University of Virginia Library

29. 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 amouncing 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 assure
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 passing 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, instituting 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 titter, 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 Cæsar, 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!”

Thus the days wore on, until one evening just as the
family were sitting down to tea they were surprised by a
a call from the captain, who had returned that afternoon,
and who, with the freedom of an old friend, unceremoniously
entered the supper-room, appropriating to himself
the extra plate which Mrs. Livingstone always had upon
the table. Simultaneously with him came Cæsar, who,
having been to the post-office, had just returned, bringing,
besides other things, a paper for Carrie, from her
old admirer, Tom Lakin, who lived in Rockford, at which
place the paper was printed. Several times had Tom remembered
Carrie in this way, and now carelessly glancing
at the first page, she threw it upon the floor, whence it
was taken by Anna, who examined it more minutely,
glancing, as a matter of course, to the marriage notices.

Meantime the captain, who was sitting by 'Lena, casually
remarked, “Oh, I forgot to tell you that I saw Mr.
Everett in Washington.”

“Mr. Everett—Malcolm Everett?” said 'Lena, quickly.

“Yes, Malcolm Everett,” answered the captain. “He
is there spending the honey-moon with his bride!”

“Lena's exclamation of astonishment was prevented
by a shriek from Anna, who had that moment read the
announcement of Mr. Everett's marriage, which was the
first in the list. It was Malcolm H. Everett—there could

be no mistake—and when 'Lena reached her cousin's
side, she found that she had fainted. All was now in
confusion, in the midst of which the Captain took his
leave, having first managed to speak a few words in private
with Mrs. Livingstone.

“Fortune favors us,” was her reply, as she went back
to her daughter, whose long, death-like swoon almost
wrung from her the secret.

But Anna revived, and with the first indication of returning
consciousness, the cold, hard woman stifled all
her better feelings, and then tried to think she was acting
only for the good of her child. For a long time Anna
appeared to be in a kind of benumbed torpor, requesting
to be left alone, and shuddering if Mr. Everett's name
were mentioned in her presence. It was in vain that
'Lena strove to comfort her, telling her there might be
some mistake. Anna refused to listen, angrily bidding
'Lena desist, and saying frequently that she cared but
little what became of herself now. A species of recklessness
seemed to have taken possession of her, and when
her mother one day carelessly remarked that possibly
Captain Atherton would claim the fulfillment of her promise,
she answered, in the cold, indifferent tone which now
marked her manner of speaking, “Let him. I am ready
and willing for the sacrifice.”

“Are you in earnest?” asked Mrs. Livingstone, eagerly.

“In earnest? Yes—try me and see,” was Anna's
brief answer, which somewhat puzzled her mother, who
would in reality have preferred opposition to this unnatural
passiveness.

But anything to gain her purpose, she thought, and
drawing Anna closely to her side, she very gently and
affectionately told her how happy it would make her
could she see her the wife of Captain Atherton, who had

loved and waited for her so long, and who would leave
no wish, however slight, ungratified. And Anna, with
no shadow of emotion on her calm, white face, consented
to all that her mother asked, and when next the captain
came, she laid her feverish hand in his, and with a strange,
wild light beaming from her dark blue eyes, promised to
share his fortunes as his wife.

“'Twill be winter and spring,” said she, with a bitter,
mocking laugh, “'Twill be winter and spring, but it matters
not.”

Many years before, when a boy of eighteen, Captain
Atherton had loved, or fancied he loved, a young girl,
whose very name afterward became hateful to him, and
now, as he thought of Anna's affection for Malcolm, he
likened it to his own boyish fancy, believing she would
soon get over it, and thank him for what he had done.

That night Anna saw the moon and stars go down,
bending far out from her window, that the damp air
might cool her burning brow, and when the morning sun
came up the eastern horizon, its first beams fell on the
golden curls which streamed across the window-sill, her
only pillow the livelong night. On 'Lena's mind a terrible
conviction was fastening itself—Anna was crazed!
She saw it in the wildness of her eye, in the tones of her
voice, and more than all, in the readiness with which
she yielded herself to her mother's schemes. “But it
shall not be,” she thought; “I will save her,” and then
she knelt before her aunt, imploring her to spare her
daughter—not to sacrifice her on the altar of mammon.

But Mrs. Livingstone turned angrily away, telling her
to mind her own affairs. Then 'Lena sought her cousin,
and winding her arms around her neck, besought of her
to resist—to burst the chain which bound her, and be
free. But with a shake of her head, Anna bade her go

away. “Leave me, 'Lena Rivers,” she said, “leave me
to work out my destiny. It is decreed that I shall be his
wife, and I may not struggle against it. Each night I
read it in the stars, and the wind, as it sighs through the
maple trees, whispers it to my ear.”

“Oh, if my aunt could see her now,” thought 'Lena;
but as if her mother's presence had a paralyzing power,
Anna, when with her, was quiet, gentle, and silent, and
if Mrs. Livingstone sometimes missed her merry laugh
and playful ways, she thought the air of dignity which
seemed to have taken their place quite an improvement,
and far more in keeping with the bride elect of Captain
Atherton.

About this time Mr. Livingstone returned, appearing
greatly surprised at the phase which affairs had assumed
in his absence, but when 'Lena whispered to him her
fears, he smilingly answered, “I reckon you're mistaken.
Her mother would have found it out—where is she?”

In her chamber at the old place by the open window
they found her, and though she did not as usual spring
eagerly forward to meet her father, her greeting was
wholly natural; but when Mr. Livingstone, taking her
upon his knee, said, gently, “They tell me you are to be
married soon,” the wildness came back to her eye, and
'Lena wondered he could not see it. But he did not, and
smoothing her disordered tresses, he said, “Tell me, my
daughter, does this marriage please you? Do you enter
into it willingly?”

For a moment there was a wavering, and 'Lena held
her breath to catch the answer, which came at last, while
the eyes shone brighter than ever—“Willing? yes, or I
should not do it; no one compels me, else I would resist.”

“Woman's nature,” said Mr. Livingstone, laughingly,
while 'Lena turned away to hide her tears.

Day after day preparations went on, for Mrs. Livingstone
would have the ceremony a grand and imposing one. In
the neighborhood, the fast approaching event was discussed,
some pronouncing it a most fortunate thing for
Anna, who could not, of course, expect to make so eligible
a match as her more brilliant sister, while others—the
sensible portion—wondered, pitied, and blamed, attributing
the whole to the ambitious mother, whose agency in
her son's marriage was now generally known. At Maple
Grove closets, chairs, tables, and sofas were loaded down
with finery, and like an automaton, Anna stood up while
they fitted to her the rich white satin, scarcely whiter than
her own face, and Mrs. Livingstone, when she saw her
daughter's indifference, would pinch her bloodless cheeks,
wondering how she could care so little for her good
fortune.

Unnatural mother!—from the little grave on the sunny
slope, now grass-grown and green, came there no warning
voice to stay her in her purpose? No; she scarcely
thought of Mabel now, and with unflinching determination
she kept on her way.

But there was one who, night and day, pondered in her
mind the best way of saving Anna from the living death
to which she would surely awake, when it was too late.
At last she resolved on going herself to Captain Atherton,
telling him just how it was, and if there was a spark of
generosity in his nature, she thought he would release
her cousin. But this plan required much caution, for she
would not have her uncle's family know of it, and if she
failed, she preferred that it should be kept a secret from
the world. There was then no alternative but to go in
the night, and alone. She did not now often sit with the
family, and she knew they would not miss her. So, one
evening when they were as usual assembled in the parlor,

she stole softly from the house, and managing to pass the negro
quarters unobserved, she went down to the lower stable,
where she saddled the pony she was now accustomed
to ride, and leading him by a circuitous path out upon
the turnpike, mounted and rode away.

The night was moonless, and the starlight obscured by
heavy clouds, but the pale face and golden curls of Anna,
for whose sake she was there alone, gleamed on her in
the darkness, and 'Lena was not afraid. Once—twice—
she thought she caught the sound of another horse's hoofs,
but when she stopped to listen, all was still, and again
she pressed forward, while her pursuer (for 'Lena was
followed) kept at a greater distance. Durward had been
to Frankfort, and on his way home had stopped at Maple
Grove to deliver a package. Stopping only a moment,
he reached the turnpike just after 'Lena struck into
it. Thinking it was a servant, he was about to pass her,
when her horse sheered at something on the road-side,
and involuntarily she exclaimed, “Courage, Dido, there's
nothing to fear.”

Instantly he recognized her voice, and was about to
overtake and speak to her, but thinking that her mission
was a secret one, or she would not be there alone, he desisted.
Still he could not leave her thus. Her safety
might be endangered, and reining in his steed, and accommodating
his pace to hers, he followed without her
knowledge. On she went until she reached the avenue
leading to “Sunnyside,” as Captain Atherton termed his
residence, and there she stopped, going on foot to the
house, while, hidden by the deep darkness, Durward
waited and watched.

Half timidly 'Lena rang the door-bell, dropping her
veil over her face that she might not be recognized.

“I want to see your master,” she said to the woman

who answered her ring, and who in some astonishment
replied, “Bless you, miss, Mas'r Atherton done gone to
Lexington and won't be home till to-morry.”

“Gone!” repeated 'Lena in a disappointed tone. “Oh,
I'm so sorry.”

“Is you the new miss what's comin' here to live?”
asked the negro, who was Captain Atherton's housekeeper.

Instantly the awkwardness of her position flashed upon
'Lena, but resolving to put a bold face on the matter, she
removed her veil, saying, playfully, “You know me now,
Aunt Martha.”

“In course I do,” answered the negro, holding up
both hands in amazement, “but what sent you here this
dark, unairthly night?”

“Business with your master,” and then suddenly remembering
that among her own race Aunt Martha was
accounted an intolerable gossip, she began to wish she
had not come.

But it could not now be helped, and turning away, she
walked slowly down the avenue, wondering what the result
would be. Again they were in motion, she and Durward,
who followed until he saw her safe home, and then,
glad that no one had seen her but himself, he retraced
his steps, pondering on the mystery which he could not
fathom. After 'Lena left Sunnyside, a misty rain came
on, and by the time she reached her home, her long
riding-dress was wet and drizzled, the feathers on her cap
were drooping, and to crown all, as she was crossing the
hall with stealthy step, she came suddenly upon her aunt,
who, surprised at her appearance, demanded of her where
she had been. But 'Lena refused to tell, and in quite a
passion Mrs. Livingstone laid the case before her husband.

“Lena had been off that dark, rainy night, riding somewhere

with somebody, she wouldn't tell who, but she
(Mrs. Livingstone) most knew it was Durward, and something
must be done.”

Accordingly, next day, when they chanced to be alone,
Mr. Livingstone took the opportunity of questioning
'Lena, who dared not disobey him, and with many tears
she confessed the whole, saying that “if it were wrong
she was very sorry.”

“You acted foolishly, to say the least of it,” answered
her uncle, adding, drily, that he thought she troubled herself
altogether too much about Anna, who seemed happy
and contented.

Still he was ill at ease. 'Lena's fears disturbed him,
and for many days he watched his daughter narrowly,
admitting to himself that there was something strange
about her. But possibly all engaged girls acted so; his
wife said they did; and hating anything like a scene, he
concluded to let matters take their course, half hoping,
and half believing, too, that something would occur to
prevent the marriage. What it would be, or by what
agency it would be brought about, he didn't know, but
he resolved to let 'Lena alone, and when his wife insisted
upon his “lecturing her soundly for meddling,” he refused,
venturing even to say, that “she hadn't meddled.”

Meantime, a new idea had entered 'Lena's mind. She
would write to Mr. Everett. There might yet be some mistake;
she had read of such things in stories, and it could do
no harm. Gradually as she wrote, hope grew strong within
her, and it became impressed upon her that there had
been some deep-laid, fiendish plot. If so, she dared not
trust her letter with old Cœsar, who might be bribed by
his mistress. And how to convey it to the office was now
the grand difficulty. As if fortune favored her plan, Durward,

that very afternoon, called at Maple Grove, being,
as he said, on his way to Frankfort.

'Lena would have died rather than ask a favor of him
for herself, but to save Anna she could do almost anything.
Hastily securing the letter, and throwing on her
sun-bonnet, she sauntered down the lawn and out upon
the turnpike, where by the gate she awaited his coming.

“Lena—excuse me—Miss Rivers, is it you?” asked
Durward, touching his hat, as in evident confusion she
came forward, asking if she could trust him.

“Trust me? Yes, with anything,” answered Durward,
quickly dismounting, and forgetting everything save the
bright, beautiful face which looked up to him so eagerly.

“Then,” answered 'Lena, “take this letter and see it
deposited safely, will you?”

Glancing at the superscription, Durward felt his face
crimson, while he instantly remembered what Mrs. Livingstone
had once said concerning 'Lena's attachment to
Mr. Everett.

“Sometime, perhaps, I will explain,” said 'Lena, observing
the expression of his countenance, and then adding,
with some bitterness, “I assure you there is no harm in
it.”

“Of course not,” answered Durward, again mounting
his horse, and riding away more puzzled than ever, while
'Lena returned to the house, which everywhere gave tokens
of the approaching nuptials.

Already had several costly bridal gifts arrived, and
among them was a box from the captain, containing a set
of diamonds, which Mrs. Livingstone placed in her daughter's
waving hair, bidding her mark their effect. But not
a muscle of Anna's face changed; nothing moved her;
and with the utmost indifference she gazed on the preparations
around her. A stranger would have said 'Lena

was the bride, for with flushed cheeks and nervously anxious
manner, she watched each sun as it rose and set,
wondering what the result would be. Once, when asked
whom she would have for her bridesmaid and groomsman,
Anna had answered, “Nellie and John!” but that could
not be, for the latter had imposed upon himself the penance
of waiting a whole year ere he spoke to Nellie of
that which lay nearest his heart, and in order the better
to keep his vow, he had gone from home, first winning
from her the promise that she would not become engaged
until his return. And now, when he learned of his sister's
request, he refused to come, saying, “if she would
make such a consummate fool of herself, he did not wish
to see her.”

So Carrie and Durward were substituted, and as this arrangement
brought the latter occasionally to the house,
'Lena had opportunities of asking him if there had yet
come any answer to her letter; and much oftener than
he would otherwise have done, Durward went down to
Frankfort, for he felt that it was no unimportant matter
which thus deeply interested 'Lena. At last, the day before
the bridal came, Durward had gone to the city, and
in a state of great excitement 'Lena awaited his return,
watching with a trembling heart as the sun went down
behind the western hills. Slowly the hours dragged on,
and many a time she stole out in the deep darkness to
listen, but there was nothing to be heard save the distant
cry of the night-owl, and she was about retracing her
steps for the fifth time, when from behind a clump of
rose-bushes started a little dusky form, which whispered
softly, “Is you Miss 'Leny?”

Repressing the scream which came near escaping her
lips, 'Lena answered, “Yes; what do you want?” while

at the same moment she recognized a little hunch-back
belonging to General Fontaine.

“Marster Everett tell me to fotch you this, and wait
for the answer,” said the boy, passing her a tiny note.

“Master Everett! Is he here?” she exclaimed, catching
the note and reëntering the house, where by the light
of the hall lamp she read what he had written.

It was very short, but it told all—how he had written
again and again, receiving no answer, and was about coming
himself when a severe illness prevented. The marriage,
he said, was that of his uncle, for whom he was
named, and who had in truth gone on to Washington, the
home of his second wife. It closed by asking her to meet
him, with Anna, on one of the arbor bridges at midnight.
Hastily tearing a blank leaf from a book which chanced
to be lying in the hall, 'Lena wrote, “We will be there,”
and giving it to the negro, bade him hasten back.

There was no longer need to wait for Durward, who,
if he got no letter, was not to call, and trembling in every
nerve, 'Lena sought her chamber, there to consider what
she was next to do. For some time past Carrie had occupied
a separate room from Anna, who, she said, disturbed
her with her late hours and restless turnings, so
'Lena's part seemed comparatively easy. Waiting until
the house was still, she entered Anna's room, finding her,
as she had expected, at her old place by the open window,
her head resting upon the sill, and when she approached
nearer, she saw that she was asleep.

“Let her sleep yet awhile,” said she; “it will do her
good.”

In the room adjoining lay the bridal dress, and 'Lena's
first impulse was to trample it under her feet, but passing
it with a shudder, she hastily collected whatever she
thought Anna would most need. These she placed in a

small-sized trunk, and then knowing it was time, she approached
her cousin, who seemed to be dreaming, for she
murmured the name of “Malcolm.”

“He is here, love—he has come to save you,” she whispered,
while Anna, only partially aroused, gazed at her
so vacantly, that 'Lena's heart stood still with fear lest
the poor girl's reason were wholly gone. “Anna, Anna,”
she said, “awake; Malcolm is here—in the garden, where
you must meet him—come.”

“Malcolm is married,” said Anna, in a whisper—“married—and
my bridal dress is in there, all looped with flowers;
would you like to see it?”

“Our Father in heaven help me,” cried 'Lena, clasping
her hands in anguish, while her tears fell like rain on
Anna's upturned face.

This seemed to arouse her, for in a natural tone she
asked why 'Lena wept. Again and again 'Lena repeated
to her that Malcolm had come—that he was not married
—that he had come for her; and as Anna listened, the
torpor slowly passed away—the wild light in her eyes
grew less bright, for it was quenched by the first tears
she had shed since the shadow fell upon her; and when
'Lena produced the note, and she saw it was indeed true,
the ice about her heart was melted, and in choking, long-drawn
sobs, her pent-up feelings gave way, as she saw the
gulph whose verge she had been treading. Crouching at
'Lena's feet, she kissed the very hem of her garments,
blessing her as her preserver, and praying heaven to bless
her, also. It was the work of a few moments to array
her in her traveling dress, and then very cautiously 'Lena
led her down the stairs, and out into the open air.

“If I could see father once,” said Anna; but such an
act involved too much danger, and with one lingering,
tearful look at her old home, she moved away, supported

by 'Lena, who rather dragged than led her over the graveled
walk.

As they approached the arbor bridge, they saw the
glimmering light of a lantern, for the night was intensely
dark, and in a moment Anna was clasped in the arms
which henceforth were to shelter her from the storms of
life. Helpless as an infant she lay, while 'Lena, motioning
the negro who was in attendance to follow her, returned
to the house for the trunk, which was soon safely
deposited in the carriage at the gate.

“Words cannot express what I owe you,” said Malcolm,
when he gave her his hand at parting, “but of this be assured,
so long as I live you have in me a friend and brother.”
Turning back for a moment, he added, “This flight
is, I know, unnecessary, for I could prevent to-morrow's
expected event in other ways than this, but revenge is
sweet, and I trust I am excusable for taking it in my own
way.”

Anna could not speak, but the look of deep gratitude
which beamed from her eyes was far more eloquent than
words. Upon the broad piazza 'Lena stood until the last
faint sound of the carriage wheels died away; then, weary
and worn, she sought her room, locking Anna's door as
she passed it, and placing the key in her pocket. Softly
she crept to bed by the side of her slumbering grandmother,
and with a fervent prayer for the safety of the
fugitives, fell asleep.