“Yes—or that is, Nancy Scovandyke’s sister, Betsy Scovandyke that used
to be, lives there. May be you know her. Her name is Bacon—Betsy Bacon.
She’s a widder and keeps boarders.”

“Ah,” said he, the teeth this time becoming wholly visible, “I’ve heard
of Mrs. Bacon, but have not the honor of her acquaintance. You are from
the east, I perceive.”

“Law, now! how did you know that!” asked Mrs. Nichols, while Mr.
Everett answered, “I _guessed_ at it,” with a peculiar emphasis on the
word guessed, which led ’Lena to think he had used it purposely and not
from habit.

Mr. Everett possessed in a remarkable degree the faculty of making
those around him both respect and like him, and ere six weeks had
passed, he had won the love of all his pupils. Even John Jr. was
greatly improved, and Carrie seemed suddenly reawakened into a thirst
for knowledge, deeming no task too long, and no amount of study too
hard, if it won the commendation of her teacher. ’Lena, who committed
to memory with great ease, and who consequently did not deserve so much
credit for her always perfect lessons, seldom received a word of
praise, while poor Anna, notoriously lazy when books were concerned,
cried almost every day, because as she said, “Mr. Everett didn’t like
her as he did the rest, else why did he look at her so much, watching
her all the while, and keeping her after school to get her lessons
over, when he knew how she hated them.”

Once Mrs. Livingstone ventured to remonstrate, telling him that Anna
was very sensitive, and required altogether different treatment from
Carrie. “She thinks you dislike her,” said she, “and while she retains
this impression, she will do nothing as far as learning is concerned;
so if you do not like her, try and make her think you do!”

There was a peculiar look in Mr. Everett’s dark eyes as he answered,
“You may think it strange, Mrs. Livingstone, but of all my pupils I
love Anna the best! I know I find more fault with her, and am perhaps
more severe with her than with the rest, but it’s because I would make
her what I wish her to be. Pardon me, madam, but Anna does not possess
the same amount of intellect with her cousin or sister, but by proper
culture she will make a fine, intelligent woman.”

Mrs. Livingstone hardly relished being told that one child was inferior
to the other, but she could not well help herself—Mr. Everett would say
what he pleased—and thus the conference ended. From that time Mr.
Everett was exceedingly kind to Anna, wiping away the tears which
invariably came when told that she must stay with him in the
school-room after the rest were gone; then, instead of seating himself
in rigid silence at a distance until her task was learned, he would sit
by her side, occasionally smoothing her long curls and speaking
encouragingly to her as she pored over some hard rule of grammar, or
puzzled her brains with some difficult problem in Colburn. Erelong the
result of all this became manifest. Anna grew fonder of her books, more
ready to learn, and—more willing to be kept after school!

Ah, little did Mrs. Livingstone think what she was doing when she bade
young Malcolm Everett make her warm-hearted, impulsive daughter _think_
he liked her!

CHAPTER VIII.
SCHEMING.

“Mother, where’s ’Lena’s dress? Hasn’t she got any?” asked Anna, one
morning, about two weeks before Christmas, as she bent over a
promiscuous pile of merinoes, delaines, and plaid silks, her own and
Carrie’s dresses for the coming holidays. “Say, mother, didn’t you buy
’Lena any?”

Thus interrogated, Mrs. Livingstone replied, “I wonder if you think I’m
made of money! ’Lena is indebted to me now for more than she can ever
pay. As long as I give her a home and am at so much expense in
educating her, she of course can’t expect me to dress her as I do you.
There’s Carrie’s brown delaine and your blue one, which I intend to
have made over for her, and she ought to be satisfied with that, for
they are much better than anything she had when she came here.”

And the lady glanced toward the spot where ’Lena sat, admiring the new
things, in which she had no share, and longing to ask the question
which Anna had asked for her, and which had now been answered. John
Jr., who was present, and who knew that Mr. Everett had been engaged to
teach in the family long before it was known that ’Lena was coming, now
said to his cousin, who arose to leave, “Yes, ’Lena, mother’s a model
of generosity, and you’ll never be able to repay her for her kindness
in allowing you to wear the girls’ old duds, which would otherwise be
given to the blacks, and in permitting you to recite to Mr. Everett,
who, of course, was hired on your account.”

The slamming together of the door as ’Lena left the room brought the
young gentleman’s remarks to a close, and wishing to escape the lecture
which he saw was preparing for him, he, too, made his exit.

Christmas was coming, and with it Durward Bellmont, and about his
coming Mrs. Livingstone felt some little anxiety. Always scheming, and
always looking ahead, she was expecting great results from this visit.
Durward was not only immensely wealthy, but was also descended on his
father’s side from one of England’s noblemen. Altogether he was, she
thought, a “decided catch,” and though he was now only sixteen, while
Carrie was but thirteen, lifelong impressions had been made at even an
earlier period, and Mrs. Livingstone resolved that her pretty daughter
should at least have all the advantages of dress with which to set off
her charms. Concerning Anna’s appearance she cared less, for she had
but little hope of her, unless, indeed—but ’twas too soon to think of
that—she would wait, and perhaps in good time ’twould all come round
naturally and as a matter of course. So she encouraged her daughter’s
intimacy with Captain Atherton, who, until Malcolm Everett appeared,
was in Anna’s estimation the best man living. Now, however, she made an
exception in favor of her teacher, “who,” as she told the captain,
“neither wore false teeth, nor kept in his pocket a pair of specks, to
be slyly used when he fancied no one saw him.”

Captain Atherton coughed, colored, laughed, and saying that “Mr.
Everett was a mash kind of a boy,” swore eternal enmity toward him, and
under the mask of friendship—watched! Eleven years before, when Anna
was a baby, Mrs. Livingstone had playfully told the captain, who was
one day deploring his want of a wife, that if he would wait he should
have her daughter. To this he agreed, and the circumstance, trivial as
it was, made a more than ordinary impression upon his mind; and though
he as yet had no definite idea that the promise would ever be
fulfilled, the little girl was to him an object of uncommon interest.
Mrs. Livingstone knew this, and whenever Anna’s future prospects were
the subject of her meditations, she generally fell back upon that fact
as an item not to be despised.

Now, however, her thoughts were turned into another and widely
different channel. Christmas week was to be spent by Durward Bellmont
partly at Captain Atherton’s and partly at her own house, and as Mrs.
Livingstone was not ignorant of the effect a becoming dress has upon a
pretty face, she determined that Carrie should, at least, have that
advantage. Anna, too, was to fare like her sister, while no thought was
bestowed upon poor ’Lena’s wardrobe, until her husband, who accompanied
her to Frankfort, suggested that a certain pattern, which he fancied
would be becoming to ’Lena should be purchased.

With an angry scowl, Mrs. Livingstone muttered something about
“spending so much money for other folks’ young ones.” Then remembering
the old delaines, and knowing by the tone of her husband’s voice that
he was in earnest, she quickly rejoined, “Why, ’Lena’s got two new
dresses at home.”

Never doubting his wife’s word, Mr. Livingstone was satisfied, and
nothing more was said upon the subject. Business of importance made it
necessary for him to go for a few weeks to New Orleans, and he was now
on his way thither, his wife having accompanied him as far as
Frankfort, where he took the boat, while she returned home. When ’Lena
left the room after learning that she had no part in the mass of
Christmas finery, she repaired to the arbor bridge, where she had wept
so bitterly on the first day of her arrival, and which was now her
favorite resort. For a time she sat watching the leaping waters,
swollen by the winter rains, and wondering if it were not possible that
they started at first from the pebbly spring which gushed so cool and
clear from the mountain-side near her old New England home. This
reminded her of where and what she was now—a dependent on the bounty of
those who wished her away, and who almost every day of her life made
her feel it so keenly, too. Not one among them loved her except Anna,
and would not her affection change as they grew older? Then her
thoughts took another direction.

Durward Bellmont was coming—but did she wish to see him? Could she bear
the sneering remarks which she knew Carrie would make concerning
herself? And how would he be affected by them? Would he ask her of her
father? and if so, what had she to say?

Many a time had she tried to penetrate the dark mystery of her birth,
but her grandmother was wholly non-committal. Once, too, when her uncle
seemed kinder than usual, she had ventured to ask him of her father,
and with a frown he had replied, that “the least she knew of him the
better!” Still ’Lena felt sure that he was a good man, and that some
time or other she would find him.

All day long the clouds had been threatening rain, which began to fall
soon after ’Lena entered the arbor, but so absorbed was she in her own
thoughts, that she did not observe it until her clothes were perfectly
dampened; then starting up, she repaired to the house. For several days
she had not been well, and this exposure brought on a severe cold,
which confined her to her room for nearly two weeks. Meantime the
dress-making process went on, Anna keeping ’Lena constantly apprised of
its progress, and occasionally wearing in some article for her
inspection. This reminded ’Lena of her own wardrobe, and knowing that
it would not be attended to while she was sick, she made such haste to
be well, that on Thursday at tea-time she took her accustomed seat at
the table. After supper she lingered awhile in the parlor, hoping
something would be said, but she waited in vain, and was about leaving,
when a few words spoken by Carrie in an adjoining room caught her ear
and arrested her attention.

They were—“And so ’Lena came down to-night. I dare say she thinks
you’ll set Miss Simpson at work upon my old delaine.”

“Perhaps so,” returned Mrs. Livingstone, “but I don’t see how Miss
Simpson can do it, unless you put off having that silk apron
embroidered.”

“I shan’t do any such thing,” said Carrie, glad of an excuse to keep
’Lena out of the way. “What matter is it if she don’t come down when
the company are here? I’d rather she wouldn’t, for she’s so green and
awkward, and Durward is so fastidious in such matters, that I’d rather
he wouldn’t know she’s a relative of ours! I know he’d tell his mother,
and they say she is very particular about his associates.”

’Lena’s first impulse was to defy her cousin to her face—to tell her
she had seen Durward Bellmont, and that he didn’t laugh at her either.
But her next thought was calmer and more rational. Possibly under
Carrie’s influence he might make fun of her, and resolving on no
condition whatever to make herself visible while he was in the house,
she returned to her room, and throwing herself upon the bed, wept until
she fell asleep.

“When is Miss Simpson going to fix ’Lena’s dress?” asked Anna, as day
after day passed, and nothing was said of the brown delaine.

For an instant Miss Simpson’s nimble fingers were still, as she awaited
the answer to a question which had occurred to her several times. She
was a kind-hearted, intelligent girl, find at a glance had seen how
matters stood. She, too, was an orphan, and her sympathies were all
enlisted in behalf of the neglected ’Lena. She had heard from Anna of
the brown delaine, and in her own mind she had determined that it
should be fitted with the utmost taste of which she was capable.

Her speculations, however, were brought to a close by Mrs.
Livingstone’s saying in reply to Anna, that “’Lena seemed so wholly
uninterested, and cared so little about seeing the company, she had
decided not to have the dress fixed until after Christmas week.”

The fiery expression of two large, glittering eyes, which at that
moment peered in at the door, convinced Miss Simpson that her employer
had hardly told the truth, and she secretly determined that ’Lena
should have the dress whether she would or not. Accordingly, the next
time she and Anna were alone, she asked for the delaine, entrusting her
secret to Anna, who, thinking no harm, promised to keep it from her
mother. But to get ’Lena fitted was a more difficult matter. Her spirit
was roused, and for a time she resisted their combined efforts. At
last, however, she yielded, and by working late at night in her own
room, Miss Simpson managed to finished the dress, in which ’Lena really
looked better than did either of her cousins in their garments of far
richer materials. Still she was resolved not to go down, and Anna,
fearing what her mother might say, dared not urge her very strongly
hoping, though, that “something would turn up.”

Durward Bellmont, Nellie Douglass, and Mabel Ross had arrived at
Captain Atherton’s. Mrs. Livingstone and her daughters had called upon
them, inviting them to spend a few days at Maple Grove, where they were
to meet some other young people “selected from the wealthiest families
in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Livingstone said, at the same time patting
the sallow cheek of Mabel, whose reputed hundred thousand she intended
should one day increase the importance of her own family.

The invitation was accepted—the day had arrived, the guests were
momentarily expected, and Carrie, before the long mirror, was admiring
herself, alternately frowning upon John Jr., who was mimicking her
“airs,” and scolding Anna for fretting because ’Lena could not be
induced to join them. Finding that her niece was resolved not to
appear, Mrs. Livingstone, for looks’ sake, had changed her tactics,
saying, “’Lena could come down if she chose—she was sure there was
nothing to prevent.”

Knowing this, Anna had exhausted all her powers of eloquence upon her
cousin. But she still remained inexorable, greatly to the astonishment
of her grandmother who for several days had been suffering from a
rheumatic affection, notwithstanding which she “meant to hobble down if
possible, for” said she, “I want to see this Durward Bellmont. Matilda
says he’s got _Noble_ blood in him. I used to know a family of Nobles
in Massachusetts, and I think like as not he’s some kin!”

Carrie, to whom this remark was made, communicated it to her mother,
who forthwith repaired to Mrs. Nichols’ room, telling her “that ’twas a
child’s party,” and hinting pretty strongly that she was neither wanted
nor expected in the parlor, and would confer a great favor by keeping
aloof.

“Wall, wall,” said Mrs. Nichols, who had learned to dread her
daughter’s displeasure, “I’d as lief stay up here as not, but I do want
’Lena to jine ’em. She’s young and would enjoy it.”

Without a word of answer Mrs. Livingstone walked away, leaving ’Lena
more determined than ever not to go down. When the evening at last
arrived, Anna insisted so strongly upon her wearing the delaine, for
fear of what might happen, that ’Lena consented, curling her hair with
great care, and feeling a momentary thrill of pride as she saw how well
she looked.

“When we get nicely to enjoying ourselves,” said Anna, “you come down
and look through the glass door, for I do want you to see Durward, he’s
so handsome—but there’s the carriage—I must go;” and away ran Anna down
the stairs, while ’Lena flew to one of the front windows to see the
company as they rode up.

First came Captain Atherton’s carriage, and in it the captain and his
maiden sister, together with a pale, sickly-looking girl, whom ’Lena
knew to be Mabel Ross. Behind them rode Durward Bellmont, and at his
side, on a spirited little pony was another girl, thirteen or fourteen
years of age, but in her long riding-dress looking older, because
taller. ’Lena readily guessed that this was Nellie Douglass, and at a
glance she recognized the Durward of the cars—grown handsomer and
taller since then, she thought. With a nimble bound he leaped from his
saddle, kissing his hand to Carrie, who with her sunniest smile ran
past him to welcome Nellie. A pang, not of jealousy, but of an
undefined something, shot through ’Lena’s heart, and dropping the heavy
curtain, she turned away, while the tears gathered thickly in her large
brown eyes.

“Where’s ’Lena?” asked Captain Atherton, of Anna, warming his red
fingers before the blazing grate, and looking round upon the group of
girls gathered near. Glancing at her mother, Anna replied, “She says
she don’t want to come down.”

“Bashful,” returned the captain, while Nellie Douglass asked, “who
’Lena was,” at the same time returning the _pinch_ which John Jr. had
slyly given her as a mode of showing his preference, for Nellie _was_
his favorite.

Fearful of Anna’s reply, Mrs. Livingstone answered, carelessly, “She’s
the child of one of Mr. Livingstone’s poor relations, and we’ve taken
her awhile out of charity.”

At any other time John Jr. would doubtless have questioned his mother’s
word, but now so engrossed was he with the merry, hoydenish Nellie,
that he scarcely heard her remark, or noticed the absence of ’Lena.
With the exception of his cousin, Nellie was the only girl whom John
Jr. could endure—“the rest,” he said, “were so stuck up and affected.”

For Mabel Ross, he seemed to have a particular aversion. Not because
she was so very disagreeable, but because his mother continually
reminded him of what she hoped would one day be, “and this,” he said,
“was enough to make a ‘feller’ hate a girl.” So without considering
that Mabel was not to blame, he ridiculed her unmercifully, calling her
“a bundle of medicine,” and making fun of her thin, sallow face, which
really appeared to great disadvantage when contrasted with Nellie’s
bright eyes and round, rosy cheeks.

When the guests were all assembled, Carrie, not knowing whether Durward
Bellmont would relish plays, seated herself demurely upon the sofa,
prepared to act the dignified young lady, or any other character she
might think necessary.

“Get up, Cad,” said John Jr. “Nobody’s going to act like they were at a
funeral; get up, and let’s play something.”

As the rest seemed to be similarly inclined, Carrie arose, and erelong
the joyous shouts reached ’Lena, making her half wish that she, too,
was there. Remembering Anna’s suggestion of looking through the glass
door she stole softly down the stairs, and stationing herself behind
the door, looked in on the scene. Mr. Everett, usually so dignified,
had joined in the game, claiming “forfeits” from Anna more frequently
than was considered at all necessary by the captain, who for a time
looked jealously on, and then declaring himself as young as any of
them, joined them with a right good will.

“Blind man’s buff,” was next proposed, and ’Lena’s heart leaped up, for
that was her favorite game. John Jr. was first blinded, but he caught
them so easily that all declared he could see, and loud were the calls
for Durward to take his place. This he willingly did, and whether he
could see or not, he suffered them to pass directly under his hands,
thus giving entire satisfaction. On account of the heat of the rooms,
Anna, on passing the glass door, threw it open, and the next time
Durward came round he marched directly into the hall, seizing ’Lena,
who was trying to hide.

Feeling her long curls, he exclaimed, “Anna, you are caught.”

“No, I ain’t Anna; let me go,” said ’Lena, struggling to escape.

This brought all the girls to the spot, while Durward, snatching the
muffler from his eyes, looked down with astonishment upon the trembling
’Lena, who would have escaped had she not been so securely hemmed in.

“Ain’t you ashamed, ’Lena, to be peeking?” asked Carrie, while Durward
repeated—“’_Lena_! ’_Lena_! I’ve seen her before in the cars between
Springfield and Albany; but how came she here?”

“She lives here—she’s our cousin,” said Anna, notwithstanding the
twitch given to her sleeve by Carrie, who did not care to have the
relationship exposed.

“Your cousin,” said Durward, “and where’s the old lady who was with
her?”

“The one she called _granny_?” asked John Jr., on purpose to rouse up
his fiery little cousin.

“No, I don’t call her _granny_, neither—I’ve quit it,” said ’Lena,
angrily, adding, as a sly hit at Kentucky talk, “she’s up _stars_, sick
with the rheumatism.”

“Good,” said Durward, “but why are you not down here with us?”

“I didn’t want to come,” was her reply; and Durward, leading her into
the parlor, continued, “but now that you are here, you must stay.”

“Pretty, isn’t she,” said Nellie, as the full blaze of the chandelier
fell upon ’Lena.

“Rath-er,” was Carrie’s hesitating reply.

She felt annoyed that ’Lena should be in the parlor, and provoked that
Durward should notice her in any way, and at the first opportunity she
told him “how much she both troubled and mortified them, by her
vulgarity and obstinacy,” adding that “she had a most violent temper.”
From Nellie she had learned that Durward particularly disliked
passionate girls, and for this reason she strove to give him the
impression that ’Lena was such an one. Once or twice she fancied him
half inclined to disbelieve her, as he saw how readily ’Lena joined in
their amusements, and how good-humoredly she bore John Jr.’s teasing,
and then she hoped something would occur to prove her words true. Her
wish was gratified.

The next day was dark and stormy, confining the young people to the
house. About ten o’clock the negro who had been to the post-office
returned, bringing letters for the family, among which was one for
’Lena, so curious in its shape and superscription, that even the negro
grinned as he handed it out. ’Lena was not then present, and Carrie,
taking the letter, exclaimed, “Now if this isn’t the last specimen from
Yankeedom. Just listen,—” and she spelled out the direction—“_To Mis
HELL-ENY RIVERS, state of kentucky, county of woodford, Dorsey post
offis, care of Mis nichals_.”

Unobserved by any one, ’Lena had entered the parlor in time to hear
every word, and when Carrie, chancing to espy her, held out the letter,
saying, “Here, _Helleny_, I _guess_ this came from down east,” she
darted forward, and striking the letter from Carrie’s hands stamped
upon it with her foot, declaring “she’d never open it in the world,”
and saying “they might do what they pleased with it for all of her.”

“Read it—may we read it?” eagerly asked Carrie, delighted to see ’Lena
doing such justice to her reputation.

“Yes, read it!” almost screamed ’Lena, and before any one could
interpose a word, Carrie had broken the seal and commenced reading,
announcing, first, that it came from “Joel Slocum!” It was as follows:

“Dear Helleny, mebby you’ll wonder when you see a letter from me, but
I’ll be hanged if I can help ’ritin’, I am so confounded lonesome now
you are gone, that I dun know nothing what to do with myself. So I set
on the great rock where the saxefax grows; and think, and think till it
seems ’s ef my head would bust open. Wall, how do you git along down
amongst them heathenish Kentucks & niggers? I s’pose there ain’t no
great difference between ’em, is there? When I git a little more
larnin’, I b’lieve I’ll come down there to keep school. O, I forgot to
tell you that our old line back cow has got a calf—the prettiest little
critter—Dad has gin her to me, and I call her Helleny, I do, I swow!
And when she capers round she makes me think of the way you danced
‘High putty Martin’ the time you stuck a sliver in your heel—”

Up to this point ’Lena had stood immovable, amid the loud shouts of her
companions, but the fire of a hundred volcanoes burned within and
flashed from her eyes. And now springing forward, she caught the letter
from Carrie’s hand, and inflicting a long scratch upon her forehead,
fled from the room. Had not Durward Bellmont been present, Carrie would
have flown after her cousin, to avenge the insult, and even now she was
for a moment thrown off her guard, and starting forward, exclaimed,
“the tigress!”

Drawing his fine cambric handkerchief from his pocket, Durward gently
wiped the blood from her white brow, saying “Never mind. It is not a
deep scratch.”

“I wish ’twas deeper,” muttered John Jr. “You’d no business to serve
her so mean.”

An angry retort rose to Carrie’s lips, but, just in time to prevent its
utterance, Durward also spoke, saying, “It was too bad to tease her so,
but we were all more or less to blame, and I’m not sure but we ought to
apologize.”

Carrie felt that she would die, almost, before she’d apologize to such
as ’Lena, and still she thought it might be well enough to give Durward
the impression that she was doing, her best to make amends for her
fault. Accordingly, the next time her cousin appeared in the parlor she
was all smiles and affability, talking a great deal to ’Lena, who
returned very short but civil answers, while her face wore a look which
Durward construed into defiance and hatred of everybody and everything.

“Too passionate,” thought he, turning from her to Carrie, whose voice,
modulated to its softest tones, rang out clear and musical, as she
sported and laughed with her moody cousin, appearing the very essence
of sweetness and amiability!

Pity he could not have known how bitterly ’Lena had wept over her hasty
action—not because _he_ witnessed it, but because she knew it was
wrong! Pity he could not have read the tear-blotted note, which she
laid on Carrie’s work-box, and in which was written, “I am sorry,
Carrie, that I hurt you so. I didn’t know what I was about, but I will
try and not get so angry again.”

Pity, too, that he did not see the look of contempt with which Carrie
perused this note; and when the two girls accidentally met in the upper
hall, and ’Lena laid her hand gently on Carrie’s arm, it is a thousand
pities he was not present to see how fiercely she was repulsed, Carrie
exclaiming, “Get out of my sight! _I hate you_, and so do all of them
downstairs, Durward in particular.”

Had he known all this he would have thought differently of ’Lena, who,
feeling that she was not wanted in the parlor, kept herself entirely
aloof, never again appearing during the remainder of his stay. Once
Durward asked for her, and half laughingly Carrie replied, that “she
had not yet recovered from her pouting fit.” Could he have known her
real occupation, he might have changed his mind again. The stormy
weather had so increased Mrs. Nichols’ rheumatic complaint, that now,
perfectly crippled, she lay as helpless as a child, carefully nursed by
’Lena and old Aunt Polly, who, spite of her own infirmities, had
hobbled in to wait upon her friend. Never but once did Mrs. Livingstone
go near her mother’s sick-room—“the smell of herbs made her faint,” she
said! But to do her justice, we must say that she gave Polly
unqualified permission to order anything she pleased for the invalid.

Toward the close of the third day, the company left. Nellie Douglass,
who really liked ’Lena, and wished to bid her good-bye, whispered to
John Jr., asking him to show her the way to his cousin’s room. No one
except members of the family had ever been in Mrs. Nichols’ apartment,
and for a moment John Jr. hesitated, knowing well that Nellie could not
fail to observe the contrast it presented to the other richly-furnished
chambers.

“They ought to be mortified—it’ll serve ’em right,” he thought, at
last, and motioning Nellie to fallow him, he silently led the way to
his grandmother’s room, where their knock was answered by Aunt Polly’s
gruff voice, which bade them “come in.”

They obeyed, but Nellie started back when she saw how greatly inferior
was this room to the others around it. In an instant her eye took in
everything, and she readily comprehended the whole.

“It isn’t my doings, by a jug-full!” whispered John Jr., himself
reddening as he noted the different articles of furniture which had
never before seemed so meager and poor.

On the humble bed, in a half-upright position, lay Mrs. Nichols, white
as the snowy cap-border which shaded her face. Behind her sat ’Lena,
supporting her head, and when Nellie entered, she was carefully pushing
back the few gray locks which had fallen over the invalid’s forehead,
her own bright curls mingling with them, and resting, some on her neck,
and some on her grandmother’s shoulder. A deep flush dyed her cheeks
when she saw Nellie, who thought she had never looked upon a sight more
beautiful.

“I did not know your grandmother was ill,” said she, coming forward and
gently touching the swollen hand which lay outside the counterpane.

Mrs. Nichols was not too ill to talk, and forthwith she commenced a
history of her malady, beginning at the time she first had it when
’Lena’s mother was a year and a day old, frequently quoting Nancy
Scovandyke, and highly entertaining Nellie, who listened until warned
by the sound of the carriage, as it came round to the door, that she
must go.

“We are going back to Uncle Atherton’s,” said she, “but I wanted to bid
you good-bye, and ask you to visit me in Frankfort with your cousins.
Will you do so?”

This was wholly unexpected to ’Lena, who, without replying, burst into
tears. Nellie hardly knew what to do. She seldom cried herself—she did
not like to see others cry—and still she did not blame ’Lena, for she
felt that she could not help it. At last, taking her hand, she bade her
farewell, asking if she should not carry a good-bye to the others.

“Yes, to Mabel,” said ’Lena.

“And not Durward?” asked Nellie.

With something of her old spirit ’Lena answered, “No, he hates
me—Carrie says so.”

“Cad’s a fool,” muttered John Jr., while Nellie rejoined, “Durward
never hated anybody, and even if he did, he would not say so—I mean to
tell him;” and with another good-bye she was gone.

On the stairs she met Durward, who was looking for her, and asked where
she had been.

“To bid ’Lena good-bye; don’t you want to go too?” said Nellie.

“Why, yes, if you are sure she won’t scratch my eyes out,” he returned,
gayly, following his cousin.

“I reckon I’d better tell ’Lena to come out into the hall—she may not
want you in there,” said John Jr., and hastening forward he told his
cousin what was wanted.

Oh, how ’Lena longed to go, but pride, and the remembrance of Carrie’s
words, prevented her, and coldly answering, “No, I don’t wish to see
him,” she turned away to hide the tears and pain which those words had
cost her.

This visit to Grandma Nichols’ room was productive of some good, for
John Jr., did not fail of repeating to his mother the impression which
he saw was made on Nellie’s mind, adding, that “though Durward did not
venture in, Nellie would of course tell him all about it. And then,”
said he, “I wouldn’t give much for his opinion of your treatment of
your mother.”

Angry, because she felt the truth of what her son said, Mrs.
Livingstone demanded “what he’d have her do.”

“Do?” he repeated, “give grandmother a decent room, or else fix that
one up, so it won’t look like the old scratch had been having a
cotillon there. Paper and paint it, and make it look decent.”

Upon this last piece of advice Mrs. Livingstone resolved to act, for
recently several vague rumors had reached her ear, touching her neglect
of her mother-in-law, and she began herself to think it just possible
that a little of her money would be well expended in adding to the
comfort of her husband’s mother. Accordingly, as soon as Mrs. Nichols
was able to sit up, her room underwent a thorough renovation, and
though no great amount of money was expended upon it, it was fitted up
with so much taste that the poor old lady, whom John Jr., ’Lena and
Anna, had adroitly kept out of the way until her room was finished,
actually burst into tears when first ushered into her light, airy
apartment, in which everything looked so cheerful and pleasant.

“’Tilda has now and then a good streak,” said she, while Aunt Milly,
who had taken a great deal of interest in the repairing of the room,
felt inclined to change her favorite theory with regard to her
mistress’ future condition.

CHAPTER IX.
FIVE YEARS LATER.

And in the fair city of elms we again open the scene. It was
commencement at Yale, and the crowd which filled the old Center church
were listening breathlessly to the tide of eloquence poured forth by
the young valedictorian.

Durward Bellmont, first in his studies, first in his class, and first
in the esteem of his fellow-students, had been unanimously chosen to
that post of honor, and as the gathered multitude hung upon his words
and gazed upon his manly beauty, they felt mat a better choice could
not well have been made. At the right of the platform sat a group of
ladies, friends, it would seem, of the speaker, for ever and anon his
eyes turned in that direction, and as if each glance incited him to
fresh efforts, his eloquence increased, until at last no sound save
that of his deep-toned voice was heard, so rapt was every one in the
words of the young orator. But when his speech was ended, there arose
deafening shouts of applause, while bouquets fell in perfect showers at
his feet. Among them was one smaller and more elegant than the rest,
and as if it were more precious, too, it was the first which Durward
took from the floor.

“See, Carrie, he gives you the preference,” whispered one of the young
ladies on the right, and Carrie Livingstone for she it was, felt a
thrill of gratified pride, when she saw how carefully he guarded the
bouquet, which during all the exercises she had made her especial care,
calling attention to it in so many different ways that hardly any one
who saw it in Durward’s possession, could fail of knowing from what
source it same.

But then everybody said they were engaged—so what did it matter?
Everybody but John Jr., who was John Jr. still, and who while openly
denying the engagement, teasingly hinted “that ’twas no fault of
Cad’s.”

For the last three years, Carrie, Nellie, Mabel, and Anna had been
inmates of the seminary in New Haven, and as they were now considered
sufficiently accomplished to enter at once upon all the gayeties of
fashionable life, John Jr. had come on “to see the elephant,” as he
said, and to accompany them home. Carrie had fulfilled the promise of
her girlhood, and even her brother acknowledged that she was handsome
in spite of her _nose_, which like everybody’s else, still continued to
be the most prominent feature of her face. She was proud, too, as well
as beautiful, and throughout the city she was known as the “haughty
southern belle,” admired by some and disliked by many. Among the
students she was not half so popular as her unpretending sister, whose
laughing blue eyes and sunny brown hair were often toasted, together
with the classical brow and dignified bearing of Nellie Douglass, who
had lost some of the hoydenish propensities of her girlhood, and who
was now a graceful, elegant creature just merging into nineteen—the
pride of her widowed father, and the idol still of John Jr., whose
boyish preference had ripened into a kind of love such as only he could
feel.

With poor Mabel Ross it had fared worse, her plain face and dumpy
little figure never receiving the least attention except from Durward
Bellmont, who pitying her lonely condition, frequently left more
congenial society for the sake of entertaining her. Of any one else
Carrie would have been jealous, but feeling sure that Mabel had no
attraction save her wealth, and knowing that Durward did not care for
that, she occasionally suffered him to leave her side, always feeling
amply repaid by the evident reluctance with which he left her society
for that of Mabel’s.

When ill-naturedly rallied by his companions upon his preference for
Carrie, Durward would sometimes laughingly refer them to the old
worn-out story of the fox and the grapes, for to scarcely any one save
himself did Carrie think it worth her while to be even gracious. This
conduct was entirely at variance with her natural disposition, for she
was fond of admiration, come from what source it might, and she would
never have been so cold and distant to all save Durward, had she not
once heard him say that “he heartily despised a _flirt_; and that no
young lady could at all interest him if he suspected her of being a
coquette.”

This, then, was the secret of her reserve. She was resolved upon
winning Durward Bellmont, deeming no sacrifice too great if in the end
it secured the prize. It is true there was one sophomore, a perfumed,
brainless fop, from Rockford, N. Y., who, next to Durward, was
apparently most in favor, but the idea of her entertaining even a
shadow of a liking for Tom Lakin, was too ludicrous to be harbored for
a moment, so his attentions went for naught, public opinion uniting in
giving her to Mr. Bellmont.

With the lapse of years, Anna, too, had greatly improved. The extreme
delicacy of her figure was gone, and though her complexion was as white
and pure as marble, it denoted perfect health. With John Jr. she was
still the favorite sister, the one whom he loved the best. “Carrie was
too stiff and proud,” he said, and though when he met her in New Haven,
after a year’s absence, his greeting was kind and brotherly, he soon
turned from her to Anna and Nellie, utterly neglecting Mabel, who
turned away to her chamber to cry, because no one cared for her.

Frequently had his mother reminded him of the importance of securing a
wealthy bride, always finishing her discourse by speaking of Mr.
Douglass’ small income, and enlarging upon the immense wealth of Mabel
Ross, whose very name had become disagreeable to John Jr. At one time
his father had hoped he, too, would enter college, but the young man
derided the idea of his ever making a scholar, saying, however, more in
sport than in earnest, that “he was willing to enter a store, or learn
a _trade_, so that in case he was ever obliged to earn his own living,
he would have some means of doing it;” but to this his mother would not
listen. He was her “darling boy,” and “his hands, soft and white as
those of a girl, should never become hardened and embrowned by labor!”
So, while his sisters were away at school, he was at home, hunting,
fishing, riding, teasing his grandmother, tormenting the servants, and
shocking his mother by threatening to make love to his cousin ’Lena, to
whom he was at once a pest and a comfort, and who now claims a share of
our attention.

When it was decided to send Carrie and Anna to New Haven, Mr.
Livingstone proposed that ’Lena should also accompany them, but this
plan Mrs. Livingstone opposed with all her force, declaring that _her_
money should never be spent in educating the “beggarly relatives” of
her husband, who in this, as in numerous other matters, was forced to
yield the point. As Mr. Everett’s services were now no longer needed,
he accepted the offer of a situation in the family of General Fontaine,
a high-bred, southern gentleman, whose plantation was distant but half
a mile from “Maple Grove;” and as he there taught a regular school,
having under his charge several of the daughters of the neighboring
planters, it was decided that ’Lena also should continue under his
instruction.

Thus while Carrie and Anna were going through the daily routine of a
fashionable boarding-school, ’Lena was storing her mind with useful
knowledge, and though her accomplishments were not quite so showy as
those of her cousins, they had in them the ring of the pure metal.
Although her charms were as yet but partially developed, she was a
creature of rare loveliness, and many who saw her for the first time,
marveled that aught so beautiful could be real. She had never seen
Durward Bellmont since that remarkable Christmas week, but many a time
had her cheeks flushed with a feeling which she could not define, as
she read Anna’s accounts of the flattering attentions which he paid to
Carrie, who, when at home, still treated her with haughty contempt or
cool indifference.

But for this she did not care. She knew she was loved by Anna, and
liked by John Jr., and she hoped—nay, half believed—that she was not
wholly indifferent to her uncle, who, while he seldom made any show of
his affection, still in his heart admired and felt proud of her. With
his wife it was different. She hated ’Lena—hated her because she was
beautiful and talented, and because in her presence Carrie and Anna
were ever in the shade. Still her niece was too general a favorite in
the neighborhood to allow of open hostility at home, and so the proud
woman ground together her glittering teeth—_and waited_!

Among the many who admired ’Lena, there was no one who gave her such
full and unbounded homage as did her grandmother, whose life at Maple
Grove had been one of shadow, seldom mingled with sunshine. Gradually
had she learned the estimation in which she was held by her son’s wife,
and she felt how bitter it was to eat the bread of dependence. As far
as she was able, ’Lena shielded her from the sneers of her aunt, who
thinking she had done all that was required of her when she fixed their
room, would for days and even weeks appear utterly oblivious of their
presence, or frown darkly whenever chance threw them in her way. She
had raised no objection to ’Lena’s continuing a pupil of Mr. Everett,
who, she hoped, would not prove indifferent to her charms, fancying
that in this way she would sooner be rid of one whom she feared as a
rival of her daughters.

But she was mistaken; for much as Malcolm Everett might admire ’Lena,
another image than hers was enshrined in his heart, and most carefully
guarded was the little golden curl, cut in seeming sport from the head
it once adorned, and, now treasured as a sacred memento of the past.
Believing that it would be so because she wished it to be so, Mrs.
Livingstone had more than once whispered to her female friends her
surmises that Malcolm Everett would marry ’Lena, and at the time of
which we are speaking, it was pretty generally understood that a strong
liking, at least, if not an engagement, existed between them.

Old Captain Atherton, grown more smooth and portly, rubbed his fat
hands complacently, and while applying Twigg’s Preparation to his hair,
congratulated himself that the only rival he had ever feared was now
out of his way. Thinking, too, that ’Lena had conferred a great favor
upon himself by taking Mr. Everett from off his mind, became
exceedingly polite to her, making her little presents and frequently
asking her to ride. Whenever these invitations were accepted, they were
sure to be followed by a ludicrous description to Anna, who laughed
merrily over her cousin’s letters, declaring herself half jealous of
her “gray-haired lover,” as she termed the captain.

All such communications were eagerly seized by Carrie, and fully
discussed in the presence of Durward, who gradually received the
impression that ’Lena was a flirt, a species of womankind which he held
in great abhorrence. Just before he left New Haven, he received a
letter from his stepfather, requesting him to stop for a day or two at
Captain Atherton’s, where he would join him, as he wished to look at a
country-seat near Mr. Livingstone’s, which was now for sale. This plan
gave immense satisfaction to Carrie, and when her brother proposed that
Durward should stop at their father’s instead of the captain’s, she
seconded the invitation so warmly, that Durward finally consented, and
word was immediately sent to Mrs. Livingstone to hold herself in
readiness to receive Mr. Bellmont.

“Oh, I do hope your father will secure Woodlawn,” said Carrie, as in
the parlor of the Burnett House, Cincinnati, they were discussing the
projected purchase.

The other young ladies had gone out shopping, and John Jr., who was
present, and who felt just like teasing his sister, replied, “What do
you care? Mrs. Graham has no daughters, and she won’t fancy such a chit
as you, so it must be Durward’s society that you so much desire, but I
can assure you that your _nose_ will be broken when once he sees our
’Lena.”

Carrie turned toward the window to hide her wrath at this speech, while
Durward asked if “Miss Rivers were so very handsome?”

“_Handsome_!” repeated John. “That don’t begin to express it. _Cad_ is
what I call _handsome_, but ’Lena is beautiful, more beautiful, most
beautiful—now you have it superlatively. Such complexion—such eyes—such
hair—I’ll be hanged if I haven’t been more than half in love with her
myself.”

“I really begin to tremble,” said Durward, laughingly while Carrie
rejoined, “You’ve only to make the slightest advance, and your love
will be returned ten-fold, for ’Lena is very susceptible, and already
encourages several admirers.”

“There, my fair sister, you are slightly mistaken,” interrupted John
Jr., who was going on farther in his remarks, when Durward asked if
“she ever left any _marks_ of her affection,” referring to the scratch
she had given Carrie; who, before her brother had time to speak,
replied that “the _will_ and the _claws_ remained the same, though
common decency kept them hidden when it was necessary.”

“That’s downright slander,” said John Jr., determined now upon
defending his cousin, “’Lena has a high temper, I acknowledge, but she
tries hard to govern it, and for nearly two years I’ve not seen her
angry once, though she’s had every provocation under heaven.”

“She knows _when_ and _where_ to be amiable,” retorted Carrie. “Any one
of her admirers would tell the same story with yourself.”

At this juncture John Jr. was called for a moment from the room, and
Carrie, fearing she had said too much, immediately apologized to
Durward, saying, “it was not often that she allowed herself to speak
against her cousin, and that she should not have done so now, were not
John so much blinded, that her mother, knowing Lena’s ambitious nature,
sometimes seriously feared the consequence. I know,” said she, “that
John fancies Nellie, but ’Lena’s influence over him is very great.”

Durward made no reply, and Carrie continued: “I’m always sorry when I
speak against ’Lena; she is my cousin, and I wouldn’t prejudice any one
against her; so you must forget my unkind remarks, which would never
have been uttered in the presence of a stranger. She _is_ handsome and
agreeable, and you must like her in spite of what I said.”

“I cannot refuse when so fair a lady pleads her cause,” was Durward’s
gallant answer, and as the other young ladies then entered the room,
the conversation ceased.

Meanwhile ’Lena was very differently employed. Nearly a year had
elapsed since she had seen her cousins, and her heart bounded with joy
at the thought of meeting Anna, whom she dearly loved. Carrie was to
her an object of indifference, rather than dislike, and ofttimes had
she thought, “If she would only let me love her.” But it could not be,
for there was no affinity between them. Carrie was proud and
overbearing—jealous of her high-spirited cousin, who, as John Jr. had
said, strove hard to subdue her temper, and who now seldom resented
Carrie’s insults, except when they were leveled at her aged
grandmother.

As we have before stated, news’ had been received at Maple Grove that
Durward would accompany her cousins home. Mr. Graham would, of course,
join him there, and accordingly, extensive preparations were
immediately commenced. An unusual degree of sickness was prevailing
among the female portion of Mrs. Livingstone’s servants, and the very
day before the company was expected, Aunt Milly, the head cook was
taken suddenly ill. Coaxing, scolding, and threatening were alike
ineffectual. The old negress would not say she was well when she
wasn’t, and as Hagar, the next in command, was also sick (_lazy_, as
her mistress called it,) Mrs. Livingstone was herself obliged to
superintend the cookery.

“Crosser than a bar,” as the little darkies said, she flew back and
forth, from kitchen to pantry, her bunch of keys rattling, the corners
of her mouth drawn back, and her hands raised ready to strike at
anything that came in her way. As if there were a fatality attending
her movements, she was unfortunate in whatever she undertook. The cake
was burned black, the custard curdled, the preserves were found to be
working, the big preserve dish got broken, a thunder shower soured the
cream, and taking it all in all, she really had trouble enough to
disconcert the most experienced housekeeper. Still, the few negroes
able to assist, thought “she needn’t be so fetch-ed cross.”

But cross she was, feeling more than once inclined to lay witchcraft to
the charge of old Milly, who comfortably ensconced in bed, listened in
dismay to the disastrous accounts brought her from time to time from
the kitchen, mentally congratulating herself the while upon not being
within hearing of her mistress’ tongue. Once Mrs. Nichols attempted to
help, but she was repulsed so angrily that ’Lena did not presume to
offer her services until the day of their arrival, when, without a
word, she repaired to the chambers, which she swept and dusted,
arranging the furniture, and making everything ready for the comfort of
the travelers. Then descending to the parlors, she went through the
same process there, filled the vases with fresh flowers, looped back
the curtains, opened the piano, wheeled the sofa a little to the right,
the large chair a little to the left, and then going to the
dining-room, she set the table in the most perfect order, doing all so
quietly that her aunt knew nothing of it until it was done. Jake the
coachman, had gone down to Frankfort after them, and as he was not
expected to return until between three and four, dinner was deferred
until that hour.

From sunrise Mrs. Livingstone had worked industriously, until her face
and temper were at a boiling heat. The clock was on the point of
striking three, and she was bending over a roasting turkey, when ’Lena
ventured to approach her, saying, “I have seen Aunt Milly baste a
turkey many a time, and I am sure I can do it as well as she.”

“Well, what of it?” was the uncivil answer.

’Lena’s temper choked her, but forcing it down, she replied: “Why, it
is almost three, and I thought perhaps you would want to cool and dress
yourself before they came. I can see to the dinner, I know I can.
Please let me try.”

Somewhat mollified by her niece’s kind manner, Mrs. Livingstone
resigned her post and repaired to her own room, while ’Lena, confining
her long curls to the top of her head and donning the wide check-apron
which her aunt had thrown aside, set herself at work with a right good
will.

“What dat ar you say?” exclaimed Aunt Milly, lifting her woolly head
from her pillow, and looking at the little colored girl, who had
brought to her the news that “young miss was in de kitchen.” “What dat
ar you tellin’? Miss ’Leny pokin’ ’mong de pots and kittles, and dis
ole nigger lazin’ in bed jes like white folks. Long as ’twas ole miss,
I didn’t seer. Good ’nough for her to roast, blister, and bile; done
get used to it, case she’s got to in kingdom come, no mistake—he!—he!
But little Miss ’Leny, it’s too bad to bake her lamb’s-wool hands and
face, and all de quality comin’: I’ll hobble up thar, if I can stand.”

Suiting the action to the word she got out of bed, and crawling up to
the kitchen, insisted upon taking ’Lena’s place, saying, “she could sit
in her chair and tell the rest what to do.”

For a time ’Lena hesitated, the old woman seemed so faint and weak, but
the sound of wheels decided her. Springing to the sideboard in the
dining-room, she brought Aunt Milly a glass of wine, which revived her
so much that she now felt willing to leave her. By this time the
carriage was at the door, and to escape unobserved was now her great
object. But this she could not do, for as she was crossing the hall,
Anna espied her, and darting forward, seized her around the neck, at
the same time dragging her toward Carrie, who, with Durward’s eye upon
her, _kissed_ her twice; then turning to him, she said, “I suppose you
do not need an introduction to Miss Rivers?”

Durward was almost guilty of the rudeness of staring at the strangeness
of ’Lena’s appearance, for as nearly as she could, she looked like a
fright. Bending over hot stoves and boiling gravies is not very
beneficial to one’s complexion, and ’Lena’s cheeks, neck, forehead, and
nose were of a purplish red—her hair was tucked back in a manner
exceedingly unbecoming, while the broad check-apron, which came nearly
to her feet, tended in nowise to improve her appearance. She felt it
keenly, and after returning Durward’s salutation, she broke away before
Anna or John, Jr., who were both surprised at her looks, had time to
ask a question.

Running up to her room, her first impulse was to cry, but knowing that
would disfigure her still more, she bathed her burning face and neck,
brushed out her curls, threw on a simple muslin dress, and started for
the parlor, of which Durward and Carrie were at that moment the only
occupants. As she was passing the outer door, she observed upon one of
the piazza pillars a half-blown rose, and for a moment stopped to
admire it. Durward, who sat in a corner, did not see her, but Carrie
did, and a malicious feeling prompted her to draw out her companion,
who she felt sure was disappointed in ’Lena’s face. They were speaking
of a lady whom they saw at Frankfort, and whom Carrie pronounced
“perfectly beautiful,” while Durward would hardly admit that she was
even good-looking.

“I am surprised at your taste,” said Carrie, adding, as she noticed the
proximity of her cousin, “I think she resembles ’Lena, and of course
you’ll acknowledge _she_ is beautiful.”

“She _was_ beautiful five years ago, but she’s greatly changed since
then,” answered Durward, never suspecting the exquisite satisfaction
his words afforded Carrie, who replied, “You had better keep that
opinion to yourself, and not express it before Captain Atherton or
brother John.”

“Who takes my name in vain?” asked John Jr., himself appearing at a
side door.

“Oh, John,” said Carrie, “we were just disputing about ’Lena. Durward
does not think her handsome.”

“Durward be hanged!” answered John, making a feint of drawing from his
pocket a pistol which was not there. “What fault has he to find with
’Lena?”

“A little too rosy, that’s all,” said Durward, laughingly, while John
continued, “She _did_ look confounded red and dowdyish, for her. I
don’t understand it myself.”

Here the hem of the muslin dress on which Carrie’s eye had all the
while been resting, disappeared, and as there was no longer an
incentive for ill-natured remarks, the amiable young lady adroitly
changed the conversation.

John Jr. also caught a glimpse of the retreating figure, and started in
pursuit, in the course of his search passing the kitchen, where he was
instantly hailed by Aunt Milly, who, while bemoaning her own aches and
pains, did not fail to tell him how “Miss ’Lena, like aborned angel
dropped right out of ’tarnity, had been in thar, burning her skin to a
fiery red, a-tryin’ to get up a tip-top dinner.”

“So ho!” thought the young man, “that explains it;” and turning on his
heel, he walked back to the house just as the last bell was ringing for
dinner.

On entering the dining-room, he found all the family assembled, except
’Lena. She had excused herself on the plea of a severe headache, and
now in her own room was chiding herself for being so much affected by a
remark accidentally overheard. What did she care if Durward did think
her plain? He was nothing to her, and never would be—and again she
bathed her head, which really was aching sadly.

“And so ’Lena’s got the headache,” said John Jr. “Well, I don’t wonder,
cooking all the dinner as she did.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna, while Mrs. Livingstone’s angry frown
bade her son keep silence,

Filial obedience, however, was not one of John Jr.’s cardinal virtues,
and in a few words, he repeated what Aunt Milly had told him, adding
aside to Durward, “_This_ explains the extreme rosiness which so much
offended your lordship. When next you see her, you’ll change your
mind.”

Suddenly remembering that his grandmother had not been introduced, he
now presented her to Durward. The _Noble’s_ blood had long been
forgotten, but grandma was never at a loss for a subject, and she
commenced talking notwithstanding Carrie’s efforts to keep her still.

“Now I think on’t, Car’line,” said she at last, turning to her
granddaughter, “now I think on’t, what made you propose to have my
dinner sent up to my room. I hain’t et there but once this great while,
and that was the day General Fontaine’s folks were here, and Matilda
thought I warn’t able to come down.”

Durward’s half-concealed smile showed that he understood it all, while
John Jr., in his element when his grandmother was talking, managed, to
lead her on, until she reached her favorite theme—Nancy Scovandyke.
Here a look from her son silenced her, and as dinner was just then
over, Durward missed of hearing that remarkable lady’s history.

Late in the afternoon, as the family were sitting upon the piazza,
’Lena joined them. Her headache had passed away, leaving her face a
shade whiter than usual. The flush was gone from her forehead and nose,
but mindful of Durward’s remark, the roses deepened on her cheek, which
only increased her loveliness.

“I acknowledge that I was wrong—your cousin _is_ beautiful,” whispered
Durward to Carrie, who, mentally hating the beauty which had never
before struck her so forcibly, replied in her softest tones, “I knew
you would, and I hope you’ll be equally ready to forgive her for
winning hearts only to break them, for with that face how can she help
it?”

“A handsome face is no excuse for coquetry,” answered Durward; “neither
can I think Miss Rivers guilty of it. At all events, I mean to venture
a little nearer,” and before Carrie could frame a reasonable excuse for
keeping him at her side, he had crossed ever and taken a seat by ’Lena,
with whom he was soon in the midst of an animated conversation, his
surprise each moment increasing at the depth of intellect she
displayed, for the beauty of her mind was equal to that of her person.
Had it not been for the remembrance of Carrie’s insinuations, his
admiration would have been complete. But anything like coquetry he
heartily despised, and one great secret of his liking for Carrie, was
her evident freedom from that fault. As yet he had seen nothing to
condemn in ’Lena’s conduct. Wholly unaffected, she talked with him as
she would have talked with any stranger, and still there was in her
manner a certain coldness for which he could not account.

“Perhaps she thinks me not worth the winning,” thought he, and in spite
of his principles, he erelong found himself exerting all his powers to
please and interest her.

About tea-time, Captain Atherton rode into the yard, and simultaneously
with his arrival, Mr. Everett came also. Immediately remembering what
he had heard, Durward, in his eagerness to watch ’Lena, failed to note
the crimson flush on Anna’s usually pale cheek, as Malcolm bent over
her with his low-spoken, tender words of welcome, and when the
phthisicky captain, claiming the privilege of an old friend, kissed the
blushing Anna, Durward in his blindness attributed the scornful
expression of ’Lena’s face to a feeling of unwillingness that any save
herself should share the attentions even of the captain! And in this
impression he was erelong confirmed.

Drawing his chair up to Anna, Captain Atherton managed to keep Malcolm
at a distance, while he himself wholly monopolized the young girl, who
cast imploring glances toward her cousin, as if asking for relief. Many
a time, on similar occasions, had ’Lena claimed the attention of the
captain, for the sake of leaving Anna free to converse with Malcolm,
and now understanding what was wanted of her, she nodded in token that
she would come to the rescue. Just then, Mrs. Livingstone, who had kept
an eye upon her niece, drew near, and as she seemed to want a seat;
’Lena instantly arose and offered hers, going herself to the place
where the captain was sitting. Erelong, her lively sallies and the
captain’s loud laugh began to attract Mrs. Livingstone’s attention, and
observing that Durward’s eyes were frequently drawn that way, she
thought proper to make some remarks concerning the impropriety of her
niece’s conduct.

“I do wish,” said she, apparently speaking more to herself than to
Durward, “I do wish ’Lena would learn discretion, and let Captain
Atherton alone, when she knows how much her behavior annoys Mr.
Everett.”

“Is Mr. Everett anything to her!” asked Durward, half hoping that she
would not confirm what Carrie had before hinted.

“If he isn’t he ought to be,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, with an
ominous shake of the head. “Rumor says they are engaged, and though
when questioned she denies it, she gives people abundant reason to
think so, and yet every chance she gets, she flirts with Captain
Atherton, as you see her doing now.”

“What can she or any other young girl possibly want of that old man?”
asked Durward, laughing at the very idea.

“He is _rich_. ’Lena is poor, proud, and ambitious—there lies the
secret,” was Mrs. Livingstone’s reply, and thinking she had said enough
for the present, she excused herself, while she went to give orders
concerning supper.

John Jr., and Carrie, too, had disappeared, and thus left to himself,
Durward had nothing to do but to watch ’Lena, who, as she saw symptoms
of desertion in the anxious glances which the captain cast toward Anna,
redoubled her exertions to keep him at her side, thus confirming
Durward in the belief that she really was what her aunt and Carrie had
represented her to be. “Poor, proud, and ambitious,” rang in his ears,
and as he mistook the mischievous look which ’Lena frequently sent
toward Anna and Malcolm, for a desire to see how the latter was
affected by her conduct, he thought “Fickle as fair,” at the same time
congratulating himself that he had obtained an insight into her real
character, ere her exceeding beauty and agreeable manners had made any
particular impression upon him.

Knowing she had done nothing to offend him, and feeling piqued at his
indifference, ’Lena in turn treated him so coldly, that even Carrie was
satisfied with the phase which affairs had assumed, and that night, in
the privacy of her mother’s dressing-room, expressed her pleasure that
matters were progressing so finely.

“You’ve no idea, mother,” said she, “how much he detests anything like
coquetry. Nellie Douglass thinks it’s a kind of monomania with him, and
I am inclined to believe it is so.”

“In that case,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, “it behooves you, in his
presence, to be very careful how you demean yourself toward other
gentlemen.”

“I haven’t lived nineteen years for nothing,” said Carrie, folding her
soft white hands complacently one over the other.

“Speaking of Nellie Douglass,” continued Mrs. Livingstone, who had long
desired this interview with her daughter, “speaking of Nellie, reminds
me of your brother, who seems perfectly crazy about her.”

“And what if he does ?” asked Carrie, her thoughts far more intent upon
Durward Bellmont than her brother. “Isn’t Nellie good enough for him?”

“Yes, good enough, I admit,” returned her mother, “but I think I can
find a far more suitable match—Mabel Ross, for instance. Her fortune is
said to be immense, while Mr. Douglass is worth little or nothing.”

“When you bring about a union between John Livingstone Jr. and Mabel
Ross, I shall have full confidence in your powers to do anything, even
to the marrying of Anna and Grandfather Atherton,” answered Carrie, to
whom her mother’s schemes were no secret.

“And that, too, I’ll effect, rather than see her thrown away upon a low
bred northerner, who shall never wed her—never;” and the haughty woman
paced up and down her room, devising numerous ways by which her long
cherished three-fold plan should be effected.

The next morning, Durward arose much earlier than was his usual custom,
and going out into the garden he came suddenly upon ’Lena. “This,” said
he, “is a pleasure which I did not expect when I rather unwillingly
tore myself from my pillow.”

All the coldness of the night before was gone, but ’Lena could not so
soon forget, and quite indifferently she answered, that “she learned to
rise early among the New England hills.”

“An excellent practice, and one which more of our young ladies would do
well to imitate,” returned Durward, at the same time speaking of the
beautifying effect which the morning air had upon her complexion.

’Lena reddened, for she recalled his words of yesterday concerning her
plainness, and somewhat sharply she replied, that “any information
regarding her personal appearance was wholly unnecessary, as she knew
very well how she looked.”

Durward bit his lip, and resolving never to compliment her again,
walked on in silence at her side, while ’Lena, repenting of her hasty
words, and desirous of making amends, exerted herself to be agreeable;
and by the time the breakfast-bell rang, Durward mentally pronounced
her “a perfect mystery,” which he would take delight in unraveling!

CHAPTER X.
MR. AND MRS. GRAHAM.

Breakfast had been some time over, when the roll of carriage wheels and
a loud ring at the door, announced the arrival of Mr. Graham, who, true
to his appointment with Durward, had come up to meet him, accompanied
by Mrs. Graham. This lady, who could boast of having once been the
bride of an English lord, to say nothing of belonging to the “very
first family of Virginia,” was a sort of bugbear to Mrs. Livingstone,
who, haughty and overbearing to her equals, was nevertheless cringing
and cowardly in the presence of those whom she considered her
superiors. Never having seen Mrs. Graham, her ideas concerning her were
quite elevated, and now when she came unexpectedly, it quite overcame
her. Unfortunately, too, she was this morning suffering from a nervous
headache, the result of the excitement and late hours of the night
before, and on learning that Mrs. Graham was in the parlor, she fell
back in her rocking-chair, and between a groan and a sigh, declared her
utter inability to see her at present, saying that Carrie must play the
part of hostess until such time as she felt composed enough to
undertake it.

“Oh, I can’t—I _shan’t_—that ends it!” said Carrie, who, though a good
deal dressed on Durward’s account, still felt anxious to give a few
more finishing touches to her toilet, and to see if her hair and
complexion were all right, ere she ventured into the august presence ef
her “mother-in-law elect,” as she confidently considered Mrs. Graham.

“Anna must go, then,” persisted Mrs. Livingstone, who knew full well
how useless it would be to press Carrie farther. “Anna must go—where is
she? Call her, ’Lena.”

But Anna was away over the fields, enjoying with Mr. Everett a walk
which had been planned the night previous, and when ’Lena returned with
the intelligence that she was nowhere to be found, her aunt in great
distress exclaimed, “Mercy me! what will Mrs. Graham think—and Mr.
Livingstone, too, keeps running back and forth for somebody to
entertain her. What shall I do! I can’t go in looking so yellow and
jaded as I now do!”

’Lena’s first thought was to bring her aunt’s powderball, as the surest
way of remedying the yellow skin, but knowing that such an act would be
deeply resented, she quickly repressed the idea, offering instead to go
herself to the parlor.

“_You_! What could _you_ say to her?” returned Mrs. Livingstone, to
whom the proposition was not altogether displeasing.

“I can at least answer her questions,” returned ’Lena and after a
moment her aunt consented, wondering the while how ’Lena, in her plain
gingham wrapper and linen collar, could be willing to meet the
fashionable Mrs. Graham.

“But then,” thought she, “she has so little sensibility, I don’t s’pose
she cares! and why should she? Mrs. Graham will of course look upon her
as only a little above a servant”—and with this complimentary
reflection upon her niece, Mrs. Livingstone retired to her
dressing-room, while ’Lena, with a beating heart and slightly
heightened color, repaired to the parlor.

On a sofa by the window sat Mrs. Graham, and the moment ’Lena’s eye
fell upon her, her fears vanished, while she could hardly repress a
smile at the idea of being afraid of _her_. She was a short, dumpy,
florid looking woman, showily, and as ’Lena thought, _overdressed_ for
morning, as her person was covered with jewelry, which flashed and
sparkled with every movement. Her forehead was very low, and marked by
a scowl of discontent which was habitual, for with everything to make
her happy, Mrs. Graham was far from being so. Exceedingly nervous and
fidgety, she was apt to see only the darker side, and when her husband
and son, who were of exactly opposite temperaments, strove to laugh her
into good spirits, they generally made the matter worse, as she usually
reproached them with having no feeling or sympathy for her.

Accustomed to a great deal of attention, she had fretted herself into
quite a fever at Mrs. Livingstone’s apparent lack of courtesy in not
hastening to receive her, and when ’Lena’s light step was heard in the
hall, she turned toward the door with a frown which seemed to ask why
she had not come sooner. Durward, who was present immediately
introduced his mother, at the same time admiring the extreme dignity of
’Lena’s manner as she received the lady’s greeting, apologizing for her
aunt’s non-appearance, saying “she was suffering from a severe
headache, and begged to be excused for an hour or so.”

“Quite excusable,” returned Mrs. Graham, at the same time saying
something in a low tone about it’s not being her wish to stop there so
early, as she knew _she_ was not expected.

“But perfectly welcome, nevertheless,” ’Lena hastened to say, thinking
that for the time being the reputation of her uncle’s house was resting
upon her shoulders.

“I dare say,” was Mrs. Graham’s ungracious answer, and then her little
gray, deep-set eyes rested upon ’Lena, wondering if she were “a
governess or what?” and thinking it strange that she should seem so
perfectly self-possessed.

Insensibly, too, ’Lena’s manner won upon her, for spite of her
fretfulness, Mrs. Graham at heart was a kindly disposed woman. Ill
health and long years of dissipation had helped to make her what she
was. Besides this, she was not quite happy in her domestic relations,
for though Mr. Graham possessed all the requisites of a kind and
affectionate husband, he could not remove from her mind the belief that
he liked others better then he did herself! ’Twas in vain that he
alternately laughed at and reasoned with her on the subject. She was
not to be convinced, and so poor Mr. Graham, who was really exceedingly
polite and affable to the ladies, was almost constantly provoking the
green-eyed monster by his attentions to some one of the fair sex. In
spite of his nightly “Caudle” lectures, he _would_ transgress again and
again, until his wife’s patience was exhausted, and now she affected to
have given him up, turning for comfort and affection toward Durward,
who was her special delight, “the very apple of her eye—he was so much
like his father, Sir Arthur, who during the whole year that she lived
with him had never once given her cause for jealousy.”

Just before ’Lena entered the parlor Mr. Graham, had for a moment
stepped out with Mr. Livingstone, but soon returning, he, too, was
introduced to the young lady. It was strange, considering ’Lena’s
uncommon beauty, that Mrs. Graham did not watch her husband’s manner,
but for once in her life she felt no fears, and looking from the
window, she failed to note the sudden pallor which overspread his face
when Mr. Livingstone presented to him “Miss Rivers—my niece.”

Mr. Graham was a tall, finely-formed man, with a broad, good-humored
face, whose expression instantly demanded respect from strangers, while
his pleasant, affable deportment universally won the friendship of all
who knew him. And ’Lena was not an exception to the general rule, for
the moment his warm hand grasped hers and his kindly beaming eye rested
upon her, her heart went toward him as a friend, while she wondered why
he looked at her so long and earnestly, twice repeating her name—“Miss
Rivers—_Rivers_.”

From the first, ’Lena had recognized him as the same gentleman whom
Durward had called father in the cars years ago, and when, as if to
apologize for his singular conduct, he asked if they had never met
before, she referred him to that time, saying “she thought it strange
that he should remember her.”

“Old acquaintances—ah—indeed !” and little Mrs. Graham nodded and
fanned, while her round, florid face grew more florid, and her linen
cambric went up to her forehead as if trying to smooth out the scowl
which was of too long standing to be smoothed.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Graham, turning toward his wife, “I had
entirely forgotten the circumstance, but it seems I saw her in the cars
when we took our eastern tour six or seven years ago. You were quite a
little girl then”—turning to ’Lena.

“Only ten,” was the reply, and Mrs. Graham, ashamed of herself and
anxious to make amends, softened considerable toward ’Lena, asking “how
long she had lived in Kentucky—where she used to live—and where her
mother was.”

At this question, Mr. Graham, who was talking with Mr. Livingstone,
suddenly stopped.

“My mother is dead,” answered ’Lena.

“And your father?”

“Gone to Canada!” interrupted Durward, who had heard vague rumors of
’Lena’s parentage, and who did not quite like his mother’s being so
inquisitive.

Mrs. Graham laughed; she always did at whatever Durward said; while Mr.
Graham replied to a remark made by Mr. Livingstone some time before.
Here John Jr. appeared, and after being formally introduced, he seated
himself by his cousin, addressing to her some trivial remark, and
calling her ’_Lena_. It was well for Mr. Graham’s after peace that his
wife was just then too much engrossed with Durward to observe the
effect which that name produced upon him.

Abruptly rising he turned toward Mr. Livingstone, saying, “You were
telling me about a fine species of cactus which you have in your
yard—suppose we go and see it.”

The cactus having been duly examined, praised, and commented upon, Mr.
Graham casually remarked, “Your niece is a fine-looking girl—’Lena, I
think your son called her?”

“Yes, or _Helena_, which was her mother’s name.”

“And her mother was your sister, Helena Livingstone?”

“No, sir, Nichols. I changed my name to gratify a fancy of my wife,”
returned Mr. Livingstone, thinking it better to tell the truth at once.

Again Mr. Graham bent over the cactus, inspecting it minutely, and
keeping his face for a long time concealed from his friend, whose
thoughts, as was usually the case when his sister was mentioned, were
far back in the past. When at last Mr. Graham lifted his head there
were no traces of the stormy emotions which had shaken his very
heart-strings, and with a firm, composed step he walked back to the
parlor, where he found both Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie just paying
their respects to his lady.

Nothing could be more marked than the difference between Carrie’s and
’Lena’s manner toward Mrs. Graham. Even Durward noticed it, and while
he could not sufficiently admire the quiet self-possession of the
latter, who in her simple morning wrapper and linen collar had met his
mother on perfectly equal terms, he for the first time in his life felt
a kind of contempt (pity he called it,) for Carrie, who, in an
elegantly embroidered double-gown confined by a rich cord and tassels,
which almost swept the floor, treated his mother with a fawning
servility as disgusting to him as it was pleasing to the lady in
question. Accustomed to the utmost deference on account of her wealth
and her husband’s station, Mrs. Graham had felt as if something were
withheld from her, when neither Mrs. Livingstone nor her daughters
rushed to receive and welcome her; but now all was forgotten, for
nothing could be more flattering than their attentions. Both mother and
daughter having the son in view, did their best, and when at last Mrs.
Graham asked to be shown to her room, Carrie, instead of ringing for a
servant, offered to conduct her thither herself; whereupon Mrs. Graham
laid her hand caressingly upon her shoulders, calling her a “dear
little pet,” and asking “where she stole those bright, naughty eyes!”

A smothered laugh from John Jr. and a certain low soft sound which he
was in the habit of producing when desirous of reminding his sister of
her _nose_, made the “bright, naughty eyes” flash so angrily, that even
Durward noticed it, and wondered if ’Lena’s temper had not been
transferred to her cousin.

“That young girl—’Lena, I think you call her—is a relative of yours,”
said Mrs. Graham to Carrie, as they were ascending the stairs.

“Ye-es, our cousin, I suppose,” answered Carrie.

“She bears a very aristocratic name, that of Rivers—does she belong to
a Virginia family?”

Carrie looked mysterious and answered, “I never knew anything of her
father, and indeed, I reckon no one does”—then after a moment she
added, “Almost every family has some objectionable relative, with which
they could willingly dispense.”

“Very true,” returned Mrs. Graham, “What a pity we couldn’t all have
been born in England. There, dear, you can leave me now.”

Accordingly Carrie started for the parlor, meeting in the hall her
mother, who was in a sea of trouble concerning the dinner. “Old Milly,”
she said, “had gone to bed out of pure hatefulness, pretending she had
got a _collapse_, as she called it.”

“Can’t Hagar do,” asked Carrie, anxious that Mrs. Graham’s first dinner
with them should be in style.

“Yes, but she can’t do everything—somebody must superintend her, and as
for burning myself brown over the dishes and then coming to the table,
I won’t.”

“Why not make ’Lena go into the kitchen—it won’t hurt her to-day more
than it did yesterday,” suggested Carrie.

“A good idea,” returned her mother, and stepping to the parlor door she
called ’Lena from a most interesting conversation with Mr. Graham, who,
the moment his wife was gone, had taken a seat by her side, and now
seemed oblivious to all else save her.

There was a strange tenderness in the tones of his voice and in the
expression of his eyes as they rested upon her, and Durward, who well
knew his mother’s peculiarities, felt glad that she was not present,
while at the same time he wondered that his father should appear so
deeply interested in an entire stranger.

“’Lena, I wish to speak with you,” said Mrs. Livingstone, appearing at
the door, and ’Lena, gracefully excusing herself, left the room, while
Mr. Graham commenced pacing the floor in a slow, abstracted manner,
ever and anon wiping away the beaded drops which stood thickly on his
forehead.

Meantime, ’Lena, having learned for what she was wanted, went without a
word to the kitchen, though her proud nature rebelled, and it was with
difficulty she could force down the bitter spirit which she felt rising
within her. Had her aunt or Carrie shared her labors, or had the former
_asked_ instead of commanded her to go, she would have done it
willingly. But now in quite a perturbed state of mind she bent over
pastry and pudding, scarcely knowing which was which, until a pleasant
voice at her side made her start, and looking up she saw Anna, who had
just returned from her walk, and who on learning how matters stood,
declared her intention of helping too.

“If there’s anything I like, it’s being in a muss,” said she, and
throwing aside her leghorn flat, pinning up her sleeves, and fastening
back her curls in imitation of ’Lena, she was soon up to her elbows in
cooking—her dress literally covered with flour, eggs, and cream, and
her face as red as the currant jelly which Hagar brought from the china
closet. “There’s a pie fit for a queen or Lady Graham either,” said
she, depositing in the huge oven her first attempt in the pie line.

But alas! Malcolm Everett’s words of love spoken beneath the
wide-spreading sycamore were still ringing in Anna’s ears, so it was no
wonder she _salted_ the custard instead of sweetening it. But no one
noticed the mistake, and when the pie was done, both ’Lena and Hagar
praised its white, uncurdled appearance.

“Now we shall just have time to change our dresses,” said Anna, when
everything pertaining to the dinner was in readiness, but ’Lena,
knowing how flushed and heated she was, and remembering Durward’s
distaste of high colors, announced her determination of not appearing
at the table.

“I shall see that grandma is nicely dressed,” said she, “and you must
look after her a little, for I shall not come down.”

So saying she ran up to her room, where she found Mrs. Nichols in a
great state of fermentation to know “who was below, and what the doin’s
was, I should of gone down,” said she, “but I know’d ’Tilda would be
madder’n a hornet.”

’Lena commended her discretion in remaining where she was, and then
informing her that Mr. Bellmont’s father and mother were there, she
proceeded to make some alterations in her dress. The handsome black
silk and neat lace cap, both the Christmas gift of John Jr., were
donned, and then, staff in hand, the old lady started for the
dining-room, ’Lena giving her numerous charges not to talk much, and on
no account to mention her favorite topic—Nancy Scovandyke!

“Nancy’s as good any day as Miss Graham, if she did marry a live lord,”
was grandma’s mental comment, as the last-mentioned lady, rustling in a
heavy brocade and loaded down with jewelry, took her place at the
table.

Purposely, Mrs. Livingstone omitted an introduction which her husband,
through fear of her, perhaps, failed to give. But not so with John Jr.
To be sure, he cared not a fig, on his grandmother’s account, whether
she were introduced or not, for he well knew she would not hesitate to
make their acquaintance; but knowing how it would annoy his mother and
Carrie, he called out, in a loud tone, “My grandmother, Mrs.
Nichols—Mr. and Mrs. Graham.”

Mr. Graham started so quickly that his wife asked “if anything stung
him.”

“Yes—no,” said he, at the same time indicating that it was not worth
while to mind it.

“Got stung, have you?” said Mrs. Nichols. “Mebby ’twas a
bumble-bee—seems ’sef I smelt one; but like enough it’s the scent on
Car’line’s handkercher.”

Mrs. Graham frowned majestically, but it was entirely lost on grandma,
who, after a time, forgetful of ’Lena’s caution, said, “I b’lieve they
say you’re from Virginny!”

“Yes, madam, Virginia is my native state,” returned Mrs. Graham,
clipping off each word as if it were burning her tongue.

“Anywheres near Richmond?” continued Mrs. Nichols.

“I was born in Richmond, madam.”

“Law, now I who knows but you’re well acquainted with Nancy
Scovandyke’s kin.”

Mrs. Graham turned as red as the cranberry sauce upon her plate, as she
replied, “I’ve not the honor of knowing either Miss Scovandyke or any
of her relatives.”

“Wall, she’s a smart, likely gal, or woman I s’pose you’d call her,
bein’ she’s just the age of my son.”

Here Mrs. Nichols, suddenly remembering ’Lena’s charge, stopped, but
John Jr., who loved to see the fun go on, started her again, by asking
what relatives Miss Scovandyke had in Virginia.

“’Leny told me not to mention Nancy, but bein’ you’ve asked a civil
question, ’tain’t more’n fair for me to answer it. Better’n forty year
ago Nancy’s mother’s aunt——”

“Which would be Miss Nancy’s great-aunt,” interrupted John Jr.

“Bless the boy,” returned the old lady, “he’s got the Nichols’ head for
figgerin’. Yes, Nancy’s great-aunt though she was six years and two
months younger’n Nancy’s mother. Wall, as I was sayin’, she went off to
Virginny to teach music. She was prouder’n Lucifer, and after a spell
she married a southerner, rich as a Jew, and then she never took no
more notice of her folks to hum, than’s ef they hadn’t been. But the
poor critter didn’t live long to enjoy it, for when her first baby was
born, she died. ’Twas a little girl, but her folks in Massachusetts
have never heard a word whether she’s dead or alive. Joel Slocum,
that’s Nancy’s nephew, says he means to go down there some day, and
look her up, but I wouldn’t bother with ’em, for that side of the house
always did feel big, and above Nancy’s folks, thinkin’ Nancy’s mother
married beneath her.”

Mrs. Graham must have enjoyed her dinner very much, for during
grandma’s recital she applied herself assiduously to her plate, never
once looking up, while her face and neck were literally spotted, either
with heat, excitement or anger. These spots at last attracted Mrs.
Nichols’ attention, causing her to ask the lady “if she warn’t pestered
with erysipelas.”

“I am not aware of it, madam,” answered Mrs. Graham, and grandma
replied, “It looks mighty like it to me, and I’ve seen a good deal
on’t, for Nancy Scovandyke has allers had it more or less. Now I think
on’t,” she continued, as if bent on tormenting her companion, “now I
think on’t, you look quite a considerable like Nancy—the same forehead
and complexion—only she’s a head taller. Hain’t you noticed it, John?”

“No, I have not,” answered John, at the same time proposing a change in
the conversation, as he presumed “they had all heard enough of Nancy
Scovandyke.”

At this moment the dessert appeared, and with it Anna’s pie. John Jr.
was the first to taste it, and with an expression of disgust he
exclaimed, “Horror, mother, who made this pie?”

Mrs. Livingstone needed but one glance at her guests to know that
something was wrong, and darting an angry frown at Hagar, who was busy
at a side-table, she wondered “if there ever was any one who had so
much trouble with servants as herself.”

Anna saw the gathering storm, and knowing full well that it would burst
on poor Hagar’s head, spoke out, “Hagar is not in the fault, mother—no
one but myself is to blame. _I_ made the pie, and must have put in salt
instead of sugar.”

“You made the pie!” repeated Mrs. Livingstone angrily, “What business
had you in the kitchen? Pity we hadn’t a few more servants, for then we
should all be obliged to turn drudges.”

Anna was about to reply, when John Jr. prevented her, by asking, “if it
hurt his sister to be in the kitchen any more than it did ’Lena, who,”
he said, “worked there both yesterday and to-day, burning herself until
she is ashamed to appear at the table.”

Mortified beyond measure at what had occurred, Mrs. Livingstone
hastened to explain that her servants were nearly all sick, and that in
her dilemma, ’Lena had volunteered her services, adding by way of
compliment, undoubtedly, that “her niece seemed peculiarly adapted to
such work—indeed, that her forte lay among pots and kettles.”

An expression of scorn, unusual to Mr. Graham, passed over his face,
and in a sarcastic tone he asked Mrs. Livingstone, “if she thought it
detracted from a young lady’s worth, to be skilled in whatever
pertained to the domestic affairs of a family.”

Ready to turn whichever way the wind did, Mrs. Livingstone replied,
“Not at all—not at all. I mean that my daughters shall learn
everything, so that their husbands will find in them every necessary
qualification.”

“Then you confidently expect them to catch husbands some time or
other,” said John Jr., whereupon Carrie blushed, and looked very
interesting, while Anna retorted, “Of course we shall. I wouldn’t be an
old maid for the world—I’d run away first!”

And amidst the laughter which this speech called forth the company
retired from the table. For some time past Mrs. Nichols had walked with
a cane, limping even then. Observing this, Mr. Graham, with his usual
gallantry, offered her his arm, which she willingly accepted, casting a
look of triumph upon her daughter-in-law, who apparently was not so
well pleased. So thorough had been grandma’s training, that she did not
often venture into the parlor without a special invitation from its
mistress, but on this occasion, Mr. Graham led her in there as a matter
of course, and placing her upon the sofa, seated himself by her side,
and commenced questioning her concerning her former home and history.
Never in her life had Mrs. Nichols felt more communicative, and never
before had she so attentive a listener. Particularly did he hang upon
every word, when she told him of her Helena, of her exceeding beauty,
her untimely death, and rascally husband.

“Rivers—Rivers,” said he, “what kind of a looking man was he?”

“The Lord only knows—I never see him,” returned Mrs. Nichols. “But this
much I do know, he was one scandalous villain, and if an old woman’s
curses can do him any harm, he’s had mine a plenty of times.”

“You do wrong to talk so,” said Mr. Graham, “for who knows how bitterly
he may have repented of the great wrong done to your daughter.”

“Then why in the name of common sense don’t he hunt up her child, and
own her—he needn’t be ashamed of ’Leny.”

“Very true,” answered Mr. Graham. “No one need be ashamed of her. I
should be proud to call her my daughter. But as I was saying, perhaps
this Rivers has married a second time, keeping his first marriage a
secret from his wife, who is so proud and high-spirited that now, after
the lapse of years, he dares not tell her for fear of what might
follow.”

“Then she’s a good-for-nothing, stuck-up thing, and he’s a cowardly
puppy! That’s my opinion on ’em, and I’ll tell ’em so, if ever I see
’em!” exclaimed Mrs. Nichols, her wrath waxing warmer and warmer toward
the destroyer of her daughter.

Pausing for breath, she helped herself to a pinch of her favorite
Maccaboy, and then passed it to Mr. Graham, who, to her astonishment,
took some, slyly casting it aside when she did not see him. This
emboldened the old lady to offer it to Mrs. Graham, who, languidly
reclining upon the end of the sofa, sat talking to Carrie, who, on a
low stool at her feet, was looking up into her face as if in perfect
admiration. Without deigning other reply than a haughty shake of the
head, Mrs. Graham cast a deprecating glance toward Carrie, who
muttered, “How disgusting! But for pa’s sake we tolerate it.”

Here ’Lena entered the parlor, very neatly dressed, and looking fresh
and blooming as a rose. There was no vacant seat near except one
between Durward and John Jr., which, at the invitation of the latter,
she accepted. A peculiar smile flitted over Carrie’s face, which was
noticed by Mrs. Graham, and attributed to the right cause. Ere long
Durward, John Jr., ’Lena and Anna, who had joined them, left the house,
and from the window Carrie saw that they were amusing themselves by
playing “Graces.” Gradually the sound of their voices increased, and as
’Lena’s clear, musical laugh rang out above the rest, Mrs. Graham and
Carrie looked out just in time to see Durward holding the struggling
girl, while John Jr., claimed the reward of his having thrown the
“grace hoop” upon her head.

Inexpressily shocked, the precise Mrs. Graham asked, “What kind of a
girl is your cousin?” to which Carrie replied, “You have a fair sample
of her,” at the same time nodding toward ’Lena, who was unmercifully
pulling John Jr.’s ears as a reward for his presumption.

“Rather hoydenish, I should think,” returned Mrs. Graham, secretly
hoping Durward would not become enamored of her.

At length the party left the yard, and repairing to the garden, sat
down in one of the arbor bridges, where they were joined by Malcolm
Everett, who naturally, and as a matter of course, appropriated Anna to
himself, Durward observed this, and when he saw them walk away
together, while ’Lena appeared wholly unconcerned, he began to think
that possibly Mrs. Livingstone was mistaken when she hinted of an
engagement between her niece and Mr. Everett. Knowing John Jr.’s
straightforward way of speaking, he determined to sound him, so he
said, “Your sister and Mr. Everett evidently prefer each other’s
society to ours.”

“Oh, yes,” answered John. “I saw that years ago, when Anna wasn’t
knee-high; and I’m glad of it, for Everett is a mighty fine fellow.”

’Lena, too, united in praising her teacher, until Durward felt certain
that she had never entertained for him any feeling stronger than that
of friendship; and as to her flirting seriously with Captain Atherton,
the idea was too preposterous to be harbored for a single moment. Once
exonerated from these charges, it was strange how fast ’Lena rose in
his estimation, and when John Jr., with a loud yawn, asked if they did
not wish he would leave them alone, more in earnest than in fun Durward
replied, “Yes, yes, do.”

“I reckon I will,” said John, shaking down his tight pants, and pulling
at his long coat sleeves. “I never want anybody round when I’m with
Nellie Douglass.”

So saying, he walked off, leaving Durward and ’Lena alone. That neither
of them felt at all sorry, was proved by the length of time which they
remained together, for when more than an hour afterward Mrs. Graham
proposed to Carrie to take a turn in the garden, she found the young
couple still in the arbor, so wholly engrossed that they neither saw
nor heard her until she stood before them.

’Lena was an excellent horsewoman, and Durward had just proposed a ride
early the next morning, when his mother, forcing down her wrath, laid
her hand on his shoulder, and as if the proposition had come from ’Lena
instead of her son, she said, “No, no, Miss Rivers, Durward can’t go—he
has got to drive me over to Woodlawn, together with Carrie and Anna,
whom I have asked to accompany me; so you see ’twill be impossible for
him to ride with you.”

“Unless she goes with us,” interrupted Durward. “You would like to
visit Woodlawn, would you not, Miss Rivers?”

“Oh, very much,” was ’Lena’s reply, while Mrs. Graham continued, “I am
sorry I cannot extend my invitation to Miss Rivers, but our carriage
will be full, and I cannot endure to be crowded.”

“It has carried six many a time,” said Durward, “and if she will go, I
will take you on my lap, or anywhere.”

Of course ’Lena declined—he knew she would—and determined not to be
outwitted by his mother, whose aim he saw, he continued, “I shan’t
release you from your engagement to ride with me. We will start early
and get back before mother is up, so our excursion will in no way
interfere with my driving her to Woodlawn after breakfast.”

Mrs. Graham was too polite to raise any further objection, but
resolving not to leave them to finish their _tete-a-tete_, she threw
herself upon one of the seats, and commenced talking to her son, while
Carrie, burning with jealousy and vexation, started for the house,
where she laid her grievances before her mother, who, equally enraged,
declared her intention of “hereafter watching the vixen pretty
closely.”

“And she’s going to ride with him to-morrow morning, you say. Well, I
fancy I can prevent that.”

“How?” asked Carrie, eagerly, and her mother replied, “You know she
always rides Fleetfoot, which now, with the other horses, is in the
Grattan woods, two miles away. Of course she’ll order Cæsar to bring
him up to the stable, but I shall countermand that order, bidding him
say nothing to her about it. He dare not disobey me, and when in the
morning she asks for the pony, he can tell her just how it is.”

“Capital! capital!” exclaimed Carrie, never suspecting that there had
been a listener, even John Jr., who all the while was sitting in the
back parlor.

“Whew!” thought the young man. “Plotting, are they? Well, I’ll see how
good I am at counterplotting.”

So, slipping quietly out of the house, he went in quest of his servant,
Bill, telling him to go after Fleetfoot, whom he was to put in the
lower stable instead of the one where she was usually kept; “and then
in the morning, long before the sun is up,” said he, “do you have her
at the door for one of the young ladies to ride.”

“Yes, marster,” answered Bill, looking around for his old straw hat.

“Now, see how quick you can go,” John Jr. continued, adding as an
incentive to haste, that if Bill would get the pony stabled before old
Cæsar, who had gone to Versailles, should return, he would give him ten
cents.

Bill needed no other inducement than the promise of money, and without
stopping to find his hat, he started off bare-headed, upon the run,
returning in the course of an hour and claiming his reward, as Cæsar
had not yet got home.

“All right,” said John Jr., tossing him the silver. “And now remember
to keep your tongue between your teeth.”

Bill had kept too many secrets for his young master to think of
tattling about something which to him seemed of no consequence
whatever, and he walked off, eying his dime, and wishing he could earn
one so easily every day.

Meantime John Jr. sought out ’Lena, to whom he said, “And so you are
going to ride to-morrow morning?”

“How did you know ?” she asked, and John, looking very wise, replied,
that “little girls should not ask too many questions,” adding, that as
he supposed she would of course want Fleetfoot, he had ordered Bill to
have her at the door early in the morning.

“Much obliged,” answered ’Lena. “I was about giving it up when I heard
the pony was in the Grattan woods, for Cæsar is so cross I hated to ask
him to go for her; but now I’ll say nothing to him about it.”

That night when Cæsar was eating his supper in the kitchen, his
mistress suddenly appeared, asking, “if he had received any orders to
go for Fleetfoot.”

The old negro, who was naturally cross, began to scowl, “No, miss, and
Lord knows I don’t want to tote clar off to the Grattan woods
to-night.”

“You needn’t, either, and if any one tells you to go don’t you do it,”
returned Mrs. Livingstone.

“Somebody’s playin’ possum, that’s sartin,” thought Bill, who was
present, and began putting things together. “Somebody’s playin’ possum,
but they don’t catch this child leakin’.”

“Have you told him?” whispered Carrie, meeting her mother in the hall.

Mrs. Livingstone nodded, adding in an undertone, that “she presumed the
ride was given up, as Lena had said nothing to Cæsar about the pony.”

With her mind thus at ease, Carrie returned to the parlor, where she
commenced talking to Mrs. Graham of their projected visit to Woodlawn,
dwelling upon it as if it had been a tour to Europe, and evidently
exulting that ’Lena was to be left behind.

CHAPTER XI.
WOODLAWN.

Next morning, long before the sun appeared above the eastern horizon,
Fleetfoot, attended by Bill, stood before the door saddled and waiting
for its young rider, while near by it was Firelock, which Durward had
borrowed of John Jr. At last ’Lena appeared, and if Durward had admired
her beauty before, his admiration was now greatly increased when he saw
how well she looked in her neatly fitting riding dress and tasteful
straw hat. After bidding her good morning, he advanced to assist her in
mounting, but declining his offer, she with one bound sprang into the
saddle,

“Jumps like a toad,” said Bill. “Ain’t stiff and clumsy like Miss
Carrie, who allus has to be done sot on.”

At a word from Durward they galloped briskly away, the clatter of their
horses’ hoofs arousing and bringing to the window Mrs. Graham, who had
a suspicion of what was going on. Pushing aside the silken curtain, she
looked uneasily after them, wondering if in reality her son cared aught
for the graceful creature at his side, and thinking if he did, how hard
she would labor to overcome his liking. Mrs. Graham was not the only
one who watched them, for fearing lest Bill should not awake, John Jr.
had foregone his morning nap, himself calling up the negro, and now
from his window he, too, looked after them until they entered upon the
turnpike and were lost to view. Then, with some very complimentary
reflections upon Lena’s riding, he returned to his pillow, thinking to
himself, “There’s a girl worth having. By Jove, if I’d never seen
Nellie Douglass, and ’Lena wasn’t my cousin, wouldn’t I keep mother in
the hysterics most of the time!”

On reaching the turnpike, Durward halted, while he asked ’Lena “where
she wished to go.”

“Anywhere you please,” said she, when, for reasons of his own, he
proposed that they should ride over to Woodlawn.

’Lena was certainly excusable if she felt a secret feeling of
satisfaction in thinking she was after all the first of the family to
visit Woodlawn, of which she had heard so much, that it seemed like a
perfect Eldorado. It was a grand old building, standing on a cross road
about three miles from the turnpike, and commanding quite an extensive
view of the country around. It was formerly owned by a wealthy
Englishman, who spent his winters in New Orleans and his summers in the
country. The year before he had died insolvent, Woodlawn falling into
the hands of his creditors, who now offered it for sale, together with
the gorgeous furniture which still remained just as the family had left
it. To the left of the building was a large, handsome park, in which
the former owner had kept a number of deer, and now as Durward and
’Lena rode up and down the shaded avenues, these graceful creatures
would occasionally spring up and bound away with the fleetness of the
wind.

The garden and yard in front were laid out with perfect taste, the
former combining both the useful and the agreeable. A luxurious
grape-vine wreathed itself over the arched entrance, while the wide,
graveled walks were bordered, some with box, and others with choice
flowers, now choked and overgrown with weeds, but showing marks of
great beauty, when properly tended and cared for. At the extremity of
the principal walk, which extended the entire length of the garden, was
a summer house, fitted up with everything which could make it
attractive, during the sultry heat of summer, while farther on through
the little gate was a handsome grove or continuation of the park, with
many well-beaten paths winding through it and terminating finally at
the side of a tiny sheet of water, which within a few years had forced
itself through the limestone soil natural to Kentucky.

Owing to some old feud, the English family had not been on visiting
terms with the Livingstones; consequently, ’Lena had never before been
at Woodlawn, and her admiration increased with every step, and when at
last they entered the house and stood within the elegant drawing-rooms,
it knew no bounds. She remembered the time when she had thought her
uncle’s furniture splendid beyond anything in the world, but it could
not compare with the magnificence around her, and for a few moments she
stood as if transfixed with astonishment. Durward had been highly
amused at her enthusiastic remarks concerning the grounds, and now
noticing her silence, he asked “what was the matter?”

“Oh, I am half-afraid to speak, lest this beautiful room should prove
an illusion and fade away,” said she.

“Is it then so much more beautiful than anything you ever saw before?”
he asked; and she replied, “Oh, yes, far more so,” at the same time
giving him a laughable description of her amazement when she first saw
the inside of her uncle’s house, and ending by saying, “But you can
imagine it all, for you saw me in the cars, and can judge pretty well
what were my ideas of the world.”

Wishing to see if ’Lena would attempt to conceal her former humble mode
of living Durward said, “I have never heard anything concerning your
eastern home and how you lived there—will you please to tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell which will interest you,” answered ’Lena; but
Durward thought there was, and leading her to a sofa, he bade her
commence.

Durward had a peculiar way of making people do what he pleased, and now
at his bidding ’Lena told him of her mountain-home, with its low-roof,
bare walls, and oaken floors—of herself, when, a bare-footed little
girl, she picked _huckleberries_ with _Joel Slocum_! And then, in lower
and more subdued tones, she spoke of her mother’s grave in the valley,
near which her beloved grandfather—the only father she had ever
known—was now sleeping. ’Lena never spoke of her grandfather without
weeping. She could not help it. Her tears came naturally, as they did
when first they told her he was dead, and now laying her head upon the
arm of the sofa, she sobbed like a child.

Durward’s sympathies were all enlisted, and without stopping to
consider the propriety or impropriety of the act, he drew her gently
toward him, trying to soothe her grief, calling her ’_Lena_, and
smoothing back the curls which had fallen over her face. As soon as
possible ’Lena released herself from him, and drying her tears,
proposed that they should go over the house, as it was nearly time for
them to return home. Accordingly, they passed on through room after
room, ’Lena’s quick eye taking in and appreciating everything which she
saw, while Durward was no less lost in admiration of her, for speaking
of herself so frankly as she had done. Many young ladies, he well knew,
would shrink from acknowledging that their home was once in a brown,
old-fashioned house among wild and rugged mountains, and ’Lena’s
truthfulness in speaking not only of this, but many similar things
connected with her early history, inspired him with a respect of her
which he had never before felt for any young lady of his acquaintance.

But little was said by either of them as they went over the house,
until Durward, prompted by something, he could not resist suddenly
asked his companion “how she would like to be mistress of Woodlawn?”

Had it been Carrie to whom this question was put, she would have
blushed and simpered, expecting nothing short of an immediate offer,
but ’Lena quickly replied, “Not at all,” laughingly giving as an
insuperable objection, “the size of the house and the number of windows
she would have to wash!”

With a loud laugh Durward proposed that they should now return home,
and again mounting their horses, they started for Maple Grove, which
they reached just after the family had finished breakfast. With the
first ring of the bell, John Jr., eager not to lose an iota of what
might occur, was at the table, and when his mother and Carrie, anxious
at the non-appearance of Durward and ’Lena, cast wistful glances toward
each other, he very indifferently asked Mrs. Graham “if her son had
returned from his ride.”

“I’ve not seen him,” answered the lady, her scowl deepening and her
lower jaw dropping slightly, as it usually did when she was ill at
ease.

“Who’s gone to ride?” asked Mr. Graham; and John Jr. replied that
Durward and ’Lena had been riding nearly two hours, adding, that “they
must find each other exceedingly interesting to be gone so long.”

This last was for the express benefit of his mother, whose frown kept
company with Mrs. Graham’s scowl. Chopping her steak into mince-meat,
and almost biting a piece from her cup as she sipped her coffee, she at
last found voice to ask, “what horse ’Lena rode!”

“Fleetfoot, of course,” said John Jr., at the same time telling his
father he thought “he ought to give ’Lena a pony of her own, for she
was accounted the best rider in the county, and Fleetfoot was getting
old and clumsy.”

The moment breakfast was over, Mrs. Livingstone went in quest of Cæsar,
whom she abused for disobeying her orders, threatening him with the
calaboose, and anything else which came to her mind. Old Cæsar was
taken by surprise, and being rather slow of speech, was trying to think
of something to say, when John Jr., who had followed his mother, came
to his aid, saying that “he himself had sent Bill for Fleetfoot,” and
adding aside to his mother, that “the next time she and Cad were
plotting mischief he’d advise them to see who was in the back parlor!”

Always ready to suspect ’Lena of evil, Mrs. Livingstone immediately
supposed it was she who had listened; but before she could frame a
reply, John Jr. walked off, leaving her undecided whether to cowhide
Cæsar, ’Lena, or her son, the first of whom, taking advantage of the
pause followed the example of his young master and stole away. The
tramp of horses’ feet was now heard, and Mrs. Livingstone, mentally
resolving that Fleetfoot should be sold, repaired to the door in time
to see Durward carefully lift ’Lena from her pony and place her upon
the ground. Mrs. Graham, Carrie, and Annie were all standing upon the
piazza, and as ’Lena came up the walk, her eyes sparkling and her
bright face glowing with exercise, Anna exclaimed, “Isn’t she
beautiful?” at the same time asking her “where she had been.”

“To Woodlawn,” answered ’Lena.

“To Woodlawn!” repeated Mrs. Graham.

“To Woodlawn!” echoed Mrs. Livingstone, while Carrie brought up the
rear by exclaiming, “To Woodlawn! pray what took you there?”

“The pony,” answered ’Lena, as she passed into the house.

Thinking it best to put Mrs. Graham on her guard, Mrs. Livingstone said
to her, in a low tone, “I would advise you to keep an eye upon your
son, if he is at all susceptible, for there is no bound to ’Lena’s
ambition.”

Mrs. Graham made no direct reply, but the flashing of her little gray
eye was a sufficient answer, and satisfied with the result of her
caution, Mrs. Livingstone reentered the house. Two hours afterward, the
carriage stood at the door waiting to convey the party to Woodlawn. It
had been arranged that Mrs. Graham, Carrie, Anna, and Durward should
ride in the carriage, while Mr. Graham went on horseback. Purposely,
Carrie loitered behind her companions, who being first, of course took
the back seat, leaving her the privilege of riding by the side of
Durward. This was exactly what she wanted, and leaning back on her
elbow, she complacently awaited his coming. But how was she chagrined,
when, in his stead, appeared Mr. Graham, who sprang into the carriage
and took a seat beside her; saying to his wife’s look of inquiry, that
as John Jr. had concluded to go, Durward preferred riding on horseback
with him, adding, in his usually polite way, “And I, you know, would
always rather go with the ladies. But where is Miss Rivers?” he
continued. “Why isn’t she here?”

“Simply because she wasn’t invited, I suppose,” returned his wife,
detecting the disappointment in his face.

“Not invited!” he repeated; “I didn’t know as this trip was of
sufficient consequence to need a special invitation. I thought, of
course, she was here——”

“Or you would have gone on horseback,” said his wife, ever ready to
catch at straws.

Mr. Graham saw the rising jealousy in time to repress the truthful:
answer—“Yes”—while he compromised the matter by saying that “the
presence of three fair ladies ought to satisfy him.”

Carrie was too much disappointed even to smile, and during all the ride
she was extremely taciturn, hardly replying at all to Mr. Graham’s
lively sallies, and winning golden laurels in the opinion of Mrs.
Graham, who secretly thought her husband altogether too agreeable. As
they turned into the long avenue which led to Woodlawn, and Carrie
thought of the ride which ’Lena had enjoyed alone with its owner—for
such was Durward reported to be—her heart swelled with bitterness
toward her cousin, in whom she saw a dreaded rival. But when they
reached the house, and Durward assisted her to alight, keeping at her
side while they walked over the grounds, her jealousy vanished, and
with her sweetest smile she looked up into his face, affecting a world
of childish simplicity, and making, as she believed, a very favorable
impression.

“I wonder if you are as much pleased with Woodlawn as your cousin,”
said Durward, noticing that her mind seemed to be more intent on
foreign subjects than the scenery around her.

“Oh, no, I dare say not,” returned Carrie. “’Lena was never accustomed
to anything until she came to Kentucky, and now I suppose she thinks
she must go into ecstacies over everything, though I sometimes wish she
wouldn’t betray her ignorance quite so often.”

“According to her description, her home in Massachusetts was widely
different from her present one,” said Durward, and Carrie quickly
replied, “I wonder now if she bored you with an account of her former
home! You must have been edified, and had a delightful ride, I
declare.”

“And I assure you I never had a pleasanter one, for Miss Rivers is, I
think, an exceedingly agreeable companion,” returned Durward, beginning
to see the drift of her remarks.

Here Mr. Graham called to his son, and excusing himself from Carrie, he
did not again return to her until it was time to go home. Meantime, at
Maple Grove, Mrs. Livingstone, in the worst possible humor, was finding
fault with poor ’Lena, accusing her of eavesdropping, and asking her if
she did not begin to believe the old adage, that listeners never heard
any good of themselves. In perfect astonishment ’Lena demanded what she
meant, saying she had never, to her knowledge, been guilty of
listening.

Without any explanation, whatever, Mrs. Livingstone declared herself
“satisfied now, for a person who would listen and then deny it, was
capable of almost anything.”

“What do you mean, madam ?” said ’Lena, her temper getting the
ascendency. “Explain yourself, for no one shall accuse me of lying
without an attempt to prove it.”

With a sneer Mrs. Livingstone replied, “I wonder what you can do! Will
you bring to your assistance some one of your numerous admirers?”

“Admirers! What admirers?” asked ’Lena, and her aunt replied, “I’ll
give you credit for feigning the best of any one I ever saw, but you
can’t deceive me. I know very well of your intrigues to entrap Mr.
Bellmont. But it is not strange that you should inherit something of
your mother’s nature; and you know what she was!”

This was too much, and with eyes flashing fire through the glittering
tears, which shone like diamonds, ’Lena sprang to her feet, exclaiming,
“Yes, I do know what she was. She was a far more worthy woman than you,
and if in my presence you dare again breathe aught against her name,
you shall rue it——”

“That she shall, so help me heaven,” murmured a voice near, which
neither Mrs. Livingstone nor ’Lena heard, nor were they aware of any
one’s presence until Mr. Graham suddenly appeared in the doorway.

At his wife’s request he had exchanged places with his son, and riding
on before the rest, had reached home first, being just in time to
overhear the last part of the conversation between Mrs. Livingstone and
’Lena. Instantly changing her manner, Mrs. Livingstone motioned her
niece from the room, heaving a deep sigh as the door closed after her,
and saying that “none but those who had tried it knew what a thankless
job it was to rear the offspring of others.”

There was a peculiar look in Mr. Graham’s eyes, as he answered, “In
your case I will gladly relieve you, if my wife is willing. I have
taken a great fancy to Miss Rivers, and would like to adopt her as my
daughter. I will speak to Mrs. Graham to-night.”

Much as she disliked ’Lena, Mrs. Livingstone would not for the world
have her become an inmate of Mr. Graham’s family, where she would be
constantly thrown in Durward’s way; and immediately changing her
tactics, she replied, “I thank you for your kind offer, but I know my
husband would not think of such a thing; neither should I be quite
willing for her to leave us, much as she troubles me.”

Mr. Graham bowed stiffly, and left the house. That night, after he had
retired to his room, he seemed unusually distracted, pacing up and down
the apartment, occasionally pausing to gaze out into the moonlit sky,
and then resuming his measured tread. At last nerving himself to brave
the difficulty, he stopped before his wife, to whom he made known his
plan of adopting ’Lena.

“It seems hasty, I know,” said he, “but she is just the kind of person
I would like to have round—just such a one as I would wish my daughter
to be if I had one. In short, I like her, and with your consent I will
adopt her as my own, and take her from this place where I know she’s
not wanted. What say you, Lucy?”

“Will you adopt the old woman too?” asked Mrs. Graham, whose face was
turned away so as to hide its expression.

“That is an after consideration,” returned her husband, “but if you are
willing, I will either take her to our home, or provide for her
elsewhere—but come, what do you say?”

All this time Mrs. Graham had sat bolt upright, her little dumpling
hands folded one within the other, the long transparent nails making
deep indentures in the soft flesh, and her gray eyes emitting _green_
gleams of scorn. The answer her husband sought came at length, and was
characteristic of the woman. Hissing out the words from between her
teeth, she replied, “When I take ’Lena Rivers into my family for my
husband and son to make love to, alternately, I shall be ready for the
lunatic asylum at Lexington.”

“And what objection have you to her?” asked Mr. Graham; to which his
wife replied, “The very fact, sir, that you wish it, is a sufficient
reason why I will not have her; besides that, you must misjudge me
strangely if you think I’d be willing for my son to come daily in
contact with a girl of her doubtful parentage.”

“What know you of her parentage?” said Mr. Graham, his lips turning
slightly pale.

“Yes, what do I know?” answered his wife. “Her father, if she has any,
is a rascal, a villain——”

“Yes, yes, all of that,” muttered Mr. Graham, while his wife continued,
“And her mother a poor, low, mean, ignorant——”

“Hold!” thundered Mr. Graham. “You shall not speak so of any woman of
whom you know nothing, much less of ’Lena Rivers’ mother.”

“And pray what do you know of her—is she an old acquaintance?” asked
Mrs. Graham, throwing into her manner as much of insolence as possible.

“I know,” returned Mr. Graham, “that ’Lena’s mother could be nothing
else than respectable.”

“Undoubtedly; but of this be assured—the daughter shall never, by my
permission, darken my doors,” said Mrs. Graham, growing more and more
excited, and continuing—“I know you of old, Harry Graham; and I know
now that your great desire to secure Woodlawn was so as to be near her,
but it shan’t be.”

In her excitement, Mrs. Graham forgot that it was herself who had first
suggested Woodlawn as a residence, and that until within a day or two
her husband and ’Lena were entire strangers. But this made no
difference. She was bent upon being unreasonable, and for nearly an
hour she fretted and cried, declaring herself the most abused of her
sex, and wishing she had never seen her husband, who, in his heart,
warmly seconded that wish, wisely resolving not to mention the
offending ’Lena again in the presence of his wife.

The next day the bargain for Woodlawn was completed; after which, Mr.
and Mrs. Graham, together with Durward, returned to Louisville,
intending to take possession of their new home about the first of
October.

CHAPTER XII.
MRS. GRAHAM AT HOME.

As the summer advanced, extensive preparations were commenced for
repairing Woodlawn, which was to be fitted up in a style suited to the
luxurious taste of its rightful owner, which, as report said, was in
reality Durward. He had conceived a fancy for the place five years
before, when visiting in the neighborhood, and on learning that it was
for sale, he had purchased it, at the suggestion of his mother,
proposing to his father that for a time, at least, he should be its
nominal possessor. What reason he had for this he hardly knew himself,
unless it was that he disliked being flattered as a man of great
wealth, choosing rather to be esteemed for what he really was.

And, indeed, few of his age were more generally beloved than was he.
Courteous, kind-hearted, and generous almost to a fault, he gained
friends wherever he went, and it was with some reason that Mrs. Graham
thought herself blessed above mothers, in the possession of such a son.
“He is so like me,” she would say, in speaking of his many virtues,
when, in fact, there was scarcely anything in common between them, for
nearly all of Durward’s sterling qualities were either inherited from
his own father, or the result of many years’ companionship with his
stepfather. Possessed of the most exquisite taste, he exercised it in
the arrangement of Woodlawn, which, under his skillful management,
began in a few weeks to assume a more beautiful appearance than it had
ever before worn.

Once in two weeks either Mr. Graham or Durward came out to see how
matters were progressing, the latter usually accepting Mrs.
Livingstone’s pressing invitation to make her house his home. This he
was the more willing to do, as it threw him into the society of ’Lena,
who was fast becoming an object of absorbing interest to him. The more
he saw of her, the more was his admiration increased, and oftentimes,
when joked concerning his preference for Carrie, he smiled to think how
people were deceived, determining, however, to keep his own secret
until such time as he should be convinced that ’Lena was all he could
desire in a wife. For her poverty and humble birth he cared nothing. If
she were poor, he was rich, and he possessed too much good sense to
deem himself better than she, because the blood of a nobleman flowed in
his veins. He knew that she was highly gifted and beautiful, and could
he be assured that she was equally true-hearted, he would not hesitate
a moment.

But Mrs. Livingstone’s insinuation that she was a heartless coquette,
troubled him, and though he could not believe it without more proof
than he had yet received, he determined to wait and watch, studying her
character, the while, to see if there was in her aught of evil. In this
state of affairs, it was hardly more than natural that his manner
toward her should be rather more reserved than that which he assumed
toward Carrie, for whom he cared nothing, and with whom he talked
laughed, and rode, forgetting her the moment she was out of his sight,
and never suspecting how much importance she attached to his every word
and look, construing into tokens of admiration the most casual remark,
such as he would utter to any one. This was of advantage to ’Lena, for,
secure of their prize, both Mrs. Livingstone and Carrie, for a time, at
least, ceased to persecute her, seldom speaking of her in Durward’s
presence, and, as a general thing, acting as though she were not in
existence.

John Jr., too, who had imposed upon himself the duty of watching his
mother and sister, seeing no signs of hostility, now withdrew his
espionage, amusing himself, instead, by galloping three times a week
over to Frankfort, the home of Nellie Douglass, and by keeping an eye
upon Captain Atherton, who, as a spider would watch a fly, was lying in
wait for the unsuspecting Anna.

At last all was in readiness at Woodlawn for the reception of Mrs.
Graham, who came up early in October, bringing with her a larger train
of house servants than was often seen in Woodford county. About three
weeks after her arrival, invitations were issued for a party or “house
warming,” as the negroes termed it. Nero, Durward’s valet, brought the
tiny notes to Mr. Livingstone’s, giving them into the care of Carrie,
who took them immediately to her mother’s room.

“It’s Durward’s handwriting,” said she, glancing at the
superscriptions, and reading as she did so—“Mr. and Mrs.
Livingstone”—“Mr. John Livingstone, Jr.”—“Miss Carrie
Livingstone”—“Miss Anna Livingstone”—“_Miss ’Lena Rivers_;” and here
she stopped, in utter dismay, continuing, as her mother looked up
inquiringly—“And as I live, one for _grandma_—‘MRS. MARTHA NICHOLS!’”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, reaching out her hand for the
billet. “Yes, ’tis Mrs. Martha Nichols!—what can it mean?”

A peep behind the scenes would have told her what it meant. For once in
his life Mr. Graham had exercised the right of being master in his own
house, declaring that if Mrs. Nichols were not invited with the family,
there should be no party at all. Mrs. Graham saw that he was in
earnest, and yielded the point, knowing that in all probability the old
lady would not be permitted to attend. Her husband had expected a like
opposition with regard to ’Lena, but he was disappointed, for his wife,
forgetting her declaration that ’Lena should never darken her doors and
thinking it would not do to slight her, consented that, on her uncle’s
account, she should be invited. Accordingly, the notes were despatched,
producing the effect we have seen.

“How perfectly ridiculous to invite grandma!” said Carrie. “It’s bad
enough to have ’Lena stuck in with us, for of course _she’ll_ go.”

“Why of course?” asked Mrs. Livingstone. “The invitations are at my
disposal now; and if I choose to withhold two of them, no one will be
blamed but Nero, who was careless and dropped them! ’Lena has nothing
decent to wear, and I don’t feel like expending much more for a person
so ungrateful as she is. You ought to have heard how impudent she was
that time you all went to Woodlawn.”

Then followed a one-sided description of that morning’s occurrence,
Mrs. Livingstone working herself up to such a pitch of excitement, that
before her recital was finished, she had determined at all events to
keep back ’Lena’s invitation, as a method of punishing her for her
“insolence,” as she termed it.

“Mrs. Graham will thank me for it, I know,” said she, “for she cannot
endure her; and besides that, I don’t think ’Lena expects to be
invited, so there’s no harm done.”

Carrie was not yet quite so hardened as her mother, and for a moment
her better nature shrank from so mean a transaction, which might, after
all, be found out, involving them in a still worse difficulty; but as
the thought flashed upon her that possibly ’Lena might again attract
Durward toward her, she assented, and they were about putting the notes
aside, when John Jr. came in, catching up his grandmother’s note the
first thing, and exclaiming, “Oh, _rich_!—_capital_! I hope she’ll go!”
Then, before his mother could interpose a word, he darted away in quest
of Mrs. Nichols, whose surprise was fully equal to that of Mrs.
Livingstone and Carrie.

“Now, you don’t say I’ve got an invite,” said she, leaving the
darning-needle in the stocking-heel which she was mending, and wiping
her steel-bowed spectacles. “Come, ’Leny, you read it, that’s a good
girl.”

’Lena complied, and taking the note from her cousin’s hand, read that
Mrs. Graham would be at home Thursday evening, etc.

“But where’s the invite? That don’t say anything about _me_!” said Mrs.
Nichols, beginning to fear that it was a humbug after all.

As well as they could, ’Lena and John Jr. explained it to her, and
then, fully convinced that she was really invited, Mrs. Nichols began
to wonder what she should wear, and how she should go, asking John “if
he couldn’t tackle up and carry her in the shay,” as she called the
single buggy.

“Certainly,” answered John Jr. willing to do anything for the sake of
the fun which he knew would ensue from his grandmother’s attendance.

’Lena thought otherwise, for much as she desired to gratify her
grandmother, she would not for the world expose her to the ridicule
which her appearance at a fashionable party would call forth. Glancing
reprovingly at her cousin, she said, “I wouldn’t think of going,
grandma, for you are lame and old, and there’ll be so many people