THE ARRIVAL.
“Oh, mother, get up quick—the stage has driven up at the gate, and I
reckon pa has come,” said Anna, bursting into the room where her
mother, who was suffering from a headache, was still in bed.
Raising herself upon her elbow, and pushing aside the rich, heavy
curtains, Mrs. Livingstone looked out upon the mud-bespattered vehicle,
from which a leg, encased in a black and white stocking, was just
making its egress. “Oh, heavens!” said she, burying her face again in
the downy pillows. Woman’s curiosity, however, soon prevailed over all
other feelings, and again looking out she obtained a full view of her
mother-in-law, who, having emerged from the coach, was picking out her
boxes, trunks, and so forth. When they were all found, Mr. Livingstone
ordered two negroes to carry them to the side piazza, where they were
soon mounted by three or four little darkies, Thomas Jefferson among
the rest.
“John, _John_” said Mrs. Nichols, “them niggers won’t scent my things,
will they?”
“Don’t talk, granny,” whispered ’Lena, painfully conscious of the
curious eyes fixed upon them by the bevy of blacks, who had come out to
greet their master, and who with sidelong glances at each other, were
inspecting the new comers.
“Don’t talk! why not?” said Mrs. Nichols, rather sharply. “This is a
free country I suppose.” Then bethinking herself, she added quickly,
“Oh, I forgot, ’taint free _here_!”
After examining the satchel and finding that the night gown sleeve was
safe, Mrs. Nichols took up her line of march for the house, herself
carrying her umbrella and band-box, which she would not intrust to the
care of the negroes, “as like enough they’d break the umberell, or
squash her caps.”
“The trumpery room is plenty good enough for ’em,” thought Corinda,
retreating into the kitchen and cutting sundry flourishes in token of
her contempt.
The moment ’Lena came in sight, Mrs. Livingstone exclaimed, “Oh, mercy,
which is the oldest?” and truly, poor ’Lena did present a sorry figure,
Her bonnet, never very handsome or fashionable, had received an ugly
crook in front, which neither her grandmother or uncle had noticed, and
of which John Jr. would not tell her, thinking that the worse she
looked the more fun he would have! Her skirts were not very full, and
her dress hung straight around her, making her of the same bigness from
her head to her feet. Her shoes, which had been given to her by one of
the neighbors, were altogether too large, and it was with considerable
difficulty that she could keep them on, but then as they were a
present, Mrs. Nichols said “it was a pity not to get all the good out
of them she could.”
In front of herself and grandmother, walked Mr. Livingstone, moody,
silent, and cross. Behind them was John Jr., mimicking first ’Lena’s
gait and then his grandmother’s. The negroes, convulsed with laughter,
darted hither and thither, running against and over each other, and
finally disappearing, some behind the house and some into the kitchen,
and all retaining a position from which they could have a full view of
the proceedings. On the piazza stood Anna and Carrie, the one with her
handkerchief stuffed in her mouth, and the other with her mouth open,
astounded at the unlooked-for spectacle.
“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” groaned Mrs. Livingstone.
“Do? Get up and dress yourself, and come and see your new relations:
that’s what I should do,” answered John Jr., who, tired of mimicking,
had run forward, and now rushed unceremoniously into his mother’s
sleeping-room, leaving the door open behind him.
“John Livingstone, what do you mean?” said she, “shut that door this
minute.”
Feigning not to hear her, John Jr. ran back to the piazza, which he
reached just in time to hear the presentation of his sisters.
“This is Carrie, and this is Anna,” said Mr. Livingstone, pointing to
each one as he pronounced her name.
Marching straight up to Carrie and extending her hand, Mrs. Nichols
exclaimed, “Now I want to know if this is Car’line. I’d no idee she was
so big. You pretty well, Car’line?”
Very haughtily Carrie touched the ends of her grandmother’s fingers,
and with stately gravity replied that she was well.
Turning next to Anna, Mrs. Nichols continued, “And this is Anny. Looks
weakly ’pears to me, kind of blue around the eyes as though she was
fitty. Never have fits, do you, dear?”
“No, ma’am,” answered Anna, struggling hard to keep from laughing
outright.
Here Mr. Livingstone inquired for his wife, and on being told that she
was sick, started for her room.
“Sick? Is your marm sick?” asked Mrs. Nichols of John Jr. “Wall, I
guess I’ll go right in and sea if I can’t do somethin’ for her. I’m
tolerable good at nussin’.”
Following her son, who did not observe her, she entered unannounced
into the presence of her elegant daughter-in-law, who, with a little
shriek, covered her head with the bed-clothes. Knowing that she meant
well, and never dreaming that she was intruding, Mrs. Nichols walked up
to the bedside, saying, “How de do, ’Tilda? I suppose you know I’m your
mother—come all the way from Massachusetts to live with you. What is
the matter? Do you take anything for your sickness?”
A groan was Mrs. Livingstone’s only answer.
“Little hystericky, I guess,” suggested Mrs. Nichols, adding that
“settin’ her feet in middlin’ hot water is good for that.”
“She is nervous, and the sight of strangers makes her worse. So I
reckon you’d better go out for the present,” said Mr. Livingstone, who
really pitied his wife. Then calling Corinda, he bade her show his
mother to her room.
Corinda obeyed, and Mrs. Nichols followed her, asking her on the way
“what her surname was, how old she was, if she knew how to read, and if
she hadn’t a good deal rather be free than to be a slave!” to which
Corinda replied, that “she didn’t know what a surname meant, that she
didn’t know how old she was, that she didn’t know how to read, and that
she didn’t know whether she’d like to be free or not, but reckoned she
shouldn’t.”
“A half-witted gal that,” thought Mrs. Nichols, “and I guess ’Tilda
don’t set much store by her.” Then dropping into the wooden
rocking-chair and laying aside her bonnet, she for the first time
noticed that ’Lena was not with her, and asked Corinda to go for her.
Corinda complied, leaving the room just in time to stifle a laugh, as
she saw Mrs. Nichols stoop down to examine the hearth-rug, wondering
“how much it cost when ’twas new.”
We left ’Lena standing on the steps of the piazza.
At a glance she had taken in the whole—had comprehended that there was
no affinity whatever between herself and the objects around her, and a
wild, intense longing filled her heart to be once more among her native
hills. She had witnessed the merriment of the blacks, the scornful curl
of Carrie’s lip, the half-suppressed ridicule of Anna, when they met
her grandmother, and now uncertain of her own reception, she stood
before her cousins not knowing whether to advance or run away. For a
moment there was an awkward silence, and then John Jr., bent on
mischief, whispered to Carrie, “Look at that pinch in her bonnet, and
just see her shoes! Big as little sailboats!”
This was too much for Lena. She already disliked John Jr., and now,
flying into a violent passion, she drew off her shoes, and hurling them
at the young gentleman’s head fled away, away, she knew not, cared not
whither, so that she got out of sight and hearing. Coming at last to
the arbor bridge across the brook in the garden, she paused for breath,
and throwing herself upon a seat, burst into a flood of tears. For
several minutes she sobbed so loudly that she did not hear the sound of
footsteps upon the graveled walk. Anna had followed her, partly out of
curiosity, and partly out of pity, the latter of which preponderated
when she saw how bitterly her cousin was weeping. Going up to her she
said, “Don t cry so, ’Lena. Look up and talk. It’s Anna, your cousin.”
’Lena had not yet recovered from her angry fit, and thinking Anna only
came to tease her, and perhaps again ridicule her bonnet, she tore the
article, from her head, and bending it up double, threw it into the
stream, which carried it down to the fish-pond, where for two or three
hours it furnished amusement for some little negroes, who, calling it a
crab, fished for it with hook and line! For a moment Anna stood
watching the bonnet as it sailed along down the stream, thinking it
looked better there than on its owner’s head, but wondering why ’Lena
had thrown it away. Then again addressing her cousin, she asked why she
had done so?
“It’s a homely old thing, and I hate it,” answered ’Lena, again
bursting into tears. “I hate everybody, and I wish I was dead, or back
in Massachusetts, I don’t care which!”
With her impressions of the “Bay State,” where her mother said folks
lived on “cold beans and codfish,” Anna thought she should prefer the
first alternative, but she did not say so; and after a little she tried
again to comfort ’Lena, telling her “she liked her, or at least she was
going to like her a heap.”
“No, you ain’t,” returned ’Lena. “You laughed at me and granny both. I
saw you do it, and you think I don’t know anything, but I do. I’ve been
through Olney’s geography, and Colburn’s arithmetic twice!”
This was more than Anna could say. She had no scholarship of which to
boast; but she had a heart brimful of love, and in reply to ’Lena’s
accusation of having laughed at her, she replied, “I know I laughed,
for grandma looked so funny I couldn’t help it. But I won’t any more. I
pity you because your mother is dead, and you never had any father, ma
says.”
This made ’Lena cry again, while Anna continued, “Pa’ll buy you some
new clothes I reckon, and if he don’t, I’ll give you some of mine, for
I’ve got heaps, and they’ll fit you I most know. Here’s my mark—”
pointing to a cut upon the door-post. “Here’s mine, and Carrie’s and
brother’s. Stand up and see if you don’t measure like I do,”
’Lena complied, and to Anna’s great joy they were just of a height.
“I’m so glad,” said she. “Now, come to my room and Corinda will fix you
up mighty nice before mother sees you.”
Hand-in-hand the two girls started for the house, but had not gone far
when they heard some one calling, “Ho, Miss ’Lena, whar is you? Ole
miss done want you.” At the same time Corinda made her appearance round
the corner of the piazza.
“Here, Cora,” said Anna. “Come with me to my room; I want you.”
With a broad grin Corinda followed her young mistress, while ’Lena,
never having been accustomed to any negro save the one with whom many
New England children are threatened when they cry, clung closer to
Anna’s side, occasionally casting a timid glance toward the dark-browed
girl who followed them. In the upper hall they met with Carrie, who in
passing ’Lena held back her dress, as if fearing contamination from a
contact with her cousin’s plainer garments. Painfully alive to the
slightest insult, ’Lena reddened, while Anna said, “Never mind—that’s
just like Cad, but nobody cares for _her_.”
Thus reassured ’Lena followed on, until they reached Anna’s room, which
they were about to enter, when the shrill voice of Mrs. Nichols fell
upon their ears, calling, “’Leny, ’Leny, where upon airth is she?”
“Let’s go to her first,” said ’Lena, and leading the way Anna soon
ushered her into her grandmother’s room which, child as she was, ’Lena
readily saw was far different from the handsome apartments of which she
had obtained a passing glance.
But Mrs. Nichols had not thought of this—and was doubtless better
satisfied with her present quarters than she would have been with the
best furnished chamber in the house. The moment her granddaughter
appeared, she exclaimed, “’Leny Rivers, where have you been? I was
worried to death, for fear you might be runnin’ after some of them
paltry niggers. And now whilst I think on’t, I charge you never to go a
nigh ’em; I’d no idee they were such half-naked, nasty critters.”
This prohibition was a novelty to Anna, who spent many happy hours with
her sable-hued companions, never deeming herself the worse for it. Her
grandmother’s first remark, however, struck her still more forcibly,
and she immediately asked, “Grandma, what did you call ’Lena, just now?
’Lena what?”
“I called her by her name, ’Lena Rivers. What should I call her?”
returned Mrs. Nichols.
“Why, I thought her name was ’Lena Nichols; ma said ’twas,” answered
Anna.
Mrs. Nichols was very sensitive to any slight cast upon ’Lena’s birth,
and she rather tartly informed Anna, that “her mother didn’t know
everything,” adding that “’Lena’s father was Mr. Rivers, and there
wasn’t half so much reason why she should be called Nichols as there
was why Anna should, for that was her father’s name, the one by which
he was baptized, the same day with Nancy Scovandyke, who’s jest his
age, only he was born about a quarter past four in the morning, and she
not till some time in the afternoon!”
“But where is Mr. Rivers?” asked Anna more interested in him than in
the exact minute of her father’s birth.
“The Lord only knows,” returned Mrs. Nichols. “Little girls shouldn’t
ask too many questions.”
This silenced Anna, and satisfied her that there was some mystery
connected with ’Lena. The mention of Nancy Scovandyke reminded Mrs.
Nichols of the dishes which that lady had packed away, and anxious to
see if they were safe, she turned to ’Lena saying, “I guess we’ll have
time before dinner to unpack my trunks, for I want to know how the
crockery stood the racket. Anny, you run down and tell your pa to fetch
’em up here, that’s a good girl.”
In her eagerness to know what those weather-beaten boxes contained,
Anna forgot her scheme of dressing ’Lena, and ran down, not to call her
father, but the black boy, Adam. It took her a long time to find him,
and Mrs. Nichols, growing impatient, determined to go herself, spite of
’Lena’s entreaties that she would stay where she was. Passing down the
long stairway, and out upon the piazza, she espied a negro girl on her
hands and knees engaged in cleaning the steps with a cloth. Instantly
remembering her mop, she greatly lamented that she had left it
behind—“’twould come so handy now,” thought she, but there was no help
for it.
Walking up to the girl, whose name she did not know, she said, “Sissy,
can you tell me where _John_ is?”
Quickly “Sissy’s” ivories became visible, as she replied, “We hain’t
got any such nigger as John.”
With a silent invective upon negroes in general, and this one in
particular, Mrs. Nichols choked, stammered, and finally said, “I didn’t
ask for a _nigger_; I want your master, _John_!”
Had the old lady been a Catholic, she would have crossed herself for
thus early breaking her promise to Nancy Scovandyke. As it was, she
mentally asked forgiveness, and as the colored girl “didn’t know where
marster was,” but “reckoned he had gone somewhar,” she turned aside,
and seeking her son’s room, again entered unannounced. Mrs.
Livingstone, who was up and dressed, frowned darkly upon her visitor.
But Mrs. Nichols did not heed it, and advancing forward, she said, “Do
you feel any better, ’Tilda? I’d keep kinder still to-day, and not try
to do much, for if you feel any consarned about the housework, I’d just
as lief see to’t a little after dinner as not.”
“I have all confidence in Milly’s management, and seldom trouble myself
about the affairs of the kitchen,” answered Mrs. Livingstone.
“Wall, then,” returned her mother-in-law, nothing daunted, “Wall, then,
mebby you’d like to have me come in and set with you a while.”
It would be impossible for us to depict Mrs. Livingstone’s look of
surprise and anger at this proposition. Her face alternately flushed
and then grew pale, until at last she found voice to say, “I greatly
prefer being alone, madam. It annoys me excessively to have any one
round.”
“Considerable kind o’ touchy,” thought Mrs. Nichols, “but then the poor
critter is sick, and I shan’t lay it up agin her.”
Taking out her snuff-box, she offered it to her daughter, telling her
that “like enough ’twould cure her headache.” Mrs. Livingstone’s first
impulse was to strike it from her mother’s hand, but knowing how
unladylike that would be, she restrained herself, and turning away her
head, replied, “Ugh! no! The very sight of it makes me sick.”
“How you do talk! Wall, I’ve seen folks that it sarved jest so; but
you’ll get over it. Now there was Nancy Scovandyke—did John ever say
anything about her? Wall, she couldn’t bear snuff till after her
disappointment—John told you, I suppose?”
“No, madam, my husband has never told me anything concerning his
eastern friends, neither do I wish to hear anything of them,” returned
Mrs. Livingstone, her patience on the point of giving out.
“Never told you nothin’ about Nancy Scovandyke! If that don’t beat all!
Why, he was——”
She was prevented from finishing the sentence, which would undoubtedly
have raised a domestic breeze, when Anna came to tell her that the
trunks were carried to her room.
“I’ll come right up then,” said she, adding, more to herself than any
one else, “If I ain’t mistaken, I’ve got a little paper of saffron
somewhere, which I mean to steep for ’Tilda. Her skin looks desput
jandissy!”
When Mr. Livingstone again entered his wife’s room, he found her in a
collapsed state of anger and mortification.
“_John_ Nichols,” said she, with a strong emphasis on the first word,
which sounded very much like _Jarn_, “do you mean to kill me by
bringing that vulgar, ignorant thing here, walking into my room without
knocking—calling me ’_Tilda_, and prating about Nancy somebody——”
John started. His wife knew nothing of his _affaire du cœur_ with Miss
Nancy, and for his own peace of mind ’twas desirable that she should
not. Mentally resolving to give her a few hints, he endeavored to
conciliate his wife, by saying that he knew “his mother was
troublesome, but she must try not to notice her oddities.”
“I wonder how I can help it, when she forces herself upon me
continually,” returned his wife. “I must either deep the doors locked,
or live in constant terror.”
“It’s bad, I know,” said he, smoothing her glossy hair, “but then,
she’s old, you know. Have you seen ’Lena?”
“No, neither do I wish to, if she’s at all like her grandmother,”
answered Mrs. Livingstone.
“She’s handsome,” suggested Mr. Livingstone.
“Pshaw! handsome!” repeated his wife, scornfully, while he replied,
“Yes, handsomer than either of our daughters, and with the same
advantages, I’ve no doubt she’d surpass them both.”
“Those advantages, then, she shall never have,” returned Mrs.
Livingstone, already jealous of a child she had only seen at a
distance.
Mr. Livingstone made no reply, but felt that he’d made a mistake in
praising ’Lena, in whom he began to feel a degree of interest for which
he could not account. He did not know that way down in the depths of
his heart, calloused over as it was by worldly selfishness, there was
yet a tender spot, a lingering memory of his only sister whom ’Lena so
strongly resembled. If left to himself, he would undoubtedly have taken
pride in seeing his niece improve, and as it was, he determined that
she should at home receive the same instruction that his daughters did.
Perhaps he might not send her away to school. He didn’t know how that
would be—his wife held the purse, and taking refuge behind that excuse,
he for the present dismissed the subject. (So much for marrying a
_rich_ wife and nothing else. This we throw in gratis!)
Meantime grandma had returned to her room, at the door of which she
found John Jr. and Carrie, both curious to know what was in those
boxes, one of which had burst open and been tied up with a rope.
“Come, children,” said she, “don’t stay out there—come in.”
“We prefer remaining here,” said Carrie, in a tone and manner so nearly
resembling her mother, that Mrs. Nichols could not refrain from saying,
“chip of the old block!”
“That’s so, by cracky. You’ve hit her this time, granny,” exclaimed
John Jr., snapping his fingers under Carrie’s nose, which being rather
long, was frequently a subject of his ridicule.
“Let me be, John Livingstone,” said Carrie, while ’Lena resolved never
again to use the word “granny,” which she knew her cousin had taken up
on purpose to tease her.
“Come, ’Lena, catch hold and help me untie this rope, I b’lieve the
crockery’s in here,” said Mrs. Nichols to ’Lena, who soon opened the
chest, disclosing to view as motley a variety of articles as is often
seen.
Among the rest was the “blue set,” a part of her “setting out,” as his
grandmother told John Jr., at the same time dwelling at length upon
their great value. Mistaking Carrie’s look of contempt for envy, Mrs.
Nichols chucked her under the chin, telling her “May be there was
something for her, if she was a good girl.”
“Now, Cad, turn your nose up clear to the top of your head,” said John
Jr., vastly enjoying his sister’s vexation.
“Where does your marm keep her china? I want to put this with it,” said
Mrs. Nichols to Anna, who, uncertain what reply to make, looked at
Carrie to answer for her.
“I reckon mother don’t want that old stuff stuck into her
china-closet,” said Carrie, elevating her nose to a height wholly
satisfactory to John Jr., who unbuttoned one of his waistband buttons
to give himself room to laugh.
“Mortal sakes alive! I wonder if she don’t,” returned Mrs. Nichols,
beginning to get an inkling of Carrie’s character, and the estimation
in which her valuables were held.
“Here’s a nice little cupboard over the fireplace; I’d put them here,”
said ’Lena.
“Yes,” chimed in John Jr., imitating both his grandmother and cousin;
“yes, granny, put ’em there; the niggers are _awful critters_ to steal,
and like enough you’d ’lose ’em if they sot in with marm’s!”
This argument prevailed. The dishes were put away in the cupboard,
’Lena thinking that with all his badness John Jr., was of some use
after all. At last, tired of looking on, Anna suggested to ’Lena, who
did not seem to be helping matters forward much, that the should go and
be dressed up as had been first proposed. Readily divining her sister’s
intention, Carrie ran with it to her mother, who sent back word that
“’Lena must mind her own affairs, and let Anna’s dresses alone!”
This undeserved thrust made ’Lena cry, while Anna declared “her mother
never said any such thing,” which Carrie understood as an insinuation
that she had told a falsehood. Accordingly a quarrel of words ensued
between the two sisters, which was finally quelled by John Jr., who
called to Carrie “to come down, as she’d got a letter from _Durward
Bellmont_.”
Durward! How that name made ’Lena’s heart leap! Was it _her_
Durward—the boy in the cars? She almost hoped not, for somehow the idea
of his writing to Carrie was not a pleasant one. At last summoning
courage, she asked Anna who he was, and was told that he lived in
Louisville with his stepfather, Mr. Graham, and that Carrie about two
months before had met him in Frankfort at Colonel Douglass’s, where she
was in the habit of visiting. “Colonel Douglass,” continued Anna, “has
got a right nice little girl whose name is Nellie. Then there’s Mabel
Ross, a sort of cousin, who lives with them part of the time. She’s an
orphan and a great heiress. You mustn’t tell anybody for the world, but
I overheard ma say that she wanted John to marry Mabel, she’s so
rich—but pshaw! he won’t for she’s awful babyish and ugly looking.
Captain Atherton is related to Nellie, and during the holidays she and
Mabel are coming up to spend a week, and I’ll bet Durward is coming
too. Cad teased him, and he said may be he would if he didn’t go to
college this fall. I’ll run down and see.”
Soon returning, she brought the news that it was as she had
conjectured. Durward, who was now travelling, was not going to college
until the next fall and at Christmas he was coming to the country with
his cousin.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Anna. “We’ll have a time, for ma’ll invite them
here, of course. Cad thinks a heap of Durward, and I want so bad to see
him. Don’t you?”
’Lena made no direct reply, for much as she would like to see her
_compagnon du voyage_, she felt an unwillingness to meet him in the
presence of Carrie, who she knew would spare no pains to mortify her.
Soon forgetting Durward, Anna again alluded to her plan of dressing
’Lena, wishing “Cad would mind her own business.” Then, as a new idea
entered her head, she brightened up, exclaiming, “I know what I can do.
I’ll have Corinda curl your hair real pretty. You’ve got beautiful
hair. A heap nicer than my yellow flax.”
’Lena offered no remonstrance, and Corinda, who came at the call of her
young mistress, immediately commenced brushing and curling the bright,
wavy hair which Anna had rightly called beautiful. While this was going
on, Grandma Nichols, who had always adhered to the good old puritanical
custom of dining exactly at twelve o’clock, began to wonder why dinner
was not forthcoming. She had breakfasted in Versailles, but like many
travelers, could not eat much at a hotel, and now her stomach clamored
loudly for food. Three times had she walked back and forth before what
she supposed was the kitchen, and from which a savory smell of
something was issuing, and at last determining to stop and reconnoiter,
she started for the door.
The northern reader at all acquainted with southern life, knows well
that a kitchen there and a kitchen here are two widely different
things—ours, particularly in the country, being frequently used as a
dining-room, while a southern lady would almost as soon think of eating
in the barn as in her cook-room. Like most other planters, Mr.
Livingstone’s kitchen was separate and at some little distance from the
main building, causing grandma to wonder “how the poor critters managed
to carry victuals back and to when it was cold and slippery.”
When Aunt Milly, who was up to her elbows in dough, saw her visitor
approaching, she exclaimed, “Lor’-a-mighty, if thar ain’t ole miss
coming straight into this lookin’ hole! Jeff, you quit that ar’ pokin’
in dem ashes, and knock Lion out that kittle; does you har? And you,
Polly,” speaking to a superannuated negress who was sitting near the
table, “you just shove that ar’ piece of dough, I done save to bake for
you and me, under your char, whar she won’t see it.”
Polly complied, and by this time Mrs. Nichols was at the door,
surveying the premises, and thinking how differently she’d make things
look after a little.
“Does missus want anything?” asked Aunt Milly, and grandma replied,
“Yes, I want to know if ’tain’t nigh about _noon_.”
This is a term never used among the blacks, and rolling up her white
eyes, Aunt Milly answered, “You done got me now, sartin, for this chile
know nothin’ what you mean more’n the deadest critter livin’.”
As well as she could, Mrs. Nichols explained her meaning, and Aunt
Milly replied, “Oh, yes, yes, I know now. ‘Is it most _dinner time?’
Yes—dinner’ll be done ready in an hour. We never has it till two no
day, and when we has company not till three.”
Confident that she should starve, Mrs. Nichols advanced a step or two
into the kitchen, whereupon Aunt Milly commenced making excuses,
saying, “she was gwine to clar up one of these days, and then if Thomas
Jefferson and Marquis De Lafayette didn’t quit that litterin’ they’d
cotch it”
Attracted by the clean appearance of Aunt Polly, who, not having to
work, prided herself upon always being neatly dressed, Mrs. Nichols
walked up to her, and, to use a vulgar expression, the two old ladies
were soon “hand-in-glove,” Mrs. Nichols informing her of her loss, and
how sorry Nancy Scovandyke would feel when she heard of it, and ending
by giving her the full particulars of her husband’s sickness and death.
In return Aunt Polly said that “she was born and bred along with ole
Marster Richards, Miss Matilda’s father, and that she, too, had buried
a husband.”
With a deep sigh, Mrs. Nichols was about, to commiserate her, when Aunt
Polly cut her short by saying, “’Twant of no kind o’ count, as she
never relished him much.”
“Some drunken critter, I warrant,” thought Mrs. Nichols, at the same
time asking what his name was.
“Jeems,” said Aunt Polly.
This was not definite enough for Mrs. Nichols, who asked for the
surname, “Jeems what?”
“Jeems Atherton, I reckon, bein’ he ’longed to ole Marster Atherton,”
said Polly.
For a time Mrs. Nichols had forgotten her hunger but the habit of sixty
years was not so easily broken and she now hinted so strongly of the
emptiness of her stomach that Aunt Polly, emboldened by her
familiarity, said, “I never wait for the rest, but have my cup of tea
or coffee just when I feel like it, and if missus wouldn’t mind takin’
a bite with a nigger, she’s welcome.”
“Say nothin’ about it. We shall all be white in heaven.”
“Dat am de trufe,” muttered Milly, mentally assigning Mrs. Nichols a
more exalted occupation than that of turning hoe-cakes!
Two cups and saucers were forthwith produced, Milly acting as a waiter
for fear Aunt Polly would leave her seat and so disclose to view the
loaf of bread which had been hidden under the chair! Some coffee was
poured from the pot, which still stood on the stove, and then the
little negroes, amused with the novelty of the thing, ran shouting and
yelling that, “ole miss was eatin’ in the kitchen ’long with Lion, Aunt
Polly and the other dogs!”
The coffee being drank, Mrs. Nichols returned to the house, thinking
“what sights of comfort she should take with _Mrs. Atherton_,” whom she
pronounced to be “a likely, clever woman as ever was.”
Scarcely had she reached her room when the dinner-bell rang, every note
falling like an ice-bolt on the heart of ’Lena, who, though hungry like
her grandmother, still greatly dreaded the dinner, fearing her
inability to acquit herself creditably. Corinda had finished her hair,
and Anna, looking over her wardrobe and coming upon the black dress
which her father had purchased for her, had insisted upon ’Lena’s
wearing it. It was of rather more modern make than any of her other
dresses, and when her toilet was completed, she looked uncommonly well.
Still she trembled violently as Anna led her to the dining-room.
Neither Mrs. Nichols nor Mrs. Livingstone had yet made their
appearance, but the latter soon came languidly in, wrapped in a
rose-colored shawl, which John Jr., said “she wore to give a delicate
tint to her yellow complexion.” She was in the worst of humors, having
just been opening her husband’s trunk, where she found the numerous
articles which had been stowed away by Nancy Scovandyke. Very angrily
she had ordered them removed from her sight, and at this very moment
the little negroes in the yard were playing with the cracked bellows,
calling them a “blubber,” and filling them with water to see it run
out!
Except through the window, Mrs. Livingstone had not yet seen ’Lena, and
now dropping into her chair, she never raised her eyes until Anna said,
“Mother, mother, this is ’Lena. Look at her.”
Thus importuned, Mrs. Livingstone looked up, and the frown with which
she was prepared to greet her niece softened somewhat, for ’Lena was
not a child to be looked upon and despised. Plain and humble as was her
dress, there was something in her fine, open face, which at once
interested and commanded respect, John Jr., had felt it; his father had
felt it; and his mother felt it too, but it awoke in her a feeling of
bitterness as she thought how the fair young girl before her might in
time rival her daughters. At a glance, she saw that ’Lena was
beautiful, and that it was quite as much a beauty of intellect as of
feature and form.
“Yes,” thought she, “husband was right when he said that, with the same
advantages, she’d soon outstrip her cousins—but it shall never
be—_never_,” and the white teeth shut firmly together, as the cold,
proud woman bowed a welcome.
At this moment Mrs. Nichols appeared. Stimulated by the example of
’Lena, she, too, had changed her dress, and now in black bombazine,
white muslin cap, and shining silk apron, she presented so respectable
an appearance that her son’s face instantly brightened.
“Come, mother, we are waiting for you,” said he, as she stopped on her
way to ask Vine, the _fly girl_, “how she did, and if it wasn’t hard
work to swing them feathers.”
Not being very bright, Vine replied with a grim, “Dun know, miss.”
Taking her seat next to her son, Mrs. Nichols said when offered a plate
of soup, “I don’t often eat broth, besides that, I ain’t much hungry,
as I’ve just been takin’ a bite with _Miss Atherton_?”
“With whom?” asked Mr. Livingstone, John Jr., Carrie, and Anna, in the
same breath.
“With Miss Polly Atherton, that nice old colored lady in the kitchen,”
said Mrs. Nichols.
The scowl on Mrs. Livingstone’s face darkened visibly, while her
husband, thinking it time to speak, said, “It is my wish, mother, that
you keep away from the kitchen. It does the negroes no good to be
meddled with, and besides that, when you are hungry the servants will
take you something.”
“Accustomed to eat in the kitchen, probably,” muttered Carrie, with all
the air of a young lady of twenty.
“Hold on to your nose, Cad,” whispered John Jr., thereby attracting his
sister’s attention to himself.
By this time the soup was removed, and a fine large turkey appeared.
“What a noble great feller. Gobbler, ain’t it?” asked Mrs. Nichols,
touching the turkey with the knife.
John Jr., roared, and was ordered from the table by his father, while
’Lena, who stepped on her grandmother’s toes to keep her from talking,
was told by that lady “to keep her feet still.” Along with the desert
came ice-cream, which Mrs. Nichols had never before tasted, and now
fancying that she was dreadfully burned, she quickly deposited her
first mouthful upon her plate.
“What’s the matter, grandma? Can’t you eat it?” asked Anna.
“Yes, I kin eat it, but I don’t hanker arter it,” answered her
grandmother, pushing the plate aside.
Dinner being over, Mrs. Nichols returned to her room, but soon growing
weary, she started out to view the premises. Coming suddenly upon a
group of young negroes, she discovered her bellows, the water dripping
from the nose, while a little farther on she espied ’Lena’s bonnet,
which the negroes had at last succeeded in catching, and which, wet as
it was, now adorned the head of Thomas Jefferson! In a trice the old
lady’s principles were forgotten, and she cuffed the negroes with a
right good will, hitting Jeff, the hardest, and, as a matter of course,
making him yell the loudest. Out came Aunt Milly, scolding and
muttering about “white folks tendin’ to thar own business,” and
reversing her decision with regard to Mrs. Nichols’ position in the
next world. Cuff, the watch-dog, whose kennell was close by, set up a
tremendous howling, while John Jr., always on hand, danced a jig to the
sound of the direful music.
“For heaven’s sake, husband, go out and see what’s the matter,” said
Mrs. Livingstone, slightly alarmed at the unusual noise.
John complied, and reached the spot just in time to catch a glimpse of
John Jr.’s heels as he gave the finishing touch to his exploit, while
Mrs. Nichols, highly incensed, marched from the field of battle with
the bonnet and bellows, thinking “if them niggers was only her’n they’d
catch it!”