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*** 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 ***