MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK WITH HER MAID DINAH.
At length the day arrived on which Martha Hart was to make her entry
into the great world. The hour was so early that you could scarcely see
a streak of rose in the east; nothing but a pale flush, which shone like
a smile across the apple trees dripping with dew, and the purple lilac
plumes that crowned the bushes in front of the house.
They had taken breakfast by candle-light—a usual custom in that thrifty
household; so there was sadness, but none of that dreary look of
discomfort which usually accompanies a departure at early dawn.
Every thing was ready: Martha’s compact trunk and band-box, in its
calico case, with a basket filled with cakes, a wedge of cheese, and
some dried beef, stood together, ready for the wagon, to which the hired
man was “hitching up his horses” back of the house.
Dinah, that subtle politician and strong-minded woman, had prevailed on
the chest question, and sat upon her property, grim and triumphant, like
a general in the midst of a victorious encampment. By her side stood
Lizzy, rubbing both sets of knuckles into her eyes, and only taking them
away, when Dinah became unbearably pathetic, to shake off the drops and
plant them on duty again.
There was a certain tenderness in Dinah’s injunctions that made all
Lizzy’s better nature overflow, like a pool in which a stone has been
cast, but which Dinah held in check, ashamed of such ignoble weakness.
Daniel Hart stood by the window, with his daughter clinging to his arm.
He was very grave, even sad, at the thought of her departure. Never yet
had it been well with those of his family who went forth from that quiet
homestead into the bustling world. He could date poor Hetty’s pale
cheeks, and Sarah’s uneven spirit, from the time of their return from
the city where his only child was so eager to hasten.
“You will write to me very soon, child?”
“Yes, father. Oh, I am almost sorry to go! Only say one word, and I will
stay at home and send for Gillian to visit us this summer instead.”
“No, no: your mind is set on going, and it will not be kind to
disappoint your cousin. Come back with the same honest, light heart you
take away, and I don’t care.”
“Why, what do you mean, father? of course I shall, and lighter too, for
I shall have seen the world.”
Daniel Hart shook his head. The past, which was ever uppermost in his
mind, brought before his sight two girlish faces, both handsome, yet
totally unlike in their loveliness. He recollected those two faces, so
changed by sickness, toil, or sorrow, he never knew which, that those
who loved them best would scarce have recognized his sisters again.
“Well, well, we shall see,” he said, half-aloud. “Only come back as
wholesome and happy as you are now, and I shall be satisfied.”
Martha’s head drooped upon his arm, and for a few moments they stood in
silence, each occupied with thoughts different as though an ocean had
rolled between them.
Meanwhile Dinah was busy giving her last directions to the youthful Liz,
who stood, with her hair in wild commotion and her eyes rolling
incessantly, confused by the varied orders which the old woman poured
volubly forth.
“Ye sees, Liz, dis is de most ’portant ’vent ob yer resistance; you’s
gwine to hab de control ob dis ’stablishment; for any pusson dat comes
to help wash and sich like, ’ill only be supernumerums. Now, Liz, mind
what I tells you; get de dinners good, don’t nibble at de doughnuts, and
don’t stick your fingers in de cream and ’suade ’em it’s de cat.”
“Oh, I didn’t, never!” ejaculated Liz, with her most innocent face.
“That ain’t neither here nor thar,” replied Dinah, waving her hand
majestically; “I isn’t retruding de past: I’se counselin’ for de futur’.
Be a good gal, and de Lord ’ill bless you! Ef any o’ them ornary niggers
at de corner ’quires about me, jest say I hab gone to visit Miss
Bentley, down in York—dat’s all.”
“Yes, Dinah,” faltered Liz, quite awed by the grandeur of this last
announcement.
“And now, Liz, I’se goin’ to trust a solumcholy duty to you.”
“Oh, my!” groaned Lizzie. “Don’t!”
“Yes, I is, chil’; and I hopes you’ll be wordy on it, little as you is,”
repeated Dinah, rising majestically from her chest, and fitting the
heavy key into the padlock, which opened with a clang.
“Yes, I’se gwine to trust to your ’scretion, Liz, and gib into yer own
hans de ’heritance ob yer forefaders, though what der was on ’em ’sides
de indervideral afore yer wasn’t of no ’count, any how!”
Here Dinah lifted the lid of her chest and drew forth the black tea-pot,
the pewter cream-cup, and an old white satin slipper, which she sat
reverently down while securing the clamps of her chest again.
“Now, Lizzie,” she said, remounting her throne, and wielding the slipper
as if it had been a symbol of authority, while the cream-cup and its
companion lay in her lap—“now, Lizzie, ye sees dose tings: dey ’longed
to yer grandad when he was a likely young nigger, an’ had de honor ob
marryin’ de indervideral as is afore yer. Dat is, dey was de settin’ out
she brought to him wid her fair self, as he wud say when he had drunk up
the valley of a day’s washin’ in strong whiskey afore we detired to our
connuberal couch. Liz, yer grandad wud drink, but he alers did it like a
gemman, and dat’s why I rev’rentializes his mem’ry as I dus. Now, Liz, I
prizes dese sacrum tings for de sake ob de dead and berried; for when he
lay in dem delirum trumphants dat tuk him off, I ’ministered his last
drink out of dis ’dentical cup. Oh, Lizzie! it was a solumneous moment
when he guv up de ghost!”
“Oh, don’t—don’t!” cried Liz, screwing the two little black fists into
her eyes, and writhing to and fro. “It scares me to hear about dead
folks and their ghosts!”
“Be imposed, Lizzie—be imposed; it is sich tings as makes de soul de
more fit for de glory ob hebben. Dere he lay on his pillar, wid both
eyes wide open; an’ ses he, ‘Dinah;’ an’ I said—
“‘My lub.’
“Den he say agin, ‘Dinah;’ and I say, ‘What is ’em, honey?’ Den he says
agin, ‘Dinah, do yer lub me?’ and ses I, ‘Yes, Jube, I lubs yer yet, if
yer does drink ter much; for I ’members ole times, Jube;’ and den, Liz,
de tears choke me, an’ I coul’n’t say de rest as I wanted ter.
“When yer grandad sees dat, he ris up on his elber, and ses he—
“‘Dinah, kiss me!’ an’ I kiss ’em. Den he ses, ‘Dinah, kiss me ’gin,’
an’ I kiss ’em ’gin. Den, Liz, he fell back and die wid a smile on him
count’nance.”
“Oh! oh!” sobbed Lizzie; “poor grandad—poor, ole grandad!”
“Ole!” exclaimed Dinah, indignantly. “Ole! Jube wasn’t but just a grown
man when he died, an’ never would a been of no ’count, no how; so hush
up an’ ’tend to what I’se a sayin’ ’bout dis ’portant trust. Dis cup an’
de tea-pot, ’memorations of my connuberal ferlicity, I’se gwine ter guv
you to keep, an’ I want you to be faithless.”
“Oh, I will—I will,” sobbed Lizzie. “I hope ole Scratch ’ll get me by
the wool if I don’t.”
Here Lizzie held out her reverential hands, and Dinah placed the
precious relics therein, keeping the slipper for another lecture.
“Now, Liz, you see dis shoe: it ’longed ter Miss Sarah arter she was
married. I ’spect she’d took ’em inter de house ob Satan, an’ danced in
’em by de mark on de side; but dey was left ahind when she went ’broad,
an’ I tuk ’session. Now, Liz, when we gits inter de wag—de carriage I
means—yer take dis white shoe and shie it arter us jes as far as yer kin
fling. Does yer comprehension, Liz?”
“Yes, yes—I know it’s luck; I’ll do it, golly! Won’t I guv it a shie!
Never ye fear, granny!”
“I’se ’joiced to see yer can comprehensionate ’structions,” said Dinah,
adding the satin slipper to the relics which Lizzie huddled together in
her arms. “Now, Liz——”
But that moment the rattle of wheels came round the house, and Martha
ran to the door, crying out nervously,
“Oh, Dinah, the wagon is ready,” and turning to her father, she flung
both arms around his neck and wept aloud.
“Hollo, hurry up!” shouted the hired man, driving the wagon round with a
dash, and cracking his whip at Liz.
Liz gave a leap and a cry, stumbled, tried to recover herself, and fell
crash upon the relics of her grandmother’s domestic felicity. There she
lay flat upon the stoop, with those treasures crushed under her, and her
great, wild eyes turned imploringly on Dinah, who stood above her in
speechless wrath. Liz made an effort to get up and scamper away, but she
only whirled over and gathered herself into a dusky ball, from which a
pair of scared eyes rolled in every direction.
While Dinah’s eyes were turned away for an instant, the frightened
creature began to feel for the broken pieces. First she fished out a
fragment of the tea-pot, with the handle broken in two, which she tucked
under herself again instantaneously. Then she drew forth the milk-cup,
and her poor features began to tremble like a jelly between fear and
fun, for it was crushed into a pewter cocked-hat, and the sight brought
a giggle into her groans. But Dinah, instead of flying into a rage, as
Martha had expected, stood perfectly silent, looking down upon the
culprit with a solemn gravity that made Liz creep backward till the
walls of the house stopped her progress; then starting wildly up, she
gave one leap round the corner and disappeared, like a frightened hound,
bearing the pewter relic with her, but leaving the crushed tea-pot
behind.
“I didn’t go to do it. It dropped,” she shouted back.
Dinah looked after her without a movement of the face.
“Why, Dinah,” said the young mistress, suppressing a laugh, while the
tears still trembled in her eyes, “you take it like a Christian. I
thought you would have been furious.”
Dinah turned solemnly toward her, and, giving both hands a gentle
spread, replied:
“’Tain’t no use—I can’t find no words to ’spress my feelin’s. Preachin’
couldn’t do ’em justice,” and, folding her arms, Dinah sat quietly down
on her chest, and even moved aside meekly when the man came to lift it
into the wagon. She really had no language in which to express her
indignation.
Daniel Hart lifted his daughter’s trunk into the wagon, settled the
basket of eatables under the seat, and came back to the porch again.
“Come, darter, every thing is ready,” he said, looking sorrowfully into
his child’s face.
She would have thrown her arms around him again, but he lifted her
gently into the wagon, put a little black wallet into her hands with a
whisper to make herself fine as the best of ’em, and turned away.
Dinah clambered up the hind-wheel rather indignant that she also was not
lifted to her place, and, seating herself grimly on the chest, was ready
at any moment to enter upon the fashionable career which she felt to be
her destiny.
Just as they were driving off, a white satin slipper came flying after
them, and the face of naughty Liz was thrust round the corner.
After the slipper came a half-scared shout of,
“Good-by, granny—good-by, and luck,” finished off by,
“Oh! golly, golly, now won’t I have my own way?—oh! won’t I?”
Dinah only heard the good-by, and her old heart melted when she saw the
shoe flying toward her like a bird of promise, so she deigned to wave
her hand.
Martha looked sadly back so long as her father could be seen in the
porch; then she had another good cry, and was inconsolable so long as
any familiar object remained in sight.
After a time Martha’s spirits rose almost as buoyant as before. She
chatted gayly with the farmer, and laughed heartily at Dinah’s words of
wisdom, for the old woman was in one of her most oracular moods, and
delivered her opinions freely upon every possible subject.
It was afternoon when they reached the river, where they found the small
steamer lying.
As Martha was passing along the dock, she found herself face to face
with John Downs, the young man who had driven her uncle and cousin to
her father’s house, and who, in truth, had chanced that way more than
once since. The young girl blushed like a rose at this encounter.
“Well, if it ain’t Miss Hart!” he exclaimed, flushing up to the temples
with a bashful joy, which made his brown face really handsome. “Won’t
you shake hands with a fellow? How’s your father and that handsome
cousin of yours?”
“All well,” Martha said, extending her hand, which he grasped with
unconscious force in his strong fingers. “Are you going down the river?”
“Well, yes,” he said, hesitatingly; “I don’t exactly——”
“I am going to New York to visit my cousin.”
“And I am going to York, too,” he replied, brightening up wonderfully.
“I say, Downs,” said one of the men, approaching at that moment, “you’re
a-goin’ to Sing Sing, ain’t you?”
“No, I’m going to York.”
“Why you said yesterday——”
“’Tisn’t of the least consequence what I said yesterday. I say now I’m
going to the city.”
Before an hour was over, they were comfortably established on the deck
of the steamer, and gliding smoothly out into the river.
Martha and John Downs stood by the cabin door in pleasant conversation;
while Dinah had established herself on her chest, spreading her skirt
carefully over the huge padlock, and looking grimly at every one who
happened to approach her. It was some time before she could feel really
at ease concerning the safety of her possessions; and it was not until
the captain assured her that he would himself keep his eye upon them,
that she could be induced to stir from her perch long enough to see the
cabin.
It was well for Martha’s peace of mind that she knew little of the
world, and that no other passengers were on board, or Dinah’s attire
might have caused her some uneasiness. The old woman had arrayed herself
in a skirt of pressed flannel, below which peeped out a quilted
petticoat; above all was a gown of red merino, fastened by a broad,
green ribbon; and on her head she wore a huge coal-scuttle bonnet,
miraculously trimmed and decorated with a long, green vail that was
drawn on one side, and flaunted like a streamer in the wind.
She carried a huge bag of eatables—her own private stock—which might
have served for a sea-voyage, but nothing could induce her to believe
there was more than enough—indeed she had great fears that they might
fall short, and suffer shipwreck and famine on that perilous voyage.
“Besides,” she reflected, “if there’s any left, Miss Gillian ’ll be
mighty glad to eat a hum-made pie. ’Tain’t likely them fangled city
niggers feed her with sich like dainties as her mother was brought up
on.”
After these arguments had been repeated once or twice, Martha gave up
the contest; and Dinah, triumphant as usual, took full charge of the
commissary department, only disturbing the young people now and then
with offers of sandwiches and drop-cakes, which they invariably refused.
In fact, it breaks my heart to record it, but young Downs and Martha,
much to Dinah’s disgust, always selected those corners of the deck most
remote from her chest and the best sheltered angles and bulwarks. Once
that very correct woman was scandalized by the momentary glimpse of a
plump, brown hand clasped in that of the young farmer—a hand so
marvellously like that of her young mistress that, in her position as
chaperone, she felt it her duty to step down and see what it was all
about. But, when she reached that quarter of the deck where the young
people had been, Martha was leaning demurely over the bulwarks, looking
for the rose-tints that always settled on the river at sunset, she had
been told. As for young Downs, he stood a couple of yards off, with both
arms folded behind him, examining the make of the steamer, as if he had
been a ship-builder, and intended to carry off her model in his mind.
Dinah was not quite satisfied with this state of things, and sniffed the
air in a disaffected way, resolved to be more vigilant in her watch.
Firm in this virtuous resolve, she was looking for a seat, when one of
the sailors mounted on her chest, and began sacrilegiously to beat his
heels against its front till the padlock rattled again.
Dinah could not stand this, but darted off on a short run to dislodge
the enemy.
Directly after Dinah had retreated, Downs also became curious to watch
imaginary rose-tints settle on the river, and drew close to Martha’s
side, searching for them in her downcast eyes. The young fellow was
somewhat troubled in his mind about several matters, and, being a frank,
generous soul, spoke out like a man as he was.
“You have got a rich uncle down in York, Miss Martha?”
How did the fellow find out her name was Martha? Had she told him
because Miss Hart sounded so formal?
“Yes,” she answered, with a little sparkle of pride, “I believe uncle is
very rich indeed. They tell me he lives in splendid style. Gillian has a
carriage and footman, and every thing all to herself; the house is large
enough for a hotel, and only two of them; besides——”
“And plenty of beaux visit there, I suppose—handsome young fellows, who
dress like lords, and talk like books?” questioned the young man, in a
dissatisfied way.
“Oh, I think it very likely. Gillian is beautiful, and loves company.”
“And you—do you love that kind of company, Miss Martha?”
“Me? Oh, indeed! how can I tell? I, who never in my life saw a man that
looked like a lord and talked like a book, except it may be my Uncle
Bentley.”
“But you will meet those men at your uncle’s; nothing is more likely.”
“Well, what then? I only hope they will be half as nice as Uncle
Bentley, and it will be pleasant enough.”
Downs took off his hat and began to wave it to and fro before his face,
which was hot with uneasy, jealous thoughts. What chance had he—a rough,
homespun farmer—against the people this young girl would soon be thrown
among? It seemed a desperate venture; but he was brave as well as
honest. The love which filled his heart left its fire on his cheek, and
its tenderness in his voice, but it was prompt as truth.
“One word, Miss Martha, before we part; for the smoke which rises yonder
comes from New York, and that which seems a forest of dead trees, away
off, is the shipping you have heard of. One word, and then, come what
will, I have acted like an honest man, and said my say. I love you with
my whole heart. Have I any chance against those men who will swarm
around you like humming-birds about a wild honeysuckle?”
Martha was silent. She had given one little start and drawn a quick
breath at his first words, and now stood, in a tumult of mute bliss,
gazing on the water. It was not sunset; but rose-tints, brighter than
the sky ever sent, danced over the waves, and all the depths were rich
with the purple glow which first-love casts over every thing.
“Will you not speak to me?” whispered the young man, touching her
hand—“will you not speak to me?”
“I cannot,” she answered, in a deeper and sweeter whisper—“I cannot. My
heart is too full. The very air makes me giddy.”
He stooped down and looked into her eyes. Her face was close to his, and
he saw her lips tremble, like the leaves of a red rose when the dew
drops away from its heart.
But, for the universe he could not have kissed those lips, or gazed long
into those troubled eyes. He would as soon have shot a dove on its nest.
No; a coarser man might have been tempted to these things by her fresh
youth; but he only took her hand softly in his, and they stood trembling
together, while the sunset stole pleasantly over them, brightening the
distance with gold.