University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
COUSIN BERINTHA AND LUCY'S PARTY.

Cousin Berintha, whom Lucy Dayton so much disliked
and dreaded, was a cousin of Mr. Dayton, and was
a prim, matter-of-fact maiden of fifty, or thereabouts.
That she was still in a state of single blessedness, was
partially her own fault, for at twenty she was engaged to
the son of a wealthy farmer who lived near her father.
But, alas! ere the wedding day arrived, there came to
the neighborhood a young lady from Boston, in whose
presence the beauty of the country girl grew dim, as do
the stars in the rays of the morning sun.

Berintha had a plain face, but a strong heart, and when

she saw that Amy Holbrook was preferred, with steady
hand and unflinching nerve, she wrote to her recreant
lover that he was free. And now Amy, to whom the
false knight turned, took it into her capricious head that
she could not marry a farmer,—she had always fancied a
physician; and if young B— would win her, he must
first secure the title of M. D. He complied with her request,
and one week from the day on which he received
his diploma, Berintha read, with a slightly blanched
cheek, the notice of his marriage with the Boston
beauty. Three years from that day she read the announcement
of Amy's death, and in two years more
she refused the doctor's offer to give her a home by his
lonely fireside, and a place in his widowed heart. All
this had the effect of making Berintha rather cross,
but she seldom manifested her spite toward any one except
Lucy, whom she seemed to take peculiar delight in
teasing, and whose treatment of herself was not such as
would warrant much kindness in return.

Lizzie she had always loved, and when Harry Graham
went away, it was on Berintha's lap that the young girl
sobbed out her grief, wondering, when with her tears Berintha's
were mingled, how one apparently so cold and passionless
could sympathize with her. To no one had Berintha
ever confided the story of her early love. Mr.
Dayton was a school-boy then, and as but little was said
of it at the time, it faded entirely from memory; and
when Lucy called her a “crabbed old maid,” she knew
not of the disappointment which had clouded every joy,
and embittered a whole lifetime.

At the first intelligence of Lizzie's illness, Berintha
came, and though her prescriptions of every kind of herb
tea in the known world were rather numerous, and her
doses of the same were rather large, and though her stiff

cap, sharp nose, and curious little eyes, which saw everything,
were exceedingly annoying to Lucy, she proved
herself an invaluable nurse, warming up old Dr. Benton's
heart into a glow of admiration of her wonderful skill!
Hour after hour she sat by Lizzie, bathing her burning
brow, or smoothing her tumbled pillow. Night after
night she kept her tireless watch, treading softly around
the sick-room, and lowering her loud, harsh voice to a
whisper, lest she should disturb the uneasy slumbers of
the sick girl, who, under her skillful nursing, gradually
grew better.

“Was there ever such a dear, good cousin,” said Lizzie,
one day, when a nervous headache had been coaxed
away by what Berintha called her “mesmeric passes;”
and “Was there ever such a horrid bore,” said Lucy, on
the same day, when Cousin Berintha “thought she saw a
white hair in Lucy's raven curls!” adding, by way of
consolation, “It wouldn't be anything strange, for I began
to grow gray before I was as old as you.”

“And that accounts for your head being just the color
of wool,” angrily retorted Lucy, little dreaming of the
bitter tears and sleepless nights which had early blanched
her cousin's hair to its present whiteness.

For several winters Lucy had been in the habit of giving
a large party, and as she had heard that St. Leon was soon
going south, she felt anxious to have it take place ere he
left town. But what should she do with Berintha, who
showed no indications of leaving, though Lizzie was much
better.

“I declare,” said she to herself, “that woman is enough
to worry the life out of me. I 'll speak to Liz about it
this very day.”

Accordingly, that afternoon, when alone with her sister,
she said, “Lizzie, is it absolutely necessary that Berintha

should stay here any longer, to tuck you up, and
feed you sage tea through a straw?”

Lizzie looked inquiringly at her sister, who continued,
“To tell you the truth, I'm tired of having her around,
and must manage some way to get rid of her before next
week, for I mean to have a party Thursday night.”

Lizzie's eyes now opened in astonishment, as she exclaimed,
“A party! oh, Lucy, wait until I get well.”

“You'll be able by that time to come down stairs in
your crimson morning-gown, which becomes you so well,”
answered Lucy.

“But father's away,” rejoined Lizzie; to which Lucy
replied, “So much the better, for now I shan't be obliged
to ask any old things. I told him I meant to have it
while he was gone, for you know he hates parties. But
what shall I do with Berintha?”

“Why, what possible harm can she do?” asked Lizzie.
“She would enjoy it very much, I know; for in spite of
her oddities, she likes society.”

“Well, suppose she does; nobody wants her round,
prating about white hairs and mercy knows what. Come,
you tell her you don't need her services any longer—
that's a good girl.”

There was a look of mischief in Lizzie's eye, and a merry
smile on her lip, as she said, “Why, don't you know that
father has invited her to spend the winter, and she has
accepted the invitation?”

“Invited her to spend the winter!” repeated Lucy,
while the tears glittered in her bright eyes. “What does
he mean?”

“Why,” answered Lizzie, “it is very lonely at Cousin
John's, and his wife makes more of a servant of Berintha
than she does a companion, so father, out of pity, asked
her to stay with us, and she showed her good taste by
accepting.”

“I'll hang myself in the woodshed before spring — see
if I don't!” and burying her face in her hands, Lucy wept
aloud, while Lizzie, lying back upon her pillow, laughed
immoderately at her sister's distress.

“There's a good deal to laugh at, I think,” said Lucy,
more angrily than she usually addressed her sister. “If
you have any pity, do devise some means of getting rid
of her, for a time, at least.”

“Well, then,” answered Lizzie, “she wants to go home
for a few days, in order to make some necessary preparations
for staying with us, and perhaps you can coax her
to go now, though I for one would like to have her stay.
Everybody knows she is your cousin, and no one will
think less of you for having her here.”

“But I won't do it,” said Lucy, “and that settles it.
Your plan is a good one, and I 'll get her off — see if I
don't!”

The next day, which was Saturday, Lucy was unusually
kind to her cousin, giving her a collar, offering to fix her
cap, and doing numerous other little things, which greatly
astonished Berintha. At last, when dinner was over, she
said, “Come, cousin, what do you say to a sleigh ride
this afternoon? I haven't been down to Elizabeth Betsey's
in a good while, so suppose we go to-day.”

Berintha was taken by surprise, but after a moment
she said just what Lucy hoped she would say, viz: that
she was wanting to go home for a few days, and if Lizzie
were only well enough, she would go now.

“Oh she is a great deal better,” said Lucy, “and you
can leave her as well as not. Dr. Benton says I am
almost as good a nurse as you, and I will take good care
of her,—besides, I really think you need rest; so go,
if you wish to, and next Saturday I will come round after
you.”

Accordingly, Berintha, who suspected nothing, was
coaxed into going home, and when at three o'clock the
sleigh was said to be ready, she kissed Lizzie good-by,
and taking her seat by the side of Lucy, was driven rapidly
toward her brother's house.

“There! haven't I managed it capitally!” exclaimed
Lucy, as she reëntered her sister's room, after her ride;
“but the bother of it is, I've promised to go round next
Saturday, and bring not only Berintha, but Elizabeth
Betsey and her twins! Won't it be horrible! However,
the party'll be over, so I don't care.”

Cousin Berintha being gone, there was no longer any
reason why the party should be kept a secret, and before
nightfall every servant in the house was discussing it,
Bridget saying, “Faith, an' I thought it was mighty good
she was gettin' with that woman.”

Mrs. Dayton was highly indignant at the trick which
she plainly saw had been put upon Berintha, but Lucy
only replied, “that she wished it were as easy a matter
to get rid of grandma!”

On Monday cards of invitation to the number of one
hundred and fifty were issued, and when Lizzie, in looking
them over, asked why Ada Harcourt was left out, Lucy
replied, that “she guessed she wasn't going to insult her
guests by inviting a sewing girl with them. Anna Graham
could do so, but nobody was going to imitate her.”

“Invite her, then, for my sake, and in my name,”
pleaded Lizzie, but Lucy only replied, “I shall do no such
thing;” and thus the matter was settled.

Amid the hurry and preparation for the party, days

glided rapidly away, and Thursday morning came, bright,
beautiful, and balmy, almost, as an autumnal day.

“Isn't this delightful!” said Lucy, as she stepped out
upon the piazza, and felt the warm southern breeze upon
her cheek. “It's a wonder, though,” she continued,
“that madam nature didn't conjure up an awful storm for
my benefit, as she usually does!”

Before night, she had occasion to change her mind concerning
the day.

Dinner was over, and she in Lizzie's room was combing
out her long curls, and trying the effect of wearing
them entirely behind her ears. Suddenly there was the
sound of sleigh bells, which came nearer, until they
stopped before the door. Lucy flew to the window, and
in tones of intense anger and surprise, exclaimed, “Now,
heaven defend us! here is Cousin John's old lumber sleigh
and rackabone horse, with Berintha and a hair trunk, a
red trunk, two bandboxes, a carpet-bag, a box full of
herbs, and a pillow-case full of stockings. What does it
all mean?”

She soon found out what it all meant, for Berintha entered
the room in high spirits. Kissing Lizzie, she next
advanced toward Lucy, saying, “You did n't expect me,
I know; but this morning was so warm and thawing,
that John said he knew the sleighing would all be gone
by Saturday, so I concluded to come to-day.”

Lucy was too angry to reply, and rushing from the
room, she closed the door after her, with a force which
fairly made the windows rattle. Berintha looked inquiringly
at Lizzie, who felt inadequate to an explanation;
so Berintha knew nothing of the matter until she descended
to the kitchen, and there learned the whole.
Now, if Lucy had treated her cousin politely and good-naturedly,
she would have saved herself much annoyance,

but on the contrary, she told her that she was neither expected
nor wanted there; that parties were never intended
for “such old things;” and that now she was
there, she hoped she would stay in her own room, unless
she should happen to be wanted to wait on the table!

This speech, of course, exasperated Berintha, but she
made no reply, although there was on her face a look of
quiet determination, which Lucy mistook for tacit acquiescence
in her proposal.

Five—six—seven—eight—struck the little brass clock,
and no one had come except old Dr. Benton, who, being
a widower and an intimate friend of the family, was invited,
as Lucy said, for the purpose of beauing grandma!
Lizzie, in crimson double-gown, and soft, warm shawl, was
reclining on the sofa in the parlor, the old doctor muttering
about carelessness, heated rooms, late hours, &c.
Grandman, in rich black silk and plain Quaker cap, was
hovering near her favorite child, asking continually if she
were too hot, or too cold, or too tired, while Lucy, in
white muslin dress and flowing curls, flitted hither and
thither, fretting at the servants, or ordering grandma, and
occasionally tapping her sister's pale cheek, to see if she
could not coax some color into it.

“You'll live to see it whiter still,” said the doctor, who
was indignant at finding his patient down stairs.

And where all this time was Berintha? The doctor
asked this question, and Lucy asked this question, while
Lizzie replied, that “she was in her room.”

“And I hope to goodness she'll stay there,” said Lucy.

Dr. Benton's gray eyes fastened upon the amiable
young lady, who, by way of explanation, proceeded to relate
her maneuvers for keeping “the old maid” from the
party.

We believe we have omitted to say that Lucy had

some well founded hopes of being one day, together with
her sister, heiress of Dr. Benton's property, which was
considerable. He was a widower, and had no relatives.
He was also very intimate with Mr. Dayton's family, always
evincing a great partiality for Lucy and Lizzie, and
had more than once hinted at the probable disposal of his
wealth. Of course, Lucy, in his presence, was all amiability,
and though he was usually very far sighted, he but
partially understood her real character. Something, however,
in her remarks concerning Berintha, displeased him.
Lucy saw it, but before she had time for any thought on
the subject, the door-bell rang, and a dozen or more of
guests entered.

The parlors now began to fill rapidly. Ere long, St.
Leon came, and after paying his compliments to Lucy, he
took his station between her and the sofa, on which Lizzie
sat. So delighted was Lucy to have him thus near,
that she forgot Berintha, until that lady herself appeared
in the room, bowing to those she knew, and seating herself
on the sofa, very near St. Leon. The angry blood
rushed in torrents to Lucy's face, and St. Leon, who saw
something was wrong, endeavored to divert her mind by
asking her various questions.

At last he said, “I do not see Miss Harcourt. Where
is she?”

“She is not expected,” answered Lucy, carelessly.

“Ah!” said St. Leon; and Berintha, touching his arm,
rejoined, “Of course you could not think Ada Harcourt
would be invited here!”

“Indeed! Why not?” asked St. Leon, and Berintha
continued: “To be sure, Ada is handsome, and Ada is
accomplished, but then Ada is poor, and consequently
can't come!”

“But I see no reason why poverty should debar her

from good society,” said St. Leon; and Berintha, with an
exultant glance at Lucy, who, if possible, would have
paralyzed her tongue, replied, “Why, if Ada were present,
she might rival somebody in somebody's good opinion.
Wasn't that what you said, Cousin Lucy? Please correct
me, if I get wrong.”

Lucy frowned angrily, but made no reply, for Berintha
had quoted her very words. After a moment's pause, she
proceeded: “Yes, Ada is poor; so though she can come
to the front door with a gentleman, she cannot go out
that way, but must be led to a side door or back door;
which was it, Cousin Lucy?”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” answered
Lucy; and Berintha, in evident surprise, exclaimed, “Why,
don't you remember when Ada came here with a gentle
man,— let me see, who was it? — well, no matter who
'twas,— she came with a gentleman,— he was ushered into
the parlor, while you took her into a side room, then into a
side passage, and out at the side door, kindly telling her
to beware of the gentleman in the parlor, who could want
nothing good of sewing girls!”

“You are very entertaining to-night,” said Lucy; to
which Berintha replied, “You did not think I could be
so agreeable, did you, when you asked me to keep out of
sight this evening, and said that such old fudges as grandma
and I would appear much better in our rooms, taking
snuff, and nodding at each other over our knitting
work?”

Lucy looked so distressed that Lizzie pitied her, and
touching Berintha, she said, “Please don't talk any
more.”

At that moment supper was announced, and after it
was over, St. Leon departed, notwithstanding Lucy's urgent
request that he would remain longer. As the street

door closed after him, she felt that she would gladly have
seen every other guest depart, also. A moody fit came
on, and the party would have been voted a failure, had it
not been for the timely interference of Dr. Benton and
Berintha. Together they sought out any who seemed
neglected, entertaining them to the best of their ability,
and leaving with every one the impression that they were
the best natured couple in the world. At eleven o'clock,
Lizzie, wearied out, repaired to her chamber. Her departure
was the signal for others, and before one o'clock
the last good-night was said, the doors locked, the silver
gathered up, the tired servants dismissed, and Lucy, in
her sister's room, was giving vent to her wrath against
Berintha, the party, St. Leon, and all.

Scolding, however, could do her no good, and ere long,
throwing herself undressed upon a lounge, she fell asleep,
and dreamed that grandma was married to the doctor,
that Berintha had become her step-mother, and, worse
than all, that Ada Harcourt was Mrs. St. Leon.