HIGH FESTIVAL AT PINEY COVE.
On the shores of Long Island, where the ocean heaves in its wildest and
most crystalline surf, a small cove had broken itself into the slopes of
an irregular hill, after generations of beating storms and crumbling
earth, taking a crescent shape, and forming one of the most picturesque
bits of landscape to be found along the coast. The two points or
promontories that stretched their green arms to the ocean, were clothed
with thickly growing white pines, scattered with chestnuts, and a few
grand old oaks. The country sloped beautifully down to this bright sheet
of water, and swept around it in rocky points and broken groves, giving
glimpses of rich grass-land, more luxuriantly cultivated than is usual
to that portion of the island. As you looked on the scene from the
water, a house was visible on the hillside, and came in full view as the
shore was approached. It was a noble stone mansion, old as the hills,
people were used to say, and solid as their foundations. The house had
been a stately residence before the Revolution, and, without an
earthquake or a ton of powder, would remain such for a century to come.
Whatever the body of the house had been in the good old times, when
ornament was little thought of, it was now rendered picturesque by lofty
towers, and additional wings with oriel windows and carved balconies in
one direction; while the other wing clasped in a conservatory, of which
nothing could be seen from the distance but wave upon wave of rolling
crystal emerald, tinted like the ocean by the wealth of green plants
they covered.
This was the residence Grantley Mellen had inherited from a maternal
uncle just after his first struggle in life commenced. It was backed by
many a fruitful field and broad stretch of timber-land, which altogether
went under the title of Piney Cove.
Grantley Mellen, since he became possessed of the estate, had completed
the work his uncle commenced when he built the two grand towers, and a
more picturesque building could not well be imagined, with its broad
lawn, its clumps of forest trees, and that magnificent ocean view, which
was broken only by the pine groves on the two points.
This was by no means the only house visible from the cove. As you turned
the southern point, a village was seen down the coast; and about half
way between that and the pines was a wooden house, brown and
weather-beaten, standing unsheltered on the bleak shore. Back of this
house, shutting out all prospect but that of the ocean, was a tall
cliff, covered with ragged yellow pines and stunted cedars, from which
on stormy nights many a quivering flame had shot upward, luring ships to
their ruin. Still, with this grim protest against the name looming
behind it, the lonely old house was called "The Sailor's Safe Anchor,"
and was known all along the coast as a fishing-lodge and small tavern.
But once within the cove, you saw no sign of habitation save the mansion
house and its appurtenances.
Grantley Mellen had been some weeks at the cove, renovating and
preparing the house for the reception of his bride; for it was
understood that he intended henceforth to make it his permanent
residence. But the wedding-day was near, and he had gone up to the city,
leaving the last preparations to the care of a singular class of
household servants, one of his uncle's philanthropic importations from
the South, where he had owned a plantation, and emancipated all its
slaves except a half dozen, that would only accept liberty on condition
that they might follow the old man to his northern home.
Grantley had accepted this sable household with the general inheritance;
for, spoiled and pampered as family negroes are apt to be, they had
proved generally faithful and obedient.
Though a very reverential and submissive person when her master was
present, Clorinda, who had appointed herself housekeeper of the
establishment, was apt to get on to a very high horse indeed when there
was no superior authority to hold her in check; and, on this particular
occasion, she was absolutely what she declared herself--"chief cook and
bottle-washer."
This sable functionary was very busy two or three mornings before the
time set for her master's wedding, not only in the general preparations
for that event, but with a grand idea of her own, which she was
earnestly carrying into effect. If the house was going into the hands of
a new mistress, the colored persons of the establishment had resolved to
commemorate the event in advance with a grand entertainment.
To this end, Clorinda, who appointed herself lady patroness in general,
had betaken herself to Mr. Mellen's library with Caleb Benson, the
high-shouldered, bald-headed occupant of "The Sailor's Safe Anchor," and
the person whose prerogative it had been to supply fresh fish to the
family at Piney Cove. Besides this, he performed a good deal of work in
the grounds, and made himself generally useful.
This morning Benson had come up to the house at Miss Clorinda's special
request, in order to assist in the literary department of the coming
entertainment. Neither Clorinda nor any of her dark compeers could read
or write, but invitations must be sent out after the most approved
fashion; and Clorinda had a fancy that the neighborhood of so many books
would be a great help, so she led Caleb with august ceremony into the
spacious library, and laid a quantity of pink note-paper and yellow
envelopes, all covered and embossed with silver, on the table before
him.
"Jes set down, Mr. Caleb, and write dem tings out special," she said,
rolling up a great leathern chair, and patting its glossy green cushions
enticingly. "Set down, Caleb, an' write, for I know yer kin."
Caleb laid his cap on one chair, and his stout walking-stick across
another. Then he rubbed the hard palms of his hands fiercely together,
and sat down on the edge of Mr. Mellen's chair, that threatened to roll
from under him each moment.
"Now, Miss Clo, what is it you want of me? I'm on hand for a'most
anything."
"I knows you is, and ales wuz, Caleb; that's why I trusted yer wid de
delicatest part ob dis entertainment. 'Member its premptory to de
weddin'."
"Preparatory, isn't that the correct word, Miss Clo?"
"Well, take yer chice, if you ain't suited, Caleb Benson."
"Wal, wal; don't git out to sea afore the tide's up, old woman."
"Ole woman! Ole woman yerself, Caleb Benson!" retorted Clorinda.
"Jes so!" answered the fisherman, seizing upon the largest steel pen to
be found, and grinding it on the bottom of a bronze inkstand. Clorinda
put both hands to her mouth, and would have cried out; but, remembering
how few teeth she had to be set on edge, thought better of it, and stood
in glum silence while Caleb made his preparations.
That remarkable functionary had a piece of business before him which
threatened to task the resources of his genius to their full extent, but
he was not the man to shrink from the responsibility which his desire to
retain a high place in the powerful Clorinda's good-will had induced him
to accept.
"Now, then," said Caleb, giving his chair another hitch, dipping his pen
afresh into the inkstand, and holding it suspended over the paper, with
a threatening drop slowly collecting on the nib. "Now we'll get under
weigh just as soon as you give the signal."
"Tak car ob de ink!" shrieked Clorinda, pulling the paper from under his
hand in time to preserve it from the great blot of ink that descended on
the table-cover instead. "Dat's a purty splotch, now, ain't it; yer a
nice hand, Caleb Benson!"
"Taint much, nobody'll ever notice it," said Caleb, wiping it off with
his coat-sleeve. "Don't raise a breeze about nothin', Clorindy."
"Don't talk to me 'bout breezes," she retorted, in an irritated tone,
for Clorinda, I am sorry to say, had not even a fair portion of the
small stock of patience which usually falls to our sex. "I 'clar to
goodness dere ain't nothin' so stupid as a man. I jis hate de hull sect
like pison, I duz."
"Oh, no you don't, Clorindy," he replied, "you hain't got so old yet but
what you can hold your own with the youngest of 'em when there's a fancy
mulatter chap round."
"What doz yer mean by ole!" cried Clorinda. "I tells you what, Caleb
Benson, ef yer only undertuk this job to be a aggrawatin' and insultin'
me, you and I's done! I ain't gwine to stand sich trash, now I tells
yer! Is dis yer thanks fur all I'se done? Who got ye de run ob de house,
I'd like to know; who sot ye up for selling better fish than anybody in
de neighborhood; who nebber said nothin' when de soap-fat all
disappeared, and you said it had melted in de sun; who fixed up
mince-pies fur you; who--"
There is no telling to what extent Clorinda might have carried her
revelations, but the old man interrupted her with all the excuses he
could think of at so short notice.
"I was just funning, Clorindy; don't go off the handle. In course I want
to obleege you. Thar, thar! Now what do you want to have wrote? We ain't
going to quarrel--old friends like us."
"Ain't we!" cried Clorinda, folding her arms. "Then jis you keep a civil
tongue, dat's all. Times is changed, and der's a new misses a comin';
but you may all onderstand dat I rules de kitchen yet, and I'se gwine
to."
"Sartin, sartin! Wal now, about these here billet ducks," said Caleb,
cunningly; "I must hurry up, you see, or I shan't get round afore
night."
Clorinda forgot her injured feelings in excitement about the party, and
ordered him to commence work without farther delay.
"Wal," said Caleb, spreading out the paper again, "I'll leave a blank
for the names, that'll save trouble. I reckon you want somethin' like
this--'Miss Clorindy and Miss Victory's compliments--'"
"What's Vic got to do wid it, I'd like to know?" Clo burst in; "it's my
party, just 'member dat. It's enough to hev her company, widout her
settin' up for a hostage."
"Any thing to suit," said Caleb, patiently. "Wal, then I'll say that
Miss Clorindy hopes to have the pleasure of Mr. so and so's company, and
wants to see you to a little tea drinkin' this evening."
"Lord!" cried Clo. "If ye hain't got no more larnin' dan dat, I'd better
find somebody else! Do yer tink I got pink paper and silver-sprigged
'welopers to write sich trash on? Tea drinkin' indeed! Why dis here's to
be a rigler scrumptious, fash'nable 'tainment! I want yer to say, 'Miss
Clorindy consents her most excruciating compliments, and begs to state
that, owing to de 'picious ewent ob de master's weddin', she takes dis
opportunity to 'quest de 'stinguished company ob Mr. Otheller Jones for
dis evenin', to a reparatory 'tainment; and she would furder mention dat
dare will be plenty ob weddin'-cake, wid a ring in it, ice cream in
pinnacles, red and white, and a dance in de laundry to fiddles.' Dar,
dat's somethin' like."
"Yes," said Caleb, quite breathless; "now tell it to me as I get ahead,
'cause it's a mighty long rigmarole."
"Oh," added Clorinda, "den at the bottom you must put--' P. S.--Yaller
gloves and 'rocur pumps, if convenient.'"
That last touch of elegance quite upset Caleb, and he began to think
that if Clorinda was black, and couldn't write her name, she really was
a wonderful woman. Clo was so softened by his applause that they got on
very harmoniously, and the invitations were written out in Clorinda's
peculiar phraseology and in Caleb's largest hand. As it was an affair of
importance, he put capitals at the beginning of nearly every word,
sometimes in the middle and altogether the writing made such a show,
that Clorinda was delighted.
"Don't forget de P. S.," said she.
"Yes," said Caleb, making a tremendous flourish. "P. S.--Yaller gloves
and 'rocur pumps, if convenient."
Clo inspected the first note as carefully as if she could read,
expressed her approbation, and urged him on, till, with much labor,
Caleb completed the requisite number, put them safely in their gorgeous
envelopes, and directed them to the persons Clorinda mentioned.
"Now, jis be as quick as you kin," she said; "I'se got to go back to see
to tings--can't trust dat Vic, no how! Wal, I guess Mr. Dolf'll see de
difference 'tween folks and folks."
Benson knew that Dolf, Mr. Mellen's own man, was a special weakness of
Clorinda's, though it was only her reputation for accumulated wages
which induced that dashing yellow individual to treat her with any
attention.
Caleb received his last instructions, and started on his mission, which
was successfully fulfilled. Then he took his way homeward after going
back to the house to acquaint Clorinda with the result, which was equal
to her expectations, and that was saying a great deal.
As he approached the little tavern, he saw a gentleman standing on the
steps, with a colored servant guarding a pile of guns, fishing-rods, and
other tackle, with which idle men frequently came down from the city to
endure Caleb's humble fare for a while, and gratify their masculine
propensity for destruction.
But this gentleman was a stranger to Caleb, and he looked at him
enviously, though with the approbation which his appearance would have
elicited from more refined judges.
"I suppose you are Caleb Benson," the gentleman said, throwing away the
end of a cigar, as the old man mounted the steps.
"Wal, they call me so, sometimes," replied Caleb; for the instincts of
his New England birthplace had not deserted him, and he never answered a
question in a straightforward manner, if he could help it.
"Some friends of mine told me I could find very comfortable quarters
with you," pursued the stranger. "I have run down to see the place, and
take a day's duck shooting. I want to engage rooms, and leave my traps
here, so that I can come over whenever I feel like it."
"I want to know,--mean to have a good long shute do you!" said Caleb.
"Wal, I guess I could fix you up, if you ain't too particular."
"I am not at all particular what I pay," replied the gentleman; "I
suppose that is satisfactory."
"I ain't going to say 'tain't," returned Caleb, his eyes beginning to
twinkle at the prospect of a liberal guest, who meant to come
frequently.
"I reckon you'd like to see what I can do in the way of rooms, Mr.,
Mr.----Wal, I don't think I quite ketched your name."
"Mr. North," said the stranger, smiling at the man's shrewdness.
He stood for a few moments talking with Caleb, and though the old fellow
was not easily pleased, he was quite fascinated by the stranger's
manner; and, having a very vague idea of princes, was almost inclined to
think that this splendid-looking creature might be one who had strayed
over from his native kingdom on a fishing excursion.
"Now let me see the rooms," said Mr. North. "I suppose my man may as
well carry the traps up stairs now--the place is certain to suit me."
Caleb looked at the stylish colored individual who was leaning, in a
graceful attitude, over the luggage, and a brilliant idea struck him.
"I say you," he called, "I've got a ticket that'll just suit you,
Mr.----What's your name?"
"If you are redressing me," replied the sable gentleman, majestically,
"my name is Mr. Julius Hannibal."
"Want to know!" said Caleb. "Wal, here's an invite that was just meant
for a fine-looking chap like you."
Caleb drew one of the notes from his pocket, and held it out. Hannibal
took it with considerable dignity, doubtful how to receive such
unceremonious compliments.
"You are in luck, Ju," said his master. "What's it all about, Mr.
Benson?"
"Why, Mr. Mellen--he's one of our rich men down here--is going to be
married this week, so his servants thought they'd have a blow-out
to-night, for fear they wouldn't get the chance after the new mistress
comes."
"Go, by all means," said North, almost eagerly. "Make all the friends
you can, Ju, for we shall be here a good deal--go, certainly."
Hannibal drew himself up, bowed to his master, and said to Caleb in a
stately way----
"I shall be most happy to mixture in the festive throng, but would most
'spectfully state to Miss Clorindy that morocur pumps is banished from
polite society, and only patting leathers is worn--but these is
trifles."
North took the note from his servant's hand, and could not repress his
merriment as he read it; but Caleb received that as a compliment, and
looked so conscious, that it was easy to discover what share he had
taken in the matter.
"Pinnacles of ice cream, and a dance in the landing," read Mr. North.
"Why choose the landing, Mr. Benson?"
"Laundry, laundry! I guess it's blotted a leetle."
"Oh yes--I see! Upon my word, quite magnificent! So Mr.--Mellen, did you
call him?--is to be married this week. Well, well, that fate overtakes
most of us, sooner or later. We will go up stairs now, if you please,
Mr. Benson."
The old man led the way up to the room, which was kept in readiness for
visitors of importance, and which had been made quite comfortable by the
various articles of furniture that the different occupants had presented
to Caleb, on leaving his house.
The bargain was not a difficult one, as Mr. North appeared quite willing
to pay Benson his own price, and the old fellow was only in doubt as to
the extent to which he might safely carry his extortion.
When they went down stairs again, the steamboat had just come in to the
landing, and Dolf, Mr. Mellen's man, was making his way to the tavern,
having come to the island to see that the house was in readiness, and
dazzle the eyes of the females by the wonderful new clothes which had
fallen to his share of the wedding perquisites.
"That's just the ticket," said Caleb; "Mellen's man'll take you over to
the place, Mr. Julius, and set you a goin'. I'm going there myself now,
but you'll have to fix your master up first, so you can come with Dolf."
While Julius was going through the ceremonies of an introduction, Mr.
North called him away, and seemed to be giving him some very particular
directions. When he came back, Dolf, who was greatly rejoiced at this
acquisition, said, anxiously,
"Won't he let you go?"
"Of course," answered Hannibal, but a little uneasily. "It was only
about a fishing-rod I left behind."