The next morning just as daylight was beginning to be visible, Jerry knocked softly at Aunt Betsey's door, telling her that for more than an hour he'd heard the young lady takin' on, and he guessed she was worse. Hastily throwing on her loose gown Aunt Betsey repaired to 'Lena's room, where she found her sitting up in the bed, moaning, talking, and whispering, while the wild expression of her eyes betokened a disordered brain.
"The Lord help us! she's crazy as a loon. Run for the doctor, quick!" exclaimed Mrs. Aldergrass, and without boot or shoe, Jerry ran off in his stocking-feet, alarming the physician, who immediately hastened to the inn, pronouncing 'Lena's disease to be brain fever, as he had at first feared.
Rapidly she grew worse, talking of her home, which was sometimes in Kentucky and sometimes in Massachusetts, where she said they had buried her mother. At other times she would ask Aunt Betsey to send for Durward when she was dead, and tell him how innocent she was.
"Didn't I tell you there was something wrong?" Uncle Timothy would squeak. "Nobody knows who we are harborin' nor how much 'twill damage the house."
But as day after day went by, and 'Lena's fever raged more fiercely, even Uncle Tim relented, and when she would beg of them to take her home and bury her by the side of Mabel, where Durward could see her grave, he would sigh, "Poor critter, I wish you was to home," but whether this wish was prompted by a sincere desire to please 'Lena, or from a more selfish motive, we are unable to state. One morning, the fifth of 'Lena's illness, she seemed much worse, talking incessantly and tossing from side to side, her long hair floating in wild disorder over her pillow, or streaming down her shoulders. Hitherto Aunt Betsey had restrained her barberic desire, each day arranging the heavy locks, and tucking them under the muslin cap, where they refused to stay. Once the doctor himself had suggested the propriety of cutting them away, adding, though, that they would wait awhile, as it was a pity to lose them.
"Better be cut off than yanked off," said Aunt Betsey, on the morning when 'Lena in her frenzy would occasionally tear out handfulls of her shining hair and scatter it over the floor.
Satisfied that she was doing right, she carefully approached the bedside, and taking one of the curls in her hand, was about to sever it, when 'Lena, divining her intentions, sprang up, and gathering up her hair, exclaimed, "No, no, not these; take everything else, but leave me my curls. Durward thought they were beautiful, and I cannot lose them."
At the side door below, the noonday stage was unloading its passengers, and as the tones of their voices came in at the open window, 'Lena suddenly grew calmer, and assuming a listening attitude, whispered, "Hark! He's come. Don't you hear him?"
But Aunt Betsey heard nothing, except her husband calling her to come down, and leaving 'Lena, who had almost instantly become quiet, to the care of a neighbor, she started for the kitchen, meeting in the lower hall with Hetty, who was showing one of the passengers to a room where he could wash and refresh himself after his dusty ride. As they passed each other, Hetty asked, "Have you clipped her curls?"
"No," answered Mrs. Aldergrass, "she wouldn't let me touch 'em, for she said that Durward, whom she talks so much about, liked 'em, and they mustn't be cut off."
Instantly the stranger, whose elegant appearance both Hetty and her mistress had been admiring, stopped, and turning to the latter, said, "Of whom are you speaking?"
"Of a young girl that came in the stage, sick, five or six days ago," answered Mrs. Aldergrass.
"What is her name, and where does she live?" continued the stranger.
"She calls herself 'Lena, but the 'tother name I don't know, and I guess she lives in Kentucky or Massachusetts."
The young man waited to hear no more, but mechanically followed Hetty to his room, starting and turning pale as a wild, unnatural laugh fell on his ear.
"It is the young lady, sir," said Hetty, observing his agitated manner. "She raves most all the time, and the doctor says she'll die if she don't stop."
The gentleman nodded, and the next moment he was as he wished to be, alone. He had found her then--his lost 'Lena--sick, perhaps dying, and his heart gave one agonized throb as he thought, "What if she should die? Yet why should I wish her to live?" he asked, "when she is as surely lost to me as if she were indeed resting in her grave!"
And still, reason as he would, a something told him that all would yet be well, else, perhaps, he had never followed her. Believing she would stop at Mr. Everett's, he had come on thus far, finding her where he least expected it, and spite of his fears, there was much of pleasure mingled with his pain as he thought how he would protect and care for her, ministering to her comfort, and softening, as far as possible, the disagreeable things which he saw must necessarily surround her. Money, he knew, would purchase almost everything, and if ever Durward Bellmont felt glad that he was rich, it was when he found 'Lena Rivers sick and alone at the not very comfortable inn of Laurel Hill.
As he was entering the dining-room, he saw Jerry--whose long, lank figure and original manner had afforded him much amusement during his ride--handing a dozen or more oranges to Mrs. Aldergrass, saying, as he did so, "They are for Miss 'Lena. I thought mebby they'd taste good, this hot weather, and I ransacked the hull town to find the nicest and best."
For a moment Durward's cheek flushed at the idea of Lena's being cared for by such as Jerry, but the next instant his heart grew warm toward the uncouth driver who, without any possible motive save the promptings of his own kindly nature, had thus thought of the stranger girl. Erelong the stage was announced as ready and waiting, but to the surprise and regret of his fellow-passengers, who had found him a most agreeable traveling companion, Durward said he was not going any further that day.
"A new streak, ain't it?" asked Jerry, who knew he was booked for the entire route; but the young man made no reply, and the fresh, spirited horses soon bore the lumbering vehicle far out of sight, leaving him to watch the cloud of dust which it carried in its train.
Uncle Timothy was in his element, for it was not often that a guest of Durward's appearance honored his house with more than a passing call, and with the familiarity so common to a country landlord, he slapped him on the shoulder, telling him "there was the tallest kind of fish in the Honeoye," whose waters, through the thick foliage of the trees were just discernible, sparkling and gleaming in the bright sunlight.
"I never fish, thank you, sir," answered Durward, while the good-natured landlord continued: "Now you don't say it! Hunt, then, mebby?"
"Occasionally," said Durward, adding, "But my reason for stopping here is of entirely a different nature. I hear there is with you a sick lady. She is a friend of mine, and I am staying to see that she is well attended to."
"Yes, yes," said Uncle Timothy, suddenly changing his opinion of 'Lena, whose want of money had made him sadly suspicious of her. "Yes, yes, a fine gal; fell into good hands, too, for my old woman is the greatest kind of a nuss. Want to see her, don't you?--the lady I mean."
"Not just yet; I would like a few moments' conversation with your wife first," answered Durward.
Greatly frustrated when she learned that the stylish looking gentleman wished to talk with her, Aunt Betsey rubbed her shining face with flour, and donning another cap, repaired to the sitting-room, where she commenced making excuses about herself, the house, and everything else, saying, "'twant what he was used to, she knew, but she hoped he'd try to put up with it."
As soon as he was able to get in a word, Durward proceeded to ask her every particular concerning 'Lena's illness, and whether she would probably recognize him should he venture into her presence, "Bless your dear heart, no. She hain't known a soul on us these three days. Sometimes she calls me 'grandmother,' and says when she's dead I'll know she's innocent. 'Pears Like somebody has been slanderin' her, for she begs and pleads with Durward, as she calls him, not to believe it. Ain't you the one she means?"
Durward nodded, and Mrs. Aldergrass continued: "I thought so, for when the stage driv up she was standin' straight in the bed, ravin' and screechin', but the minit she heard your voice she dropped down, and has been as quiet ever since. Will you go up now?"
Durward signified his willingness, and following his landlady, he soon stood in the close, pent-up room where, in an uneasy slumber, 'Lena lay panting for breath, and at intervals faintly moaning in her sleep. She had fearfully changed since last he saw her, and with a groan, he bent over her, murmuring, "My poor 'Lena," while he gently laid his cool, moist hand upon her burning brow. As if there were something soothing in its touch, she quickly placed her little hot, parched hand on his, whispering, "Keep it there. It will make me well."
For a long time he sat by her, bathing her head and carefully removing from her face and neck the thick curls which Mrs. Aldergrass had thought to cut away. At last she awoke, but Durward shrank almost in fear from the wild, bright eyes which gazed so fixedly upon him, for in them was no ray of reason. She called him "John" blessing him for coming, and saying, "Did you tell Durward. Does he know?"
"I am Durward," said he. "Don't you recognize me? Look again."
"No, no," she answered, with a mocking laugh, which made him shudder, it was so unlike the merry, ringing tones he had once loved to hear. "No, no, you are not Durward. He would not look at me as you do. He thinks me guilty."
It was in vain Durward strove to convince her of his identity. She would only answer with a laugh, which grated so harshly on his ear that he finally desisted, and suffered her to think he was her cousin. The smallness of her chamber troubled him, and when Mrs. Aldergrass came up he asked if there was no other apartment where 'Lena would be more comfortable.
"Of course there is," said Aunt Betsy. "There's the best chamber I was goin' to give to you."
"Never mind me," said he. "Let her have every comfort the house affords, and you shall be amply paid."
Uncle Timothy had now no objection to the offer, and the large, airy room with its snowy, draped bed was soon in readiness for the sufferer, who, in one of her wayward moods, absolutely refused to be moved. It was in vain that Aunt Betsey plead, persuaded, and threatened, and at last in despair Durward was called in to try his powers of persuasion.
"That's something more like it," said 'Lena, and when he urged upon her the necessity of her removal, she asked, "Will you go with me?"
"Certainly," said he.
"And stay with me?"
"Certainly."
"Then I'll go," she continued, stretching her arms toward him as a child toward its mother.
A moment more and she was reclining on the soft downy pillows, the special pride of Mrs. Aldergrass, who bustled in and out, while her husband, ashamed of his stinginess, said "they should of moved her afore, only 'twas a bad sign."
During the remainder of the day she seemed more quiet, talking incessantly, it is true, but never raving if Durward were near. If is strange what power he had over her, a word from him sufficing at any time to subdue her when in her most violent fits of frenzy. For two days and nights he watched by her side, never giving himself a moment's rest, while the neighbors looked on, surmising and commenting as people always will. Every delicacy of the season, however costly, was purchased for her comfort, while each morning the flowers which he knew she loved the best were freshly gathered from the different gardens of Laurel Hill, and in broken pitchers, cracked tumblers, and nicked saucers, adorned the room.
At the close of the third day she fell into a heavy slumber, and Durward, worn out and weary, retired to take the rest he so much needed. For a long time 'Lena slept, watched by the physician, who, knowing that the crisis had arrived, waited anxiously for her waking, which came at last, bringing with it the light of returning reason. Dreamily she gazed about the room, and in a voice no longer strong with the excitement of delirium, asked, "Where am I, and how came I here?"
In a few words the physician explained all that was necessary for her to know, and then going for Mrs. Aldergrass, told her of the favorable change in his patient, adding that a sudden shock might still prove fatal. "Therefore," said he, "though I know not in what relation this Mr. Bellmont stands to her, I think it advisable for her to remain awhile in ignorance of his presence. It is of the utmost consequence that she be kept quiet for a few days, at the end of which time she can see him."
All this Aunt Betsey communicated to Durward, who unwilling to do anything which would endanger 'Lena's safety, kept himself aloof, treading softly and speaking low, for as if her hearing were sharpened by disease she more than once, when he was talking in the hall below, started up, listening eagerly; then, as if satisfied that she had been deceived, she would resume her position, while the flush on her cheek deepened as she thought, "Oh, what if it had indeed been he!"
Nearly all the day long he sat just without the door, holding his breath as he caught the faint tones of her voice, and longing for the hour when he could see her, and obtain, if possible, some clue to the mystery attending her and his father. His mother's words, together with what he had heard 'Lena say in her ravings, had tended to convince him that she, at least, might be innocent, and once assured of this, he felt that he would gladly fold her to his bosom, and cherish her there as the choicest of heaven's blessings. All this time 'Lena had no suspicion of his presence, but she wondered at the many luxuries which surrounded her, and once, when Mrs. Aldergrass offered her some choice wine, she asked who it was that supplied her with so many comforts. Aunt Betsey's, forte did not lay in keeping a secret, and rather evasively she replied, "You mustn't ask me too many questions just yet!"
'Lena's suspicions were at once aroused, and for more than an hour she lay thinking--trying to recall something which seamed to her like a dream. At last calling Aunt Betsey to her, she said, "There was somebody here while I was so sick--somebody besides strangers--somebody that stayed with me all the time--who was it?"
"Nobody, nobody--I mustn't tell," said Mrs. Aldergrass, hurriedly, while 'Lena continued, "Was it Cousin John?"
"No, no; don't guess any more," was Mrs. Aldergrass's reply, and 'Lena, clasping her hands together, exclaimed, "Oh, could it he be?"
The words reached Durward's ear, and nothing but a sense of the harm it might do prevented him from going at once to her bedside. That night, at his earnest request, the physician gave him permission to see her in the morning, and Mrs. Aldergrass was commissioned to prepare her for the interview. 'Lena did not ask who it was; she felt that she knew; and the knowledge that he was there--that he had cared for her--operated upon her like a spell, soothing her into the most refreshing slumber she had experienced for many a weary week. With the sun-rising she was awake, but Mrs. Aldergrass, who came in soon after, told her that the visitor was not to be admitted until about ten, as she would by that time have become more composed, and be the better able to endure the excitement of the interview. A natural delicacy prevented 'Lena from objecting to the delay, and, as calmly as possible, she watched Mrs. Aldergrass while she put the room to rights, and then patiently submitted to the arranging of her curls, which during her illness had become matted and tangled. Before eight everything was in readiness, and soon after, worn out by her own exertions, 'Lena again fell asleep.
"How lovely she looks," thought Mrs. Aldergrass. "He shall just have a peep at her," and stepping to the door she beckoned Durward to her side.
Never before had 'Lena, seemed so beautiful to him, and as he looked upon her, he felt his doubts removing, one by one. She was innocent--it could not be otherwise--and very impatiently he awaited the lapse of the two hours which must pass ere he could see her, face to face. At length, as the surest way of killing time, he started out for a walk in a pleasant wood, which skirted the foot of Laurel Hill.
Here for a time we leave him, while in another chapter we speak of an event which, in the natural order of things, should here be narrated.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
'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?"