THE DAGUERREOTYPE.
“Look, grandmother!—a picture of our old home. Isn’t it natural?”
exclaimed Lena, as she ran back to the parlor.
Yes, it was natural, and the old lady’s tears gushed forth the moment
she looked upon it. There was the well, the garden, the gate partially
open, the barn in the rear, now half fallen down, the curtain of the
west window rolled up as it was wont to be, while on the doorstep,
basking in the warm sunshine, lay a cat, which Mrs. Nichols’ declared
was hers.
“John ought to see this,” said she, wiping the tears from her eyes, and
turning towards the door, which at that moment opened, admitting her
son, together with Mr. Graham, who had accidentally called. “Look here,
John,” said she, calling him to her side—“Do you remember this?”
The deep flush which mounted to John’s brow, showed that he did, and
his mother, passing it toward Mr. Graham, continued: “It is our old
home in Massachusetts. There’s the room where John and Helleny both
were born, and where Helleny and her father died. Oh, it seems but
yesterday since she died, and they carried her out of this door, and
down the road, there—do you see?”
This question, was addressed to Mr. Graham, who, whether he saw or not,
made no answer, but walked to the window and looked out, upon the
prospect beyond, which for him had no attractions then. The sight of
that daguerreotype had stirred up many bitter memories, and for some
time he stood gazing vacantly through the window, and thinking—who
shall say of what? It would seem that the daguerreotype possessed a
strong fascination for him, for after it had been duly examined and
laid down, he took it in his hand, inspecting it minutely, asking where
it was taken, and if it would be possible to procure a similar one.
“I have a fancy for such scenes,” said he, “and would like to have just
such a picture. Mr. Slocum is stopping in Lexington, you say. He can
take one from this, I suppose. I mean to see him;” and with his usual
good-morning, he departed.
Two weeks from this time Durward again went down to Frankfort,
determining, if a favorable opportunity presented itself, to offer
’Lena his heart and fortune.
He found her alone, Mabel having gone out to spend the day. For a time
they conversed together on indifferent topics, each one of which was
entirely foreign from that which lay nearest Durward’s heart. At last
the conversation turned upon Joel Slocum, of whose visit Durward had
heard.
“I really think, ’Lena,” said he, laughingly, “that you ought to
patronize the poor fellow, who has come all this distance for the sake
of seeing you. Suppose you have your daguerreotype taken for me, will
you?”
Durward was in earnest, but with a playful shake of her brown curls,
’Lena answered lightly, “Oh, no, no. I have never had my picture taken
in my life, and I shan’t begin with Joel.”
“Never had it taken!” repeated Durward, in some surprise.
“No, never,” said ’Lena, and Durward continued drawing her nearer to
him, “It is time you had, then. So have it taken for me. I mean what I
say,” he continued, as he met the glance of her merry eyes. “There is
nothing I should prize more than your miniature, except, indeed the
original, which you will not refuse me, when I ask it, will you?”
’Lena’s mirth was all gone—she knew he was in earnest now. She felt it
in the pressure of his arm, which encircled her waist; she saw it in
his eye, and heard it in the tones of his voice. But what should she
say? Closer he drew her to his side; she felt his breath upon her
cheek; and an inaudible answer trembled on her lips, when noiselessly
through the door came _Mr. Graham_, starting when he saw their
position, and offering to withdraw if he was intruding. ’Lena was
surprised and excited, and springing up, she laid her hand upon his arm
as he was about to leave the room, bidding him stay and saying he was
always welcome there.
So he stayed, and with the first frown upon his brow which ’Lena had
ever seen, Durward left—left without receiving an answer to his
question, or even referring to it again, though ’Lena accompanied him
to the door, half dreading, yet hoping, he would repeat it. But he did
not, and wishing her much pleasure in his father’s company, he walked
away, writing in his heart bitter things against _him_, not her. On his
way home he fell in with Du Pont, who, Frenchman-like, had taken a
little too much wine, and was very talkative.
“Vous just come from Mademoiselle Rivers,” said he. “She be von fine
girl. What relation be she to Monsieur Graham?”
“None whatever. Why do you ask?”
“Because he pay her musique lessons and——”
Here Du Pont suddenly remembered his promise, so he kept back Mr.
Graham’s assertion that he was a near relative, adding in its place,
that “he thought probable he related; but you no tell,” said he, “for
Monsieur bid me keep secret and I forgot.”
Here, having reached a cross-road, they parted, and again Durward wrote
down bitter things against his father, for what could be his object in
wishing it kept a secret that he was paying for ’Lena’s lessons, or why
did he pay for them at all—and did ’Lena know it? He thought not, and
for a time longer was she blameless in his eyes.
On reaching home he found both the parlor and drawing-room deserted,
and upon inquiry learned that his mother was in her own room.
Something, he could hardly tell what, prompted him to knock for
admission, which being granted, he entered, finding her unusually pale,
with the trace of tears still upon her cheek. This of itself was so
common an occurrence, that he would hardly have observed it had not
there been about her a look of unfeigned distress which he had seldom
seen before.
“What’s the matter, mother?” said he, advancing toward her; “What has
happened to trouble you?”
Without any reply, Mrs. Graham placed in his hand a richly-cased
daguerreotype, and laying her head upon the table, sobbed aloud. A
moment Durward stood transfixed to the spot, for on opening the case,
the fair, beautiful face of ’Lena Rivers looked smilingly out upon him!
“Where did you get this, mother?—how came you by it?” he asked, and she
answered, that in looking through her husband’s private drawer, the key
of which she had accidentally found in his vest pocket, she had come
upon it, together with a curl of soft chestnut-brown hair which she
threw across Durward’s finger, and from which he recoiled as from a
viper’s touch.
For several minutes not a word was spoken by either, and then Mrs.
Graham, looking him in the face, said, “You recognize that countenance,
of course?”
“I do,” he replied, in a voice husky with emotion, for Durward was
terribly moved.
Twice had ’Lena asserted that never in her life had her daguerreotype
been taken, and yet he held it in his hands; there was no mistaking
it—the same broad, open brow—the same full, red lips—the same smile—and
more than all, the same clustering ringlets, though arranged a little
differently from what she usually wore them, the hair on the picture
being combed smoothly over the forehead, while ’Lena’s was generally
brushed up after the style of the prevailing fashion. Had Durward
examined minutely, he might have found other points of difference, but
he did not think of that. A look had convinced him that ’twas ’Lena—his
’Lena, he had fondly hoped to call her. But that was over now—she had
deceived him—told him a deliberate falsehood—refused him her
daguerreotype and given it to his father, whose secrecy concerning it
indicated something wrong. His faith was shaken, and yet for the sake
of what she had been to him, he would spare her good name. He could not
bear to hear the world breathe aught against her, for possibly she
might be innocent; but no, there was no mistaking the falsehood, and
Durward groaned in bitterness as he handed the picture to his mother,
bidding her return it where she found it. Mrs. Graham had never seen
her son thus moved, and obeying him, she placed her hand upon his arm,
asking, “why he was so affected—what she was to him?”
“Everything, everything,” said he, laying his face upon the table.
“’Lena Rivers was all the world to me. I loved her as I shall never
love again.”
And then, without withholding a thing, Durward told his mother all—how
he had that very morning gone to Frankfort with the intention of
offering ’Lena his hand—how he had partially done so, when they were
interrupted by the entrance of a visitor, he did not say whom.
“Thank heaven for your escape. I can bear your father’s conduct, if it
is the means of saving you from her,” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, while her
son continued: “And now, mother, I have a request to make of you—a
request which you must grant. I have loved ’Lena too well to cease from
loving her so soon. And though I can never again think to make her my
wife, I will not hear her name lightly spoken by the world, who must
never know what we do. Promise me, mother, to keep secret whatever you
may know against her.”
“Do you think me bereft of my senses,” asked Mrs. Graham petulantly,
“that I should wish to proclaim my affairs to every one?”
“No, no, mother,” he answered, “but you are easily excited, and say
things you had better not. Mrs. Livingstone bears ’Lena no good will,
you know, and sometimes when she is speaking disparagingly of her, you
may be thrown off your guard, and tell what you know. But this must not
be. Promise me, mother, will you?”
Durward was very pale, and the drops of sweat stood thickly about his
mouth as he asked this of his mother who, mentally congratulating
herself upon her son’s escape, promised what he asked, at the same time
repeating to him all that she heard from Mrs. Livingstone concerning
’Lena, until Durward interrupted her with, “Stop, stop, I’ve heard
enough. Nothing which Mrs. Livingstone could say would have weighed a
straw, but the conviction of my own eyes and ears have undeceived me,
and henceforth ’Lena and I are as strangers.”
Nothing could please Mrs. Graham better, for the idea of her son’s
marrying a poor, unknown girl, was dreadful, and though she felt
indignant toward her husband so peculiar was her nature that she would
not have had matters otherwise if she could and when Durward, who
disliked _scenes_, suggested the propriety of her not speaking to his
father on the subject at present he assented, saying that it would be
more easy for her to refrain, as she was intending to start for
Louisville on the morrow.
“I’ve been contemplating a visit there for some time and before Mr.
Graham left home this morning, I had decided to go,” said she, at the
same time proposing that Durward should accompany her.
To this consented willingly, for in the first shock of his
disappointment, a change of place and scene was what he most desired.
The hot blood of the south, which burned in his veins, seemed all on
fire, and he felt that he could not, for the present, at least be daily
associated with his stepfather. An absence of several days, he thought,
might have the effect of calming him down. It was accordingly decided
that he should on the morrow, start with her for Louisville, to be gone
two weeks; and with this understanding they parted, Durward going to
his own chamber, there to review the past and strive, if possible, to
efface from his heart every memory of ’Lena, whom he had loved so well.
But ’twas all in vain; he could not so soon forget her and far into the
hours of night he sat alone striving to frame some excuse for her
conduct. The fact that his father possessed her daguerreotype might
possibly be explained, without throwing censure upon her; but the
falsehood—never; and with the firm conviction that she was lost to him
forever, he at last retired to rest, just as the clock in the ball
below proclaimed the hour of midnight.
Meantime, Mrs. Graham was pondering in her own mind the probable result
of a letter which, in the heat of passion, she had that day dispatched
to ’Lena, accusing her of “marring the domestic peace of a hitherto
happy family,” and while she cast some reflections upon her birth,
commanding her never, under any circumstances, “to venture into her
presence!”
This cruel letter had been sent to the office before Durward’s return,
and as she well knew how much he would disapprove of it, she resolved
not to tell him, secretly hoping ’Lena would keep her own counsel.
“Base creature!” said she, “to give my husband her likeness—but he
shall never see it again;” and with stealthy step she advanced toward
the secret drawer, which she again opened, and taking from it both
daguerreotype and ringlet, locked it, replacing the key in the pocket
where she found it. Then seizing the long, bright curl, she hurled it
into the glowing grate, shuddering as she did so, and trembling, as if
she really knew a wrong had been done to the dead.
Opening the case, she looked once more upon the hated features, which
now seemed to regard her mournfully, as if reproaching her for what she
had done. No part of the dress was visible—nothing except the head and
neck, which was uncovered, and over which fell the chestnut curls,
whose companion so recently lay seething and scorching on the burning
coals.
There was a footstep without—her husband had returned—and quick as
thought was the daguerreotype concealed, while Mrs. Graham, forcing
down her emotion, took up a book, which she seemed to be intently
reading when her husband entered. After addressing to her a few
commonplace remarks, all of which she answered civilly, he went to the
wardrobe, and on pretense of looking for his knife, which, he said he
believed he left in his vest pocket, he took out the key, and then
carelessly proceeded to unlock his private drawer, his wife watching
him the while, and keenly enjoying his look of consternation when he
saw that his treasure was gone. Again and again was his drawer
searched, but all to no purpose, and casting an anxious glance toward
his wife, whose face, for a wonder, betrayed no secret, he commenced
walking the floor in a very perturbed state of mind, his wife exulting
in his discomfiture, and thinking herself amply avenged for all that
she had endured.
At last he spoke, telling her of a letter which he had that day
received from South Carolina, containing the news of the death of a
distant relative, who had left him some property. “It is not necessary
for me to be there in person,” said he, “but still I should like to
visit my old home once more. What do you think of it?”
“Go, by all means,” said she, glad of anything which would place
distance between him and ’Lena. “No one can attend to your business
one-half as well as yourself. When will you start if you go?”
“Immediately—before your return from Louisville—unless you wish to
accompany me.”
“I’m afraid I should be an incumbrance, and would rather not,” said
she, in a way which puzzled him, causing him to wonder what had come
over her.
“You can do as you choose,” said he, “but I should be glad of your
company.”
“No, I thank you,” was her laconic reply, as she, in turn, wondered
what had come over him.
The next morning the carriage came up to the door to convey Mrs. Graham
and Durward to Frankfort. The latter was purposely late, and he did not
see his father until he came down, traveling-bag in hand, to enter the
carriage. Then Mr. Graham asked, in some surprise, “where he was
going?”
“With my mother to Louisville, sir,” answered Durward, stiffly. “I am
not willing she should travel alone, if you are;” and he sprang into
the carriage, ordering the coachman to drive off ere another word could
be spoken.
“Gone, when I had nerved myself to tell him everything!—my usual luck!”
mused Mr. Graham, as he returned to the house, and sure of no prying
eyes, recommenced his search for the daguerreotype, which was nowhere
to be found. Could she have found it? Impossible! for it was not in her
jealous nature to have held her peace; and again he sought for it, but
all to no purpose, and finally thinking he must have taken it with him
and lost it, he gave it up, mourning more for the loss of the curl,
which could never, never be replaced, while the picture might be found.
“Why do I live so?” thought he, as he nervously paced the room. “My
life is one of continual fear and anxiety, but it shall be so no
longer. I’ll tell her all when she returns. I’ll brave the world, dare
her displeasure, take ’Lena home, and be a man.”
Satisfied with this resolution, and nothing doubting that he should
keep it, he started for Versailles, where he had an engagement with a
gentleman who transacted business for him in Lexington.