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.