"But you cannot be in earnest," she said; "you surely will not leave Mabel now."

"And why not?" he asked. "She doesn't grow any worse, and won't until spring, and this close confinement is absolutely killing me! Why, I've lost six pounds in six months, and you'll see to her, I know you will. You're a good girl, and I like you, if I did get angry with you, weeks ago when I went a hunting."

'Lena knew he ought not to go, and she tried hard to convince him of the fact, telling him how much pleasure she had felt in observing his improved manner toward Mabel, and that he must not spoil it now.

"It's no use talking," said he, "I'm bent on going somewhere. I've tried to be good, I know, but the fact is, I can't stay put. It isn't my nature. I shan't tell Meb till just before I start, for I hate scenes."

"And suppose she dies while you are gone?" asked 'Lena.

John was beginning to grow impatient, for he knew he was wrong, and rather tartly he answered, as he left the room, "Give her a decent burial, and present the bill to mother!"

"The next morning, as 'Lena sat alone with Mabel, John Jr. entered, dressed and ready for his journey. But he found it harder telling his wife than he had antic.i.p.ated. She looked unusually pale this morning. The sallowness of her complexion was all gone, and on either cheek there burned a round, bright spot. 'Lena had just been arranging her thick, glossy hair, and now, wholly exhausted, she reclined upon her pillows, while her large black eyes, unnaturally bright, sparkled with joy at the sight of her husband. But they quickly filled with tears when told that he was going away, and had come to say good-bye.

"It's only to New Orleans and back," he said, as he saw her changing face. "I shan't be gone long, and 'Lena will take care of you a heap better than I can."

"It isn't that," answered Mabel, wiping her tears away. "Don't go, John. Wait a little while. I'm sure it won't be long."

"You are nervous," said he, playfully lapping her white cheek. "You're not going to die. You'll live to be grandmother yet, who knows? But I must be off or lose the train. Good bye, little Meb," grasping her hand, "Good-bye, 'Lena. I'll bring you both something nice--good-bye."

When she saw that he was going, Mabel asked him to come back to her bedside just for one moment. He could not refuse, and winding her long, emaciated arms around his neck, she whispered, "Kiss me once before you go. I shall never ask it again, and 'twill make me happier when you are gone."

"A dozen times, if you like," said he, giving her the only husband's kiss she had ever received.

For a moment longer she detained him, while she prayed silently for heaven's blessing on his wayward head, and then releasing him, she bade him go. Had he known of all that was to follow, he would not have left her, but he believed as he said, that she would survive the winter, and with one more kiss upon her brow, where the perspiration was standing thickly, he departed. The window of Mabel's room commanded a view of the turnpike, and when the sound of horses' feet was heard on the lawn, she requested 'Lena to lead her to the window, where she stood watching him until a turn in the road hid him from her sight.

"'Tis the last time," said she, "and he will never know how much this parting cost me."

That night, as they were alone in the gathering twilight, Mabel said, "If I die before Nellie comes I want you to tell her how it all happened, and that she must forgive him, for he was not to blame."

"I do not understand you," said 'Lena, and then, in broken sentences, Mabel told what her mother-in-law had said, and how terribly John was deceived. "Of course he couldn't love me after that," said she, "and it's right that I should die. He and Nellie were made for each other, and if the inhabitants of heaven are allowed to watch over those they loved on earth, I will ask to be always near them. You will tell her, won't you?"

'Lena promised, adding that she thought Mabel would see Nellie herself as she was to sail from Liverpool the 20th, and a few days proved her conjecture correct. Entering Mabel's room one morning about a week after John's departure, she brought the glad news that Nellie had returned, and would be with them to-morrow.

The next day Nellie came, but she, too, was changed. The roundness of her form and face was gone; the rose had faded from her cheek, and her footsteps were no longer light and bounding as of old. She knew of John Jr.'s absence or she would not have come, for she could not meet him face to face. She had heard, too, of his treatment of Mabel, and while she felt indignant toward him, she freely forgave his innocent wife, who she felt had been more sinned against than sinning.

With a faint cry Mabel started from her pillow, and burying her face on Nellie's neck, wept like a child. "You do not hate me," she said at last, "or you would not have come so soon."

"Hate you?--no," answered Nellie. "I have no cause for hating you."

"And you will stay with me until I die--until he comes home--and forgive him, too," Mabel continued.

"I can promise the first, but the latter is harder," said Nellie, her cheeks burning with anger as she gazed on the wreck before her.

"But you must, you will," exclaimed Mabel, rapidly telling all she knew; then falling back upon the pillow, she added, "You'll forgive him Nellie?"

As time pa.s.sed on, Mabel grew weaker and weaker, clinging closer to Nellie as she felt the dark shadow of death creeping gradually over her.

"If he'd only come," she would say, "and I could place your hand in his before I died."

But it was not to be. Day after day John Jr. lingered, dreading to return, for he knew Nellie was there, and he could not meet her, he thought, at the bedside of Mabel. So he tarried until a letter from 'Lena, which said that Mabel would die, decided him, and rather reluctantly he started homeward. Meantime Mabel, who knew nothing of her loss, conceived the generous idea of willing all her possessions to her recreant husband.

"Perhaps he'll think more kindly of me," said she to his father, to whom she first communicated her plan, and Mr. Livingstone felt that he could not undeceive her.

Accordingly, a lawyer was summoned from Frankfort, and the will duly drawn up, signed, sealed, and delivered into the hands of Mr. Livingstone, whose wife, with a mocking laugh, bade him "guard it carefully, it was so valuable."

"It shows her goodness of heart, at least," said he, and possibly Mrs. Livingstone thought so, too, for from that time her manner softened greatly toward her daughter-in-law.

It was midnight at Maple grove. On the table, in its accustomed place, the lamp was burning dimly, casting the shadow upon the wall, whilst over the whole room a darker shadow was brooding. The window was open, and the cool night air came softly in, lifting the ma.s.ses of raven hair from off the pale brow of the dying. Tenderly above her Nellie and 'Lena were bending. They had watched by her many a night, and now she asked them not to leave her, not to disturb a single one--she would rather die alone.

The sound of horses' hoofs rang out on the still air, but she did not heed it. Nearer and nearer it came, over the lawn, up the graveled walk, through the yard, and Nellie's face blanched to an unnatural whiteness as she thought who that midnight-rider was. Arrived in Frankfort only an hour before, he had hastened forward, impelled by a something he could not resist. From afar he had caught the glimmering light, and he felt he was not too late. He knew how to enter the house, and on through the wide hall and up the broad staircase he came, until he stood in the chamber, where before him another guest had entered, whose name was Death!

Face to face he stood with Nellie Dougla.s.s, and between them lay his wife--her rival--the white hands folded meekly upon her bosom, and the pale lips just as they had breathed a prayer for him.

"Mabel! She is dead!" was all he uttered, and falling upon his knees, he buried his face in the pillow, while half scornfully, half pityingly, Nellie gazed upon him.

There was much of bitterness in her heart toward him, not for the wrong he had done her, but for the sake of the young girl, now pa.s.sed forever away. 'Lena felt differently. His silent grief conquered all resentment, and going to his side, she told him how peacefully Mabel had died--how to the last she had loved and remembered him, praying that he might be happy when she was gone, "Poor little Meb, she deserved a better fate," was all he said, as he continued his kneeling posture, until the family and servants, whom Nellie had summoned, came crowding round, the cries of the latter grating on the ear, and seeming sadly out of place for her whose short life had been so dreary, and who had welcomed death as a release from all her pain.

It was Mrs. Livingstone's wish that Mabel should be arrayed in her bridal robes, but with a shudder at the idle mockery, John Jr. answered, "No," and in a plain white muslin, her shining hair arrayed as she was wont to wear it, they placed her in her coffin, and on a sunny slope where the golden sunlight and the pale moonbeams latest fell, and where in spring the bright green gra.s.s and the sweet wild flowers are earliest seen, laid her down to steep.

That night, when all around was still, John Jr. lay musing sadly of the past. His affection for Mabel had been slight and variable, but now that she was gone, he missed her. The large easy-chair, with its cushions and pillows, was empty, and as he thought of the pale, dark face and aching head he had so often seen reclining there, and which he would never see again, he groaned in bitterness of spirit, for well he knew that he had helped to break the heart now lying cold and still beneath the coffin-lid. There was no shadow on the wall, for the lamp had gone out with the young life for whom it had been kept burning, but many a shadow lay dark and heavy across his heart.

With the sun-setting a driving rain had come on, and as the November wind went howling past the window, and the large drops beat against the cas.e.m.e.nt, he thought of the lonesome little grave on which that rain was falling; and shuddering, he hid his face in the pillows, asking to be forgiven, for he knew that all too soon that grave was made, and he had helped to make it. At last, long after the clock had told the hour of midnight, he arose, and lighting the lamp which many a weary night had burned for her, he placed it where the shadow would fall upon the wall as it had done of old. It was no longer a phantom to annoy him, and soothed by its presence, he fell asleep, dreaming that Mabel had come back to bring him her forgiveness, but when he essayed to touch her, she vanished from his sight, and there was nothing left save that shadow on the wall.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MRS. GRAHAM'S RETURN.

Mr. and Mrs. Graham had returned to Woodlawn, the former remaining but a day and night, and then, without once seeing 'Lena, departing for Europe, where business, either fancied or real, called him. Often, when lying weary and sick in Havana, had he resolved on revealing to his wife the secret which he felt was wearing his life away, but the cowardice of his nature seemed increased by physical weakness, and from time to time was the disclosure postponed, while the chain of evidence was fearfully lengthening around poor 'Lena, to whom Mrs. Graham had transferred the entire weight of her displeasure.

Loving her husband as well as such as she could love, she was ever ready to forgive when she saw any indications of reform on his part, and as during all their journey he had never once given her cause for offense, she began to attribute his former delinquencies wholly to 'Lena; and when he proposed a tour to Europe she readily sanctioned it, hoping that time and absence would remove from his mind all thoughts of the beautiful girl, who she thought was her rival. Still, though she would not confess it, in her heart she did not believe 'Lena guilty except so far as a desire to attract Mr. Graham's attention would make her so.

For this belief she had a good and potent reason. The daguerreotype which had caused so much trouble was still in her possession, guarded carefully from her husband, who never suspecting the truth, supposed he had lost it. Frequently had Mrs. Graham examined the picture, each time discovering some point of difference between it and its supposed original. Still she never for a moment doubted that it was 'Lena, until an event occurred which convinced her of the contrary, leaving her, meantime, more mystified than ever.

On their way home from Havana, Mr. Graham had proposed stopping a day in Cincinnati, taking rooms at the Burnet House, where the first individual whom they saw at the table was our old acquaintance, Joel Sloc.u.m. Not finding his business as profitable in Lexington as he could wish, he had recently removed to Cincinnati. Here his aspiring mind had prompted him to board at the Burnet House, until he'd seen the "Ohio elephant," when he intended retiring to one of the cheaper boarding-houses. The moment he saw Mr. Graham, a grin of recognition became visible on his face, bringing to view a row of very long and very yellow teeth, apparently unacquainted with the use of either water or brush.

"Who is that loafer who seems to know you?" asked Mrs. Graham, directing her husband's attention toward Joel.

Mr. Graham replied that "he had once seen him in Lexington, and that he took daguerreotypes."

The moment dinner was over, Joel came forward, going through with one of his wonderful bows, and exclaiming, with his peculiar nasal tw.a.n.g, "Now you don't say this is you. And this is your old woman, I s'pose. Miss Graham, how-dy-du? Darned if you don't look like Aunt Nancy, only she's lean and you are squatty. S'posin' you give me a call and get your picters taken. I didn't get an all-killin' sight of practice in Lexington, for the plaguy greenhorns didn't know enough to patternize me, and 'taint a tarnation sight better here; but you," turning to Mr. Graham, "employed me once, and pretended to be suited."

Mr. Graham turned scarlet, and saying something in an undertone to Joel, gave his wife his arm, leading her to their room, where he made an excuse for leaving her awhile. Looking from the window a moment after, Mrs. Graham saw him walking down the street in close conversation with Joel, who, by the way of showing his importance, lifted his white beaver to almost every man he met. Instantly her curiosity was roused, and when her husband returned, every motion of his was narrowly watched, the espionage resulting in the conviction that there was something in his possession which he did not wish her to see. Once, when she came unexpectedly upon him, he hastily thrust something into his pocket, appearing so much confused that she resolved to ferret out the secret.

Accordingly, that night, when a.s.sured by his heavy breathing that he was asleep, she crept softly from his side, and rummaging his pockets, found a daguerreotype, which by the full moonlight she saw was a _fac-simile_ of the one she had in her possession. The arrangement of the hair--everything--was the same, and utterly confounded, she stood gazing first at one and then at the other, wondering what it meant. Could 'Lena be in the city? She thought not, and even if she were, the last daguerreotype was not so much like her, she fancied, as the first. At all events, she did not dare secrete it as she had done its companion, and stealthily returning it to its place, she crept back to bed.

The next night they reached Woodlawn, where they learned that Mabel was buried that day. Of course 'Lena could not have been absent from home. Mrs. Graham felt convinced of that, and gradually the conviction came upon her that another than 'Lena was the original of the daguerreotypes. And yet she was not generous enough to tell Durward so. She knew he was deceived--she wished him to remain so--and to effect it, she refrained from seeking an explanation from her husband, fearing lest 'Lena should be proved innocent. Her husband knew there was a misunderstanding between Durward and 'Lena, and if she were to ask him about the pictures, he would, she thought, at once suspect the cause of that misunderstanding, and as a matter of course, exonerate 'Lena from all blame. The consequence of this she foresaw, and therefore she resolved upon keeping her own counsel, satisfied if in the end she prevented Durward from making 'Lena his wife.

To effect this, she endeavored, during the winter, to keep the matter almost constantly before Durward's mind, frequently referring to 'Lena's agitation when she first learned that Mr. Graham had started for Europe. She had called with her son at Maple Grove on the very day of her husband's departure. 'Lena had not met the lady before, since that night in Frankfort, and now, with the utmost hauteur, she returned her nod, and then, too proud to leave the room, resumed her seat near the window directly opposite the divan on which Durward was seated with Carrie.

She did not know before of Mrs. Graham's return, and when her aunt casually asked, "Did your husband come back with you?" she involuntarily held her breath for the answer, which, when it came, sent the blood in torrents to her face and neck, while her eyes sparkled with joy. She should see him--he would explain everything--and she should be guiltless in Durward's sight. This was the cause of her joy, which was quickly turned into sorrow by Mrs. Graham's adding, "But he started this morning for Europe, where he will remain three months, and perhaps longer, just according to his business."

The bright flush died away, and was succeeded by paleness, which did not escape the observation or either mother or son, the latter of whom had watched her from the first, noting each change, and interpreting it according to his fears.

"'Lena, 'Lena, how have I been deceived!" was his mental cry as she precipitately left the room, saying to her aunt, who asked what was the matter, that she was faint and dizzy. Death had been but yesterday within their walls, and as if softened by its presence, Mrs. Livingstone actually spoke kindly of her niece, saying, that "constant watching with poor, dear Mabel had impaired her health."

"Perhaps there are other causes which may affect her," returned Mrs. Graham, with a meaning look, which, though lost on Mrs. Livingstone, was noticed by Durward, who soon proposed leaving.

On their way home, his mother asked if he observed 'Lena when Mr. Graham was mentioned.

Without saying that he did, Durward replied, "I noticed your remark to Mrs. Livingstone, and was sorry for it, for I do not wish you to say a word which will throw the least shade of suspicion upon 'Lena. Her reputation as yet is good, and you must not be the first to say aught against it."

"I won't, I won't," answered Mrs. Graham, anxious to conciliate her son, but she found it a harder matter to refrain than she had first supposed.

'Lena was to her a constant eye-sore, and nothing but the presence of Durward prevented her from occasionally giving vent in public to expressions which would have operated unfavorably against the young girl, and when at last circ.u.mstances occurred which gave her, as she thought, liberty to free her mind, she was only too willing to do so. Of those circ.u.mstances, in which others besides 'Lena were concerned, we will speak in another chapter.

CHAPTER XXIX.

ANNA AND CAPTAIN ATHERTON.

Malcolm Everett's engagement with General Fontaine had expired, and as was his original intention, he started for New York, first seeking an interview with Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone, of whom he asked their daughter Anna in marriage, at the same time announcing the startling fact that they had been engaged for more than a year. "I do not ask you for her now," said he, "for I am not in a situation to support her as I would wish to, but that time will come ere long, I trust, and I can a.s.sure you that her happiness shall be the first object of my life."

There was no cringing on the part of Malcolm Everett. He was unused to that, and as an equal meets an equal, he met them, made known his request, and then in silence awaited their answer. Had Mrs. Livingstone been less indignant, there would undoubtedly have ensued a clamorous call for hartshorn and vinaigrette, but as it was, she started up, and confronting the young man, she exclaimed, "How dare you ask such a thing? My daughter marry you!"

"And why not, madam?" he answered, coolly, while Mrs. Livingstone continued: "You, a low-born Yankee, who have been, as it were, an hireling. You presume to ask for my daughter!"

"I do," he answered calmly, with a quiet smile, ten-fold more tantalizing than harsh words would have been, "I do. Can I have her with your consent?"

"Never, so long as I live. I'd sooner see her dead than wedded to vulgar poverty."

"That is your answer. Very well," said Malcolm, bowing stiffly. "And now I will hear yours," turning to Mr. Livingstone, who replied, that "he would leave the matter entirely with his wife--it was nothing to him--he had nothing personal against Mr. Everett--he rather liked him than otherwise, but he hardly thought Anna suited to him, she had been brought up so differently;" and thus evasively answering, he walked away.

"Cowardly fool!" muttered Mrs. Livingstone, as the door closed upon him. "If I pretended to be a man, I'd be one;" then turning to Malcolm, she said, "Is there anything further you wish to say?"

"Nothing," he replied. "I have honorably asked you for your daughter. You have refused her, and must abide the consequence."

"And pray what may that be?" she asked, and he answered: "She will soon be of an age to act for herself, and though I would far rather take her with your consent, I shall not then hesitate to take her without, if you still persist in opposing her."

"There is the door," said Mrs. Livingstone rising.

"I see it, madam," answered Malcolm, without deigning to move.

"Oblige me by pa.s.sing out," continued Mrs. Livingstone. "Insolent creature, to stand here threatening to elope with my daughter, who has been destined for another since her infancy."

"But she shall never become the bride of that old man," answered Malcolm. "I know your schemes. I've seen them all along, and I will frustrate them, too."

"You cannot," fiercely answered Mrs. Livingstone. "It shall be ere another year comes round, and when you hear that it is so, know that you hastened it forward;" and the indignant lady, finding that her opponent was not inclined to move, left the room herself, going in quest of Anna, whom she determined to watch for fear of what might happen.

But Anna was nowhere to be found, and in a paroxysm of rage she alarmed the household, inst.i.tuting a strict search, which resulted in the discovery of Anna beneath the same sycamore where Malcolm had first breathed his vows, and whither she had repaired to await the decision of her parents.

"I expected as much," said she, when told of the result, "but it matters not. I am yours, and I'll never marry another."

The approach of the servants prevented any further conversation, and with a hurried adieu they parted. A few days afterward, as Mrs. Livingstone, sat in her large easy-chair before the glowing grate, Captain Atherton was announced, and shown at once into her room. To do Mrs. Livingstone justice, we must say that she had long debated the propriety of giving Anna, in all the freshness of her girlhood, to a man old as her father, but any hesitancy she had heretofore felt, had now vanished. The crisis had come, and when the captain, as he had two or three times before done, broached the subject, urging her to a decision, she replied that she was willing, provided Anna's consent could be gained.

"Pho! that's easy enough," said the captain, complacently rubbing together his fat hands and smoothing his colored whiskers--"Bring her in here, and I'll coax her in five minutes."

Anna was sitting with her grandmother and 'Lena, when word came that her mother wished to see her, the servant adding, with a t.i.tter, that "Mas'r Atherton thar too."

Instinctively she knew why she was sent for, and turning white as marble, she begged her cousin to go with her. But 'Lena refused, soothing the agitated girl, and begging her to be calm. "You've only to be decided," said she, "and it will soon be over. Captain Atherton, I am sure, will not insist when he sees how repugnant to your feelings it is."

But Anna knew her own weakness--she could never say, in her mother's presence, what she felt--and trembling like an aspen, she descended the stairs, meeting in the lower hall her brother, who asked what was the matter.

"Oh, John, John," she cried, "Captain Atherton is in there with mother, and they have sent for me. What shall I do?"

"Be a woman," answered John Jr. "Tell him no in good broad English, and if the old fellow insists, I'll blow his brains out!"

But the Captain did not insist. He was too cunning for that, and when, with a burst of tears, Anna told him she could not be his wife because she loved another, he said, good-humoredly, "Well, well, never mind spoiling those pretty blue eyes. I'm not such an old savage as you think me. So we'll compromise the matter this way. If you really love Malcolm, why, marry him, and on your bridal day I'll make you a present of a nice little place I have in Frankfort; but if, on the other hand, Malcolm proves untrue, you must promise to have me. Come, that's a fair bargain. What do you say?"

"Malcolm will never prove untrue," answered Anna.

"Of course not," returned the captain. "So you are safe in promising.'

"But what good will it do you?" queried Anna.

"No good, in particular," said the captain. "It's only a whim of mine, to which I thought you might perhaps agree, in consideration of my offer."

"I do--I will," said Anna, thinking the captain not so bad after all.

"There's mischief somewhere, and I advise you to watch," said John Jr., when he learned from Anna the result of the interview.

But week after week glided by. Mrs. Livingstone's persecutions ceased, and she sometimes herself handed to Anna Malcolm's letters, which came regularly, and when about the first of March Captain Atherton himself went off to Washington, Anna gave her fears to the wind, and all the day long went singing about the house, unmindful of the snare laid for her unsuspecting footsteps. At length Malcolm's letters suddenly ceased, and though Anna wrote again and again, there came no answer. Old Caesar, who always carried and brought the mail for Maple Grove, was questioned, but he declared he "done got none from Mas'r Everett," and suspicion in that quarter was lulled. Unfortunately for Anna, both her father and John Jr. were now away, and she had no counselor save 'Lena, who once, on her own responsibility, wrote to Malcolm, but with a like success, and Anna's heart grew weary with hope deferred. Smilingly Mrs. Livingstone looked on, one moment laughing at Anna for what she termed love-sickness, and the next advising her to be a woman, and marry Captain Atherton. "He was not very old--only forty-three--and it was better to be an old man's darling than a young man's slave!"