’LENA’S FATHER.
Two or three days before the morning of which we have spoken, Uncle
Timothy, who like many of his profession had been guilty of a slight
infringement of the “Maine” liquor law, had been called to answer for
the same at the court then in session in the village of Canandaigua,
the terminus of the stage route. Altogether too stingy to pay the coach
fare, his own horse had carried him out, going for him on the night
preceding Durward’s projected meeting with ’Lena. On the afternoon of
that day the cars from New York brought up several passengers, who
being bound for Buffalo, were obliged to wait some hours for the
arrival of the Albany train.
Among those who stopped at the same house with Uncle Timothy, was our
old acquaintance, Mr. Graham, who had returned from Europe, and was now
homeward bound, firmly fixed in his intention to do right at last. Many
and many a time, during his travels had the image of a pale, sad face
arisen before him, accusing him of so long neglecting to own his child,
for ’Lena was his daughter, and she, who in all her bright beauty had
years ago gone down to an early grave, was his wife, the wife of his
first, and in bitterness of heart he sometimes thought, of his only
love. His childhood’s home, which was at the sunny south, was not a
happy one, for ere he had learned to lisp his mother’s name, she had
died, leaving him to the guardianship of his father, who was cold,
exacting, and tyrannical, ruling his son with a rod of iron, and by his
stern, unbending manner increasing the natural cowardice of his
disposition. From his mother Harry had inherited a generous, impulsive
nature, frequently leading him into errors which his father condemned
with so much severity that he early learned the art of concealment, as
far, at least, as his father was concerned.
At the age of eighteen he left home for Yale, where he spent four happy
years, for the restraints of college life, though sometimes irksome,
were preferable far to the dull monotony of his southern home; and when
at last he was graduated, and there was no longer an excuse for
tarrying, he lingered by the way, stopping at the then village of
Springfield, where, actuated by some sudden freak, he registered
himself as Harry _Rivers_, the latter being his middle name. For doing
this he had no particular reason, except that it suited his fancy, and
Rivers, he thought, was a better name than Graham. Here he met with
Helena Nichols, whose uncommon beauty first attracted his attention,
and whose fresh, unstudied manners afterward won his love to such an
extent, that in an unguarded moment, and without a thought of the
result, he married her, neglecting to tell her his real name before
their marriage, because he feared she would cease to respect him if she
knew he had deceived her, and then afterward finding it harder than
ever to confess his fault.
As time wore on, his father’s letters, commanding him to return, grew
more and more peremptory, until at last he wrote, “I am sick—dying—and
if you do not come, I’ll cast you off forever.”
Harry knew this was no unmeaning threat, and he now began to reap the
fruit of his folly. He could not give up Helena, who daily grew dearer
to him, neither could he brave the displeasure of his father by
acknowledging his marriage, for disinheritance was sure to follow. In
this dilemma he resolved to compromise the matter. He would leave
Helena awhile; he would visit his father, and if a favorable
opportunity occurred, he would confess all; if not, he would return to
his wife and do the best he could. But she must be provided for during
his absence, and to effect this, he wrote to his father, saying he
stood greatly in need of five hundred dollars, and that immediately on
its receipt he would start for home. Inconsistent as it seemed with his
general character, the elder Mr. Graham was generous with his money,
lavishing upon his son all that he asked for, and the money was
accordingly sent without a moment’s hesitation.
And now Harry’s besetting sin, _secrecy_, came again in action, and
instead of manfully telling Helena the truth, he left her privately,
stealing away at night, and quieting his conscience by promising
himself to reveal all in a letter, which was actually written, but as
at the time of its arrival Helena was at home, and the postmaster knew
of no such person, it was at last sent to Washington with thousands of
its companions. The reader already knows how ’Lena’s young mother
watched for her recreant husband’s coming until life and hope died out
together, and it is only necessary to repeat that part of the story
which relates to Harry, who on his return home found his father much
worse than he expected. At his bedside, ministering to his wants, was a
young, dashing widow, who prided herself upon being Lady Bellmont. On
his death-bed her father had committed her to the guardianship of Mr.
Graham, who, strictly honorable in all his dealings, had held his trust
until the time of her marriage with a young Englishman.
Unfortunately, as it proved for Harry, and fortunately for Sir Arthur,
who had nothing in common with his wife, the latter died within two
years after his marriage, leaving his widow and infant son again to the
care of Mr. Graham, with whom Lady Bellmont, as she was pleased to call
herself, lived at intervals, swaying him whichever way she listed, and
influencing him as he had never been influenced before. The secret of
this was, that the old man had his eye upon her vast possessions, which
he destined for his son, who, ignorant of the honor intended him, had
presumed to marry according to the promptings of his heart.
Scarcely was the first greeting over, ere his father at once made known
his plans, to which Harry listened with mingled pain and amazement.
“Lucy—Lady Bellmont!” said he, “why, she’s a mother—a widow—beside
being ten years my senior.”
“Three years,” interrupted his father. “She is twenty-five, you
twenty-two, and then as to her being a widow and a mother, the
immensity of her wealth atones for that. She is much sought after, but
I think she prefers you. She will make you a good wife, and I am
resolved to see the union consummated ere I die.”
“Never sir, never,” answered Harry, in a more decided manner than he
had before assumed toward his father. “It is utterly impossible.”
Mr. Graham was too much exhausted to urge the matter at that time, but
he continued at intervals to harass Harry, until the very sight of Lucy
Bellmont became hateful to him. It was not so, however, with the son,
the Durward of our story. He was a fine little fellow, whom every one
loved, and for hours would Harry amuse himself with him, while his
thoughts were with his own wife and child, the latter of whom was to be
so strangely connected with the fortunes of the boy at his side. For
weeks his father lingered, each day seeming an age to Harry, who,
though he did not wish to hasten his father’s death, still longed to be
away. Twice had he written without obtaining an answer, and he was
about making up his mind to start, at all events, when his father
suddenly died, leaving him the sole heir of all his princely fortune,
and with his latest breath enjoining it upon him to marry Lucy
Bellmont, who, after the funeral was over, adverted to it, saying, in
her softest tones, “I hope you don’t feel obliged to fulfill your
father’s request.”
“Of course not,” was Harry’s short answer, as he went on with his
preparations for his journey, anticipating the happiness he should
experience in making Helena the mistress of his luxurious home.
But alas for human hopes. The very morning on which he was intending to
start, he was seized with a fever, which kept him confined to his bed
until the spring was far advanced. Sooner than he was able he started
for Springfield in quest of Helena, learning from the woman whom he had
left in charge, that she was dead, and her baby too! The shock was too
much for him in his weak state, and for two weeks he was again confined
to a sick-bed, sincerely mourning the untimely end of one whom he had
truly loved, and whose death his own foolish conduct had hastened.
Soon after their marriage her portrait had been taken by the best
artist in the town, and this he determined to procure as a memento of
the few happy days he had spent with Helena. But the cottage where he
left her was now occupied by strangers, and after many inquiries, he
learned that the portrait, together with some of the furniture, had
been sold to pay the rent, which became due soon after his departure.
His next thought was to visit her parents, but from this his natural
timidity shrank. They would reproach him, he thought, with the death of
their daughter, whom he had so deeply wronged, and not possessing
sufficient courage to meet them face to face, he again started for
home, bearing a sad heart, which scarcely again felt a thrill of joy
until the morning when he first met with ’Lena, whose exact resemblance
to her mother so startled him as to arouse the jealousy of his wife.
It would be both needless and tiresome to enumerate the many ways and
means by which Lucy Bellmont sought to ensnare him. Suffice it to say,
that she at last succeeded, and he married her, finding in the
companionship of her son more real pleasure than he ever experienced in
her society. After a time Mrs. Graham, growing weary of Charleston,
where her haughty, overbearing manner made her unpopular, besought her
husband to remove, which he finally did, going to Louisville, where he
remained until the time of his removal to Woodlawn. Fully believing
what the old nurse had told him of the death of his wife and child, he
had no idea of the existence of the latter, though often in the
stillness of night the remembrance of the little girl whom Durward had
pointed out to him in the cars, arose before him, haunting him with
visions of the past, but it was not until he met her at Maple Grove
that he entertained a thought of her being his daughter.
From that time his whole being seemed changed, for there was now an
object for which to live. Carefully had he guarded from his wife a
knowledge of his first marriage, for he dreaded her sneering
reproaches, and he could not hear his beloved Helena’s name breathed
lightly by one so greatly her inferior. When he saw ’Lena, however, his
first impulse was to clasp her in his arms and compel his wife to own
her, but day after day went by, and he still delayed, hoping for a more
favorable opportunity, which never came. Had he found her in less
favorable circumstances, he might have done differently, but seeing
only the brightest side of her life, he believed her comparatively
happy. She was well educated, accomplished, and beautiful, and so he
waited, secure in the fact that he was near to see that no harm should
befall her. Once it occurred to him that possibly he might die
suddenly, thus leaving his relationship to her a secret forever, and
acting upon this thought, he immediately made his will, bequeathing all
to ’Lena, whom he acknowledged to be his daughter, adding an
explanation of the whole affair, together with a most touching letter
to his child, who would never see it until he was dead.
This done, he felt greatly relieved, and each day found some good
excuse for still keeping it from his wife, who worried him incessantly
concerning his evident preference for ’Lena. Many and many a time he
resolved to tell her all, but as often postponed the matter, until,
with the broad Atlantic between them, he ventured to write what he
could not tell her verbally and, strange to say, the effect upon his
wife was far different from what he had expected. She did not faint,
for there was no one by to see her, neither did she rave, for there was
no one to hear her, but with her usual inconsistency, she blamed her
husband for not telling her before. Then came other thoughts of a
different nature. _She_ had helped to impair ’Lena’s reputation, and if
disgrace attached to her, it would also fall upon her own family.
Consequently, as we have seen, she set herself at work to atone, as far
as possible, for her conduct. Her husband had given her permission to
wait, if she chose, until his return, ere she made the affair public,
and as she dreaded the remarks it would necessarily call forth, she
resolved to do so. He had advised her to tell ’Lena, but she was
gone—no one knew whither, and nervously she waited for some tidings of
the wanderer. She was willing to receive ’Lena, but not the
grandmother, _she_ was voted an intolerable nuisance, who should never
darken the doors of Woodlawn—never!
Meantime, Mr. Graham had again crossed the ocean, landing in New York,
from whence he started for home, meeting, as we have seen, with a
detention in Canandaigua, where he accidentally fell in with Uncle
Timothy, who, being minus quite a little sum of money on account of his
transgression, was lamenting his ill fortune to one of his
acquaintances, and threatening to give up tavern keeping if the Maine
law wasn’t repealed.
“Here,” said he, “it has cost me up’ards of fifty dollars, and I’ll bet
I hain’t sold mor’n a barrel, besides what wine that Kentucky chap has
bought for his gal, and I suppose they call that nothin’, bein’ it’s
for sickness. Why, good Lord, the hull on’t was for medicine, or
chimistry, or mechanics!”
This reminded his friend to inquire after the sick lady, whose name he
did not remember.
“It’s ’Lena,” answered Uncle Timothy, “’Lena Rivers that dandified chap
calls her, and it’s plaguy curis to me what she’s a runnin’ away for,
and he a streakin’ it through the country arter her; there’s mischief
summers, so I tell ’em, but that’s no consarn of mine so long as he
pays down regular.”
Mr. Graham’s curiosity was instantly aroused, and the moment he could
speak to Uncle Timothy alone, he asked what he meant by the sick lady.
In his own peculiar dialect, Uncle Timothy told all he knew, adding, “A
relation of yourn, mebby?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Graham. “Is it far to Laurel Hill?”
“Better’n a dozen miles! Was you goin’ out there?”
Mr. Graham replied in the affirmative, at the same time asking if he
could procure a horse and carriage there.
Uncle Timothy never let an opportunity pass for turning a penny, and
now nudging Mr. Graham with his elbow, he said, “Them liv’ry scamps’ll
charge you tew dollars, at the lowest calkerlation. I’m going right
out, and will take you for six shillin’. What do you think?”
Mr. Graham’s thoughts were not very complimentary to the shrewd Yankee,
but keeping his opinion to himself, he replied that he would go,
suggesting that they should start immediately.
“In less than five minits. You jest set down while I go to the store
arter some jimcracks for the old woman,” said Uncle Timothy, starting
up the street, which was the last Mr. Graham saw of him for three long
hours.
At the end of that time, the little man came stubbing down the walk,
making many apologies, and saying “he got so engaged about the darned
‘liquor law,’ and the putty-heads that made it, that he’d no idee ’twas
so late.”
On their way home he still continued to discourse on his favorite
topic, lamenting that he had voted for the present governor, announcing
his intention of “jinin’ the _Hindews_ the fust time they met at
Suckerport,” a village at the foot of Honeoye lake, and stopping every
man whom he knew to belong to that order, to ask if they took a _fee_,
and if “there was any bedivelment of _gridirons_ and _goats_, such as
the Masons and Odd Fellers had!” Being repeatedly assured that the fee
was only a dollar, and that the initiatory process was not very
painful, he concluded “to go it, provided they’d promise to run him for
constable. Office is the hull any of the scallywags jine ’em for, and I
may as well go in for a sheer,” said he, thinking if he could not have
the privilege of selling liquor, he would at least secure the right of
arresting those who drank it!
In this way his progress homeward was not very rapid, and the clock had
struck ten long ere they reached the inn, which they found still and
dark, save the light which was kept burning in ’Lena’s room.
“That’s her chamber—the young gal’s—where you see the candle,” said
Uncle Timothy, as they drew up before the huge walls of the tavern. “I
guess you won’t want to disturb her to-night.”
“Certainly not,” answered Mr. Graham, adding, as he felt a twinge of
his inveterate habit of secrecy, “If you’d just as lief, you need not
speak of me to the young gentleman; I wish to take him by
surprise”—meaning Durward.
There was no particular necessity for this caution, for Uncle Timothy
was too much absorbed in his loss to think of anything else, and when
his wife asked “who it was that he lighted up to bed,” he replied, “A
chap that wanted to come out this way, and so rid with me.”
Mr. Graham was very tired, and now scarcely had his head pressed the
pillow ere he was asleep, dreaming of ’Lena, whose presence was to shed
such a halo of sunlight over his hitherto cheerless home. The ringing
of the bell next morning failed to arouse him, but when Mrs.
Aldergrass, noticing his absence from the table, inquired for him,
Uncle Timothy answered, “Never mind, let him sleep—tuckered out,
mebby—and you know we allus have a sixpence more for an extra meal!”
About eight Mr. Graham arose, and after a more than usually careful
toilet, he sat down to collect his scattered thoughts, for now that the
interview was so near, his ideas seemed suddenly to forsake him. From
the window he saw Durward depart for his walk, watching him until he
disappeared in the dim shadow of the woods.
“I will wait until his return, and let him tell her,” thought he, but
when a half hour or more went by and Durward did not come, he concluded
to go down and ask to see her by himself.
In order to do this, it was necessary for him to pass ’Lena’s room, the
door of which was ajar. She was awake, and hearing his step, thought it
was Mrs. Aldergrass, and called to her. A thrill of exquisite delight
ran through his frame at the sound of her voice, and for an instant he
debated the propriety of going to her at once. A second call decided
him, and in a moment he was at her bedside, clasping her in his arms,
and exclaiming, “My precious ’Lena! My _daughter_! Has nothing ever
told you that I am your father, the husband of your angel mother, who
lives again in her child—_my_ child—my ’Lena?”
For a moment ’Lena’s brain grew dizzy, and she had well-nigh fainted,
when the sound of Mr. Graham’s voice brought her back to consciousness.
Pressing his lips to her white brow, he said, “Speak to me my daughter.
Say that you receive me as your father for such I am.”
With lightning rapidity ’Lena’s thoughts traversed the past, whose dark
mystery was now made plain, and as the thought that it might be so—that
it was so—flashed upon her, she clasped her hands together, exclaiming,
“My father! Is it true? You are not deceiving me?”
“Deceive you, darling?—no,” said he. “I am your father, and Helena
Nichols was my wife.”
“Why then did you leave her? Why have you so long left me
unacknowledged?” asked ’Lena.
Mr. Graham groaned bitterly. The hardest part was yet to come, but he
met it manfully, telling her the whole story, sparing not himself in
the least, and ending by asking if, after all this, she could forgive
and love him as her father.
Raising herself in bed, ’Lena wound her arms around his neck, and
laying her face against his, wept like a little child. He felt that he
was sufficiently answered, and holding her closer to his bosom, he
pushed back the clustering curls, kissing her again and again, while he
said aloud, “I have your answer, dearest one; we will never be parted
again.”
So absorbed was he in his newly-recovered treasure, that he did not
observe the fiery eye, the glittering teeth, and clenched fist of
Durward Bellmont, who had returned from his walk, and who, in coming up
to his, room, had recognized the tones of his father’s voice. Recoiling
backward a step or two, he was just in time to see ’Lena as she threw
herself into Mr. Graham’s, arms—in time to hear the tender words of
endearment lavished upon her by his father. Staggering backward, he
caught at the banister to keep from falling, while a moan of anguish
came from his ashen lips. Alone in his room, he grew calmer, though his
heart still quivered with unutterable agony as he strode up and down
the room, exclaiming, as he had once done before, “I would far rather
see her dead than thus—my lost, lost ’Lena!”
Then, in the deep bitterness of his spirit, he cursed his father, whom
he believed to be far more guilty than she. “I cannot meet him,”
thought he; “there is murder at my heart, and I must away ere he knows
of my presence.”
Suiting the action to the word, he hastened down the stairs, glancing
back once, and seeing ’Lena reclining upon his father’s arm, while her
eyes were raised to his with a sweet, confiding smile, which told of
perfect happiness.
“Thank God that I am unarmed, else he could not live,” thought he,
hurrying into the bar-room, where he placed in Uncle Timothy’s hands
double the sum due for himself and ’Lena, and then, without a word of
explanation, he walked away.
He was a good pedestrian, and preferring solitude in his present state
of feeling, he determined to go on foot to Canandaigua, a distance of
little more than a dozen miles. Meantime, Mr. Graham was learning from
’Lena the cause of her being there, and though she, as far as possible,
softened the fact of his having been accessory to her misfortunes, he
felt it none the less keenly, and would frequently interrupt her with
the exclamation that it was the result of his cowardice—his despicable
habit of secrecy. When she spoke of the curl which his wife had burned,
he seemed deeply affected, groaning aloud as he hid his face in his
hands,
“And _she_ found it—she burned it,” said he; “and it was all I had left
of my Helena. I cut it from her head on the morning of my departure,
when she lay sleeping, little dreaming of my cruel desertion. But,” he
added, “I can bear it better now that I have you, her living image, for
what she was when last I saw her, you are now.”
Their conversation then turned upon Durward, and with the tact he so
well knew how to employ, Mr. Graham drew from his blushing daughter a
confession of the love she bore him.
“He is worthy of you,” said he, while ’Lena, without seeming to heed
the remark, said, “I have not seen him yet, but I am expecting him
every moment, for he was to visit me this morning.”
At this juncture Mrs. Aldergrass, who had been at one of her
neighbors’, came in, appearing greatly surprised at the sight of the
stranger, whom ’Lena quietly introduced as “her father,” while Mr.
Graham colored painfully as Mrs. Aldergrass, curtsying very low, hoped
_Mr. Rivers_ was well!
“Let it go so,” whispered ’Lena, as she saw her father about to speak.
Mr. Graham complied, and then observing how anxiously his daughter’s
eyes sought the doorway, whenever a footstep was heard, he asked Mrs.
Aldergrass for Mr. Bellmont, saying they would like to see him, if he
had returned.
Quickly going downstairs, Mrs. Aldergrass soon came back, announcing
that “he’d paid his bill and gone off.”
“Gone!” said Mr. Graham. “There must be some mistake. I will go down
and inquire.”
With his hand in his pocket grasping the purse containing the gold,
Uncle Timothy told all he knew, adding, that “’twan’t noways likely but
he’d come back agin, for he’d left things in his room to the vally of
five or six dollars.”
Upon reflection, Mr. Graham concluded so, too, and returning to ’Lena,
he sat by her all day, soothing her with assurances that Durward would
surely come back, as there was no possible reason for his leaving them
so abruptly. As the day wore away and the night came on he seemed less
sure, while even Uncle Timothy began to fidget, and when in the evening
a young pettifogger, who had recently hung out his shingle on Laurel
Hill, came in, he asked him, in a low tone, “if, under the present
governor, they _hung_ folks on circumstantial evidence alone.”
“Unquestionably, for that is sometimes the best kind of evidence,”
answered the sprig of the law, taking out some little ivory tablets and
making a charge against Uncle Timothy for professional advice!
“But if one of my boarders, who has lots of money, goes off in broad
daylight and is never heard of agin, would that be any sign he was
murdered—by the landlord?” continued Uncle Timothy, beginning to think
there might be a worse law than the Maine liquor law.
“That depends upon the previous character of the landlord,” answered
the lawyer, making another entry, while Uncle Timothy, brightening up,
exclaimed, “I shall stand the racket, then, for my character is
tip-top.”
In the morning Mr. Graham announced his intention of going in quest of
Durward, and with a magnanimity quite praiseworthy, Uncle Timothy
offered his _hoss_ and wagon “for nothin’, provided Mr. Graham would
leave his watch as a guaranty against _his_ runnin’ off!”
Just as Mr. Graham was about to start, a horseman rode up, saying he
had come from Canandaigua at the request of a Mr. Bellmont, who wished
him to bring letters for Mr. Graham and Miss Rivers.
“And where is Mr. Bellmont?” asked Mr. Graham, to which the man
replied, that he took the six o’clock train the night before, saying,
further, that his manner was so strange as to induce a suspicion of
insanity on the part of those who saw him.
Taking the package, Mr. Graham repaired to ’Lena’s room, giving her her
letter, and then reading his, which was full of bitterness, denouncing
him as a villain and cautioning him, as he valued his life, never again
to cross the track of his outraged step-son.
“You have robbed me,” he wrote, “of all I hold most dear, and while I
do not censure her the less, I blame you the more, for you are older in
experience, older in years, and ten-fold older in sin, and I know you
must have used every art your foul nature could suggest, ere you won my
lost ’Lena from the path of rectitude.”
In the utmost astonishment Mr. Graham looked up at ’Lena, who had
fainted. It was long ere she returned to consciousness, and then her
fainting fit was followed by another more severe, if possible, than the
first, while in speechless agony Mr. Graham hung over her.
“I killed the mother, and now I am killing the child,” thought he.
But at last ’Lena seemed better, and taking from the pillow the
crumpled note, she passed it toward her father, bidding him read it. It
was as follows;
“MY LOST ’LENA: By this title it seems appropriate for me to call you,
for you are more surely lost to me than you would be were this summer
sun shining upon your grave. And, ’Lena, believe me when I say I would
rather, far rather, see you dead than the guilty thing you are, for
then your memory would be to me as a holy, blessed influence, leading
me on to a better world, where I could hope to greet you as my spirit
bride. But now, alas! how dark the cloud which shrouds you from my
sight.
“Oh, ’Lena, ’Lena, how could you deceive me thus, when I thought you so
pure and innocent, when even now, I would willingly lay down my life
could that save you from ruin.
“Do you ask what I mean? I have only to refer you to what this morning
took place between you and the vile man I once called father, and whom
I believed to be the soul of truth and honor. With a heart full of
tenderness toward you, I was hastening to your side, when a scene met
my view which stilled the beatings of my pulse and curdled the very
blood in my veins, I saw you throw your arms around _his_ neck—the
husband of _my_ mother. I saw you lay your head upon his bosom. I heard
him as he called you _dearest_, and said you would never be parted
again!
“You know all that has passed heretofore, and can you wonder that my
worst fears are now confirmed? God knows how I struggled against those
doubts, which were nearly removed, when, by the evidence of my own
eyesight, uncertainty was made sure.
“And now, my once loved, but erring ’Lena, farewell. I am going
away—whither, I know not, care not, so that I never hear your name
coupled with disgrace. Another reason why I go, is that the hot blood
of the south burns too fiercely in my veins to suffer me to meet your
destroyer and not raise my hand against him. When this reaches you, I
shall be far away. But what matters it to you? And yet, ’Lena, there
will come a time when you’ll remember one who, had you remained true to
yourself, would have devoted his life to make you happy, for I know I
am not indifferent to you. I have read it in your speaking eye, and in
the childlike confidence with which you would yield to _me_ when no one
else could control your wild ravings.
“But enough of this. Time hastens, and I must say farewell—farewell
forever—my _lost, lost_ ’Lena!
“DURWARD.”
Gradually as Mr. Graham read, he felt a glow of indignation at
Durward’s hastiness. “Rash boy! he might at least have spoken with me,”
said he, as he finished the letter, but ’Lena would hear no word of
censure against him. She did not blame him. She saw it all, understood
it all, and as she recalled the contents of his letter, her own heart
sadly echoed, “_lost forever_.”
As well as he was able, Mr. Graham tried to comfort her, but in spite
of his endeavors, there was still at her heart the same dull, heavy
pain, and most anxiously Mr. Graham watched her, waiting impatiently
for the time when she would be able to start for home, as he hoped a
change of place and scene would do much toward restoring both her
health and spirits. Soon after his arrival at Laurel Hill, Mr. Graham
had written to Mr. Livingstone, telling him what he had before told his
wife, and adding, “Of course, my _daughter’s_ home will in future be
with me, at Woodlawn, where I shall be happy to see yourself and family
at any time.”
This part of the letter he showed to ’Lena, who, after reading it,
seemed for a long time absorbed in thought.
“What is it, darling? Of what are you thinking?” Mr. Graham asked, at
length, and ’Lena, taking the hand which he had laid gently upon her
forehead, replied, “I am thinking of poor grandmother. She is not
happy, now, at Maple Grove. She will be more unhappy should I leave
her, and if you please, I would rather stay there with her. I can see
you every day.”
“Do you suppose me cruel enough to separate you from your grandmother?”
interrupted Mr. Graham. “No, no, I am not quite so bad as that.
Woodlawn is large—there are rooms enough—and grandma shall have her
choice, provided it is a reasonable one.”
“And your wife—Mrs. Graham? What will she say?” timidly inquired ’Lena,
involuntarily shrinking from the very thought of coming in contact with
the little lady who had so recently come up before her in the new and
formidable aspect of _stepmother_!
Mr. Graham did not know himself what she would say, neither did he
care. The fault of his youth once confessed, he felt himself a new man,
able to cope with almost anything, and if in the future his wife
objected to what he knew to be right, it would do her no good, for
henceforth he was to rule his own house. Some such thoughts passed
through his mind, but it would not be proper, he knew, to express
himself thus to ’Lena, so he laughingly replied, “Oh, we’ll fix that,
easily enough.”
At the time he wrote to Mr. Livingstone, he had also sent a letter to
his wife, announcing his safe return from Europe, and saying that he
should be at home as soon as ’Lena’s health would admit of her
traveling. Not wishing to alarm her unnecessarily, he merely said of
Durward, that he had found him at Laurel Hill. To this letter Mrs.
Graham replied immediately, and with a far better grace than her
husband had expected. Very frankly she confessed the unkind part she
had acted toward ’Lena, and while she said she was sorry, she also
spoke of the reaction which had taken place in the minds of Lena’s
friends, who, she said, would gladly welcome her back,
The continued absence of Durward was now the only drawback to ’Lena’s
happiness, and with a comparatively light heart, she began to
anticipate her journey home. Most liberally did Mr. Graham pay for both
himself and ’Lena, and Uncle Timothy, as he counted the shining coin,
dropping it upon the table to make sure it was not _bogus_, felt quite
reconciled to his recent loss of fifty dollars. Jerry, the driver, was
also generously rewarded for his kindness to the stranger-girl, and
just before he left, Mr. Graham offered to make him his chief overseer,
if he would accompany him to Kentucky.
“You are just the man I want,” said he, “and I know you’ll like it.
What do you say?”
For the sake of occasionally seeing ’Lena, whom he considered as
something more than mortal, Jerry would gladly have gone, but he was a
staunch abolitionist, dyed in the wool, and scratching his head, he
replied, “I’m obleeged to you, but I b’lieve I’d rather drive _hosses_
than _niggers_!”
“Mebby you could run one on ’em off, and so make a little sumthin’,”
slyly whispered Uncle Timothy, his eyes always on the main chance, but
it was no part of Jerry’s creed to make anything, and as ’Lena at that
moment appeared, he beat a precipitate retreat, going out behind the
church, where he watched the departure of his southern friends, saying
afterward, to Mrs. Aldergrass, who chided him for his conduct, that “he
never could bid nobody good-bye, he was so darned tender-hearted!”