University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

The autumn months were gone; December had come and
“Christmas was coming.” The negroes, far and near, had
counted the days which must pass before their expected holidays.
In Uncle Joshua's kitchen there was much talking
and laughing, fixing and fussing, and some crying. Had
you asked the cause of the crying, you would have been told
that Miss Fanny was to be married Christmas Eve, and the
week following she would leave them, and start for New
Orleans.

Preparations commenced on a large scale; for Uncle
Joshua, a little proud, it may be, of his handsome house, had
determined on a large party. The old gentleman even went
so far as to order for himself a new suit of broadcloth, saying,
by way of apology, that, “though the jeens coat and
bagging pants did well enough for Josh, they wouldn't answer
no how for the father of Mrs. Dr. George Lacey.”

In every corner might be seen little negroes engaged in
stoning raisins, with here and there a seed sticking to their
shining faces. Owing to some unaccountable reason, when
the raisins were finished, nearly half of the original quantity
was found missing. Aunt Judy's suspicions instantly alighted
upon Bob, notwithstanding his vehement denial of having

even tached a raisin while stoning them. Alas, for poor
Bob! He had taken too many, and his stomach began to
show threatening signs of dislodging its contents. Vomiting
was the result, during which process Aunt Judy shook him
lustily, declaring, “he had done et enough raisins to give an
ostrich the misspepsy!”

Bob didn't know who she was, but he gladly made his
escape from his mother's hands, muttering to himself, “I
don't care a darn how many Miss Betsy's I git; they can't
none on 'em be worse than mother. High, she's a roarer,”
and with this consoling reflection he betook himself to the
barn in quest of eggs, as his mother had bidden him not to
come in her sight again, unless his cap were full of eggs.
“Sposin' I can't find none,” said he, “wonder if she 'spects
me to lay 'em.”

Bob was naturally of an inquiring mind, and for many
days back he had been troubled to know exactly what relationship
would exist between Dr. Lacey and himself when
the former should be Fanny's husband. He could not settle
the point satisfactorily, and when he thought his mother had
forgotten the raisins he ventured to ask her opinion.

“Why, Bob,” said she, “'tain't no ways likely you'll be
connection at all, for he won't have such a limb in his family,
but I am Fanny's aunt, and that'll make Dr. Lacey my
niece.”

Bob never thought of doubting his mother's word, but
he lamented his numerous misdemeanors, which would prevent
him, too, from being Dr. Lacey's aunt!

A week before the wedding, Florence, who loved dearly
to be in a bustle, came laden with bandboxes and carpet
bags. Hourly through the house rang her merry laugh, as
she flitted hither and thither, actually doing nothing in her
zeal to do every thing. She had consented to be bridesmaid
on condition that she should choose her own groomsman,

who, she said, should be “Uncle Billy,” as she always called
Mr. William Middleton, “unless Providence sent her some
one she liked better.” Whether it were owing to Providence,
or to an invitation, which went from Florence to New-York,
we are unable to say, but two days before the 24th, Uncle
Joshua surprised Florence and Fanny by opening the door
of the room where they were sitting, and saying, “Ho, my
boy, here they be;—come on.”

The girls started up, and in a moment Frank stood between
them, with an arm thrown around each. “Why, Mr.
Cameron,” said Florence, “what did you come for, and who
knew you were coming?”

“I came to see you, and you knew I was coming,” answered
Frank.

“Well then,” returned Florence, “if you came to see me,
do look at me, and not keep your eyes fixed so continually
on Fanny. In a few days you will be breaking that part of
the tenth commandment, which says, `thou shalt not covet
thy neighbor's wife.”'

“Possibly I might, had I never seen you,” answered
Frank.

At a late hour that night Florence moved with soft footsteps
about her sleeping room, fearing lest she should awaken
Fanny. Her precautious were useless, for Fanny was awake;
looking at Florence, she said, “Oh, Flory, you naughty girl,
what makes you blush so dreadfully?”

The next half hour was spent by Florence in telling
Fanny what Frank had just asked her in four or five words,
and which she had answered in one, viz. if she would be his
wife; “but then,” said Florence, pretending to pout, “he
was so very conscientious that he had to tell me what I already
knew, which was that he once loved you better than
he should ever love another.”

Frank had asked Florence to share his lot through life,

and she, like any other good, prompt Kentucky girl, had
readily answered “yes,” although she was frightened next
moment for fear she had been too easily won by the “cold
Yankee,” as she called him, and she proposed taking back
what she had said just for the sake of being teased. Mr.
Woodburn came next day to bring Florence some article of
dress, which she would need. He was not surprised when
Frank, taking him aside, modestly asked for his daughter,
he said, “Yes,” almost as readily as Florence had done, and
then it was hard telling which seemed most happy, Frank
or Dr. Lacey.

The 24th of December came at last. We, at the North,
who, during six months of the year, blow our benumbed
fingers, can scarcely imagine how bright and beautiful are
some of the clear warm days of a Kentucky winter. On
this occasion, as if nature had resolved to do her best, the
day was soft and sunny as in early autumn, presenting a
striking contrast to the wild, angry storm, which rent the
sky, when once before 'neath Uncle Joshua's roof, a bridal
party was assembled.

As night approached, carriage after carriage rolled up
the long, gravelled pathway, until Ike declared, “Thar was
no more room in the barns, and if any more came he'd have
to drive 'em into the kitchen.”

Up and down the broad stairway tripped light and joyous
footsteps until the rooms above, which Luce had put in
so exact order, presented a scene of complete confusion.
Bandboxes were turned bottom-side up, and their contents
indiscriminately scattered until it was impossible to tell, what
was yours and what wasn't. Merry voices were heard, talking,
laughing, and asking, “how do I look?” to which question
those present invariably answered, “oh, beautifully,”
without ever looking up! But the answer was correct
enough, for the young girls, who that night assembled at

Fanny's bridal, were beautiful enough to make even Mr.
William Middleton talk of trying Twiggs' preparation on
his slightly whitened locks!

In one room there was rather more order. 'Twas where
Florence and Fanny were dressing. Once Florence stopped
in the midst of her toilet, and throwing her arms about
Fanny, said, “Oh, I am so glad you are the bride, for I
would not live that other dreadful night over again for any
thing. Why, I actually found two white hairs in my head
within a week after, and I know 'twas all owing to my
fright!”

Just before Fanny was ready, a servant entered, bringing
to her a singularly-looking bouquet. It consisted of three
large, full blown roses, round which were ranged in a perfect
circle, some dark green leaves of rose geranium. The
whole was tied with a piece of white tape. It was the gift
of Bill Jeffrey, who had brought it himself with the request
that Fanny would accept it, as he had nothing else to give.
Mrs. Jeffrey had quite a passion for flowers, and for many
days, Bill had watched these roses, fearing they would not
be fully blown by the time he wanted them. Some one had
suggested to him that buds were preferable, but he resented
the advice as an insult, saying, “he reckoned he knew better
than to offer Miss Fanny stingy little rose buds.” Fanny accepted
the bouquet, and ordered it to be placed with the remainder
of her bridal presents. Then learning that Billy
was still waiting, she sent an invitation that he should stay
and witness the ceremony.

At length the noise up stairs subsided, and was transferred
to the parlors below, but even there it ceased, as through
the door came Dr. Lacey and Fanny, followed by Frank
Cameron and Florence. The ceremony was not interrupted
by the thunder's roar, nor the company blinded by the lightning's
flash, but throughout the rooms was a solemn hush,

as Fanny was made Dr. Lacey's wife. Firmly Dr. Lacey
held her hand until the last word was spoken; then when
he felt sure that she was his, he stooped down and whispered
in her ear, “Thank God, you are mine at last.”

Their friends now crowded round offering their congratulations
to Dr. and Mrs. Lacey, who looked as they felt, perfectly
happy. Uncle Joshua too came forward, and taking
the hand of his son-in-law, said, “George, I have now gin
you my only gal, and I've got nothin' left, but I am old and
before long shall go home. I needn't tell you to be good
natured and kind to Sunshine, for I know you will be, and
if an old man's blessing is of any account, you both have
mine.” Here he entirely broke down, and drawing Fanny
to him, sobbed out, “Oh, what shall I do without you?
What shall I do without my Sunshine?”

Dr. Lacey tried to soothe him, and by the time supper
was announced he had become calm. He led the way to
the dining-room, saying, “Come on, as many on you as can
squeeze in, and the rest can set on the stars. Thar's plates
enough to go 'round, I reckon, for Nancy borrowed all Miss
Thornton and Widder Brown had.”

Judy had no fears this time that the supper would not be
eaten, while Bob, who was watching the proceedings through
the window, expressed his fears that “they'd clear the table,
smack and clean,” hoping that if they did, “they'd all vomuk
a heap worse than he did when he et the raisins.”

But Bob was mistaken in his estimate of things, and
when at a late hour that night he held the lantern until Ike
had harnessed the last horse, he crept to his rude bed with
a sick head and a sick stomach, the result of a very light
supper of half a chicken, four tarts, five pieces of cake, three
saucers of ice cream, four pickles, and two cups of strong
coffee! He, however, forgot his troubles by morning and

said, “he allus did like to go to Miss Fanny's wedding,
'cause he had sich tall things to eat.”

Three days after the wedding Mr. Middleton's carriage
again stood before the door, while Ike tried to conceal his
tears by fixing and refixing the travelling trunks in their proper
places. Fanny had been the playmate of his childhood,
and the affection conceived for her then had increased as
he grew older. Now she was leaving him, and the poor
black boy cried as he thought how lonesome the old place
would be without her. Her parents thought so too, but
they tried to appear composed, for they would not add unnecessary
grief to their daughter's parting. When all was
ready, Uncle Joshua kneeled down, and winding his arm
about Fanny, prayed in simple, touching language that God
would protect his Sunshine, and at last bring them all to the
same home. “All of us; don't let one be missing thar.”
There was a peculiar pathos in the tone of his voice as he
said the last words, and all knew to whom he referred.

Long and wearisome at Mr. Middleton's were the days
succeeding Fanny's departure, while in Dr. Lacey's home all
was joy and gladness, as Aunt Dilsey “put her best foot
forward to get ready for the new Miss.” Tarts, or “little
pies” as she called them, were her special favorites, and now
Aunt Dilsey was not a little puzzled to know which kind
would suit Fanny best.

“Wish I knew,” said she, “which she likes most, grape
sass ones, or blackbry ones.”

“Let me fix 'em,” said Rondeau. “You make a heap of
both kinds, and mebby I can manage to worry down a little
of what she don't eat.”

Rondeau was in high spirits these days, for his master
had promised to give him Leffie one week after his return
home. This, of course, made Leffie good for nothing, and
Rondeau a good deal worse. He was continually in the

kitchen, playing off some prank on Aunt Dilsey, who declared,
“She hoped marster would come pretty soon and tend to him,
or she shouldn't have a spoonfull of sense left.”

Her wish was gratified, for one afternoon there came
word that Dr. Lacey was in the city. He had arrived a day
sooner than he had expected to, and in a few hours would be at
home, where he hoped to find all in readiness to receive him.
Every thing and every body was in a flurry. Fires had to be
lighted in the parlors, supper table spread in the dining-room,
coffee put a boiling, and chickens set to broiling, while Jack
was continually reminded how to “hold up his head and
make a bow to the new lady, like he had some manners.”

Then came the making of Aunt Dilsey's toilet, which
was no small matter considering the amount of labor necessary
to get her dress together, but then, of course, 'twas very
loose, for “she did'nt b'lieve in having tight dresses, and
wouldn't neither, if she was as big agin.”

About dark Dr. Lacey arrived. Happy as a bird, Fanny
sprang up the steps. Every thing about her seemed homelike
and cheerful. Dusky, but kind faces peered at her from
every corner, while Aunt Dilsey, with a complacent smile,
stood ready to receive her. Fanny was prepared to like
every thing, but there was something peculiarly pleasing to
her in Dilsey's broad, good-humored face. Going up to her,
she took both her hands, and said, “I know we shall be good
friends. I shall like you, and you will love me a little, won't
you, just as the old aunties did, I left in Kentucky?”

Aunt Dilsey hadn't expected all this, and the poor creature
burst into tears, saying, “Lord bless the sweet Miss!
I'd die for her this minute, I would.”

Rondeau, Leffie, and the other blacks belonging to the
establishment now came forward, and in the crowd little
Jack's bow was entirely unappreciated; but Fanny next day
made amends by giving him nearly a pound of candy, which

had the effect of making him sick a week, but he got well
in time to be present at Leffie's wedding, which took place
just a week after Dr. Lacey's return.

Leffie, who chanced to be just the size of her young mistress,
was thrown into ecstasies by the gift of a thin pink
and white silk, which Fanny presented to her for a bridal
dress. Aunt Dilsey, in order to show her thanks, went
down on her knees, a thing she never attempted again, as it
took her such an unheard-of length of time to recover a
standing posture. Dr. Lacey had made Leffie the present of
a pair of gold ear-rings, so that she was really a pretty bride,
and Rondeau was the happiest negro in all New Orleans.

As weddings seem to be the order of this chapter, we
may here, as well as any where, dispose of Mrs. Carrington,
whom, you will remember, Raymond said he would one day
marry. When he left Frankfort, he had no definite idea as
to what he should do, but after reaching Cincinnati, it occurred
to him that his mother had a wealthy old bachelor-uncle
living in St. Louis, and thither he determined to go.
This uncle, Mr. Dunlap, received the young man cordially,
for he was the first relative he had met with in years. There
was something, too, in the manner with which Raymond introduced
himself, that won for him a place in the crusty old
man's good opinion.

“I am Fred Raymond,” said he, “your niece Helen's
son, and as poor a jack as there is this side of California.
They say you are a stingy old customer, but I don't care for
that. You have got to give me some business, and a home
too.”

Had Raymond come cringingly about his uncle, he most
likely would have been sent away. But Mr. Dunlap was a
somewhat uncivil man, and Raymond's uncivil speech charmed
him, and he answered, “Upon my word, Fred, you are
well stocked with impudence, if you havn't any thing else.

But I like that much better than palaver. Want some business,
hey? Well, what can you do? Nothing, I'll warrant.”

“I can do any thing you can, sir,” answered Raymond,
unhesitatingly. “Only give me something that will bring
money, for money I must and will have.”

Without knowing it, he had touched the right chord, for a
young man who wished to work and make money, was a
novel sight to old Dunlap, who held laziness in great abhorrence.
He was a wealthy merchant, and fortunately was
just wanting a young man in his counting-room. This situation,
with a liberal salary, he offered to Raymond, who eagerly
accepted it. That day seemed to Raymond of interminable
length, for in his haste to find his uncle, he had neglected
to take breakfast, and when dinner hour arrived, he
was greatly surprised to see Mr. Dunlap walk off without
saying a word to him.

“Wonder if he means to starve me,” thought Raymond.
The old gentleman soon returned, and Raymond thought
there was a mischievous look in his gray eye, but he kept
silent until the bells of the city rang for nine. Then as he
saw his uncle about to leave, he took his hat and accompanied
him. When they were in the street, Mr. Dunlap said,
“Are you going any where in particular, Fred?”

“I don't know whether I am or not,” answered Raymond.
“I am going home with you, and am going to have some
supper, too.”

Nothing more was said until they reached a large, remarkably
handsome building, which they entered. Mr.
Dunlap rang the bell and ordered supper for himself and
Raymond. While waiting for it, Raymond had time to
look about him. He was surprised at the costly furniture,
and argued from that, that he should soon have a warm
supper of corresponding goodness. Greatly was he disappointed

on entering the dining-room, to find nothing but a
few thin slices of bread, already buttered, and some tolerably
decent coffee. (The table was covered with a fine damask
cloth and adorned with silver plate.)

Mr. Dunlap sat down and passed the bread to Raymond,
who instantly took two thirds of the whole. With the utmost
sang froid Mr. Dunlap continued holding the plate,
saying, “Better take it all.”

Raymond did so, and ate it too, then seizing the bell, he
asked the servant, who appeared, if there was any cold meat
in the house?”

“Yes, marster.”

“Well, bring me some, quick.”

“Yes, marster.”

And she immediately placed before him some cold roast
beef, with its appendages. While he was carving and helping
himself, Mr. Dunlap said, quietly, “Perhaps you mean
to board with me?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” answered Raymond.

“Was you going to pay?”

Raymond hesitated a moment, and then said, “No, sir,
I'm not going to spend my salary for board!”

“Very well,” answered his uncle, “when you finish that
joint of beef, I'll show you your room, for I'm afraid you'll
be walking into my best bed, boots and all.”

Raymond did not eat quite all the beef, and in a few
moments found himself in a snug, pleasant little room, which
his uncle said he might call his. As Mr. Dunlap was leaving
the room, Raymond called after him, saying, “Ho, old
fellow, have some nice beef steak in the morning, will you?”

His uncle did not answer, but trod heavily down the
winding stairway, muttering to himself, “He's some, and no
mistake, but I like his grit, any way.”

Mr. Dunlap was a wealthy, but miserly man. He, however,

liked to show off, and to appear well in society. Accordingly,
his house was furnished expensively, and he kept
numerous servants. Four times a year he gave large dinner
parties, at which he spared neither money nor pains, but to
make amends for such extravagance, he almost starved himself
the remainder of the time.

Recently he had begun to find his life lonely, and he
looked upon Raymond as a godsend to cheer his solitude.
He wished, however, to know something of him before taking
him into his confidence, and consequently treated him as we
have seen. But the die was cast, and Raymond was soon
perfectly at home in his uncle's house, where he called every
thing his. He even succeeded in making a change in the
board, saying, he could not work on such meagre fare, and
what was more, he would not. Mr. Dunlap yielded the
point quietly, merely saying, “he hoped Fred would let him
know before he concluded to sell the house!”

When Raymond had been with his uncle about three
months, the junior partner died, and Mr. Dunlap proposed
that Raymond should take his place. “I hav'nt any money,”
said Raymond, “but it won't hurt you a bit to take me without
any capital, and give me a fair share of the profits.” In
a few days the old sign board, which for thirty years had
proclaimed the firm of “Dunlap & Johnson,” was exchanged
for a new one, on which was written in large letters, “Dunlap
& Raymond.”

Raymond now was on the road to wealth, but he never
for a moment forgot his design of eventually marrying Mrs.
Carrington. He had once accidentally mentioned her in
the presence of his uncle, who immediately asked, “Who is
Mrs. Carrington?” In a few moments Raymond told who
and what she was, sparing none of her faults, but making
the most of her virtues, and speaking too of his own views
and feelings with regard to her.

Mr. Dunlap listened attentively, and when Raymond
finished speaking, he said, “Yes,—Mrs. Carrington,—Well
—I don't think she would feel much flattered with your
description of her. And you like her, and think she would
marry you, if you were rich, hey?”

“I know she would,” said Raymond, warmly.

“Well, we shall see, we shall see,” answered his uncle.

The spring following Julia Middleton's death, Mrs. Carrington,
thinking she was not appreciated in Frankfort, determined
on going to St. Louis. Several of her relatives resided
there, besides a rich bachelor, old enough to be her
father, to whom she had once been engaged, but had jilted
for Mr. Carrington. Now, however, she resolved to make
another attack upon him, feeling tolerably sure of success,
for she knew he had once idolized her.

Raymond was first apprised of her being in St. Louis by
accidentally meeting her in the street, accompanied by her
cousin, Miss Howard, who was something of a belle. The
cold, frigid bow, which Mrs. Carrington had prepared to
greet Raymond with, melted into a smile of pleased recognition,
when she saw how familiarly her cousin received and
chatted with him. Still, she was somewhat on her guard,
but before they parted, Miss Howard had invited him to call
upon them that evening, saying that she and Mrs. Carrington
would be alone.

When Raymond returned home to tea, he casually mentioned
to his uncle that he should be absent that evening, as
he was intending to call upon some ladies.

“Singular coincidence,” returned Mr. Dunlap, “for I too
shall be engaged in the same business.”

“You call upon the ladies!” said Raymond.

“Yes, why not?” returned his uncle, slightly reddening.
“There's not a fashionable mother in St. Louis but weekly

lectures her daughter on the importance of treating `the
ugly, but rich old Dunlap,' with due respect.”

At an early hour Raymond started for Mr. Howard's.
Since morning Mrs. Carrington had learned from her cousin
Jane the position which Raymond occupied in society, and
she received him with great cordiality of manner, although
she appeared ill at ease, and started nervously each time the
sound of footsteps was heard. Soon there was the sound of
a loud, hasty ring at the door, and in a moment, who should
enter the room but Mr. Dunlap, who walked across the room
and greeted Mrs. Carrington with the freedom of an old
friend, saying, “I scarcely hoped ever again to see you,
Ida.”

Raymond's jealousy was instantly roused. He had heard
the clerks hint that eight or nine years before his uncle had
been disappointed by a young lady many years his junior,
and that this disappointment had increased the natural moroseness
of his nature. He had never asked the name of
the lady, but he was now convinced that 'twas none other
than Ida Carrington.

An awkward restraint seemed suddenly to have fallen
upon the little company, and as Raymond thought he was
the cause, he soon took his leave. What occurred that
night between Mr. Dunlap and Mrs. Carrington, Raymond
never exactly knew, but when next morning he met his uncle
at breakfast, he fancied there was the same mischievous look
in his eye which he remembered having seen once before.

After a time Mr. Dunlap said, “Fred, do you still love
Mrs. Carrington well enough to marry her?”

“Yes, don't you?” answered Raymond.

Mr. Dunlap did not reply to this question, but continued,
“Ten years ago, Fred, I made a fool of myself by fancying
that a young girl, scarcely twenty-one, loved me and my
ugly face well enough to marry me, but when a younger,

handsomer, and nearly as wealthy a man, presented himself,
Ida Lindsey all at once discovered that thirty-five years
difference in our ages was altogether too much. She left
me and married young Carrington. But now that he is
dead, she is willing old Dunlap should again bend his rheumatic
knees before her, for she thinks me rich, but I shan't
do it. I have, however, spoken a word for you, and she will
not tell you “No” again.

The next time Raymond saw Mrs. Carrington, she met
him with her sweetest smile, but he all at once discovered
many perfections in Jane Howard, and for three weeks he
flirted with her, utterly neglecting Mrs. Carrington, who tried
in vain to win him to her side. At the end of that time his
flirtation was cut short by the return of a gentleman from
Europe, to whom Jane had long been engaged.

When next Raymond and Mrs. Carrington were alone,
he abruptly said, “Mrs. Carrington, I will marry you, if you
want me to!”

She probably did want him to, for four weeks from that
time Mr. Dunlap's house was thrown open to a large party
who assembled to pay their respects to Mr. and Mrs. Raymond.
Mrs. Carrington soon found that the man she had
to deal with this time was not so patient and all-enduring
as her first husband had been. He was not unkind, but he
exercised over his wife a surveillance exceedingly annoying,
and she learned too late that she had not only chosen a husband
but an exacting master, who, although he treated her
with attention, was still determined that she should pay due
deference to him and his wishes.

She was also disappointed in her expectations of a fortune,
for within two years after her marriage Mr. Dunlap
suddenly died. He had intended to make his will and
make Raymond his heir, but like many other men he put it
off until it was too late, and his property, which was found

to be less than was supposed, went back to his brothers and
sisters, and from them to their children and grandchildren,
so that Raymond got but a small share.

He, however, retained his position as a merchant, and
struggled hard to keep his wife in the same circumstances to
which she had been accustomed. She appreciated his kindness,
and when at the end of three years she was the mother
of three children, she concluded it was time to lay aside all
desire for fashionable amusements, and she became a tolerably
affectionate wife, and a wonderfully indulgent mother.