ON THE ROAD.
At last the packing-up process came to an end, everything too poor to
sell, and too good to give away, had found a place—some here, some
there, and some in John’s trunk, among his ruffled bosoms, collars,
dickeys, and so forth. Miss Nancy, who stood by until the last, was
made the receiver of sundry cracked teacups, noseless pitchers, and
iron spoons, which could not be disposed of elsewhere.
And now every box and trunk was ready. Farmer Truesdale’s red wagon
stood at the door, waiting to convey them to the depot, and nothing
remained for Grandma Nichols, but to bid adieu to the old spot,
endeared to her by so many associations. Again and again she went from
room to room, weeping always, and lingering longest in the one where
her children were born, and where her husband and daughter had died. In
the corner stood the old low-post bedstead, the first she had ever
owned, and now how vividly she recalled the time long years before,
when she, a happy maiden, ordered that bedstead, blushing deeply at the
sly allusion which the cabinet maker made to her approaching marriage.
_He_, too, was with her, strong and healthy. Now, he was gone from her
side forever. _His_ couch was a narrow coffin, and the old bedstead
stood there, naked—empty. Seating herself upon it, the poor old lady
rocked to and fro, moaning in her grief, and wishing that she were not
going to Kentucky, or that it were possible now to remain at her
mountain home. Summoning all her courage, she gave one glance at the
familiar objects around her, at the flowers she had planted, and then
taking ’Lena’s hand, went down to the gate, where her son waited.
He saw she had been weeping, and though he could not appreciate the
cause of her tears, in his heart he pitied her, and his voice and
manner were unusually kind as he helped her to the best seat in the
wagon, and asked if she were comfortable. Then his eye fell upon her
dress, and his pity changed to anger as he wondered if she was wholly
devoid of taste. At the time of his father’s death, he purchased decent
mourning for both his mother and ’Lena; but these Mrs. Nichols
pronounced “altogether too good for the nasty cars; nobody’d think any
better of them for being rigged out in their best meetin’ gowns.”
So the bombazine was packed away, and in its place she wore a dark blue
and white spotted calico, which John could have sworn she had twenty
years before, and which was not unlikely, as she never wore out a
garment. She was an enemy to long skirts, hence hers came just to her
ankles, and as her black stockings had been footed with white, there
was visible a dark rim. Altogether she presented a rather grotesque
appearance, with her oblong work-bag, in which were her snuff-box,
brass spectacles and half a dozen “nutcakes,” which would “save John’s
buying dinner.”
Unlike her grandmother’s, ’Lena’s dress was a great deal too long, and
as she never wore pantalets, she had the look of a premature old woman,
instead of a child ten summers old, as she was. Still the uncommon
beauty of her face, and the natural gracefulness of her form, atoned in
a measure for the singularity of her appearance.
In the doorway stood Miss Nancy, and by her side her nephew, Joel
Slocum, a freckle-faced boy, who had frequently shown a preference for
’Lena, by going with her for her grandmother’s cow, bringing her
harvest apples, and letting her ride on his sled oftener than the other
girls at school. Strange to say, his affection was not returned, and
now, notwithstanding he several times wiped both eyes and nose, on the
end of which there was an enormous freck, ’Lena did not relent at all,
but with a simple “Good-bye, Jo,” she sprang into the wagon, which
moved rapidly away.
It was about five miles from the farmhouse to the depot, and when half
that distance had been gone over, Mrs. Nichols suddenly seized the
reins, ordering the driver to stop, and saying, “she must go straight
back, for on the shelf of the north room cupboard she had left a whole
paper of tea, which she couldn’t afford to lose!”
“_Drive on_,” said Johny rather angrily, at the same time telling his
mother that he could buy her a ton of tea if she wanted it.
“But that was already bought, and ’twould have saved so much,” said
she, softly wiping away a tear, which was occasioned partly by her
son’s manner, and partly by the great loss she felt she sustained in
leaving behind her favorite “old hyson.”
This _saving_ was a matter of which Grandma Nichols said so much, that
John, who was himself slightly avaricious, began to regret that he ever
knew the definition of the word _save_. Lest our readers get a wrong
impression of Mrs. Nichols, we must say that she possessed very many
sterling qualities, and her habits of extreme economy resulted more
from the manner in which she had been compelled to live, than from
natural stinginess. For this John hardly made allowance enough, and his
mother’s remarks, instead of restraining him, only made him more lavish
of his money than he would otherwise have been.
When Mrs. Nichols and ’Lena entered the cars, they of course attracted
universal attention, which annoyed John excessively. In Oakland, where
his mother was known and appreciated, he could bear it, but among
strangers, and with those of his own caste, it was different, so
motioning them into the first unoccupied seat, he sauntered on with an
air which seemed to say, “they were nothing to him,” and finding a
vacant seat at the other end of the car, he took possession of it.
Scarcely, however, had he entered into conversation with a gentleman
near him, when some one grasped his arm, and looking up, he saw his
mother, her box in one hand; and an enormous pinch of snuff in the
other.
“John,” said she, elevating her voice so as to drown the noise of the
cars, “I never thought on’t till this minit, but I’d just as lief ride
in the second-class cars as not, and it only costs half as much!”
Mr. Livingstone colored crimson, and bade her go back, saying that if
he paid the fare she needn’t feel troubled about the cost. Just as she
was turning to leave, the loud ring and whistle, as the train neared a
crossing, startled her, and in great alarm she asked if “somethin’
hadn’t bust!”
John made no answer, but the gentleman near him very politely explained
to her the cause of the disturbance, after which, she returned to her
seat. When the conductor appeared, he fortunately came in at the door
nearest John, who pointed out the two, for whom he had tickets, and
then turned again to converse with the gentleman, who, though a
stranger, was from Louisville, Kentucky, and whose acquaintance was
easily made. The sight of the conductor awoke in Mrs. Nichols’s brain a
new idea, and after peering out upon the platform, she went rushing up
to her son, telling him that: “the trunks, box, feather bed, and all,
were every one on ’em left!”
“No, they are not,” said John; “I saw them aboard myself.”
“Wall, then, they’re lost off, for as sure as you’re born, there ain’t
one on ’em in here; and there’s as much as twenty weight of new
feathers, besides all the crockery! Holler to ’em to stop quick!”
The stranger, pitying Mr. Livingstone’s chagrin, kindly explained to
her that there was a baggage car on purpose for trunks and the like,
and that her feather bed was undoubtedly safe. This quieted her, and
mentally styling him “a proper nice man,” she again returned to her
seat.
“A rare specimen of the raw Yankee,” said the stranger to John, never
dreaming in what relation she stood to him.
“Yes,” answered John, not thinking it at all necessary to make any
further explanations.
By this time Mrs. Nichols had attracted the attention of all the
passengers, who watched her movements with great interest. Among these
was a fine-looking youth, fifteen or sixteen years of age, who sat
directly in front of ’Lena. He had a remarkably open, pleasing
countenance, while there was that in his eyes which showed him to be a
lover of fun. Thinking he had now found it in a rich form, he turned
partly round, and would undoubtedly have quizzed Mrs. Nichols
unmercifully, had not something in the appearance of ’Lena prevented
him. This was also her first ride in the cars, but she possessed a tact
of concealing the fact, and if she sometimes felt frightened, she
looked in the faces of those around her, gathering from them that there
was no danger. She knew that her grandmother was making herself
ridiculous, and her eyes filled with tears as she whispered, “Do sit
still, granny; everybody is looking at you.”
The young lad noticed this, and while it quelled in him the spirit of
ridicule, it awoke a strange interest in ’Lena, who he saw was
beautiful, spite of her unseemly guise. She was a dear lover of nature,
and as the cars sped on through the wild mountain scenery, between
Pittsfield and Albany, she stood at the open window, her hands closely
locked together, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes wide with
wonder at the country through which they were passing. At her
grandmother’s suggestion she had removed her bonnet, and the brown
curls which clustered around her white forehead and neck were moved up
and down by the fresh breeze which was blowing. The youth was a
passionate admirer of beauty, come in what garb it might, and now as he
watched, he felt a strong desire to touch one of the glossy ringlets
which floated within his reach. There would be no harm in it, he
thought—“she was only a little girl, and he was _almost a man_—had
tried to shave, and was going to enter college in the fall.” Still he
felt some doubts as to the propriety of the act, and was about making
up his mind that he had better not, when the train shot into the
“tunnel,” and for an instant they were in total darkness. Quick as
thought his hand sought the brown curls, but they were gone, and when
the cars again emerged into daylight, ’Lena’s arms were around her
grandmother’s neck, trying to hold her down, for the old lady, sure of
a _smash-up_ this time, had attempted to rise, screaming loudly for
“_John_!”
The boy laughed aloud—he could not help it; but when ’Lena’s eyes
turned reprovingly upon him, he felt sorry; and anxious to make amends,
addressed himself very politely to Mrs. Nichols, explaining to her that
it was a “tunnel” through which they had passed, and assuring her there
was no danger whatever. Then turning to ’Lena, he said, “I reckon your
grandmother is not much accustomed to traveling.”
“No, sir,” answered ’Lena, the rich blood dyeing her cheek at being
addressed by a stranger.
It was the first time any one had ever said “_sir_” to the boy, and now
feeling quite like patronizing the little girl, he continued: “I
believe old people generally are timid when they enter the cars for the
first time.”
Nothing from ’Lena except a slight straightening up of her body, and a
smoothing down of her dress, but the ice was broken, and erelong she
and her companion were conversing as familiarly as if they had known
each other for years. Still the boy was not inquisitive—he did not ask
her name, or where she was going, though he told her that his home was
in Louisville, and that at Albany he was to take the boat for New York,
where his mother was stopping with some friends. He also told her that
the gentleman near the door, with dark eyes and whiskers, was his
father.
Glancing toward the person indicated, ’Lena saw that it was the same
gentleman who, all the afternoon, had been talking with her uncle. He
was noble looking, and she felt glad that he was the father of the
boy—he was just such a man, she fancied, as ought to be his father—just
such a man as she could wish her father to be—and then ’Lena felt glad
that the youth had asked her nothing concerning her parentage, for,
though her grandmother had seldom mentioned her father in her presence,
there were others ready and willing to inform her that he was a
villain, who broke her mother’s heart.
When they reached Albany, the boy rose, and offering his hand to ’Lena,
said “I suppose I must bid you good-bye, but I’d like right well to go
farther with you.”
At this moment the stranger gentleman came up, and on seeing how his
son was occupied, said smilingly, “So-ho! Durward, you always manage to
make some lady acquaintance.”
“Yes, father,” returned the boy called Durward, “but not always one
like this. Isn’t she pretty,” he added in a whisper.
The stranger’s eyes fell upon ’Lena’s face, and for a moment, as if by
some strange fascination, seemed riveted there; but the crowd pressed
him forward, and ’Lena only heard him reply to his son, “Yes, Durward,
very pretty; but hurry, or we shall lose the boat.”
The next moment they were gone. Leaning from the window, ’Lena tried to
catch another glimpse of him, but in vain. He was gone—she would never
see him again, she thought; and then she fell into a reverie concerning
his home, his mother, his sisters, if he had any, and finally ended by
wishing that she were his sister, and the daughter of his father. While
she was thus pondering, her grandmother, also, was busy, and when ’Lena
looked round for her she was gone. Stepping from the car, ’Lena espied
her in the distance, standing by her uncle and anxiously watching for
the appearance of her “great trunk, little trunk, band-box, and bag.”
Each of these articles was forthcoming, and in a few moments they were
on the ferry-boat crossing the blue waters of the Hudson, Mrs. Nichols
declaring that “if she’d known it wasn’t a bridge she was steppin’
onto, she’d be bound they wouldn’t have got her on in one while.”
“Do sit down,” said ’Lena; “the other people don’t seem to be afraid,
and I’m sure we needn’t.”
This Mrs. Nichols was more willing to do, as directly at her side was
another old lady, traveling for the first time, frightened and anxious.
To her Mrs. Nichols addressed herself, announcing her firm belief that
“she should be blew sky high before she reached Kentucky, where she was
going to live with her son John, who she supposed was well off, worth
twenty negroes or more; but,” she added, lowering her voice, “I don’t
b’lieve in no such, and I mean he shall set ’em free—poor critters,
duddin’ from mornin’ till night without a cent of pay. He says they
call him ‘master,’ but I’ll warrant he’ll never catch me a’callin’ him
so to one on ’em. I promised Nancy Scovandyke that I wouldn’t, and I
won’t!”
Here a little _popcorn_ boy came ’round, which reminded Mrs. Nichols of
her money, and that she hadn’t once looked after it since she started.
Thinking this as favorable a time as she would have, she drew from her
capacious pocket an old knit purse, and commenced counting out its
contents, piece by piece.
“Beware of pickpockets!” said some one in her ear, and with the
exclamation of “Oh the Lord!” the purse disappeared in her pocket, on
which she kept her hand until the boat touched the opposite shore. Then
in the confusion and excitement it was withdrawn, the purse was
forgotten, and when on board the night express for Buffalo it was again
looked for, _it was gone_!
With a wild outcry the horror-stricken matron sprang up, calling for
John, who in some alarm came to her side, asking what she wanted.
“I’ve lost my purse. Somebody’s stole it. Lock the door quick, and
search every man, woman, and child in the car!”
The conductor, who chanced to be present, now came up, demanding an
explanation, and trying to convince Mrs. Nichols how improbable it was
that any one present had her money.
“Stop the train then, and let me get off.”
“Had you a large amount?” asked the conductor.
“Every cent I had in the world. Ain’t you going to let me get off?” was
the answer.
The conductor looked inquiringly at John, who shook his head, at the
same time whispering to his mother not to feel so badly, as he would
give her all the money she wanted. Then placing a ten dollar bill in
her hand, he took a seat behind her. We doubt whether this would have
quieted the old lady, had not a happy idea that moment entered her
mind, causing her to exclaim loudly, “There, now, I’ve just this minute
thought. I hadn’t but _five_ dollars in my purse; t’other fifty I sewed
up in an old night-gown sleeve, and tucked it away in that satchel up
there,” pointing to ’Lena’s traveling bag, which hung over her head.
She would undoubtedly have designated the very corner of said satchel
in which her money could be found, had not her son touched her
shoulder, bidding her be silent and not tell everybody where her money
was, if she didn’t want it stolen.
Mrs. Nichols made no reply, but when she thought she was not observed,
she arose, and slyly taking down the satchel, placed it under her. Then
seating herself upon it, she gave a sigh of relief as she thought,
“they’d have to work hard to get it now, without her knowing it!” Dear
old soul, when arrived at her journey’s end, how much comfort she took
in recounting over and over again the incidents of the robbery,
wondering if it was, as John said, the very man who had so kindly
cautioned her to beware of pickpockets, and who thus ascertained where
she kept her purse. Nancy Scovandyke, too, was duly informed of her
loss, and charged when she came to Kentucky, “to look out on the
ferry-boat for a youngish, good-looking man, with brown frock coat,
blue cravat, and mouth full of white teeth.”
At Buffalo Mr. Livingstone had hard work to coax his mother on board
the steamboat, but he finally succeeded, and as the weather chanced to
be fine, she declared that ride on the lake to be the pleasantest part
of her journey. At Cleveland they took the cars for Cincinnati, going
thence to Lexington by stage. On ordinary occasions Mr. Livingstone
would have preferred the river, but knowing that in all probability he
should meet with some of his friends upon the boat, he chose the route
via Lexington, where he stopped at the Phoenix, as was his usual
custom.
After seeing his mother and niece into the public parlor he left them
for a time, saying he had some business to transact in the city.
Scarcely was he gone when the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hall
announced an arrival, and a moment after, a boy, apparently fifteen
years of age, appeared in the door. He was richly though carelessly
dressed, and notwithstanding the good-humored expression of his rather
handsome face, there was in his whole appearance an indescribable
something which at once pronounced him to be a “fast” boy. A rowdy hat
was set on one side of his head, after the most approved fashion, while
in his hand he held a lighted cigar, which he applied to his mouth when
he saw the parlor was unoccupied, save by an “old woman” and a “little
girl.”
Instinctively ’Lena shrank from him, and withdrawing herself as far as
possible within the recess of the window, pretended to be busily
watching the passers-by. But she did not escape his notice, and after
coolly surveying her for a moment, he walked up to her, saying, “How
d’ye, polywog? I’ll be hanged if I know to what gender you belong—woman
or _gal_—which is it, hey?”
“None of your business,” was ’Lena’s ready answer.
“Spunky, ain’t you,” said he, unceremoniously pulling one of the brown
curls which Durward had so longed to touch. “Seems to me your hair
don’t match the rest of you; wonder if ’tisn’t somebody else’s head set
on your shoulders.”
“No, it ain’t. It’s my own head, and you just let it alone,” returned
’Lena, growing more and more indignant, and wondering if this were a
specimen of Kentucky boys.
“Don’t be saucy,” continued her tormentor; “I only want to see what
sort of stuff you are made of.”
“Made of _dirt_” muttered ’Lena.
“I reckon you are,” returned the boy; “but say, where _did_ you come
from and who _do_ you live with?”
“I came from Massachusetts, and I live with _granny_,” said ’Lena,
thinking that if she answered him civilly, he would perhaps let her
alone. But she was mistaken.
Glancing at “_granny_,” he burst into a loud laugh, and then placing
his hat a little more on one side, and assuming a nasal twang, he said,
“Neow dew tell, if you’re from Massachusetts. How dew you dew, little
Yankee, and how are all the folks to hum?”
Feeling sure that not only herself but all her relations were included
in this insult, ’Lena darted forward hitting him a blow in the face,
which he returned by puffing smoke into hers, whereupon she snatched
the cigar from his mouth and hurled it into the street, bidding him
“touch her again if he dared.” All this transpired so rapidly that Mrs.
Nichols had hardly time to understand its meaning, but fully
comprehending it now, she was about coming to the rescue, when her son
reappeared, exclaiming, “_John_, John Livingstone, Jr., how came you
here?”
Had a cannon exploded at the feet of John Jr., as he was called, he
could not have been more startled. He was not expecting his father for
two or three days, and was making the most of his absence by having
what he called a regular “spree.” Taking him altogether, he was,
without being naturally bad, a spoiled child, whom no one could manage
except his father, and as his father seldom tried, he was of course
seldom managed. Never yet had he remained at any school more than two
quarters, for if he were not sent away, he generally ran away, sure of
finding a champion in his mother, who had always petted him, calling
him, “Johnny darling,” until he one day very coolly informed her that
she was “a silly old fool,” and that “he’d thank her not to ‘Johnny
darling’ him any longer.”
It would be difficult to describe the amazement of John Jr. when ’Lena
was presented to him as his _cousin_, and Mrs. Nichols as his
_grandmother_. Something which sounded very much like an oath escaped
his lips, as turning to his father he muttered, “Won’t mother go into
fits?” Then, as he began to realize the ludicrousness of the whole
affair, he exclaimed, “Rich, good, by gracious!” and laughing loudly,
he walked away to regale himself with another cigar.
Lena began to tremble for her future happiness, if this boy was to live
in the same house with her. She did not know that she had already more
than half won his good opinion, for he was far better pleased with her
antagonistical demonstrations, than he would have been had she cried or
ran from him, as his sister Anna generally did when he teased her.
After a few moments here turned to the parlor, and walking up to Mrs.
Nichols, commenced talking very sociably with her, calling her
“Granny,” and winking slyly at ’Lena as he did so. Mr. Livingstone had
too much good sense to sit quietly by and hear his mother ridiculed by
his son, and in a loud, stern voice he bade the young gentleman “behave
himself.”
“Law, now,” said Mrs. Nichols, “let him talk if he wants to. I like to
hear him. He’s the only grandson I’ve got.”
This speech had the effect of silencing John Jr. quite as much as his
father’s command. If he could tease his grandmother by talking to her,
he would take delight in doing so, but if she _wanted_ him to talk—that
was quite another thing. So moving away from her, he took a seat near
’Lena, telling her her dress was “a heap too short,” and occasionally
pinching her, just to vary the sport! This last, however, ’Lena
returned with so much force that he grew weary of the fun, and
informing her that he was going to a _circus_ which was in town that
evening, he arose to leave the room.
Mr. Livingstone, who partially overheard what he had said, stopped him
and asked “where he was going?”
Feigning a yawn and rubbing his eyes, John Jr. replied that “he was
confounded sleepy and was going to bed.”
“’Lena, where did he say he was going?” asked her uncle.
’Lena trembled, for John Jr. had clinched his fist, and was shaking it
threateningly at her.
“Where did he say he was going?” repeated her uncle.
Poor ’Lena had never told a lie in her life, and now braving her
cousin’s anger, she said, “To the circus, sir. Oh, I wish you had not
asked me.”
“You’ll get your pay for that,” muttered John Jr. sullenly reseating
himself by his father, who kept an eye on him until he saw him safely
in his room.
Much as John Jr. frightened ’Lena with his threats, in his heart he
respected her for telling the truth, and if the next morning on their
way home in the stage, in which his father compelled him to take a
seat, he frequently found it convenient to step on her feet, it was
more from a natural propensity to torment than from any lurking feeling
of revenge. ’Lena was nowise backward in returning his cousinly
attentions, and so between an interchange of kicks, wry faces, and so
forth, they proceeded toward “Maple Grove,” a description of which will
be given in another chapter.