University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
'LENA.

For many days the storm continued. Highways were
blocked up, while roads less frequented were rendered
wholly impassable. The oldest inhabitants of Oakland had
“never seen the like before,” and they shook their gray
heads ominously as over and adown the New England
mountains the howling wind swept furiously, now shrieking
exultingly as one by one the huge forest trees bent
before its power, and again dying away in a low, sad wail,
as it shook the casement of some low-roofed cottage,
where the blazing fire, “high piled upon the hearth,”
danced merrily to the sound of the storm-wind, and then
whirling in fantastic circles, disappeared up the broad-mouthed
chimney.

For nearly a week there was scarcely a sign of life in
the streets of Oakland, but at the end of that time the
storm abated, and the December sun, emerging from its
dark-hiding place, once more looked smilingly down upon
the white, untrodden snow, which covered the earth for
miles and miles around. Rapidly the roads were broken;
paths were made on the narrow sidewalk, and then the
villagers bethought themselves of their mountain neighbors,
who might perchance have suffered from the severity
of the storm. Far up the mountain side in an old yellow
farm-house, which had withstood the blasts of many a

winter, lived Grandfather and Grandmother Nichols, as
they were familiarly called, and ere the sun-setting, arrangements
were made for paying them a visit.

Oakland was a small rural village, nestled among rocky
hills, where the word fashion was seldom heard, and where
many of the primitive customs of our forefathers still prevailed.
Consequently, neither the buxom maidens, nor
the hale old matrons, felt in the least disgraced as they
piled promiscuously upon the four-ox sled, which erelong
was moving slowly through the mammoth drifts which lay
upon the mountain road. As they drew near the farm-house,
they noticed that the blue paper curtains which
shaded the windows of Grandma Nichols' “spare room,”
were rolled up, while the faint glimmer of a tallow candle
within, indicated that the room possessed an occupant.
Who could it be? Possibly it was John, the proud man,
who lived in Kentucky, and who, to please his wealthy
bride, exchanged the plebeian name of Nichols, for that
of Livingstone, which his high-born lady fancied was more
aristocratic in its sounding!

“And if it be John,” said the passengers of the ox sled,
with whom that gentleman was no great favorite, “if it
be John, we'll take ourselves home as fast as ever we
can.”

Satisfied with this resolution, they kept on their way,
until they reached the wide gateway, where they were met
by Mr. Nichols, whose greeting they fancied was less cordial
than usual. With a simple “how d'ye do,” he led the
way into the spacious kitchen, which answered the treble
purpose of dining-room, sitting-room, and cook-room.
Grandma Nichols, too, appeared somewhat disturbed, but
she met her visitors with an air which seemed to say, she
was determined to make the best of her trouble, whatever
it might be.

The door of the “spare room” was slightly ajar, and
while the visitors were disrobing, one young girl, more
curious than the rest, peered cautiously in, exclaiming as
she did so, “Mother! mother! Helena is in there on the
bed, pale as a ghost.”

“Yes, Heleny is in there,” interrupted Grandma Nichols,
who overheard the girl's remark. “She got hum the fust
night of the storm, and what's queerer than all, she's been
married better than a year.”

“Married! Married! Helena married! Who to?
Where's her husband?” asked a dozen voices in the same
breath.

Grandfather Nichols groaned as if in pain, and his wife,
glancing anxiously toward the door of her daughter's
room, said in reply to the last question, “That's the worst
on't. He was some grand rascal, who lived at the suthard,
and come up here to see what he could do. He thought
Heleny was handsome, I s'pose, and married her, making
her keep it still because his folks in Car'lina wouldn't like
it. Of course he got sick of her, and jest afore the baby
was born he gin her five hundred dollars and left her.”

A murmur of surprise ran round the room, accompanied
with a look of incredulity, which Grandma Nichols quickly
divined, and while her withered cheek crimsoned at the
implied disgrace, she added in an elevated tone of voice,
“It's true as the Bible. Old Father Blanchard's son, that
used to preach here, married them, and Heleny brought
us a letter from him, saying it was true. Here 'tis,—read
it yourselves, if you don't b'lieve me;” and she drew from
a side drawer a letter, on the back of which, the villagers
recognized the well remembered handwriting of their
former pastor.

This proof of Helena's innocence was hardly relished
by the clever gossips of Oakland, for the young girl, though

kind-hearted and gentle, was far too beautiful to be a general
favorite. Mothers saw in her a rival for their daughters,
while the daughters looked enviously upon her clear,
white brow, and shining chestnut hair, which fell in wavy
curls about her neck and shoulders. Two years before
our story opens, she had left her mountain home to try the
mysteries of millinery in the city, where a distant relative
of her mother was living. Here her uncommon beauty
attracted much attention, drawing erelong to her side a
wealthy young southerner, who, just freed from the restraints
of college life, found it vastly agreeable making
love to the fair Helena. Simple-minded, and wholly unused
to the ways of the world, she believed each word he
said, and when at last he proposed marriage, she not only
consented, but also promised to keep it a secret for a time,
until he could in a measure reconcile his father, who he
feared might disinherit him for wedding a penniless bride.

“Wait, darling, until he knows you,” said he, “and
then he will gladly welcome you as his daughter.”

Accordingly, one dark, wintry night, when neither
moon nor stars were visible, Helena stole softly from her
quiet room at Mrs. Warren's, and in less than an hour
was the lawful bride of Harry Rivers, the wife of the
clergyman alone witnessing the ceremony.

“I wish I could take you home at once,” said young
Rivers, who was less a rascal than a coward; “I wish I
could take you home at once, but it cannot be. We must
wait awhile.”

So Helena went back to Mrs. Warren's, where for a few
weeks she staid, and then saying she was going home, she
left and became the mistress of a neat little cottage which
stood a mile or two from the city. Here for several
months young Rivers devoted himself entirely to her happiness,
seeming to forget that there was aught else in the

world save his “beautiful 'Lena,” as he was won't to call
her. But at last there came a change. Harry seemed
sad, and absent-minded, though ever kind to Helena, who
strove in vain to learn the cause of his uneasiness.

One morning when, later than usual, she awoke, she
missed him from her side; and on the table near her lay
a letter containing the following:—

There was one bitter cry of hopeless anguish, and when
Helena Rivers again awoke to perfect consciousness, she
lay in a darkened room, soft footsteps passed in and out,
kind faces, in which were mingled pity and reproach, bent
anxiously over her, while at her side lay a little tender
thing, her infant daughter, three weeks old. And now
there arose within her a strong desire to see once more
her childhood's home, to lay her aching head upon her
mother's lap, and pour out the tale of grief which was
crushing the life from out her young heart.

As soon, therefore, as her health would permit, she started
for Oakland, taking the precaution to procure from the
clergyman, who had married her, a letter confirming the
fact. Wretched and weary she reached her home at the
dusk of evening, and with a bitter cry fell fainting in the
arms of her mother, who having heard regularly from
her, never dreamed that she was elsewhere than in the
employ of Mrs. Warren. With streaming eyes and trembling
hands the old man and his wife made ready the
spare room for the wanderer, more than once blessing

the fearful storm which for a time, at least, would keep
away the prying eyes of those who, they feared, would
hardly credit their daughter's story.

And their fears were right, for many of those who visited
them on the night of which we have spoken, disbelieved
the tale, mentally pronouncing the clergyman's letter
a forgery, got up by Helena to deceive her parents.
Consequently, of the few who from time to time came to
the old farm-house, nearly all were actuated by motives
of curiosity, rather than by feelings of pity for the young
girl-mother, who, though feeling their neglect, scarcely
heeded it. Strong in the knowledge of her own innocence,
she lay day after day, watching and waiting for one
who never came. But at last, as days glided into weeks,
and weeks into months, hope died away, and turning wearily
upon her pillow, she prayed that she might die; and
when the days grew bright and gladsome in the warm
spring sun, when the snow was melted from off the mountain
tops, and the first robin's note was heard by the farm-house
door, Helena laid her baby on her mother's bosom,
and without a murmur glided down the dark, broad river,
whose deep waters move onward and onward, but
never return.

When it was known in Oakland that Helena was dead,
there came a reaction, and those who had been loudest in
their condemnation, were now the first to hasten forward
with offers of kindness and words of sympathy. But
neither tears nor regrets could recall to life the fair young
girl, who, wondrously beautiful even in death, slept calmly
in her narrow coffin, a smile of sadness wreathing her
lips, as if her last prayer had been for one who had robbed
her thus early of happiness and life. In the bright green
valley at the foot of the mountain, they buried her, and
the old father, as he saw the damp earth fall upon her

grave, asked that he too might die. But his wife, younger
by several years, prayed to live—live that she might protect
and care for the little orphan, who first by its young
mother's tears, and again by the waters of the baptismal
fountain, was christened Helena Rivers;—the 'Lena of
our story.