University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
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 did 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 last glance at the familiar objects around her, at the
flowers she had planted, the trees she had reared, and
then taking 'Lena's hand, went down to the gate where
her son was awaiting her.

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 had 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 very best
meetin' gowns.”

So the bombasin 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 a great enemy to long skirts, hence her's came just to
her ancles, and as her black woolen stockings had been
carefully footed with white, there was visible a dark rim
about half an inch in width! Altogether she presented
a rather grotesque appearance, with her oblong workbag,
in which were her shuff-box, brass spectacles, and

half a dozen “nut-cakes,” 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 summer's
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 freckled face 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-by, Jo,” she sprang into the wagon, which
moved rapidly away.

It was about five miles from the farm-house 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 John, 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, 'twas 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' 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-by,
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 were 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 pop corn 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 pick-pockets!” 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
sachel up there,” pointing to 'Lena's traveling bag, which
hung over her head. She would undoubtedly have designated
the very corner of said sachel 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 slily taking down the
sachel, 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 Phœnix, 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 reäppeared,
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 that

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 he returned
to the parlor, and walking up to Mrs. Nichols, commenced
talking very sociably with her, calling her
“Granny,” and winking slily 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 grandso.
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.