University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
ALICE'S MOTHER.

Three years after the closing incidents of the last chapter,
Ira was practicing law near the eastern boundary of
the state of New York. From his office windows he frequently
noticed a beautiful young girl of not more than sixteen
summers, who passed and repassed every day to and
from school. Her plain calico frock, coarse linen apron,
and cambric sun-bonnet, showed that she was not a child
of wealth, and yet there was something about her face
and appearance strangely fascinating to the young lawyer.

He at length became acquainted with her, and found
that her name was Lucy Edwards, that she was the adopted
child of the family with whom she lived, and also the
half sister of the famous Aunt Polly, among the mountains.
Ira fancied that she resembled Mary Calvert, who
was now lost to him forever, and ere he was aware of it,
he was forming plans for the future, in all of which the
young Lucy played a conspicuous part. Before the summer
was over, he had asked her to be his wife. She gave
her consent willingly, for she was ambitious, and had long
sighed for something better than the humble home in
which her childhood had been passed.

When next Ira visited his father, he was accompanied
by Lucy, who was intending to spend several days with
her sister. On parting with her at the hotel, he told her
that the day following he would seek an interview with
his father, to whom he would acknowledge their engagement,
and ask him to sanction their union. Of that interview
between father and son, we will speak but little.
Suffice it to say, that Squire Herndon, in his rage, almost

cursed his son for presuming to think of a poor, humble
girl, whose sister disgraced her sex by telling fortunes,
and finished his abuse by swearing to disinherit Ira the
moment he should hear of his marrying Lucy Edwards.
Ira knew his father too well to think of softening
him by argument, so he rushed from his presence, and
was soon on his way to the red house among the mountains,
where Lucy was anxiously watching for him.

As soon as she saw him coming up the mountain path,
she ran eagerly to meet him. At one glance she saw that
something was wrong, and urged him to tell her the
worst. In as few words as possible, he related to her
what had passed between himself and his father. When
he finished speaking, Lucy burst into tears, and said
mournfully, “And so you will leave me, Ira? I might
have known it would be so.”

Ira was touched, and laying his hand on Lucy's dark
locks, he vowed that she should be his, even at the cost
of his father's curse. When they reached the gate, Lucy
said, “I forgot to tell you that Polly has company—the
Quakeress, Dolly Dutton—but you need not mind her.”

After entering the house, Aunt Polly gradually led Ira
to speak of the interview between himself and his father.
By the time he had finished, Mrs. Carey's wrath was waxing
warmer and warmer.

“Ira Herndon,” she exclaimed, “you are cowardly if
you do not show your independence by marrying whom
you please.”

“I intend to marry Lucy at some future time,” answered
Ira.

“Fudge on some future time!” was Aunt Polly's
scornful answer; “why not marry her now? You 'll
never have a better time. We'll all keep it a secret, so
your old father will not cut you off. Amos will go for

Parson Landon, who will not blab; and here to-night we
will have the knot tied. What say you?”

Ira hesitated. He did not care about being married so
hurriedly, and could he have considered until the morrow,
he probably would have withstood all temptation;
but as it was, he was overruled, and finally gave his consent
that the ceremony should take place that night.
Parson Landon was accordingly sent for, and ere Ira had
time to think what he was doing, he was the husband of
Lucy Edwards, Mr. and Mrs. Carey and Dolly Dutton
alone witnessing the ceremony. When it was completed,
Aunt Polly said, “Now we must all keep this a secret,
for if it comes to Squire Herndon's ear, he 'll sartingly
cut 'm off.”

The minister and Dolly readily promised silence, but
Ira said “he cared not a farthing whether his father
knew it or not, and thought seriously of telling him all.”

This announcement was received by Aunt Polly with
such a burst of indignation, and by Lucy with such a
gush of tears, that Ira was glad to promise that he, too,
would say nothing on the subject; but the painful thought
entered his mind, that possibly Lucy had married him
more from a love of wealth than from love to him.

In a few days he returned to the village where they
resided, leaving Lucy with her sister for a time. At
length he decided to remove to the village of C., in the
western part of New York, where Lucy soon joined him.
Here Alice was born. When she was about six months
old, her father received a very lucrative offer, the acceptance
of which required that he should go to India. For
himself, he did not hesitate, but his wife and child needed
his protection. To take the infant Alice to that hot
clime, was to insure her death, and he had no wish that
Lucy should remain behind.

In this extremity, Lucy thought of Aunt Polly, and
proposed that Alice should be left with her. After much
consultation, Aunt Polly was written to, and, as she consented
to take the child, Lucy started with Alice to place
her under Mrs. Carey's care. When within a mile of the
village, she directed the stage driver to let her alight;
she did not wish to pass through the village, but, striking
into a circuitous path, she soon reached Uncle Amos'
house unobserved, save by the man and woman whom we
mentioned in our second chapter.

Aunt Polly regularly received remittances from Mr.
Herndon for the support of his child, of whom he always
spoke with much affection. Lucy, weak and frivolous in
her nature, felt constrained to manifest some love for her
offspring, but it was evident to Aunt Polly that she was
heartily glad to be relieved of the care of little Alice.

When Alice was five years of age, there came a letter
bearing an ominous seal of black. With a trembling hand
Aunt Polly opened it, and, as she had feared, learned that
her young and beautiful sister, at the early age of twenty-two,
was sleeping the sleep of death, far off, 'neath the
tropical skies of India. That night the motherless Alice
looked wonderingly into the face of Aunt Polly, whose
tears fell thick and fast, as she clasped the awe-stricken
child to her bosom, and said, “You are mine forever,
now.” Alice remembered this in after years, and wept
over the death of a mother whom she never knew.