diff options
Diffstat (limited to '12835-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 12835-0.txt | 13481 |
1 files changed, 13481 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/12835-0.txt b/12835-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..00d7c01 --- /dev/null +++ b/12835-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13481 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12835 *** + +’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 + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12835 *** |