SCHEMING.
“Mother, where’s ’Lena’s dress? Hasn’t she got any?” asked Anna, one
morning, about two weeks before Christmas, as she bent over a
promiscuous pile of merinoes, delaines, and plaid silks, her own and
Carrie’s dresses for the coming holidays. “Say, mother, didn’t you buy
’Lena any?”
Thus interrogated, Mrs. Livingstone replied, “I wonder if you think I’m
made of money! ’Lena is indebted to me now for more than she can ever
pay. As long as I give her a home and am at so much expense in
educating her, she of course can’t expect me to dress her as I do you.
There’s Carrie’s brown delaine and your blue one, which I intend to
have made over for her, and she ought to be satisfied with that, for
they are much better than anything she had when she came here.”
And the lady glanced toward the spot where ’Lena sat, admiring the new
things, in which she had no share, and longing to ask the question
which Anna had asked for her, and which had now been answered. John
Jr., who was present, and who knew that Mr. Everett had been engaged to
teach in the family long before it was known that ’Lena was coming, now
said to his cousin, who arose to leave, “Yes, ’Lena, mother’s a model
of generosity, and you’ll never be able to repay her for her kindness
in allowing you to wear the girls’ old duds, which would otherwise be
given to the blacks, and in permitting you to recite to Mr. Everett,
who, of course, was hired on your account.”
The slamming together of the door as ’Lena left the room brought the
young gentleman’s remarks to a close, and wishing to escape the lecture
which he saw was preparing for him, he, too, made his exit.
Christmas was coming, and with it Durward Bellmont, and about his
coming Mrs. Livingstone felt some little anxiety. Always scheming, and
always looking ahead, she was expecting great results from this visit.
Durward was not only immensely wealthy, but was also descended on his
father’s side from one of England’s noblemen. Altogether he was, she
thought, a “decided catch,” and though he was now only sixteen, while
Carrie was but thirteen, lifelong impressions had been made at even an
earlier period, and Mrs. Livingstone resolved that her pretty daughter
should at least have all the advantages of dress with which to set off
her charms. Concerning Anna’s appearance she cared less, for she had
but little hope of her, unless, indeed—but ’twas too soon to think of
that—she would wait, and perhaps in good time ’twould all come round
naturally and as a matter of course. So she encouraged her daughter’s
intimacy with Captain Atherton, who, until Malcolm Everett appeared,
was in Anna’s estimation the best man living. Now, however, she made an
exception in favor of her teacher, “who,” as she told the captain,
“neither wore false teeth, nor kept in his pocket a pair of specks, to
be slyly used when he fancied no one saw him.”
Captain Atherton coughed, colored, laughed, and saying that “Mr.
Everett was a mash kind of a boy,” swore eternal enmity toward him, and
under the mask of friendship—watched! Eleven years before, when Anna
was a baby, Mrs. Livingstone had playfully told the captain, who was
one day deploring his want of a wife, that if he would wait he should
have her daughter. To this he agreed, and the circumstance, trivial as
it was, made a more than ordinary impression upon his mind; and though
he as yet had no definite idea that the promise would ever be
fulfilled, the little girl was to him an object of uncommon interest.
Mrs. Livingstone knew this, and whenever Anna’s future prospects were
the subject of her meditations, she generally fell back upon that fact
as an item not to be despised.
Now, however, her thoughts were turned into another and widely
different channel. Christmas week was to be spent by Durward Bellmont
partly at Captain Atherton’s and partly at her own house, and as Mrs.
Livingstone was not ignorant of the effect a becoming dress has upon a
pretty face, she determined that Carrie should, at least, have that
advantage. Anna, too, was to fare like her sister, while no thought was
bestowed upon poor ’Lena’s wardrobe, until her husband, who accompanied
her to Frankfort, suggested that a certain pattern, which he fancied
would be becoming to ’Lena should be purchased.
With an angry scowl, Mrs. Livingstone muttered something about
“spending so much money for other folks’ young ones.” Then remembering
the old delaines, and knowing by the tone of her husband’s voice that
he was in earnest, she quickly rejoined, “Why, ’Lena’s got two new
dresses at home.”
Never doubting his wife’s word, Mr. Livingstone was satisfied, and
nothing more was said upon the subject. Business of importance made it
necessary for him to go for a few weeks to New Orleans, and he was now
on his way thither, his wife having accompanied him as far as
Frankfort, where he took the boat, while she returned home. When ’Lena
left the room after learning that she had no part in the mass of
Christmas finery, she repaired to the arbor bridge, where she had wept
so bitterly on the first day of her arrival, and which was now her
favorite resort. For a time she sat watching the leaping waters,
swollen by the winter rains, and wondering if it were not possible that
they started at first from the pebbly spring which gushed so cool and
clear from the mountain-side near her old New England home. This
reminded her of where and what she was now—a dependent on the bounty of
those who wished her away, and who almost every day of her life made
her feel it so keenly, too. Not one among them loved her except Anna,
and would not her affection change as they grew older? Then her
thoughts took another direction.
Durward Bellmont was coming—but did she wish to see him? Could she bear
the sneering remarks which she knew Carrie would make concerning
herself? And how would he be affected by them? Would he ask her of her
father? and if so, what had she to say?
Many a time had she tried to penetrate the dark mystery of her birth,
but her grandmother was wholly non-committal. Once, too, when her uncle
seemed kinder than usual, she had ventured to ask him of her father,
and with a frown he had replied, that “the least she knew of him the
better!” Still ’Lena felt sure that he was a good man, and that some
time or other she would find him.
All day long the clouds had been threatening rain, which began to fall
soon after ’Lena entered the arbor, but so absorbed was she in her own
thoughts, that she did not observe it until her clothes were perfectly
dampened; then starting up, she repaired to the house. For several days
she had not been well, and this exposure brought on a severe cold,
which confined her to her room for nearly two weeks. Meantime the
dress-making process went on, Anna keeping ’Lena constantly apprised of
its progress, and occasionally wearing in some article for her
inspection. This reminded ’Lena of her own wardrobe, and knowing that
it would not be attended to while she was sick, she made such haste to
be well, that on Thursday at tea-time she took her accustomed seat at
the table. After supper she lingered awhile in the parlor, hoping
something would be said, but she waited in vain, and was about leaving,
when a few words spoken by Carrie in an adjoining room caught her ear
and arrested her attention.
They were—“And so ’Lena came down to-night. I dare say she thinks
you’ll set Miss Simpson at work upon my old delaine.”
“Perhaps so,” returned Mrs. Livingstone, “but I don’t see how Miss
Simpson can do it, unless you put off having that silk apron
embroidered.”
“I shan’t do any such thing,” said Carrie, glad of an excuse to keep
’Lena out of the way. “What matter is it if she don’t come down when
the company are here? I’d rather she wouldn’t, for she’s so green and
awkward, and Durward is so fastidious in such matters, that I’d rather
he wouldn’t know she’s a relative of ours! I know he’d tell his mother,
and they say she is very particular about his associates.”
’Lena’s first impulse was to defy her cousin to her face—to tell her
she had seen Durward Bellmont, and that he didn’t laugh at her either.
But her next thought was calmer and more rational. Possibly under
Carrie’s influence he might make fun of her, and resolving on no
condition whatever to make herself visible while he was in the house,
she returned to her room, and throwing herself upon the bed, wept until
she fell asleep.
“When is Miss Simpson going to fix ’Lena’s dress?” asked Anna, as day
after day passed, and nothing was said of the brown delaine.
For an instant Miss Simpson’s nimble fingers were still, as she awaited
the answer to a question which had occurred to her several times. She
was a kind-hearted, intelligent girl, find at a glance had seen how
matters stood. She, too, was an orphan, and her sympathies were all
enlisted in behalf of the neglected ’Lena. She had heard from Anna of
the brown delaine, and in her own mind she had determined that it
should be fitted with the utmost taste of which she was capable.
Her speculations, however, were brought to a close by Mrs.
Livingstone’s saying in reply to Anna, that “’Lena seemed so wholly
uninterested, and cared so little about seeing the company, she had
decided not to have the dress fixed until after Christmas week.”
The fiery expression of two large, glittering eyes, which at that
moment peered in at the door, convinced Miss Simpson that her employer
had hardly told the truth, and she secretly determined that ’Lena
should have the dress whether she would or not. Accordingly, the next
time she and Anna were alone, she asked for the delaine, entrusting her
secret to Anna, who, thinking no harm, promised to keep it from her
mother. But to get ’Lena fitted was a more difficult matter. Her spirit
was roused, and for a time she resisted their combined efforts. At
last, however, she yielded, and by working late at night in her own
room, Miss Simpson managed to finished the dress, in which ’Lena really
looked better than did either of her cousins in their garments of far
richer materials. Still she was resolved not to go down, and Anna,
fearing what her mother might say, dared not urge her very strongly
hoping, though, that “something would turn up.”
Durward Bellmont, Nellie Douglass, and Mabel Ross had arrived at
Captain Atherton’s. Mrs. Livingstone and her daughters had called upon
them, inviting them to spend a few days at Maple Grove, where they were
to meet some other young people “selected from the wealthiest families
in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Livingstone said, at the same time patting
the sallow cheek of Mabel, whose reputed hundred thousand she intended
should one day increase the importance of her own family.
The invitation was accepted—the day had arrived, the guests were
momentarily expected, and Carrie, before the long mirror, was admiring
herself, alternately frowning upon John Jr., who was mimicking her
“airs,” and scolding Anna for fretting because ’Lena could not be
induced to join them. Finding that her niece was resolved not to
appear, Mrs. Livingstone, for looks’ sake, had changed her tactics,
saying, “’Lena could come down if she chose—she was sure there was
nothing to prevent.”
Knowing this, Anna had exhausted all her powers of eloquence upon her
cousin. But she still remained inexorable, greatly to the astonishment
of her grandmother who for several days had been suffering from a
rheumatic affection, notwithstanding which she “meant to hobble down if
possible, for” said she, “I want to see this Durward Bellmont. Matilda
says he’s got _Noble_ blood in him. I used to know a family of Nobles
in Massachusetts, and I think like as not he’s some kin!”
Carrie, to whom this remark was made, communicated it to her mother,
who forthwith repaired to Mrs. Nichols’ room, telling her “that ’twas a
child’s party,” and hinting pretty strongly that she was neither wanted
nor expected in the parlor, and would confer a great favor by keeping
aloof.
“Wall, wall,” said Mrs. Nichols, who had learned to dread her
daughter’s displeasure, “I’d as lief stay up here as not, but I do want
’Lena to jine ’em. She’s young and would enjoy it.”
Without a word of answer Mrs. Livingstone walked away, leaving ’Lena
more determined than ever not to go down. When the evening at last
arrived, Anna insisted so strongly upon her wearing the delaine, for
fear of what might happen, that ’Lena consented, curling her hair with
great care, and feeling a momentary thrill of pride as she saw how well
she looked.
“When we get nicely to enjoying ourselves,” said Anna, “you come down
and look through the glass door, for I do want you to see Durward, he’s
so handsome—but there’s the carriage—I must go;” and away ran Anna down
the stairs, while ’Lena flew to one of the front windows to see the
company as they rode up.
First came Captain Atherton’s carriage, and in it the captain and his
maiden sister, together with a pale, sickly-looking girl, whom ’Lena
knew to be Mabel Ross. Behind them rode Durward Bellmont, and at his
side, on a spirited little pony was another girl, thirteen or fourteen
years of age, but in her long riding-dress looking older, because
taller. ’Lena readily guessed that this was Nellie Douglass, and at a
glance she recognized the Durward of the cars—grown handsomer and
taller since then, she thought. With a nimble bound he leaped from his
saddle, kissing his hand to Carrie, who with her sunniest smile ran
past him to welcome Nellie. A pang, not of jealousy, but of an
undefined something, shot through ’Lena’s heart, and dropping the heavy
curtain, she turned away, while the tears gathered thickly in her large
brown eyes.
“Where’s ’Lena?” asked Captain Atherton, of Anna, warming his red
fingers before the blazing grate, and looking round upon the group of
girls gathered near. Glancing at her mother, Anna replied, “She says
she don’t want to come down.”
“Bashful,” returned the captain, while Nellie Douglass asked, “who
’Lena was,” at the same time returning the _pinch_ which John Jr. had
slyly given her as a mode of showing his preference, for Nellie _was_
his favorite.
Fearful of Anna’s reply, Mrs. Livingstone answered, carelessly, “She’s
the child of one of Mr. Livingstone’s poor relations, and we’ve taken
her awhile out of charity.”
At any other time John Jr. would doubtless have questioned his mother’s
word, but now so engrossed was he with the merry, hoydenish Nellie,
that he scarcely heard her remark, or noticed the absence of ’Lena.
With the exception of his cousin, Nellie was the only girl whom John
Jr. could endure—“the rest,” he said, “were so stuck up and affected.”
For Mabel Ross, he seemed to have a particular aversion. Not because
she was so very disagreeable, but because his mother continually
reminded him of what she hoped would one day be, “and this,” he said,
“was enough to make a ‘feller’ hate a girl.” So without considering
that Mabel was not to blame, he ridiculed her unmercifully, calling her
“a bundle of medicine,” and making fun of her thin, sallow face, which
really appeared to great disadvantage when contrasted with Nellie’s
bright eyes and round, rosy cheeks.
When the guests were all assembled, Carrie, not knowing whether Durward
Bellmont would relish plays, seated herself demurely upon the sofa,
prepared to act the dignified young lady, or any other character she
might think necessary.
“Get up, Cad,” said John Jr. “Nobody’s going to act like they were at a
funeral; get up, and let’s play something.”
As the rest seemed to be similarly inclined, Carrie arose, and erelong
the joyous shouts reached ’Lena, making her half wish that she, too,
was there. Remembering Anna’s suggestion of looking through the glass
door she stole softly down the stairs, and stationing herself behind
the door, looked in on the scene. Mr. Everett, usually so dignified,
had joined in the game, claiming “forfeits” from Anna more frequently
than was considered at all necessary by the captain, who for a time
looked jealously on, and then declaring himself as young as any of
them, joined them with a right good will.
“Blind man’s buff,” was next proposed, and ’Lena’s heart leaped up, for
that was her favorite game. John Jr. was first blinded, but he caught
them so easily that all declared he could see, and loud were the calls
for Durward to take his place. This he willingly did, and whether he
could see or not, he suffered them to pass directly under his hands,
thus giving entire satisfaction. On account of the heat of the rooms,
Anna, on passing the glass door, threw it open, and the next time
Durward came round he marched directly into the hall, seizing ’Lena,
who was trying to hide.
Feeling her long curls, he exclaimed, “Anna, you are caught.”
“No, I ain’t Anna; let me go,” said ’Lena, struggling to escape.
This brought all the girls to the spot, while Durward, snatching the
muffler from his eyes, looked down with astonishment upon the trembling
’Lena, who would have escaped had she not been so securely hemmed in.
“Ain’t you ashamed, ’Lena, to be peeking?” asked Carrie, while Durward
repeated—“’_Lena_! ’_Lena_! I’ve seen her before in the cars between
Springfield and Albany; but how came she here?”
“She lives here—she’s our cousin,” said Anna, notwithstanding the
twitch given to her sleeve by Carrie, who did not care to have the
relationship exposed.
“Your cousin,” said Durward, “and where’s the old lady who was with
her?”
“The one she called _granny_?” asked John Jr., on purpose to rouse up
his fiery little cousin.
“No, I don’t call her _granny_, neither—I’ve quit it,” said ’Lena,
angrily, adding, as a sly hit at Kentucky talk, “she’s up _stars_, sick
with the rheumatism.”
“Good,” said Durward, “but why are you not down here with us?”
“I didn’t want to come,” was her reply; and Durward, leading her into
the parlor, continued, “but now that you are here, you must stay.”
“Pretty, isn’t she,” said Nellie, as the full blaze of the chandelier
fell upon ’Lena.
“Rath-er,” was Carrie’s hesitating reply.
She felt annoyed that ’Lena should be in the parlor, and provoked that
Durward should notice her in any way, and at the first opportunity she
told him “how much she both troubled and mortified them, by her
vulgarity and obstinacy,” adding that “she had a most violent temper.”
From Nellie she had learned that Durward particularly disliked
passionate girls, and for this reason she strove to give him the
impression that ’Lena was such an one. Once or twice she fancied him
half inclined to disbelieve her, as he saw how readily ’Lena joined in
their amusements, and how good-humoredly she bore John Jr.’s teasing,
and then she hoped something would occur to prove her words true. Her
wish was gratified.
The next day was dark and stormy, confining the young people to the
house. About ten o’clock the negro who had been to the post-office
returned, bringing letters for the family, among which was one for
’Lena, so curious in its shape and superscription, that even the negro
grinned as he handed it out. ’Lena was not then present, and Carrie,
taking the letter, exclaimed, “Now if this isn’t the last specimen from
Yankeedom. Just listen,—” and she spelled out the direction—“_To Mis
HELL-ENY RIVERS, state of kentucky, county of woodford, Dorsey post
offis, care of Mis nichals_.”
Unobserved by any one, ’Lena had entered the parlor in time to hear
every word, and when Carrie, chancing to espy her, held out the letter,
saying, “Here, _Helleny_, I _guess_ this came from down east,” she
darted forward, and striking the letter from Carrie’s hands stamped
upon it with her foot, declaring “she’d never open it in the world,”
and saying “they might do what they pleased with it for all of her.”
“Read it—may we read it?” eagerly asked Carrie, delighted to see ’Lena
doing such justice to her reputation.
“Yes, read it!” almost screamed ’Lena, and before any one could
interpose a word, Carrie had broken the seal and commenced reading,
announcing, first, that it came from “Joel Slocum!” It was as follows:
“Dear Helleny, mebby you’ll wonder when you see a letter from me, but
I’ll be hanged if I can help ’ritin’, I am so confounded lonesome now
you are gone, that I dun know nothing what to do with myself. So I set
on the great rock where the saxefax grows; and think, and think till it
seems ’s ef my head would bust open. Wall, how do you git along down
amongst them heathenish Kentucks & niggers? I s’pose there ain’t no
great difference between ’em, is there? When I git a little more
larnin’, I b’lieve I’ll come down there to keep school. O, I forgot to
tell you that our old line back cow has got a calf—the prettiest little
critter—Dad has gin her to me, and I call her Helleny, I do, I swow!
And when she capers round she makes me think of the way you danced
‘High putty Martin’ the time you stuck a sliver in your heel—”
Up to this point ’Lena had stood immovable, amid the loud shouts of her
companions, but the fire of a hundred volcanoes burned within and
flashed from her eyes. And now springing forward, she caught the letter
from Carrie’s hand, and inflicting a long scratch upon her forehead,
fled from the room. Had not Durward Bellmont been present, Carrie would
have flown after her cousin, to avenge the insult, and even now she was
for a moment thrown off her guard, and starting forward, exclaimed,
“the tigress!”
Drawing his fine cambric handkerchief from his pocket, Durward gently
wiped the blood from her white brow, saying “Never mind. It is not a
deep scratch.”
“I wish ’twas deeper,” muttered John Jr. “You’d no business to serve
her so mean.”
An angry retort rose to Carrie’s lips, but, just in time to prevent its
utterance, Durward also spoke, saying, “It was too bad to tease her so,
but we were all more or less to blame, and I’m not sure but we ought to
apologize.”
Carrie felt that she would die, almost, before she’d apologize to such
as ’Lena, and still she thought it might be well enough to give Durward
the impression that she was doing, her best to make amends for her
fault. Accordingly, the next time her cousin appeared in the parlor she
was all smiles and affability, talking a great deal to ’Lena, who
returned very short but civil answers, while her face wore a look which
Durward construed into defiance and hatred of everybody and everything.
“Too passionate,” thought he, turning from her to Carrie, whose voice,
modulated to its softest tones, rang out clear and musical, as she
sported and laughed with her moody cousin, appearing the very essence
of sweetness and amiability!
Pity he could not have known how bitterly ’Lena had wept over her hasty
action—not because _he_ witnessed it, but because she knew it was
wrong! Pity he could not have read the tear-blotted note, which she
laid on Carrie’s work-box, and in which was written, “I am sorry,
Carrie, that I hurt you so. I didn’t know what I was about, but I will
try and not get so angry again.”
Pity, too, that he did not see the look of contempt with which Carrie
perused this note; and when the two girls accidentally met in the upper
hall, and ’Lena laid her hand gently on Carrie’s arm, it is a thousand
pities he was not present to see how fiercely she was repulsed, Carrie
exclaiming, “Get out of my sight! _I hate you_, and so do all of them
downstairs, Durward in particular.”
Had he known all this he would have thought differently of ’Lena, who,
feeling that she was not wanted in the parlor, kept herself entirely
aloof, never again appearing during the remainder of his stay. Once
Durward asked for her, and half laughingly Carrie replied, that “she
had not yet recovered from her pouting fit.” Could he have known her
real occupation, he might have changed his mind again. The stormy
weather had so increased Mrs. Nichols’ rheumatic complaint, that now,
perfectly crippled, she lay as helpless as a child, carefully nursed by
’Lena and old Aunt Polly, who, spite of her own infirmities, had
hobbled in to wait upon her friend. Never but once did Mrs. Livingstone
go near her mother’s sick-room—“the smell of herbs made her faint,” she
said! But to do her justice, we must say that she gave Polly
unqualified permission to order anything she pleased for the invalid.
Toward the close of the third day, the company left. Nellie Douglass,
who really liked ’Lena, and wished to bid her good-bye, whispered to
John Jr., asking him to show her the way to his cousin’s room. No one
except members of the family had ever been in Mrs. Nichols’ apartment,
and for a moment John Jr. hesitated, knowing well that Nellie could not
fail to observe the contrast it presented to the other richly-furnished
chambers.
“They ought to be mortified—it’ll serve ’em right,” he thought, at
last, and motioning Nellie to fallow him, he silently led the way to
his grandmother’s room, where their knock was answered by Aunt Polly’s
gruff voice, which bade them “come in.”
They obeyed, but Nellie started back when she saw how greatly inferior
was this room to the others around it. In an instant her eye took in
everything, and she readily comprehended the whole.
“It isn’t my doings, by a jug-full!” whispered John Jr., himself
reddening as he noted the different articles of furniture which had
never before seemed so meager and poor.
On the humble bed, in a half-upright position, lay Mrs. Nichols, white
as the snowy cap-border which shaded her face. Behind her sat ’Lena,
supporting her head, and when Nellie entered, she was carefully pushing
back the few gray locks which had fallen over the invalid’s forehead,
her own bright curls mingling with them, and resting, some on her neck,
and some on her grandmother’s shoulder. A deep flush dyed her cheeks
when she saw Nellie, who thought she had never looked upon a sight more
beautiful.
“I did not know your grandmother was ill,” said she, coming forward and
gently touching the swollen hand which lay outside the counterpane.
Mrs. Nichols was not too ill to talk, and forthwith she commenced a
history of her malady, beginning at the time she first had it when
’Lena’s mother was a year and a day old, frequently quoting Nancy
Scovandyke, and highly entertaining Nellie, who listened until warned
by the sound of the carriage, as it came round to the door, that she
must go.
“We are going back to Uncle Atherton’s,” said she, “but I wanted to bid
you good-bye, and ask you to visit me in Frankfort with your cousins.
Will you do so?”
This was wholly unexpected to ’Lena, who, without replying, burst into
tears. Nellie hardly knew what to do. She seldom cried herself—she did
not like to see others cry—and still she did not blame ’Lena, for she
felt that she could not help it. At last, taking her hand, she bade her
farewell, asking if she should not carry a good-bye to the others.
“Yes, to Mabel,” said ’Lena.
“And not Durward?” asked Nellie.
With something of her old spirit ’Lena answered, “No, he hates
me—Carrie says so.”
“Cad’s a fool,” muttered John Jr., while Nellie rejoined, “Durward
never hated anybody, and even if he did, he would not say so—I mean to
tell him;” and with another good-bye she was gone.
On the stairs she met Durward, who was looking for her, and asked where
she had been.
“To bid ’Lena good-bye; don’t you want to go too?” said Nellie.
“Why, yes, if you are sure she won’t scratch my eyes out,” he returned,
gayly, following his cousin.
“I reckon I’d better tell ’Lena to come out into the hall—she may not
want you in there,” said John Jr., and hastening forward he told his
cousin what was wanted.
Oh, how ’Lena longed to go, but pride, and the remembrance of Carrie’s
words, prevented her, and coldly answering, “No, I don’t wish to see
him,” she turned away to hide the tears and pain which those words had
cost her.
This visit to Grandma Nichols’ room was productive of some good, for
John Jr., did not fail of repeating to his mother the impression which
he saw was made on Nellie’s mind, adding, that “though Durward did not
venture in, Nellie would of course tell him all about it. And then,”
said he, “I wouldn’t give much for his opinion of your treatment of
your mother.”
Angry, because she felt the truth of what her son said, Mrs.
Livingstone demanded “what he’d have her do.”
“Do?” he repeated, “give grandmother a decent room, or else fix that
one up, so it won’t look like the old scratch had been having a
cotillon there. Paper and paint it, and make it look decent.”
Upon this last piece of advice Mrs. Livingstone resolved to act, for
recently several vague rumors had reached her ear, touching her neglect
of her mother-in-law, and she began herself to think it just possible
that a little of her money would be well expended in adding to the
comfort of her husband’s mother. Accordingly, as soon as Mrs. Nichols
was able to sit up, her room underwent a thorough renovation, and
though no great amount of money was expended upon it, it was fitted up
with so much taste that the poor old lady, whom John Jr., ’Lena and
Anna, had adroitly kept out of the way until her room was finished,
actually burst into tears when first ushered into her light, airy
apartment, in which everything looked so cheerful and pleasant.
“’Tilda has now and then a good streak,” said she, while Aunt Milly,
who had taken a great deal of interest in the repairing of the room,
felt inclined to change her favorite theory with regard to her
mistress’ future condition.