CHAPTER XXXVI.
ARRIVAL AT WOODLAWN.
It was a warm September night at Woodlawn. The windows were open, and through the richly-wrought curtains the balmy air of evening was stealing, mingling its delicious perfume of flowers without with the odor of those which drooped from the many costly vases which adorned the handsome parlors. Lamps were burning, casting a mellow light over the gorgeous furniture, while in robes of snowy white the mistress of the mansion flitted from room to room, a little nervous, a little fidgety, and, without meaning to be so, a little cross. For more than two hours she had waited for her husband, delaying the supper, which the cook, quite as anxious as herself, pronounced spoiled by the delay.
According to promise the party from Maple Grove had arrived, with the exception of John Jr., who had generously remained with his grandmother, she having been purposely omitted in the invitation. From the first, Mrs. Graham had decided that Mrs. Nichols should never live at Woodlawn, and she thought it proper to have it understood at once. Accordingly, as she was conducting Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie to 'Lena's room, she casually remarked, "I've made no provision for Mrs. Nichols, except as an occasional visitor, for of course she will remain with her son. She is undoubtedly much attached to your family, and will be happier there!"
"This 'Lena's!" interrupted Carrie, ere her mother had time to reply. "It's the very best chamber in the house--Brussels carpets, marble and rosewood furniture, damask curtains. Why, she'll hardly know how to act," she continued, half unconsciously, as she gazed around the elegant apartment, which, with one of her unaccountable freaks, Mrs. Graham had fitted up with the utmost taste.
"Yes, this is Lena's," said Mrs. Graham, complacently. "Will it compare at all with her chamber at Maple Grove? I do not wish it to seem inferior!"
Carrie bit her lip, while her mother very coolly replied, "Ye-es, on the whole quite as good, perhaps better, as some of the furniture is new!"
"Have I told you," continued Mrs. Graham, bent on tormenting them,--"have I told you that we are to spend the winter in New Orleans, where 'Lena will of course be the reigning belle? You ought to be there, dear," laying her hand on Carrie's shoulder. "It would be so gratifying to you to witness the sensation she will create!"
"Spiteful old thing--she tries to insult us," thought Carrie, her heart swelling with bitterness toward the ever-hated 'Lena, whose future life seemed so bright and joyous.
The sound of wheels was now heard, and the ladies reached the lower hall just as the carriage, which had been sent to the station at Midway, drove up at a side door. Carrie's first thought was for Durward, and shading her eyes with her hand, she looked anxiously out. But only Mr. Graham alighted, gently lifting out his daughter, who was still an invalid.
"Mighty careful of her," thought Mrs. Livingstone, as in his arms he bore her up the marble steps.
Depositing her in their midst, and placing his arm around her, he said, turning to his wife, "Lucy, this is my daughter. Will you receive and love her as such, for my sake?"
In a moment 'Lena's soft, white hand lay in the fat, chubby one of Mrs. Graham, who kissed her pale cheek, calling her "'Lena," and saying "she was welcome to Woodlawn."
Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie now pressed forward, overwhelming her with caresses, telling her how badly they had felt at her absence, chiding her for running away, calling her a naughty puss, and perfectly bewildering her with their new mode of conduct. Mr. Livingstone's turn came next, but he neither kissed nor caressed her, for that was not in keeping with his nature, but very, very tenderly he looked into her eyes, as he said, "You know, 'Lena, that I am glad--most glad for you."
Unostentatious as was this greeting, 'Lena felt that there was more sincerity in it than all that had gone before, and the tears gushed forth involuntarily. Mentally styling her, the one "a baby," and the other "a fool," Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie returned to the parlor, while Mrs. Graham, calling a servant, bade her show 'Lena to her room.
"Hadn't you better go up and assist your cousin," whispered Mrs. Livingstone to Carrie, who forthwith departed, knocking at the door, an act of politeness she had never before thought it necessary to offer 'Lena. But she was an heiress, now, fully, yes, more than equal, and that made a vast difference.
"I came to see if I could render you any service," she said in answer to 'Lena's look of inquiry.
"No I thank you," returned 'Lena, beginning to get an inkling of the truth. "You know I'm accustomed to waiting upon myself, and if I want anything, Drusa can assist me. I've only to change my soiled dress and smooth my hair," she continued, as she shook out her long and now rather rough tresses.
"What handsome hair you've got," said Carrie, taking one of the curls in her hand. "I'd forgotten it was so beautiful. Hasn't it improved during your absence?"
"A course of fever is not usually very beneficial to one's hair, I believe," answered 'Lena, as she proceeded to brush and arrange her wavy locks, which really had lost some of their luster.
Foiled in her attempt at toadyism, Carrie took another tack. Looking 'Lena in the face, she said, ^What is it? I can't make it out, but--but somehow you've changed, you don't look so--so----"
"So well you would say, I suppose," returned 'Lena, laughingly, "I've grown thin, but I hope to improve by and by."
Drusa glanced at the two girls as they stood side by side, and her large eyes sparkled as she thought her young mistress "a heap the best lookin' now."
By this time Carrie had thought to ask for Durward. Instantly 'Lena turned whiter, if possible, than she was before, and in an unsteady voice she replied, that "she did not know."
"Not know!" repeated Carrie, her own countenance brightening visibly. "Haven't you seen him? Wasn't he at that funny, out-of-the-way place, where you were?"
"Yes, but he left before I saw him," returned 'Lena, her manner plainly indicating that there was something wrong.
Carrie's spirits rose. There was a chance for her, and on their way downstairs she laughed and chatted so familiarly, that 'Lena wondered if it could be the same haughty girl who had seldom spoken to her except to repulse or command her. The supper-bell rang just as they reached the parlor, and Mr. Graham, taking 'Lena on his arm, led the way to the dining-room, where the entire silver tea-set had been brought out, in honor of the occasion.
"Hasn't 'Lena changed, mother?" said Carrie, feeling hateful, and knowing no better way of showing it "Hasn't her sickness changed her?"
"It has made her grow _old_; that's all the difference I perceive," returned Mrs. Livingstone, satisfied that she'd said the thing which she knew would most annoy herself.
"How old are you, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham, leaning across the table.
"Eighteen," was 'Lena's answer, to which Mrs. Graham replied, "I thought so. Three years younger than Carrie, I believe."
"Two, only two," interrupted Mrs. Livingstone, while Carrie exclaimed, "Horrors! How old do you take me to be?"
Adroitly changing the conversation, Mrs. Graham made no reply, and soon after they rose from the table. Scarcely had they returned to the parlor, when John Jr. was announced. "He had," he said, "got his grandmother to sleep and put her to bed, and now he had come to pay his respects to Miss Graham!"
Catching her in his arms, he exclaimed, "Little girl! I'm as much delighted with your good fortune as I should b had it happened to myself. But where is Bellmont?" he continued, looking about the room.
Mr. Graham replied she that was was not there.
"Not here?" repeated John Jr. "What have you done with him, 'Lena?"
Lifting her eyes, full of tears, to her cousin's face, 'Lena said, softly, "Please don't talk about it now."
"There's something wrong," thought John Jr. "I'll bet I'll have to shoot that dog yet."
'Lena longed to pour out her troubles to some one, and knowing she could confide in John Jr., she soon found an opportunity of whispering to him, "Come tomorrow, and I will tell you all about it."
Between ten and eleven the company departed, Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie taking a most affectionate leave of 'Lena, urging her not to fail of coming over the next day, as they should be expecting her. The ludicrous expression of John Jr.'s face was a sufficient interpretation of his thoughts, as whispering aside to 'Lena, he said, "I can't do it justice if I try!"
The next morning Mr. Graham got out his carriage to carry 'Lena to Maple Grove, asking his wife to accompany them. But she excused herself, on the plea of a headache, and they set off without her. The meeting between 'Lena and her grandmother was affecting, and Carrie, in order to sustain the character she had assumed, walked to the window, to hide her emotions, probably--at least John Jr. thought so, for with the utmost gravity he passed her his silk pocket handkerchief! When the first transports of her interview with 'Lena were over, Mrs. Nichols fastened herself upon Mr. Graham, while John Jr. invited 'Lena to the garden, where he claimed from her the promised story, which she told him unreservedly.
"Oh, that's nothing, compared with my experience," said John Jr., plucking at the rich, purple grapes which hung in heavy clusters above his head. "That's easily settled. I'll go after Durward myself, and bring him back, either dead or alive--the latter if possible, the former if necessary. So cheer up. I've faith to believe that you and Durward will be married about the same time that Nellie and I are. We are engaged--did I tell you?"
Involuntarily 'Lena's eyes wandered in the direction of the sunny slope and the little grave, as yet but nine months made.
"I know what you think," said John Jr. rather testily, "but hang me if I can help it. Meb was never intended for me, except by mother. I suppose there is in the world somebody for whom she was made, but it wasn't I, and that's the reason she died. I am sorry as anybody, and every night in my life I think of poor Meb, who loved me so well, and who met with so poor a return. I've bought her some gravestones, though," he continued, as if that were an ample atonement for the past.
While they were thus occupied, Mr. Graham was discussing with Mrs. Nichols the propriety of her removing to Woodlawn.
"I shan't live long to trouble anybody," said she when asked if she would like to go, "and I'm nothin' without 'Leny."
So it was arranged that she should go with him, and when 'Lena returned to the house, she found her grandmother in her chamber, packing up, preparatory to her departure.
"We'll have to come agin," said she, "for I've as much as two loads."
"Don't take them," interposed 'Lena. "You won't need them, and nothing will harm them here."
After a little, grandma was persuaded, and her last charge to Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie was, "that they keep the dum niggers from her things."
Habit with Mrs. Nichols was everything. She had lived at Maple Grove for years, and every niche and corner of her room she understood. She knew the blacks and they knew her, and ere she was half-way to Woodlawn, she began to wish she had not started. Politely, but coldly, Mrs. Graham received her, saying "I thought, perhaps, you would return with them to spend the day!" laying great emphasis on the last words, as if that, of course, was to be the limit of her visit Grandma understood it, and it strengthened her resolution of not remaining long.
"Miss Graham don't want to be pestered with me," said she to 'Lena, the first time they were alone, "and I don't mean that she shall be. 'Tilda is used to me, and she don't mind it now, so I shall go back afore long. You can come to see me every day, and once in a while I'll come here."
That afternoon a heavy rain came on, and Mrs. Graham remarked to Mrs. Nichols that "she hoped she was not homesick, as there was every probability of her being obliged to stay over night!" adding, by way of comfort, that "she was going to Frankfort the next day to make purchases for 'Lena, and would take her home."
Accordingly, the next morning Mrs. Livingstone was not very agreeably surprised by the return of her mother-in-law, who, Mrs. Graham said, "was so home-sick they couldn't keep her."
That night when Mrs. Graham, who was naturally generous, returned from the city, she left at Maple Grove a large bundle for grandma, consisting of dresses, aprons, caps, and the like, which she had purchased as a sort or peace-offering, or reward, rather, for her having decamped so quietly from Woodlawn. But the poor old lady did not live to wear them. Both her mind and body were greatly impaired, and for two or three years she had been failing gradually. There was no particular disease, but a general breaking up of the springs of life, and a few weeks after 'Lena's arrival at Woodlawn,, they made another grave on the sunny slope, and Mabel no longer slept alone.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
DURWARD.
From place to place and from scene to scene Durward had hurried, caring nothing except to forget, if possible, the past, and knowing not where he was going, until he at last found himself in Richmond, Virginia. This was his mother's birthplace, and as several of her more distant relatives were still living here, he determined to stop for awhile, hoping that new objects and new scenes would have some power to rouse him from the lethargy into which he had fallen. Constantly in terror lest he should hear of 'Lena's disgrace, which he felt sure would be published to the world, he had, since his departure from Laurel Hill, resolutely refrained from looking in a newspaper, until one morning some weeks after his arrival at Richmond.
Entering a reading-room, he caught up the Cincinnati Gazette, and after assuring himself by a hasty glance that it did not contain what he so much dreaded to see, he sat down to read it, paying no attention to the date, which was three or four weeks back. Accidentally he cast his eye over the list of arrivals at the Burnet House, seeing among them the names of "Mr. H. R. Graham, and Miss L. R. Graham, Woodford county, Kentucky!"
"Audacious! How dare they be so bold!" he exclaimed, springing to his feet and tearing the paper in fragments, which he scattered upon the floor.
"Considerable kind of uppish, 'pears to me," said a strange voice, having in its tone the nasal twang peculiar to a certain class of Yankees.
Looking up, Durward saw before him a young man in whose style of dress and freckled face we at once recognize Joel Slocum. Wearying of Cincinnati, as he had before done with Lexington, he had traveled at last to Virginia. Remembering to have heard that his grandmother's aunt had married, died, and left a daughter in Richmond, he determined, if possible, to find some trace of her. Accordingly, he had come on to that city, making it the theater of his daguerrean operations. These alone not being sufficient to support him, he had latterly turned his attention to literary pursuits, being at present engaged in manufacturing a book after the Sam Slick order, which, to use his own expression, "he expected would have a thunderin' sale."
In order to sustain the new character which he had assumed, he came every day to the reading-room, tumbling over books and papers, generally carrying one of the former in his hand, affecting an utter disregard of his personal appearance, daubing his fingers with ink, wiping them on the pocket of his coat, and doing numerous other things which he fancied would stamp him a distinguished person.
On the morning of which we have spoken, Joel's attention was attracted toward Durward, whose daguerreotype he had seen at Maple Grove, and though he did not recognize the original, he fancied he might have met him before, and was about making his acquaintance, when Durward's action drew from him the remark we have mentioned. Thinking him to be some impertinent fellow, Durward paid him no attention, and was about leaving, when, hitching his chair a little nearer, Joel said, "Be you from Virginny?"
"No."
"From York state?"
"No."
"From Pennsylvany?"
"No."
"Mebby, then, you are from Kentucky?"
No answer.
"Be you from Kentucky?"
"Yes."
"Do you know Mr. Graham's folks?"
"Yes," said Durward, trembling lest the next should be something concerning his stepfather--but it was not.
Settling himself a little further back in the chair, Joel continued: "Wall, I calkerlate that I'm some relation to Miss Graham. Be you 'quainted with her?"
Durward knew that a relationship with Mrs. Graham also implied a relationship with himself, and feeling a little curious as well as somewhat amused, he replied, "Related to Mrs. Graham! Pray how?"
"Why, you see," said Joel, "that my grandmarm's aunt--she was younger than grandmarm, and was her aunt tew. Wall, she went off to Virginia to teach music, and so married a nabob--know what that is, I s'pose; she had one gal and died, and this gal was never heard from until I took it into my head to look her up, and I've found out that she was Lucy Temple. She married an Englishman, first--then a man from South Carolina, who is now livin' in Kentucky, between Versailles and Frankfort."
"What was your grandmother's aunt's name?" asked Durward.
"Susan Howard," returned Joel. "The Howards were a stuck-up set, grandmarm and all--not a bit like t'other side of the family. My mother's name was Scovandyke----"
"And yours?" interrupted Durward.
"Is Joel Slocum, of Slocumville, Massachusetts, at your service," said the young man, rising up and going through a most wonderful bow, which he always used on great occasions.
In a moment Durward knew who he was, and greatly amused, he said, "Can you tell me, Mr. Slocum, what relation this Lucy Temple, your great-great-aunt's daughter, would be to you?"
"My third cousin, of course," answered Joel. "I figgered that out with a slate and pencil."
"And her son, if she had one?"
"Would be my fourth cousin; no great connection, to be sure--but enough to brag on, if they happened to be smart!"
"Supposing I tell you what I am Lucy Temple's son?" said Durward, to which Joel, not the least suspicious, replied, "Wall, s'posin' you du, 'twon't make it so."
"But I am, really and truly," continued Durward. "Her first husband was a Bellmont, and I am Durward Bellmont, your fourth cousin, it seems."
"Jehosiphat! If this ain't curis," exclaimed Joel, grasping Durward's hand. "How do you du, and how is your marm. And do you know Helleny Rivers?"
Durward's brow darkened as he replied in the affirmative, while Joel continued: "We are from the same town, and used to think a sight of each other, but when I seen her in Kentucky, I thought she'd got to be mighty toppin'. Mebby, though, 'twas only my notion."
Durward did not answer, and after a little his companion said, "I suppose you know I sometimes take pictures for a livin'. I'm goin' to my office now, and if you'll come with me I'll take yourn for nothin', bein' you're related."
Mechanically, and because he had nothing else to do, Durward followed the young man to his "office," which was a dingy, cheerless apartment in the fourth story of a crazy old building. On the table in the center of the room were several likenesses, which he carelessly examined. Coming at last to a larger and richer case, he opened it, but instantly it dropped from his hand, while an exclamation of surprise escaped his lips.
"What's the row, old feller," asked Joel, coming forward and picking up the picture which Durward had recognized as 'Lena Rivers.
"How came you by it?" said Durward eagerly, and with a knowing wink, Joel replied, "I know, and that's enough."
"But I must know, too. It is of the utmost importance that I know," said Durward, and after a moment's reflection, Joel answered "Wall, I don't s'pose it'll do any hurt if I tell you. When I was a boy I had a hankerin' for 'Leny, and I didn't get over it after I was grown, either, so a year or two ago I thought I'd go to Kentuck and see her. Knowin' how tickled she and Mrs. Nichols would be with a picter of their old home in the mountains, I took it for 'em and started. In Albany I went to see a family that used to live in Slocumville. The woman was a gal with 'Leny's mother, and thought a sight of her. Wall, in the chamber where they put me to sleep, was an old portrait, which looked so much like 'Leny that in the mornin' I asked whose it was, and if you b'lieve me, 'twas 'Leny's mother! You know she married, or thought she married, a southern rascal, who got her portrait taken and then run off, and the picter, which in its day was an expensive one, was sold to pay up. A few years afterward, Miss Rice, the woman I was tellin' you about, came acrost it, and bought it for a little or nothin' to remember Helleny Nichols by. Thinks to me, nothin' can please 'Leny better than a daguerreotype of her mother, so I out with my apparatus and took it. But when I come to see that they were as nigh alike as two peas, I hated to give it up, for I thought it would be almost as good as lookin' at 'Leny. So I kept it myself, but I don't want her to know it, for she'd be mad."