University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
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 farm-house, 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 farm-house 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 sun-bonnet,
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
ary room, and now-a-days 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 ar sen 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 lip, 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 farm-house, 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 eye-sight 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, Jon, 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.