JOHN.
Ten years of sunlight and shadow have passed away, and the little grave
at the foot of the mountain is now grass-grown and sunken. Ten times
have the snows of winter fallen upon the hoary head of Grandfather
Nichols, bleaching his thin locks to their own whiteness and bending
his sturdy frame, until now, the old man lay dying—dying in the same
blue-curtained room, where years agone his only daughter was born, and
where ten years before she had died. Carefully did Mrs. Nichols nurse
him, watching, weeping, and praying that he might live, while little
’Lena gladly shared her grandmother’s vigils, hovering ever by the
bedside of her grandfather, who seemed more quiet when her soft hand
smoothed his tangled hair or wiped the cold moisture from his brow. The
villagers, too, remembering their neglect, when once before death had
brooded over the mountain farmhouse, now daily came with offers of
assistance.
But one thing still was wanting. John, their only remaining child, was
absent, and the sick man’s heart grew sad and his eyes dim with tears,
as day by day went by, and still he did not come. Several times had
’Lena written to her uncle, apprising him of his father’s danger, and
once only had he answered. It was a brief, formal letter, written,
evidently, under some constraint, but it said that he was coming, and
with childish joy the old man had placed it beneath his pillow,
withdrawing it occasionally for ’Lena to read again, particularly the
passage, “Dear father, I am sorry you are sick.”
“Heaven bless him! I know he’s sorry,” Mr. Nichols would say. “He was
always a good boy—is a good boy now. Ain’t he, Martha?”
And mother-like, Mrs. Nichols would answer, “Yes,” forcing back the
while the tears which would start when she thought how long the “good
boy” had neglected them, eighteen years having elapsed since he had
crossed the threshold of his home.
With his hand plighted to one of the village maidens, he had left
Oakland to seek his fortune, going first to New York, then to Ohio, and
finally wending his way southward, to Kentucky. Here he remained,
readily falling into the luxurious habits of those around him, and
gradually forgetting the low-roofed farmhouse far away to the
northward, where dwelt a gray-haired pair and a beautiful young girl,
his parents and his sister. She to whom his vows were plighted was
neither graceful nor cultivated, and when, occasionally, her tall,
spare figure and uncouth manners arose before him, in contrast with the
fair forms around him, he smiled derisively at the thoughts of making
her his wife.
About this time there came from New Orleans a wealthy invalid, with his
only daughter Matilda. She was a proud haughty girl, whose disposition,
naturally unamiable, was rendered still worse by a disappointment from
which she was suffering. Accidentally Mr. Richards, her father, made
the acquaintance of John Nichols, conceiving for him a violent fancy,
and finally securing him as a constant companion. For several weeks
John appeared utterly oblivious to the presence of Matilda who,
accustomed to adulation, began at last to feel piqued at his neglect,
and to strive in many ways to attract his attention.
John, who was ambitious, met her advances more than half way, and
finally, encouraged by her father, offered her his heart and hand.
Under other circumstances, Matilda would undoubtedly have spurned him
with contempt; but having heard that her recreant lover was about
taking to himself a bride, she felt a desire, as she expressed it, “to
let him know she could marry too.” Accordingly, John was accepted, on
condition that he changed the name of Nichols, which Miss Richards
particularly disliked, to that of Livingstone. This was easily done,
and the next letter which went to Oakland carried the news of John’s
marriage with the proud Matilda.
A few months later and Mr. Richards died, leaving his entire property
to his daughter and her husband. John was now richer far than even in
his wildest dreams he had ever hoped to be, and yet like many others,
he found that riches alone could not insure happiness. And, indeed, to
be happy with Matilda Richards, seemed impossible. Proud, avaricious,
and overbearing, she continually taunted her husband with his entire
dependence upon her, carefully watching him, lest any of her hoarded
wealth should find its way to the scanty purse of his parents, of whom
she always spoke with contempt.
Never but once had they asked for aid, and that to help them rear the
little ’Lena. Influenced by his wife, John replied sneeringly, scouting
the idea of Helena’s marriage, denouncing her as his sister, and saying
of her child, that the poor-house stood ready for such as she! This
letter ’Lena had accidentally found among her grandfather’s papers, and
though its contents gave her no definite impression concerning her
mother, it inspired her with a dislike for her uncle, whose coming she
greatly dreaded, for it was confidently expected that she, together
with her grandmother, would return with him to Kentucky.
“You’ll be better off there than here,” said her grandfather one day,
when speaking of the subject. “Your Uncle John is rich, and you’ll grow
up a fine lady.”
“I don’t want to be a lady—I won’t be a lady,” said ’Lena passionately.
“I don’t like Uncle John. He called my mother a bad woman and me a
little brat! I hate him!” and the beautiful brown eyes glittering with
tears flashed forth their anger quite as eloquently as language could
express it.
The next moment ’Lena was bending over her grandfather, asking to be
forgiven for the hasty words which she knew had caused him pain. “I’ll
try to like him,” said she, as the palsied hand stroked her disordered
curls in token of forgiveness, “I’ll try to like him,” adding mentally,
“but I do hope he won’t come.”
It would seem that ’Lena’s wish was to be granted, for weeks glided by
and there came no tidings of the absent one. Daily Mr. Nichols grew
weaker, and when there was no longer hope of life, his heart yearned
more and more to once more behold his son; to hear again, ere he died,
the blessed name of father.
“’Lena,” said Mrs. Nichols one afternoon when her husband seemed worse,
“’Lena, it’s time for the stage, and do you run down to the ‘turn’ and
see if your uncle’s come; something tells me he’ll be here to-night.”
’Lena obeyed, and throwing on her faded calico sunbonnet, she was soon
at the “turn,” a point in the road from which the village hotel was
plainly discernible. The stage had just arrived, and ’Lena saw that one
of the passengers evidently intended stopping, for he seemed to be
giving directions concerning his baggage.
“That’s Uncle John, I most know,” thought she, and seating herself on a
rock beneath some white birches, so common in New England, she awaited
his approach. She was right in her conjecture, for the stranger was
John Livingstone, returned after many years, but so changed that the
jolly landlord, who had known him when a boy, and with whom he had
cracked many a joke, now hardly dared to address him, he seemed so cold
and haughty.
“I will leave my trunk here for a few days,” said John, “and perhaps I
shall wish for a room. Got any decent accommodations?”
“Wonder if he don’t calculate to sleep to hum,” thought the landlord,
replying at the same instant, “Yes, sir, tip-top accommodations. Hain’t
more’n tew beds in any room, and nowadays we allers has a wash-bowl and
pitcher; don’t go to the sink as we used to when you lived round here.”
With a gesture of impatience Mr. Livingstone left the house and started
up the mountain road, where ’Lena still kept her watch. Oh, how that
walk recalled to him the memories of other days, which came thronging
about him as one by one familiar way-marks appeared, reminding him of
his childhood, when he roamed over that mountain-side with those who
were now scattered far and wide, some on the deep, blue sea, some at
the distant west, and others far away across the dark river of death.
He had mingled much with the world since last he had traversed that
road, and his heart had grown callous and indifferent, but he was not
entirely hardened, and when at the “turn” in the road, he came suddenly
upon the tall walnut tree, on whose shaggy bark his name was carved,
together with that of another—a maiden—he started as if smitten with a
heavy blow, and dashing a tear from his eye he exclaimed “Oh that I
were a boy again!”
From her seat on the mossy rock ’Lena had been watching him. She was
very ardent and impulsive, strong in her likes and dislikes, but quite
ready to change the latter if she saw any indications of improvement in
the person disliked. For her uncle she had conceived a great aversion,
and when she saw him approaching, thrusting aside the thistles and
dandelions with his gold-headed cane, she mimicked his motions,
wondering “if he didn’t feel big because he wore a large gold chain
dangling from his jacket pocket.”
But when she saw his emotions beneath the walnut tree, her opinion
suddenly changed. “A very bad man wouldn’t cry,” she thought, and
springing to his side, she grasped his hand, exclaiming, “I know you
are my Uncle John, and I’m real glad you’ve come. Granny thought you
never would, and grandpa asks for you all the time.”
Had his buried sister arisen before him, Mr. Livingstone would hardly
have been more startled, for in form and feature ’Lena was exactly what
her mother had been at her age. The same clear complexion, large brown
eyes, and wavy hair; and the tones of her voice, too, how they thrilled
the heart of the strong man, making him a boy again, guiding the steps
of his baby sister, or bearing her gently in his arms when the path was
steep and stony. It was but a moment, however, and then the vision
faded. His sister was dead, and the little girl before him was her
child—the child of shame he believed, or rather, his wife had said it
so often that he began to believe it. Glancing at the old-womanish garb
in which Mrs. Nichols always arrayed her, a smile of mingled scorn and
pity curled his lips, as he thought of presenting her to his fastidious
wife and elegant daughters; then withdrawing the hand which she had
taken, he said, “And you are ’Lena—’Lena Nichols they call you, I
suppose.”
’Lena’s old dislike began to return, and placing both hands upon her
hips in imitation of her grandmother she replied, “No ’tain’t ’Lena
Nichols, neither. It’s ’Lena Rivers. Granny says so, and the town clark
has got it so on his book. How are my cousins? Are they pretty well?
And how is _Ant_?”
Mr. Livingstone winced, at the same time feeling amused at this little
specimen of Yankeeism, in which he saw so much of his mother. Poor
little ’Lena! how should she know any better, living as she always had
with two old people, whose language savored so much of the days before
the flood! Some such thought passed through Mr. Livingstone’s mind, and
very civilly he answered her concerning the health of her cousins and
aunt; proceeding next to question her of his father, who, she said,
“had never seen a well day since her mother died.”
“Is there any one with him except your grandmother?” asked Mr.
Livingstone; and Lena replied, “Aunt Nancy Scovandyke has been with us
a few days, and is there now.”
At the sound of that name John started, coloring so deeply that ’Lena
observed it, and asked “if he knew Miss Scovandyke?”
“I used to,” said he, while ’Lena continued: “She’s a nice woman, and
though she ain’t any connection, I call her aunt. Granny thinks a sight
of her.”
Miss Scovandyke was evidently an unpleasant topic for Mr. Livingstone,
and changing the subject, he said, “What makes you say _Granny_,
child?”
’Lena blushed painfully. ’Twas the first word she had ever uttered, her
grandmother having taught it to her, and encouraged her in its use.
Besides that, ’Lena had a great horror of anything which she fancied
was at all “stuck up,” and thinking an entire change from _Granny_ to
_Grandmother_ would be altogether too much, she still persisted in
occasionally using her favorite word, in spite of the ridicule it
frequently called forth from her school companions. Thinking to herself
that it was none of her uncle’s business what she called her
grandmother, she made no reply, and in a few moments they came in sight
of the yellow farmhouse, which looked to Mr. Livingstone just as it did
when he left it, eighteen years before. There was the tall poplar, with
its green leaves rustling in the breeze, just as they had done years
ago, when from a distant hill-top he looked back to catch the last
glimpse of his home. The well in the rear was the same—the lilac bushes
in front—the tansy patch on the right and the gable-roofed barn on the
left; all were there; nothing was changed but himself.
Mechanically he followed ’Lena into the yard, half expecting to see
bleaching upon the grass the same web of home-made cloth, which he
remembered had lain there when he went away. One thing alone seemed
strange. The blue paper curtains were rolled away from the “spare room”
windows, which were open as if to admit as much air as possible.
“I shouldn’t wonder if grandpa was worse,” said ’Lena, hurrying him
along and ushering him at once into the sick-room.
At first Mrs. Nichols did not observe him, for she was bending tenderly
over the white, wrinkled face, which lay upon the small, scanty pillow.
John thought “how small and scanty they were,” while he almost
shuddered at the sound of his footsteps upon the uncarpeted floor.
Everything was dreary and comfortless, and his conscience reproached
him that his old father should die so poor, when he counted his money
by thousands.
As he passed the window his tall figure obscured the fading daylight,
causing his mother to raise her head, and in a moment her long, bony
arms were twined around his neck. The cruel letter, his long neglect,
were all forgotten in the joy of once more beholding her “darling boy,”
whose bearded cheek she kissed again and again. John was unused to such
demonstrations of affection, except, indeed, from his little
golden-haired Anna, who was _refined_ and _polished_, and all that,
which made a vast difference, as he thought. Still, he returned his
mother’s greeting with a tolerably good grace, managing, however, to
tear himself from her as soon as possible.
“How is my father?” he asked; and his mother replied, “He grew worse
right away after ’Leny went out, and he seemed so put to’t for breath,
that Nancy went for the doctor——”
Here a movement from the invalid arrested her attention and going to
the bedside she saw that he was awake. Bending over him she whispered
softly, “John has come. Would you like to see him?”
Quickly the feeble arms were outstretched, as if to feel what could not
be seen, for the old man’s eyesight was dim with the shadows of death.
Taking both his father’s hands in his, John said, “Here I am, father;
can’t you see me?”
“No, John, no; I can’t see you.” And the poor man wept like a little
child. Soon growing more calm, he continued: “Your voice is the same
that it was years ago, when you lived with us at home. That hasn’t
changed, though they say your name has. Oh, John, my boy, how could you
do so? ’Twas a good name—my name—and you the only one left to bear it.
What made you do so, oh John, John?”
Mr. Livingstone did not reply, and after a moment his father again
spoke; “John, lay your hand on my forehead. It’s cold as ice. I am
dying, and your mother will be left alone. We are poor, my son; poorer
than you think. The homestead is mortgaged for all it’s worth and there
are only a few dollars in the purse. Oh, I worked so hard to earn them
for her and the girl—Helena’s child. Now, John, promise me that when I
am gone they shall go with you to your home in the west. Promise, and I
shall die happy.”
This was a new idea to John, and for a time he hesitated. He glanced at
his mother; she was ignorant and peculiar, but she was his mother
still. He looked at ’Lena, she was beautiful—he knew that, but she was
odd and old-fashioned. He thought of his haughty wife, his headstrong
son and his imperious daughter. What would they say if he made that
promise, for if he made it he would keep it.
A long time his father awaited his answer, and then he spoke again:
“Won’t you give your old mother a home?”
The voice was weaker than when it spoke before, and John knew that life
was fast ebbing away, for the brow on which his hand was resting was
cold and damp with the moisture of death. He could no longer refuse,
and the promise was given.
The next morning, the deep-toned bell of Oakland told that another soul
was gone, and the villagers as they counted the three score strokes and
ten knew that Grandfather Nichols was numbered with the dead.