University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
MAPLE GROVE.

The residence of Mr Livingstone, or rather of Mr. Livingstone's
wife, was a large, handsome building, such as
one often finds in Kentucky, particularly in the country.
Like most planter's houses, it stood at some little distance
from the street, from which its massive walls, wreathed
with evergreen, were just discernible. The carriage road

which led to it passed first through a heavy iron gate,
guarded by huge bronze lions, so natural and life-like, that
Mrs. Nichols, when first she saw them, uttered a cry of
fear. Next came a beautiful maple grove, followed by a
long, green lawn, dotted here and there with forest trees,
and having on its right a deep running brook, whose waters,
farther on at the rear of the garden, were formed into
a miniature fish-pond.

The house itself was of brick—two storied, and surrounded
on three sides with a double piazza, whose pillars were
entwined with climbing roses, honey-suckle, and running
vines, so closely interwoven as to give it the appearance
of an immense summer-house. In the spacious yard in
front, tall shade trees and bright green grass were growing,
while in the well-kept garden at the left, bloomed an
endless variety of roses and flowering shrubs, which in
their season filled the air with perfume, and made the spot
brilliant with beauty. Directly through the center of
this garden ran the stream of which we have spoken, and
as its mossy banks were never disturbed, they presented
the appearance of a soft, velvety ridge, where each spring
the starry dandelion and the blue-eyed violet grew.

Across the brook two small foot-bridges had been built,
both of which were latticed and overgrown by luxuriant
grape-vines, whose dark, green foliage was now intermingled
with clusters of the rich purple fruit. At the
right, and somewhat in the rear of the building, was a
group of linden trees, overshadowing the white-washed
houses of the negroes, who, imitating as far as possible
the taste of their master, beautified their dwellings with
hop-vines, creepers, hollyhocks and the like. Altogether,
it was as 'Lena said, “just the kind of place which one
reads of in stories,” and which is often found at the “sunny
south.” The interior of the building corresponded

with the exterior, for with one exception, the residence
of a wealthy Englishman, Mrs. Livingstone prided herself
upon having the best furnished house in the county; consequently
neither pains nor money had been spared in the
selection of the furniture, which was of the most costly
kind.

Carrie, the eldest of the daughters, was now about thirteen
years of age. Proud, imperious, deceitful, and self-willed,
she was hated by the servants, and disliked by her
equals. Some thought her pretty. She felt sure of it,
and many an hour she spent before the mirror, admiring
herself and anticipating the time when she would be a
grown-up lady, and as a matter of course, a belle. Her
mother unfortunately belonged to that class who seem to
think that the chief aim in life is to secure a “brilliant
match,” and thinking she could not commence too soon,
she had early instilled into her favorite daughter's mind
the necessity of appearing to the best possible advantage,
when in the presence of wealth and distinction, pointing
out her own marriage as a proof of the unhappiness resulting
from unequal matches. In this way Carrie had early
learned that her father owed his present position to her
mother's condescension in marrying him—that he was
once a poor boy living among the northern hills—that his
parents were poor, ignorant and vulgar—and that there
was with them a little girl, their daughter's child, who
never had a father, and whom she must never on any occasion
call her cousin.

All this had likewise been told to Anna, the youngest
daughter, who was about 'Lena's age, but upon her it
made no impression. If her father were once poor, he
was in her opinion none the worse for that—and if he
liked his parents, that was a sufficient reason why she should
like them too, and if little 'Lena was an orphan, she pitied

her, and hoped she might sometime see her and tell her
so! Thus Anna reasoned, while her mother, terribly
shocked at her low-bred taste, strove to instill into her
mind some of her own more aristocratic notions. But all
in vain, for Anna was purely democratic, loving everybody
and beloved by everybody in return. It is true she
had no particular liking for books or study of any kind,
but she was gentle and affectionate in her manner, and
kindly considerate of other people's feelings. With her
father she was a favorite, and to her he always looked for
sympathy, which she seldom failed to give—not in words,
it is true, but whenever he seemed to be in trouble, she
would climb into his lap, wind her arms around his neck,
and laying her golden head upon his shoulder, would sit
thus until his brow and heart grew lighter as he felt there
was yet something in the wide world which loved and
cared for him.

For Carrie Mrs. Livingstone had great expectations,
but Anna she feared would never make a “brilliant
match.” For a long time Anna meditated upon this,
wondering what a “brilliant match” could mean, and at
last she determined to seek an explanation from Captain
Atherton, a bachelor and a millionaire, who was in the
habit of visiting them, and who always noticed and petted
her more than he did Carrie. Accordingly, the next
time he came, and they were alone in the parlor, she
broached the subject, asking him what it meant.

Laughing loudly, the Captain drew her toward him,
saying, “Why, marrying rich, you little novice. For instance,
if one of these days you should be my little wife,
I dare say your mother would think you had made a
brilliant match!” and the well-preserved gentleman of
forty glanced complacently at himself in the mirror,

thinking how probable it was that his youthful looks
would be unimpaired for at least ten years to come!

Anna laughed, for to her his words then conveyed no
serious meaning, but with more than her usual quickness
she replied, that “she would as soon marry her grandfather.”

With Mrs. Livingstone the reader is partially acquainted.
In her youth she had been pretty, and now at thirty-eight
she was not without pretensions to beauty, notwithstanding
her sallow complexion and sunken eyes.
Her hair, which was very abundant, was bright and glossy,
and her mouth, in which the dentist had done his best,
would have been handsome, had it not been for a certain
draw at the corners, which gave it a scornful and rather
disagreeable expression. In her disposition she was overbearing
and tyrannical, fond of ruling, and deeming her
husband a monster of ingratitude if ever in any way he
manifested a spirit of rebellion. Didn't she marry him?
and now they were married, didn't her money support
him? And wasn't it exceedingly amiable in her always
to speak of their children as ours! But as for the rest,
'twas my house, my servants, my carriage, and my
horses. All mine—“Mrs. John Livingstone's—Miss Matilda
Richards that was!”

Occasionally, however, her husband's spirit was roused,
and then, after a series of tears, sick-headaches, and then
spasms, “Miss Matilda Richards that was” was compelled
to yield, her face for many days wearing the look
of a much-injured, heart-broken woman. Still her influence
over him was great, else she had never so effectually
weakened every tie which bound him to his native
home, making him ashamed of his parents and of everything
pertaining to them. When her husband first wrote
to her that his father was dead, and that he had promised

to take charge of his mother and 'Lena, she flew into a violent
rage, which was increased ten-fold when she received
his second letter, wherein he announced his intention of
bringing them home in spite of her. Bursting into tears,
she declared “she'd leave the house before she'd have it
filled up with a lot of paupers. Who did John Nichols
think he was, and who did he think she was! Besides
that, where was he going to put them? for there wasn't a
place for them that she knew of!”

“Why, mother,” said Anna, who was pleased with the
prospect of a new grandmother and cousin, “Why, mother,
what a story. There's the two big chambers and bedrooms,
besides the one next to Carrie's and mine. O do
put them in there. It'll be so nice to have grandma and
cousin 'Lena so near me.”

“Anna Livingstone!” returned the indignant lady,
“Never let me hear you say grandma and cousin again.”

“But they be grandma and cousin,” persisted Anna,
while her mother commenced lamenting the circumstance
which had made them so, wishing, as she had often done
before, that she had never married John Nichols.

“I reckon you are not the only one that wishes so,”
slily whispered John Jr., who was a witness to her
emotion.

Anna was naturally of an inquiring mind, and her mother's
last remark awoke within her a new and strange train
of thought, causing her to wonder whose little girl she
would have been, her father's or mother's, in case they
had each married some one else! As there was no one
whose opinion Anna dared to ask, the question is undoubtedly
to this day, with her, unsolved.

The next morning when Mrs. Livingstone arose, her
anger of the day before was somewhat abated, and knowing
from past experience that it was useless to resist her

husband when once he was determined, she wisely concluded
that as they were now probably on the road, it
was best to try to endure, for a time, at least, what could
not well be helped. And now arose the perplexing question,
“What should she do with them? where should she
put them that they would be the most out of the way?
for she could never suffer them to be round when she
had company.” The chamber of which Anna had spoken
was out of the question, for it was too nice, and besides
that, it was reserved for the children of her New Orleans
friends, who nearly every summer came up to visit her.

At the rear of the building was a long, low room, containing
a fire-place and two windows, which looked out
upon the negro quarters and the hemp fields beyond.
This room, which in the summer was used for storing
feather-beds, blankets, and so forth, was plastered, but
minus either paper or paint. Still it was quite comfortable,
“better than they were accustomed to at home,”
Mrs. Livingstone said, and this she decided to give them.
Accordingly the negroes were set at work scrubbing the
floor, washing the windows, and scouring the sills, until
the room at least possessed the virtue of being clean. A
faded carpet, discarded as good for nothing, and over
which the rats had long held their nightly revels, was
brought to light, shaken, mended, and nailed down—then
came a bedstead, which Mrs. Livingston had designed as
a Christmas gift to one of the negroes, but which of
course would do well enough for her mother-in-law.
Next followed an old wooden rocking-chair, whose ancestry
Anna had tried in vain to trace, and which Carrie
had often proposed burning. This, with two or three
more chairs of a later date, a small wardrobe, and a
square table, completed the furniture of the room, if we
except the plain muslin curtains which shaded the windows,

destitute of blinds. Taking it by itself, the room
looked tolerably well, but when compared with the richly
furnished apartments around it, it seemed meager and
poor indeed; “but if they wanted anything better,” Mrs.
Livingstone said, “they could get it themselves. They
were welcome to make any alterations they chose.”

This mode of reasoning hardly satisfied Anna, and unknown
to her mother she took from her own chamber a
handsome hearth-rug, and carrying it to her grandmother's
room, laid it before the fire-place. Coming accidentally
upon a roll of green paper, she, with the help of
Corinda, a black girl, made some shades for the windows,
which faced the west, rendering the room intolerably hot
during the summer season. Then, at the suggestion of
Corinda, who, like many of her race, was possessed of
considerable taste, she looped back the muslin curtains
with some green ribbons, which she had intended using
for her “dolly's dress.” The bare appearance of the
table troubled her, but by dint of rummaging, she brought
to light a cast-off spread, which, though soiled and worn,
was on one side quite handsome.

“Now, if we only had something for the mantel,” said
she; “it seems so empty.”

Corinda thought a moment, and then rolling up the
whites of her eyes, replied, “Don't you mind them little
pitchers,” (meaning vases,) “which Master Atherton done
gin you? They'd look mighty fine up thar, full of sprigs
and posies.”

Without hesitating a moment Anna brought the vases,
and as she did not know the exact time when her grandmother
would arrive, she determined to fill them with
fresh flowers every morning.

“There, it looks a heap better, don't it, Carrie?” said

she to her sister, who chanced to be passing the door and
looked in.

“You must be smart,” answered Carrie, “taking so
much pains just for them; and as I live, if you havn't got
those elegant vases that Captain Atherton gave you for
a birth-day present! I know mother won't like it. I
mean to tell her;” and away she ran with the important
news.

“There, I told you so,” said she, quickly returning.
“She says you carry them straight back and let the room
alone.”

Anna began to cry, saying “the vases were her's, and
she should think she might do what she pleased with
them.”

“What did you go and blab for, you great for shame,
you?” exclaimed John Jr., suddenly appearing in the
doorway, at the same time giving Carrie a push, which
set her to crying, and brought Mrs. Livingstone to the
scene of action.

“Can't my vases stay in here? Nobody 'll hurt 'em,
and they'll look so pretty,” said Anna.

“Can't that hateful John behave, and let me alone?”
said Carrie.

“And can't Carrie quit sticking her nose in other folks'
business?” chimed in John Jr.

“Oh Lordy, what a fuss,” said Corinda, while poor
Mrs. Livingstone, half distracted, took refuge under one
of her dreadful headaches, and telling her children “to
fight their own battles and let her alone,” returned to her
room.

“A body'd s'pose marster's kin wan't of no kind o'
count,” said Aunt Milly, the head cook, to a group of
sables, who, in the kitchen, were discussing the furniture
of the “trump'ry room,” as they were in the habit of

calling the chamber set apart for Mrs. Nichols. “Yes,
they would s'pose they warn't of no kind o' count, the
way miss goes on, ravin' and tarin', and puttin' 'em off
with low-lived truck that we black folks wouldn't begin
to tache with the tongs. Massy knows ef my ole mother
warn't dead and gone to kingdom come, I should never
think o' sarvin' her so, and I don't set myself up to be
nothin' but an ole nigger, and a black one at that. But
Lor', that's the way with more'n half the white folks.
They jine the church, and then they think they done got
a title deed to one of them houses up in heaven, (that
nobody ever built,) sure enough. Goin' straight thar, as
fast as a span of race-horces can carry 'em. Ki! Won't
they be disappinted, some on 'em, and Miss Matilda long
the rest, when she drives up, hosses all a reekin' sweat,
and spects to walk straight into the best room, but is told
to go to the kitchen and turn hoe-cakes for us niggers,
who are eatin' at the fust table, with silver forks and
napkins—?”

Here old Milly stopped to breathe, and her daughter
Vine, who had listened breathlessly to her mother's description
of the “good time coming,” asked “when these
things come to pass, if Miss Carrie wouldn't have to swing
the feathers over the table to keep off the flies, instead
of herself?”

“Yes, that she will, child,” returned her mother.
“Things is all gwine to be changed in the wink of your
eye. Miss Anna read that very tex' to me last Sunday,
and I knew in a minit what it meant. Now thar's Miss
Anna, blessed lamb. She's one of 'em that'll wear her
white gowns and stay in t'other room, with her face shinin'
like an ile lamp!”

While this interesting conversation was going on in the
kitchen, John Jr., in the parlor, was teasing his mother

for money, with which to go up to Lexington the next
day. “You may just as well give it to me without any
fuss,” said he, “for if you don't, I'll get my bills at the
Phœnix charged. The old man is good, and they'll trust.
But then a feller feels more independent when he can pay
down, and treat a friend, if he likes; so hand over four or
five V's.”

At first Mrs. Livingstone refused, but her head ached
so hard and her “nerves trembled so,” that she did not
feel equal to the task of contending with John Jr., who
was always sure in the end to have his own way. Yielding
at last to his importunities, she gave him fifteen dollars,
charging him to “keep out of bad company and be
a good boy.”

“Trust me for that,” said he, and pulling the tail of
Anna's pet kitten, upsetting Carrie's work-box, poking a
black baby's ribs with his walking cane, and knocking
down a cob-house, which “Thomas Jefferson” had been
all day building, he mounted his favorite “Firelock,” and
together with a young negro, rode off.

“The Lord send us a little peace now,” said Aunt Milly,
tossing her squalling baby up in the air, and telling Thomas
Jefferson not to cry, “for his young master was done
gone off.”

“And I hope to goodness he'll stay off a spell,” she
added, “for thar's ole Sam to pay the whole time he's at
home, and if ever thar was a tickled critter in this world
it's me, when he clar's out.”

“I'm glad, too,” said Anna, who had been sent to the
kitchen to stop the screaming;” and I wish he'd stay
ever so long, for I don't take a bit of comfort when he's
at home.”

“Great hateful! I wish he didn't live here,” said
Carrie, gathering up her spools, thimble and scissors,

while Mrs. Livingstone, feeling that his absence had taken
a load from her shoulders, settled herself upon her silken
lounge and tried to sleep.

Amid all this rejoicing at his departure, John Jr. put
spurs to the fleet Firelock, who soon carried him to Lexington,
where, as we have seen, he came unexpectedly
upon his father, who, not daring to trust him on horse
back, lest he should play the truant, took him into the
stage with himself, leaving Firelock to the care of the
negro.