MAGNOLIA PARK.
Thirty years before our story opens, Magnolia Park was one of the finest
places in middle Florida. But after the death of Mrs. Hetherton, who had
been born and married there, and who spent a part of every winter in her
old home, there was no one left to care particularly for it, as Mr.
Hetherton had lands enough of his own to look after. So the place began
to go down, and when the war swept like a wave of fire over the South,
it was left tenantless and unprotected save by an old negro, Uncle Sim,
and his wife, Aunt Judy, who lived in the whitewashed cabin on the
grounds, paying no heed to the rumors of freedom which reached them from
time to time, as the terrible conflict between brother and brother went
on. They were as free as they ever wished to be, they said, and all they
asked was to be let alone and left to die on the old place. So they
staid, and did their best to guard the house of which they were so
proud, and which, at two different times, was made a kind of hotel for
the soldiery, who were scouring the country. A night and a day the Boys
in Blue halted there, carrying off whatever they conveniently could of
the many valuable articles with which the house was furnished, and one
of them, an officer, having a hand-to-hand fight with old Judy, who
tried to wrench from him a pair of silver candlesticks he was stuffing
in his pockets. He took away the candlesticks and also a black eye and a
bloody nose which Aunt Judy had given him as a memento of his stay at
Magnolia Park.
A week later, and a party of the Boys in Gray swooped down upon the
place and spent the night in the house and fed on Judy’s corn cakes and
bacon, and killed Uncle Sim’s big turkey, and turned the once handsome
rooms into barracks, but were prevented from committing as extensive
depredations as their predecessors had done simply because, aside from
the six-legged piano on which they pounded Dixie vigorously, and the
massive bedsteads and chairs and tables, there was little or nothing to
steal. Warned by the lesson learned from their first visitors, Sim and
Judy had dug a deep hole at the side of their cabin, and lining it with
blankets had filled it with the remaining valuables of the house; then,
covering them with another heavy blanket, they heaped dirt and sand upon
them, and built over the spot a rude hen-house, where several motherly
hens brooded over their young chickens. After this Sim and Judy lived in
comparative ease until the war was over and peace and quiet reigned once
more in Florida. Then the premises were let to a young Kentuckian, who
soon grew tired of his bargain, and gave it up, and the house was empty
again.
When Mr. Beresford first took charge of the Hetherton estate, he wrote
to Frederick, asking why he did not sell the Florida lands, which
yielded him nothing. But this Frederick would not do. Magnolia Park had
been his mother’s home, and a place where, as a boy, he had been very
happy; and, as he could afford to keep it, he wrote to that effect to
Mr. Beresford, telling him to let it if he could, and if not, to let it
alone. So Mr. Beresford let it alone, except when some one wished to
rent a few acres of the land, which was the case when Reinette decided
to go there. Then he wrote to the man whose plantation adjoined Magnolia
Park, telling him that a daughter of the late Mr. Hetherton was about to
visit Florida, and asking him to see that a few of the rooms were made
comfortable for her. Unfortunately this letter was miscarried or lost,
so that Reinette’s arrival was wholly unexpected, and produced the
utmost consternation in the whitewashed cabin, where Uncle Sim and Judy
were taking their evening meal, and feeding the four dogs hanging around
them.
Queenie had traveled night and day until she reached the station at
Tallahassee, where she took a carriage for Magnolia Park, a distance of
two or three miles. The day was drawing to a close, and the sun was just
setting when they turned off from the highway into the road, which wound
through the fields for a quarter of a mile or more up to the house.
“Dat’s ’em; dat’s the place,” said the driver, whose name was Boston,
and he pointed to a huge wooden building standing upon a little rise of
ground and surrounded by tall magnolias.
Once it must have been a little paradise, but now it was stripped of all
its glory, and stood there desolate and dreary, with the paint all
washed from its walls and the lights broken from the lower windows,
while here and there a door was gone, and the shutters hung by one
hinge, or swung loosely in the wind.
Involuntarily Queenie held out her hand to Axie, who took it in her
strong palm, and said, encouragingly:
“It may be better inside. Anyway, I can soon fix it up, and the
situation is lovely.”
Attracted by the sound of wheels, the four dogs now came rushing down
the road, barking so furiously that Queenie turned pale with fright, and
clung closer to Axie. But when the noisy pack saw Boston, whom they
knew, their barking changed into whines of recognition, which brought
Uncle Sim and Aunt Judy round the corner of the house, where the latter
stopped, and with her hands on her fat hips eyed the strangers
curiously,
“Somebody gwine to visit Miss Strong, most likely; but why did Boston
fetch ’em here?” she thought.
But when Queenie alighted, and going up to her told her that she was
Miss Hetherton, granddaughter of Miss Lucy Marshall, who used to live at
Magnolia Park, and that she had come to stay, her consternation knew no
bounds, and while dropping a courtesy to Queenie, and saying to her,
“An’ sho’ you’re welcome, miss,” she was thinking to herself, “For de
dea’ Lord’s sake, whatever ’ll I do wid sich quality as dis, and whar
’ll I put her? There ain’t a room in de whole house fit for a nigger or
a cracker to sleep in. An’ she’s de real stuff dat ladies is made of.
Can’t cheat dis chile.”
“Honey,” she said at last to Queenie, who was looking ruefully around
her. “I’s no whar to ax you to sit down jes dis minute but in my cabin,
whar I done scoured the flo’ dis blessed day. If I had known you’re
comin’ I’d done somethin’.”
Queenie explained that a letter had been sent to some one announcing her
expected visit, and added, with a little shiver, “Let me go to your
cabin. I am very tired and chilly.”
So Aunt Judy led the way to her quarters, which were as neat and clean
as soap and water and her strong hands could make them. A pine knot was
blazing on the hearth, diffusing a delightful degree of light and warmth
through the room, and Queenie felt better and less desolate than when
standing outside in the chill twilight, which had succeeded the warm
spring day. Before entering the cabin, Axie, accompanied by Sim and
Judy, made the tour of the house, deciding at once that to pass the
night in that damp, cheerless place, was utterly impossible. Queenie
might have gone to town and staid at a hotel until something like
decency and cleanliness was restored to a few of the rooms, but Boston
had left, and there was no alternative but to sleep in Judy’s cabin.
This, however, Queenie did not mind. Reared as she had been in France,
she had none of the American prejudice against the African race, and ate
her hot corncake which Aunt Judy baked for her, and drank her coffee
from Judy’s cups, with almost as keen a relish, as she had ever dined at
the Meurice. Once, indeed, as she remembered Chateau des Fleurs, and
Hetherton Place, and then glanced at her humble surrounding there came a
great lump in her throat, and her hands involuntarily struck the air as
if to thrust something from her. But she meant to be very brave, and
when at last she was lifted by Aunt Judy into the clean, comfortable
bed, which had been made for her upon the low kitchen table, she fell
asleep almost immediately, and knew nothing more until the morning sun
was shining in at the open door, and she heard Axie and Judy outside
consulting together about the propriety of waking her.
Greatly refreshed with her night’s rest Queenie felt better and decided
that the place was not so bad, after all; but a close inspection of the
premises after breakfast convinced her that, for the present at least,
she must seek quarters elsewhere. Rooms there were in abundance, and
furniture, but everything had gone to decay; everything was moldy and
worm-eaten, and smelled of rats, and must and foul air. And still, as
Axie said, there were great capabilities in the place, and with a little
time and money, and a great deal of hard work, a portion of the house
could be made not only habitable, but very comfortable and attractive.
Meantime, Queenie must go away, for it was impossible for her to stay
there while the renovating process was going on. But where to go was a
question which troubled Queenie not a little, until Aunt Judy suggested
an idea to her by saying, “Thar’s Jacksonville on de river. Why not go
thar a spell? Heaps of de gentry from de Noff is thar, and a sight of
mighty fine dresses at dem grand hotels. Jacksonville is a mighty big
city—bigger dan New York, I reckon.”
Queenie had heard of Jacksonville, and she at once seized upon Judy’s
suggestion as something practicable. She would go to that winter
Saratoga of the South and see what it was like. Possibly she might be
amused with what she saw, and so the pain at her heart be lessened a
little. She would go that very day, she said, for she was full of a
burning restlessness and desire for change. But Judy, who knew something
of the running of the trains, told her it was then too late; she must
wait until the next day, and pass another night upon the kitchen table.
From this, however Queenie was saved, for, while they were speaking,
they caught the sound of wheels, and, shading her eyes with her hands,
Aunt Judy saw entering the park a carriage with a lady in it. “Dar’s
Miss Strong from de Homestead,” she exclaimed. “She’s de ole Govenor’s
darter and de fustest lady in dese parts. Got a head full of brains, and
writes for all de papers in de land. She be comen here, sho’-nuf.” And
Judy was right, for Boston had stopped at the Homestead the previous
night, and had told of the young lady—Miss Hetherton—whom he had brought
to Magnolia Park. Mrs. Strong remembered well the tall, handsome boy,
Frederick Hetherton, who, when she was a child, had passed a winter at
the Park, which was then one of the finest places in the State. She
remembered, too, the stately lady, his mother, who had more than once
dined at the Homestead, and she had no doubt that the young girl of whom
Boston told her, was the granddaughter of that lady, and daughter of the
boy Frederick. But why had she come to Magnolia Park so late in the
season, and how was she to exist, even for a day, in that dilapidated,
forsaken spot?
“I will go to see her at once and bring her home with me,” was Mrs.
Strong’s first thought, upon which she acted immediately.
Introducing herself to Queenie, who advanced to meet her as she
descended from her carriage, she said:
“If I mistake not, you are the daughter of Frederick Hetherton, whom I
knew when I was a little girl. Though several years older than myself,
he was very kind to me, and I have spent hours with him under the shadow
of these trees and those in the grounds of my own home.”
The mention of her father by one who had seen and known him brought the
hot tears at once to Queenie’s eyes, but she dashed them aside, and
explaining that Frederick Hetherton was her father, she led Mrs. Strong
into the house, and sitting down beside her, answered as well as she
could the questions which her visitor put to her concerning her home in
Paris and her father’s sad death on shipboard.
“I had heard something of this before,” Mrs. Strong said to her, “for
the lawyer who has charge of your father’s affairs at the North wrote to
a friend of mine who is supposed to look after the estate, that it now
belonged to a young lady, the only direct heir of the Hethertons. It is
rather a sorry place for a young girl to come to, but I suppose you do
not intend remaining here long.”
“Yes; always; I have no other home,” Queenie replied, and her voice was
choked with tears which she fought bravely back.
Mrs. Strong was a kind-hearted, far-seeing woman, and as she studied
this girl, scarcely older than her own daughter Nina, whom she somewhat
resembled, she felt strangely drawn toward her, and felt, too, that over
her young life some terrible storm had swept.
“I will not ask her what it is,” she thought, “but I’ll be a friend to
her, as I should wish some woman to befriend my Nina were she here alone
with those strange attendants.”
Then she said:
“I think I heard that Mr. Hetherton’s wife died in Rome, years ago. It
must have been at your birth.”
For a moment Queenie sat as rigid as if turned into stone, her fists
clinched, and her eyes staring at Mrs. Strong, who looked at her
wonderingly. Then a tremor ran through her frame, and she shook from
head to foot.
“Oh, I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” she cried, at last. “My head
will burst if I keep it. I must tell you the truth; you seem so good and
kind, and I want a friend so much. Mother did not die in Rome—that was
Margery’s mother; mine is still alive, and I had no right to be born.”
Then, amid bursts of tears and broken sobs, Queenie told her story from
beginning to end—from Chateau des Fleurs down to Magnolia Park, where
she had come to hide from all who had ever known her. Had Queenie tried,
she could not have found a more sympathizing listener to her recital,
and when it was finished, Mrs. Strong’s tears flowed almost as freely as
her own, as she took the young girl in her arms, and kissing her
lovingly, tried to comfort and reassure her, while at the same time she
administered a little reproof.
“I think you should have staid with Margery,” she said; “but since you
are here, we will do the best we can for you. And now you must go home
with me and stay until some of these rooms are made comfortable for
you.”
But to this Queenie objected. She had a great desire to see
Jacksonville, she said, and was going there for two weeks or more.
“Jacksonville, and alone,” Mrs Strong repeated, and Queenie replied that
Axie was going with her to see her settled, and then leave her with
Pierre, while she returned to the Park to superintend the renovating
process.
“There can be no harm in that, can there?” she asked, and Mrs. Strong
replied:
“Oh, no, it is not an unheard-of thing for ladies to be at the hotel
alone, but I think they usually have some acquaintances there, and you
have none. If, however, you insist upon going, I shall write to the
proprietor of the St. James to have a care over you, and also to some
friends of mine, residents in town, whose attentions and friendship will
be of great service to you, and shield you from the curious, gossiping
ones who are to be found everywhere, and especially at large hotels.
_Cats_, I call them, for they partake largely of the nature of that
treacherous animal, smooth and purring if you stroke them the right way,
but biting and scratching if you do not. There are plenty of them at the
St. James, I dare say, but I think I can keep you from their claws, if
you will go. Possibly the change may do you good. It will amuse you, at
all events. But you must spend to-day and to-night with me; and
to-morrow, if you still insist, you can take the train for
Jacksonville.”
To this plan Queenie assented, and spent the day and night at Mrs.
Strong’s, and the next morning started with Pierre and Axie for the St.
James Hotel.