University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT.

Mabel had gone out, and 'Lena sat alone in the little
room adjoining the parlor which Mr. Douglass termed his
library, but which Nellie had fitted up for a private sewing-room.
It was 'Lena's favorite resort when she wished
to be alone, and as Mabel was this morning absent, she
had retired thither, not to work, but to think—to recall
every word and look of Durward's, to wonder when and
how he would repeat the question, the answer to which
had been prevented by Mr. Graham.

Many and blissful were her emotions as she sat there,

wondering if it were not a bright dream, from which she
would too soon awaken, for could it be that one so noble,
so good, and so much sought for as Durward Bellmont,
had chosen her, of all others, to be his bride? Yes, it
must be so, for he was not one to say or act what he did
not mean; he would come that day and repeat what he
had said before; and she blushed as she thought what her
answer would be.

There was a knock on the door, and a servant entered,
bringing her a letter, which she eagerly seized, thinking
it was from him. But 'twas not his writing, though bearing
the post-mark of Versailles. Hastily she broke the
seal, and glancing at the signature, turned pale, for it was
“Lucy Graham,” his mother, who had written, but for
what, she could not guess. A moment more and she fell
back on the sofa, white and rigid as a piece of marble.
'Twas a cruel and insulting letter, containing many dark
insinuations, which she, being wholly innocent, could not
understand. She knew, indeed, that Mr. Graham had
presented her with Vesta, but was there anything wrong
in that? She did not think so, else she had never taken
her. Her uncle, her cousin, and Durward, all three approved
of her accepting it, the latter coming with it himself—so
it could not be that; and for a long time 'Lena
wept passionately, resolving one moment to answer the
letter as it deserved; determining, the next, to go herself
and see Mrs. Graham face to face; and then concluding
to treat it with silent contempt, trusting that Durward
would erelong appear and make it all plain between
them.

At last, about five o'clock, Mabel returned, bringing
the intelligence that Mrs. Graham was in the city, at the
Weisiger House, where she was going to remain until the
morrow. She had met with an accident, which prevented

her arrival in Frankfort until the train which she was desirous
of taking had left.

“Is her husband with her?” asked 'Lena, to which
Mabel replied, that she understood she was alone.

“Then I'll see her and know what she means,” thought
'Lena, trembling, even then, at the idea of venturing into
the presence of the cold, haughty woman.

Supper was over at the Weisiger House, and in a handsome
private parlor Mrs. Graham lay, half asleep, upon
the sofa, while in the dressing-room adjoining Durward
sat, trying to frame a letter which should tell poor 'Lena
that their intimacy was forever at an end. For hours,
and until the last gleam of daylight had faded away, he
had sat by the window, watching each youthful form
which passed up and down the busy street, hoping to catch
a glimpse of her who had once made his world. But his
watch was in vain, and now he had sat down to write,
throwing aside sheet after sheet, as he thought its beginning
too cold, too harsh, or too affectionate. He was
about making up his mind not to write at all, but to let
matters take their course, when a knock at his mother's
door, and the announcement that a lady wished to see her,
arrested his attention.

“Somebody want to see me? Just show her up,” said
Mrs. Graham, smoothing down her flaxen hair, and wiping
from between her eyes a spot of powder which the opposite
mirror revealed.

In a moment the visitor entered—a slight, girlish form,
whose features were partially hidden from view by a heavy
lace veil, which was thrown over her satin hood. A single
glance convinced Mrs. Graham that it was a lady, a
well-bred lady, who stood before her, and very politely
she bade her be seated.

Rather haughtily the proffered chair was declined, while
the veil was thrown aside, disclosing to the astonished
gaze of Mrs. Graham the face of 'Lena Rivers, which was
unnaturally pale, while her dark eyes grew darker with
the intensity of her feelings.

“'Lena Rivers! why came you here?” she asked,
while at the mention of that name Durward started to
his feet, but quickly resumed his seat, listening with indescribable
emotions to the sound of a voice which made
every nerve quiver with pain.

“You ask me why I am here, madam,” said 'Lena. “I
came to seek an explanation from you—to know of what
I am accused—to ask why you wrote me that insulting
letter—me, an orphan girl, alone and unprotected in the
world, and who never knowingly harmed you or yours.”

“Never harmed me or mine!” scornfully repeated
Mrs. Graham. “Don't add falsehood to your other sins
—though, if you'll lie to my son, you of course will to
me, his mother.”

“Explain yourself, madam, if you please,” exclaimed
'Lena, her olden temper beginning to get the advantage
of her.

“And what if I do not please?” sneeringly asked Mrs.
Graham.

“Then I will compel you to do so, for my good name
is all I have, and it shall not be wrested from me without
an effort on my part to preserve it,” answered 'Lena.

“Perhaps you expect my husband to stand by you and
help you. I am sure it would be very ungentlemanly in
him to desert you, now,” said Mrs. Graham, her manner
conveying far more meaning than her words.

'Lena trembled from head to foot, and her voice was
hardly distinct as she replied, “Will you explain yourself,

or will you not? What have I done, that you should
treat me thus?”

“Done? Done enough, I should think! Havn't you
wiled him away from me with your artful manners? Has
he ever been the same man since he saw you? Hasn't he
talked of you in his sleep? made you most valuable presents
which a true woman would have refused? and in return,
havn't you bestowed upon him your daguerreotype,
together with a lock of your hair, on which you no doubt
pride yourself, but which to me and my son seem like so
many coiling serpents?”

'Lena had sat down. She could stand no longer, and
burying her face in her hands, she waited until Mrs. Graham
had finished. Then, lifting up her head, she replied
in a voice far more husky than the one in which she before
had spoken—“You accuse me wrongfully, Mrs. Graham,
for as I hope for heaven, I never entertained a feeling
for your husband which I would not have done for my
own father, and indeed, he has seemed to me more like a
parent than a friend—”

“Because you fancied he might some day be one, I
dare say,” interrupted Mrs. Graham.

'Lena paid no attention to this sarcastic remark, but
continued: “I know I accepted Vesta, but I never
dreamed it was wrong, and if it was, I will make amends
by immediately returning her, for much as I love her, I
shall never use her again.”

“But the daguerreotype?” interrupted Mrs. Graham,
anxious to reach that point. “What have you to say
about the daguerreotype? Perhaps you will presume to
deny that, too.”

Durward had arisen, and now in the doorway watched
'Lena, whose dark brown eyes flashed fire as she answered,

“It is false, madam. You know it is false. I never yet
have had my picture taken.”

“But he has it in his possession; how do you account
for that?”

“Again I repeat, that is false;” said 'Lena, while Mrs.
Graham, strengthened by the presence of her son, answered,
“I can prove it, miss.”

“I defy you to do so,” said 'Lena, strong in her own
innocence.

“Shall I show it to her, Durward,” asked Mrs. Graham,
and 'Lena, turning suddenly round, became for the
first time conscious of his presence.

With a cry of anguish she stretched her arms imploringly
toward him, asking him, in piteous tones, to save her
from his mother. Durward would almost have laid down
his life to prove her innocent, but he felt that could not
be. So he made her no reply, and in his eye she read
that he, too, was deceived. With a low, wailing moan
she again covered her face with her hands, while Mrs.
Graham repeated her question, “Shall I show it to her?”

Durward was not aware that she had it in her possession,
and he answered, “Why do you ask, when you
know you cannot do so?”

Oh, how joyfully 'Lena started up; he did not believe
it, after all, and if ever a look was expressive of gratitude,
that was which she gave to Durward, who returned her
no answering glance, save one of pity; and again that
wailing cry smote painfully on his ear. Taking the case
from her pocket, Mrs. Graham advanced toward 'Lena,
saying, “Here, see for yourself, and then deny it if you
can.”

But 'Lena had no power to take it. Her faculties
seemed benumbed, and Durward, who, with folded arms
and clouded brow stood leaning against the mantel, construed

her hesitation into guilt, which dreaded to be
convicted.

“Why don't you take it?” persisted Mrs. Graham.
“You defied me to prove it, and here it is. I found it in
my husband's private drawer, together with one of those
long curls, which last I burned out of my sight.”

Durward shuddered, while 'Lena involuntarily thought
of the mass of wavy tresses which they had told her clustered
around her mother's face, as she lay in her narrow
coffin. Why thought she of her mother then? Was it
because they were so strangely alike, that any allusion to
her own personal appearance always reminded her of her
lost parent? Perhaps so. But to return to our story.
'Lena would have sworn that the likeness was not hers,
and still an undefined dread crept over her, preventing
her from moving.

“You seem so unwilling to be convinced, allow me to
assist you,” said Mrs. Graham, at the same time unclasping
the case and holding to view the picture, on which,
with wondering eyes, 'Lena gazed in astonishment.

“It is I—it is; but oh, heaven, how came he by it?”
she gasped, and the next moment she fell fainting at
Durward's feet.

In an instant he was bending over her, his mother exclaiming,
“Pray, don't touch her—she does it for effect.”

But he knew better. He knew there was no feigning
the corpse-like pallor of that face, and pushing his mother
aside, he took the unconscious girl in his arms, and bearing
her to the sofa, laid her gently upon it, removing her
hand and smoothing back from her cold brow the thick,
clustering curls which his mother had designated as
“coiling serpents.”

“Do not ring and expose her to the idle gaze of servants,”
said he, to his mother, who had seized the bell-rope.

“Bring some water from your bedroom, and we
will take charge of her ourselves.”

There was something commanding in the tones of his
voice, and Mrs. Graham, now really alarmed at the deathly
appearance of 'Lena, hastened to obey. When he was
alone, Durward bent down, imprinting upon the white
lips a burning kiss—the first he had ever given her. In
his heart he believed her unworthy of his love, and yet
she had never seemed one-half so dear to him as at that moment,
when she lay there before him helpless as an infant,
and all unmindful of the caresses which he lavished upon
her. “If it were indeed death,” he thought, “and it had
come upon her while yet she was innocent, I could have
borne it, but now I would I had never seen her;” and
the tears which fell like rain upon her cheek, were not unworthy
of the strong man who shed them. The cold water
with which they profusely bathed her face and neck,
restored her, and then Durward, who could bear the scene
no longer, glided silently into the next room.

When he was gone, Mrs. Graham, who seemed bent
upon tormenting 'Lena, asked “what she thought about
it now?”

“Please don't speak to me again, for I am very, very
wretched,” said 'Lena softly, while Mrs. Graham continued:
“Have you nothing to offer in explanation?”

“Nothing, nothing—it is a dark mystery to me, and I
wish that I was dead,” answered 'Lena, sobbing passionately.

“Better wish to live and repent,” said Mrs. Graham,
beginning to read her a long sermon on her duty, to which
'Lena paid no attention, and the moment she felt that she
could walk, she arose to go.

The moon was shining brightly, and as Mr. Douglass
lived not far away, Mrs. Graham did not deem an escort

necessary. But Durward thought differently. He could
not walk with her side by side, as he had often done before,
but he would follow at a distance, to see that no harm
came near her. There was no danger of his being discovered,
for 'Lena was too much absorbed in her own
wretchedness to heed aught about her, and in silence he
walked behind her until he saw the door of Mr. Douglass'
house close upon her. Then feeling that there was an
inseparable barrier between them, he returned to his hotel,
where he found his mother exulting over the downfall
of one whom, for some reason, she had always disliked.

“Didn't she look confounded, though, when I showed
her the picture?” said she; to which Durward replied,
by asking “when and why she sent the letter.”

“I did it because I was a mind to, and I am not sorry
for it, either,” was Mrs. Graham's crusty answer; whereupon
the conversation was dropped, and as if by a tacit
agreement, the subject was not again resumed during their
stay in Louisville.

It would be impossible to describe 'Lena's emotions as
she returned to the house. Twice in the hall was she
obliged to grasp at the banister to keep from falling, and
knowing that such excessive agitation would be remarked,
she seated herself upon the stairs until she felt composed
enough to enter the parlor. Fortunately, Mabel was
alone, and so absorbed in the fortunes of “Uncle True
and Little Gerty,” as scarcely to notice 'Lena at all.
Once, indeed, as she sat before the grate so motionless
and still, Mabel looked up, and observing how white she
was, asked what was the matter.

“A bad headache,” answered 'Lena, at the same time
announcing her intention of retiring.

Alone in her room, her feelings gave way, and none save
those who like her have suffered, can conceive of her anguish,
as prostrate upon the floor she lay, her long silken
curls falling about her white face, which looked ghastly
and haggard by the moonlight that fell softly about her,
as if to soothe her woe.

“What is it,” she cried aloud—“this dark mystery,
which I cannot explain.”

The next moment she thought of Mr. Graham. He
could explain it—he must explain it. She would go to
him the next day, asking him what it meant. She felt
sure that he could make it plain, for suspicious as matters
looked, she exculpated him from any wrong intention toward
her. Still she could not sleep, and when the gray
morning light crept in, it found her too much exhausted
to rise.

For several days she kept her room, carefully attended
by Mabel and her grandmother, who, at the first intimation
of her illness, hastened down to nurse her. Every day
did 'Lena ask of Mr. Douglass if Mr. Graham had been in
the city, saying that the first time he came she wished to
see him. Days, however, went by, and nothing was seen
or heard from him, until at last John Jr., who visited her
daily, casually informed her that Mr. Graham had been
unexpectedly called away to South Carolina. A distant
relative of his had died, bequeathing him a large property,
which made it necessary for him to go there immediately;
so without waiting for the return of his wife, he
had started off, leaving Woodlawn alone.

“Gone to South Carolina!” exclaimed 'Lena. “When
will he return?”

“Nobody knows. He's away from home more than

half the time, just as I should be if Mrs. Graham were
my wife,” answered John, Jr., at the same time playfully
remarking that 'Lena need not look so blank, as it was not
Durward who had gone so far.

For an instant 'Lena resolved to tell him everything,
and ask him what to do, but knowing how impetuous he
was when at all excited, she finally decided to keep her
own secret, determining, however, to write to Mr. Graham,
as soon as she was able. Just before John Jr. left
her, she called him to her side, asking him if he would do
her the favor of seeing that Vesta was sent back to Woodlawn,
as she did not wish for her any longer.

“What the plague is that for—has mother been raising
a row?” asked John Jr., and 'Lena replied, “No, no,
your mother has nothing to do with it. I only want Vesta
taken home. I cannot at present tell you why, but I have
a good reason, and some time, perhaps, I'll explain.
You'll do it, won't you?”

With the determination of questioning Durward as to
what had happened, John Jr. promised, and when Mrs.
Graham and her son returned from Louisville, they found
Vesta safely stabled with their other horses, while the
saddle with its tiny slipper hung upon a beam, and seemingly
looked down with reproach upon Durward, who
turned away with a bitter pang as he thought of the
morning when he first took it to Maple Grove.

The next day was dark and rainy, precluding all outdoor
exercise, and weary, sad, and spiritless, Durward repared
to the library, where, for an hour or more, he sat
musing dreamily of the past—of the morning, years ago,
when first he met the little girl who had since grown so
strongly into his love, and over whom so dark a shadow
had fallen. A heavy knock at the door, and in a moment
John Jr. appeared, with dripping garments and a slightly

scowling face. There was a faint resemblance between
him and 'Lena, manifest in the soft, curling hair and dark,
lustrous eyes. Durward had observed it before—he
thought of it now—and glad to see any one who bore the
least resemblance to her, he started up, exclaiming, “Why,
Livingstone, the very one of all the world I am glad to
see.”

John made no reply, but shaking the rain-drops from
his overcoat, which he carelessly threw upon the floor, he
took a chair opposite the grate, and looking Durward
fully in the face, said, ”I've come over, Bellmont, to ask
you a few plain, unvarnished questions, which I believe
you will answer truthfully. Am I right?”

“Certainly, sir—go on,” was Durward's reply.

“Well, then, to begin, are you and 'Lena engaged?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you been engaged?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you ever expect to be engaged?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you quarreled?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know why she wished to have Vesta sent
home?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Will you tell me?”

“No, sir,” said Durward, determined, for 'Lena's sake,
that no one should wring from him the secret.

John Jr. arose, jammed both hands into his pockets—
walked to the window—made faces at the weather—
walked back to the grate—made faces at that—kicked it
—and then turning to Durward, said, “There's the old
Nick to pay, somewhere.”

Nothing from Durward, who only felt bound to answer
direct questions.

“I tell you, there's the old Nick to pay, somewhere,”
continued John, raising his voice. “I knew it all the
while 'Lena was sick. I read it in her face when I told
her Mr. Graham had gone south—”

A faint sickness gathered around Durward's heart, and
John Jr. proceeded: “She wouldn't tell me, and I've
come to you for information. Will you give it to me?”

“No, sir,” said Durward. “The nature of our trouble
is known only to ourselves and one other individual, and
I shall never divulge the secret.”

“Is that other individual my mother?”

“No, sir.”

“Is it Cad?”

“No, sir.”

“Had they any agency in the matter?”

“None, whatever, that I know of.”

“Then I'm on the wrong track, and may as well go
home,” said John Jr., starting for the door, where he
stopped, while he added, “If, Bellmont, I ever do hear
of your having misled me in this matter—” He did not
finish the sentence in words, but playfully producing a revolver,
he departed. The next moment he was dashing
across the lawn, the mud flying in every direction, and
himself thinking how useless it was to try to unravel a
love quarrel.

In the meantime, 'Lena waited impatiently for an answer
to the letter which she had sent to Mr. Graham, but
day after day glided by, and still no tidings came. At
last, as if everything had conspired against her, she heard
that he was lying dangerously ill of a fever at Havana,
whither he had gone in quest of an individual whose
presence was necessary in the settlement of the estate.

The letter which brought this intelligence to Mrs. Graham,
also contained a request that she would come to him
immediately, and within a few days after its receipt, she
started for Cuba, together with Durward, who went without
again seeing 'Lena.

They found him better than they expected. The danger
was past, but he was still too weak to move himself,
and the physician said it would be many weeks ere he
was able to travel. This rather pleased Mrs. Graham
than otherwise. She was fond of change, and had often
desired to visit Havana, so now that she was there, she
made the best of it, and for once in her life enacted the
part of a faithful, affectionate wife.

Often, during intervals of mental aberration, Mr. Graham
spoke of “Helena,” imploring her forgiveness for
his leaving her so long, and promising to return. Sometimes
he spoke of her as being dead, and in piteous accents
he would ask of Durward to bring him back his
“beautiful 'Lena,” who was sleeping far away among the
New England mountains.

One day when the servant, as usual, came in with their
letters, he brought one directed to Mr. Graham, which
had been forwarded from Charleston, and which bore the
post-marks of several places, it having been sent hither
and thither, ere it reached its place of destination. It
was mailed at Frankfort, Kentucky, and in the superscription
Durward readily recognized the handwriting of
'Lena.

“Worse and worse,” thought he, now fully assured of
her worthlessness.

For a moment he felt tempted to break the seal, but
from this act he instinctively shrank, thinking that whatever
it might contain, it was not for him to read it. But
what should he do with it? Must he give it to his mother,

who already had as much as she could bear? No, 'twas
not best for her to know aught about it, and as the surest
means of preventing its doing further trouble, he destroyed
it—burned it to ashes—repenting the next moment
of the deed, wishing he had read it, and feeling,
not that he had wronged the dead, as his mother did
when she burned the chestnut curl, but as if he had done
a wrong to 'Lena.

In the course of two months he went back to Woodlawn,
leaving his father and mother to travel leisurely
from place to place, as the still feeble state of the former
would admit. 'Lena, who had returned from Frankfort,
trembled lest he should come to Maple Grove, but he
seemed equally desirous of avoiding a meeting, and after
lingering about Woodlawn for several days, he suddenly
departed for Louisville, where, for a time, we leave him,
while we follow the fortunes of others connected with
our story.