“She is very black,” said Vivienne gravely; “and she despises the other colored people here. Mammy is a Maroon. Have you ever heard of that race?”
“Never, me dear; I didn’t want to.”
“They were a fierce and lawless people living in Jamaica,” said Vivienne; “and they fought the English and would not submit till they heard that they were to be hunted with dogs. Then they gave in and were transported here. They disliked Nova Scotia because they said there were no yams nor cocoanuts and bananas growing here, and no wild hogs to hunt; and the men couldn’t have as many wives as they chose, nor have cock-fighting; so the government sent them all to Africa; all but the parents of Mammy Juniper, and when they died she became a servant in this family.”
“A fearsome body for a servant,” said her hearer; “aren’t you terrified of her, me dear?”
“No,” said Vivienne; “she is more afraid of me than I am of her. I am sorry for her.”
“Don’t talk about her, me child,” said Mrs. Macartney with a shudder. “Talk about yourself. Aren’t you shamming ill with that rosy face?”
“I’m not ill,” said Vivienne lightly. “This is only a feverish cold; but Dr. Camperdown won’t let me go downstairs.”
“I was determined to see you,” said Mrs. Macartney, pulling Vivienne beside her to the sofa. “I thickened the air with hints that I’d like to come up, but Mrs. Colonibel tried to frighten me with tales of the badness of your cold.”
“She doesn’t like me to have callers up here, for some reason,” said Vivienne.
“She likes to be contrary, me dear. ’Tis the breath of life to her, and maybe she’s jealous of your handsome room”—looking admiringly about her—"which is the most elegant of the house. Your whites and golds don’t slap me in the face like the colors downstairs. That’s the lady of the mansion’s good pleasure, I suppose. Ah, but she is a fine woman!"