 | CHAPTER VI.
THE ARRIVAL. 'Lena Rivers |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE ARRIVAL.
“Oh, mother, get up quick—the stage has driven up
at the gate, and I reckon pa has come,” said Anna, bursting
into the room where her mother, who was suffering
from a headache, was still in bed.
Raising herself upon her elbow, and pushing aside the
rich, heavy curtains, Mrs. Livingstone looked out upon the
mud-bespattered vehicle, from which a leg, encased in a
black and white stocking, was just making its egress. “Oh,
heavens!” said she, burying her face again in the downy
pillows. Woman's curiosity, however, soon prevailed
over all other feelings, and again looking out she obtained
a full view of her mother-in-law, who, having emerged
from the coach, was picking out her boxes, trunks, and so
forth. When they were all found, Mr. Livingstone ordered
two negroes to carry them to the side piazza, where they
were soon mounted by three or four little darkies, Thomas
Jefferson among the rest.
“John, John,” said Mrs. Nichols, “them niggers won't
scent my things will they?”
“Don't talk, granny,” whispered 'Lena, painfully conscious
of the curious eyes fixed upon them by the bevy of
blacks, who had come out to greet their master, and who,
with sidelong glances at each other, were inspecting the
new comers.
“Don't talk! why not?” said Mrs. Nichols, rather
sharply. “This is a free country I suppose.” Then bethinking
herself, she added quickly, “Oh, I forgot, 't aint
free here!”
After examining the sachel and finding that the night-gown
sleeve was safe, Mrs. Nichols took up her line of
march for the house, herself carrying her umbrella and
band-box, which she would not intrust to the care of the
negroes, “as like enough they'd break the umberell, or
squash her caps.”
“The trumpery room is plenty good enough for 'em,”
thought Corinda, retreating into the kitchen and cutting
sundry flourishes in token of her contempt.
The moment 'Lena came in sight, Mrs. Livingstone exclaimed,
“Oh, mercy, which is the oldest?” and truly,
poor 'Lena did present a sorry figure.
Her bonnet, never very handsome or fashionable, had
received an ugly crook in front, which neither her grandmother
or uncle had noticed, and of which John Jr.
would not tell her, thinking that the worse she looked the
more fun he would have! Her skirts were not very full,
and her dress hung straight around her, making her of the
same bigness from her head to her feet. Her shoes, which
had been given to her by one of the neighbors, were altogether
too large, and it was with considerable difficulty
that she could keep them on, but then as they were a present,
good out of them she could.”
In front of herself and grandmother, walked Mr. Livingstone,
moody, silent, and cross. Behind them was
John Jr., mimicking first 'Lena's gait and then his grandmother's.
The negroes, convulsed with laughter, darted
hither and thither, running against and over each other,
and finally disappearing, some behind the house and some
into the kitchen, and all retaining a position from which
they could have a full view of the proceedings. On the
piazza stood Anna and Carrie, the one with her handkerchief
stuffed in her mouth, and the other with her mouth
open, astounded at the unlooked for spectacle.
“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” groaned Mrs.
Livingstone.
“Do? Get up and dress yourself, and come and see
your new relations: that's what I should do,” answered
John Jr., who, tired of mimicking, had run forward, and
now rushed unceremoniously into his mother's sleeping-room,
leaving the door open behind him.
“John Livingstone, what do you mean?” said she;
“shut that door this minute.”
Feigning not to hear her, John Jr. ran back to the
piazza, which he reached just in time to hear the presentation
of his sisters.
“This is Carrie, and this is Anna,” said Mr. Livingstone,
pointing to each one as he pronounced her name.
Marching straight up to Carrie and extending her hand,
Mrs. Nichols exclaimed, “Now I want to know if this is
Car'line. I'd no idee she was so big. You pretty well,
Car'line?”
Very haughtily Carrie touched the ends of her grandmother's
fingers, and with stately gravity replied that she
was well.
Turning next to Anna, Mrs. Nichols continued, “And
this is Anny. Looks weakly 'pears to me, kind of blue
around the eyes as though she was fitty. Never have fits,
do you, dear?”
“No, ma'am,” answered Anna, struggling hard to keep
from laughing outright.
Here Mr. Livingstone inquired for his wife, and on being
told that she was sick, started for her room.
“Sick? Is your marm sick?” asked Mrs. Nichols of
John Jr. “Wall, I guess I'll go right in and see if I can't
do somethin' for her. I'm tolerable good at nussin'.”
Following her son, who did not observe her, she entered
unannounced into the presence of her elegant daughter-in-law,
who, with a little shriek, covered her head with the
bed-clothes. Knowing that she meant well, and never
dreaming that she was intruding, Mrs. Nichols walked up
to the bedside, saying, “How de do, 'Tilda? I suppose
you know I'm your mother—come all the way from Massachusetts
to live with you. What is the matter? Do you
take anything for your sickness?”
A groan was Mrs. Livingstone's only answer.
“Little hystericky, I guess,” suggested Mrs. Nichols,
adding that “settin' her feet in middlin' hot water is good
for that.”
“She is nervous, and the sight of strangers makes her
worse. So I reckon you'd better go out for the present,”
said Mr. Livingstone, who really pitied his wife. Then
calling Corinda, he bade her show his mother to her
room.
Corinda obeyed, and Mrs. Nichols followed her, asking
her on the way “what her surname was, how old she was,
if she knew how to read, and if she hadn't a good deal
rather be free than to be a slave!” to which Corinda replied,
that “she didn't know what a surname meant, that
how to read, and that she didn't know whether she'd like
to be free or not, but reckoned she shouldn't.”
“A half-witted gal that,” thought Mrs. Nichols, “and
I guess 'Tilda don't set much store by her.” Then dropping
into the wooden rocking chair and laying aside her
bonnet, she for the first time noticed that 'Lena was not
with her, and asked Corinda to go for her.
Corinda complied, leaving the room just in time to stifle
a laugh, as she saw Mrs. Nichols stoop down to examine
the hearth-rug, wondering “how much it cost when 't was
new.”
We left 'Lena standing on the steps of the piazza. At
a glance she had taken in the whole—had comprehended
that there was no affinity whatever between herself and
the objects around her, and a wild, intense longing filled
her heart to be once more among her native hills. She
had witnessed the merriment of the blacks, the scornful
curl of Carrie's lip, the half-suppressed ridicule of Anna,
when they met her grandmother, and now uncertain of
her own reception, she stood before her cousins not knowing
whether to advance or run away. For a moment
there was an awkward silence, and then John Jr., bent on
mischief, whispered to Carrie, “Look at that pinch in
her bonnet, and just see her shoes! Big as little sail-boats!”
This was too much for 'Lena. She already disliked
John Jr., and now, flying into a violent passion, she drew
off her shoes, and hurling them at the young gentleman's
head, fled away, away, she knew not, cared not whither,
so that she got out of sight and hearing. Coming at last
to the arbor bridge across the brook in the garden, she
paused for breath, and throwing herself upon a seat, burst
into a flood of tears. For several minutes she sobbed so
the graveled walk. Anna had followed her, partly out of
curiosity, and partly out of pity, the latter of which preponderated
when she saw how bitterly her cousin was
weeping. Going up to her she said, “Don't cry so, 'Lena.
Look up and talk. It's Anna, your cousin.”
'Lena had not yet recovered from her angry fit, and
thinking Anna only came to tease her, and perhaps again
ridicule her bonnet, she tore the article from her head, and
bending it up double, threw it into the stream, which carried
it down to the fish-pond, where for two or three
hours it furnished amusement for some little negroes, who,
calling it a crab, fished for it with hook and line! For a
moment Anna stood watching the bonnet as it sailed along
down the stream, thinking it looked better there than on
its owner's head, but wondering why 'Lena had thrown it
away. Then again addressing her cousin, she asked
why she had done so?
“It's a homely old thing, and I hate it,” answered 'Lena,
again bursting into tears. “I hate everybody, and I wish I
was dead, or back in Massachusetts, I don't care which!”
With her impressions of the “Bay State,” where her
mother said folks lived on “cold beans and codfish,”
Anna thought she should prefer the first alternative, but
she did not say so; and after a little she tried again to comfort
'Lena, telling her “she liked her, or at least she was
going to like her a heap.”
“No, you ain't,” returned 'Lena. “You laughed at
me and granny both. I saw you do it, and you think I
don't know anything, but I do. I've been through Olney's
geography, and Colburn's arithmetic twice!”
This was more than Anna could say. She had no scholarship
of which to boast; but she had a heart brim full
of love, and in reply to 'Lena's accusation of having laughed
so funny I couldn't help it. But I won't any more. I
pity you because your mother is dead, and you never had
any father, ma says.”
This made 'Lena cry again, while Anna continued:
“Pa'll buy you some new clothes I reckon, and if he don't
I'll give you some of mine, for I've got heaps, and they'll
fit you I most know. Here's my mark—” pointing to a
cut upon the door-post. “Here's mine, and Carrie's, and
brother's. Stand up and see if you don't measure like
I do.”
'Lena complied, and to Anna's great joy they were just
of a height.
“I'm so glad,” said she. “Now, come to my room and
Corinda will fix you up mighty nice before mother sees
you.”
Hand-in-hand the two girls started for the house, but
had not gone far when they heard some one calling, “Ho,
Miss 'Lena, whar is you? Ole miss done want you.” At
the same time Corinda made her appearance round the
corner of the piazza.
“Here, Cora,” said Anna. “Come with me to my
room; I want you.”
With a broad grin Corinda followed her young mistress,
while 'Lena, never having been accustomed to any
negro save the one with whom many New England children
are threatened when they cry, clung closer to Anna's
side, occasionally casting a timid glance toward the dark-browed
girl who followed them. In the upper hall they
met with Carrie, who in passing 'Lena held back her dress,
as if fearing contamination from a contact with her cousin's
plainer garments. Painfully alive to the slightest insult,
'Lena reddened, while Anna said, “Never mind—that's
just like Cad, but nobody cares for her.”
Thus reässured 'Lena followed on, until they reached
Anna's room, which they were about to enter, when the
shrill voice of Mrs. Nichols fell upon their ears, calling,
“'Leny, 'Leny, where upon airth is she?”
“Let's go to her first,” said 'Lena, and leading the way,
Anna soon ushered her into her grandmother's room,
which, child as she was, 'Lena readily saw was far different
from the handsome apartments of which she had obtained
a passing glance.
But Mrs. Nichols had not thought of this—and was
doubtless better satisfied with her present quarters than
she would have been with the best furnished chamber in
the house. The moment her granddaughter appeared,
she exclaimed, “'Leny Rivers, where have you been? I
was worried to death, for fear you might be runnin' after
some of them paltry niggers. And now whilst I think on't,
I charge you never to go a nigh 'em; I'd no idee they
were such half-naked, nasty critters.”
This prohibition was a novelty to Anna, who spent many
happy hours with her sable-hued companions, never deeming
herself the worse for it. Her grandmother's first remark,
however, struck her still more forcibly, and she immediately
asked, “Grandma, what did you call'Lena, just
now? 'Lena what?”
“I called her by her name, 'Lena Rivers. What should
I call her?” returned Mrs. Nichols.
“Why, I thought her name was 'Lena Nichols; ma
said 'twas,” answered Anna.
Mrs. Nichols was very sensitive to any slight cast upon
'Lena's birth, and she rather tartly informed Anna, that
“her mother didn't know everything,” adding that “'Lena's
father was Mr. Rivers, and there wasn't half so much
reason why she should be called Nichols as there was why
Anna should, for that was her father's name, the one by
who's jest his age, only he was born about a quarter
past four in the morning, and she not till some time in
the afternoon!”
“But where is Mr. Rivers?” asked Anna, more interested
in him than in the exact minute of her father's
birth.
“The Lord only knows,” returned Mrs. Nichols, adding,
that “little girls shouldn't ask too many questions.”
This silenced Anna, and satisfied her, too, that there
was some mystery connected with 'Lena, which she must
not try to penetrate. The mention of Nancy Scovandyke
reminded Mrs. Nichols of the dishes which that lady had
packed away, and anxious to see if they were safe, she
turned to 'Lena, saying, “I guess we'll have time before
dinner to unpack my trunks, for I want to know how the
crockery stood the racket. Anny, you run down and
tell your pa to fetch 'em up here, that's a good girl.”
In her eagerness to know what those weather-beaten
boxes contained, Anna forgot her scheme of dressing
'Lena, and ran down, not to call her father, but the black
boy, Adam. It took her a long time to find him, and
Mrs. Nichols, growing impatient, determined to go herself,
spite of 'Lena's entreaties that she would stay where
she was. Passing down the long stairway, and out upon
the piazza, she espied a negro girl on her hands and knees
engaged in cleaning the steps with a cloth. Instantly remembering
her mop, she greatly lamented that she had
left it behind—“'twould come so handy now,” thought
she, but there was no help for it.
Walking up to the girl, whose name she did not know,
she said, “Sissy, can you tell me where John is?”
Quickly “Sissy's” ivories became visible, as she replied,
“We hain't got any such nigger as John.”
With a silent invective upon negroes in general, and
this one in particular, Mrs. Nichols choked, stammered,
and finally said, “I didn't ask for a nigger; I want your
master, John!”
Had the old lady been a Catholic, she would have
crossed herself for thus early breaking her promise to
Nancy Scovandyke. As it was, she mentally asked forgiveness,
and as the colored girl “didn't know where marster
was,” but “reckoned he had gone somewhar,” she
turned aside, and seeking her son's room, again entered
unannounced. Mrs. Livingstone, who was up and
dressed, frowned darkly upon her visitor. But Mrs.
Nichols did not heed it, and advancing forward, she said,
“Do you feel any better, 'Tilda? I'd keep kinder still to-day,
and not try to do much, for if you feel any consarned
about the housework, I'd just as lief see to't a little after
dinner as not.”
“I have all confidence in Milly's management, and seldom
trouble myself about the affairs of the kitchen,” answered
Mrs. Livingstone.
“Wall, then,” returned her mother-in-law, nothing
daunted, “Wall, then, mebby you'd like to have me come
in and set with you a while.”
It would be impossible for us to depict Mrs. Livingstone's
look of surprise and anger at this proposition.
Her face alternately flushed and then grew pale, until at
last she found voice to say, “I greatly prefer being alone,
madam. It annoys me excessively to have any one round.”
“Considerable kind o' touchy,” thought Mrs. Nichols,
“but then the poor critter is sick, and I shan't lay it up
agin her.”
Taking out her snuff-box, she offered it to her daughter,
telling her that “like enough 'twould cure her headache.”
Mrs. Livingstone's first impulse was to strike it from
would be, she restrained herself, and turning away her
head, replied, “Ugh! no! The very sight of it makes
me sick.”
“How you do talk! Wall, I've seen folks that it sarved
jest so; but you'll git over it. Now there was Nancy
Scovandyke—did John ever say anything about her?
Wall, she couldn't bear snuff till after her disappintment
—John told you, I suppose?”
“No, madam, my husband has never told me anything
concerning his eastern friends, neither do I wish to hear
anything of them,” returned Mrs. Livingstone, her patience
on the point of giving out.
“Never told you nothin' about Nancy Scovandyke! If
that don't beat all! Why he was—”
She was prevented from finishing the sentence, which
would undoubtedly have raised a domestic breeze, when
Anna came to tell her that the trunks were carried to her
room.
”I'll come right up then,” said she, adding, more to herself
than any one else, “If I aint mistaken, I've got a little
paper of sarfon somewhere, which I mean to steep for
'Tilda. Her skin looks desput jandissy!”
When Mr. Livingstone again entered his wife's room,
he found her in a collapsed state of anger and mortification.
“John Nichols,” said she, with a strong emphasis on
the first word, which sounded very much like Jarn, “do
you mean to kill me by bringing that vulgar, ignorant
thing here, walking into my room without knocking—
calling me 'Tilda, and prating about Nancy somebody—”
John started. His wife knew nothing of his affaire du
cœur with Miss Nancy, and for his own peace of mind
'twas desirable that she should not. Mentally resolving
wife, by saying that he knew “his mother was trouble-some,
but she must try not to notice her oddities.”
“I wonder how I can help it, when she forces herself
upon me continually,” returned his wife. “I must either
keep the doors locked, or live in constant terror.”
“It's bad, I know,” said he, smoothing her glossy hair,
“but then, she's old, you know. Have you seen 'Lena?”
“No, neither do I wish to, if she's at all like her grandmother,”
answered Mrs. Livingstone.
“She's handsome,” suggested Mr. Livingstone.
“Pshaw! handsome!” repeated his wife, scornfully,
while he replied, “Yes, handsomer than either of our
daughters, and with the same advantages, I've no doubt
she'd surpass them both.”
“Those advantages, then, she shall never have,” returned
Mrs. Livingstone, already jealous of a child she
had only seen at a distance.
Mr. Livingstone made no reply, but felt that he'd made
a mistake in praising 'Lena, in whom he began to feel a
degree of interest for which he could not account. He
did not know that way down in the depths of his heart,
calloused over as it was by worldly selfishness, there
was yet a tender spot, a lingering memory of his only
sister, whom 'Lena so strongly resembled. If left to
himself, he would undoubtedly have taken pride in seeing
his niece improve, and as it was, he determined that she
should at home receive the same instruction that his
daughters did. Perhaps he might not send her away to
school. He didn't know how that would be—his wife
held the purse, and taking refuge behind that excuse, he
for the present dismissed the subject. (So much for marrying
a rich wife and nothing else. This we throw in
gratis!)
Meantime grandma had returned to her room, at the
door of which she found John Jr. and Carrie, both curious
to know what was in those boxes, one of which had
burst open and been tied up with a rope.
“Come, children,” said she, “don't stay out there—
come in.”
“We prefer remaining here,” said Carrie, in a tone and
manner so nearly resembling her mother, that Mrs. Nichols
could not refrain from saying, “chip of the old block!”
“That's so, by cracky. You've hit her this time,
granny,” exclaimed John Jr., snapping his fingers under
Carrie's nose, which being rather long, was frequently a
subject of his ridicule.
“Let me be, John Livingstone,” said Carrie, while
'Lena resolved never again to use the word “granny,”
which she knew her cousin had taken up on purpose to
tease her.
“Come, 'Lena, catch hold and help me untie this rope.
I b'lieve the crockery's in here,” said Mrs. Nichols to
'Lena, who soon opened the chest, disclosing to view as
motley a variety of articles as is often seen.
Among the rest was the “blue set,” a part of her
“setting out,” as his grandmother told John Jr., at the
same time dwelling at length upon their great value. Mistaking
Carrie's look of contempt for envy, Mrs. Nichols
chucked her under the chin, telling her “May be there
was something for her, if she was a good girl.”
“Now, Cad, turn your nose up clear to the top of
your head,” said John Jr., vastly enjoying his sister's
vexation.
“Where does your marm keep her china? I want to
put this with it,” said Mrs. Nichols to Anna, who, uncertain
what reply to make, looked at Carrie to answer
for her.
“I reckon mother don't want that old stuff stuck into
her china-closet,” said Carrie, elevating her nose to a
height wholly satisfactory to John Jr., who unbuttoned
one of his waistband buttons to give himself room to
laugh.
“Mortal sakes alive! I wonder if she don't,” returned
Mrs. Nichols, beginning to get an inkling of Carrie's character,
and the estimation in which her valuables were
held.
“Here's a nice little cupboard over the fire-place; I'd
put them here,” said 'Lena.
“Yes,” chimed in John Jr., imitating both his grandmother
and cousin; “yes, granny, put 'em there; the
niggers are awful critters to steal, and like enough you'd
lose 'em if they sot in with marm's!”
This argument prevailed. The dishes were put away
in the cupboard, 'Lena thinking that with all his badness
John Jr., was of some use after all. At last, tired of
looking on, Anna suggested to 'Lena, who did not seem to
be helping matters forward much, that she should go and
be dressed up as had been first proposed. Readily divining
her sister's intention, Carrie ran with it to her mother,
who sent back word that “'Lena must mind her own
affairs, and let Anna's dresses alone!”
This undeserved thrust made 'Lena cry, while Anna declared
“her mother never said any such thing,” which
Carrie understood as an insinuation that she had told a
falsehood. Accordingly a quarrel of words ensued between
the two sisters, which was finally quelled by John
Jr., who called to Carrie “to come down, as she'd got a
letter from Durward Bellmont.”
Durward! How that name made 'Lena's heart leap!
Was it her Durward—the boy in the cars? She almost
hoped not, for somehow the idea of his writing to Carrie
asked Anna who he was, and was told that he lived in
Louisville with his step-father, Mr. Graham, and that
Carrie about two months before had met him in Frankfort
at Colonel Douglass's, where she was in the habit of
visiting. “Colonel Douglass,” continued Anna, has got
a right nice little girl, whose name is Nellie. Then there's
Mabel Ross, a sort of cousin, who lives with them part
of the time. She's an orphan and a great heiress. You
mustn't tell any body for the world, but I overheard ma say
that she wanted John to marry Mabel, she's so rich—but,
pshaw! he won't, for she's awful babyish and ugly looking.
Captain Atherton is related to Nellie, and during
the holidays she and Mabel are coming up to spend a
week, and I'll bet Durward is coming too. Cad teased
him, and he said may be he would if he didn't go to
college this fall. I'll run down and see.”
Soon returning, she brought the news that it was as she
had conjectured. Durward, who was now traveling, was
not going to college until the next fall, and at Christmas
he was coming to the country with his cousin.
“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Anna. “We'll have a time;
for ma'll invite them here, of course. Cad thinks a heap
of Durward, and I want so bad to see him. Don't you?”
'Lena made no direct reply, for much as she would
like to see her compagnon du voyage, she felt an unwillingness
to meet him in the presence of Carrie, who she
knew would spare no pains to mortify her. Soon forgetting
Durward, Anna again alluded to her plan of dressing
'Lena, wishing “Cad would mind her own business.”
Then, as a new idea entered her head, she brightened up,
exclaiming, “I know what I can do. I'll have Corinda
curl your hair real pretty. You've got beautiful hair. A
heap nicer than my yellow flax.”
'Lena offered no remonstrance, and Corinda, who came
at the call of her young mistress, immediately commenced
brushing and curling the bright, wavy hair which Anna
had rightly called beautiful. While this was going on,
Grandma Nichols, who had always adhered to the good
old puritanical custom of dining exactly at twelve o'clock,
began to wonder why dinner was not forthcoming. She
had breakfasted in Versailles, but like many travelers,
could not eat much at a hotel, and now her stomach clamored
loudly for food. Three times had she walked back
and forth before what she supposed was the kitchen, and
from which a savory smell of something was issuing, and
at last determining to stop and reconnoiter, she started
for the door.
The northern reader at all acquainted with southern
life, knows well that a kitchen there and a kitchen here
are two widely different things—ours, particularly in the
country, being frequently used as a dining-room, while
a southern lady would almost as soon think of eating in
the barn as in her cook-room. Like most other planters,
Mr. Livingstone's kitchen was separate and at some little
distance from the main building, causing grandma to
wonder “how the poor critters managed to carry victuals
back and to when it was cold and slippery.”
When Aunt Milly, who was up to her elbows in dough,
saw her visitor approaching, she exclaimed, “Lor'-a-mighty,
if thar ain't ole miss coming straight into this
lookin' hole! Jeff, you quit that ar' pokin' in dem ashes,
and knock Lion out dat kittle; does you har? And you,
Polly,” speaking to a superannuated negress who was sitting
near the table, “you just shove that ar' piece of
dough, I done save to bake for you and me, under your
char, whar she won't see it.”
Polly complied, and by this time Mrs. Nichols was at
she'd make things look after a little.
“Does missus want anything?” asked Aunt Milly, and
grandma replied, “Yes, I want to know if 't aint nigh
about noon.”
This is a term never used among the blacks, and rolling
up her white eyes, Aunt Milly answered, “You done got
me now, sartin, for this chile know nothin' what you mean
more'n the deadest critter livin'.”
As well as she could, Mrs. Nichols explained her meaning,
and Aunt Milly replied, “Oh, yes, yes, I know now.
`Is it most dinner time?' Yes—dinner'll be done ready
in an hour. We never has it till two no day, and when
we has company not till three.”
Confident that she should starve, Mrs. Nichols advanced
a step or two into the kitchen, whereupon Aunt Milly
commenced making excuses, saying, “she was gwine to
clar up one of these days, and then if Thomas Jefferson
and Marquis De Lafayette didn't quit thar litterin' they'd
cotch it.”
Attracted by the clean appearance of Aunt Polly, who,
not having to work, prided herself upon always being
neatly dressed, Mrs. Nichols walked up to her, and, to use
a vulgar expression, the two old ladies were soon “hand-in-glove,”
Mrs. Nichols informing her of her loss, and how
sorry Nancy Scovandyke would feel when she heard of it,
and ending by giving her the full particulars of her husband's
sickness and death. In return Aunt Polly said that
“she was born and bred along with ole Marster Richards,
Miss Matilda's father, and that she, too, had buried a
husband.”
With a deep sigh, Mrs. Nichols was about to commiserate
her, when Aunt Polly cut her short by saying, “'T want
of no kind o' count, as she never relished him much.”
“Some drunken critter, I warrant,” thought Mrs. Nichols,
at the same time asking what his name was.
“Jeems,” said Aunt Polly.
This was not definite enough for Mrs. Nichols, who
asked for the surname, “Jeems what?”
“Jeems Atherton, I reckon, bein' he 'longed to ole
Marster Atherton,” said Polly.
For a time Mrs. Nichols had forgotten her hunger, but
the habit of sixty years was not so easily broken, and she
now hinted so strongly of the emptiness of her stomach
that Aunt Polly, emboldened by her familiarity, said, “I
never wait for the rest, but have my cup of tea or coffee
just when I feel like it, and if missus wouldn't mind takin'
a bite with a nigger, she's welcome.”
“Say nothin' about it. We shall all be white in
heaven.”
“Dat am de trufe,” muttered Milly, mentally assigning
Mrs. Nichols a more exalted occupation than that of
turning hoe-cakes!
Two cups and saucers were forthwith produced, Milly
acting as waiter for fear Aunt Polly would leave her seat
and so disclose to view the loaf of bread which had been
hidden under the chair! Some coffee was poured from
the pot, which still stood on the stove, and then the little
negroes, amused with the novelty of the thing, ran shouting
and yelling that, “ole miss was eatin' in the kitchen
'long with Lion, Aunt Polly, and the other dogs!”
The coffee being drank, Mrs. Nichols returned to the
house, thinking “what sights of comfort she should take
with Mrs. Atherton,” whom she pronounced to be “a
likely, clever woman as ever was.”
Scarcely had she reached her room when the dinner-bell
rang, every note falling like an ice-bolt on the heart
of 'Lena, who, though hungry like her grandmother, still
herself creditably. Corinda had finished her hair, and
Anna, looking over her wardrobe and coming upon the
black dress which her father had purchased for her, had
insisted upon 'Lena's wearing it. It was of rather more
modern make than any of her other dresses, and when her
toilet was completed, she looked uncommonly well. Still she
trembled violently as Anna led her to the dining-room.
Neither Mrs. Nichols nor Mrs. Livingstone had yet made
their appearance, but the latter soon came languidly in,
wrapped in a rose-colored shawl, which John Jr. said
“she wore to give a delicate tint to her yellow complexion.”
She was in the worst of humors, having just been
opening her husband's trunk, where she found the numerous
articles which had been stowed away by Nancy Scovandyke.
Very angrily she had ordered them removed
from her sight, and at this very moment the little negroes
in the yard were playing with the cracked bellows, calling
them a “blubber,” and filling them with water to see it
run out!
Except through the window, Mrs. Livingstone had not
yet seen 'Lena, and now dropping into her chair, she never
raised her eyes until Anna said, “Mother, mother, this is
'Lena. Look at her.”
Thus importuned, Mrs. Livingstone looked up, and the
frown with which she was prepared to greet her niece
softened somewhat, for 'Lena was not a child to be looked
upon and despised. Plain and humble as was her dress,
there was something in her fine, open face, which at once
interested and commanded respect. John Jr. had felt it;
his father had felt it; and his mother felt it too, but it
awoke in her a feeling of bitterness as she thought how
the fair young girl before her might in time rival her
daughters. At a glance, she saw that 'Lena was beautiful,
of feature and form.
“Yes,” thought she, “husband was right when he said
that, with the same advantages, she'd soon outstrip her
cousins—but it shall never be—never,” and the white
teeth shut firmly together, as the cold, proud woman
bowed a welcome.
At this moment Mrs. Nichols appeared. Stimulated by
the example of 'Lena, she, too, had changed her dress, and
now in black bombasin, white muslin cap, and shining silk
apron, she presented so respectable an appearance that
her son's face instantly brightened.
“Come, mother, we are waiting for you,” said he, as
she stopped on her way to ask Vine, the fly girl, “how
she did, and if it wasn't hard work to swing them feathers.”
Not being very bright, Vine replied with a grin, “Dun
know, miss.”
Taking her seat next to her son, Mrs. Nichols said, when
offered a plate of soup, “I don't often eat broth; besides
that, I ain't much hungry, as I've just been takin' a bite
with Miss Atherton!”
“With whom?” asked Mr. Livingstone, John Jr., Carrie,
and Anna, in the same breath.
“With Miss Polly Atherton, that nice old colored lady
in the kitchen,” said Mrs. Nichols.
The scowl on Mrs. Livingstone's face darkened visibly,
while her husband, thinking it time to speak, said, “It is
my wish, mother, that you keep away from the kitchen.
It does the negroes no good to be meddled with, and besides
that, when you are hungry the servants will take you
something.”
“Accustomed to eat in the kitchen, probably,” muttered
Carrie, with all the air of a young lady of twenty.
“Hold on to your nose, Cad,” whispered John Jr.,
thereby attracting his sister's attention to himself.
By this time the soup was removed, and a fine large
turkey appeared.
“What a noble great feller. Gobbler, ain't it?” asked
Mrs. Nichols, touching the turkey with the knife.
John Jr. roared, and was ordered from the table by
his father, while Lena, who stepped on her grandmother's
toes to keep her from talking, was told by that lady “to
keep her fect still.” Along with the desert came ice
cream, which Mrs. Nichols had never before tasted, and
now fancying that she was dreadfully burned, she quickly
deposited her first mouthful upon her plate.
“What's the matter, grandma? Can't you eat it?”
asked Anna.
“Yes, I kin eat it, but I don't hanker arter it,” answered
her grandmother, pushing the plate aside.
Dinner being over, Mrs. Nichols returned to her room,
but soon growing weary, she started out to view the
premises. Coming suddenly upon a group of young negroes,
she discovered her bellows, the water dripping
from the nose, while a little farther on she espied 'Lena's
bonnet, which the negroes had at last succeeded in catching,
and which, wet as it was, now adorned the head of
Thomas Jefferson! In a trice the old lady's principles
were forgotten, and she cuffed the negroes with a right
good will, hitting Jeff, the hardest, and, as a matter of
course, making him yell the loudest. Out came Aunt
Milly, scolding and muttering about “white folks tendin'
to thar own business,” and reversing her decision with
regard to Mrs. Nichols' position in the next world. Cuff,
the watch-dog, whose kennel was close by, set up a tremendous
howling, while John Jr., always on hand, danced
a jig to the sound of the direful music.
“For heaven's sake, husband, go out and see what's
the matter,” said Mrs. Livingstone, slightly alarmed at
the unusual noise.
John complied, and reached the spot just in time to
catch a glimpse of John Jr.'s heels as he gave the finishing
touch to his exploit, while Mrs. Nichols, highly incensed,
marched from the field of battle with the bonnet
and bellows, thinking “if them niggers was only her'n
they'd catch it!”
| CHAPTER VI.
THE ARRIVAL. 'Lena Rivers | |