University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
CHRISTMAS GIFTS.

The sunlight of a bright Christmas morning had hardly
dawned upon the earth, when from many a planter's
home in the sunny south was heard the joyful cry of
“Christmas Gift,” “Christmas Gift,” as the negroes ran
over and against each other, hiding, ofttimes, until some
one came within hailing distance, when their loud “Christmas
Gift” would make all echo again. On this occasion,
every servant at Maple Grove was remembered, for Anna
and 'Lena had worked both early and late in preparing
some little present, and feeling amply compensated for
their trouble, when they saw how much happiness it
gave. Mabel, too, while she staid, had lent a helping
hand, and many a blessing was that morning invoked upon
her head from the hearts made glad by her generous
gifts. Carrie, when asked to join them, had turned scornfully

away, saying “she'd plenty to do, without working
for niggers, who could not appreciate it.”

So all her leisure hours were spent in embroidering a
fine cambric handkerchief, intended as a present for Mrs.
Graham, and which with a delicate note was, the evening
previous, sent to Woodlawn, with instructions to have it
placed next morning on Mrs. Graham's table. Of course
Mrs. Graham felt in duty bound to return the compliment,
and looking over her old jewelry, she selected a
diamond ring which she had formerly worn, but which
was now too small for her fat, chubby fingers. This was
immediately forwarded to Maple Grove, reaching there
just as the family were rising from the breakfast table.

“Oh, isn't it beautiful—splendid—magnificent!” were
Carrie's exclamations, while she praised Mrs. Graham's
generosity, secretly wondering if “Durward did not have
something to do with it.”

On this point she was soon set right, for the young man
himself erelong appeared, and after bidding them all a
“Merry Christmas,” presented Anna with a package,
which, on being opened, proved to be a large and complete
copy of Shakespeare, elegantly bound, and bearing
upon its heavy golden clasp the words, “Anna Livingstone,
from Durward.”

“This you will please accept from me,” said he. “Mother,
I believe, has sent Carrie something, and if 'Lena will
step to the door, she will see her gift from father, who
hopes it will give her as much pleasure to accept it, as it
does him to present it.”

“What can it be?” thought Carrie, rising languidly
from the sofa, and following 'Lena and her sister to the
side door, where stood one of Mr. Graham's servants,
holding a beautiful gray pony, all nicely equipped for
riding.

Never dreaming that this was intended for 'Lena, Carrie
looked vacantly around, saying, “Why, where is it;
I don't see anything.”

“Here,” said Durward, taking the bridle from the negro's
hand, and playfully throwing it across 'Lena's neck.
“Here it is—this pony, which we call Vesta. Vesta, allow
me to introduce you and your new mistress, Miss
'Lena, to each other,” and catching her up, as if she had
been a feather, he placed her in the saddle. Then, at a
peculiar whistle, the well-trained animal started off upon
an easy gallop, bearing its burden lightly around the
yard, and back again to the piazza.

“Do you like her?” he asked of 'Lena, extending his
arms to lift her down.

For a moment 'Lena could not speak, her heart was so
full. But at last, forcing down her emotion, she replied,
“Oh, very, very much; but it isn't for me, I know—there
must be some mistake. Mr. Graham never intended it
for me.”

“Yes he did,” answered Durward. “He has intended
it ever since the morning when you and I rode to Woodlawn.
A remark which your cousin John made at the table,
determined him upon buying and training a pony for
you. So here it is, and as I have done my share toward
teaching her, you must grant me the favor of riding her
to Frankfort day after to-morrow.”

“Thank you, thank you—you and Mr. Graham too—
a thousand times,” said 'Lena, winding her arms around
the neck of the docile animal, who did her best to return
the caress, rubbing her face against 'Lena, and evincing
her gentleness in various ways.

By this time Mr. Livingstone had joined them, and
while he was admiring the pony, Durward said to him,

“I am commissioned by my father to tell you that he will
defray all the expense of keeping Vesta.”

“Don't mention such a thing again,” hastily interposed
Mr. Livingstone. “I can keep fifty horses, if I choose,
and nothing will give me more pleasure than to take care
of this one for 'Lena, who deserves it if any one does.”

“That's my Christmas gift from you, uncle, isn't it?”
asked 'Lena, the tears gushing from her shining, brown
eyes.

“And now, please, may I return it?”

“Certainly,” said he, and with a nimble spring she
caught him around the neck, imprinting upon his lips the
first and only kiss she had ever given him; then, amid
blushes and tears, which came from a heart full of happiness,
she ran away up stairs followed by the envious eyes
of Carrie, who repaired to her mother's room, where she
stated all that had transpired—“How Mr. Graham had
sent 'Lena a gray pony—how she had presumed to accept
it—and how, just to show off before Mr. Bellmont, she
had wound her arms around its neck, and then actually
kissed pa!”

Mrs. Livingstone was equally indignant with her daughter,
wondering if Mr. Graham had lost his reason, and
reckoning his wife knew nothing about Vesta! But fret
as she would, there was no help for it. Vesta belonged
to 'Lena—Mr. Livingstone had given orders to have it
well-cared for—and worse than all the rest, 'Lena was to
accompany Durward to Frankfort. Something must be
done to meet the emergency, but what, Mrs. Livingstone
didn't exactly know, and finally concluded to wait until
she saw Mrs. Graham.

Meantime grandma had claimed from her son her promised
Christmas gift, which was nothing less than “the
freedom of old Aunt Polly.”

“You won't refuse me, John, I know you won't,” said
she, laying her bony hand on his. “Polly's arnt her freedom
forty times over, even s'posin' you'd a right to her in
the fust place, which I and Nancy Scovandyke both doubt;
so now set down like a man, make out her free papers,
and let me carry 'em to her right away.”

Without a word Mr. Livingstone complied with his
mother's request, saying, as he handed her the paper,
“It's not so much the fault of the south as of the north
that every black under heaven is not free.”

Grandma looked aghast. Her son, born, brought up,
and baptized in a purely orthodox atmosphere, to hold
such treasonable opinions in opposition to everything he'd
ever been taught in good old Massachusetts! She was
greatly shocked, but thinking she could not do the subject
justice, she said, “Wall, wall, it's of no use for you
and I to arger the pint, for I don't know nothin' what I
want to say, but if Nancy Scovandyke was here, she'd
convince you quick, for she's good larnin' as any of the
gals now-a-days.”

So saying, she walked away to Polly's cabin. The old
negress was better to-day, and attired in the warm
double-gown which Mabel had purchased and 'Lena had
made, she sat up in a large, comfortable rocking-chair,
which John Jr. had given her at the commencement of
her illness, saying it was “his Christmas gift in advance.”
Going straight up to her, grandma laid the paper in her
lap, bidding her “read it and thank the Lord.”

“Bless missus' dear old heart,” said Aunt Polly, “I
can't read a word.”

“Sure enough,” answered Mrs. Nichols, and taking up
the paper she read it through, managing to make the old
creature comprehend its meaning.

“Praise the Lord! praise Marster John, and all the

other apostles!” exclaimed Aunt Polly, clasping together
her black, wrinkled hands, while tears of joy coursed their
way down her cheeks. “The breath of liberty is sweet—
sweet as sugar,” she continued, drawing long inspirations,
as if to make up for lost time.

Mrs. Nichols looked on, silently thanking God for having
made her an humble instrument in contributing so
much to another's happiness.

“Set down,” said Aunt Polly, motioning toward a
wooden bottomed chair; “set down, and let's us talk over
this great meracle, which I've prayed and rastled for
mighty nigh a hundred times, without havin' an atom of
faith that 't would ever be.”

So Mrs. Nichols sat down, and for nearly an hour the
old ladies talked, the one of her newly-found freedom,
and the other of her happiness in knowing that “'t wasn't
for nothin' she was turned out of her old home and brought
away over land and sea to Kentucky.”