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'Lena Rivers

by Mary Jane Holmes · English · Gutenberg #12835 · 712,758 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: 'Lena Rivers

Author: Mary Jane Holmes


        
Release date: July 7, 2004 [eBook #12835]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12835

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 'LENA RIVERS ***

’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

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