PACKING UP.
The funeral was over, and in the quiet valley by the side of his only
daughter, Grandfather Nichols was laid to rest. As far as possible his
father’s business was settled, and then John began to speak of his
returning. More than once had he repented of the promise made to his
father, and as the time passed on he shrank more and more from
introducing his “plebeian” mother to his “lady” wife, who, he knew, was
meditating an open rebellion.
Immediately after his father’s death he had written to his wife,
telling her all, and trying as far as he was able to smooth matters
over, so that his mother might at least have a decent reception. In a
violent passion, his wife had answered, that “she never would submit to
it—never. When I married you,” said she, “I didn’t suppose I was
marrying the ‘old woman,’ young one, and all; and as for my having them
to maintain, I will not, so _Mr. John Nichols_, you understand it.”
When Mrs. Livingstone was particularly angry, she called her husband
_Mr. John Nichols_, and when Mr. John Nichols was particularly angry,
he did as he pleased, so in this case he replied that “he should bring
home as many ‘old women’ and ‘young ones’ as he liked, and she might
help herself if she could!”
This state of things was hardly favorable to the future happiness of
Grandma Nichols, who, wholly unsuspecting and deeming herself as good
as anybody, never dreamed that her presence would be unwelcome to her
daughter-in-law, whom she thought to assist in various ways, “taking
perhaps the whole heft of the housework upon herself—though,” she
added, “I mean to begin just as I can hold out. I’ve hearn of such
things as son’s wives shirkin’ the whole on to their old mothers, and
the minit ’Tilda shows any signs of that, I shall back out, I tell
you.”
John, who overheard this remark, bit his lip with vexation, and then
burst into a laugh as he fancied the elegant Mrs. Livingstone’s dismay
at hearing herself called ’_Tilda_. Had John chosen, he could have
given his mother a few useful hints with regard to her treatment of his
wife, but such an idea never entered his brain. He was a man of few
words, and generally allowed himself to be controlled by circumstances,
thinking that the easiest way of getting through the world. He was very
proud, and keenly felt how mortifying it would be to present his mother
to his fashionable acquaintances; but that was in the future—many miles
away—he wouldn’t trouble himself about it now; so he passed his time
mostly in rambling through the woods and over the hills, while his
mother, good soul, busied herself with the preparations for her
journey, inviting each and every one of her neighbors to “be sure and
visit her if they ever came that way,” and urging some of them to come
on purpose and “spend the winter.”
Among those who promised compliance with this last request, was Miss
Nancy Scovandyke, whom we have once before mentioned, and who, as the
reader will have inferred, was the first love of John Livingstone. On
the night of his arrival, she had been sent in quest of the physician,
and when on her return she learned from ’Lena that he had come, she
kept out of sight, thinking she would wait awhile before she met him.
“Not that she cared the snap of her finger for him,” she said, “only
’twas natural that she should hate to see him.”
But when the time did come, she met it bravely, shaking his hand and
speaking to him as if nothing had ever happened, and while he was
wondering how he ever could have fancied _her_, she, too, was mentally
styling herself “a fool,” for having liked “such a _pussy_, overgrown
thing!” Dearly did Miss Nancy love excitement, and during the days that
Mrs. Nichols was packing up, she was busy helping her to stow away the
“crockery,” which the old lady declared should go, particularly the
“blue set, which she’d had ever since the day but one before John was
born, and which she intended as a part of ’Leny’s settin’ out. Then,
too, John’s wife could use ’em when she had a good deal of company;
’twould save buyin’ new, and every little helped!”
“I wonder, now, if ’Tilda takes snuff,” said Mrs. Nichols, one day,
seating herself upon an empty drygoods box which stood in the middle of
the floor, and helping herself to an enormous pinch of her favorite
Maccaboy; “I wonder if she takes snuff, ’cause if she does, we shall
take a sight of comfort together.”
“I don’t much b’lieve she does,” answered Miss Nancy, whose face was
very red with trying to cram a pair of cracked bellows into the already
crowded top of John’s leathern trunk, “I don’t b’lieve she does, for
somehow it seems to me she’s a mighty nipped-up thing, not an atom like
you nor me.”
“Like enough,” returned Mrs. Nichols, finishing her snuff, and wiping
her fingers upon the corner of her checked apron; “but, Nancy, can you
tell me how in the world I’m ever going to carry this _mop_? It’s bran
new, never been used above a dozen times, and I can’t afford to give it
away.”
At this point, John, who was sitting in the adjoining room, came
forward. Hitherto he had not interfered in the least in his mother’s
arrangements, but had looked silently on while she packed away article
after article which she would never need, and which undoubtedly would
be consigned to the flames the moment her back was turned. The _mop_
business, however, was too much for him, and before Miss Nancy had time
to reply, he said, “For heaven’s sake, mother, how many traps do you
propose taking, and what do you imagine we can do with a mop? Why, I
dare say not one of my servants would know how to use it, and it’s a
wonder if some of the little chaps didn’t take it for a horse before
night.”
“A _nigger_ ride my mop! _my new mop_!” exclaimed Mrs. Nichols, rolling
up her eyes in astonishment, while Miss Nancy, turning to John, said,
“In the name of the people, how do you live without mops? I should
s’pose you’d rot alive!”
“I am not much versed in the mysteries of housekeeping,” returned John,
with a smile; “but it’s my impression that what little cleaning our
floors get is done with a cloth.”
“Wall, if I won’t give it up now,” said Miss Nancy. “As good an
abolutionist as you used to be, make the poor colored folks wash the
floor with a rag, on their hands and knees! It can’t be that you
indulge a hope, if you’ll do such things!”
John made Miss Nancy no answer, but turning to his mother, he said,
“I’m in earnest, mother, about your carrying so many useless things.
_We_ don’t want them. Our house is full now, and besides that, Mrs.
Livingstone is very particular about the style of her furniture, and I
am afraid yours would hardly come up to her ideas of elegance.”
“That chist of drawers,” said Mrs. Nichols, pointing to an
old-fashioned, high-topped bureau, “cost an ocean of money when ’twas
new, and if the brasses on it was rubbed up, ’Tilda couldn’t tell ’em
from gold, unless she’s seen more on’t than I have, which ain’t much
likely, bein’ I’m double her age.”
“The chest does very well for you, I admit,” said John; “but we have
neither use nor room for it, so if you can’t sell it, why, give it
away, or burn it, one or the other.”
Mrs. Nichols saw he was decided, and forthwith ’Lena was dispatched to
Widow Fisher’s, to see if she would take it at half price. The widow
had no fancy for second-hand articles, consequently Miss Nancy was told
“to keep it, and maybe she’d sometime have a chance to send it to
Kentucky. It won’t come amiss, I know, s’posin’ they be well on’t. I
b’lieve in lookin’ out for a rainy day. I can teach ’Tilda economy
yet,” whispered Mrs. Nichols, glancing toward the room where John sat,
whistling, whittling, and pondering in his own mind the best way if
reconciling his wife to what could not well be helped.
’Lena, who was naturally quick-sighted, had partially divined the cause
of her uncle’s moodiness. The more she saw of him the better she liked
him, and she began to think that she would willingly try to cure
herself of the peculiarities which evidently annoyed him, if he would
only notice her a little, which he was not likely to do. He seldom
noticed any child, much less little ’Lena, who he fancied was ignorant
as well as awkward; but he did not know her.
One day when, as usual, he sat whittling and thinking, ’Lena approached
him softly, and laying her hand upon his knee, said rather timidly,
“Uncle, I wish you’d tell me something about my cousins.”
“What about them,” he asked, somewhat gruffly, for it grated upon his
feelings to hear his daughters called cousin by her.
“I want to know how they look, and which one I shall like the best,”
continued ’Lena.
“You’ll like Anna the best,” said her uncle, and ’Lena asked, “Why!
What sort of a girl is she? Does she love to go to school and study?”
“None too well, I reckon,” returned her uncle, adding that “there were
not many little girls who did.”
“Why _I_ do,” said ’Lena, and her uncle, stopping for a moment his
whittling, replied rather scornfully, “_You_! I should like to know
what you ever studied besides the spelling-book!”
’Lena reddened, for she knew that, whether deservedly or not, she bore
the reputation of being an excellent scholar, for one of her age, and
now she rather tartly answered, “I study geography, arithmetic,
grammar, and——” history, she was going to add, but her uncle stopped
her, saying, “That’ll do, that’ll do. You study all these? Now I don’t
suppose you know what one of ’em is.”
“Yes, I do,” said ’Lena, with a good deal of spirit. “Olney’s geography
is a description of the earth; Colburn’s arithmetic is the science of
numbers: Smith’s grammar teaches us how to speak correctly.”
“Why don’t you do it then,” asked her uncle.
“Do what?” said ’Lena, and her uncle continued, “Why don’t you make
some use of your boasted knowledge of grammar? Why, my Anna has never
seen the inside of a grammar, as I know of, but she don’t _talk like
you do_.”
“Don’t _what_, sir?” said ’Lena,
“Don’t _talk like you do_,” repeated her uncle, while ’Lena’s eyes
fairly danced with mischief as she asked, “if that were good grammar.”
Mr. Livingstone colored, thinking it just possible that he himself
might sometimes be guilty of the same things for which he had so
harshly chided ’Lena, of whom from this time he began to think more
favorably. It could hardly be said that he treated her with any more
attention, and still there was a difference which she felt, and which
made her very happy.