"And 't shall go hard,
But I will delve one yard, below their mines,
And blow them at the moon."
Shakespeare.
The sun was just peeping over the tops of the tall city houses as
Mildred entered the carriage which was to convey her to the depot. Mr.
Dinsmore and little Elsie--the two whom it was a grief of heart to
her to leave--were with her; Mrs. Dinsmore and the others had bidden
good-by before retiring the previous night, and were still in bed.
"Elsie, darling, won't you sit in cousin's lap?" Mildred said, holding
out her arms to receive the child as her grandfather handed her in at
the carriage door.
"No, no! she is much too heavy, and there is abundance of room," he
said hastily.
"But I want to hold her, uncle," returned Mildred, drawing the little
one to her knee. "I love dearly to have her in my arms, and this is my
last chance."
"As you will, then; a wilful woman will have her way," he said
lightly, as he settled himself on the opposite seat and the door closed
upon them with a bang.
The rattling of the wheels over the cobblestones, as they drove rapidly
onward, made conversation next to impossible; but Mildred was not
sorry: her heart was almost too full for speech. She clasped little
Elsie close, the child nestling lovingly in her arms, while they
mingled their caresses and tears.
At the depot, too, where there was a half hour of waiting, they clung
together as those who knew not how to part. Elsie's low sobs were
pitiful to hear, but she stood in too great awe of her grandfather to
indulge in any loud lament.
He, however, did not reprove her, but seemed to quite compassionate her
grief, and tried to assuage it with promises of gifts and indulgences;
for Mildred had succeeded to some extent in softening his heart toward
the motherless little one--which she now perceived with joy and
thankfulness.
His kindness to herself had been uniform from the first, and continued
to the last moment. Not till he had seen her on board the train, and
made as comfortable as possible, did he resign her to the care of Mr.
Lord; then, with a fatherly kiss and an affectionate message to her
mother, he left her.
As the train moved slowly on, she caught a last glimpse of him, and of
Aunt Chloe standing by his side with the weeping Elsie in her arms.
Mr. Lord essayed the office of comforter.
"That is a sweet child, Miss Mildred, a very sweet child. And Mr.
Dinsmore seems a noble man. These partings are sad--especially so when
we are young; but let the thought of the dear ones to whom you are
going, and of the better land where partings are unknown, console and
cheer you now."
Mildred could hardly have commanded her voice to reply, and was glad
the increasing noise of the train relieved her of the necessity for
doing so, but she dried her eyes and resolutely forced her tears
back to their fountain, calling to mind the lessons on the duty of
cheerfulness taught her by her mother, by both precept and example.
And oh, it was joy to know that each mile passed over was bearing her
nearer to that loved monitor! What a cheering thought was that! and
scarcely less so the prospect of seeing Aunt Wealthy, with whom she and
Mr. Lord were to spend a few days; Lansdale being not far out of their
route in crossing Ohio.
At that day there was no continuous line of railroad from Philadelphia
to Pittsburg. They traveled sometimes by canal, sometimes by stage,
passing over the mountains in the latter. This proved the most exciting
and perilous part of the journey, the roads being almost all the way
very steep, and often lying along the edge of a precipice, to plunge
over which would be certain, horrible death.
Much of the scenery was grand and beautiful, but the enjoyment of it
greatly interfered with by the sense of danger. Many a time Mildred's
heart seemed to leap into her mouth, and she sent up a silent but
strong cry to God that he would keep the horses from stumbling, their
feet from treading too near the verge.
There was one afternoon so full of terror of this kind, and importunate
prayer for preservation, that she felt she could never forget it to the
day of her death should she live to the age of Methuselah.
The stage was full: the back seat was occupied by our heroine and a
young mother with a babe in her arms and another little one by her
side; the remaining seats were filled with gentlemen.
"That fellow is drunk and in a terribly bad humor," remarked one of the
latter, as the driver slammed the door to upon them and mounted to his
perch.
"In no fit condition to guide those horses over the steep and narrow
passes that lie between this and our next halting-place," added another
uneasily. "You had an altercation with him, hadn't you, Blake?"
addressing the first speaker.
"Yes, Mr. Grey, I had; what business had he to hurry us off in this
style? Why, we were scarcely seated at the dinner-table when he blew
his horn, and we all had to run to avoid being left."
"Quite true."
"That's so," assented several voices.
"And the same thing is repeated again and again, until it has become
quite unbearable," Blake went on, his eyes sparkling with anger; "we
pay for our food and have no chance to eat it."
"There seems to be some collusion between the innkeepers and drivers
for the purpose of defrauding travelers," remarked Mr. Lord.
"Are we not going very fast?" asked the young mother, turning a pale,
anxious face toward the last speaker.
"Yes, dangerously so." And, putting his head out of the window, he
called to the driver, mildly requesting him to slacken his speed.
The reply was a volley of oaths and curses, while the whip was applied
to the horses in a way that made them rear and plunge frightfully.
They had been toiling up a steep ascent, and now were skirting the
mountain side, a high wall of rock on the one hand, a sheer descent of
many hundred feet on the other.
Blake glanced from the window with a shudder, and turning a ghastly
face upon the others, "We shall be hurled into eternity in another
minute," he said, in a hoarse whisper.
Then voice after voice was raised, calling to the driver in
expostulation, warning, entreaty.
"You are risking your own life as well as ours," cried one.
"I tell you I don't care!" he shouted back, with a fearful oath; "we're
behind time, and I'll lose my place if I don't make it up. I'll get you
to C---- by half-past five, or land you in h--ll, I don't care which."
"O my children, my poor little children!" cried the mother, clasping
her babe closer to her breast and bursting into tears. Then, in a sort
of desperation, she thrust her head out of the window and shrieked to
the man, "For the love of Heaven, driver, have mercy on my poor babes!"
The man was probably a father, for that appeal reached his heart,
hardened as it was: there was instantly a very sensible diminution
of their fearful velocity, though the stage still rolled on at a
dangerously rapid rate; keeping them all in terror until at length it
drew up before the door of a tavern; where they were to halt for their
supper.
The gentlemen made haste to alight. Mr. Lord handed out Mildred, then
the mother and her children.
"You must be very tired, ladies," he said, following them into the
parlor of the inn, which was very plainly furnished with rag carpet,
wooden chairs and settee, and green paper window-blinds, nothing
tasteful, nothing inviting, except an appearance of order and
cleanliness.
"Yes, sir, I am dreadfully tired," the strange lady answered, dropping
into a chair and setting her babe on her knee, while she drew the older
child to her side and wiped the tears from its cheeks, for it was
sobbing pitifully; "that was a fearful ride, the jolting and shaking
were bad enough, but the fright was ten times worse. And we're almost
starved," she added. "My little Mary is crying with hunger. I hope
they'll give us time to eat here. Do you know, sir, how soon the stage
starts on again?"
"I will step out and inquire; also how soon the supper will be ready,"
Mr. Lord said, moving toward the door.
"Can I do anything for you, Miss Mildred?" he asked, pausing upon the
threshold. "You are looking wretchedly pale and fatigued," he added, in
a tone of concern.
The other gentlemen had gone to the bar-room; but at this moment Blake
came to a window of the parlor, looking out upon a porch which ran
along the whole front of the house. He looked red and angry.
"It seems the same game is to be repeated here," he said, addressing
Mr. Lord; "the supper is not ready and the stage will leave in half
an hour. There is every appearance of rain too; the night will be
cloudy and dark, making travel over these mountains doubly dangerous.
I propose that we all decide to remain where we are over night and let
the stage go empty. If the whole party will agree in doing so, 'twill
serve the rascal right, and perhaps teach him a useful and much needed
lesson. What do you say, sir? you and your--daughter?"
"My lady friend," stammered Mr. Lord, coloring violently. "What do you
think of the plan, Miss Mildred?"
Her cheek, too, flushed a rosy red as she answered eagerly: "Oh, let
us stay, by all means! I'm sure it would be better a great deal, than
risking our lives on such roads at night."
"Just what I think," said the other lady, "and my little ones are too
tired to travel any farther to-night. I shall stay whether the rest do
or not. I intend that the children and I shall have a chance to eat one
full meal at any rate," she added to Mildred, as the gentlemen walked
away together.
The call to supper followed almost immediately upon the announcement
that no one would leave in the stage that night.
With the keen appetites they brought to it, our travellers found
the fare excellent--good bread and butter, baked potatoes, ham and
fresh-laid eggs.
Mr. Lord, seated between the two ladies, was very kind and attentive to
both, but as usual did some absurdly absent-minded things.
"Do you really prefer salt to sugar in your coffee, Mr. Lord?" asked
Mildred demurely, but with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, as she saw
him draw the salt-cellar toward him and dip his teaspoon into it.
She had stayed his hand just in time. "Oh no, certainly not," he said,
laughing to cover his confusion as he hastily emptied the spoon into
his saucer. "It is a very pleasant evening," he remarked, sugaring his
potato.
"Do you think so?" said Mildred, listening to the dash of the rain
against the window, for the threatened storm had come. "Then I suppose,
like the Shepherd of Salisbury Plains, you are pleased with whatever
kind of weather is sent?"
"Certainly we all should be," he said. "But I was not aware till this
moment that it was raining."
Mildred presently becoming interested in some talk going on between
her opposite neighbors, had for the moment almost forgotten Mr. Lord's
existence. She was recalled to it by a hasty movement on his part. He
suddenly pushed back his chair, rose, and walked out of the room.
A glance at his saucer, half full of coffee, then at the laughing eyes
of the other lady, enlightened our heroine as to the cause of his
sudden exit.
"Salted coffee is not, I find, particularly palatable," he remarked,
coming back and resuming his seat. "I am a sadly absent-minded person,
Miss Mildred; you should watch over me and prevent such mistakes, as my
mother does at home."
"I really do not feel equal to so arduous an undertaking," was her
sprightly rejoinder.
"This is a lonely spot, not another house in sight, they say," remarked
the mother of the children to Mildred, as they returned to the parlor.
"I am timid about sleeping alone in a strange place, and should like to
have a room adjoining yours, if you do not object, are not afraid of
being so near a lioness and her cubs," she added, with a slight laugh.
"I am Mrs. Lyon."
Mildred gave her name in return, and expressed entire acquiescence in
the proposed arrangement, and being much fatigued with their journey
they presently retired.
They were up and dressed betimes to make sure of their breakfast before
the early hour at which the stage was to leave. But they were treated
to a repetition of former experiences. The meal was delayed, and they
had been scarcely ten minutes at the table when they heard the roll and
rumble of the wheels and the loud "Toot, toot!" of the driver's horn,
as the stage swept round from the stables and drew up before the tavern
door.
There was a hasty swallowing down of another mouthful or two, a hurried
scramble for hats, bonnets, and parcels, a crowding into the vehicle,
and in a moment more it was toiling up the mountain side.
The appetite of no one of the party had been fully satisfied, and there
was a good deal of grumbling and complaining from this one and that.
"I tell you, friends," said Blake, "it is high time there was a stop
put to this thing. I have an idea in my head, and at the next stopping
place, if we are hurried off in the usual style, I want you all to
follow my example. If you will, these rascally fellows will find
themselves outwitted."
"What is it?"
"What's your plan?" queried one and another, but the only answer was,
"Wait and you will see, gentlemen."
"There is one thing I have thought of," Mrs. Lyon said to Mildred,
"I'll have my own and the children's bonnets on always before we are
called to the meals. If there should be some soiling of ribbons, it
will be better than going hungry."
This driver was sober and quiet; the ride, in consequence, less trying
than that of the previous afternoon. Between twelve and one they halted
for dinner at another country inn.
There was, as usual, a little waiting time, then they sat down to an
abundant and very inviting meal, but had not half satisfied their
appetites when roll of wheels and toot of horn again summoned them to
resume their journey.
Every eye in the party turned upon Blake. He sprang up instantly,
seized a roast chicken by the leg with one hand, his hat in the other,
and ran for the stage.
"All right!" cried Grey, picking up a pie. "I'll send the plate home
by the driver, landlord," he shouted back, as he, too, darted from the
door.
Looking on in dumb astonishment, the landlord saw bread, rolls, butter,
pickles, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs disappear in like manner, and
before he could utter a remonstrance the stage was whirling away down
the mountain, not a passenger left behind, nor nearly so much food as
would have remained had they been permitted to finish their meal at the
table.
"Outwitted this time, sure as I'm born!" he muttered at length, turning
back into the deserted dining-room and ruefully eying his despoiled
board.
His wife came hurrying in from the kitchen.
"So they're off, and we'll have our dinner now. But," and she stared
aghast at an empty platter. "I say, Jones, where is that chicken?
Didn't I tell you that was for ourselves, and you wasn't to put a knife
into it?"
"Neither I did," he answered half savagely, "and it's all the worse
for us, seein' they've carried it off whole, and if I'd a cut it there
might a ben part left on the plate."
"Carried it off!" she cried. "Well, I never! and it was the nicest,
fattest, tenderest bit of a spring chicken ever you see!"--and with a
groan she began gathering up the empty dishes.
"Take that newspaper out of my coat pocket and spread it over my knees,
won't you, Grey?" said Blake, the moment they were fairly seated in
the stage. "Now your jack-knife, please, and I'll carve this fowl. I
fear it'll not be very scientifically dismembered," he went on, when
his requests had been complied with, "but sufficiently so to enable me
to make a tolerably equal distribution. What is your choice, ma'am?"
addressing Mrs. Lyon.
The result of their _coup d'├ętat_ was a very comfortable, enjoyable
meal seasoned with many a merry jest over the discomfiture of the foe,
and the makeshifts they themselves were put to for lack of the usual
table appliances.