University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
RETRIBUTION.

Two years have passed away, and again we open the
scene at the homestead, which had not proved an altogether
pleasant home to Mrs. Hamilton. There was
around her everything to make her happy, but she was
far from being so. One by one her servants, with whom
she was very unpopular, had left her, until there now remained
but one. The villagers, too, shunned her, and she
was wholly dependent for society upon Lenora, who, as
usual, provoked and tormented her.

One day, Hester, the servant, came up from the basement,
saying there was a poor old man below, who asked
for money.

“Send him away; I've nothing for him,” said Mrs.
Hamilton, whose avaricious hand, larger far than her
heart, grasped at and retained everything.

“But, if you please, ma'am, he seems very poor,” said
Hester.

“Let him go to work, then. 'Twon't hurt him more
than 't will me,” was the reply.

Lenora, whose eyes and ears were always open, no
sooner heard that there was a beggar in the kitchen, than
she ran down to see him. He was a miserable looking
object, and still there was something in his appearance
which denoted him to be above the common order of beggars.
His eyes were large and intensely black, and his
hair, short, thick, and curly, reminded Lenora of her own.
The moment she appeared, a peculiar expression passed
for a moment over his face, and he half started up; then
resuming his seat, he fixed his glittering eyes upon the
young lady, and seemed watching her closely.

At last she began questioning him, but his answers were
so unsatisfactory that she gave it up, and, thinking it the
easiest way to be rid of him, she took from her pocket a
shilling and handed it to him, saying, “It's all I can give
you, unless it is a dinner. Are you hungry?”

Hester, who had returned to the kitchen, was busy in
a distant part of the room, and she did not notice the
paleness which overspread Lenora's face, at the words
which the beggar uttered, when she presented the money
to him. She caught, however, the low murmur of their
voices, as they spoke together for a moment, and as Lenora
accompanied him to the door, she distinctly heard
the words, “In the garden.”

“And may be that's some of your kin; you look like
him,” said she to Lenora, after the stranger was gone.

“That's my business, not yours,” answered Lenora, as
she left the kitchen and repaired to her mother's room.

“Lenora, what ails you?” said Mrs Hamilton to her
daughter at the tea-table, that night, when, after putting
salt in one cup of ten, and upsetting a second, she commenced
spreading her biscuit with cheese instead of butter.
“What ails you? What are you thinking about?

You don't seem to know any more what you are doing,
than the dead.”

Lenora made no direct reply to this, but soon after she
said, “Mother, how long has father been dead,—my own
father I mean?”

“Two or three years, I don't exactly know which,”
returned her mother, and Lenora continued: “How did
he look? I hardly remember him.”

“You have asked me that fifty times,” answered her
mother, “and fifty times I have told you that he looked
like you, only worse, if possible.”

“Let me see, where did you say he died?” said
Lenora.

“In New Orleans, with yellow fever, or black measles,
or small pox, or something,” Mrs. Hamilton replied; “but,
mercy's sake! can't you choose a better subject to talk
about? What made you think of him? He's been haunting
me all day, and I feel kind of nervous and want to
look over my shoulder whenever I am alone.”

Lenora made no further remark until after tea, when
she announced her intention of going to the village.

“Come back early, for I don't feel like staying alone,”
said her mother.

The sun had set when Lenora left the village, and by
the time she reached home, it was wholly dark. As she
entered the garden, the outline of a figure, sitting on a
bench at its farther extremity, made her stop for a moment,
but thinking to herself, “I expected it, and why
should I be afraid?” she walked on fearlessly, until the
person, roused by the sound of her footsteps, started up,
and turning toward her, said, half aloud, “Lenora, is it
you?”

Quickly she sprang forward, and soon one hand of the
beggar was clasped in hers, while the other rested upon

her head, as he said, “Lenora, my child, my daughter,
you do not hate me?”

“Hate you, father?” she answered, “never, never.”

“But,” he continued, “has not she,—my,—no, not
my wife,—thank heaven not my wife now,—but your
mother, has not she taught you to despise and hate me?”

“No,” answered Lenora, bitterly. “She has taught me
enough of evil, but my memories of you were too sweet,
too pleasant, for me to despise you, though I do not think
you always did right, more than mother.”

The stranger groaned, and murmured, “It's true, all
true;” while Lenora continued: “But where have you
been all these years, and how came we to hear of your
death?”

“I have been in St. Louis most of the time, and the
report of my death resulted from the fact that a man bearing
my name, and who was also from Connecticut, died
of yellow fever in New Orleans about two years and a
half ago. A friend of mine, observing a notice of his
death, and supposing it to refer to me, forwarded the paper
to your mother, who, though then free from me, undoubtedly
felt glad, for she never loved me, but married
me because she thought I had money.”

“But how have you lived?” asked Lenora.

“Lived!” he repeated, “I have not lived. I have
merely existed. Gambling and drinking, drinking and
gambling, have been the business of my life, and have reduced
me to the miserable wretch whom you see.”

“Oh, father, father,” cried Lenora, “reform. It is not
too late, and you can yet be saved. Do it for my sake,
for, in spite of all your faults, I love you, and you are my
father.”

The first words of affection which had greeted his ear
for many long years made the wretched man weep, as

he answered, “Lenora, I have sworn to reform, and I
will keep my vow. During one of my drunken revels in
St. Louis, a dream of home came over me, and when I
became sober, I started for Connecticut. There I heard
where and what your mother was. I had no wish ever
to meet her again, for though I greatly erred in my conduct
toward her, I think she was always the most to
blame. You I remembered with love, and I longed to
see you once more, to hear again the word `father,' and
know that I was not forgotten. I came as far as the city,
and there fell into temptation. For the last two months
I have been there, gambling and drinking, until I lost all
even the clothes which I wore, and was compelled to assume
these rags. I am now without home or money, and
have no place to lay my head.”

“I can give you money,” said Lenora. “Meet me
here to-morrow night, and you shall have all you want.
But what do you purpose doing? Where will you
stay?”

“In the village, for the sake of being near you,” said
he, at the same time bidding his daughter return to the
house, as the night air was damp and chilly.

Within a week from that time, a middle-aged man,
calling himself John Robinson, appeared in the village,
hiring himself out as a porter at one of the hotels. There
was a very striking resemblance between him and Lenora
Carter, which was noticed by the villagers, and mentioned
to Mrs. Hamilton, who, however, could never
obtain a full view of the stranger's face, for without
any apparent design, he always avoided meeting her.
He had not been long in town, before it was whispered
about that between him and Lenora Carter a strange
intimacy existed, and rumors soon reached Mrs. Hamilton
that her daughter was in the habit of frequently

stealing out, after sunset, to meet the ola porter, and that
once, when watched, she had been seen to put her arms
around his neck. Highly indignant, Mrs. Hamilton questioned
Lenora on the subject, and was astonished beyond
measure when she replied, “It is all true. I have met
Mr. Robinson often, and I have put my arms around his
neck, and shall probably do it again.”

“Oh, my child, my child,” groaned Mrs. Hamilton,
really distressed at her daughter's conduct. “How can
you do so? You will bring my gray hairs with sorrow
to the grave.”

“Not if you pull out as many of them as you now do,
and use Twiggs' Preparation besides,” said Lenora.

Mrs. Hamilton did not answer, but covering her face
with her hands, wept, really wept, thinking for the first
time, perhaps, that as she had sowed so was she reaping.
For some time past, her health had been failing, and as
the summer days grew warmer and more oppressive, she
felt a degree of lassitude and physical weakness which she
had never before experienced; and one day unable
longer to sit up, she took her bed, where she lay for many
days.

Now that her mother was really sick, Lenora seemed
suddenly changed, and with unwearied care watched over
her as kindly and faithfully as if no words, save those of
affection, had ever passed between them. Warmer and
more sultry grew the days, and more fiercely raged the
fever in Mrs. Hamilton's veins, until at last the crisis was
reached and passed, and she was in a fair way for recovery,
when she was attacked by chills, which again reduced
her to a state of helplessness. One day, about this
time, a ragged little boy, whose business seemed to be
lounging around the hotel, brought to Lenora a soiled
and crumpled note, on which was traced with an unsteady

hand, “Dear Lenora, I am sick, all alone in the little attic;
come to me, quick; come.”

Lenora was in a state of great perplexity. Her mother,
when awake, needed all her care; and as she seldom slept
during the day, there seemed but little chance of getting
away. The night before, however, she had been unusually
restless and wakeful, and about noon she seemed
drowsy, and finally fell into a deep sleep.

“Now is my time,” thought Lenora; and calling Hester,
she bade her watch by her mother until she returned,
saying, “If she wakes, tell her I have gone to the village,
and will soon be back.”

Hester promised compliance, and was for a time faithful
to her trust; but suddenly recollecting something
which she wished to tell the girl who lived at the next
neighbor's, she stole away, leaving her mistress alone.
For five minutes Mrs. Hamilton slept on, and then with a
start awoke from a troubled dream, in which she had
seemed dying of thirst, while little Willie, standing by a
hogshead of water, refused her a drop. A part of her
dream was true, for she was suffering from the most intolerable
thirst, and called loudly for Lenora; but Lenora
was not there. Hester next was called, but she, too,
was gone. Then, seizing the bell which stood upon the
table, she rung it with all her force, and still there came
no one to her relief.

Again Willie stood by her, offering her a goblet overflowing
with water; but when she attempted to take it,
Willie changed into Lenora, who laughed mockingly at
her distress, telling her there was water in the well and
ice on the curb-stone. Once more the phantom faded
away, and the old porter was there, wading through a
limpid stream, and offering her to drink a cup of molten
lead.

“Merciful heaven!” shrieked the sick woman, as she
writhed from side to side on her bed, which seemed
changed to burning coals; “will no one bring me water,
water, water!”

An interval of calmness succeeded, during which she
revolved in her mind the possibility of going herself to
the kitchen, where she knew the water-pail was standing.
No sooner had she decided upon this, than the room appeared
full of little demons, who laughed, and chattered,
and shouted in her ears, “Go—do it! Willie did, when
the night was dark and chilly; but now it is warm—nice
and warm—try it, do!”

Tremblingly Mrs. Hamilton stepped upon the floor,
and finding herself too weak to walk, crouched down,
and crept slowly down the stairs to the kitchen door,
where she stopped to rest. Across the room by the window
stood the pail, and as her eye fell upon it, the mirth
of the little winged demons appeared, in her disordered
fancy, to increase; and when the spot was reached, the
tumbler seized and thrust into the pail, they darted hither
and thither, shouting gleefully, “Lower, lower down;
just as Willie did. You'll find it; oh, you'll find it!”

With a bitter cry, Mrs. Hamilton dashed the tumbler
upon the floor, for the bucket was empty!

“Willie, Willie, you are avenged,” she said; but the
goblins answered, “Not yet; no, not yet.”

There was no pump in the well, and Mrs. Hamilton
knew she had not strength to raise the bucket by means
of the windlass. Her exertions had increased her thirst
tenfold, and now, for one cup of cooling water she would
have given all her possessions. Across the yard, at the
distance of twenty rods, there was a gushing spring, and
thither in her despair she determined to go. Accordingly,
she went forth into the fierce noontide blaze, and, with

almost superhuman efforts, crawled to the place. But
what! was it a film upon her eyes? Had blindness come
upon her, or was the spring really dried up by the fervid
summer heat?

“Willie's avenged! Willie's avenged!” yelled the
imps, as the wretched woman fainted and fell backward
upon the bank, where she lay with her white, thin face
upturned, and blistering beneath the August sun!

Along the dusty highway came a handsome traveling
carriage, in which, besides the driver, were seated two
individuals, the one a young and elegantly dressed lady,
and the other a gentleman, who appeared to be on the
most intimate terms with his companion; for whenever
he would direct her attention to any passing object, he
laid his hand on hers, frequently retaining it, and calling
her “Maggie.”

The carriage was nearly opposite the homestead, when
the lady exclaimed, “Oh, Richard, I must stop at my old
home, once more. Only see how beautiful it is looking!”

In a moment the carriage was standing before the gate,
and the gentleman, who was Margaret Hamilton's husband—a
Mr. Elwyn, from the city — assisted his young
wife to alight, and then followed her to the house. No
answer was given to their loud ring, and as the doors and
windows were all open, Margaret proposed that they
should enter. They did so; and, going first into Mrs.
Hamilton's sick-room, the sight of the little table full of
vials, and the tumbled, empty bed, excited their wonder
and curiosity, and induced them to go on. At last, descending
to the kitchen, they saw the fragments of the
tumbler lying upon the floor.

“Strange isn't it?” said Margaret to her husband, who
was standing in the outer door, and who had at that moment
discovered Mrs. Hamilton lying near the spring.

Instantly they were at her side, and Margaret involuntarily
shuddered as she recognized her step-mother, and
guessed why she was there. Taking her in his arms, Mr.
Elwyn bore her back to the house, and Margaret, filling
a pitcher with water, bathed her face, moistened her lips,
and applied other restoratives, until she revived enough
to say, “More water, Willie. Give me more water!”

Eagerly she drained the goblet which Margaret held to
her lips, and was about drinking the second, when her
eyes for the first time sought Margaret's face. With a
cry between a groan and a scream, she lay back upon her
pillows, saying, “Margaret Hamilton, how came you
here? What have you to do with me, and why do you
give me water? Didn't I refuse it to Willie, when he
begged so earnestly for it in the night time? But I 've
been paid—a thousand times paid—left by my own child
to die alone!”

Margaret was about asking for Lenora, when the young
lady herself appeared. She seemed for a moment greatly
surprised at the sight of Margaret, and then bounding to
her side, greeted her with much affection; while Mrs.
Hamilton jealously looked on, muttering to herself,
“Loves everybody better than she does me, her own
mother who has done so much for her.”

Lenora made no reply to this, although she manifested
much concern when Margaret told her in what state they
had found her mother.

“I went for a few moments to visit a sick friend,” said
she, “but told Hester to stay with mother until I returned;
and I wonder much that she should leave
her.”

“Lenora,” said Mrs. Hamilton, “Lenora, was that sick
friend the old porter?”

Lenora answered in the affirmative; and then her
mother, turning to Margaret, said, “You don't know
what a pest and torment this child has always been to
me, and now when I am dying, she deserts me for a low-lived
fellow, old enough to be her father.”

Lenora's eyes flashed scornfully upon her mother, but
she made no answer, and as Mr. Elwyn was in haste to
proceed on his journey, Margaret arose to go. Lenora
urged them to remain longer, but they declined; and as
she accompanied them to the door, Margaret said, “Lenora,
if your mother should die, and it would afford you
any satisfaction to have me come, I will do so, for I suppose
you have no near friends.”

Lenora hesitated a moment, and then whispering to
Margaret of the relationship existing between herself and
the old porter, she said, “He is sick and poor, but he is
my own father, and I love him dearly.”

The tears came to Margaret's eyes, for she thought of
her own father, called home while his brown hair was
scarcely touched with the frosts of time. Wistfully Lenora
watched the carriage as it disappeared from sight,
and then half reluctantly entered the sick-room, where,
for the remainder of the afternoon, she endured her
mother's reproaches for having left her alone, and where
once, when her patience was wholly exhausted, she said,
“It served you right, for now you know how little Willie
felt.”

The next day Mrs. Hamilton was much worse, and Lenora,
who had watched and who understood her symptoms,
felt confident that she would die, and loudly her
conscience upbraided her for her undutiful conduct. She
longed, too, to tell her that her father was still living;

and one evening, when, for an hour or two, her mother
seemed better, she arose, and bending over her pillow,
said, “Mother, did it ever occur to you that father might
not be dead?”

“Not be dead, Lenora! What do you mean?” asked
Mrs. Hamilton, starting up from her pillow.

Cautiously then Lenora commenced her story by referring
her mother back to the old beggar, who some
months before had been in the kitchen. Then she spoke
of the old porter, and the resemblance which was said to
exist between him and herself; and finally, as she saw her
mother could bear it, she told the whole story of her father's
life. Slowly the sick woman's eyes closed, and Lenora
saw that her eyelids were wet with tears, but as
she made no reply, Lenora, ere long, whispered, “Would
you like to see him, mother?”

“No, no; not now,” was the answer.

For a time there was silence, and then Lenora, again
speaking, said, “Mother, I have often been very wicked
and disrespectful to you, and if you should die, I should
feel much happier knowing that you forgave me. Will
you do it, mother, say?”

Mrs. Hamilton comprehended only the words, “if you
should die,” so she said, “Die, die! who says that I must
die? I shan't—I can't; for what could I tell her about
her children, and how could I live endless ages without
water. I tried it once, and I can't do it. No, I can't. I
won't!”

In this way she talked all night; and though in the
morning she was more rational, she turned away from the
clergyman, who at Lenora's request had been sent for,
saying, “It 's of no use, no use; I know all you would
say, but it 's too late, too late!”

Thus she continued for three days, and at the close of

the third, it became evident to all that she was dying, and
Hester was immediately sent to the hotel, with a request
that the old porter would come quickly. Half an hour
after, Lenora bent over her mother's pillow, and whispered
in her ear, “Mother, can you hear me?”

A pressure of the hand was the reply, and Lenora
continued: “You have not said that you forgave me,
and now before you die, will you not tell me so?”

There was another pressure of the hand, and Lenora
again spoke: “Mother, would you like to see him—my
father? He is in the next room.”

This roused the dying woman, and starting up, she exclaimed,
“See John Carter! No, child, no. He'd only
curse me. Let him wait until I am dead, and then I shall
not hear it.”

In ten minutes more, Lenora was sadly gazing upon the
fixed, stony features of the dead. A gray-haired man was
at her side, and his lip quivered, as he placed his hand upon
the white, wrinkled brow of her who had once been his
wife. “She is fearfully changed,” were his only words,
as he turned away from the bed of death.

True to her promise, Margaret came to attend her step-mother's
funeral. Walter accompanied her, and shuddered
as he looked on the face of one who had so darkened
his home, and embittered his life. Kate was not
there, and when, after the burial, Lenora asked Margaret
for her, she was told of a little “Carrie Lenora,” who,
with pardonable pride, Walter thought was the only
baby of any consequence in the world. Margaret was
going on with a glowing description of the babe's many
beauties, when she was interrupted by Lenora who laid
her face in her lap and burst into tears.

“Why, Lenora, what is the matter?” asked Margaret.

As soon as Lenora became calm, she answered, “that

name, Maggie. You have given my name to Walter
Hamilton's child, and if you had hated me, you would
never have done it.”

“Hated you!” repeated Margaret, “we do not hate
you; now that we understand you, we like you very
much, and one of Kate's last injunctions to Walter was,
that he should again offer you a home with him.”

Once more Lenora was weeping. She had not shed a
tear when they carried from sight her mother, but words
of kindness touched her heart, and the fountain was
opened. At last, drying her eyes, she said, “I prefer to
go with father. Walter will, of course, come back to
the homestead, while father and I shall return to our old
home in Connecticut, where, by being kind to him, I
hope to atone, in a measure, for my great unkindness to
mother.”