University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
DURWARD.

From place to place and from scene to scene Durward
had hurried, caring nothing except to forget, if possible,
the past, and knowing not where he was going, until he
at last found himself in Richmond, Virginia. This was
his mother's birth-place, and as several of her more distant
relatives were still living here, he determined to stop
for awhile, hoping that new objects and new scenes would
have some power to rouse him from the lethargy into
which he had fallen. Constantly in terror lest he should
hear of 'Lena's disgrace, which he felt sure would be published
to the world, he had, since his departure from Laurel
Hill, resolutely refrained from looking in a newspaper,
until one morning some weeks after his arrival at Richmond.

Entering a reading-room, he caught up the Cincinnati
Gazette, and after assuring himself by a hasty glance that
it did not contain what he so much dreaded to see, he sat
down to read it, paying no attention to the date, which
was three or four weeks back. Accidentally he cast his
eye over the list of arrivals at the Burnet House, seeing

among them the names of “Mr. H. R. Graham, and Miss
L. R. Graham, Woodford county, Kentucky!”

“Audacious! How dare they be so bold!” he exclaimed,
springing to his feet and tearing the paper in
fragments, which he scattered upon the floor.

“Considerable kind of uppish, 'pears to me,” said a
strange voice, having in its tone the nasal twang peculiar
to a certain class of Yankees.

Looking up, Durward saw before him a young man in
whose style of dress and freckled face we at once recognize
Joel Slocum. Wearying of Cincinnati, as he had before
done with Lexington, he had traveled at last to Virginia.
Remembering to have heard that his grandmother's
aunt had married, died, and left a daughter in Richmond,
he determined, if possible, to find some trace of
her. Accordingly, he had come on to that city, making
it the theater of his daguerrean operations. These alone
not being sufficient to support him, he had latterly turned
his attention to literary pursuits, being at present engaged
in manufacturing a book after the Sam Slick order,
which, to use his own expression, “he expected would
have a thunderin' sale.”

In order to sustain the new character which he had assumed,
he came every day to the reading-room, tumbling
over books and papers, generally carrying one of the former
in his hand, affecting an utter disregard of his personal
appearance, daubing his fingers with ink, wiping them on
the pocket of his coat, and doing numerous other things
which he fancied would stamp him a distinguished person.

On the morning of which we have spoken, Joel's attention
was attracted toward Durward, whose daguerreotype
he had seen at Maple Grove, and though he did not recognize
the original, he fancied he might have met him
before, and was about making his acquaintance, when

Durward's action drew from him the remark we have
mentioned. Thinking him to be some impertinent fellow,
Durward paid him no attention, and was about leaving,
when, hitching his chair a little nearer, Joel said, “Be
you from Virginny?”

“No.”

“From York state?”

“No.”

“From Pennsylvany?”

“No.”

“Mebby, then, you are from Kentucky?”

No answer.

“Be you from Kentucky?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know Mr. Graham's folks?”

“Yes,” said Durward, trembling lest the next should
be something concerning his step-father—but it was not.

Settling himself a little further back in the chair, Joel
continued: “Wall, I calkerlate that I'm some relation
to Miss Graham. Be you 'quainted with her?”

Durward knew that a relationship with Mrs. Graham
also implied a relationship with himself, and feeling a little
curious as well as somewhat amused, he replied, “Related
to Mrs. Graham! Pray how?”

“Why, you see,” said Joel, “that my grandmarm's
aunt—she was younger than grandmarm, and was her
aunt tew. Wall, she went off to Virginia to teach music,
and so married a nabob—know what that is, I s'pose; she
had one gal and died, and this gal was never heard from
until I took it into my head to look her up, and I've found
out that she was Lucy Temple. She married an Englishman,
first—then a man from South Carolina, who is now.
livin' in Kentucky, between Versailles and Frankfort.”

“What was your grandmother's aunt's name?” asked
Durward.

“Susan Howard, returned Joel. “The Howards were
a stuck-up set, grandmarm and all—not a bit like t'other
side of the family. My mother's name was Scovandyke—”

“And yours?” interrupted Durward.

“Is Joel Slocum, of Slocumville, Massachusetts, at your
service, sir,” said the young man, rising up and going
through a most wonderful bow, which he always used on
great occasions.

In a moment Durward knew who he was, and greatly
amused, he said, “Can you tell me, Mr. Slocum, what relation
this Lucy Temple, your great-great-aunt's daughter,
would be to you?”

“My third cousin, of course,” answered Joel. “I figgered
that out with a slate and pencil.”

“And her son, if she had one?”

“Would be my fourth cousin; no great connection, to
be sure—but enough to brag on, if they happened to be
smart!”

“Supposing I tell you that I am Lucy Temple's son?”
said Durward, to which Joel, not the least suspicious, replied,
“Wall, s'posin' you du; 'twon't make it so.”

“But I am, really and truly,” continued Durward.
“Her first husband was a Bellmont, and I am Durward
Bellmont, your fourth cousin, it seems.”

“Jehosiphat! If this ain't curis,” exclaimed Joel,
grasping Durward's hand. “How do you du, and how is
your marm. And do you know Helleny Rivers?”

Durward's brow darkened as he replied in the affirmative,
while Joel continued: “We are from the same
town, and used to think a sight of each other, but when
I seen her in Kentucky, I thought she'd got to be mighty
toppin'. Mebby, though, 'twas only my notion.”

Durward did not answer, and after a little his companion
said, “I suppose you know I sometimes take picters
for a livin'. I'm goin' to my office now, and if you'll come
with me I'll take yourn for nothin', bein' you're related.”

Mechanically, and because he had nothing else to do,
Durward followed the young man to his “office,” which
was a dingy, cheerless apartment in the fourth story of a
crazy old building. On the table in the center of the
room were several likenesses, which he carelessly examined.
Coming at last to a larger and richer case, he
opened it, but instantly it dropped from his hand, while
an exclamation of surprise escaped his lips.

“What's the row, old feller,” asked Joel, coming forward
and picking up the picture which Durward had recognized
as 'Lena Rivers.

“How came you by it?” said Durward eagerly, and
with a knowing wink, Joel replied, “I know, and that's
enough.”

“But I must know, too. It is of the utmost importance
that I know,” said Durward, and after a moment's
reflection, Joel answered: “Wall, I don't s'pose it'll do
any hurt if I tell you. When I was a boy I had a hankerin'
for 'Leny, and I didn't get over it after I was grown,
either, so a year or two ago I thought I'd go to Kentuck
and see her. Knowin' how tickled she and Mrs. Nichols
would be with a picter of their old home in the mountains,
I took it for 'em and started. In Albany I went to
see a family that used to live in Slocumville. The woman
was a gal with 'Leny's mother, and thought a sight of her.
Wall, in the chamber where they put me to sleep, was an
old portrait, which looked so much like 'Leny, that in the
mornin' I asked whose it was, and if you b'lieve me, 'twas
'Leny's mother! You know she married, or thought she
married, a southern rascal, who got her portrait taken and

then run off, and the picter, which in its day was an expensive
one, was sold to pay up. A few years afterward,
Miss Rice, the woman I was tellin' you about, came acrost
it, and bought it for a little or nothin' to remember Helleny
Nichols by. Thinks to me, nothin' can please 'Leny
better than a daguerreotype of her mother, so I out with
my apparatus and took it. But when I come to see that
they were as nigh alike as two peas, I hated to give it up,
for I thought it would be almost as good as lookin' at
'Leny. So I kept it myself, but I don't want her to know
it, for she'd be mad.”

“Did you ever take a copy of this for any one?”
asked Durward, a faint light beginning to dawn upon
him.

“What a feller to hang on,” answered Joel, “but bein'
I've started, I'll go it and tell the hull. One morning
when I was in Lexington, a gentleman came in, calling
himself Mr. Graham, and saying he wanted a copy of an
old mountain house which he had seen at Mr. Livingstone's.
Whilst I was gettin' it ready, he happened to
come acrost this one, and what is the queerest of all, he
like to fainted away. I had to throw water in his face
and everything. Bimeby he cum to, and says he,
`Where did you get that?' I told him all about it, and
then, layin' his head on the table, he groaned orfully, wipin'
off the thumpinest great drops of sweat, and kissin'
the picter as if he was crazy.”

“Mebby you knew Helleny Nichols?” says I.

“Knew her, yes,” says he, jumpin' up and walkin' the
room as fast.

“All to once he grew calm, just as though nothin' had
happened, and says he, `I must have that or one jest like it.'

“At first I hesitated, for I felt kinder mean always
about keepin' it, and I didn't want 'Leny to know I'd got

it. I told him so, and he said nobody but himself should
ever see it. So I took a smaller one, leavin' off the lower
part of the body, as the dress is old-fashioned, you see.
He was as tickled as a boy with a new top, and actually
forgot to take the other one of the mountain house.
Some months after, I came across him in Cincinnati. His
wife was with him, and I thought then that she looked
like Aunt Nancy. Wall, he went with me to my office,
and said he wanted another daguerreotype, as he'd lost
the first one. Now I'm pretty good at figgerin', and I've
thought that matter over until I've come to this conclusion—
that man—was—'Lena's father—the husband or
something of Helleny Nichols! But what ails you?
Are you faintin', too,” he exclaimed, as he saw the death-like
whiteness which had settled upon Durward's face and
around his mouth.

“Tell me more, everything you know,” gasped Durward.

“I have told you all I know for certain,” said Joel. “The
rest is only guess-work, but it looks plaguy reasonable.
'Leny's father, I've heard, was from South Car'lina—”

“So was Mr. Graham,” said Durward, more to himself
than to Joel, who continued, “And he's your step-father,
ain't he—the husband of Lucy Temple, my cousin?”

Durward nodded, and as a customer just then came in,
he arose to go, telling Joel he would see him again.
Alone in his room, he sat down to think of the strange
story he had heard. Gradually as he thought, his mind
went back to the time when Mr. Graham first came home
from Springfield. He was a little boy, then, five or six
years of age, but he now remembered many things calculated
to prove what he scarcely yet dared to hope. He
recalled Mr. Graham's preparations to return, when he
was taken suddenly ill. He knew that immediately after
his recovery he had gone northward. He remembered

how sad he had seemed after his return, neglecting to
play with him as had been his wont, and when to this he
added Joel's story, together with the singularity of his
father's conduct toward 'Lena, he could not fail to be convinced.

“She is innocent, thank heaven! I see it all now.
Fool that I was to be so hasty,” he exclaimed, his whole
being seeming to undergo a sudden change as the joyous
conviction flashed upon him.

In his excitement he forgot his promise of again seeing
Joel Slocum, and ere the sun-setting he was far on his
road home. Occasionally he felt a lingering doubt, as he
wondered what possible motive his father could have had
for concealment, but these wore away as the distance between
himself and Kentucky diminished. As the train
paused at one of the stations, he was greatly surprised at
seeing John Jr. among the crowd gathered at the depot.

“Livingstone, Livingstone, how came you here?”
shouted Durward, leaning from the open window.

The cars were already in motion, but at the risk of his
life John Jr. bounded upon the platform, and was soon
seated by the side of Durward.

You are a great one, ain't you?” said he. “Here I've
been looking for you all over christendom, to tell you the
news. You've got a new sister. Did you know it?”

“'Lena! Is it true? Is it 'Lena?” said Durward,
and John replied by relating the particulars as far as he
knew them, and ending by asking Durward if “he didn't
think he was sold!”

“Don't talk,” answered Durward. “I want to think,
for I was never so happy in my life.”

“Nor I either,” returned John Jr. “So if you please
you needn't speak to me, as I wish to think, too.”

But John Jr. could not long keep still; he must tell his

companion of his engagement with Nellie—and he did,
falling asleep soon after, and leaving Durward to his own
reflections.