Chapter XXII

MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK WITH HER MAID DINAH.

At length the day arrived on which Martha Hart was to make her entry into the great world. The hour was so early that you could scarcely see a streak of rose in the east; nothing but a pale flush, which shone like a smile across the apple trees dripping with dew, and the purple lilac plumes that crowned the bushes in front of the house.

They had taken breakfast by candle-light—a usual custom in that thrifty household; so there was sadness, but none of that dreary look of discomfort which usually accompanies a departure at early dawn.

Every thing was ready: Martha’s compact trunk and band-box, in its calico case, with a basket filled with cakes, a wedge of cheese, and some dried beef, stood together, ready for the wagon, to which the hired man was “hitching up his horses” back of the house.

Dinah, that subtle politician and strong-minded woman, had prevailed on the chest question, and sat upon her property, grim and triumphant, like a general in the midst of a victorious encampment. By her side stood Lizzy, rubbing both sets of knuckles into her eyes, and only taking them away, when Dinah became unbearably pathetic, to shake off the drops and plant them on duty again.

There was a certain tenderness in Dinah’s injunctions that made all Lizzy’s better nature overflow, like a pool in which a stone has been cast, but which Dinah held in check, ashamed of such ignoble weakness.

Daniel Hart stood by the window, with his daughter clinging to his arm. He was very grave, even sad, at the thought of her departure. Never yet had it been well with those of his family who went forth from that quiet homestead into the bustling world. He could date poor Hetty’s pale cheeks, and Sarah’s uneven spirit, from the time of their return from the city where his only child was so eager to hasten.

“You will write to me very soon, child?”

“Yes, father. Oh, I am almost sorry to go! Only say one word, and I will stay at home and send for Gillian to visit us this summer instead.”

“No, no: your mind is set on going, and it will not be kind to disappoint your cousin. Come back with the same honest, light heart you take away, and I don’t care.”

“Why, what do you mean, father? of course I shall, and lighter too, for I shall have seen the world.”

Daniel Hart shook his head. The past, which was ever uppermost in his mind, brought before his sight two girlish faces, both handsome, yet totally unlike in their loveliness. He recollected those two faces, so changed by sickness, toil, or sorrow, he never knew which, that those who loved them best would scarce have recognized his sisters again.

“Well, well, we shall see,” he said, half-aloud. “Only come back as wholesome and happy as you are now, and I shall be satisfied.”

Martha’s head drooped upon his arm, and for a few moments they stood in silence, each occupied with thoughts different as though an ocean had rolled between them.

Meanwhile Dinah was busy giving her last directions to the youthful Liz, who stood, with her hair in wild commotion and her eyes rolling incessantly, confused by the varied orders which the old woman poured volubly forth.

“Ye sees, Liz, dis is de most ’portant ’vent ob yer resistance; you’s gwine to hab de control ob dis ’stablishment; for any pusson dat comes to help wash and sich like, ’ill only be supernumerums. Now, Liz, mind what I tells you; get de dinners good, don’t nibble at de doughnuts, and don’t stick your fingers in de cream and ’suade ’em it’s de cat.”

“Oh, I didn’t, never!” ejaculated Liz, with her most innocent face.

“That ain’t neither here nor thar,” replied Dinah, waving her hand majestically; “I isn’t retruding de past: I’se counselin’ for de futur’. Be a good gal, and de Lord ’ill bless you! Ef any o’ them ornary niggers at de corner ’quires about me, jest say I hab gone to visit Miss Bentley, down in York—dat’s all.”

“Yes, Dinah,” faltered Liz, quite awed by the grandeur of this last announcement.

“And now, Liz, I’se goin’ to trust a solumcholy duty to you.”

“Oh, my!” groaned Lizzie. “Don’t!”

“Yes, I is, chil’; and I hopes you’ll be wordy on it, little as you is,” repeated Dinah, rising majestically from her chest, and fitting the heavy key into the padlock, which opened with a clang.

“Yes, I’se gwine to trust to your ’scretion, Liz, and gib into yer own hans de ’heritance ob yer forefaders, though what der was on ’em ’sides de indervideral afore yer wasn’t of no ’count, any how!”

Here Dinah lifted the lid of her chest and drew forth the black tea-pot, the pewter cream-cup, and an old white satin slipper, which she sat reverently down while securing the clamps of her chest again.

“Now, Lizzie,” she said, remounting her throne, and wielding the slipper as if it had been a symbol of authority, while the cream-cup and its companion lay in her lap—“now, Lizzie, ye sees dose tings: dey ’longed to yer grandad when he was a likely young nigger, an’ had de honor ob marryin’ de indervideral as is afore yer. Dat is, dey was de settin’ out she brought to him wid her fair self, as he wud say when he had drunk up the valley of a day’s washin’ in strong whiskey afore we detired to our connuberal couch. Liz, yer grandad wud drink, but he alers did it like a gemman, and dat’s why I rev’rentializes his mem’ry as I dus. Now, Liz, I prizes dese sacrum tings for de sake ob de dead and berried; for when he lay in dem delirum trumphants dat tuk him off, I ’ministered his last drink out of dis ’dentical cup. Oh, Lizzie! it was a solumneous moment when he guv up de ghost!”

“Oh, don’t—don’t!” cried Liz, screwing the two little black fists into her eyes, and writhing to and fro. “It scares me to hear about dead folks and their ghosts!”

“Be imposed, Lizzie—be imposed; it is sich tings as makes de soul de more fit for de glory ob hebben. Dere he lay on his pillar, wid both eyes wide open; an’ ses he, ‘Dinah;’ an’ I said—

“‘My lub.’

“Den he say agin, ‘Dinah;’ and I say, ‘What is ’em, honey?’ Den he says agin, ‘Dinah, do yer lub me?’ and ses I, ‘Yes, Jube, I lubs yer yet, if yer does drink ter much; for I ’members ole times, Jube;’ and den, Liz, de tears choke me, an’ I coul’n’t say de rest as I wanted ter.

“When yer grandad sees dat, he ris up on his elber, and ses he—

“‘Dinah, kiss me!’ an’ I kiss ’em. Den he ses, ‘Dinah, kiss me ’gin,’ an’ I kiss ’em ’gin. Den, Liz, he fell back and die wid a smile on him count’nance.”

“Oh! oh!” sobbed Lizzie; “poor grandad—poor, ole grandad!”

“Ole!” exclaimed Dinah, indignantly. “Ole! Jube wasn’t but just a grown man when he died, an’ never would a been of no ’count, no how; so hush up an’ ’tend to what I’se a sayin’ ’bout dis ’portant trust. Dis cup an’ de tea-pot, ’memorations of my connuberal ferlicity, I’se gwine ter guv you to keep, an’ I want you to be faithless.”

“Oh, I will—I will,” sobbed Lizzie. “I hope ole Scratch ’ll get me by the wool if I don’t.”

Here Lizzie held out her reverential hands, and Dinah placed the precious relics therein, keeping the slipper for another lecture.

“Now, Liz, you see dis shoe: it ’longed ter Miss Sarah arter she was married. I ’spect she’d took ’em inter de house ob Satan, an’ danced in ’em by de mark on de side; but dey was left ahind when she went ’broad, an’ I tuk ’session. Now, Liz, when we gits inter de wag—de carriage I means—yer take dis white shoe and shie it arter us jes as far as yer kin fling. Does yer comprehension, Liz?”

“Yes, yes—I know it’s luck; I’ll do it, golly! Won’t I guv it a shie! Never ye fear, granny!”

“I’se ’joiced to see yer can comprehensionate ’structions,” said Dinah, adding the satin slipper to the relics which Lizzie huddled together in her arms. “Now, Liz——”

But that moment the rattle of wheels came round the house, and Martha ran to the door, crying out nervously,

“Oh, Dinah, the wagon is ready,” and turning to her father, she flung both arms around his neck and wept aloud.

“Hollo, hurry up!” shouted the hired man, driving the wagon round with a dash, and cracking his whip at Liz.

Liz gave a leap and a cry, stumbled, tried to recover herself, and fell crash upon the relics of her grandmother’s domestic felicity. There she lay flat upon the stoop, with those treasures crushed under her, and her great, wild eyes turned imploringly on Dinah, who stood above her in speechless wrath. Liz made an effort to get up and scamper away, but she only whirled over and gathered herself into a dusky ball, from which a pair of scared eyes rolled in every direction.

While Dinah’s eyes were turned away for an instant, the frightened creature began to feel for the broken pieces. First she fished out a fragment of the tea-pot, with the handle broken in two, which she tucked under herself again instantaneously. Then she drew forth the milk-cup, and her poor features began to tremble like a jelly between fear and fun, for it was crushed into a pewter cocked-hat, and the sight brought a giggle into her groans. But Dinah, instead of flying into a rage, as Martha had expected, stood perfectly silent, looking down upon the culprit with a solemn gravity that made Liz creep backward till the walls of the house stopped her progress; then starting wildly up, she gave one leap round the corner and disappeared, like a frightened hound, bearing the pewter relic with her, but leaving the crushed tea-pot behind.

“I didn’t go to do it. It dropped,” she shouted back.

Dinah looked after her without a movement of the face.

“Why, Dinah,” said the young mistress, suppressing a laugh, while the tears still trembled in her eyes, “you take it like a Christian. I thought you would have been furious.”

Dinah turned solemnly toward her, and, giving both hands a gentle spread, replied:

“’Tain’t no use—I can’t find no words to ’spress my feelin’s. Preachin’ couldn’t do ’em justice,” and, folding her arms, Dinah sat quietly down on her chest, and even moved aside meekly when the man came to lift it into the wagon. She really had no language in which to express her indignation.

Daniel Hart lifted his daughter’s trunk into the wagon, settled the basket of eatables under the seat, and came back to the porch again.

“Come, darter, every thing is ready,” he said, looking sorrowfully into his child’s face.

She would have thrown her arms around him again, but he lifted her gently into the wagon, put a little black wallet into her hands with a whisper to make herself fine as the best of ’em, and turned away.

Dinah clambered up the hind-wheel rather indignant that she also was not lifted to her place, and, seating herself grimly on the chest, was ready at any moment to enter upon the fashionable career which she felt to be her destiny.

Just as they were driving off, a white satin slipper came flying after them, and the face of naughty Liz was thrust round the corner.

After the slipper came a half-scared shout of,

“Good-by, granny—good-by, and luck,” finished off by,

“Oh! golly, golly, now won’t I have my own way?—oh! won’t I?”

Dinah only heard the good-by, and her old heart melted when she saw the shoe flying toward her like a bird of promise, so she deigned to wave her hand.

Martha looked sadly back so long as her father could be seen in the porch; then she had another good cry, and was inconsolable so long as any familiar object remained in sight.

After a time Martha’s spirits rose almost as buoyant as before. She chatted gayly with the farmer, and laughed heartily at Dinah’s words of wisdom, for the old woman was in one of her most oracular moods, and delivered her opinions freely upon every possible subject.

It was afternoon when they reached the river, where they found the small steamer lying.

As Martha was passing along the dock, she found herself face to face with John Downs, the young man who had driven her uncle and cousin to her father’s house, and who, in truth, had chanced that way more than once since. The young girl blushed like a rose at this encounter.

“Well, if it ain’t Miss Hart!” he exclaimed, flushing up to the temples with a bashful joy, which made his brown face really handsome. “Won’t you shake hands with a fellow? How’s your father and that handsome cousin of yours?”

“All well,” Martha said, extending her hand, which he grasped with unconscious force in his strong fingers. “Are you going down the river?”

“Well, yes,” he said, hesitatingly; “I don’t exactly——”

“I am going to New York to visit my cousin.”

“And I am going to York, too,” he replied, brightening up wonderfully.

“I say, Downs,” said one of the men, approaching at that moment, “you’re a-goin’ to Sing Sing, ain’t you?”

“No, I’m going to York.”

“Why you said yesterday——”

“’Tisn’t of the least consequence what I said yesterday. I say now I’m going to the city.”

Before an hour was over, they were comfortably established on the deck of the steamer, and gliding smoothly out into the river.

Martha and John Downs stood by the cabin door in pleasant conversation; while Dinah had established herself on her chest, spreading her skirt carefully over the huge padlock, and looking grimly at every one who happened to approach her. It was some time before she could feel really at ease concerning the safety of her possessions; and it was not until the captain assured her that he would himself keep his eye upon them, that she could be induced to stir from her perch long enough to see the cabin.

It was well for Martha’s peace of mind that she knew little of the world, and that no other passengers were on board, or Dinah’s attire might have caused her some uneasiness. The old woman had arrayed herself in a skirt of pressed flannel, below which peeped out a quilted petticoat; above all was a gown of red merino, fastened by a broad, green ribbon; and on her head she wore a huge coal-scuttle bonnet, miraculously trimmed and decorated with a long, green vail that was drawn on one side, and flaunted like a streamer in the wind.

She carried a huge bag of eatables—her own private stock—which might have served for a sea-voyage, but nothing could induce her to believe there was more than enough—indeed she had great fears that they might fall short, and suffer shipwreck and famine on that perilous voyage. “Besides,” she reflected, “if there’s any left, Miss Gillian ’ll be mighty glad to eat a hum-made pie. ’Tain’t likely them fangled city niggers feed her with sich like dainties as her mother was brought up on.”

After these arguments had been repeated once or twice, Martha gave up the contest; and Dinah, triumphant as usual, took full charge of the commissary department, only disturbing the young people now and then with offers of sandwiches and drop-cakes, which they invariably refused.

In fact, it breaks my heart to record it, but young Downs and Martha, much to Dinah’s disgust, always selected those corners of the deck most remote from her chest and the best sheltered angles and bulwarks. Once that very correct woman was scandalized by the momentary glimpse of a plump, brown hand clasped in that of the young farmer—a hand so marvellously like that of her young mistress that, in her position as chaperone, she felt it her duty to step down and see what it was all about. But, when she reached that quarter of the deck where the young people had been, Martha was leaning demurely over the bulwarks, looking for the rose-tints that always settled on the river at sunset, she had been told. As for young Downs, he stood a couple of yards off, with both arms folded behind him, examining the make of the steamer, as if he had been a ship-builder, and intended to carry off her model in his mind.

Dinah was not quite satisfied with this state of things, and sniffed the air in a disaffected way, resolved to be more vigilant in her watch. Firm in this virtuous resolve, she was looking for a seat, when one of the sailors mounted on her chest, and began sacrilegiously to beat his heels against its front till the padlock rattled again.

Dinah could not stand this, but darted off on a short run to dislodge the enemy.

Directly after Dinah had retreated, Downs also became curious to watch imaginary rose-tints settle on the river, and drew close to Martha’s side, searching for them in her downcast eyes. The young fellow was somewhat troubled in his mind about several matters, and, being a frank, generous soul, spoke out like a man as he was.

“You have got a rich uncle down in York, Miss Martha?”

How did the fellow find out her name was Martha? Had she told him because Miss Hart sounded so formal?

“Yes,” she answered, with a little sparkle of pride, “I believe uncle is very rich indeed. They tell me he lives in splendid style. Gillian has a carriage and footman, and every thing all to herself; the house is large enough for a hotel, and only two of them; besides——”

“And plenty of beaux visit there, I suppose—handsome young fellows, who dress like lords, and talk like books?” questioned the young man, in a dissatisfied way.

“Oh, I think it very likely. Gillian is beautiful, and loves company.”

“And you—do you love that kind of company, Miss Martha?”

“Me? Oh, indeed! how can I tell? I, who never in my life saw a man that looked like a lord and talked like a book, except it may be my Uncle Bentley.”

“But you will meet those men at your uncle’s; nothing is more likely.”

“Well, what then? I only hope they will be half as nice as Uncle Bentley, and it will be pleasant enough.”

Downs took off his hat and began to wave it to and fro before his face, which was hot with uneasy, jealous thoughts. What chance had he—a rough, homespun farmer—against the people this young girl would soon be thrown among? It seemed a desperate venture; but he was brave as well as honest. The love which filled his heart left its fire on his cheek, and its tenderness in his voice, but it was prompt as truth.

“One word, Miss Martha, before we part; for the smoke which rises yonder comes from New York, and that which seems a forest of dead trees, away off, is the shipping you have heard of. One word, and then, come what will, I have acted like an honest man, and said my say. I love you with my whole heart. Have I any chance against those men who will swarm around you like humming-birds about a wild honeysuckle?”

Martha was silent. She had given one little start and drawn a quick breath at his first words, and now stood, in a tumult of mute bliss, gazing on the water. It was not sunset; but rose-tints, brighter than the sky ever sent, danced over the waves, and all the depths were rich with the purple glow which first-love casts over every thing.

“Will you not speak to me?” whispered the young man, touching her hand—“will you not speak to me?”

“I cannot,” she answered, in a deeper and sweeter whisper—“I cannot. My heart is too full. The very air makes me giddy.”

He stooped down and looked into her eyes. Her face was close to his, and he saw her lips tremble, like the leaves of a red rose when the dew drops away from its heart.

But, for the universe he could not have kissed those lips, or gazed long into those troubled eyes. He would as soon have shot a dove on its nest. No; a coarser man might have been tempted to these things by her fresh youth; but he only took her hand softly in his, and they stood trembling together, while the sunset stole pleasantly over them, brightening the distance with gold.