DOWN THE PRECIPICE.
“Your grandfather and I brought out the horses and drove like lightning
to the spot. We turned down a cross-road and so along the foot of the
precipice, knowing well enough that it was of no use looking for them at
the top; for, a long way off, we could see one wheel of the carriage
where it was wedged in between two rocks, and that most awful of all
sounds, the groans of a horse, reached us long before we came in sight
of the poor critter, where it lay among the loose stones at the foot of
the ledge, with a part of the broken carriage across his back. He began
to whinny as pitiful as a hurt baby when we came in sight; and, anxious
as we were about the human souls, I hadn’t the heart to go by without
cutting him loose from his mate, which had broken his neck, and was dead
as a door nail.
“A little higher up the hill, where the earth sloped down from the foot
of the rocks, we saw your father sitting on a piece of rock, and holding
his cousin’s head in his lap. We hollered out to know if all was right;
but he didn’t answer: there wasn’t breath enough in his body to force
out a word, but his look was awful. I never set my eyes on so white a
face in all my life.
“We held on by the brushwood and climbed up to where he sat with the
dead man across his knees. I don’t know which was the palest, his or the
cold face turned upward, as he searched for a breath of life.
“I had never seen your father before, but should have known him by the
look of his cousin; for, one in his cold death, and the other so still
and panic-struck, looked so much alike that I could hardly tell which
was killed or which saved. At first I thought it really was our young
Bentley that asked us, in a faint voice, to try if we could do nothing
toward bringing the form across his knee to life. But a glimpse of the
dead face put me right; so I and the old man knelt down and tried our
best to bring the poor fellow to, but it was of no use: his temple had
struck against a sharp point of rock, and the skull was crushed in, only
in one spot, but it was enough to send him into eternity. God have mercy
upon him, he was gone to his last account.
“We lifted the dead body from your father’s arms and carried it down the
hill. While father and I were weaving some hemlock boughs together for a
kind of bier to carry him on, your father came slowly down, looking pale
as ever, and with one arm hanging loose and limp by his side. It was
easy enough to see that it was broke, though he said nothing, only
pressing his lips hard as they grew white with pain, and giving out a
sharp breath now and then. We helped him to mount father’s horse, and,
laying the dead body carefully on the rough bier, turned toward home.
“We hadn’t but just got to the cross-roads when sister Sarah came up,
without a sign of a bonnet on, and her hair all afloat. There wasn’t a
bit of color in her face, and I hardly knew her at first, for her eyes
seemed as large again as natural, and, though blue enough when she was
cheerful, they shone out deep and black as a thunder-cloud now.
“She gave one sharp look, first at the man on horseback, then at the
poor fellow my father and I carried on our shoulders. Then she flung up
her arms, and sent out a cry so sharp and full of pain, that we stood
stock still, frightened to the heart by it.
“She seemed to be afraid of coming near us, but went close up to the
horse on which your father rode, and, laying her hand on the mane, asked
something in a hoarse whisper.
“He answered her in a low voice, for he was too faint for loud words;
but I knew that he was telling her the man we carried was dead.
“She let her hand fall from the neck of his horse, and stood still, as
if his words had frozen her. I was loaded down with the dead, and could
not go to comfort her: so when we moved on, she followed after, with
great, heavy tears rolling down her face, and raising a sob now and then
that it would have broken your heart to hear.
“As we went on, moving slowly up the road, I saw sister Hetty coming
toward us: she looked like one carrying a heavy load that she couldn’t
keep from staggering under. She saw us winding round a turn of the road,
and her limbs seemed to wilt under her, for she sunk down to the grass
and covered her face with both hands, as if the sight of us had struck
her blind. Sarah ran forward, sending back a cry that almost made us
tremble.
“She came up to Hetty and sunk down by her side, winding both arms
around her neck, and sobbed dreadfully: we could hear her rods off; it
really seemed as if her heart was breaking.
“Hetty did not look up or move; but when she heard our tramp on the
road, she sort of stretched out her limbs with a quivering motion, and
fell sideways on the grass, bringing Sarah, who clung around her, to the
ground, and turning her sobs into screams.
“We stopped a minute, sat the bier down, and tried to comfort the gals;
but they clung together, and I thought Sarah tried to bury Hetty’s face
in her lap till we took up the bier again. I felt very sorry for poor
Sarah, for after that sleigh-ride, the letter and all the rest, it was
easy guessing why her sobs were so quick and deep. As for Hetty, she
always was a timersome, soft-hearted creature, and the sight of a dead
man was enough to make her faint away any time.
“We went home and the gals followed, creeping heavily along after us
with the stillness of two ghosts. We laid young Bentley out in the spare
room yonder; and, after helping the wounded young man up-stairs, I got
him to bed, while your grandfather went after a doctor.
“The poor young fellow was in dreadful pain, but he choked back his
groans and bore up like a hero. I was obliged to call Sarah to help to
take care of him; but Hetty stayed below with the corpse, half scared to
death I could see, for when I went down-stairs, once or twice in the
night, she was sitting by the bed, as pale as the winding-sheet, and as
still as the form it covered. Her eyes fairly frightened me when she
looked toward the door—they darkened like a thunder-cloud before it
bursts. I tried to make her go up-stairs, but she only shook her head,
and so I left her all night alone with the dead man, and a terrible
night it was to us all.
“We buried young Bentley in the grave-yard down yonder. It was a
sorrowful business to us all, for we were uncertain who the heir might
be, and, for anything we knew, he might not prove exactly the person we
should want to have power over the farm. So, with the sick man
up-stairs, and a funeral going from the house, every thing seemed gloomy
enough, especially as the gals went about like ghosts, scarcely speaking
a word, and looking at each other wofully whenever they met.
“After a while we found out that Mr. Bentley, your father, was heir to
his cousin, and in some sort owner of the farm. He was a splendid young
fellow, too: with that face and voice of his he might have made any girl
fall in love with him except our Hetty. I really don’t think she ever
cared for anybody in the world: she always was a quiet, old maidish
thing.
“After the funeral she grew more shy and still than ever.
“But Sarah spent half her time in the sick man’s room, and though she
seemed troubled, yet I could see with half an eye that she was getting
over the shock of her lover’s death. I said lover, for after what I had
seen nothing would have convinced me that our Sarah had not been heart
and soul engaged to the young man who was gone; but if she could forget
him and fancy the other, what business had any of us to interfere? For
my part, I was glad to see her color coming back, and her eyes growing
bright again.
“I don’t know what passed between the young people during the six weeks
that he lay sick at our house. But though she seemed wildly cheerful at
times, the trouble never entirely left her eyes; and more than once I
caught her crying away by herself, which was natural enough under the
circumstances, you know.
“As Mr. Bentley grew better, and was able to carry his arm in a sling,
Sarah’s trouble seemed to increase, and she stayed with Hetty in their
own room a great deal more than I ever remembered to have seen her
before. It seemed as if she wanted to keep out of our visitor’s way
somehow.
“He did not seem to like this, and one morning, when I rode over to the
homestead, and found him sitting lonesomely in the front stoop, he asked
me in a quiet way if I could tell him what particular business his
cousin had come to the country about, and why he himself had been so
urgently invited to share the journey.
“I told him truly enough that I did not know; when he said, with a
strange smile,
“‘I almost supposed it might be a wedding that brought him here, from
some words that he used in pressing the invitation; but as no one of
your family has said any thing about it, the object of his coming
puzzles me exceedingly. Tell me, was our visit expected?’
“I was troubled how to answer this question, and felt the blood grow
warm in my face. I remembered how anxious and restless my sister Sarah
had been; those private letters, and the wild anguish with which she met
us near the precipice, as we were bringing young Bentley away—things
which our guest had doubtless been in too much pain to observe; but in
reality I knew nothing, and what business had I to expose my sister’s
secret, if she had one?
“‘No,’ I said, angry with the redness of my face, ‘I do not think our
folks knew any thing about your coming; and as for a wedding, there has
not been a sign of one, except my own, in the neighborhood this year.’
“Mr. Bentley eyed me keenly, as I said this, but did not seem quite
satisfied.
“‘It is strange,’ he said, at last, ‘but I am quite certain that my
cousin told me his visit would end in a wedding; and he hinted that my
services might be necessary to reconcile some difficulties that might
arise with the family.’
“‘But he mentioned no names?’ I inquired, anxious to learn more.
“‘No; he told me nothing more than I have already related. It is a
singular affair altogether: perhaps my cousin’s papers may give some
clue.’
“I thought of my sister’s letter, and felt myself coloring again, for
any thing like secrecy made me restless. Your father looked at me
suspiciously, so I turned away determined to speak with Sarah, and if
there really was any thing between her and the dead to insist on her
saying so frankly.”