 | CHAPTER XIX.
THE VISIT. 'Lena Rivers |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE VISIT.
Mrs. Graham reclined upon a softly-cushioned sofa, her
tasteful lace morning-cap half falling from her head, and
her rich cashmere gown flowing open, so as to reveal the
flounced cambric skirt which her sewing-girl had sat up
till midnight to finish. A pair of delicate French slippers
pinched rather than graced her fat foot, one of which angrily
beat the carpet, as if keeping time to its mistress'
thoughts. Nervous and uncomfortable was the lady of
Woodlawn this morning, for she had just passed through
a little conjugal scene with her husband, whom she had
called a brute, lamenting the dispensation of Providence
which took from her “her beloved Sir Arthur, who always
thought whatever she said was right,” and ending by
throwing herself in the most theatrical manner upon the
sofa in the parlor, where, with both her blood and temper
at a boiling heat, she lay, when her waiting-maid, but recently
purchased, announced the approach of a carriage.
“Mercy,” exclaimed the distressed lady, “whose is it?
I hope no one will ask for me.”
“Reckon how it's Marster Livingstone's carriage, 'case
thar's Tom on the box,” answered the girl, who had her
own private reason for knowing Tom at any distance.
“Mrs. Livingstone, I'll venture to say,” groaned Mrs.
Graham, burying her lace cap and flaxen hair still farther
in the silken cushions. “Just because I stopped there a
few days last summer, she thinks she must run here every
week; and there's no way of escaping her. Do shut that
blind; it lets in so much light. There, would you think
I'd been crying?”
“Lor' no,” returned the stupid servant, “Lor' no, I
should sooner think your eyes and face were swelled with
pisen.”
“The Lord help me,” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, “you
don't begin to know as much as poor Charlotte did. She
was a jewel, and I don't see anything what she wanted to
die for, just as I had got her well trained; but that's all
the thanks I ever get for my goodness. Now go quick,
and tell her I've got an excruciating headache.”
“If you please, miss,” said the girl, trying in vain to
master the big word, “if you please, give me somethin'
shorter, 'case I done forgit that ar, sartin'.”
“Fool! Idiot!” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, hurling, for
want of something better, one of her satin slippers at the
woolly head, which dodged out of the door in time to
avoid it.
“Is your mistress at home?” asked Mrs. Livingstone,
and Martha, uncertain what answer she was to make, replied,
“Yes—no—I dun know, 'case she done driv me
out afore I know'd whether she was at home or not.”
“Martha, show the lady this way,” called out Mrs. Graham,
who was listening. “Ah, Mrs. Livingstone, is it
you. I'm glad to see you,” said she, half rising and shading
her swollen eyes with her hand, as if the least effort
were painful. “You must excuse my dishabille, for I am
suffering from a bad headache, and when Martha said
some one had come, I thought at first I could not see them,
but you are always welcome. How have you been this long
time, and why have you neglected me so, when you know
how I must feel the change from Louisville, where I was
constantly in society, to this dreary neighborhood?” and
the lady lay back upon the sofa, exhausted with and astonished
at her own eloquence.
Mrs. Livingstone was quite delighted with her friend's
chair, began to make herself very agreeable, offering to
bathe Mrs. Graham's aching head, which kind offer the
lady declined, bethinking herself of sundry gray hairs,
which a close inspection would single out from among her
flaxen tresses.
“Are your family all well?” she asked; to which Mrs.
Livingstone replied that they were, at the same time
speaking of her extreme loneliness since Mabel left
them.
“Ah, you mean the little dark-eyed brunette, whom I
saw with you at my party. She was a nice-looking girl
—showed that she came of a good family. I think everything
of that. I believe I'd rather Durward would marry
a poor aristocrat, than a wealthy plebeian—one whose
family were low and obscure.”
Mrs. Livingstone wondered what she thought of her
family, the Livingstones. The Richards' blood she knew
was good, but the Nichols' was rather doubtful. Still,
she would for once make the best of it, so she hastened
to say that few American ladies were so fortunate as Mrs.
Graham had been in marrying a nobleman. “In this country
we have no nobility, you know,” said she, “and any
one who gets rich and into good society, is classed with
the first.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Graham, “but in my
mind there's a great difference. Now, Mr. Graham's ancestors
boast of the best blood of South Carolina, while
my family, everybody knows, was one of the first in Virginia,
so if Durward had been Mr. Graham's son instead
of Sir Arthur's, I should be just as proud of him, just as
particular whom he married.”
“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, a little piqued,
for there was something in Mrs. Graham's manner which
married a nobleman, nor one of the best bloods of South
Carolina, and still I should not be willing for my son to
marry—let me see—well, say 'Lena Rivers.”
“'Lena Rivers!” repeated Mrs. Graham—“why, I
would not suffer Durward to look at her, if I could help
it. She's of a horridly low family on both sides, as I am
told.”
This was a home thrust which Mrs. Livingstone could
not endure quietly, and as she had no wish to defend the
royalty of a family which she herself despised, she determined
to avenge the insult by making her companion as
uncomfortable as possible. So she said, “Perhaps you are
not aware that your son's attentions to this same 'Lena
Rivers, are becoming somewhat marked.”
“No, I was not aware of it,” and the greenish-gray
eyes fastened inquiringly upon Mrs. Livingstone, who continued:
“It is nevertheless true, and as I can appreciate
your feelings, I thought it might not be out of place for
me to warn you.”
“Thank you,” returned Mrs. Graham, now raising herself
upon her elbow; “Thank you—but do you know
anything positive? What has Durward done?”
“'Lena is in Frankfort now, at Mr. Douglass',” answered
Mrs. Livingstone, “and your son is in the constant
habit of visiting there; besides that, he invited her to
ride with him when they all went to Frankfort—'Lena
upon the gray pony which your husband gave her as a
Christmas present.”
Mrs. Livingstone had touched the right spot. 'Twas
the first intimation of Vesta which Mrs. Graham had received,
and now sitting bolt upright, she demanded what
Mrs. Livinstone meant. “My husband give 'Lena Rivers
possible. There must be some mistake.”
“I think not,” returned Mrs. Livingstone. “Your son
came over with it, saying `it was a present from his father,
who sent it, together with his compliments.”'
Back among her cushions tumbled Mrs. Graham, moaning,
groaning, and pronouncing herself wholly heart-broken.
“I knew he was bad,” said she, “But I never
dreamed it had come to this. And I might have known
it, too, for from the moment he first saw that girl, he has
acted like a crazy creature. Talks about her in his sleep
—wants me to adopt her—keeps his eyes on her every
minute when he's where she is; and to crown all, without
consulting me, his lawful wife, he has made her a
present, which must have cost more than a hundred dollars!
And she accepted it—the vixen!”
“That's the worst feature in the case,” said Mrs. Livingstone.
“I have always been suspicious of 'Lena,
knowing what her mother was, but I must confess I did
not think her quite so presumptuous as to accept so costly
a present from a gentleman, and a married one, too. But
she has a peculiar way of making them think what she
does is right, and neither my husband nor John Jr. can
see any impropriety in her keeping Vesta. Carrie
wouldn't have done such a thing.”
“Indeed she wouldn't. She is too well-bred for that,”
said Mrs. Graham, who had been completely won by Carrie's
soft speeches and fawning manner.
This compliment to her daughter pleased Mrs. Livingstone,
who straightway proceeded to build Carrie up still
higher, by pulling 'Lena down. Accordingly, every little
thing which she could remember, and many which she
could not, were told in an aggravated manner, until quite
a case was made out, and 'Lena would never have recognized
aunt kindly pictured her to be.
“Of course,” said she, “if you ever repeat this, you
will not use my name, for as she is my husband's niece,
it will not look well in me to be proclaiming her vices,
except in cases where I think it my duty.”
Mrs. Graham was too much absorbed in her own reflections
to make a reply, and as Mrs. Livingstone saw that
her company was hardly desired, she soon arose to go, asking
Mrs. Graham “why she did not oftener visit Maple
Grove.”
When Mrs. Graham felt uncomfortable, she liked to
make others so, too, and to her friend's question she answered,
“I may as well be plain as not, and to tell you
the truth, I should enjoy visiting you very much, were it
not for one thing. “That mother of yours—”
“Of my husband's,” interrupted Mrs. Livingstone, and
Mrs. Graham continued just where she left off.
“Annoys me exceedingly, by eternally tracing in me a
resemblance to some down east creature or other—what
is her name—Sco—Sco—Scovandyke; yes, that's it—Scovandyke.
Of course its not pleasant for me to be told
every time I meet your mother—”
“Mr. Livingstone's mother,” again interrupted the
lady.
“That I look like some of her acquaintances, for I
contend that families of high birth bear with them marks
which cannot be mistaken.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Mrs. Livingstone, adding,
that “she was herself continually annoyed by Mrs. Nichols'
vulgarity, but her husband insisted that she should
come to the table, so what could she do?”
And mutually troubled, the one about her husband, and
ladies parted.
Scarcely was Mrs. Livingstone gone when Mr. Graham
entered the room, finding his wife, who had heard his
footsteps, in violent hysterics. He had seen her so too
often to be alarmed, and was about to pull the bell-rope,
when she found voice to bid him desist, saying it was
himself, who was killing her by inches, and that the sooner
she was dead, the better she supposed he would like it.
“But, for my sake,” she added, in a kind of howl, between
crying and scolding, “do try to behave yourself
during the short time I have to live, and not go to giving
away ponies, and mercy knows what.”
Now, Mr. Graham was not conscious of having looked
at a lady, except through the window,for many days, and
when his wife first attacked him, he was at a great loss to
understand; but as she proceeded it all became plain,
and on the whole, he felt glad that the worst was over.
He would not acknowledge, even to himself, that he was
afraid of his wife, and still he had a little rather she would
not always know what he did. He supposed, as a matter
of course, that she would, earlier or later, hear of his
present to 'Lena, and he well knew that such an event
would surely be followed by a storm, but after what had
taken place between them that morning, he did not expect
so much feeling, for he had thought her wrath nearly
expended. But Mrs. Graham was capable of great things
—as she proved on this occasion, taunting her husband
with his preference for 'Lena, accusing him of loving her
better than he did herself, and asking him plainly, if it
were not so.
“Say,” she continued, stamping her foot, (the one without
a slipper,) “say—I will be answered. Don't you like
'Lena better than you do me?”
Mr. Graham was provoked beyond endurance, and to
the twice repeated question, he at length replied, “God
knows I've far more reason to love her than I have you.”
At the same moment he left the room, in time to avoid a
sight of the collapsed state into which his horrified wife,
who did not expect such an answer, had fallen.
“Can I tell her? oh, dare I tell her?” he thought, as
he wiped the drops of perspiration from his brow, and
groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. Terribly was he
expiating his fault, but at last he grew calmer, and cowardice
(for he was cowardly, else he had never been what
he was) whispered, “Wait yet awhile. Anything for domestic
peace.”
So the secret was buried still deeper in his bosom, he
never thinking how his conduct would in the end injure
the young girl, dearer to him far than his own life.
While he sat thus alone in his room, and as his wife lay
upon her sofa, Durward entered the parlor, and began
good-humoredly to rally his mother upon her wobegone
face, asking what was the matter now.
“Oh, you poor boy, you,” she sobbed, “you'll soon
have no mother to go to, but you must attribute my death
wholly to your step-father, who alone will be to blame for
making you an orphan!”
Durward knew his mother well, and he thought he
knew his father too, and while he respected him, he blamed
her for the unreasonable whims of which he was becoming
weary. He knew there had been a jar in the morning,
but he had supposed that settled, and now, when
he found his mother ten times worse than ever, he felt half
vexed, and said, “Do be a woman, mother, and not give
way to such fancies. I really wonder father shows as
much patience with you as he does, for you make our
home very unpleasant; and really,” he continued, in a
self-defense, get me a wife and home of my own.”
“And if report is true, that wife will be 'Lena Rivers,”
said Mrs. Graham, in order to try him.
“Very likely—I can't tell what may be,” was his answer;
to which Mrs. Graham replied, “that it would be
extremely pleasant to marry a bride with whom one's
father was in love.”
“How ridiculous!” Durward exclaimed. “As though
my father cared aught for 'Lena, except to admire her for
her beauty and agreeable manners.”
“But, he's acknowledged it. He's just told me, `God
knew he loved her better than he did me.' What do you
think of that?”
“Did Mr. Graham say that?” asked Durward, looking
his mother directly in her face.
“Yes he did, not fifteen minutes before you came in,
and it's not a secret, either. Others know it and talk
about it. Think of his giving her that pony.”
Durward was taken by surprise. Knowing none of
the circumstances, he felt deeply pained at his father's remark.
He had always supposed he liked 'Lena, and he
was glad of it, too, but to love her more than his own
wife, was a different thing, and for the first time in his
life Durward distrusted his father. Still, 'Lena was not
to blame; there was comfort in that; and that very afternoon
found him again at her side, admiring her more and
more, and learning each time he saw her to love her better.
And she—she dared not confess to herself how dear
he was to her—she dared not hope her affection was returned.
She could not think of the disappointment the
future might bring, so she lived on the present, waiting
anxiously for his coming, and striving hard to do the
the things which she thought would please him best.
True to her promise, Mabel had commenced giving her
instructions upon the piano, and they were in the midst
of their first lesson, when who should walk in, but Monsieur
Du Pont, bowing, and saying “he had been hired
by von nice gentleman, to give Madamoiselle Rivers lessons
in musique.”
'Lena immediately thought of her uncle, who had once
proposed her sharing in the instructions of her cousin, but
who, as usual, was overruled by his wife.
“'Twas my uncle, was it not?” she asked of Du Pont,
who replied, “I promised not to tell. He say, though, he
connected with mademoiselle.”
And 'Lena, thinking it was of course Mr. Livingstone,
who, on his wife's account, wished it a secret, readily consented
to receive Du Pont as a teacher in place of Mabel,
who still expressed her willingness to assist her whenever
it was necessary. Naturally fond of music, 'Lena's improvement
was rapid, and when she found how gratified
Durward appeared, she redoubled her exertions, practicing
always five, and sometimes six hours a day.
| CHAPTER XIX.
THE VISIT. 'Lena Rivers | |