THE VISIT.
Mrs. Graham reclined upon a softly-cushioned sofa, her tasteful lace
morning-cap half falling from her head, and her rich cashmere gown
flowing open, so as to reveal the flounced cambric skirt which her
sewing-girl had sat up till midnight to finish. A pair of delicate
French slippers pinched rather than graced her fat feet, one of which
angrily beat the carpet, as if keeping time to its mistress’ thoughts.
Nervous and uncomfortable was the lady of Woodlawn this morning, for
she had just passed through a little conjugal scene with her husband,
whom she had called a _brute_, lamenting the dispensation of Providence
which took from her “her beloved Sir Arthur, who always thought
whatever she said was right,” and ending by throwing herself in the
most theatrical manner upon the sofa in the parlor, where, with both
her blood and temper at a boiling heat, she lay, when her waiting-maid,
but recently purchased, announced the approach of a carriage.
“Mercy,” exclaimed the distressed lady, “whose is it? I hope no one
will ask for me.”
“Reckon how it’s Marster Livingstone’s carriage, ’case thar’s Tom on
the box,” answered the girl, who had her own private reason for knowing
Tom at any distance.
“Mrs. Livingstone, I’ll venture to say,” groaned Mrs. Graham, burying
her lace cap and flaxen hair still farther in the silken cushions.
“Just because I stopped there a few days last summer, she thinks she
must run here every week; and there’s no way of escaping her. Do shut
that blind; it lets in so much light. There, would you think I’d been
crying?”
“Lor, no,” returned the stupid servant, “Lor, no; I should sooner think
your eyes and face were swelled with _pisen_.”
“The Lord help me,” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, “you don’t begin to know as
much as poor Charlotte did. She was a jewel, and I don’t see anything
what she wanted to die for, just as I had got her well trained; but
that’s all the thanks I ever get for my goodness. Now go quick, and
tell her I’ve got an excruciating headache.”
“If you please, miss,” said the girl, trying in vain to master the big
word, “if you please, give me somethin’ shorter, ’case I done forgit
that ar, sartin’.”
“Fool! Idiot!” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, hurling, for want of something
better, one of her satin slippers at the woolly head, which dodged out
of the door in time to avoid it.
“Is your mistress at home?” asked Mrs. Livingstone, and Martha,
uncertain what answer she was to make, replied, “Yes—no—I dun know,
’case she done driv me out afore I know’d whether she was at home or
not.”
“Martha, show the lady this way,” called out Mrs. Graham, who was
listening. “Ah, Mrs. Livingstone, is it you. I’m glad to see you,” said
she, half rising and shading her swollen eyes with her hand, as if the
least effort were painful. “You must excuse my dishabille, for I am
suffering from a bad headache, and when Martha said some one had come,
I thought at first I could not see them, but you are always welcome.
How have you been this long time, and why have you neglected me so,
when you know how I must feel the change from Louisville, where I was
constantly in society, to this dreary neighborhood?” and the lady lay
back upon the sofa, exhausted with and astonished at her own eloquence.
Mrs. Livingstone was quite delighted with her friend’s unusual
cordiality, and seating herself in the large easy-chair, began to make
herself very agreeable, offering to bathe Mrs. Graham’s aching head,
which kind offer the lady declined, bethinking herself of sundry gray
hairs, which a close inspection would single out from among her flaxen
tresses.
“Are your family all well?” she asked; to which Mrs. Livingstone
replied that they were, at the same time speaking of her extreme
loneliness since Mabel left them.
“Ah, you mean the little dark-eyed brunette, whom I saw with you at my
party. She was a nice-looking girl—showed that she came of a good
family. I think everything of that. I believe I’d rather Durward would
marry a poor aristocrat, than a wealthy plebeian—one whose family were
low and obscure.”
Mrs. Livingstone wondered what she thought of her family, the
Livingstones. The Richards’ blood she knew was good, but the Nichols’
was rather doubtful. Still, she would for once make the best of it, so
she hastened to say that few American ladies were so fortunate as Mrs.
Graham had been in marrying a noble man. “In this country we have no
nobility, you know,” said she, “and any one who gets rich and into good
society, is classed with the first.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Graham, “but in my mind there’s a great
difference. Now, Mr. Graham’s ancestors boast of the best blood of
South Carolina, while my family, everybody knows, was one of the first
in Virginia, so if Durward had been Mr. Graham’s son instead of Sir
Arthur’s, I should be just as proud of him, just as particular whom he
married.”
“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, a little piqued, for there was
something in Mrs. Graham’s manner which annoyed her—“certainly—I
understand you. I neither married a nobleman, nor one of the best
bloods of South Carolina, and still I should not be willing for my son
to marry—let me see—well, say ’Lena Rivers.”
“’Lena Rivers !” repeated Mrs. Graham—“why, I would not suffer Durward
to look at her, if I could help it. She’s of a horridly low family on
both sides, as I am told.”
This was a home thrust which Mrs. Livingstone could not endure quietly,
and as she had no wish to defend the royalty of a family which she
herself despised, she determined to avenge the insult by making her
companion as uncomfortable as possible. So she said, “Perhaps you are
not aware that your son’s attentions to this same ’Lena Rivers, are
becoming somewhat marked.”
“No, I was not aware of it,” and the greenish-gray eyes fastened
inquiringly upon Mrs. Livingstone, who continued: “It is nevertheless
true, and as I can appreciate your feelings, I thought it might not be
out of place for me to warn you.”
“Thank you,” returned Mrs. Graham, now raising herself upon her elbow,
“Thank you—-but do you know anything positive? What has Durward done?”
“’Lena is in Frankfort now, at Mr. Douglass’s,” answered Mrs.
Livingstone, “and your son is in the constant habit of visiting there;
besides that, he invited her to ride with him when they all went to
Frankfort—’Lena upon the gray pony which your husband gave her as a
Christmas present.”
Mrs. Livingstone had touched the right spot. ’Twas the first intimation
of Vesta which Mrs. Graham had received, and now sitting bolt upright,
she demanded what Mrs. Livingstone meant. “My husband give ’Lena Rivers
a pony! Harry Graham do such a thing! It can’t be possible. There must
be some mistake.”
“I think not,” returned Mrs. Livingstone. “Your son came over with it,
saying ‘it was a present from his father, who sent it, together with
his compliments.’”
Back among her cushions tumbled Mrs. Graham, moaning, groaning, and
pronouncing herself wholly heart-broken. “I knew he was bad,” said she,
“but I never dreamed it had come to this. And I might have known it,
too, for from the moment he first saw that girl, he has acted like a
crazy creature. Talks about her in his sleep—wants me to adopt
her—keeps his eyes on her every minute when he’s where she is; and to
crown all, without consulting me, his lawful wife, he has made her a
present, which must have cost more than a hundred dollars! And she
accepted it—the vixen!”
“That’s the worst feature in the case,” said Mrs. Livingstone. “I have
always been suspicious of ’Lena, knowing what her mother was, but I
must confess I did not think her quite so presumptuous as to accept so
costly a present from a gentleman, and a married one, too. But she has
a peculiar way of making them think what she does is right, and neither
my husband nor John Jr. can see any impropriety in her keeping Vesta.
Carrie wouldn’t have done such a thing.”
“Indeed she wouldn’t. She is too well-bred for that,” said Mrs. Graham,
who had been completely won by Carrie’s soft speeches and fawning
manner.
This compliment to her daughter pleased Mrs. Livingstone, who
straightway proceeded to build Carrie up still higher, by pulling ’Lena
down. Accordingly, every little thing which she could remember, and
many which she could not, were told in an aggravated manner, until
quite a case was made out, and ’Lena would never have recognized
herself in the artful, designing creature which her aunt kindly
pictured her to be.
“Of course,” said she, “if you ever repeat this, you will not use my
name, for as she is my husband’s niece it will not look well in me to
be proclaiming her vices, except in cases where I think it my duty.”
Mrs. Graham was too much absorbed in her own reflections to make a
reply, and as Mrs. Livingstone saw that her company was hardly desired,
she soon arose to go, asking Mrs. Graham “why she did not oftener visit
Maple Grove.”
When Mrs. Graham felt uncomfortable, she liked to make others so, too,
and to her friend’s question she answered, “I may as well be plain as
not, and to tell you the truth, I should enjoy visiting you very much,
were it not for one thing. That mother of yours——”
“Of my husband’s,” interrupted Mrs. Livingstone and Mrs. Graham
continued just where she left off.
“Annoys me exceedingly, by eternally tracing in me a resemblance to
some down-east creature or other—what is her name—Sco—Sco—Scovandyke;
yes, that’s it—Scovandyke. Of course it’s not pleasant for me to be
told every time I meet your mother——”
“Mr. Livingstone’s mother,” again interrupted the lady.
“That I look like some of her acquaintances, for I contend that
families of high birth bear with them marks which cannot be mistaken.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Mrs. Livingstone, adding, that “she was
herself continually annoyed by Mrs. Nichols’s vulgarity, but her
husband insisted that she should come to the table, so what could she
do?”
And mutually troubled, the one about her husband, and the other about
her husband’s mother, the two amiable ladies parted.
Scarcely was Mrs. Livingstone gone when Mr. Graham entered the room,
finding his wife, who had heard his footsteps, in violent hysterics. He
had seen her so too often to be alarmed, and was about to pull the
bellrope, when she found voice to bid him desist, saying it was himself
who was killing her by inches, and that the sooner she was dead, the
better she supposed he would like it. “But, for my sake,” she added, in
a kind of howl, between crying and scolding, “do try to behave yourself
during the short time I have to live, and not go to giving away ponies,
and mercy knows what.”
Now, Mr. Graham was not conscious of having looked at a lady, except
through the window, for many days, and when his wife first attacked
him, he was at a great loss to understand; but as she proceeded it all
became plain, and on the whole, he felt glad that the worst was over.
He would not acknowledge, even to himself, that he was afraid of his
wife, still he had a little rather she would not always know what he
did. He supposed, as a matter of course, that she would, earlier or
later, hear of his present to ’Lena, and he well knew that such an
event would surely be followed by a storm, but after what had taken
place between them that morning, he did not expect so much feeling, for
he had thought her wrath nearly expended. But Mrs. Graham was capable
of great things—as she proved on this occasion, taunting her husband
with his preference for ’Lena, accusing him of loving her better than
he did herself, and asking him plainly, if it were not so.
“Say,” she continued, stamping her foot (the one without a slipper),
“say—I will be answered. Don’t you like ’Lena better than you do me?”
Mr. Graham was provoked beyond endurance, and to the twice repeated
question, he at length replied, “God knows I’ve far more reason to love
her than I have you.” At the same moment he left the room, in time to
avoid a sight of the collapsed state into which his horrified wife who
did not expect such an answer, had fallen.
“Can I tell her? oh, dare I tell her?” he thought, as he wiped the
drops of perspiration from his brow, and groaned in the bitterness of
his spirit. Terribly was he expiating his fault, but at last he grew
calmer, and cowardice (for he was cowardly, else he had never been what
he was) whispered, “Wait yet awhile. Anything for domestic peace.”
So the secret was buried still deeper in his bosom, he never thinking
how his conduct would in the end injure the young girl, dearer to him
far than his own life. While he sat thus alone in his room, and as his
wife lay upon her sofa, Durward entered the parlor and began
good-humoredly to rally his mother upon her wobegone face, asking what
was the matter now.
“Oh, you poor boy, you,” she sobbed, “you’ll soon have no mother to go
to, but you must attribute my death wholly to your stepfather, who
alone will be to blame for making you an orphan!”
Durward knew his mother well, and he thought he knew his father too,
and while he respected him, he blamed her for the unreasonable whims of
which he was becoming weary. He knew there had been a jar in the
morning, but he had supposed that settled, and now, when he found his
mother ten times worse than ever, he felt half vexed, and said, “Do be
a woman mother, and not give way to such fancies. I really wonder
father shows as much patience with you as he does, for you make our
home very unpleasant; and really,” he continued, in a laughing tone,
“if this goes on much longer, I shall, in self-defense, get me a wife
and home of my own.”
“And if report is true, that wife will be ’Lena Rivers,” said Mrs.
Graham, in order to try him.
“Very likely—I can’t tell what may be,” was his answer; to which Mrs.
Graham replied, “that it would be extremely pleasant to marry a bride
with whom one’s father was in love.”
“How ridiculous!” Durward exclaimed. “As though my father cared aught
for ’Lena, except to admire her for her beauty and agreeable manners.”
“But, he’s acknowledged it. He’s just told me, ‘God knew he loved her
better than he did me.’ What do you think of that?”
“Did Mr. Graham say that?” asked Durward, looking his mother directly
in her face.
“Yes he did, not fifteen minutes before you came in, and it’s not a
secret either. Others know it and talk about it. Think of his giving
her that pony.”
Durward was taken by surprise. Knowing none of the circumstances, he
felt deeply pained at his father’s remark. He had always supposed he
liked ’Lena, and he was glad of it, too, but to love her more than his
own wife, was a different thing, and for the first time in his life
Durward distrusted his father. Still, ’Lena was not to blame; there was
comfort in that, and that very afternoon found him again at her side,
admiring her more and more, and learning each time he saw her to love
her better. And she—she dared not confess to herself how dear he was to
her—she dared not hope her affection was returned. She could not think
of the disappointment the future might bring, so she lived on the
present, waiting anxiously for his coming, and striving hard to do the
things which she thought would please him best.
True to her promise, Mabel had commenced giving her instructions upon
the piano, and they were in the midst of their first lesson, when who
should walk in, but Monsieur Du Pont, bowing, and saying “he had been
hired by von nice gentleman, to give Mademoiselle Rivers lessons in
musique.”
’Lena immediately thought of her uncle, who had once proposed her
sharing in the instructions of her cousin, but who, as usual, was
overruled by his wife.
“’Twas my uncle, was it not?” she asked of Du Pont, who replied, “I
promised not to tell. He say, though, he connected with mademoiselle.”
And ’Lena, thinking it was of course Mr. Livingstone, who, on his
wife’s account, wished it a secret, readily consented to receive Du
Pont as a teacher in place of Mabel, who still expressed her
willingness to assist her whenever it was necessary. Naturally fond of
music, ’Lena’s improvement was rapid, and when she found how gratified
Durward appeared, she redoubled her exertions, practicing always five,
and sometimes six hours a day.