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Nothing Morally Wrong
- University of Nebraska Press
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188 Nothing Morally Wrong Part First One warm afternoon in early summer, Mrs. Chesterwood was reclining on a sofa in her own apartment, and enjoying the delights of a loose gown and an entertaining book; believing herself secure from the interruption of visitors; as the heat of the weather seemed to make visiting impracticable while the sun remained above the horizon. Suddenly, she heard a wheelbarrow stop on her own pavement ; and afterwards, a loud and continuous ringing at her own door—the bell being jerked with all the might of somebody, and the peal keeping on and on. Looking down through the slats of the Venetian shutters, Mrs. Chesterwood beheld a porter, out on the pavement, in charge of a large wooden box painted brownish red, and a square black leather sack resembling a half-sized mail-bag, especially as it was fastened by a very conspicuous padlock. But the porter (who looked rather ashamed) was not the bell-ringer; for a city colored man always understands bells.The performer on the bell-handle (she still had her gloveless hand upon it) was an unknown female of singular appearance, that stood on the door-step, parleying with Vance, Mrs. Chesterwood’s waiter, who was strenuously “doubting if it was not some mistake,” while she as strenuously insisted that “she knew she was right.” The stranger finished by ordering Vance to assist in bringing in her baggage; and after paying the porter, she walked in herself. 189 Nothing Morally Wrong Zuby, a much-indulged mulatto girl brought up in the family of Mrs. Chesterwood (who was a native of South Carolina, though now living in Philadelphia), ran up into the chamber of her mistress (for such she still called the daughter of her old master), eager to “tell her the news.” “Ma’am”—said the girl—“there’s a very strange stranger below . Did you ever hear such a bell-ringing? She can’t be used to bells, no how. Vance has put her in the back-parlor. Please to come down and look at her. She’s uncommon queer.” “I cannot go down to a stranger till I have changed my dress”—answered Mrs. Chesterwood. “Give me my blue and white muslin.” “Oh! indeed, ma’am”—resumed Zuby—“you needn’t make a bit of a stranger to her, at least as far as dress goes. Even her baggage is awful.There she came walking in after it as straight as a pyramid of Egypt, with a dreadful coarse straw basket in her hand, a flat-sided thing stuffed quite full and bulging.” “Did she send up no name?”—inquired Mrs. Chesterwood, arranging her dress before the toilet-glass. “No indeed. When I asked her if she’d please to give me her name, she said it warn’t of no consequence; and that’s always a bad sign. People that is what they should be, need never be ashamed to tell their names to nobody. I expect she an’t of no consequence herself. I reckon she’s bent upon a long stay. Dear mistress, how I pity you. I afeard she’ll be worse than them nephew boys of Mr. Chesterwood’s which we had here all the Christmas holidays, and a’most broke our hearts with their scamperings and rompings. To be sure she an’t likely to scamper and romp; but there’s other ways of troubling us, and I reckon she’ll show off somehow.There now, you needn’t mind fixing your collar; she has none. It an’t worth while to brush your hair—hers is all standing on end. She’s in a drab-colored grass-cloth thing that’s neither gown, nor frock, nor nothing [54.175.120.161] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 11:42 GMT) 190 Nothing Morally Wrong else, (the stuff looks like buckram,) and a great big bonnet of the same. I wonder where she got her fashions?” Mrs. Chesterwood went down to the back parlor, and there found the stranger walking about, and curiously examining various articles of furniture. The back of her dress was immensely full, much fuller than the forebody, and puffed out between her shoulders like a hump. On the contrary, the skirt was so plain behind, that the gathers actually left off before they reached the middle; and so full before, as to be heaped one gather on another. Also the body was shorter before than behind, and the skirt vice...