In her first excitement Mrs. Livingstone had forgotten to ask who was the bearer of 'Lena's letter, but remembering it now, she put the question. 'Lena would not implicate Durward without his permission, but while she hesitated, he answered for her, "I carried that letter, Mrs. Livingstone, though I did not then know its nature. Still if I had, I should have done the same, and the event has proved that I was right in so doing."
"Ah, indeed!" said the captain growing more and more nettled and disagreeable. "Ah, indeed! Mr. Bellmont leagued with Miss Rivers against me. Perhaps she would not so bluntly refuse an offer coming from you, but I can tell you it won't sound very well that the Hon. Mrs. Bellmont once rode four miles alone in the night to visit a bachelor. Ha! ha! Miss 'Lena; better have submitted to my terms at once, for don't you see I have you in my power?"
"And if you ever use that power to her disadvantage you answer for it to me; do you understand?" exclaimed Durward, starting up and confronting Captain Atherton, who, the veriest coward in the world, shrank from the flashing of Durward's eye, and meekly answered, "Yes, yes--yes, yes, I won't, I won't. I don't want to fight. I like 'Lena. I don't blame Anna for running away if she didn't want me--but it's left me in a deuced mean scrape, which I wish you'd help me out of."
Durward saw that the captain was in earnest, and taking his proffered hand, promised to render him any assistance in his power, and advising him to be present himself in the evening, as the first meeting with his acquaintances would thus be over. Upon reflection, the captain concluded to follow this advice, and when evening arrived and with it those who had not heard the news, he was in attendance, together with Durward, who managed the whole affair so skillfully that the party passed off quite pleasantly, the disappointed guests playfully condoling with the deserted bridegroom, who received their jokes with a good grace, wishing himself, meantime, anywhere but there.
That night, when the company were gone and all around was silent, Mrs. Livingstone watered her pillow with the first tears she had shed for her youngest born, whom she well knew she had driven from home, and when her husband asked what they should do, she answered with a fresh burst of tears, "Send for Anna to come back."
"And Malcolm, too?" queried Mr. Livingstone, knowing it was useless to send for one without the other.
"Yes, Malcolm too. There's room for both," said the weeping mother, feeling how every hour she should miss the little girl, whose presence had in it so much of sunlight and joy.
But Anna would not return. Away to the northward, in a fairy cottage overhung with the wreathing honeysuckle and the twining grape-vine, where the first summer flowers were blooming and the song-birds were caroling all the day long, her home was henceforth to be, and though the letter which contained her answer to her father's earnest appeal was stained and blotted, it told of perfect happiness with Malcolm, who kissed away her tears as she wrote, "Tell mother I cannot come."
CHAPTER XXXI.
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.
CHAPTER XXXII.
REACTION.
The light of a dark, cloudy morning shone faintly in at the window of Grandma Nichols's room, and roused her from her slumber. On the pillow beside her rested no youthful head--there was no kind voice bidding her "good-morrow"--no gentle hand ministering to her comfort--for 'Lena was gone, and on the table lay the note, which at first escaped Mrs. Nichols's attention. Thinking her granddaughter had arisen early and gone before her, she attempted to make her own toilet, which was nearly completed, when her eye caught the note. It was directed to her, and with a dim foreboding she: took it up, reading that her child was gone--gone from those who should have sustained her in her hour of trial, but who, instead, turned against her, crushing her down, until in a state of desperation she had fled. It was in vain that the breakfast-bell rang out its loud summons. Grandma did not heed it; and when Corinda came up to seek her, she started back in affright at the scene before her. Mrs. Nichols's cap was not yet on, and her thin gray locks fell around her livid face as she swayed from side to side, moaning at intervals, "God forgive me that I broke her heart."
The sound of the opening door aroused her, and looking up she said, pointing toward the vacant bed, "'Leny's gone; I've killed her."
Corinda waited for no more, but darting through the hall and down the stairs, she rushed into the dining-room, announcing the startling news that "old miss had done murdered Miss 'Lena, and hid her under the bed!"
"What will come next!" exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, following her husband to his mother's room where a moment sufficed to explain the whole.
'Lena was gone, and the shock had for a time unsettled the poor old lady's reason. The sight of his mother's distress aroused all the better nature of Mr. Livingstone, and tenderly soothing her, he told her that 'Lena should be found--he would go for her himself. Carrie, too, was touched, and with unwonted kindness she gathered up the scattered locks, and tying on the muslin cap, placed her hand for an instant on the wrinkled brow.
"Keep it there; it feels soft, like 'Leny's," said Mrs. Nichols, the tears gushing out at this little act of sympathy.
Meantime, Mr. Livingstone, after a short consultation with his wife, hurried off to the neighbors, none of whom knew aught of the fugitive, and all of whom offered their assistance in searching. Never once did it occur to Mr. Livingstone that she might have taken the cars, for that he knew would need money, and he supposed she had none in her possession. By a strange coincidence, too, the depot agent who sold her the ticket, left the very next morning for Indiana, where he had been intending to go for some time, and where he remained for more than a week, thus preventing the information which he could otherwise have given concerning her flight. Consequently, Mr. Livingstone returned each night, weary and disheartened, to his home, where all the day long his mother moaned and wept, asking for her 'Lena.
At last, as day after day went by and brought no tidings of the wanderer, she ceased to ask for her, but whenever a stranger came to the house, she would whisper softly to them, "'Leny's dead. I killed her; did you know it?" at the same time passing to them the crumpled note, which she ever held in her hand.
'Lena was a general favorite in the neighborhood which had so recently denounced her, and when it became known that she was gone, there came a reaction, and those who had been the most bitter against her now changed their opinion, wondering how they could ever have thought her guilty. The stories concerning her visits to Captain Atherton's were traced back to their source, resulting in exonerating her from all blame, while many things, hitherto kept secret, concerning Anna's engagement, were brought to light, and 'Lena was universally commended for her efforts to save her cousin from a marriage so wholly unnatural. Severely was the captain censured for the part he had taken in deceiving Anna, a part which he frankly confessed, while he openly espoused the cause of the fugitive.
Mrs. Livingstone, on the contrary, was not generous enough to make a like confession. Public suspicion pointed to her as the interceptor of Anna's letters, and though she did not deny it, she wondered what that had to do with 'Lena, at the same time asking "how they expected to clear up the Graham affair."
This was comparatively easy, for in the present state of feeling the neighborhood were willing to overlook many things which had before seemed dark and mysterious, while Mrs. Graham, for some most unaccountable reason, suddenly retracted almost everything she had said, acknowledging that she was too hasty in her conclusions, and evincing for the missing girl a degree of interest perfectly surprising to Mrs. Livingstone, who looked on in utter astonishment, wondering what the end would be. About this time Durward returned, greatly pained at the existing state of things. In Frankfort, where 'Lena's flight was a topic of discussion, he had met with the depot agent, who was on his way home, and who spoke of the young girl whose rather singular manner had attracted his attention. This was undoubtedly 'Lena, and after a few moments' conversation with his mother, Durward announced his intention of going after her, at least as far as Rockford, where he fancied she might have gone.
To his surprise his mother made no objection, but her manner seemed so strange that he at last asked what was the matter.
"Nothing--nothing in particular," said she, "only I've been thinking it all over lately, and I've come to the conclusion that perhaps 'Lena is innocent after all."
Oh, how eagerly Durward caught at her words, interrupting her almost before she had finished speaking, with, "Do you know anything? Have you heard anything?"
She had heard--she did know; but ere she could reply, the violent ringing of the door-bell, and the arrival of visitors, prevented her answer. In a perfect fever of excitement Durward glanced at his watch. If he waited long, he would be too late for the cars, and with a hasty adieu he left the parlor, turning back ere he reached the outer door, and telling his mother he must speak with her alone. If Mrs. Graham had at first intended to divulge what she knew, the impulse was now gone, and to her son's urgent request that she should disclose what she knew, she replied, "It isn't much--only your father has another daguerreotype, the counterpart of the first one. He procured it in Cincinnati, and 'Lena I know was not there."
"Is that all?" asked Durward, in a disappointed tone.
"Why no, not exactly. I have examined both pictures closely, and I do not think they resemble 'Lena as much as we at first supposed. Possibly it might have been some one else, her mother, may be," and Mrs. Graham looked earnestly at her son, who rather impatiently answered, "Her mother died years ago."
At the same time he walked away, pondering upon what he had heard, and hoping, half believing, that 'Lena would yet be exonerated from all blame. For a moment Mrs. Graham gazed after him, regretting that she had not told him all, but thinking there was time enough yet, and remembering that her husband had said she might wait until his return, if she chose, she went back to the parlor while Durward kept on his way.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE WANDERER.
Fiercely the noontide blaze of a scorching July sun was falling upon the huge walls of the "Laurel Hill Sun," where a group of idlers were lounging on the long, narrow piazza, some niching into still more grotesque carving the rude, unpainted railing, while others, half reclining on one elbow, shaded their eyes with their old slouch hats, as they gazed wistfully toward the long hill, eager to catch the first sight of the daily stage which was momentarily expected.
"Jerry is late, to-day--but it's so plaguy hot he's favorin' his hosses, I guess," said the rosy-faced landlord, with that peculiar intonation which stamped him at once a genuine Yankee.
"A watched pot never biles," muttered one of the loungers, who regularly for fifteen years had been at his post, waiting for the stage, which during all that time had brought him neither letter, message, friend, nor foe.
But force of habit is everything, and after the very wise saying recorded above, he resumed his whittling, never again looking up until the loud blast of the driver's horn was heard on the distant hill-top, where the four weary, jaded horses were now visible. It was the driver's usual custom to blow his horn from the moment he appeared on the hill, until with a grand flourish he reined his panting steeds before the door of the inn. But this time there was one sharp, shrill sound, and then all was still, the omission eliciting several remarks not very complimentary to the weather, which was probably the cause of "Jerry's" unwonted silence. Very slowly the vehicle came on, the horses never leaving a walk, and the idler of fifteen years' standing, who for a time had suspended his whittling, "wondered what was to pay."
A nearer approach revealed three or four male passengers, all occupied with a young lady, who, on the back seat, was carefully supported by one of her companions.
"A sick gal, I guess. Wonder if the disease is catchin'?" said the whittler, standing back several paces and looking over the heads of the others, who crowded forward as the stage came up. The loud greeting of the noisy group was answered by Jerry with a low "sh--sh," as he pointed significantly at the slight form which two of the gentlemen were lifting from the coach, asking at the same time if there were a physician near.
"What's the matter on her? Hain't got the cholery, has she," said the landlord, who, having hallooed to his wife to "fetch up her vittles," now appeared on the piazza ready to welcome his guests.
At the first mention of cholera, the fifteen years' man vamosed, retreating across the road, and seating himself on the fence under the shadow of the locust trees.
"Who is she, Jerry?" asked the younger of the set, gazing curiously upon the white, beautiful face of the stranger, who had been laid upon the lounge in the common sitting-room.
"Lord only knows," said Jerry, wiping the heavy drops of sweat from his good-humored face; "I found her at the hotel in Livony. She came there in the cars, and said she wanted to go over to 'tother railroad. She was so weak that I had to lift her into the stage as I would a baby, and she ain't much heavier. You orto seen how sweet she smiled when she thanked me, and asked me not to drive very fast, it made her head ache so. Zounds, I wouldn't of trotted the horses if I'd never got here. Jest after we started she fainted, and she's been kinder talkin' strange like ever since. Some of the gentlemen thought I'd better leave her back a piece at Brown's tavern, but I wanted to fetch her here, where Aunt Betsy could nuss her up, and then I can kinder tend to her myself, you know."
This last remark called forth no answering joke, for Jerry's companions all knew his kindly nature, and it was no wonder to them that his sympathies were so strongly enlisted for the fair girl thus thrown upon his protection. It was a big, noble heart over which Jerry Langley buttoned his driver's coat, and when the physician who had arrived pronounced the lady too ill to proceed any further, he called aside the fidgety landlord, whose peculiarities he well knew, and bade him "not to fret and stew, for if the gal hadn't money, Jerry Langley was good for a longer time than she would live, poor critter;" and he wiped a tear away, glancing, the while, at the burying-ground which lay just across the garden, and thinking how if she died, her grave should be beneath the wide-spreading oak, where often in the summer nights he sat, counting the head-stones which marked the last resting place of the slumbering host, and wondering if death were, as some had said, a long, eternal sleep.
Aunt Betsey, of whom he had spoken, was the landlady, a little dumpy, pleasant-faced, active woman, equally in her element bending over the steaming gridiron, or smoothing the pillows of the sick-bed, where her powers of nursing had won golden laurels from Others than Jerry Langley. When the news was brought to the kitchen that among the passengers was a sick girl, who was to be left, her first thought, natural to everybody, was, "What shall I do ?" while the second, natural to her, was, "Take care of her, of course."
Accordingly, when the dinner was upon the table, she laid aside her broad check apron, substituting in its place a half-worn silk, for Jerry had reported the invalid to be "every inch a lady;" then smoothing her soft, silvery hair with her fat, rosy hands, she repaired to the sitting-room, where she found the driver watching his charge, from whom he kept the buzzing flies by means of his bandana, which he waved to and fro with untiring patience.
"Handsome as a London doll," was her first exclamation, adding, "but I should think she'd be awful hot with them curls, dangling' in her neck! If she's goin' to be sick they'd better be cut off!"
If there was any one thing for which Aunt Betsey Aldergrass possessed a particular passion, it was for _hair-cutting_, she being barber general for Laurel Hill, which numbered about thirty houses, store and church inclusive, and now when she saw the shining tresses which lay in such profusion upon the pillow, her fingers tingled to their very tips, while she involuntarily felt for her scissors! Very reverentially, as if it were almost sacrilege, Jerry's broad palm was laid protectingly upon the clustering ringlets, while he said, "No, Aunt Betsey, if she dies for't, you shan't touch one of them; 'twould spile her hair, she looks so pretty."
Slowly the long, fringed lids unclosed, and the brown eyes looked up so gratefully at Jerry, that he beat a precipitate retreat, muttering to himself that "he never could stand the gals, anyway, they made his heart thump so!"
"Am I very sick, and can't I go on?" asked the young lady, attempting to rise, but sinking back from extreme weakness.
"Considerable sick, I guess," answered the landlady, taking from a side cupboard an immense decanter of camphor, and passing it toward the stranger. "Considerable sick, and I wouldn't wonder if you had to lay by a day or so. Will they be consarned about you to home, 'cause if they be, my old man'll write."
"I have no home," was the sad answer, to which Aunt Betsey responded in astonishment, "Hain't no home! Where does your marm live?"
"Mother is dead," said the girl, her tears dropping fast upon the pillow.
Instinctively the landlady drew nearer to her, as she asked, "And your pa--where is he?"
"I never saw him," said the girl, while her interrogator continued: "Never saw your pa, and your marm is dead--poor child, what is your name, and where did you come from?"
For a moment the stranger hesitated, and then thinking it better to tell the truth at once, she replied, "My name is 'Lena. I lived with my uncle a great many miles from here, but I wasn't happy. They did not want me there, and I ran away. I am going to my cousin, but I'd rather not tell where, so you will please not ask me."
There was something in her manner which silenced Aunt Betsey, who, erelong, proposed that she should go upstairs and lie down on a nice little bed, where she would be more quiet. But 'Lena refused, saying she should feel better soon.
"Mebby, then, you'd eat a mouffle or two. We've got some roasted pork, and Hetty'll warm over the gravy;" but 'Lena's stomach rebelled at the very thought, seeing which, the landlady went back to the kitchen, where she soon prepared a bowl of gruel, in spite of the discouraging remarks of her husband, who, being a little after the Old Hunks order, cautioned her "not to fuss too much, as gals that run away warn't apt to be plagued with money"
Fortunately, Aunt Betsey's heart covered a broader sphere, and the moment the stage was gone she closed the door to shut out the dust, dropped the green curtains, and drawing from the spare-room a large, stuffed chair, bade 'Lena "see if she couldn't set up a minit." But this was impossible, and all that long, sultry afternoon she lay upon the lounge, holding her aching head, which seemed well-nigh bursting with its weight of pain and thought. "Was it right for her to run away? Ought she not to have stayed and bravely met the worst? Suppose she were to die there alone, among strangers and without money, for her scanty purse was well-nigh drained." These and similar reflections crowded upon her, until her brain grew wild and dizzy, and when at sunset the physician came again he was surprised to find how much her fever had increased.
"She ought not to lie here," said he, as he saw how the loud shouts of the school-boys made her shudder. "Isn't there some place where she can be more quiet?"
At the head of the stairs was a small room, containing a single bed and a window, which last looked out upon the garden and the graveyard beyond. Its furniture was of the plainest kind, it being reserved for more common travelers, and here the landlord said 'Lena must be taken. His wife would far rather have given her the front chamber, which was large, airy and light, but Uncle Tim Aldergrass said "No," squealing out through his little peaked nose that "'twarn't an atom likely he'd ever more'n half git his pay, anyway, and he warn't a goin' to give up the hull house."
"How much more will it be if she has the best chamber," asked Jerry, pulling at Uncle Tim's coattail and leading him aside. "How much will it be, 'cause if 'taint too much, she shan't stay in that eight by nine pen."
"A dollar a week, and cheap at that," muttered Uncle Tim, while Jerry, going out behind the wood-house, counted over his funds, sighing as he found them quite too small to meet the extra, dollar per week, should she long continue ill.
"If I hadn't of fooled so much away for tobacker and things, I shouldn't be so plaguy poor now," thought he, forgetting the many hearts which his hard-earned gains had made glad, for no one ever appealed in vain for help from Jerry Langley, who represented one class of Yankees, while Timothy Aldergrass represented another.