MAPLE GROVE.
The residence of Mr. Livingstone, or rather of Mr. Livingstone’s wife,
was a large, handsome building, such as one often finds in Kentucky,
particularly in the country. Like most planters’ houses, it stood at
some little distance from the street, from which its massive walls,
wreathed with evergreen, were just discernible. The carriage road which
led to it passed first through a heavy iron gate guarded by huge bronze
lions, so natural and life-like, that Mrs. Nichols, when first she saw
them, uttered a cry of fear. Next came a beautiful maple grove,
followed by a long, green lawn, dotted here and there with forest trees
and having on its right a deep running brook, whose waters, farther on
at the rear of the garden, were formed into a miniature fish-pond.
The house itself was of brick—two storied, and surrounded on three
sides with a double piazza, whose pillars were entwined with climbing
roses, honey-suckle, and running vines, so closely interwoven as to
give it the appearance of an immense summer-house. In the spacious yard
in front, tall shade trees and bright green grass were growing, while
in the well-kept garden at the left, bloomed an endless variety of
roses and flowering shrubs, which in their season filled the air with
perfume, and made the spot brilliant with beauty. Directly through the
center of this garden ran the stream of which we have spoken, and as
its mossy banks were never disturbed, they presented the appearance of
a soft, velvety ridge, where each spring the starry dandelion and the
blue-eyed violet grew.
Across the brook two small foot-bridges had been built, both of which
were latticed and overgrown by luxuriant grape-vines, whose dark, green
foliage was now intermingled with clusters of the rich purple fruit. At
the right, and somewhat in the rear of the building, was a group of
linden trees, overshadowing the whitewashed houses of the negroes, who,
imitating as far as possible the taste of their master, beautified
their dwellings with hop-vines, creepers, hollyhocks and the like.
Altogether, it was as ’Lena said, “just the kind of place which one
reads of in stories,” and which is often found at the “sunny south.”
The interior of the building corresponded with the exterior, for with
one exception, the residence of a wealthy Englishman, Mrs. Livingstone
prided herself upon having the best furnished house in the county;
consequently neither pains nor money had been spared in the selection
of the furniture, which was of the most costly kind.
Carrie, the eldest of the daughters, was now about thirteen years of
age. Proud, imperious, deceitful, and self-willed, she was hated by the
servants, and disliked by her equals. Some thought her pretty. _She_
felt sure of it, and many an hour she spent before the mirror, admiring
herself and anticipating the time when she would be a grown-up lady,
and as a matter of course, a belle. Her mother unfortunately belonged
to that class who seem to think that the chief aim in life is to secure
a “brilliant match,” and thinking she could not commence too soon, she
had early instilled into her favorite daughter’s mind the necessity of
appearing to the best possible advantage, when in the presence of
wealth and distinction, pointing out her own marriage as a proof of the
unhappiness resulting from unequal matches. In this way Carrie had
early learned that her father owed his present position to her mother’s
condescension in marrying him—that he was once a poor boy living among
the northern hills—that his parents were poor, ignorant and vulgar—and
that there was with them a little girl, their daughter’s child, who
never had a father, and whom she must never on any occasion call her
cousin.
All this had likewise been told to Anna, the youngest daughter, who was
about ’Lena’s age, but upon her it made no impression. If her father
was once poor, he was in her opinion none the worse for that—and if
_he_ liked his parents, that was a sufficient reason why she should
like them too, and if little ’Lena was an orphan, she pitied her, and
hoped she might sometime see her and tell her so! Thus Anna reasoned,
while her mother, terribly shocked at her low-bred taste, strove to
instill into her mind some of her own more aristocratic notions. But
all in vain, for Anna was purely democratic, loving everybody and
beloved by everybody in return. It is true she had no particular liking
for books or study of any kind, but she was gentle and affectionate in
her manner, and kindly considerate of other people’s feelings. With her
father she was a favorite, and to her he always looked for sympathy,
which she seldom failed to give—not in words, it is true, but whenever
he seemed to be in trouble, she would climb into his lap, wind her arms
around his neck, and laying her golden head upon his shoulder, would
sit thus until his brow and heart grew lighter as he felt there was yet
something in the wide world which loved and cared for him.
For Carrie Mrs. Livingstone had great expectations, but Anna she feared
would never make a “brilliant match.” For a long time Anna meditated
upon this, wondering what a “brilliant match” could mean, and at last
she determined to seek an explanation from Captain Atherton, a bachelor
and a millionaire, who was in the habit of visiting them, and who
always noticed and petted her more than he did Carrie. Accordingly, the
next time he came, and they were alone in the parlor, she broached the
subject, asking him what it meant.
Laughing loudly, the Captain drew her toward him, saying, “Why,
marrying rich, you little novice. For instance, if one of these days
you should be my little wife, I dare say your mother would think you
had made a brilliant match!” and the well-preserved gentleman of forty
glanced complacently at himself in the mirror thinking how probable it
was that his youthfulness would be unimpaired for at least ten years to
come!
Anna laughed, for to her his words then conveyed no serious meaning,
but with more than her usual quickness she replied, that “she would as
soon marry her grandfather.”
With Mrs. Livingstone the reader is partially acquainted. In her youth
she had been pretty, and now at thirty-eight she was not without
pretensions to beauty, notwithstanding her sallow complexion and sunken
eyes, Her hair, which was very abundant, was bright and glossy, and her
mouth, in which the dentist had done his best, would have been
handsome, had it not been for a certain draw at the corners, which gave
it a scornful and rather disagreeable expression. In her disposition
she was overbearing and tyrannical, fond of ruling, and deeming her
husband a monster of ingratitude if ever in any way he manifested a
spirit of rebellion. Didn’t she marry him? and now they were married,
didn’t her money support him? And wasn’t it exceedingly amiable in her
always to speak of their children as _ours_! But as for the rest, ’twas
_my_ house, _my_ servants, _my_ carriage, and _my_ horses. All
_mine_—“Mrs. John Livingstone’s—Miss Matilda Richards that was!”
Occasionally, however, her husband’s spirit was roused, and then, after
a series of tears, sick-headaches, and then spasms, “Miss Matilda
Richards that Was” was compelled to yield her face for many days
wearing the look of a much-injured, heart-broken woman. Still her
influence over him was great, else she had never so effectually
weakened every tie which bound him to his native home, making him
ashamed of his parents and of everything pertaining to them. When her
husband first wrote, to her that his father was dead and that he had
promised to take charge of his mother and ’Lena, she flew into a
violent rage, which was increased ten-fold when she received his second
letter, wherein he announced his intention of bringing them home in
spite of her. Bursting into tears she declared “she’d leave the house
before she’d have it filled up with a lot of paupers. Who did John
Nichols think he was, and who did he think she was! Besides that, where
was he going to put them? for there wasn’t a place for them that she
knew of!”
“Why, mother,” said Anna who was pleased with the prospect of a new
grandmother and cousin, “Why, mother, what a story. There’s the two big
chambers and bedrooms, besides the one next to Carrie’s and mine. Oh,
do put them in there. It’ll be so nice to have grandma and cousin ’Lena
so near me.”
“Anna Livingstone!” returned the indignant lady, “Never let me hear you
say grandma and cousin again.”
“But they be grandma and cousin,” persisted Anna, while her mother
commenced lamenting the circumstance which had made them so, wishing,
as she had often done before, that she had never married John Nichols.
“I reckon you are not the only one that wishes so,” slyly whispered
John Jr., who was a witness to her emotion.
Anna was naturally of an inquiring mind, and her mother’s last remark
awoke within her a new and strange train of thought, causing her to
wonder whose little girl she would have been, her father’s or mother’s,
in case they had each married some one else! As there was no one whose
opinion Anna dared to ask, the question is undoubtedly to this day,
with her, unsolved.
The next morning when Mrs. Livingstone arose, her anger of the day
before was somewhat abated, and knowing from past experience that it
was useless to resist her husband when once he was determined, she
wisely concluded that as they were now probably on the road, it was
best to try to endure, for a time, at least, what could not well be
helped. And now arose the perplexing question, “What should she do with
them? where should she put them that they would be the most out of the
way? for she could never suffer them to be round when she had company.”
The chamber of which Anna had spoken was out of the question, for it
was too nice, and besides that, it was reserved for the children of her
New Orleans friends, who nearly every summer came up to visit her.
At the rear of the building was a long, low room, containing a
fireplace and two windows, which looked out upon the negro quarters and
the hemp fields beyond. This room, which in the summer was used for
storing feather-beds, blankets, and so forth, was plastered, but minus
either paper or paint. Still it was quite comfortable, “better than
they were accustomed to at home,” Mrs. Livingstone said, and this she
decided to give them. Accordingly the negroes were set at work
scrubbing the floor, washing the windows, and scouring the sills, until
the room at least possessed the virtue of being clean. A faded carpet,
discarded as good for nothing, and over which the rats had long held
their nightly revels, was brought to light, shaken, mended, and nailed
down—then came a bedstead, which Mrs. Livingstone had designed as a
Christmas gift to one of the negroes, but which of course would do well
enough for her mother-in-law. Next followed an old wooden
rocking-chair, whose ancestry Anna had tried in vain to trace, and
which Carrie had often proposed burning. This, with two or three more
chairs of a later date, a small wardrobe, and a square table, completed
the furniture of the room, if we except the plain muslin curtains which
shaded the windows, destitute of blinds. Taking it by itself, the room
looked tolerably well, but when compared with the richly furnished
apartments around it, it seemed meager and poor indeed; “but if they
wanted anything better, they could get it themselves. They were welcome
to make any alterations they chose.”
This mode of reasoning hardly satisfied Anna, and unknown to her mother
she took from her own chamber a handsome hearth-rug, and carrying it to
her grandmother’s room, laid it before the fireplace. Coming
accidentally upon a roll of green paper, she, with the help of Corinda,
a black girl, made some shades for the windows, which faced the west,
rendering the room intolerably hot during the summer season. Then, at
the suggestion of Corinda, she looped back the muslin curtains with
some green ribbons, which she had intended using for her “dolly’s
dress.” The bare appearance of the table troubled her, but by
rummaging, she brought to light a cast-off spread, which, though soiled
and worn, was on one side quite handsome.
“Now, if we only had something for the mantel,” said she; “it seems so
empty.”
Corinda thought a moment, then rolling up the whites of her eyes,
replied, “Don’t you mind them little pitchers” (meaning vases) “which
Master Atherton done gin you? They’d look mighty fine up thar, full of
sprigs and posies.”
Without hesitating a moment Anna brought the vases, and as she did not
know the exact time when her grandmother would arrive, she determined
to fill them with fresh flowers every morning.
“There, it looks a heap better, don’t it, Carrie?” said she to her
sister, who chanced to be passing the door and looked in.
“You must be smart,” answered Carrie, “taking so much pains just for
them; and as I live, if you haven’t got those elegant vases that
Captain Atherton gave you for a birthday present! I know mother won’t
like it. I mean to tell her;” and away she ran with the important news.
“There, I told you so,” said she, quickly returning. “She says you
carry them straight back and let the room alone.”
Anna began to cry, saying “the vases were hers, and she should think
she might do what she pleased with them.”
“What did you go and blab for, you great for shame, you?” exclaimed
John Jr., suddenly appearing in the doorway, at the same time giving
Carrie a push, which set her to crying, and brought Mrs. Livingstone to
the scene of action,
“Can’t my vases stay in here? Nobody’ll hurt ’em, and they’ll look so
pretty,” said Anna.
“Can’t that hateful John behave, and let me alone?” said Carrie.
“And can’t Carrie quit sticking her nose in other folks’ business?”
chimed in John Jr.
“Oh Lordy, what a fuss,” said Corinda, while poor Mrs. Livingstone,
half distracted, took refuge under one of her dreadful headaches, and
telling her children “to fight their own battles and let her alone,”
returned to her room.
“A body’d s’pose marster’s kin warn’t of no kind of count,” said Aunt
Milly, the head cook, to a group of sables, who, in the kitchen, were
discussing the furniture of the “trump’ry room,” as they were in the
habit of calling the chamber set apart for Mrs. Nichols. “Yes, they
would s’pose they warn’t of no kind o’ count, the way miss goes on,
ravin’ and tarin’ and puttin’ ’em off with low-lived truck that we
black folks wouldn’t begin to tache with the tongs. Massy knows ef my
ole mother warn’t dead and gone to kingdom come, I should never think
o’ sarvin’ her so, and I don’t set myself up to be nothin’ but an old
nigger, and a black one at that. But Lor’ that’s the way with more’n
half the white folks. They jine the church, and then they think they
done got a title deed to one of them houses up in heaven (that nobody
ever built) sure enough. Goin’ straight thar, as fast as a span of
race-horses can carry ’em. Ki! Won’t they be disappointed, some on ’em,
and Miss Matilda ’long the rest, when she drives up, hosses all a
reekin’ sweat, and spects to walk straight into the best room, but is
told to go to the kitchen and turn hoe-cakes for us niggers, who are
eatin’ at the fust table, with silver forks and napkins——?”
Here old Milly stopped to breathe, and her daughter Vine, who had
listened breathlessly to her mother’s description of the “good time
coming,” asked “when these things come to pass, if Miss Carrie wouldn’t
have to swing the feathers over the table to keep off the flies,
instead of herself?”
“Yes, that she will, child,” returned her mother; “Things is all gwine
to be changed in the wink of your eye. Miss Anna read that very tex’ to
me last Sunday and I knew in a minit what it meant. Now thar’s Miss
Anna, blessed lamb. She’s one of ’em that’ll wear her white gowns and
stay in t’other room, with her face shinin’ like an ile lamp!”
While this interesting conversation was going on in the kitchen, John
Jr., in the parlor was teasing his mother for money, with which to go
up to Lexington the next day. “You may just as well give it to me
without any fuss,” said he, “for if you don’t, I’ll get my bills at the
Phoenix charged. The old man is good, and they’ll trust. But then a
feller feels more independent when he can pay down, and treat a friend,
if he likes; so hand over four or five Vs.”
At first Mrs. Livingstone refused, but her head ached so hard and her
“nerves trembled so,” that she did not feel equal to the task of
contending with John Jr., who was always sure in the end to have his
own way. Yielding at last to his importunities, she gave him fifteen
dollars, charging him to “keep out of bad company and be a good boy.”
“Trust me for that,” said he, and pulling the tail of Anna’s pet
kitten, upsetting Carrie’s work-box, poking a black baby’s ribs with
his walking cane, and knocking down a cob-house, which “Thomas
Jefferson” had been all day building, he mounted his favorite
“Firelock,” and together with a young negro, rode off.
“The Lord send us a little peace now,” said Aunt Milly, tossing her
squalling baby up in the air, and telling Thomas Jefferson not to cry,
“for his young master was done gone off.”
“And I hope to goodness he’ll stay off a spell,” she added, “for thar’s
ole Sam to pay the whole time he’s at home, and if ever thar was a
tickled critter in this world it’s me, when he clar’s out.”
“I’m glad, too,” said Anna, who had been sent to the kitchen to stop
the screaming, “and I wish he’d stay ever so long, for I don’t take a
bit of comfort when he’s at home.”
“Great hateful! I wish he didn’t live here,” said Carrie, gathering up
her spools, thimble and scissors, while Mrs. Livingstone, feeling that
his absence had taken a load from her shoulders, settled herself upon
her silken lounge and tried to sleep.
Amid all this rejoicing at his departure, John Jr. put spurs to the
fleet Firelock, who soon carried him to Lexington, where, as we have
seen, he came unexpectedly upon his father, who, not daring to trust
him on horseback, lest he should play the truant, took him into the
stage with himself, leaving Firelock to the care of the negro.