly alone in her wretchedness. Still, the
sympathy of the colored people alone could not help her, and dally
matters grew worse, until at last even Nellie Douglass’s faith was
shaken, and ’Lena’s heart died within her as she saw in her signs of
neglect. Never had Mr. Livingstone exchanged a word with her upon the
subject, but the reserve with which he treated her plainly indicated
that he, too, was prejudiced, while her aunt and Carrie let no
opportunity pass of slighting her, the latter invariably leaving the
room if she entered it. On one such occasion, in a state bordering
almost on distraction ’Lena flew back to her own chamber, where to her
great surprise, she found her uncle in close conversation with her
grandmother, whose face told the pain his words were inflicting.
’Lena’s first impulse was to fall at his feet and implore his
protection, but he prevented her by immediately leaving the room.

“Oh, grandmother, grandmother,” she cried, “help me, or I shall die.”

In her heart Mrs. Nichols believed her guilty, for John had said so—he
would not lie; and to ’Lena’s touching appeal for sympathy, she
replied, as she rocked to and fro, “I wish you _had_ died, ’Leny, years
and years ago.”

’Twas the last drop in the brimming bucket, and with the wailing cry,
“God help me now—no one else can,” the heart-broken girl fell fainting
to the floor, while in silent agony Mrs. Nichols hung over her,
shouting for help.

Both Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie refused to come, but at the first call
Aunt Milly hastened to the room. “Poor sheared lamb,” said she,
gathering back the thick, clustering curls which shaded ’Lena’s marble
face, “she’s innocent as the new-born baby.”

“Oh, if I could think so,” said grandma; but she could not, and when
the soft brown eyes again unclosed, and eagerly sought hers, they read
distrust and doubt, and motioning her grandmother away, ’Lena said she
would rather be alone.

Many and bitter were the thoughts which crowded upon her as she lay
there watching the daylight fade from the distant hills, and musing of
the stern realities around her. Gradually her thoughts assumed a
definite purpose; she would go away from a place where she was never
wanted, and where she now no longer wished to stay. Mr. Everett had
promised to be her friend, and to him she would go. At different
intervals her uncle and cousin had given her money to the amount of
twenty dollars, which was still in her possession, and which she knew
would take her far on her road.

With ’Lena to resolve was to do, and that night, when sure her
grandmother was asleep, she arose and hurriedly made the needful
preparations for her flight. Unlike most aged people, Mrs. Nichols
slept soundly, and ’Lena had no fears of waking her. Very stealthily
she moved around the room, placing in a satchel, which she could carry
upon her arm, the few things she would need. Then, sitting down by the
table, she wrote:

“DEAR GRANDMA: When you read this I shall be gone, for I cannot longer
stay where all look upon me as a wretched, guilty thing. I am innocent,
grandma, as innocent as my angel mother when they dared to slander her,
but you do not believe it, and that is the hardest of all. I could have
borne the rest, but when you, too, doubted me, it broke my heart, and
now I am going away. Nobody will care—nobody will miss me but you.

“And now dear, dear grandma, it costs me more pain to write than it
will you to read

“’LENA’S LAST GOOD-BYE”


All was at length ready, and then bending gently over the wrinkled face
so calmly sleeping, ’Lena gazed through blinding tears upon each
lineament, striving to imprint it upon her heart’s memory, and
wondering if they would ever meet again. The hand which had so often
rested caressingly upon her young head, was lying outside the
counterpane, and with one burning kiss upon it she turned away, first
placing the lamp by the window, where its light, shining upon her from
afar, would be the last thing she could see of the home she was
leaving.

The road to Midway, the nearest railway station, was well known to her,
and without once pausing, lest her courage should fail her, she pressed
forward. The distance which she had to travel was about three and a
half miles, and as she did not dare trust herself in the highway, she
struck into the fields, looking back as long as the glimmering light
from the window could be seen, and then when that home star had
disappeared from view, silently imploring aid from Him who alone could
help her now. She was in time for the cars, and, though the depot agent
looked curiously at her slight, shrinking figure, he asked no
questions, and when the train moved rapidly away, ’Lena looked out upon
the dark, still night, and felt that she was a wanderer in the world.




CHAPTER XXXII.
REACTION.


The light of a dark, cloudy morning shone faintly in at the window of
Grandma Nichols’s room, and roused her from her slumber. On the pillow
beside her rested no youthful head—there was no kind voice bidding her
“good-morrow”—no gentle hand ministering to her comfort—for ’Lena was
gone, and on the table lay the note, which at first escaped Mrs.
Nichols’s attention. Thinking her granddaughter had arisen early and
gone before her, she attempted to make her own toilet, which was nearly
completed, when her eye caught the note. It was directed to her, and
with a dim foreboding she: took it up, reading that her child was
gone—gone from those who should have sustained her in her hour of
trial, but who, instead, turned against her, crushing her down, until
in a state of desperation she had fled. It was in vain that the
breakfast-bell rang out its loud summons. Grandma did not heed it; and
when Corinda came up to seek her, she started back in affright at the
scene before her. Mrs. Nichols’s cap was not yet on, and her thin gray
locks fell around her livid face as she swayed from side to side,
moaning at intervals, “God forgive me that I broke her heart.”

The sound of the opening door aroused her, and looking up she said,
pointing toward the vacant bed, “’Leny’s gone; I’ve killed her.”

Corinda waited for no more, but darting through the hall and down the
stairs, she rushed into the dining-room, announcing the startling news
that “old miss had done murdered Miss ’Lena, and hid her under the
bed!”

“What _will_ come next!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, following her
husband to his mother’s room where a moment sufficed to explain the
whole.

’Lena was gone, and the shock had for a time unsettled the poor old
lady’s reason. The sight of his mother’s distress aroused all the
better nature of Mr. Livingstone, and tenderly soothing her, he told
her that ’Lena should be found—he would go for her himself. Carrie,
too, was touched, and with unwonted kindness she gathered up the
scattered locks, and tying on the muslin cap, placed her hand for an
instant on the wrinkled brow.

“Keep it there; it feels soft, like ’Leny’s,” said Mrs. Nichols, the
tears gushing out at this little act of sympathy.

Meantime, Mr. Livingstone, after a short consultation with his wife,
hurried off to the neighbors, none of whom knew aught of the fugitive,
and all of whom offered their assistance in searching. Never once did
it occur to Mr. Livingstone that she might have taken the cars, for
that he knew would need money, and he supposed she had none in her
possession. By a strange coincidence, too, the depot agent who sold her
the ticket, left the very next morning for Indiana, where he had been
intending to go for some time, and where he remained for more than a
week, thus preventing the information which he could otherwise have
given concerning her flight. Consequently, Mr. Livingstone returned
each night, weary and disheartened, to his home, where all the day long
his mother moaned and wept, asking for her ’Lena.

At last, as day after day went by and brought no tidings of the
wanderer, she ceased to ask for her, but whenever a stranger came to
the house, she would whisper softly to them, “’Leny’s dead. I killed
her; did you know it?” at the same time passing to them the crumpled
note, which she ever held in her hand.

’Lena was a general favorite in the neighborhood which had so recently
denounced her, and when it became known that she was gone, there came a
reaction, and those who had been the most bitter against her now
changed their opinion, wondering how they could ever have thought her
guilty. The stories concerning her visits to Captain Atherton’s were
traced back to their source, resulting in exonerating her from all
blame, while many things, hitherto kept secret, concerning Anna’s
engagement, were brought to light, and ’Lena was universally commended
for her efforts to save her cousin from a marriage so wholly unnatural.
Severely was the captain censured for the part he had taken in
deceiving Anna, a part which he frankly confessed, while he openly
espoused the cause of the fugitive.

Mrs. Livingstone, on the contrary, was not generous enough to make a
like confession. Public suspicion pointed to her as the interceptor of
Anna’s letters, and though she did not deny it, she wondered what that
had to do with ’Lena, at the same time asking “how they expected to
clear up the Graham affair.”

This was comparatively easy, for in the present state of feeling the
neighborhood were willing to overlook many things which had before
seemed dark and mysterious, while Mrs. Graham, for some most
unaccountable reason, suddenly retracted almost everything she had
said, acknowledging that she was too hasty in her conclusions, and
evincing for the missing girl a degree of interest perfectly surprising
to Mrs. Livingstone, who looked on in utter astonishment, wondering
what the end would be. About this time Durward returned, greatly pained
at the existing state of things. In Frankfort, where ’Lena’s flight was
a topic of discussion, he had met with the depot agent, who was on his
way home, and who spoke of the young girl whose rather singular manner
had attracted his attention. This was undoubtedly ’Lena, and after a
few moments’ conversation with his mother, Durward announced his
intention of going after her, at least as far as Rockford, where he
fancied she might have gone.

To his surprise his mother made no objection, but her manner seemed so
strange that he at last asked what was the matter.

“Nothing—nothing in particular,” said she, “only I’ve been thinking it
all over lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps ’Lena is
innocent after all.”

Oh, how eagerly Durward caught at her words, interrupting her almost
before she had finished speaking, with, “_Do_ you know anything? Have
you heard anything?”

She _had_ heard—she _did_ know; but ere she could reply, the violent
ringing of the door-bell, and the arrival of visitors, prevented her
answer. In a perfect fever of excitement Durward glanced at his watch.
If he waited long, he would be too late for the cars, and with a hasty
adieu he left the parlor, turning back ere he reached the outer door,
and telling his mother he must speak with her alone. If Mrs. Graham had
at first intended to divulge what she knew, the impulse was now gone,
and to her son’s urgent request that she should disclose what she knew,
she replied, “It isn’t much—only your father has another daguerreotype,
the counterpart of the first one. He procured it in Cincinnati, and
’Lena I know was not there.”

“Is that all?” asked Durward, in a disappointed tone.

“Why no, not exactly. I have examined both pictures closely, and I do
not think they resemble ’Lena as much as we at first supposed. Possibly
it might have been some one else, her mother, may be,” and Mrs. Graham
looked earnestly at her son, who rather impatiently answered, “Her
mother died years ago.”

At the same time he walked away, pondering upon what he had heard, and
hoping, half believing, that ’Lena would yet be exonerated from all
blame. For a moment Mrs. Graham gazed after him, regretting that she
had not told him all, but thinking there was time enough yet, and
remembering that her husband had said she might wait until his return,
if she chose, she went back to the parlor while Durward kept on his
way.




CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE WANDERER.


Fiercely the noontide blaze of a scorching July sun was falling upon
the huge walls of the “Laurel Hill Sun,” where a group of idlers were
lounging on the long, narrow piazza, some niching into still more
grotesque carving the rude, unpainted railing, while others, half
reclining on one elbow, shaded their eyes with their old slouch hats,
as they gazed wistfully toward the long hill, eager to catch the first
sight of the daily stage which was momentarily expected.

“Jerry is late, to-day—but it’s so plaguy hot he’s favorin’ his hosses,
I guess,” said the rosy-faced landlord, with that peculiar intonation
which stamped him at once a genuine Yankee.

“A watched pot never biles,” muttered one of the loungers, who
regularly for fifteen years had been at his post, waiting for the
stage, which during all that time had brought him neither letter,
message, friend, nor foe.

But force of habit is everything, and after the very wise saying
recorded above, he resumed his whittling, never again looking up until
the loud blast of the driver’s horn was heard on the distant hill-top,
where the four weary, jaded horses were now visible. It was the
driver’s usual custom to blow his horn from the moment he appeared on
the hill, until with a grand flourish he reined his panting steeds
before the door of the inn. But this time there was one sharp, shrill
sound, and then all was still, the omission eliciting several remarks
not very complimentary to the weather, which was probably the cause of
“Jerry’s” unwonted silence. Very slowly the vehicle came on, the horses
never leaving a walk, and the idler of fifteen years’ standing, who for
a time had suspended his whittling, “wondered what was to pay.”

A nearer approach revealed three or four male passengers, all occupied
with a young lady, who, on the back seat, was carefully supported by
one of her companions.

“A sick gal, I guess. Wonder if the disease is catchin’?” said the
whittler, standing back several paces and looking over the heads of the
others, who crowded forward as the stage came up. The loud greeting of
the noisy group was answered by Jerry with a low “sh—sh,” as he pointed
significantly at the slight form which two of the gentlemen were
lifting from the coach, asking at the same time if there were a
physician near.

“What’s the matter on her? Hain’t got the cholery, has she,” said the
landlord, who, having hallooed to his wife to “fetch up her vittles,”
now appeared on the piazza ready to welcome his guests.

At the first mention of cholera, the fifteen years’ man vamosed,
retreating across the road, and seating himself on the fence under the
shadow of the locust trees.

“Who is she, Jerry?” asked the younger of the set, gazing curiously
upon the white, beautiful face of the stranger, who had been laid upon
the lounge in the common sitting-room.

“Lord only knows,” said Jerry, wiping the heavy drops of sweat from his
good-humored face; “I found her at the hotel in Livony. She came there
in the cars, and said she wanted to go over to ’tother railroad. She
was so weak that I had to lift her into the stage as I would a baby,
and she ain’t much heavier. You orto seen how sweet she smiled when she
thanked me, and asked me not to drive very fast, it made her head ache
so. Zounds, I wouldn’t of trotted the horses if I’d never got here.
Jest after we started she fainted, and she’s been kinder talkin’
strange like ever since. Some of the gentlemen thought I’d better leave
her back a piece at Brown’s tavern, but I wanted to fetch her here,
where Aunt Betsy could nuss her up, and then I can kinder tend to her
myself, you know.”

This last remark called forth no answering joke, for Jerry’s companions
all knew his kindly nature, and it was no wonder to them that his
sympathies were so strongly enlisted for the fair girl thus thrown upon
his protection. It was a big, noble heart over which Jerry Langley
buttoned his driver’s coat, and when the physician who had arrived
pronounced the lady too ill to proceed any further, he called aside the
fidgety landlord, whose peculiarities he well knew, and bade him “not
to fret and stew, for if the gal hadn’t money, Jerry Langley was good
for a longer time than she would live, poor critter;” and he wiped a
tear away, glancing, the while, at the burying-ground which lay just
across the garden, and thinking how if she died, her grave should be
beneath the wide-spreading oak, where often in the summer nights he
sat, counting the head-stones which marked the last resting place of
the slumbering host, and wondering if death were, as some had said, a
long, eternal sleep.

Aunt Betsey, of whom he had spoken, was the landlady, a little dumpy,
pleasant-faced, active woman, equally in her element bending over the
steaming gridiron, or smoothing the pillows of the sick-bed, where her
powers of nursing had won golden laurels from Others than Jerry
Langley. When the news was brought to the kitchen that among the
passengers was a sick girl, who was to be left, her first thought,
natural to everybody, was, “What shall I do ?” while the second,
natural to her, was, “Take care of her, of course.”

Accordingly, when the dinner was upon the table, she laid aside her
broad check apron, substituting in its place a half-worn silk, for
Jerry had reported the invalid to be “every inch a lady;” then
smoothing her soft, silvery hair with her fat, rosy hands, she repaired
to the sitting-room, where she found the driver watching his charge,
from whom he kept the buzzing flies by means of his bandana, which he
waved to and fro with untiring patience.

“Handsome as a London doll,” was her first exclamation, adding, “but I
should think she’d be awful hot with them curls, dangling’ in her neck!
If she’s goin’ to be sick they’d better be cut off!”

If there was any one thing for which Aunt Betsey Aldergrass possessed a
particular passion, it was for _hair-cutting_, she being barber general
for Laurel Hill, which numbered about thirty houses, store and church
inclusive, and now when she saw the shining tresses which lay in such
profusion upon the pillow, her fingers tingled to their very tips,
while she involuntarily felt for her scissors! Very reverentially, as
if it were almost sacrilege, Jerry’s broad palm was laid protectingly
upon the clustering ringlets, while he said, “No, Aunt Betsey, if she
dies for’t, you shan’t touch one of them; ’twould spile her hair, she
looks so pretty.”

Slowly the long, fringed lids unclosed, and the brown eyes looked up so
gratefully at Jerry, that he beat a precipitate retreat, muttering to
himself that “he never could stand the gals, anyway, they made his
heart thump so!”

“Am I very sick, and can’t I go on?” asked the young lady, attempting
to rise, but sinking back from extreme weakness.

“Considerable sick, I guess,” answered the landlady, taking from a side
cupboard an immense decanter of camphor, and passing it toward the
stranger. “Considerable sick, and I wouldn’t wonder if you had to lay
by a day or so. Will they be consarned about you to home, ’cause if
they be, my old man’ll write.”

“I have no home,” was the sad answer, to which Aunt Betsey responded in
astonishment, “Hain’t no home! Where does your marm live?”

“Mother is dead,” said the girl, her tears dropping fast upon the
pillow.

Instinctively the landlady drew nearer to her, as she asked, “And your
pa—where is he?”

“I never saw him,” said the girl, while her interrogator continued:
“Never saw your pa, and your marm is dead—poor child, what is your
name, and where did you come from?”

For a moment the stranger hesitated, and then thinking it better to
tell the truth at once, she replied, “My name is ’Lena. I lived with my
uncle a great many miles from here, but I wasn’t happy. They did not
want me there, and I ran away. I am going to my cousin, but I’d rather
not tell where, so you will please not ask me.”

There was something in her manner which silenced Aunt Betsey, who,
erelong, proposed that she should go upstairs and lie down on a nice
little bed, where she would be more quiet. But ’Lena refused, saying
she should feel better soon.

“Mebby, then, you’d eat a mouffle or two. We’ve got some roasted pork,
and Hetty’ll warm over the gravy;” but ’Lena’s stomach rebelled at the
very thought, seeing which, the landlady went back to the kitchen,
where she soon prepared a bowl of gruel, in spite of the discouraging
remarks of her husband, who, being a little after the _Old Hunks_
order, cautioned her “not to fuss too much, as gals that run away
warn’t apt to be plagued with money”

Fortunately, Aunt Betsey’s heart covered a broader sphere, and the
moment the stage was gone she closed the door to shut out the dust,
dropped the green curtains, and drawing from the spare-room a large,
stuffed chair, bade ’Lena “see if she couldn’t set up a minit.” But
this was impossible, and all that long, sultry afternoon she lay upon
the lounge, holding her aching head, which seemed well-nigh bursting
with its weight of pain and thought. “Was it right for her to run away?
Ought she not to have stayed and bravely met the worst? Suppose she
were to die there alone, among strangers and without money, for her
scanty purse was well-nigh drained.” These and similar reflections
crowded upon her, until her brain grew wild and dizzy, and when at
sunset the physician came again he was surprised to find how much her
fever had increased.

“She ought not to lie here,” said he, as he saw how the loud shouts of
the school-boys made her shudder. “Isn’t there some place where she can
be more quiet?”

At the head of the stairs was a small room, containing a single bed and
a window, which last looked out upon the garden and the graveyard
beyond. Its furniture was of the plainest kind, it being reserved for
more common travelers, and here the landlord said ’Lena must be taken.
His wife would far rather have given her the front chamber, which was
large, airy and light, but Uncle Tim Aldergrass said “No,” squealing
out through his little peaked nose that “’twarn’t an atom likely he’d
ever more’n half git his pay, anyway, and he warn’t a goin’ to give up
the hull house.”

“How much more will it be if she has the best chamber,” asked Jerry,
pulling at Uncle Tim’s coattail and leading him aside. “How much will
it be, ’cause if ’taint too much, she shan’t stay in that eight by nine
pen.”

“A dollar a week, and cheap at that,” muttered Uncle Tim, while Jerry,
going out behind the wood-house, counted over his funds, sighing as he
found them quite too small to meet the extra, dollar per week, should
she long continue ill.

“If I hadn’t of fooled so much away for tobacker and things, I
shouldn’t be so plaguy poor now,” thought he, forgetting the many
hearts which his hard-earned gains had made glad, for no one ever
appealed in vain for help from Jerry Langley, who represented one class
of Yankees, while Timothy Aldergrass represented another.

The next morning just as daylight was beginning to be visible, Jerry
knocked softly at Aunt Betsey’s door, telling her that for more than an
hour he’d heard the young lady takin’ on, and he guessed she was worse.
Hastily throwing on her loose gown Aunt Betsey repaired to ’Lena’s
room, where she found her sitting up in the bed, moaning, talking, and
whispering, while the wild expression of her eyes betokened a
disordered brain.

“The Lord help us! she’s crazy as a loon. Run for the doctor, quick!”
exclaimed Mrs. Aldergrass, and without boot or shoe, Jerry ran off in
his stocking-feet, alarming the physician, who immediately hastened to
the inn, pronouncing ’Lena’s disease to be brain fever, as he had at
first feared.

Rapidly she grew worse, talking of her home, which was sometimes in
Kentucky and sometimes in Massachusetts, where she said they had buried
her mother. At other times she would ask Aunt Betsey to send for
Durward when she was dead, and tell him how innocent she was.

“Didn’t I tell you there was something wrong?” Uncle Timothy would
squeak. “Nobody knows who we are harborin’ nor how much ’twill damage
the house.”

But as day after day went by, and ’Lena’s fever raged more fiercely,
even Uncle Tim relented, and when she would beg of them to take her
home and bury her by the side of Mabel, where Durward could see her
grave, he would sigh, “Poor critter, I wish you was to home,” but
whether this wish was prompted by a sincere desire to please ’Lena, or
from a more selfish motive, we are unable to state. One morning, the
fifth of ’Lena’s illness, she seemed much worse, talking incessantly
and tossing from side to side, her long hair floating in wild disorder
over her pillow, or streaming down her shoulders. Hitherto Aunt Betsey
had restrained her _barberic_ desire, each day arranging the heavy
locks, and tucking them under the muslin cap, where they refused to
stay. Once the doctor himself had suggested the propriety of cutting
them away, adding, though, that they would wait awhile, as it was a
pity to lose them.

“Better be cut off than yanked off,” said Aunt Betsey, on the morning
when ’Lena in her frenzy would occasionally tear out handfulls of her
shining hair and scatter it over the floor.

Satisfied that she was doing right, she carefully approached the
bedside, and taking one of the curls in her hand, was about to sever
it, when ’Lena, divining her intentions, sprang up, and gathering up
her hair, exclaimed, “No, no, not these; take everything else, but
leave me my curls. Durward thought they were beautiful, and I cannot
lose them.”

At the side door below, the noonday stage was unloading its passengers,
and as the tones of their voices came in at the open window, ’Lena
suddenly grew calmer, and assuming a listening attitude, whispered,
“Hark! He’s come. Don’t you hear him?”

But Aunt Betsey heard nothing, except her husband calling her to come
down, and leaving ’Lena, who had almost instantly become quiet, to the
care of a neighbor, she started for the kitchen, meeting in the lower
hall with Hetty, who was showing one of the passengers to a room where
he could wash and refresh himself after his dusty ride. As they passed
each other, Hetty asked, “Have you clipped her curls?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Aldergrass, “she wouldn’t let me touch ’em, for she
said that Durward, whom she talks so much about, liked ’em, and they
mustn’t be cut off.”

Instantly the stranger, whose elegant appearance both Hetty and her
mistress had been admiring, stopped, and turning to the latter, said,
“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Of a young girl that came in the stage, sick, five or six days ago,”
answered Mrs. Aldergrass.

“What is her name, and where does she live?” continued the stranger.

“She calls herself ’Lena, but the ’tother name I don’t know, and I
guess she lives in Kentucky or Massachusetts.”

The young man waited to hear no more, but mechanically followed Hetty
to his room, starting and turning pale as a wild, unnatural laugh fell
on his ear.

“It is the young lady, sir,” said Hetty, observing his agitated manner.
“She raves most all the time, and the doctor says she’ll die if she
don’t stop.”

The gentleman nodded, and the next moment he was as he wished to be,
alone. He had found her then—his lost ’Lena—sick, perhaps dying, and
his heart gave one agonized throb as he thought, “What if she should
die? Yet why should I wish her to live?” he asked, “when she is as
surely lost to me as if she were indeed resting in her grave!”

And still, reason as he would, a something told him that all would yet
be well, else, perhaps, he had never followed her. Believing she would
stop at Mr. Everett’s, he had come on thus far, finding her where he
least expected it, and spite of his fears, there was much of pleasure
mingled with his pain as he thought how he would protect and care for
her, ministering to her comfort, and softening, as far as possible, the
disagreeable things which he saw must necessarily surround her. Money,
he knew, would purchase almost everything, and if ever Durward Bellmont
felt glad that he was rich, it was when he found ’Lena Rivers sick and
alone at the not very comfortable inn of Laurel Hill.

As he was entering the dining-room, he saw Jerry—whose long, lank
figure and original manner had afforded him much amusement during his
ride—handing a dozen or more oranges to Mrs. Aldergrass, saying, as he
did so, “They are for Miss ’Lena. I thought mebby they’d taste good,
this hot weather, and I ransacked the hull town to find the nicest and
best.”

For a moment Durward’s cheek flushed at the idea of Lena’s being cared
for by such as Jerry, but the next instant his heart grew warm toward
the uncouth driver who, without any possible motive save the promptings
of his own kindly nature, had thus thought of the stranger girl.
Erelong the stage was announced as ready and waiting, but to the
surprise and regret of his fellow-passengers, who had found him a most
agreeable traveling companion, Durward said he was not going any
further that day.

“A new streak, ain’t it?” asked Jerry, who knew he was booked for the
entire route; but the young man made no reply, and the fresh, spirited
horses soon bore the lumbering vehicle far out of sight, leaving him to
watch the cloud of dust which it carried in its train.

Uncle Timothy was in his element, for it was not often that a guest of
Durward’s appearance honored his house with more than a passing call,
and with the familiarity so common to a country landlord, he slapped
him on the shoulder, telling him “there was the tallest kind of fish in
the Honeoye,” whose waters, through the thick foliage of the trees were
just discernible, sparkling and gleaming in the bright sunlight.

“I never fish, thank you, sir,” answered Durward, while the
good-natured landlord continued: “Now you don’t say it! Hunt, then,
mebby?”

“Occasionally,” said Durward, adding, “But my reason for stopping here
is of entirely a different nature. I hear there is with you a sick
lady. She is a friend of mine, and I am staying to see that she is well
attended to.”

“Yes, yes,” said Uncle Timothy, suddenly changing his opinion of ’Lena,
whose want of money had made him sadly suspicious of her. “Yes, yes, a
fine gal; fell into good hands, too, for my old woman is the greatest
kind of a nuss. Want to see her, don’t you?—the lady I mean.”

“Not just yet; I would like a few moments’ conversation with your wife
first,” answered Durward.

Greatly frustrated when she learned that the stylish looking gentleman
wished to talk with her, Aunt Betsey rubbed her shining face with
flour, and donning another cap, repaired to the sitting-room, where she
commenced making excuses about herself, the house, and everything else,
saying, “’twant what he was used to, she knew, but she hoped he’d try
to put up with it.”

As soon as he was able to get in a word, Durward proceeded to ask her
every particular concerning ’Lena’s illness, and whether she would
probably recognize him should he venture into her presence,

“Bless your dear heart, no. She hain’t known a soul on us these three
days. Sometimes she calls me ‘grandmother,’ and says when she’s dead
I’ll know she’s innocent. ’Pears Like somebody has been slanderin’ her,
for she begs and pleads with Durward, as she calls him, not to believe
it. Ain’t you the one she means?”

Durward nodded, and Mrs. Aldergrass continued:

“I thought so, for when the stage driv up she was standin’ straight in
the bed, ravin’ and screechin’, but the minit she heard your voice she
dropped down, and has been as quiet ever since. Will you go up now?”

Durward signified his willingness, and following his landlady, he soon
stood in the close, pent-up room where, in an uneasy slumber, ’Lena lay
panting for breath, and at intervals faintly moaning in her sleep. She
had fearfully changed since last he saw her, and with a groan, he bent
over her, murmuring, “My poor ’Lena,” while he gently laid his cool,
moist hand upon her burning brow. As if there were something soothing
in its touch, she quickly placed her little hot, parched hand on his,
whispering, “Keep it there. It will make me well.”

For a long time he sat by her, bathing her head and carefully removing
from her face and neck the thick curls which Mrs. Aldergrass had
thought to cut away. At last she awoke, but Durward shrank almost in
fear from the wild, bright eyes which gazed so fixedly upon him, for in
them was no ray of reason. She called him “John” blessing him for
coming, and saying, “Did you tell Durward. Does _he_ know?”

“I am Durward,” said he. “Don’t you recognize me? Look again.”

“No, no,” she answered, with a mocking laugh, which made him shudder,
it was so unlike the merry, ringing tones he had once loved to hear.
“No, no, you are not Durward. He would not look at me as you do. He
thinks me guilty.”

It was in vain Durward strove to convince her of his identity. She
would only answer with a laugh, which grated so harshly on his ear that
he finally desisted, and suffered her to think he was her cousin. The
smallness of her chamber troubled him, and when Mrs. Aldergrass came up
he asked if there was no other apartment where ’Lena would be more
comfortable.

“Of course there is,” said Aunt Betsy. “There’s the best chamber I was
goin’ to give to you.”

“Never mind me,” said he. “Let her have every comfort the house
affords, and you shall be amply paid.”

Uncle Timothy had now no objection to the offer, and the large, airy
room with its snowy, draped bed was soon in readiness for the sufferer,
who, in one of her wayward moods, absolutely refused to be moved. It
was in vain that Aunt Betsey plead, persuaded, and threatened, and at
last in despair Durward was called in to try his powers of persuasion.

“That’s something more like it,” said ’Lena, and when he urged upon her
the necessity of her removal, she asked, “Will you go with me?”

“Certainly,” said he.

“And stay with me?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I’ll go,” she continued, stretching her arms toward him as a
child toward its mother.

A moment more and she was reclining on the soft downy pillows, the
special pride of Mrs. Aldergrass, who bustled in and out, while her
husband, ashamed of his stinginess, said “they should of moved her
afore, only ’twas a bad sign.”

During the remainder of the day she seemed more quiet, talking
incessantly, it is true, but never raving if Durward were near. It is
strange what power he had over her, a word from him sufficing at any
time to subdue her when in her most violent fits of frenzy. For two
days and nights he watched by her side, never giving himself a moment’s
rest, while the neighbors looked on, surmising and commenting as people
always will. Every delicacy of the season, however costly, was
purchased for her comfort, while each morning the flowers which he knew
she loved the best were freshly gathered from the different gardens of
Laurel Hill, and in broken pitchers, cracked tumblers, and nicked
saucers, adorned the room.

At the close of the third day she fell into a heavy slumber, and
Durward, worn out and weary, retired to take the rest he so much
needed. For a long time ’Lena slept, watched by the physician, who,
knowing that the crisis had arrived, waited anxiously for her waking,
which came at last, bringing with it the light of returning reason.
Dreamily she gazed about the room, and in a voice no longer strong with
the excitement of delirium, asked, “Where am I, and how came I here?”

In a few words the physician explained all that was necessary for her
to know, and then going for Mrs. Aldergrass, told her of the favorable
change in his patient, adding that a sudden shock might still prove
fatal. “Therefore,” said he, “though I know not in what relation this
Mr. Bellmont stands to her, I think it advisable for her to remain
awhile in ignorance of his presence. It is of the utmost consequence
that she be kept quiet for a few days, at the end of which time she can
see him.”

All this Aunt Betsey communicated to Durward, who unwilling to do
anything which would endanger ’Lena’s safety, kept himself aloof,
treading softly and speaking low, for as if her hearing were sharpened
by disease she more than once, when he was talking in the hall below,
started up, listening eagerly; then, as if satisfied that she had been
deceived, she would resume her position, while the flush on her cheek
deepened as she thought, “Oh, what if it had indeed been he!”

Nearly all the day long he sat just without the door, holding his
breath as he caught the faint tones of her voice, and longing for the
hour when he could see her, and obtain, if possible, some clue to the
mystery attending her and his father. His mother’s words, together with
what he had heard ’Lena say in her ravings, had tended to convince him
that _she_, at least, might be innocent, and once assured of this, he
felt that he would gladly fold her to his bosom, and cherish her there
as the choicest of heaven’s blessings. All this time ’Lena had no
suspicion of his presence, but she wondered at the many luxuries which
surrounded her, and once, when Mrs. Aldergrass offered her some choice
wine, she asked who it was that supplied her with so many comforts.
Aunt Betsey’s, forte did not lay in keeping a secret, and rather
evasively she replied, “You mustn’t ask me too many questions just
yet!”

’Lena’s suspicions were at once aroused, and for more than an hour she
lay thinking—trying to recall something which seamed to her like a
dream. At last calling Aunt Betsey to her, she said, “There was
somebody here while I was so sick—somebody besides strangers—somebody
that stayed with me all the time—who was it?”

“Nobody, nobody—I mustn’t tell,” said Mrs. Aldergrass, hurriedly, while
’Lena continued, “Was it Cousin John?”

“No, no; don’t guess any more,” was Mrs. Aldergrass’s reply, and ’Lena,
clasping her hands together, exclaimed, “Oh, could it he be?”

The words reached Durward’s ear, and nothing but a sense of the harm it
might do prevented him from going at once to her bedside. That night,
at his earnest request, the physician gave him permission to see her in
the morning, and Mrs. Aldergrass was commissioned to prepare her for
the interview. ’Lena did not ask who it was; she felt that she knew;
and the knowledge that he was there—that he had cared for her—operated
upon her like a spell, soothing her into the most refreshing slumber
she had experienced for many a weary week. With the sun-rising she was
awake, but Mrs. Aldergrass, who came in soon after, told her that the
visitor was not to be admitted until about ten, as she would by that
time have become more composed, and be the better able to endure the
excitement of the interview. A natural delicacy prevented ’Lena from
objecting to the delay, and, as calmly as possible, she watched Mrs.
Aldergrass while she put the room to rights, and then patiently
submitted to the arranging of her curls, which during her illness had
become matted and tangled. Before eight everything was in readiness,
and soon after, worn out by her own exertions, ’Lena again fell asleep.

“How lovely she looks,” thought Mrs. Aldergrass. “He shall just have a
peep at her,” and stepping to the door she beckoned Durward to her
side.

Never before had ’Lena, seemed so beautiful to him, and as he looked
upon her, he felt his doubts removing, one by one. She was innocent—it
could not be otherwise—and very impatiently he awaited the lapse of the
two hours which must pass ere he could see her, face to face. At
length, as the surest way of killing time, he started out for a walk in
a pleasant wood, which skirted the foot of Laurel Hill.

Here for a time we leave him, while in another chapter we speak of an
event which, in the natural order of things, should here be narrated.




CHAPTER XXXIV
’LENA’S FATHER.


Two or three days before the morning of which we have spoken, Uncle
Timothy, who like many of his profession had been guilty of a slight
infringement of the “Maine” liquor law, had been called to answer for
the same at the court then in session in the village of Canandaigua,
the terminus of the stage route. Altogether too stingy to pay the coach
fare, his own horse had carried him out, going for him on the night
preceding Durward’s projected meeting with ’Lena. On the afternoon of
that day the cars from New York brought up several passengers, who
being bound for Buffalo, were obliged to wait some hours for the
arrival of the Albany train.

Among those who stopped at the same house with Uncle Timothy, was our
old acquaintance, Mr. Graham, who had returned from Europe, and was now
homeward bound, firmly fixed in his intention to do right at last. Many
and many a time, during his travels had the image of a pale, sad face
arisen before him, accusing him of so long neglecting to own his child,
for ’Lena was his daughter, and she, who in all her bright beauty had
years ago gone down to an early grave, was his wife, the wife of his
first, and in bitterness of heart he sometimes thought, of his only
love. His childhood’s home, which was at the sunny south, was not a
happy one, for ere he had learned to lisp his mother’s name, she had
died, leaving him to the guardianship of his father, who was cold,
exacting, and tyrannical, ruling his son with a rod of iron, and by his
stern, unbending manner increasing the natural cowardice of his
disposition. From his mother Harry had inherited a generous, impulsive
nature, frequently leading him into errors which his father condemned
with so much severity that he early learned the art of concealment, as
far, at least, as his father was concerned.

At the age of eighteen he left home for Yale, where he spent four happy
years, for the restraints of college life, though sometimes irksome,
were preferable far to the dull monotony of his southern home; and when
at last he was graduated, and there was no longer an excuse for
tarrying, he lingered by the way, stopping at the then village of
Springfield, where, actuated by some sudden freak, he registered
himself as Harry _Rivers_, the latter being his middle name. For doing
this he had no particular reason, except that it suited his fancy, and
Rivers, he thought, was a better name than Graham. Here he met with
Helena Nichols, whose uncommon beauty first attracted his attention,
and whose fresh, unstudied manners afterward won his love to such an
extent, that in an unguarded moment, and without a thought of the
result, he married her, neglecting to tell her his real name before
their marriage, because he feared she would cease to respect him if she
knew he had deceived her, and then afterward finding it harder than
ever to confess his fault.

As time wore on, his father’s letters, commanding him to return, grew
more and more peremptory, until at last he wrote, “I am sick—dying—and
if you do not come, I’ll cast you off forever.”

Harry knew this was no unmeaning threat, and he now began to reap the
fruit of his folly. He could not give up Helena, who daily grew dearer
to him, neither could he brave the displeasure of his father by
acknowledging his marriage, for disinheritance was sure to follow. In
this dilemma he resolved to compromise the matter. He would leave
Helena awhile; he would visit his father, and if a favorable
opportunity occurred, he would confess all; if not, he would return to
his wife and do the best he could. But she must be provided for during
his absence, and to effect this, he wrote to his father, saying he
stood greatly in need of five hundred dollars, and that immediately on
its receipt he would start for home. Inconsistent as it seemed with his
general character, the elder Mr. Graham was generous with his money,
lavishing upon his son all that he asked for, and the money was
accordingly sent without a moment’s hesitation.

And now Harry’s besetting sin, _secrecy_, came again in action, and
instead of manfully telling Helena the truth, he left her privately,
stealing away at night, and quieting his conscience by promising
himself to reveal all in a letter, which was actually written, but as
at the time of its arrival Helena was at home, and the postmaster knew
of no such person, it was at last sent to Washington with thousands of
its companions. The reader already knows how ’Lena’s young mother
watched for her recreant husband’s coming until life and hope died out
together, and it is only necessary to repeat that part of the story
which relates to Harry, who on his return home found his father much
worse than he expected. At his bedside, ministering to his wants, was a
young, dashing widow, who prided herself upon being Lady Bellmont. On
his death-bed her father had committed her to the guardianship of Mr.
Graham, who, strictly honorable in all his dealings, had held his trust
until the time of her marriage with a young Englishman.

Unfortunately, as it proved for Harry, and fortunately for Sir Arthur,
who had nothing in common with his wife, the latter died within two
years after his marriage, leaving his widow and infant son again to the
care of Mr. Graham, with whom Lady Bellmont, as she was pleased to call
herself, lived at intervals, swaying him whichever way she listed, and
influencing him as he had never been influenced before. The secret of
this was, that the old man had his eye upon her vast possessions, which
he destined for his son, who, ignorant of the honor intended him, had
presumed to marry according to the promptings of his heart.

Scarcely was the first greeting over, ere his father at once made known
his plans, to which Harry listened with mingled pain and amazement.
“Lucy—Lady Bellmont!” said he, “why, she’s a mother—a widow—beside
being ten years my senior.”

“Three years,” interrupted his father. “She is twenty-five, you
twenty-two, and then as to her being a widow and a mother, the
immensity of her wealth atones for that. She is much sought after, but
I think she prefers you. She will make you a good wife, and I am
resolved to see the union consummated ere I die.”

“Never sir, never,” answered Harry, in a more decided manner than he
had before assumed toward his father. “It is utterly impossible.”

Mr. Graham was too much exhausted to urge the matter at that time, but
he continued at intervals to harass Harry, until the very sight of Lucy
Bellmont became hateful to him. It was not so, however, with the son,
the Durward of our story. He was a fine little fellow, whom every one
loved, and for hours would Harry amuse himself with him, while his
thoughts were with his own wife and child, the latter of whom was to be
so strangely connected with the fortunes of the boy at his side. For
weeks his father lingered, each day seeming an age to Harry, who,
though he did not wish to hasten his father’s death, still longed to be
away. Twice had he written without obtaining an answer, and he was
about making up his mind to start, at all events, when his father
suddenly died, leaving him the sole heir of all his princely fortune,
and with his latest breath enjoining it upon him to marry Lucy
Bellmont, who, after the funeral was over, adverted to it, saying, in
her softest tones, “I hope you don’t feel obliged to fulfill your
father’s request.”

“Of course not,” was Harry’s short answer, as he went on with his
preparations for his journey, anticipating the happiness he should
experience in making Helena the mistress of his luxurious home.

But alas for human hopes. The very morning on which he was intending to
start, he was seized with a fever, which kept him confined to his bed
until the spring was far advanced. Sooner than he was able he started
for Springfield in quest of Helena, learning from the woman whom he had
left in charge, that she was dead, and her baby too! The shock was too
much for him in his weak state, and for two weeks he was again confined
to a sick-bed, sincerely mourning the untimely end of one whom he had
truly loved, and whose death his own foolish conduct had hastened.

Soon after their marriage her portrait had been taken by the best
artist in the town, and this he determined to procure as a memento of
the few happy days he had spent with Helena. But the cottage where he
left her was now occupied by strangers, and after many inquiries, he
learned that the portrait, together with some of the furniture, had
been sold to pay the rent, which became due soon after his departure.
His next thought was to visit her parents, but from this his natural
timidity shrank. They would reproach him, he thought, with the death of
their daughter, whom he had so deeply wronged, and not possessing
sufficient courage to meet them face to face, he again started for
home, bearing a sad heart, which scarcely again felt a thrill of joy
until the morning when he first met with ’Lena, whose exact resemblance
to her mother so startled him as to arouse the jealousy of his wife.

It would be both needless and tiresome to enumerate the many ways and
means by which Lucy Bellmont sought to ensnare him. Suffice it to say,
that she at last succeeded, and he married her, finding in the
companionship of her son more real pleasure than he ever experienced in
her society. After a time Mrs. Graham, growing weary of Charleston,
where her haughty, overbearing manner made her unpopular, besought her
husband to remove, which he finally did, going to Louisville, where he
remained until the time of his removal to Woodlawn. Fully believing
what the old nurse had told him of the death of his wife and child, he
had no idea of the existence of the latter, though often in the
stillness of night the remembrance of the little girl whom Durward had
pointed out to him in the cars, arose before him, haunting him with
visions of the past, but it was not until he met her at Maple Grove
that he entertained a thought of her being his daughter.

From that time his whole being seemed changed, for there was now an
object for which to live. Carefully had he guarded from his wife a
knowledge of his first marriage, for he dreaded her sneering
reproaches, and he could not hear his beloved Helena’s name breathed
lightly by one so greatly her inferior. When he saw ’Lena, however, his
first impulse was to clasp her in his arms and compel his wife to own
her, but day after day went by, and he still delayed, hoping for a more
favorable opportunity, which never came. Had he found her in less
favorable circumstances, he might have done differently, but seeing
only the brightest side of her life, he believed her comparatively
happy. She was well educated, accomplished, and beautiful, and so he
waited, secure in the fact that he was near to see that no harm should
befall her. Once it occurred to him that possibly he might die
suddenly, thus leaving his relationship to her a secret forever, and
acting upon this thought, he immediately made his will, bequeathing all
to ’Lena, whom he acknowledged to be his daughter, adding an
explanation of the whole affair, together with a most touching letter
to his child, who would never see it until he was dead.

This done, he felt greatly relieved, and each day found some good
excuse for still keeping it from his wife, who worried him incessantly
concerning his evident preference for ’Lena. Many and many a time he
resolved to tell her all, but as often postponed the matter, until,
with the broad Atlantic between them, he ventured to write what he
could not tell her verbally and, strange to say, the effect upon his
wife was far different from what he had expected. She did not faint,
for there was no one by to see her, neither did she rave, for there was
no one to hear her, but with her usual inconsistency, she blamed her
husband for not telling her before. Then came other thoughts of a
different nature. _She_ had helped to impair ’Lena’s reputation, and if
disgrace attached to her, it would also fall upon her own family.
Consequently, as we have seen, she set herself at work to atone, as far
as possible, for her conduct. Her husband had given her permission to
wait, if she chose, until his return, ere she made the affair public,
and as she dreaded the remarks it would necessarily call forth, she
resolved to do so. He had advised her to tell ’Lena, but she was
gone—no one knew whither, and nervously she waited for some tidings of
the wanderer. She was willing to receive ’Lena, but not the
grandmother, _she_ was voted an intolerable nuisance, who should never
darken the doors of Woodlawn—never!

Meantime, Mr. Graham had again crossed the ocean, landing in New York,
from whence he started for home, meeting, as we have seen, with a
detention in Canandaigua, where he accidentally fell in with Uncle
Timothy, who, being minus quite a little sum of money on account of his
transgression, was lamenting his ill fortune to one of his
acquaintances, and threatening to give up tavern keeping if the Maine
law wasn’t repealed.

“Here,” said he, “it has cost me up’ards of fifty dollars, and I’ll bet
I hain’t sold mor’n a barrel, besides what wine that Kentucky chap has
bought for his gal, and I suppose they call that nothin’, bein’ it’s
for sickness. Why, good Lord, the hull on’t was for medicine, or
chimistry, or mechanics!”

This reminded his friend to inquire after the sick lady, whose name he
did not remember.

“It’s ’Lena,” answered Uncle Timothy, “’Lena Rivers that dandified chap
calls her, and it’s plaguy curis to me what she’s a runnin’ away for,
and he a streakin’ it through the country arter her; there’s mischief
summers, so I tell ’em, but that’s no consarn of mine so long as he
pays down regular.”

Mr. Graham’s curiosity was instantly aroused, and the moment he could
speak to Uncle Timothy alone, he asked what he meant by the sick lady.

In his own peculiar dialect, Uncle Timothy told all he knew, adding, “A
relation of yourn, mebby?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Graham. “Is it far to Laurel Hill?”

“Better’n a dozen miles! Was you goin’ out there?”

Mr. Graham replied in the affirmative, at the same time asking if he
could procure a horse and carriage there.

Uncle Timothy never let an opportunity pass for turning a penny, and
now nudging Mr. Graham with his elbow, he said, “Them liv’ry scamps’ll
charge you tew dollars, at the lowest calkerlation. I’m going right
out, and will take you for six shillin’. What do you think?”

Mr. Graham’s thoughts were not very complimentary to the shrewd Yankee,
but keeping his opinion to himself, he replied that he would go,
suggesting that they should start immediately.

“In less than five minits. You jest set down while I go to the store
arter some jimcracks for the old woman,” said Uncle Timothy, starting
up the street, which was the last Mr. Graham saw of him for three long
hours.

At the end of that time, the little man came stubbing down the walk,
making many apologies, and saying “he got so engaged about the darned
‘liquor law,’ and the putty-heads that made it, that he’d no idee ’twas
so late.”

On their way home he still continued to discourse on his favorite
topic, lamenting that he had voted for the present governor, announcing
his intention of “jinin’ the _Hindews_ the fust time they met at
Suckerport,” a village at the foot of Honeoye lake, and stopping every
man whom he knew to belong to that order, to ask if they took a _fee_,
and if “there was any bedivelment of _gridirons_ and _goats_, such as
the Masons and Odd Fellers had!” Being repeatedly assured that the fee
was only a dollar, and that the initiatory process was not very
painful, he concluded “to go it, provided they’d promise to run him for
constable. Office is the hull any of the scallywags jine ’em for, and I
may as well go in for a sheer,” said he, thinking if he could not have
the privilege of selling liquor, he would at least secure the right of
arresting those who drank it!

In this way his progress homeward was not very rapid, and the clock had
struck ten long ere they reached the inn, which they found still and
dark, save the light which was kept burning in ’Lena’s room.

“That’s her chamber—the young gal’s—where you see the candle,” said
Uncle Timothy, as they drew up before the huge walls of the tavern. “I
guess you won’t want to disturb her to-night.”

“Certainly not,” answered Mr. Graham, adding, as he felt a twinge of
his inveterate habit of secrecy, “If you’d just as lief, you need not
speak of me to the young gentleman; I wish to take him by
surprise”—meaning Durward.

There was no particular necessity for this caution, for Uncle Timothy
was too much absorbed in his loss to think of anything else, and when
his wife asked “who it was that he lighted up to bed,” he replied, “A
chap that wanted to come out this way, and so rid with me.”

Mr. Graham was very tired, and now scarcely had his head pressed the
pillow ere he was asleep, dreaming of ’Lena, whose presence was to shed
such a halo of sunlight over his hitherto cheerless home. The ringing
of the bell next morning failed to arouse him, but when Mrs.
Aldergrass, noticing his absence from the table, inquired for him,
Uncle Timothy answered, “Never mind, let him sleep—tuckered out,
mebby—and you know we allus have a sixpence more for an extra meal!”

About eight Mr. Graham arose, and after a more than usually careful
toilet, he sat down to collect his scattered thoughts, for now that the
interview was so near, his ideas seemed suddenly to forsake him. From
the window he saw Durward depart for his walk, watching him until he
disappeared in the dim shadow of the woods.

“I will wait until his return, and let him tell her,” thought he, but
when a half hour or more went by and Durward did not come, he concluded
to go down and ask to see her by himself.

In order to do this, it was necessary for him to pass ’Lena’s room, the
door of which was ajar. She was awake, and hearing his step, thought it
was Mrs. Aldergrass, and called to her. A thrill of exquisite delight
ran through his frame at the sound of her voice, and for an instant he
debated the propriety of going to her at once. A second call decided
him, and in a moment he was at her bedside, clasping her in his arms,
and exclaiming, “My precious ’Lena! My _daughter_! Has nothing ever
told you that I am your father, the husband of your angel mother, who
lives again in her child—_my_ child—my ’Lena?”

For a moment ’Lena’s brain grew dizzy, and she had well-nigh fainted,
when the sound of Mr. Graham’s voice brought her back to consciousness.
Pressing his lips to her white brow, he said, “Speak to me my daughter.
Say that you receive me as your father for such I am.”

With lightning rapidity ’Lena’s thoughts traversed the past, whose dark
mystery was now made plain, and as the thought that it might be so—that
it was so—flashed upon her, she clasped her hands together, exclaiming,
“My father! Is it true? You are not deceiving me?”

“Deceive you, darling?—no,” said he. “I am your father, and Helena
Nichols was my wife.”

“Why then did you leave her? Why have you so long left me
unacknowledged?” asked ’Lena.

Mr. Graham groaned bitterly. The hardest part was yet to come, but he
met it manfully, telling her the whole story, sparing not himself in
the least, and ending by asking if, after all this, she could forgive
and love him as her father.

Raising herself in bed, ’Lena wound her arms around his neck, and
laying her face against his, wept like a little child. He felt that he
was sufficiently answered, and holding her closer to his bosom, he
pushed back the clustering curls, kissing her again and again, while he
said aloud, “I have your answer, dearest one; we will never be parted
again.”

So absorbed was he in his newly-recovered treasure, that he did not
observe the fiery eye, the glittering teeth, and clenched fist of
Durward Bellmont, who had returned from his walk, and who, in coming up
to his, room, had recognized the tones of his father’s voice. Recoiling
backward a step or two, he was just in time to see ’Lena as she threw
herself into Mr. Graham’s, arms—in time to hear the tender words of
endearment lavished upon her by his father. Staggering backward, he
caught at the banister to keep from falling, while a moan of anguish
came from his ashen lips. Alone in his room, he grew calmer, though his
heart still quivered with unutterable agony as he strode up and down
the room, exclaiming, as he had once done before, “I would far rather
see her dead than thus—my lost, lost ’Lena!”

Then, in the deep bitterness of his spirit, he cursed his father, whom
he believed to be far more guilty than she. “I cannot meet him,”
thought he; “there is murder at my heart, and I must away ere he knows
of my presence.”

Suiting the action to the word, he hastened down the stairs, glancing
back once, and seeing ’Lena reclining upon his father’s arm, while her
eyes were raised to his with a sweet, confiding smile, which told of
perfect happiness.

“Thank God that I am unarmed, else he could not live,” thought he,
hurrying into the bar-room, where he placed in Uncle Timothy’s hands
double the sum due for himself and ’Lena, and then, without a word of
explanation, he walked away.

He was a good pedestrian, and preferring solitude in his present state
of feeling, he determined to go on foot to Canandaigua, a distance of
little more than a dozen miles. Meantime, Mr. Graham was learning from
’Lena the cause of her being there, and though she, as far as possible,
softened the fact of his having been accessory to her misfortunes, he
felt it none the less keenly, and would frequently interrupt her with
the exclamation that it was the result of his cowardice—his despicable
habit of secrecy. When she spoke of the curl which his wife had burned,
he seemed deeply affected, groaning aloud as he hid his face in his
hands,

“And _she_ found it—she burned it,” said he; “and it was all I had left
of my Helena. I cut it from her head on the morning of my departure,
when she lay sleeping, little dreaming of my cruel desertion. But,” he
added, “I can bear it better now that I have you, her living image, for
what she was when last I saw her, you are now.”

Their conversation then turned upon Durward, and with the tact he so
well knew how to employ, Mr. Graham drew from his blushing daughter a
confession of the love she bore him.

“He is worthy of you,” said he, while ’Lena, without seeming to heed
the remark, said, “I have not seen him yet, but I am expecting him
every moment, for he was to visit me this morning.”

At this juncture Mrs. Aldergrass, who had been at one of her
neighbors’, came in, appearing greatly surprised at the sight of the
stranger, whom ’Lena quietly introduced as “her father,” while Mr.
Graham colored painfully as Mrs. Aldergrass, curtsying very low, hoped
_Mr. Rivers_ was well!

“Let it go so,” whispered ’Lena, as she saw her father about to speak.

Mr. Graham complied, and then observing how anxiously his daughter’s
eyes sought the doorway, whenever a footstep was heard, he asked Mrs.
Aldergrass for Mr. Bellmont, saying they would like to see him, if he
had returned.

Quickly going downstairs, Mrs. Aldergrass soon came back, announcing
that “he’d paid his bill and gone off.”

“Gone!” said Mr. Graham. “There must be some mistake. I will go down
and inquire.”

With his hand in his pocket grasping the purse containing the gold,
Uncle Timothy told all he knew, adding, that “’twan’t noways likely but
he’d come back agin, for he’d left things in his room to the vally of
five or six dollars.”

Upon reflection, Mr. Graham concluded so, too, and returning to ’Lena,
he sat by her all day, soothing her with assurances that Durward would
surely come back, as there was no possible reason for his leaving them
so abruptly. As the day wore away and the night came on he seemed less
sure, while even Uncle Timothy began to fidget, and when in the evening
a young pettifogger, who had recently hung out his shingle on Laurel
Hill, came in, he asked him, in a low tone, “if, under the present
governor, they _hung_ folks on circumstantial evidence alone.”

“Unquestionably, for that is sometimes the best kind of evidence,”
answered the sprig of the law, taking out some little ivory tablets and
making a charge against Uncle Timothy for professional advice!

“But if one of my boarders, who has lots of money, goes off in broad
daylight and is never heard of agin, would that be any sign he was
murdered—by the landlord?” continued Uncle Timothy, beginning to think
there might be a worse law than the Maine liquor law.

“That depends upon the previous character of the landlord,” answered
the lawyer, making another entry, while Uncle Timothy, brightening up,
exclaimed, “I shall stand the racket, then, for my character is
tip-top.”

In the morning Mr. Graham announced his intention of going in quest of
Durward, and with a magnanimity quite praiseworthy, Uncle Timothy
offered his _hoss_ and wagon “for nothin’, provided Mr. Graham would
leave his watch as a guaranty against _his_ runnin’ off!”

Just as Mr. Graham was about to start, a horseman rode up, saying he
had come from Canandaigua at the request of a Mr. Bellmont, who wished
him to bring letters for Mr. Graham and Miss Rivers.

“And where is Mr. Bellmont?” asked Mr. Graham, to which the man
replied, that he took the six o’clock train the night before, saying,
further, that his manner was so strange as to induce a suspicion of
insanity on the part of those who saw him.

Taking the package, Mr. Graham repaired to ’Lena’s room, giving her her
letter, and then reading his, which was full of bitterness, denouncing
him as a villain and cautioning him, as he valued his life, never again
to cross the track of his outraged step-son.

“You have robbed me,” he wrote, “of all I hold most dear, and while I
do not censure her the less, I blame you the more, for you are older in
experience, older in years, and ten-fold older in sin, and I know you
must have used every art your foul nature could suggest, ere you won my
lost ’Lena from the path of rectitude.”

In the utmost astonishment Mr. Graham looked up at ’Lena, who had
fainted. It was long ere she returned to consciousness, and then her
fainting fit was followed by another more severe, if possible, than the
first, while in speechless agony Mr. Graham hung over her.

“I killed the mother, and now I am killing the child,” thought he.

But at last ’Lena seemed better, and taking from the pillow the
crumpled note, she passed it toward her father, bidding him read it. It
was as follows;

“MY LOST ’LENA: By this title it seems appropriate for me to call you,
for you are more surely lost to me than you would be were this summer
sun shining upon your grave. And, ’Lena, believe me when I say I would
rather, far rather, see you dead than the guilty thing you are, for
then your memory would be to me as a holy, blessed influence, leading
me on to a better world, where I could hope to greet you as my spirit
bride. But now, alas! how dark the cloud which shrouds you from my
sight.

“Oh, ’Lena, ’Lena, how could you deceive me thus, when I thought you so
pure and innocent, when even now, I would willingly lay down my life
could that save you from ruin.

“Do you ask what I mean? I have only to refer you to what this morning
took place between you and the vile man I once called father, and whom
I believed to be the soul of truth and honor. With a heart full of
tenderness toward you, I was hastening to your side, when a scene met
my view which stilled the beatings of my pulse and curdled the very
blood in my veins, I saw you throw your arms around _his_ neck—the
husband of _my_ mother. I saw you lay your head upon his bosom. I heard
him as he called you _dearest_, and said you would never be parted
again!

“You know all that has passed heretofore, and can you wonder that my
worst fears are now confirmed? God knows how I struggled against those
doubts, which were nearly removed, when, by the evidence of my own
eyesight, uncertainty was made sure.

“And now, my once loved, but erring ’Lena, farewell. I am going
away—whither, I know not, care not, so that I never hear your name
coupled with disgrace. Another reason why I go, is that the hot blood
of the south burns too fiercely in my veins to suffer me to meet your
destroyer and not raise my hand against him. When this reaches you, I
shall be far away. But what matters it to you? And yet, ’Lena, there
will come a time when you’ll remember one who, had you remained true to
yourself, would have devoted his life to make you happy, for I know I
am not indifferent to you. I have read it in your speaking eye, and in
the childlike confidence with which you would yield to _me_ when no one
else could control your wild ravings.

“But enough of this. Time hastens, and I must say farewell—farewell
forever—my _lost, lost_ ’Lena!

“DURWARD.”


Gradually as Mr. Graham read, he felt a glow of indignation at
Durward’s hastiness. “Rash boy! he might at least have spoken with me,”
said he, as he finished the letter, but ’Lena would hear no word of
censure against him. She did not blame him. She saw it all, understood
it all, and as she recalled the contents of his letter, her own heart
sadly echoed, “_lost forever_.”

As well as he was able, Mr. Graham tried to comfort her, but in spite
of his endeavors, there was still at her heart the same dull, heavy
pain, and most anxiously Mr. Graham watched her, waiting impatiently
for the time when she would be able to start for home, as he hoped a
change of place and scene would do much toward restoring both her
health and spirits. Soon after his arrival at Laurel Hill, Mr. Graham
had written to Mr. Livingstone, telling him what he had before told his
wife, and adding, “Of course, my _daughter’s_ home will in future be
with me, at Woodlawn, where I shall be happy to see yourself and family
at any time.”

This part of the letter he showed to ’Lena, who, after reading it,
seemed for a long time absorbed in thought.

“What is it, darling? Of what are you thinking?” Mr. Graham asked, at
length, and ’Lena, taking the hand which he had laid gently upon her
forehead, replied, “I am thinking of poor grandmother. She is not
happy, now, at Maple Grove. She will be more unhappy should I leave
her, and if you please, I would rather stay there with her. I can see
you every day.”

“Do you suppose me cruel enough to separate you from your grandmother?”
interrupted Mr. Graham. “No, no, I am not quite so bad as that.
Woodlawn is large—there are rooms enough—and grandma shall have her
choice, provided it is a reasonable one.”

“And your wife—Mrs. Graham? What will she say?” timidly inquired ’Lena,
involuntarily shrinking from the very thought of coming in contact with
the little lady who had so recently come up before her in the new and
formidable aspect of _stepmother_!

Mr. Graham did not know himself what she would say, neither did he
care. The fault of his youth once confessed, he felt himself a new man,
able to cope with almost anything, and if in the future his wife
objected to what he knew to be right, it would do her no good, for
henceforth he was to rule his own house. Some such thoughts passed
through his mind, but it would not be proper, he knew, to express
himself thus to ’Lena, so he laughingly replied, “Oh, we’ll fix that,
easily enough.”

At the time he wrote to Mr. Livingstone, he had also sent a letter to
his wife, announcing his safe return from Europe, and saying that he
should be at home as soon as ’Lena’s health would admit of her
traveling. Not wishing to alarm her unnecessarily, he merely said of
Durward, that he had found him at Laurel Hill. To this letter Mrs.
Graham replied immediately, and with a far better grace than her
husband had expected. Very frankly she confessed the unkind part she
had acted toward ’Lena, and while she said she was sorry, she also
spoke of the reaction which had taken place in the minds of Lena’s
friends, who, she said, would gladly welcome her back,

The continued absence of Durward was now the only drawback to ’Lena’s
happiness, and with a comparatively light heart, she began to
anticipate her journey home. Most liberally did Mr. Graham pay for both
himself and ’Lena, and Uncle Timothy, as he counted the shining coin,
dropping it upon the table to make sure it was not _bogus_, felt quite
reconciled to his recent loss of fifty dollars. Jerry, the driver, was
also generously rewarded for his kindness to the stranger-girl, and
just before he left, Mr. Graham offered to make him his chief overseer,
if he would accompany him to Kentucky.

“You are just the man I want,” said he, “and I know you’ll like it.
What do you say?”

For the sake of occasionally seeing ’Lena, whom he considered as
something more than mortal, Jerry would gladly have gone, but he was a
staunch abolitionist, dyed in the wool, and scratching his head, he
replied, “I’m obleeged to you, but I b’lieve I’d rather drive _hosses_
than _niggers_!”

“Mebby you could run one on ’em off, and so make a little sumthin’,”
slyly whispered Uncle Timothy, his eyes always on the main chance, but
it was no part of Jerry’s creed to make anything, and as ’Lena at that
moment appeared, he beat a precipitate retreat, going out behind the
church, where he watched the departure of his southern friends, saying
afterward, to Mrs. Aldergrass, who chided him for his conduct, that “he
never could bid nobody good-bye, he was so darned tender-hearted!”




CHAPTER XXXV.
EXCITEMENT AT MAPLE GROVE.


“’Lena been gone four weeks and father never stirred a peg after her!
That is smart, I must say. Why didn’t you let me know it before!”
exclaimed John Jr., as he one morning unexpectedly made his appearance
at Maple grove.

During his absence Carrie had been his only correspondent, and for some
reason or other she delayed telling him of ’Lena’s flight until quite
recently. Instantly forgetting his resolution of not returning for a
year, he came home with headlong haste, determining to start
immediately after his cousin.

“I reckon if you knew all that has been said about her, you wouldn’t
feel quite so anxious to get her back,” said Carrie. “For my part, I
feel quite relieved at her absence.”

“Shut up your head,” roared John Jr. “’Lena is no more guilty than
_you_. By George, I most cried when I heard how nobly she worked to
save Anna from old Baldhead. And this is her reward! Gracious Peter! I
sometimes wish there wasn’t a woman in the world!”

“If they’d all marry you, there wouldn’t be long!” retorted Carrie.

“You’ve said it now, haven’t you?” answered John Jr., while his father
suggested that they stop quarreling, adding, as an apology for his own
neglect, that Durward had gone after ’Lena, who was probably at Mr.
Everett’s, and that he himself had advertised in all the principal
papers.

“Just like Bellmont! He’s a fine fellow and deserves ’Lena, if anybody
does,” exclaimed John Jr., while Carrie chimed in, “Pshaw! I’ve no idea
he’s gone for her. Why, they’ve hardly spoken for several months, and
besides that, Mrs. Graham will never suffer him to marry one of so low
origin.”

“The deary me!” said John Jr., mimicking his sister’s manner, “how much
lower is her origin than yours?”

Carrie’s reply was prevented by the appearance of her grandmother, who,
hearing that John Jr. was there, had hobbled in to see him. Perfectly
rational on all other subjects, Mrs. Nichols still persisted in saying
of ’Lena, that she had killed her, and now, when her first greeting
with John Jr. was over, she whispered in his ear, “Have they told you
’Lena was dead? She is—I killed her—it says so here,” and she handed
him the almost worn-out note which she constantly carried with her.
Rough as he seemed at times, there was in John Jr.’s nature many a
tender spot, and when he saw the look of childish imbecility on his
grandmother’s face, he pressed his strong arm around her, and a tear
actually dropped upon her gray hair as he told her ’Lena was not
dead—he was going to find her and bring her home. At that moment old
Cæsar, who had been to the post-office, returned, bringing Mr. Graham’s
letter, which had just arrived.

“That’s Mr. Graham’s handwriting,” said Carrie; glancing at the
superscription. “Perhaps _he_ knows something of ’Lena!” and she looked
meaningly at her mother, who, with a peculiar twist of her mouth,
replied, “Very likely.”

“You are right. He _does_ know something of her,” said Mr. Livingstone,
as he finished reading the letter. “She is with him at a little village
called Laurel Hill, somewhere in New York.”

“There! I told you so. Poor Mrs. Graham. It will kill her. I must go
and see her immediately,” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, settling herself
back quite composedly in her chair, while Carrie, turning to her
brother, asked “what he thought of ’Lena now.”

“Just what I always did,” he replied. “There’s fraud somewhere. Will
you let me see that, sir?” advancing toward his father, who, placing
the letter in his hand, walked to the window to hide the varied
emotions of his face.

Rapidly John Jr. perused it, comprehending the whole then, when it was
finished, he seized his hat, and throwing it up in the air, shouted,
“Hurrah! Hurrah for _Miss ’Lena Rivers Graham_, daughter of the
Honorable Harry Rivers Graham. I was never so glad in my life. Hurrah!”
and again the hat went up, upsetting in its descent a costly vase, the
fragments of which followed in the direction of the hat, as the young
man capered about the room, perfectly insane with joy.

“Is the boy crazy?” asked Mrs. Livingstone, catching him by the coat as
he passed her, while Carrie attempted to snatch the letter from his
hand.

“Crazy?—yes,” said he. “Who do you think ’Lena’s father is? No less a
person than Mr. Graham himself. Now taunt her again, Cad, with her low
origin, if you like. She isn’t coming here to live any more. She’s
going to Woodlawn. She’ll marry Durward, while you’ll be a cross,
dried-up old maid, eh, Cad?” and he chucked her under the chin, while
she began to cry, bidding him let her alone.

“What do you mean?” interposed Mrs. Livingstone, trembling lest it
might be true.

“I will read the letter and you can judge for yourself,” replied John.

Both Carrie and her mother were too much astonished to utter a
syllable, while, in their hearts, each hoped it would prove untrue.
Bending forward, grandma had listened eagerly, her dim eye lighting up
as she occasionally caught the meaning of what she heard; but she could
not understand it at once, and turning to her son, she said, “What is
it, John? what does it mean?”

As well as they could, Mr. Livingstone and John Jr. explained it to
her, and when at length she comprehended it, in her own peculiar way
she exclaimed, “Thank God that ’Leny is a lady, at last—as good as the
biggest on ’em. Oh, I wish Helleny had lived to know who her husband
was. Poor critter! Mebby he’ll give me money to go back and see the old
place, once more, afore I die.”

“If he don’t I will,” said Mr. Livingstone, upon which his wife, who
had not spoken before, wondered “where he’d get it.”

By this time Carrie had comforted herself with the assurance that as
’Lena was now Durward’s sister, he would not, of course, marry her, and
determining to make the best of it, she replied to her brother, who
rallied her on her crestfallen looks, that he was greatly mistaken, for
“she was as pleased as any one at ’Lena’s good fortune, but it did not
follow that she must make a fool of herself, as some others did.”

The closing part of this remark was lost on John Jr., who had left the
room. In the first excitement, he had thought “how glad Nellie will
be,” and acting, as he generally did, upon impulse, he now ordered his
horse, and dashing off at full speed, as usual, surprised Nellie,
first, with his sudden appearance, second, with his announcement of
’Lena’s parentage, and third, by an offer of himself!

“It’s your destiny,” said he, “and it’s of no use to resist. What did
poor little Meb die for, if it wasn’t to make room for you. So you may
as well say yes first as last. I’m odd, I know, but you can fix me
over. I’ll do exactly what you wish me to. Say yes, Nellie, won’t you
?”

And Nellie did say yes, wondering, the while, if ever before woman had
such wooing. We think not, for never was there another John Jr.

“I have had happiness enough for one day,” said he, kissing her
blushing cheek and hurrying away.

As if every hitherto neglected duty were now suddenly remembered, he
went straight from Mr. Douglass’s to the marble factory, where he
ordered a costly stone for the little grave on the sunny slope, as yet
unmarked save by the tall grass and rank weeds which grew above it.

“What inscription will you have?” asked the engraver. John Jr. thought
for a moment, and then replied; “Simply ‘Mabel.’ Nothing more or less;
that tells the whole story,” and involuntarily murmuring to himself,
“Poor little Meb, I wish she knew how happy I am,” he started for home,
where he was somewhat surprised to find Mrs. Graham.

She had also received a letter from her husband, and deeming secrecy no
longer advisable, had come over to Maple Grove, where, to her great
satisfaction, she found that the news had preceded her. Feeling sure
that Mrs. Graham must feel greatly annoyed, both Carrie and her mother
began, at first, to act the part of consolers, telling her it might not
be true, after all, for perhaps it was a ruse of Mr. Graham’s to cover
some deep-laid, scheme. But for once in her life Mrs. Graham did well,
and to their astonishment, replied, “Oh, I hope not, for you do not
know how I long for the society of a daughter, and as Mr. Graham’s
child I shall gladly welcome ’Lena home, trying, if possible, to
overlook the vulgarity of her family friends!”

Though wincing terribly, neither Mrs. Livingstone nor her daughter were
to be outgeneraled. If Mrs. Graham could so soon change her tactics, so
could they, and for the next half hour they lauded ’Lena to the skies.
They had always liked her—particularly Mrs. Livingstone—who said, “If
allowed to speak my mind, Mrs. Graham, I must say that I have felt a
good deal pained by those reports which you put in circulation.”

“_I_ put reports in circulation!” retorted Mrs. Graham. “What do you
mean? It was yourself, madam, as I can prove by the whole
neighborhood!”

The war of words was growing sharper and more personal, when John Jr.’s
appearance put an end to it, and the two ladies, thinking they might as
well be friends as enemies, introduced another topic of conversation,
soon after which Mrs. Graham took her leave. Pausing in the doorway,
she said, “Would it afford you any gratification to be at Woodlawn when
’Lena arrives?”

Knowing that, under the circumstances, it would look better, Mrs.
Livingstone said “yes,” while Carrie, thinking Durward would be there,
made a similar reply, saying “she was exceedingly anxious to see her
cousin.”

“Very well. I will let you know when I expect her,” said Mrs. Graham,
curtsying herself from the room.

“Spell _Toady_, Cad,” whispered John Jr., and with more than her usual
quickness, Carrie replied, by doing as he desired.

“That’ll do,” said he, as he walked off to the back yard, where he
found the younger portion of the blacks engaged in a rather novel
employment for them.

The news of ’Lena’s good fortune had reached the kitchen, causing much
excitement, for she was a favorite there.

“’Clar for’t,” said Aunt Milly, “we orto have a bonfire. It won’t hurt
nothin’ on the brick pavement.”

Accordingly, as it was now dark, the children were set at work
gathering blocks, chips, sticks, dried twigs, and leaves, and by the
time John Jr. appeared, they had collected quite a pile. Not knowing
how he would like it, they all took to their heels, except Thomas
Jefferson, who, having some of his mother’s spirit, stood his ground,
replying, when asked what they were about, that they were “gwine to
celebrate Miss ’Lena.” Taking in the whole fun at once, John Jr. called
out, “Good! come back here, you scapegraces.”

Scarcely had he uttered these words, when from behind the lye-leach,
the smoke-house and the trees, emerged the little darkies, their eyes
and ivories shining with the expected frolic. Taught by John Jr., they
hurrahed at the top of their voices when the flames burst up, and one
little fellow, not yet able to talk plain, made his bare, shining legs
fly like drumsticks as he shouted, “Huyah for Miss ’Leny Yivers
Gayum——”

“Bellmont, too, say,” whispered John Jr., as he saw Carrie on the back
piazza.

“_Bellmont, too, say_,” yelled the youngster, leaping so high as to
lose his balance.

Rolling over the green-sward like a ball, he landed at the feet of
Carrie, who, spurning him as she would a toad, went back to the parlor,
where for more than an hour she cried from pure vexation.




CHAPTER XXXVI.
ARRIVAL AT WOODLAWN.


It was a warm September night at Woodlawn. The windows were open, and
through the richly-wrought curtains the balmy air of evening was
stealing, mingling its delicious perfume of flowers without with the
odor of those which drooped from the many costly vases which adorned
the handsome parlors. Lamps were burning, casting a mellow light over
the gorgeous furniture, while in robes of snowy white the mistress of
the mansion flitted from room to room, a little nervous, a little
fidgety, and, without meaning to be so, a little cross. For more than
two hours she had waited for her husband, delaying the supper, which
the cook, quite as anxious as herself, pronounced spoiled by the delay.

According to promise the party from Maple Grove had arrived, with the
exception of John Jr., who had generously remained with his
grandmother, she having been purposely omitted in the invitation. From
the first, Mrs. Graham had decided that Mrs. Nichols should never live
at Woodlawn, and she thought it proper to have it understood at once.
Accordingly, as she was conducting Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie to
’Lena’s room, she casually remarked, “I’ve made no provision for Mrs.
Nichols, except as an occasional visitor, for of course she will remain
with her son. She is undoubtedly much attached to your family, and will
be happier there!”

“_This_ ’Lena’s!” interrupted Carrie, ere her mother had time to reply.
“It’s the very best chamber in the house—Brussels carpets, marble and
rosewood furniture, damask curtains. Why, she’ll hardly know how to
act,” she continued, half unconsciously, as she gazed around the
elegant apartment, which, with one of her unaccountable freaks, Mrs.
Graham had fitted up with the utmost taste.

“Yes, this is Lena’s,” said Mrs. Graham, complacently. “Will it compare
at all with her chamber at Maple Grove? I do not wish it to seem
inferior!”

Carrie bit her lip, while her mother very coolly replied, “Ye-es, on
the whole _quite_ as good, perhaps better, as some of the furniture is
new!”

“Have I told you,” continued Mrs. Graham, bent on tormenting
them,—“have I told you that we are to spend the winter in New Orleans,
where ’Lena will of course be the reigning belle? You ought to be
there, dear,” laying her hand on Carrie’s shoulder. “It would be so
gratifying to you to witness the sensation she will create!”

“Spiteful old thing—she tries to insult us,” thought Carrie, her heart
swelling with bitterness toward the ever-hated ’Lena, whose future life
seemed so bright and joyous.

The sound of wheels was now heard, and the ladies reached the lower
hall just as the carriage, which had been sent to the station at
Midway, drove up at a side door. Carrie’s first thought was for
Durward, and shading her eyes with her hand, she looked anxiously out.
But only Mr. Graham alighted, gently lifting out his daughter, who was
still an invalid.

“Mighty careful of her,” thought Mrs. Livingstone, as in his arms he
bore her up the marble steps.

Depositing her in their midst, and placing his arm around her, he said,
turning to his wife, “Lucy, this is my daughter. Will you receive and
love her as such, for my sake?”

In a moment ’Lena’s soft, white hand lay in the fat, chubby one of Mrs.
Graham, who kissed her pale cheek, calling her “’Lena,” and saying “she
was welcome to Woodlawn.”

Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie now pressed forward, overwhelming her with
caresses, telling her how badly they had felt at her absence, chiding
her for running away, calling her a _naughty puss_, and perfectly
bewildering her with their new mode of conduct. Mr. Livingstone’s turn
came next, but he neither kissed nor caressed her, for that was not in
keeping with his nature, but very, very tenderly he looked into her
eyes, as he said, “You know, ’Lena, that _I_ am glad—most glad for
you.”

Unostentatious as was this greeting, ’Lena felt that there was more
sincerity in it than all that had gone before, and the tears gushed
forth involuntarily. Mentally styling her, the one “a baby,” and the
other “a fool,” Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie returned to the parlor,
while Mrs. Graham, calling a servant, bade her show ’Lena to her room.

“Hadn’t you better go up and assist your cousin,” whispered Mrs.
Livingstone to Carrie, who forthwith departed, knocking at the door, an
act of politeness she had never before thought it necessary to offer
’Lena. But she was an _heiress_, now, fully, yes, more than equal, and
that made a vast difference.

“I came to see if I could render you any service,” she said in answer
to ’Lena’s look of inquiry.

“No I thank you,” returned ’Lena, beginning to get an inkling of the
truth. “You know I’m accustomed to waiting upon myself, and if I want
anything, Drusa can assist me. I’ve only to change my soiled dress and
smooth my hair,” she continued, as she shook out her long and now
rather rough tresses.

“What handsome hair you’ve got,” said Carrie, taking one of the curls
in her hand. “I’d forgotten it was so beautiful. Hasn’t it improved
during your absence?”

“A course of fever is not usually very beneficial to one’s hair, I
believe,” answered ’Lena, as she proceeded to brush and arrange her
wavy locks, which really had lost some of their luster.

Foiled in her attempt at toadyism, Carrie took another tack. Looking
’Lena in the face, she said, “What is it? I can’t make it out, but—but
somehow you’ve changed, you don’t look so—so——”

“So _well_ you would say, I suppose,” returned ’Lena, laughingly, “I’ve
grown thin, but I hope to improve by and by.”

Drusa glanced at the two girls as they stood side by side, and her
large eyes sparkled as she thought her young mistress “a heap the best
lookin’ _now_.”

By this time Carrie had thought to ask for Durward. Instantly ’Lena
turned whiter, if possible, than she was before, and in an unsteady
voice she replied, that “she did not know.”

“Not know!” repeated Carrie, her own countenance brightening visibly.
“Haven’t you seen him? Wasn’t he at that funny, out-of-the-way place,
where you were?”

“Yes, but he left before I saw him,” returned ’Lena, her manner plainly
indicating that there was something wrong.

Carrie’s spirits rose. There was a chance for her, and on their way
downstairs she laughed and chatted so familiarly, that ’Lena wondered
if it could be the same haughty girl who had seldom spoken to her
except to repulse or command her. The supper-bell rang just as they
reached the parlor, and Mr. Graham, taking ’Lena on his arm, led the
way to the dining-room, where the entire silver tea-set had been
brought out, in honor of the occasion.

“Hasn’t ’Lena changed, mother?” said Carrie, feeling hateful, and
knowing no better way of showing it “Hasn’t her sickness changed her?”

“It has made her grow _old_; that’s all the difference I perceive,”
returned Mrs. Livingstone, satisfied that she’d said the thing which
she knew would most annoy herself.

“How old are you, dear?” asked Mrs. Graham, leaning across the table.

“Eighteen,” was ’Lena’s answer, to which Mrs. Graham replied, “I
thought so. Three years younger than Carrie, I believe.”

“Two, only two,” interrupted Mrs. Livingstone, while Carrie exclaimed,
“Horrors! How old do you take me to be?”

Adroitly changing the conversation, Mrs. Graham made no reply, and soon
after they rose from the table. Scarcely had they returned to the
parlor, when John Jr. was announced. “He had,” he said, “got his
grandmother to sleep and put her to bed, and now he had come to pay his
respects to _Miss Graham_!”

Catching her in his arms, he exclaimed, “Little girl! I’m as much
delighted with your good fortune as I should be had it happened to
myself. But where is Bellmont?” he continued, looking about the room.

Mr. Graham replied that he was not there.

“Not here?” repeated John Jr. “What have you done with him, ’Lena?”

Lifting her eyes, full of tears, to her cousin’s face, ’Lena said,
softly, “Please don’t talk about it now.”

“There’s something wrong,” thought John Jr. “I’ll bet I’ll have to
shoot that dog yet.”

’Lena longed to pour out her troubles to some one, and knowing she
could confide in John Jr., she soon found an opportunity of whispering
to him, “Come tomorrow, and I will tell you all about it.”

Between ten and eleven the company departed, Mrs. Livingstone and
Carrie taking a most affectionate leave of ’Lena, urging her not to
fail of coming over the next day, as they should be expecting her. The
ludicrous expression of John Jr.’s face was a sufficient interpretation
of his thoughts, as whispering aside to ’Lena, he said, “I can’t do it
justice if I try!”

The next morning Mr. Graham got out his carriage to carry ’Lena to
Maple Grove, asking his wife to accompany them. But she excused
herself, on the plea of a headache, and they set off without her. The
meeting between ’Lena and her grandmother was affecting, and Carrie, in
order to sustain the character she had assumed, walked to the window,
to hide her emotions, probably—at least John Jr. thought so, for with
the utmost gravity he passed her his silk pocket handkerchief! When the
first transports of her interview with ’Lena were over, Mrs. Nichols
fastened herself upon Mr. Graham, while John Jr. invited ’Lena to the
garden, where he claimed from her the promised story, which she told
him unreservedly.

“Oh, that’s nothing, compared with my experience,” said John Jr.,
plucking at the rich, purple grapes which hung in heavy clusters above
his head. “That’s easily settled. I’ll go after Durward myself, and
bring him back, either dead or alive—the latter if possible, the former
if necessary. So cheer up. I’ve faith to believe that you and Durward
will be married about the same time that Nellie and I are. We are
engaged—did I tell you?”

Involuntarily ’Lena’s eyes wandered in the direction of the sunny slope
and the little grave, as yet but nine months made.

“I know what you think,” said John Jr. rather testily, “but hang me if
I can help it. Meb was never intended for me, except by mother. I
suppose there is in the world somebody for whom she was made, but it
wasn’t I, and that’s the reason she died. I am sorry as anybody, and
every night in my life I think of poor Meb, who loved me so well, and
who met with so poor a return. I’ve bought her some gravestones,
though,” he continued, as if that were an ample atonement for the past.

While they were thus occupied, Mr. Graham was discussing with Mrs.
Nichols the propriety of her removing to Woodlawn.

“I shan’t live long to trouble anybody,” said she when asked if she
would like to go, “and I’m nothin’ without ’Leny.”

So it was arranged that she should go with him, and when ’Lena returned
to the house, she found her grandmother in her chamber, packing up,
preparatory to her departure.

“We’ll have to come agin,” said she, “for I’ve as much as two loads.”

“Don’t take them,” interposed ’Lena. “You won’t need them, and nothing
will harm them here.”

After a little, grandma was persuaded, and her last charge to Mrs.
Livingstone and Carrie was, “that they keep the dum niggers from her
things.”

Habit with Mrs. Nichols was everything. She had lived at Maple Grove
for years, and every niche and corner of her room she understood. She
knew the blacks and they knew her, and ere she was half-way to
Woodlawn, she began to wish she had not started. Politely, but coldly,
Mrs. Graham received her, saying “I thought, perhaps, you would return
with them to _spend the day_!” laying great emphasis on the last words,
as if that, of course, was to be the limit of her visit Grandma
understood it, and it strengthened her resolution of not remaining
long.

“Miss Graham don’t want to be pestered with me,” said she to ’Lena, the
first time they were alone, “and I don’t mean that she shall be. ’Tilda
is used to me, and she don’t mind it now, so I shall go back afore
long. You can come to see me every day, and once in a while I’ll come
here.”

That afternoon a heavy rain came on, and Mrs. Graham remarked to Mrs.
Nichols that “she hoped she was not homesick, as there was every
probability of her being obliged to _stay over night_!” adding, by way
of comfort, that “she was going to Frankfort the next day to make
purchases for ’Lena, and would take her home.”

Accordingly, the next morning Mrs. Livingstone was not very agreeably
surprised by the return of her mother-in-law, who, Mrs. Graham said,
“was so home-sick they couldn’t keep her.”

That night when Mrs. Graham, who was naturally generous, returned from
the city, she left at Maple Grove a large bundle for grandma,
consisting of dresses, aprons, caps, and the like, which she had
purchased as a sort or peace-offering, or reward, rather, for her
having decamped so quietly from Woodlawn. But the poor old lady did not
live to wear them. Both her mind and body were greatly impaired, and
for two or three years she had been failing gradually. There was no
particular disease, but a general breaking up of the springs of life,
and a few weeks after ’Lena’s arrival at Woodlawn,, they made another
grave on the sunny slope, and Mabel no longer slept alone.




CHAPTER XXXVII.
DURWARD.


From place to place and from scene to scene Durward had hurried, caring
nothing except to forget, if possible, the past, and knowing not where
he was going, until he at last found himself in Richmond, Virginia.
This was his mother’s birthplace, and as several of her more distant
relatives were still living here, he determined to stop for awhile,
hoping that new objects and new scenes would have some power to rouse
him from the lethargy into which he had fallen. Constantly in terror
lest he should hear of ’Lena’s disgrace, which he felt sure would be
published to the world, he had, since his departure from Laurel Hill,
resolutely refrained from looking in a newspaper, until one morning
some weeks after his arrival at Richmond.

Entering a reading-room, he caught up the Cincinnati Gazette, and after
assuring himself by a hasty glance that it did not contain what he so
much dreaded to see, he sat down to read it, paying no attention to the
date, which was three or four weeks back. Accidentally he cast his eye
over the list of arrivals at the Burnet House, seeing among them the
names of “Mr. H. R. Graham, and Miss L. R. Graham, Woodford county,
Kentucky!”

“_Audacious_! How dare they be so bold!” he exclaimed, springing to his
feet and tearing the paper in fragments, which he scattered upon the
floor.

“Considerable kind of uppish, ’pears to me,” said a strange voice,
having in its tone the nasal twang peculiar to a certain class of
Yankees.

Looking up, Durward saw before him a young man in whose style of dress
and freckled face we at once recognize Joel Slocum. Wearying of
Cincinnati, as he had before done with Lexington, he had traveled at
last to Virginia. Remembering to have heard that his grandmother’s aunt
had married, died, and left a daughter in Richmond, he determined, if
possible, to find some trace of her. Accordingly, he had come on to
that city, making it the theater of his daguerrean operations. These
alone not being sufficient to support him, he had latterly turned his
attention to _literary pursuits_, being at present engaged in
manufacturing a book after the Sam Slick order, which, to use his own
expression, “he expected would have a thunderin’ sale.”

In order to sustain the new character which he had assumed, he came
every day to the reading-room, tumbling over books and papers,
generally carrying one of the former in his hand, affecting an utter
disregard of his personal appearance, daubing his fingers with ink,
wiping them on the pocket of his coat, and doing numerous other things
which he fancied would stamp him a distinguished person.

On the morning of which we have spoken, Joel’s attention was attracted
toward Durward, whose daguerreotype he had seen at Maple Grove, and
though he did not recognize the original, he fancied he might have met
him before, and was about making his acquaintance, when Durward’s
action drew from him the remark we have mentioned. Thinking him to be
some impertinent fellow, Durward paid him no attention, and was about
leaving, when, hitching his chair a little nearer, Joel said, “Be you
from Virginny?”

“No.”

“From York state?”

“No.”

“From Pennsylvany?”

“No.”

“Mebby, then, you are from Kentucky?”

No answer.

“Be you from Kentucky?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know Mr. Graham’s folks?”

“Yes,” said Durward, trembling lest the next should be something
concerning his stepfather—but it was not.

Settling himself a little further back in the chair, Joel continued:
“Wall, I calkerlate that I’m some relation to Miss Graham. Be you
’quainted with her?”

Durward knew that a relationship with _Mrs_. Graham also implied a
relationship with himself, and feeling a little curious as well as
somewhat amused, he replied, “Related to Mrs. Graham! Pray how?”

“Why, you see,” said Joel, “that my grandmarm’s aunt—she was younger
than grandmarm, and was her aunt tew. Wall, she went off to Virginia to
teach music, and so married a nabob—know what that is, I s’pose; she
had one gal and died, and this gal was never heard from until I took it
into my head to look her up, and I’ve found out that she was _Lucy
Temple_. She married an Englishman, first—then a man from South
Carolina, who is now livin’ in Kentucky, between Versailles and
Frankfort.”

“What was your grandmother’s aunt’s name?” asked Durward.

“Susan Howard,” returned Joel. “The Howards were a stuck-up set,
grandmarm and all—not a bit like t’other side of the family. My
mother’s name was Scovandyke——”

“And yours?” interrupted Durward.

“Is Joel Slocum, of Slocumville, Massachusetts, at your service,” said
the young man, rising up and going through a most wonderful bow, which
he always used on great occasions.

In a moment Durward knew who he was, and greatly amused, he said, “Can
you tell me, Mr. Slocum, what relation this Lucy Temple, your
great-great-aunt’s daughter, would be to you?”

“My third cousin, of course,” answered Joel. “I figgered that out with
a slate and pencil.”

“And her son, if she had one?”

“Would be my fourth cousin; no great connection, to be sure—but enough
to brag on, if they happened to be smart!”

“Supposing I tell you what I am Lucy Temple’s son?” said Durward, to
which Joel, not the least suspicious, replied, “Wall, s’posin’ you du,
’twon’t make it so.”

“But I _am_, really and truly,” continued Durward. “Her first husband
was a Bellmont, and I am Durward Bellmont, your fourth cousin, it
seems.”

“_Jehosiphat_! If this ain’t curis,” exclaimed Joel, grasping Durward’s
hand. “How _do_ you du, and how is your marm. And do you know Helleny
Rivers?”

Durward’s brow darkened as he replied in the affirmative, while Joel
continued: “We are from the same town, and used to think a sight of
each other, but when I seen her in Kentucky, I thought she’d got to be
mighty toppin’. Mebby, though, ’twas only my notion.”

Durward did not answer, and after a little his companion said, “I
suppose you know I sometimes take pictures for a livin’. I’m goin’ to
my office now, and if you’ll come with me I’ll take yourn for nothin’,
bein’ you’re related.”

Mechanically, and because he had nothing else to do, Durward followed
the young man to his “office,” which was a dingy, cheerless apartment
in the fourth story of a crazy old building. On the table in the center
of the room were several likenesses, which he carelessly examined.
Coming at last to a larger and richer case, he opened it, but instantly
it dropped from his hand, while an exclamation of surprise escaped his
lips.

“What’s the row, old feller,” asked Joel, coming forward and picking up
the picture which Durward had recognized as ’Lena Rivers.

“How came you by it?” said Durward eagerly, and with a knowing wink,
Joel replied, “I know, and that’s enough.”

“But I must know, too. It is of the utmost importance that I know,”
said Durward, and after a moment’s reflection, Joel answered “Wall, I
don’t s’pose it’ll do any hurt if I tell you. When I was a boy I had a
hankerin’ for ’Leny, and I didn’t get over it after I was grown,
either, so a year or two ago I thought I’d go to Kentuck and see her.
Knowin’ how tickled she and Mrs. Nichols would be with a picter of
their old home in the mountains, I took it for ’em and started. In
Albany I went to see a family that used to live in Slocumville. The
woman was a gal with ’Leny’s mother, and thought a sight of her. Wall,
in the chamber where they put me to sleep, was an old portrait, which
looked so much like ’Leny that in the mornin’ I asked whose it was, and
if you b’lieve me, ’twas ’Leny’s mother! You know she married, or
thought she married, a southern rascal, who got her portrait taken and
then run off, and the picter, which in its day was an expensive one,
was sold to pay up. A few years afterward, Miss Rice, the woman I was
tellin’ you about, came acrost it, and bought it for a little or
nothin’ to remember Helleny Nichols by. Thinks to me, nothin’ can
please ’Leny better than a daguerreotype of her mother, so I out with
my apparatus and took it. But when I come to see that they were as nigh
alike as two peas, I hated to give it up, for I thought it would be
almost as good as lookin’ at ’Leny. So I kept it myself, but I don’t
want her to know it, for she’d be mad.”

“Did you ever take a copy of this for any one?” asked Durward, a faint
light beginning to dawn upon him.

“What a feller to hang on,” answered Joel, “but bein’ I’ve started,
I’ll go it and tell the hull. One morning when I was in Lexington, a
gentleman came in, calling himself Mr. Graham, and saying he wanted a
copy of an old mountain house which he had seen at Mr. Livingstone’s.
Whilst I was gettin’ it ready, he happened to come acrost this one, and
what is the queerest of all, he like to fainted away. I had to throw
water in his face and everything. Bimeby he cum to, and says he, ‘Where
did you get that?’ I told him all about it, and then, layin’ his head
on the table, he groaned orfully, wipin’ off the thumpinest great drops
of sweat and kissin’ the picter as if he was crazy.

“‘Mebby you knew Helleny Nichols?’ says I.

“‘Knew her, yes,’ says he, jumpin’ up and walkin’ the room as fast.

“All to once he grew calm, just as though nothin’ had happened, and
says he, ‘I must have that or one jest like it.’

“At first I hesitated, for I felt kinder mean always about keepin’ it,
and I didn’t want ’Leny to know I’d got it. I told him so, and he said
nobody but himself should ever see it. So I took a smaller one, leavin’
off the lower part of the body, as the dress is old-fashioned, you see.
He was as tickled as a boy with a new top, and actually forgot to take
the other one of the mountain house. Some months after, I came across
him in Cincinnati. His wife was with him, and I thought then that she
looked like Aunt Nancy. Wall, he went with me to my office, and said he
wanted another daguerreotype, as he’d lost the first one. Now I’m,
pretty good at figgerin’, and I’ve thought that matter over until I’ve
come to this conclusion—_that man_—was—’Lena’s father—the husband or
something of Helleny Nichols! But what ails you? Are you faintin’,
too,” he exclaimed, as he saw the death-like whiteness which had
settled upon Durward’s face and around his mouth.

“Tell me more, everything you know,” gasped Durward.

“I have told you all I know for certain,” said Joel. “The rest is only
guess-work, but it looks plaguy reasonable. ’Leny’s father, I’ve heard
was from South Car’lina——”

“So was Mr. Graham,” said Durward, more to himself than to Joel, who
continued, “And he’s your step-father, ain’t he—the husband of Lucy
Temple, my cousin?”

Durward nodded, and as a customer just then came in, he arose to go,
telling Joel he would see him again. Alone in his room, he sat down to
think of the strange story he had heard. Gradually as he thought, his
mind went back to the time when Mr. Graham first came home from
Springfield. He was a little boy, then, five or six years of age, but
he now remembered many things calculated to prove what he scarcely yet
dared to hope. He recalled Mr. Graham’s preparations to return, when he
was taken suddenly ill. He knew that immediately atter his recovery he
had gone northward. He remembered how sad he had seemed after his
return, neglecting to play with him as had been his wont, and when to
this he added Joel’s story, together with the singularity of his
father’s conduct towards ’Lena, he could not fail to be convinced.

“She _is_ innocent, thank heaven! I see it all now. Fool that I was to
be so hasty,” he exclaimed, his whole being seemed to undergo a sudden
change as the joyous conviction flashed upon him.

In his excitement he forgot his promise of again seeing Joel Slocum,
and ere the sun-setting he was far on his road home. Occasionally he
felt a lingering doubt, as he wondered what possible motive his father
could have had for concealment, but these wore away as the distance
between himself and Kentucky diminished. As the train paused at one of
the stations, he was greatly surprised at seeing John Jr. among the
crowd gathered at the depot.

“Livingstone, Livingstone, how came you here?” shouted Durward, leaning
from the open window.

The cars were already in motion, but at the risk of his life John Jr.
bounded upon the platform, and was soon seated by the side of Durward.

“You are a great one, ain’t you?” said he. “Here I’ve been looking for
you all over Christendom, to tell you the news. You’ve got a new
sister. Did you know it?”

“’_Lena_! Is it true? _Is_ it ’Lena?” said Durward, and John replied by
relating the particulars as far as he knew them, and ending by asking
Durward if “he didn’t think he was sold!”

“Don’t talk,” answered Durward. “I want to think, for I was never so
happy in my life.”

“Nor I either,” returned John Jr. “So if you please you needn’t speak
to _me_, as I wish to think, too.”

But John Jr. could not long keep still, he must tell his companion of
his engagement with Nellie—and he did, falling asleep soon after, and
leaving Durward to his own reflections.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CONCLUSION.


We hope the reader does not expect us to describe the meeting between
Durward and ’Lena, for we have not the least, or, at the most, only a
faint idea of what took place. We only know that it occurred in the
summer-house at the foot of the garden, whither ’Lena had fled at the
first intimation of his arrival, and that on her return to the house,
after an interview of two whole hours, there were on her cheeks traces
of tears, which the expression of her face said were not tears of
grief.

“How do you like my daughter?” asked Mr. Graham, mischievously, at the
same time laying his arm proudly about her neck.

“So well that I have asked her to become my wife, and she has promised
to do so, provided we obtain your consent,” answered Durward, himself
throwing an arm around the blushing girl, who tried to escape, but he
would not let her, holding her fast until his father’s answer was
given.

Then turning to Mrs. Graham, he said, “Now, mother, we will hear you.”

Kind and affectionate as she tried to be toward ’Lena, Mrs. Graham had
not yet fully conquered her olden prejudice, and had the matter been
left wholly with herself, she would, perhaps, have chosen for her son a
bride in whose veins _no plebeian blood_ was flowing; but she well knew
that her objections would have no weight, and she answered, that “she
should not oppose him.”

“Then it is settled,” said he, “and four weeks from to-night I shall
claim ’Lena for my own.”

“No, not so soon after grandma’s death,” ’Lena said, and Durward
replied:

“If grandma could speak, she would tell you not to wait!” but ’Lena was
decided, and the most she would promise was, that in the spring she
would think about it!

“Six months,” said Durward, “I’ll never wait so long!” but he forbore
pressing her further on the subject, knowing that he should have her in
the house with him, which would in a great measure relieve the tedium
of waiting.

During the autumn, his devotion to ’Lena furnished Carrie with a
subject for many ill-natured remarks concerning newly-engaged people.

“I declare,” said she, one evening after the departure of Durward,
’Lena, and Nellie, who had been spending the day at Maple Grove, “I’m
perfectly disgusted, and if this is a specimen, I hope I shall never be
engaged.”

“Don’t give yourself a moment’s uneasiness,” retorted John Jr., “I’ve
not the least idea that such a calamity will ever befall you, and years
hence my grandchildren will read on some gravestone, ‘Sacred to the
memory of Miss Caroline Livingstone, aged 70. In single blessedness she
lived—and in the same did die!’”

“You think you are cunning, don’t you,” returned Carrie, more angry
than she was willing to admit.

She had received the news of Durward’s engagement much better than
could have been expected, and after a little she took to quoting and
cousining ’Lena, while John Jr. seldom let an opportunity pass of
hinting at the very recent date Of her admiration for Miss Graham.

Almost every day for several weeks after Durward’s return, he looked
for a visit from Joel Slocum, who did not make his appearance until
some time toward the last of November. Then he came, claiming, and
_proving_, his relationship with Mrs. Graham, who was terribly annoyed,
and who, it was rumored, _hired_ him to leave!

During the winter, nothing of importance occurred, if we except the
fact that a part of Mabel’s fortune, which was supposed to have been
lost, was found to be good, and that John Jr. one day unexpectedly
found himself to be the lawful heir of fifty thousand dollars. Upon
Mrs. Livingstone this circumstance produced a rather novel effect,
renewing, in its original force, all her old affection for Mabel, who
was now “our dear little Meb.” Many were the comparisons drawn between
Mrs. John Jr. No. 1, and Mrs. John Jr. No. 2, that was to be, the
former being pronounced far more lady-like and accomplished than the
latter, who, during her frequent visits at Maple Grove, continually
startled her mother-in-law elect by her loud, ringing laugh, for Nellie
was very happy. Her influence, too, over John Jr. became ere long,
perceptible in his quiet, gentle manner, and his abstinence from the
rude speeches which heretofore had seemed a part of his nature.

Mrs. Graham had proposed spending the winter in New Orleans, but to
this Durward objected. He wanted ’Lena all to himself, he said, and as
she seemed perfectly satisfied to remain where she was, the project was
given up, Mrs. Graham contenting herself with anticipating the splendid
entertainment she would give at the wedding, which was to take place
about the last of March. Toward the first of January the preparations
began, and if Carrie had never before felt a pang of envy, she did now,
when she saw the elegant trousseau which Mr. Graham ordered for his
daughter. But all such feelings must be concealed, and almost every day
she rode over to Woodlawn, admiring this, going into ecstasies over
that, and patronizingly giving her advice on all subjects, while all
the time her heart was swelling with bitter disappointment. Having
always felt so sure of securing Durward, she had invariably treated
other gentlemen with such cool indifference that she was a favorite
with but few, and as she considered these few her inferiors, she had
more than once feared lest John Jr.’s prediction concerning the
_lettering_ on her tombstone should prove true!

“Anything but that,” said she, dashing away her tears, as she thought
how ’Lena had supplanted her in the affections of the only person she
could ever love,

“Old Marster Atherton done want to see you in the parlor,” said
Corinda, putting her head in at the door.

Since his unfortunate affair with Anna, the captain had avoided Maple
Grove, but feeling lonely at Sunnyside, he had come over this morning
to call. Finding Mrs. Livingstone absent, he had asked for Carrie, who
was so unusually gracious that he wondered he had never before
discovered how greatly superior to her sister she was! All his favorite
pieces were sung to him, and then, with the patience of a martyr, the
young lady seated herself at the backgammon board, playing game after
game, until she could scarcely tell her men from his. On his way home
the captain fell into a curious train of reflections, while Carrie,
when asked by Corinda, if “old marster was done gone,” sharply
reprimanded the girl, telling her “it was very impolite to call anybody
_old_, particularly one so young as Captain Atherton!”

The next day the captain came again, and the next, and the next, until
at last his former intimacy at Maple Grove seemed to be re-established.
And all this time no one had an inkling of the true state of things,
not even John Jr., who never dreamed it possible for his haughty
sister, to grace Sunnyside as its mistress. “But stranger things than
that had happened and were happening every day,” Carrie reasoned, as
she sat alone in her room, revolving the propriety of answering “Yes”
to a note which the captain had that morning placed in her hand at
parting. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was very fair,
and as yet untouched by a single mark or line. She thought of him,
_bald_, _wrinkled_, _fat_ and _forty-six_!

“I’ll never do it,” she exclaimed. “Better live single all my days.”

At this moment, the carriage of Mrs. Graham drew up, and from it
alighted ’Lena, richly clad. The sight of her produced a reaction, and
Carrie thought again. Captain Atherton was generous to a fault. He was
able and willing to grant her slightest wish, and as his wife, she
could compete with, if not outdo, ’Lena in the splendor of her
surroundings. The pen was resumed, and Carrie wrote the words which
sealed her destiny for life. This done, nothing could move her, and
though her father entreated, her mother scolded, and John Jr. _swore_,
it made no difference. “She was old enough to choose for herself,” she
said, “and she had done so.”

When Mrs. Livingstone became convinced that her daughter was in
earnest, she gave up the contest, taking sides with her. Like Durward,
Captain Atherton was in a hurry, and it was decided that the wedding
should take place a week before the time appointed for that of her
cousin. Determining not to be outdone by Mrs. Graham, Mrs. Livingstone
launched forth on a large scale, and there commenced between the two
houses a species of rivalry extremely amusing to a looker on. Did Mrs.
Graham purchase for ’Lena a costly silk, Mrs. Livingstone forthwith
secured a piece of similar quality, but different pattern, for Carrie.
Did Mrs. Graham order forty dollars’ worth of confectionery, Mrs.
Livingstone immediately increased her order to fifty dollars. And when
it was known that Mrs. Graham had engaged a Louisville French cook at
two dollars per day, Mrs. Livingstone sent to Cincinnati, offering
three for one!

Carrie had decided upon a tour to Europe, and the captain had given his
consent, when it was reported that Durward and ’Lena were also
intending to sail for Liverpool. In this dilemma there was no
alternative save a trip to California or the Sandwich Islands! The
former was chosen, Captain Atherton offering to defray Mrs.
Livingstone’s expenses if she would accompany them. This plan Carrie
warmly seconded, for she knew her mother’s presence would greatly
relieve her from the society of her husband, which was _not_ as
agreeable to her as it ought to have been. But Mr. Livingstone refused
to let his wife go, unless Anna came home and stayed with him while she
was gone.

He accordingly wrote to Anna, inviting her and Malcolm to be present at
Carrie’s wedding, purposely omitting the name of the bridegroom; and
three days before the appointed time they came. It was dark when they
arrived, and as they were not expected that night, they entered the
house before any one was aware of their presence. John Jr. chanced to
be in the hall, and the moment he saw Anna, he caught her in his arms,
shouting so uproariously that his father and mother at once hastened to
the spot.

“Will you forgive me, father ?” Anna said, and Mr. Livingstone replied
by clasping her to his bosom, while he extended his hand to Malcolm.

“Where’s Carrie?” Anna said, and John Jr. replied, “In the parlor, with
her future spouse. Shall I introduce you?”

So saying, he dragged her into the parlor, where she then recoiled in
terror as she saw Captain Atherton.

“Oh, Carrie!” she exclaimed. “It cannot be——that I see you again!” she
added, as she met her sister’s warning look.

Another moment and they were in each other’s arms weeping bitterly, the
one that her sister should thus throw herself away, and the other,
because she was wretched. It was but for an instant, however, and then
Carrie was herself again. Playfully presenting Anna to the Captain, she
said, “Ain’t I good to take up with what you left!”

But no one smiled at this joke—the captain, least of all, and as Carrie
glanced from him to Malcolm, she felt that her sister had made a happy
choice. The next day ’Lena came, overjoyed to meet Anna, who more than
any one else, rejoiced in her good fortune.

“You deserve it all,” she said, when they were alone, “and if Carrie
had one tithe of your happiness in store I should be satisfied.”

But Carrie asked for no sympathy. “It was no one’s business whom she
married,” she said; and so one pleasant night in the early spring, they
decked her in her bridal robes, and then, white, cold, and feelingless
as a marble statue, she laid her hand in Captain Atherton’s, and took
upon her the vows which made her his forever. A few days after the
ceremony, Carrie began to urge their immediate departure for
California.

“There was no need of further delay,” she said. “No one cared to see
’Lena married. Weddings were stupid things, anyway, and her mother
could just as well go one time as another.”

At first Mrs. Livingstone hesitated, but when Carrie burst into a
passionate fit of weeping, declaring “she’d kill herself if she had to
stay much longer at Sunnyside and be petted by _that old fool_,” she
consented, and one week from the day of the marriage they started. In
Carrie’s eyes there was already a look of weary sadness, which said
that the bitter tears were constantly welling up, while on her brow a
shadow was resting, as if Sunnyside were a greater burden than she
could bear. Alas, for a union without love! It seldom fails to end in
misery, and thus poor Carrie found it. Her husband was proud of her,
and, had she permitted, would have loved her after his fashion, but his
affectionate advances were invariably repulsed, until at last he
treated her with a cold politeness, far more endurable than his fawning
attentions had been. She was welcome to go her own way, and he went
his, each having in San Francisco their own suite of rooms, and setting
up, as it were, a separate establishment. In this way they got on quite
comfortably for a few weeks, at the end of which time Carrie took it
into her capricious head to return to Maple Grove. She would never go
back to Sunnyside, she said. And without a word of opposition the
captain paid his bills, and started for Kentucky, where he left his
wife at Maple Grove, she giving as a reason that “ma could not spare
her yet.”

Far different from this were the future prospects of Durward and ’Lena,
who with perfect love in their hearts were married, a week after the
departure of Captain Atherton for California. Very proudly Durward
looked down upon her as he placed the first husband’s kiss on her brow,
and in the soft brown eyes, brimming with tears, which she raised to
his face, there was a world of tenderness, telling that theirs was a
union of hearts as well as hands.

The next night a small party assembled at the house of Mr. Douglass, in
Frankfort, where Nellie was transformed into Nellie Livingstone.
Perhaps it was the remembrance of the young girl to whom his vows had
once before been plighted, that made John Jr. appear for a time as if
he were in a dream. But the moment they rallied him upon the
strangeness of his manner, he brightened up, saying that he was trying
to get used to thinking that Nellie was really his. It had been decided
that he should accompany Durward and ’Lena to Europe, and a day or two
after his marriage he asked Mr. Everett to go too. Anna’s eyes fairly
danced with joy, as she awaited Malcolm’s reply. But much as he would
like to go, he could not afford it, and so he frankly said, kissing
away the big tear which rolled down Anna’s cheek.

With a smile John Jr. placed a sealed package in his sister’s hand,
saying to Malcolm, “I have anticipated this and provided for it. I
suppose you are aware that Mabel willed me all her property, which
contrary to our expectations, has proved to be considerable. I know I
do not deserve a cent of it, but as she had no nearer relative than Mr.
Douglass, I have concluded to use it for the comfort of his daughter
and for the good of others. I want you and Anna to join us, and I’ve
given her such a sum as will bear your expenses, and leave you more
than you can earn dickering at law for three or four years. So, puss,”
turning to Anna, “it’s all settled. Now hurrah for the sunny skies of
France and Italy, I’ve talked with father about it, and he’s willing to
stay alone for the sake of having you go. Oh, don’t thank me,” he
continued, as he saw them about to speak. “It’s poor little Meb to whom
you are indebted. She loved Anna, and would willingly have her money
used for this purpose.”

After a little reflection Malcolm concluded to accept John’s offer, and
a happier party never stepped on board a steamer than that which, on
the 15th of April, sailed for Europe, which they reached in safety,
being at the last accounts in Paris, where they were enjoying
themselves immensely.

A few words more, and our story is told. Just as Mr. Livingstone was
getting tolerably well suited with his bachelor life, he was one
morning surprised by the return of his wife and daughter, the latter of
whom, as we have before stated, took up her abode at Maple Grove.
Almost every day the old captain rides over to see her, but he
generally carries back a longer face than he brings. The bald spot on
his head is growing larger, and to her dismay Carrie has discovered a
“crow track” in the corner of her eye. Frequently, after a war of words
with her mother, she announces her intention of returning to Sunnyside,
but a sight of the captain is sufficient to banish all such thoughts.
And thus she lives, that most wretched of all beings, an unloving and
unloved wife.

During the absence of their children, Mr. and Mrs. Graham remain at
Woodlawn, which, as it is the property of Durward, will be his own and
’Lena’s home.

Jerry Langley has changed his occupation of driver for that of a
brakeman on the railroad between Canandaigua and Niagara Falls.

In conclusion we will say of our old friend, Uncle Timothy, that he
joined “the _Hindews_” as proposed, was nominated for constable, and,
sure of success, bought an old gig for the better transportation of
himself over the town. But alas for human hopes—if funded upon
politics—the whole American ticket was defeated at Laurel Hill, since
which time he has gone over to the Republicans, to whom he has sworn
eternal allegiance.

THE END