MORE CLOUDS.
Since the morning when Durward had so boldly avowed himself ’Lena’s
champion, her health and spirits began to improve. That she was not
wholly indifferent to him she had every reason to believe, and
notwithstanding the strong barrier between them, hope sometimes
whispered to her of a future, when all that was now so dark and
mysterious should be made plain. But while she was thus securely
dreaming, a cloud, darker and deeper than any which had yet
overshadowed her, was gathering around her pathway. Gradually had the
story of her ride to Captain Atherton’s gained circulation, magnifying
itself as it went, until at last it was currently reported that at
several different times had she been seen riding away from Sunnyside at
unseasonable hours of the night, the time varying from nine in the
evening to three in the morning according to the exaggerating powers of
the informer.
But few believed it, and yet such is human nature, that each and every
one repeated it to his or her neighbor, until at last it reached Mrs.
Graham, who, forgetting the caution of her son, said, with a very wise
look, that “she was not at all surprised—she had from the first
suspected ’Lena, and she had the best of reasons for so doing!”
Of course Mrs. Graham’s friend was exceedingly anxious to know what she
meant, and by dint of quizzing, questioning and promising never to
tell, she at last drew out just enough of the story to know that Mr.
Graham had a daguerreotype which looked just like ’Lena, and that Mrs.
Graham had no doubt whatever that she was in the habit of writing to
him. This of course was repeated, notwithstanding the promise of
secrecy, and many of the neighbors suddenly remembered some little
circumstance trivial in itself, but all going to swell the amount of
evidence against poor ’Lena, who, unconscious of the gathering storm,
did not for a time observe the sidelong glances cast toward her
whenever she appeared in public.
Erelong, however, the cool nods and distant manners of her
acquaintances began to attract her attention, causing her to wonder
what it all meant. But there was no one of whom she would ask an
explanation. John Jr. was gone—Anna was gone—and to crown all, Durward,
too, left the neighborhood just as the first breath of scandal was
beginning to set the waves of gossip in motion. In his absence, Mrs.
Graham felt no restraint, whatever, and all that she knew, together
with many things she didn’t know, she told, until it became a matter of
serious debate whether ’Lena ought not to be _cut_ entirely. Mrs.
Graham and her clique decided in the affirmative, and when Mrs.
Fontaine, who was a weak woman, wholly governed by public opinion, gave
a small party for her daughter Maria, ’Lena was purposely omitted.
Hitherto she had been greatly petted and admired by both Maria and her
mother, and she felt the slight sensibly, the more so, as Carrie darkly
hinted that girls who could not behave themselves must not associate
with respectable people. “’Leny not invited!” said Mrs. Nichols,
espousing the cause of her granddaughter. “What’s to pay, I wonder?
Miss Fontaine and the gineral, too, allus appeared to think a sight on
her.”
“I presume the _general_ does now,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, “but
it’s natural that Mrs. Fontaine should feel particular about the
reputation of her daughter’s associates.”
“And ain’t ’Leny’s reputation as good as the best on ’em,” asked Mrs.
Nichols, her shriveled cheeks glowing with insulted pride.
“It’s the general opinion that it might be improved,” was Mrs.
Livingstone’s haughty answer, as she left her mother-in-law to her own
reflections.
“It’ll kill her stone dead,” thought Mrs. Nichols, revolving in her own
mind the propriety of telling ’Lena what her aunt had said. “It’ll kill
her stone dead, and I can’t tell her. Mebby it’ll blow over pretty
soon.”
That afternoon several ladies, who were in the habit of calling upon
’Lena, came to Maple Grove, but not one asked for her, and with her
eyes and ears now sharpened, she fancied that once, as she was passing
the parlor door, she heard her own name coupled with that of Mr.
Graham. A startling light burst upon her, and staggering to her room,
she threw herself, half fainting, upon the bed, where an hour
afterwards she was found by Aunt Milly.
The old negress had also heard the story in its most aggravated form,
and readily divining the cause of ’Lena’s grief, attempted to console
her, telling her “not to mind what the good-for-nothin’ critters said;
they war only mad ’cause she’s so much handsomer and trimmer built.”
“You know, then,” said ’Lena, lifting her head from the pillow. “You
know what it is; so tell me, for I shall die if I remain longer in
suspense.”
“Lor’ bless the child,” exclaimed old Milly, “to think she’s the very
last one to know, when it’s been common talk more than a month!”
“What’s been common talk? What is it?” demanded ’Lena; and old Milly,
seating herself upon a trunk, commenced: “Why, honey, hain’t you hearn
how you done got Mr. Graham’s pictur and gin him yourn ’long of one of
them curls—how he’s writ and you’ve writ, and how he’s gone off to the
eends of the airth to get rid on you—and how you try to cotch young
Mas’r Durward, who hate the sight on you—how you waylay him one day,
settin’ on a rock out by the big gate—and how you been seen mighty nigh
fifty times comin’ home afoot from Captain Atherton’s in the night,
rainin’ thunder and lightnin’ hard as it could pour—how after you done
got Miss Anna to ’lope, you ax Captain Atherton to have you, and git
mad as fury ’cause he ’fuses—and how your mother warn’t none too
likely, and a heap more that I can’t remember—hain’t you heard of none
on’t?”
“None, none,” answered ’Lena, while Milly continued, “It’s a sin and
shame for quality folks that belong to the meetin’ to pitch into a poor
’fenseless girl and pick her all to pieces. Reckon they done forgot
what our Heabenly Marster told ’em when he lived here in old Kentuck,
how they must dig the truck out of thar own eyes afore they go to
meddlin’ with others; but they never think of him these days, ’cept
Sundays, and then as soon as meetin’ is out they done git together and
talk about you and Mas’r Graham orfully. I hearn ’em last Sunday, I and
Miss Fontaine’s cook, Cilly, and if they don’t quit it, thar’s a heap
on us goin’ to leave the church!”
’Lena smiled in spite of herself, and when Milly, who arose to leave
the room, again told her not to care, as all the blacks were for her,
she felt that she was not utterly alone in her wretchedness. Still, the
sympathy of the colored people alone could not help her, and dally
matters grew worse, until at last even Nellie Douglass’s faith was
shaken, and ’Lena’s heart died within her as she saw in her signs of
neglect. Never had Mr. Livingstone exchanged a word with her upon the
subject, but the reserve with which he treated her plainly indicated
that he, too, was prejudiced, while her aunt and Carrie let no
opportunity pass of slighting her, the latter invariably leaving the
room if she entered it. On one such occasion, in a state bordering
almost on distraction ’Lena flew back to her own chamber, where to her
great surprise, she found her uncle in close conversation with her
grandmother, whose face told the pain his words were inflicting.
’Lena’s first impulse was to fall at his feet and implore his
protection, but he prevented her by immediately leaving the room.
“Oh, grandmother, grandmother,” she cried, “help me, or I shall die.”
In her heart Mrs. Nichols believed her guilty, for John had said so—he
would not lie; and to ’Lena’s touching appeal for sympathy, she
replied, as she rocked to and fro, “I wish you _had_ died, ’Leny, years
and years ago.”
’Twas the last drop in the brimming bucket, and with the wailing cry,
“God help me now—no one else can,” the heart-broken girl fell fainting
to the floor, while in silent agony Mrs. Nichols hung over her,
shouting for help.
Both Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie refused to come, but at the first call
Aunt Milly hastened to the room. “Poor sheared lamb,” said she,
gathering back the thick, clustering curls which shaded ’Lena’s marble
face, “she’s innocent as the new-born baby.”
“Oh, if I could think so,” said grandma; but she could not, and when
the soft brown eyes again unclosed, and eagerly sought hers, they read
distrust and doubt, and motioning her grandmother away, ’Lena said she
would rather be alone.
Many and bitter were the thoughts which crowded upon her as she lay
there watching the daylight fade from the distant hills, and musing of
the stern realities around her. Gradually her thoughts assumed a
definite purpose; she would go away from a place where she was never
wanted, and where she now no longer wished to stay. Mr. Everett had
promised to be her friend, and to him she would go. At different
intervals her uncle and cousin had given her money to the amount of
twenty dollars, which was still in her possession, and which she knew
would take her far on her road.
With ’Lena to resolve was to do, and that night, when sure her
grandmother was asleep, she arose and hurriedly made the needful
preparations for her flight. Unlike most aged people, Mrs. Nichols
slept soundly, and ’Lena had no fears of waking her. Very stealthily
she moved around the room, placing in a satchel, which she could carry
upon her arm, the few things she would need. Then, sitting down by the
table, she wrote:
“DEAR GRANDMA: When you read this I shall be gone, for I cannot longer
stay where all look upon me as a wretched, guilty thing. I am innocent,
grandma, as innocent as my angel mother when they dared to slander her,
but you do not believe it, and that is the hardest of all. I could have
borne the rest, but when you, too, doubted me, it broke my heart, and
now I am going away. Nobody will care—nobody will miss me but you.
“And now dear, dear grandma, it costs me more pain to write than it
will you to read
“’LENA’S LAST GOOD-BYE”
All was at length ready, and then bending gently over the wrinkled face
so calmly sleeping, ’Lena gazed through blinding tears upon each
lineament, striving to imprint it upon her heart’s memory, and
wondering if they would ever meet again. The hand which had so often
rested caressingly upon her young head, was lying outside the
counterpane, and with one burning kiss upon it she turned away, first
placing the lamp by the window, where its light, shining upon her from
afar, would be the last thing she could see of the home she was
leaving.
The road to Midway, the nearest railway station, was well known to her,
and without once pausing, lest her courage should fail her, she pressed
forward. The distance which she had to travel was about three and a
half miles, and as she did not dare trust herself in the highway, she
struck into the fields, looking back as long as the glimmering light
from the window could be seen, and then when that home star had
disappeared from view, silently imploring aid from Him who alone could
help her now. She was in time for the cars, and, though the depot agent
looked curiously at her slight, shrinking figure, he asked no
questions, and when the train moved rapidly away, ’Lena looked out upon
the dark, still night, and felt that she was a wanderer in the world.