Buckley Simmons was late in arriving from the hospital, and it was past
seven before the stage departed for Greenstream. Buckley sat immediately
back of Gordon Makimmon; the former's head, muffled in a long woolen
scarf, showed only his dull, unwitting gaze.
They rapidly left the dank stone streets and houses. The smoke ascending
from the waterworks was no greyer than the day. The rain fell in small,
chill, gusty sweeps.
Gordon Makimmon settled resolutely to the long drive; he was oblivious of
the miles of sodden road stretching out behind, he was not aware of the
pale, dripping, wintry landscape--he was lost in a continuous train of
memories wheeling bright and distant through his mind. He was looking back
upon the features of the past as he might have looked at a series of
dissolving pictures, his interest in which was solely that of spectator.
They were without unity, unintelligible in the light of any concerted
purpose or result. They were, however, highly pleasant, or amazingly
inexplicable. For example:
His wife, Lettice, how young she was smiling at him from the sunny grass!
She walked happily toward him, with her shawl about her shoulders, but she
didn't reach him; she was sitting in the rocking chair on the
porch ... the day faded, she was singing a little throaty song, sewing
upon a little square of white--she was gone as swiftly, as utterly, as a
shadow. The shape of Meta Beggs, animated with incomprehensible gestures,
took its place in the procession of his memories. She, grimacing, came
alike to naught, vanished. All stopped for a moment and then disappeared,
leaving no trace behind.
He mechanically arrested the horses before the isolated buildings that
formed the midday halt.
Buckley Simmons, crouching low over the table, consumed his dinner with
formless, guttural approbation. The place above his forehead, where he had
been struck by the stone, was puckered and dark. He raised his eyes--the
unquenchable hatred of Gordon Makimmon flared momentarily on his vacuous
countenance like the flame of a match lit in the wind.
Once more on the road the rain stopped, the cold increased; high above the
earth the masses of cloud gathered wind-herded in the south. The dripping
from the trees ceased, the black branches took on a faint glitter; the
distant crash of a falling limb sounded from the woods.
Gordon, doubting whether the horses' shoes had been lately roughed,
descended, but, to his surprise, found that the scoring had been properly
maintained, in spite of the fact that it had not had his attention. He had
little cause to swing the heavy whip--the off horse, a raw-boned animal
colored yellowish-white, never ceased pulling valiantly on the traces; he
assumed not only his own share of the labor but was willing to accept that
of his companion, and Gordon had continually to restrain him.
The glitter spread transparently over the road; the horses dug their hoofs
firmly into the frozen ruts. Suddenly a burst of sunlight enveloped the
land, and the land responded with an instant, intolerable brilliancy, a
blinding sheet of white radiance. Every limb, every individual twig and
blade of grass, was covered with a sparkling, transparent mail; every
mound of brown earth scintillated in a crisp surface of ice like chocolate
confections glazed in clear sugar. The clouds dissolved; the trees,
encased in crystal pipes, rose dazzling against a pale, luminous blue
expanse. Gigantic swords of incandescence shifted over the mountainside;
shoals of frosty sparks filled the hollows; haloes immaculate and
uncompassionate hung above the hills.
Viewed from the necessity of the driver of the Stenton stage this
phenomenon was highly undesirable,--the glassy road enormously increased
the labor of the horses; Gordon's vigilance might not for a minute be
relaxed. The blazing sun blurred his vision, the cold crept insidiously
into his bones. The stage slowly made its way into the valleys, over the
ranges; and, with it, the sun made its way over valley and mountain toward
the west.
At last the stage reached the foot of Buck Mountain; beyond lay the
village, the end of day. The horses cautiously began the ascent, while
Gordon, watching their progress, lent them the assistance of his judgment
and voice. The road looped a cleared field against the mountain, on the
left an icy slope fell away in a glittering tangle of underbrush. The
stage turned and the opening dropped upon the right.
Gordon heard a thick, unintelligible sound from behind, and, looking
about, saw Buckley Simmons clambering out over the wheel. He stopped the
horses, but Buckley slipped, fell upon the road. However, he quickly
scrambled erect, and walked beside the stage, over the incline. His head
was completely hidden by the woollen scarf; in one hand he carried a heavy
switch. The road swung about once more, and, at the turn, the fall was
abrupt. Buckley Simmons stumbled across the space that separated him from
the horses. And Gordon, with an exclamation of incredulous surprise, saw
the other's arm sweep up.--The switch fell viciously across the back of
the yellowish-white horse.
The animal plunged back, dragging his companion against the stage. Gordon
rose, lashing out with his voice and whip; the horses struggled to regain
their foothold ... slipped.... He felt the seat dropping away behind him.
Then, with a violent wrench, a sliding crash, horses, stage and man
lurched down the incline.