Chapter 20

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 feet, 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 unusual cordiality, and seating herself in the large easy-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 noble man. “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 annoyed her—“certainly—I understand you. I neither 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’s,” 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. Livingstone meant. “My husband give ’Lena Rivers a pony! Harry Graham do such a thing! It can’t be 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 herself in the artful, designing creature which her 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 it’s 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’s 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 the other about her husband’s mother, the two amiable 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 bellrope, 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, still he had a little rather she would not always know what he