THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT.
Mabel had gone out, and ’Lena sat alone in the little room adjoining
the parlor which Mr. Douglass termed his library, but which Nellie had
fitted up for a private sewing-room. It was ’Lena’s favorite resort
when she wished to be alone, and as Mabel was this morning absent, she
had retired thither, not to work, but to think—to recall every word and
look of Durward’s, to wonder when and how he would repeat the question,
the answer to which had been prevented by Mr. Graham.
Many and blissful were her emotions as she sat there, wondering if it
were not a bright dream, from which she would too soon awaken, for
could it be that one so noble, so good, and so much sought for as
Durward Bellmont had chosen her, of all others, to be his bride? Yes,
it must be so, for he was not one to say or act what he did not mean;
he would come that day and repeat what he had said before; and she
blushed as she thought what her answer would be.
There was a knock on the door, and a servant entered, bringing her a
letter, which she eagerly seized, thinking it was from him. But ’twas
not his writing, though bearing the post-mark of Versailles. Hastily
she broke the seal, and glancing at the signature, turned pale, for it
was “Lucy Graham,” his mother, who had written, but for what, she could
not guess. A moment more and she fell back on the sofa, white and rigid
as a piece of marble. ’Twas a cruel and insulting letter, containing
many dark insinuations, which she, being wholly innocent; could not
understand. She knew indeed, that Mr. Graham had presented her with
Vesta, but was there anything wrong in that? She did not think so, else
she had never taken her. Her uncle, her cousin, and Durward, all three
approved of her accepting it, the latter coming with it himself—so it
could not be that; and for a long time Lena wept passionately,
resolving one moment to answer the letter as it deserved determining,
the next, to go herself and see Mrs. Graham face to face; and then
concluding to treat it with silent contempt, trusting that Durward
would erelong appear and make it all plain between them.
At last, about five o’clock, Mabel returned, bringing the intelligence
that Mrs. Graham was in the city, at the Weisiger House, where she was
going to remain until the morrow. She had met with an accident, which
prevented her arrival in Frankfort until the train which she was
desirous of taking had left.
“Is her husband with her?” asked ’Lena, to which Mabel replied, that
she understood she was alone.
“Then I’ll see her and know what she means,” thought ’Lena, trembling,
even then, at the idea of venturing into the presence of the cold,
haughty woman.
Supper was over at the Weisiger House, and in a handsome private parlor
Mrs. Graham lay, half asleep, upon the sofa, while in the dressing-room
adjoining Durward sat, trying to frame a letter which should tell poor
’Lena that their intimacy was forever at an end. For hours, and until
the last gleam of daylight had faded away, he had sat by the window,
watching each youthful form which passed up and, down the busy street,
hoping to catch a glimpse of her who once had made his world. But his
watch was in vain, and now he had sat down to write, throwing aside
sheet after sheet, as he thought its beginning too cold, too harsh, or
too affectionate. He was about making up his mind not to write at all,
but to let matters take their course, when a knock at his mother’s
door, and the announcement that a lady wished to see her arrested his
attention.
“Somebody want to see me? Just show her up,” said Mrs. Graham,
smoothing down her flaxen hair, and wiping from between her eyes a spot
of powder which the opposite mirror revealed.
In a moment the visitor entered—a slight, girlish form, whose features
were partially hidden from view by a heavy lace veil, which was thrown
over her satin hood. A single glance convinced Mrs. Graham that it was
a lady, a well-bred lady, who stood before her, and very politely she
bade her be seated.
Rather haughtily the proffered chair was declined, while the veil was
thrown aside, disclosing to the astonished gaze of Mrs. Graham the face
of ’Lena Rivers, which was unnaturally pale, while her dark eyes grew
darker with the intensity of her feelings.
“’Lena Rivers! why came you here?” she asked, while at the mention of
that name Durward started to his feet, but quickly resumed his seat,
listening with indescribable emotions to the sound of a voice which
made every nerve quiver with pain.
“You ask me why I am here, madam,” said ’Lena. “I came to seek an
explanation from you—to know of what I am accused—to ask why you wrote
me that insulting letter—me, an orphan girl, alone and unprotected in
the world, and who never knowingly harmed you or yours.”
“Never harmed me or mine!” scornfully repeated Mrs. Graham. “Don’t add
falsehood to your other sins—though, if you’ll lie to my son, you of
course will to me, his mother.”
“Explain yourself, madam, if you please,” exclaimed ’Lena, her olden
temper beginning to get the advantage of her.
“And what if I do not please?” sneeringly asked Mrs. Graham.
“Then I will compel you to do so, for my good name is all I have, and
it shall not be wrested from me without an effort on my part to
preserve it,” answered ’Lena.
“Perhaps you expect my husband to stand by you and help you. I am sure
it would be very ungentlemanly in him to desert you, now,” said Mrs.
Graham, her manner conveying far more meaning than her words.
’Lena trembled from head to foot, and her voice was hardly distinct as
she replied, “Will you explain yourself, or will you not? What have I
done, that you should treat me thus?”
“Done? Done enough, I should think! Haven’t you whiled him away from me
with your artful manners? Has he ever been the same man since he saw
you? Hasn’t he talked of you in his sleep? made you most valuable
presents which a true woman would have refused? and in return, haven’t
you bestowed upon him your daguerreotype, together with a lock of your
hair, on which you no doubt pride yourself, but which to me and my son
seem like so many coiling serpents?”
’Lena had sat down. She could stand no longer, and burying her face in
her hands, she waited until Mrs. Graham had finished. Then, lifting up
her head, she replied in a voice far more husky than the one in which
she before had spoken—“You accuse me wrongfully, Mrs. Graham, for as I
hope for heaven, I never entertained a feeling for your husband which I
would not have done for my own father, and indeed, he has seemed to me
more like a parent than a friend——”
“Because you fancied he might some day be one, I dare say,” interrupted
Mrs. Graham.
’Lena paid no attention to this sarcastic remark, but continued: “I
know I accepted Vesta, but I never dreamed it was wrong, and if it was,
I will make amends by immediately returning her, for much as I love
her, I shall never use her again.”
“But the daguerreotype?” interrupted Mrs. Graham, anxious to reach that
point. “What have you to say about the daguerreotype? Perhaps you will
presume to deny that, too.”
Durward had arisen, and now in the doorway watched ’Lena, whose dark
brown eyes flashed fire as she answered, “It is false, madam. You know
it is false. I never yet have had my picture taken.”
“But he has it in his possession; how do you account for that?”
“Again I repeat, that is false!” said ’Lena, while Mrs. Graham,
strengthened by the presence of her son, answered, “I can prove it,
miss.”
“I defy you to do so,” said ’Lena, strong in her own innocence.
“Shall I show it to her, Durward,” asked Mrs. Graham, and ’Lena,
turning suddenly round, became for the first time conscious of his
presence.
With a cry of anguish she stretched her arms imploringly toward him,
asking him, in piteous tones, to save her from his mother. Durward
would almost have laid down his life to prove her innocent, but he felt
that could not be. So he made her no reply, and in his eye she read
that he, too, was deceived. With a low, wailing moan she again covered
her face with her hands, while Mrs. Graham repeated her question,
“Shall I show it to her?”
Durward was not aware that she had it in her possession, and he
answered, “Why do you ask, when you know you cannot do so?”
Oh, how joyfully ’Lena started up; he did not believe it, after all,
and if ever a look was expressive of gratitude, that was which she gave
to Durward, who returned her no answering glance, save one of pity; and
again that wailing cry smote painfully on his ear. Taking the case from
her pocket, Mrs. Graham advanced toward ’Lena, saying, “Here, see for
yourself, and then deny it if you can.”
But ’Lena had no power to take it. Her faculties seemed benumbed and
Durward, who, with folded arms and clouded brow stood leaning against
the mantel, construed her hesitation into guilt, which dreaded to be
convicted.
“Why don’t you take it?” persisted Mrs. Graham. “You defied me to prove
it, and here it is. I found it in my husband’s private drawer, together
with one of those long curls, which last I burned out of my sight.”
Durward shuddered, while ’Lena involuntarily thought of the mass of
wavy tresses which they had told her clustered around her mother’s
face, as she lay in her narrow coffin. Why thought she of her mother
then? Was it because they were so strangely alike, that any allusion to
her own personal appearance always reminded her of her lost parent?
Perhaps so. But to return to our story ’Lena would have sworn that the
likeness was not hers, and still an undefined dread crept over her,
preventing her from moving.
“You seem so unwilling to be convinced, allow me to assist you,” said
Mrs. Graham, at the same time unclasping the case and holding to view
the picture, on which with wondering eyes, ’Lena gazed in astonishment.
“It is I—it is; but oh, heaven, how came he by it?” she gasped, and the
next moment she fell fainting at Durward’s feet.
In an instant he was bending over her, his mother exclaiming, “Pray,
don’t touch her—she does it for effect.”
But he knew better. He knew there was no feigning the corpse-like
pallor of that face, and pushing his mother aside, he took the
unconscious girl in his arms, and bearing her to the sofa, laid her
gently upon it, removing her hand and smoothing back from her cold brow
the thick, clustering curls which his mother had designated as “coiling
serpents.”
“Do not ring and expose her to the idle gaze of servants,” said he, to
his mother, who had seized the bell-rope. “Bring some water from your
bedroom, and we will take charge of her ourselves.”
There was something commanding in the tones of his voice, and Mrs.
Graham, now really alarmed at the deathly appearance of ’Lena, hastened
to obey. When he was alone, Durward bent down, imprinting upon the
white lips a burning kiss—the first he had ever given her. In his heart
he believed her unworthy of his love, and yet she had never seemed
one-half so dear to him as at that moment, when she lay there before
him helpless as an infant, and all unmindful of the caresses which he
lavished upon her. “If it were indeed death;” he thought, “and it had
come upon her while yet she was innocent, I could have borne it, but
now I would I had never seen her;” and the tears which fell like rain
upon her cheek, were not unworthy of the strong man who shed them. The
cold water with which they profusely bathed her face and neck, restored
her, and then Durward, who could bear the scene no longer, glided
silently into the next room.
When he was gone, Mrs. Graham, who seemed bent upon tormenting ’Lena,
asked “what she thought about it now?”
“Please don’t speak to me again, for I am very, very wretched,” said
’Lena softly, while Mrs. Graham continued: “Have you nothing to offer
in explanation?”
“Nothing, nothing—it is a dark mystery to me, and I wish that I was
dead,” answered ’Lena, sobbing passionately.
“Better wish to live and repent,” said Mrs. Graham, beginning to read
her a long sermon on her duty, to which ’Lena paid no attention, and
the moment she felt that she could walk, she arose to go.
The moon was shining brightly, and as Mr. Douglass lived not far away,
Mrs. Graham did not deem an escort necessary. But Durward thought
differently. He could not walk with her side by side, as he had often
done before, but he would follow at a distance, to see that no harm
came near her. There was no danger of his being discovered, for ’Lena
was too much absorbed in her own wretchedness to heed aught about her,
and in silence he walked behind her until he saw the door of Mr.
Douglass’s house close upon her. Then feeling that there was an
inseparable barrier between them, he returned to his hotel, where he
found his mother exulting over the downfall of one whom, for some
reason, she had always disliked.
“Didn’t she look confounded, though, when I showed her the picture?”
said she; to which Durward replied, by asking “when and why she sent
the letter.”
“I did it because I was a mind to, and I am not sorry for it, either,”
was Mrs. Graham’s crusty answer, whereupon the conversation was
dropped, and as if by a tacit agreement, the subject was not again
resumed during their stay in Louisville.
It would be impossible to describe ’Lena’s emotion as she returned to
the house. Twice in the hall was she obliged to grasp at the banister
to keep from falling, and knowing that such excessive agitation would
be remarked, she seated herself upon the stairs until she felt composed
enough to enter the parlor. Fortunately, Mabel was alone, and so
absorbed in the fortunes of “Uncle True and little Gerty,” as scarcely
to notice ’Lena at all. Once, indeed, as she sat before the grate so
motionless and still, Mabel looked up, and observing how white she was,
asked what was the matter.
“A bad headache,” answered ’Lena, at the same time announcing her
intention of retiring.
“Alone in her room, her feelings gave way, and none save those who like
her have suffered, can conceive of her anguish, as prostrate upon the
floor she lay, her long silken curls falling about her white face,
which looked ghastly and haggard by the moonlight that fell softly
about her, as if to soothe her woe.
“What is it,” she cried aloud—“this dark mystery, which I cannot
explain.”
The next moment she thought of Mr. Graham. He could explain it—he must
explain it. She would go to him the next day, asking him what it meant.
She felt sure that he could make it plain, for suspicious as matters
looked, she exculpated him from any wrong intention toward her. Still
she could not sleep, and when the gray morning light crept in, it found
her too much exhausted to rise.
For several days she kept her room, carefully attended by Mabel and her
grandmother, who, at the first intimation of her illness, hastened down
to nurse her. Every day did ’Lena ask of Mr. Douglass if Mr. Graham had
been in the city, saying that the first time he came she wished to see
him. Days, however, went by, and nothing was seen or heard from him,
until at last John Jr.; who visited her daily, casually informed her
that Mr. Graham had been unexpectedly called away to South Carolina. A
distant relative of his had died, bequeathing him a large property,
which made it necessary for him to go there immediately; so without
waiting for the return of his wife, he had started off, leaving
Woodlawn alone.
“Gone to South Carolina!” exclaimed ’Lena. “When will he return?”
“Nobody knows. He’s away from home more than half the time, just as I
should be if Mrs. Graham were my wife,” answered John Jr., at the same
time playfully remarking that ’Lena need not look so blank, as it was
not Durward who had gone so far.
For an instant ’Lena resolved to tell him everything and ask him what
to do, but knowing how impetuous he was when at all excited, she
finally decided to keep her own secret, determining, however, to write
to Mr. Graham, as soon as she was able. Just before John Jr. left her,
she called him to her side, asking him if he would do her the favor of
seeing that Vesta was sent back to Woodlawn, as she did not wish for
her any longer.
“What the plague is that for—has mother been raising a row?” asked John
Jr., and ’Lena replied, “No, no, your mother has nothing to do with it.
I only want Vesta taken home. I cannot at present tell you why, but I
have a good reason, and some time, perhaps, I’ll explain. You’ll do it,
won’t you?”
With the determination of questioning Durward as to what had happened,
John Jr. promised, and when Mrs. Graham and her son returned from
Louisville, they found Vesta safely stabled with their other horses,
while the saddle with its tiny slipper hung upon a beam, and seemingly
looked down with reproach upon Durward, who turned away with a bitter
pang as he thought of the morning when he first took it to Maple Grove.
The next day was dark and rainy, precluding all outdoor exercise, and
weary, sad, and spiritless, Durward repaired to the library, where, for
an hour or more, he sat musing dreamily of the past—of the morning,
years ago, when first he met the little girl who had since grown so
strongly into his love, and over whom so dark a shadow had fallen. A
heavy knock at the door, and in a moment John Jr. appeared, with
dripping garments and a slightly scowling face. There was a faint
resemblance between him and ’Lena, manifest in the soft, curling hair
and dark, lustrous eyes. Durward had observed it before—he thought of
it now—and glad to see any one who bore the least resemblance to her,
he started up, exclaiming, “Why, Livingstone, the very one of all the
world I am glad to see.”
John made no reply, but shaking the rain-drops from his overcoat, which
he carelessly threw upon the floor, he took a chair opposite the grate,
and looking Durward fully in the face, said, “I’ve come over, Bellmont,
to ask you a few plain, unvarnished questions, which I believe you will
answer truthfully. Am I right?”
“Certainly, sir—go on,” was Durward’s reply.
“Well, then, to begin, are you and ’Lena engaged?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you been engaged?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you ever expect to be engaged?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you quarreled?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know why she wished to have Vesta sent home?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No, sir,” said Durward, determined, for ’Lena’s sake, that no one
should wring from him the secret.
John Jr. arose, jammed both hands into his pockets—walked to the
window—made faces at the weather—walked back to the grate—made faces at
that—kicked it—and then turning to Durward, said, “There’s the old Nick
to pay, somewhere.”
Nothing from Durward, who only felt bound to answer direct questions.
“I tell you, there’s the old Nick to pay, somewhere,” continued John,
raising his voice. “I knew it all the while ’Lena was sick. I read it
in her face when I told her Mr. Graham had gone south——”
A faint sickness gathered around Durward’s heart, and John Jr.
proceeded: “She wouldn’t tell me, and I’ve come to you for information.
Will you give it to me?”
“No, sir,” said Durward. “The nature of our trouble is known only to
ourselves and one other individual, and I shall never divulge the
secret.”
“Is that other individual my mother?”
“No, sir.”
“Is it Cad?”
“No, sir.”
“Had they any agency in the matter?”
“None, whatever, that I know of.”
“Then I’m on the wrong track, and may as well go home,” said John Jr.,
starting for the door, where he stopped, while he added, “If, Bellmont,
I ever do hear of your having misled me in this matter——” He did not
finish the sentence in words, but playfully producing a revolver, he
departed. The next moment he was dashing across the lawn, the mud
flying in every direction, and himself thinking how useless it was to
try to unravel a love quarrel.
In the meantime, ’Lena waited impatiently for an answer to the letter
which she had sent to Mr. Graham, but day after day glided by, and
still no tidings came. At last, as if everything had conspired against
her, she heard that he was lying dangerously ill of a fever at Havana,
whither he had gone in quest of an individual whose presence was
necessary in the settlement of the estate.
The letter which brought this intelligence to Mrs. Graham, also
contained a request that she would come to him immediately, and within
a few days after its receipt, she started for Cuba, together with
Durward, who went without again seeing ’Lena.
They found him better than they expected. The danger was past, but he
was still too weak to move himself, and the physician said it would be
many weeks ere he was able to travel. This rather pleased Mrs. Graham
than otherwise. She was fond of change, and had often desired to visit
Havana, so now that she was there, she made the best of it, and for
once in her life enacted the part of a faithful, affectionate wife.
Often, during intervals of mental aberration, Mr. Graham spoke of
“Helena,” imploring her forgiveness for his leaving her so long, and
promising to return. Sometimes he spoke of her as being dead, and in
piteous accents he would ask of Durward to bring him back his
“beautiful ’Lena,” who was sleeping far away among the New England
mountains.
One day when the servant, as usual, came in with their letters, he
brought one directed to Mr. Graham, which had been forwarded from
Charleston, and which bore the post-marks of several places, it having
been sent hither and thither, ere it reached its place of destination.
It was mailed at Frankfort, Kentucky, and in the superscription Durward
readily recognized the handwriting of ’Lena.
“Worse and worse,” thought he, now fully assured of her worthlessness.
For a moment he felt tempted to break the seal, but from this act he
instinctively shrank, thinking that whatever it might contain, it was
not for him to read it. But what should he do with it? Must he give it
to his mother who already had as much as she could bear? No, ’twas not
best for her to know aught about it, and as the surest means of
preventing its doing further trouble, he destroyed it—burned it to
ashes—repenting the next moment of the deed, wishing he had read it,
and feeling not that he had wronged the dead, as his mother did when
she burned the chestnut curl, but as if he had done a wrong to ’Lena.
In the course of two months he went back to Woodlawn, leaving his
father and mother to travel leisurely from place to place, as the still
feeble state of the former would admit. ’Lena, who had returned from
Frankfort, trembled lest he should come to Maple Grove, but he seemed
equally desirous of avoiding a meeting, and after lingering about
Woodlawn for several days, he suddenly departed for Louisville, where,
for a time, we leave him, while we follow the fortunes of others
connected with our story.