The meal which followed was good; for Zoe, the cook, was skilful in her
old-fashioned way. But the dinner service was ordinary; the only wine
was Dry Catawba; Rinda's ideas of waiting, too, were primitive. The
Franklins, however, had learned to wait upon themselves. They had the
habit of remaining long at the table; for, whether they were alone or
whether they had a guest, there was always a soup, there was always a
salad, there were always nuts and fruit, followed by coffee--four
courses, therefore, in addition to the two which the younger Mrs.
Franklin, whose household was managed in a very different way,
considered all that was necessary "for the body."
"A serious rice pudding, Genevieve, no doubt _is_ enough for the body,
as you call it," Dolly had once said. "But _we_ think of the mind also;
we aim at brilliancy. And no one ever scintillated yet on cod-fish and
stewed prunes!"
"Mrs. Jared Franklin is well, I hope?" Chase asked, when the last course
was reached. He was not fond of nuts or figs, but he was playing his
part, according to his conception of it, by eating at intervals one
raisin.
"Quite well; thanks. I have never known her to be ill," replied Dolly.
"Mr. Chase, I am going to suggest something: as mother and my
sister-in-law are both Mrs. Jared, and as mother has no burning desire
to be called 'old Mrs. Franklin' just yet, why don't you say 'Mrs. G.
B.' when you mean the younger matron?"
Chase would never have thought of calling either the one or the other a
matron, his idea of the word being the female superintendent of a public
institution. "G. B.--are those her initials?" he said. "Yes, of course;
G. for Genevieve, or Gen, as I used to call her."
"And B. for Beatrice; isn't that lovely? Our own names, unfortunately,
are very plain--Ruth, Dolly, and Jared; Genevieve has taken pity upon
the Jared, and changed it to Jay. Mother, however, actually likes the
name Jared. She is weak enough to be proud of the fact that there have
been six Jared Franklins in the direct line, from eldest son to father,
going back to colonial days. People are _very_ sorry for this delusion
of hers; they have told her repeatedly that the colonial period was
unimportant. Genevieve, in particular, has often explained to her that
modern times are far more interesting."
"I guess there isn't much question about that, is there?" said Chase.
"No doubt they did the best they could in those old days. But they
couldn't do much, you see, because they had nothing to work with, no
machinery, no capital, no combinations; they couldn't hear anything
until long after it had happened, and they couldn't go anywhere except
on horseback. I've always been glad _I_ didn't serve my time then. I
guess I should have found it slow."
"You must find Asheville rather slow?" remarked Dolly.
"It is more than slow, Miss Franklin; it has stopped entirely. But it
has great natural advantages--I have been surprised to see how many. I
like new enterprises, and I've been thinking about something." Here he
paused and ate one more raisin, balancing it for a moment upon the palm
of his hand before he swallowed it. "I've been thinking of picking up
that railroad at Old Fort and pushing it right through to this place,
and on to Tennessee; a branch, later, to tap South Carolina and Georgia.
That isn't all, however." He paused again. Then with a glance which
rested for a moment on each face, and finally stopped at Mrs.
Franklin's, "What do you say," he added, with an hospitable smile, "to
my making a big watering-place of your hilly little village?"
"_Asheville_ watered? What next!" said Dolly.
"The next is that the stock won't be," replied Chase, laughing. "I mean,
the stock of the company that undertakes the affair, if it does
undertake it. You'd better apply for some right off; all of you. Shall I
tell you how the thing strikes me, while you are finishing your nuts?
Well, then, this is about it. The whole South is a hot place in summer,
ladies; from Baltimore down to the end of Florida and Louisiana they
simply swelter from June to October, and always must swelter. If you
will look at a map, you can see for yourselves that the only region
where the people of all this big section can get fresh air during the
heated term, without a long journey for it, is this one line of
mountains, called Alleghanies in the lump, but in reality including the
Blue Ridge, the Cumberlands, your Smokies and Blacks, and others about
here. For a trip to the southern sea-coast isn't much relief; a hot
beach is about the hottest place I know! Now, then, what is the best
point among these mountains? The Alleghanies lie _this_ way." (He made
the Alleghanies with a table-spoon.) "Then _there_ is the Blue Ridge."
(A nut-cracker.) "And here you get your Smokies and so forth." (Almonds
taken hastily from a dish and arranged in a line.) "And I'll just
indicate the Cumberlands with this orange. Very well. Now where are the
highest peaks of these lines? Let us follow the range down. Do we find
them in Pennsylvania? No, sir. Do we find them in Virginia? We do not.
Are they over there among the Cumberlands? Not by a long shot. Where are
they, then? Right here, ladies, at your own door; right here, where I
make a dot this minute." And taking a pencil from his pocket, he made a
small mark on the table-cloth between the spoon and the nut-cracker. "In
this neighborhood," he went on, emphasizing his statement by pointing
his pencil at Miss Billy, "there are thirteen nearly seven thousand
feet high. It seems to me, therefore, that in spite of all the jokes
about talking for buncombe, the talk for Buncombe has not been half tall
enough yet. For this very Buncombe County is bound to be the favorite
watering-place for over twelve millions of people, some day or other."
"Watering-place?" commented Dolly. "Well, we _have_ the two rivers, the
French Broad and the Swannanoa. But the Swannanoa is small; if the
millions should all drink at once, it would soon go dry."
"I meant summer resort, Miss Franklin, not watering-place," said Chase,
inwardly entertained by the quickness bordering on the sharp with which
"the sickly one," as he called her, always took him up. "Though there
are sulphur springs near by too: I have been out to look at them. And it
isn't only the Southerners who will come here," he went on. "Northerners
will flock also, when they understand what these mountains are. For, in
comparison with them, the Catskills are a suburb; the White Mountains,
ornamental rock-work; and the Adirondacks, a wood-lot. _Here_ everything
is absolutely wild; you can shoot because there are all sorts of things
_to_ shoot, from bears down. And then there's another point--for I
haven't got to the bottom of the sack yet. This mountain valley of
yours, being 2400 feet above the sea, has a wonderfully pure dry air,
and yet, as it is so far south, it is not cold; its winter climate,
therefore, is as good as its summer, and even better. So here's the
situation: people who live in hot places will come here from June to
October, and people who live in cold places will come from October to
June." He returned the orange and the almonds to their dishes, replaced
the table-spoon and nut-cracker, and then, looking at Mrs. Franklin, he
gave her a cheerful nod. "That's it, ma'am; that's the whole in a
nutshell."
Ruth gravely offered him an empty almond shell.
"We'll have something better than that, Miss Ruth--a philopena." And
taking a nut-cracker, he opened several almonds. Finding a double
kernel, he gave her one of the halves. "Now, if I win, I should be much
favored if you would make me something of worsted--a tidy is the name, I
think?"
Ruth began to laugh.
"Well, then, a picture-frame of cones."
And now the other ladies joined in Ruth's merriment.
"We must decline such rare objects," said Mrs. Franklin. "But we have
our own small resources, Mr. Chase." And, leading the way back to the
parlor, she showed him the mantel-cover with Dolly's verse.
"Why, that's beautiful, Miss Franklin," said Chase, with sincere
admiration, when he had read the lines. "I didn't know you could write
poetry."
"Oh yes," answered Dolly. "I think in elegies as a general thing, and I
make sonnets as I dress. Epics are nothing to me, and I turn off
triolets in no time. But I don't publish, Mr. Chase, because I don't
want to be called a _minor_ poet."
Here Rinda came in like a projectile, carrying a large box clasped in
her arms. "Jess lef'! 'Spress!" she exclaimed excitedly.
"Express?" repeated Mrs. Franklin, trying to make out the address
without her glasses. "Read it, Ruth."
Ruth looked at the label, and then broke into another laugh. She had
hardly recovered from the preceding one, and Chase, with amusement,
watched her start off again. But he soon found himself surrounded by
laughers a second time.
"Why, what's wrong with it?" he asked, seeing that it was the label
which excited their mirth. And in his turn he examined it. "Miss Ruth
Franklin, Lommy Dew, Asheville? That's right, isn't it? Isn't Lommy Dew
the name of your place?"
Rinda meanwhile, wildly curious, had been opening the box by main force
with the aid of the poker. She now uncovered a huge cluster of hot-house
roses, packed in moss.
"Flowers? Who could have sent them?" said Mrs. Franklin, surprised. She
had no suspicion of her present guest; her thoughts had turned towards
some of their old friends at the North. But Ruth, happening to catch the
look in Horace Chase's eyes as he glanced for an instant at the
blossoms, not so much admiringly as critically, exclaimed:
"_You_ sent them, Mr. Chase. How perfectly lovely!"
"I'm afraid they're not much," Chase answered. "I thought they'd send
more." He had wished to show that he appreciated the invitations to
L'Hommedieu, and as, according to his idea, it was the young lady of the
family to whom it was proper to pay such attentions, he had ordered the
box to be sent to Ruth rather than to Mrs. Franklin or Dolly.
Ruth's laugh had stopped. She was passionately fond of hot-house
flowers, and now both her hands together could hardly encircle even the
stems alone of these superb tea-roses, whose gorgeous masses filled her
arms as she raised them. With a quick movement she buried her face in
the soft petals.
"But, I say, what was wrong with this?" asked Chase a second time, as he
again looked at the label.
"L'Hommedieu is a French name--" began Dolly.
But Ruth interrupted her: "It is an ugly old French name, Mr. Chase, and
as it is pronounced, in America at least, exactly as you wrote it, I
think it might as well be spelled so, too. At present, however, this is
the way--the silly way." And holding her flowers with her left arm, she
detached her right hand, and scribbled the name on the edge of the
Raleigh paper.
"Ah!" said Chase, looking at it. "I don't speak French myself. I thought
perhaps it had something to do with dew." And frowning a little, a frown
of attention, he spelled the word over.
An old negro woman, her head covered with a red kerchief folded like a
turban, now came stiffly in with the coffee-tray, her stiffness being
an angry dignity. It was Zoe, the cook, tired of waiting for Rinda, who,
still in the parlor, was occupied in gazing with friendly interest at
the roses. "Lawdy--ef I ain't clean ferget!" remarked the waitress,
genially, to the company in general.
"You clar out, good-fer-nutt'n nigger!" muttered the offended cook, in
an undertone to her coadjutor.
With the tray, or rather behind it, a lady came in.
"Just in time for coffee, Genevieve," remarked Dolly, cheerfully.
"Thanks; I do not take it at night," Genevieve answered.
This was a dialogue often repeated in one form or another, for Dolly
kept it up. The younger Mrs. Franklin did not like evening dinners, and
Dolly even maintained that her sister-in-law thought them wicked. "She
sees a close connection between a late dinner with coffee after it, and
the devil." The Franklins had always dined at the close of the day, for
the elder Jared Franklin, having been the editor of a daily paper, had
found that hour the most convenient one. The editor was gone; his family
had moved from the North to the South, and life for them was changed in
many ways; but his habit of the evening dinner they had never altered.
The younger Mrs. Franklin greeted Chase cordially. Dolly listened,
hoping to hear her call him "Horrie." But Genevieve contented herself
with giving him her hand, and some frank words of welcome. Genevieve
was always frank. And in all she said and did, also, she was absolutely
sincere. She was a beautiful woman with golden hair, fair skin, regular
features, and ideally lovely eyes; her tall figure was of Juno-like
proportions. Chase admired her, that was evident. But Dolly (who was
noting this) had long ago discovered that men always admired her
sister-in-law. In addition to her beauty, Genevieve had a sweet voice,
and an earnest, half-appealing way of speaking. She was appealing to
Chase now. "There is to be an entertainment at the rink to-night,
Horace, for the benefit of the Mission; won't you go? I hope so. And,
mamma, that is what I have come over for; to tell you about it, and beg
you to go also." She had seated herself beside Chase; but, as she said
these last words, she put out her hand and laid it affectionately on
Mrs. Franklin's shoulder.
"I believe I am to have the pleasure of spending the evening here?"
Chase answered, making a little bow towards his hostess.
"But if mamma herself goes to the rink, as I am sure she will, then
won't you accompany her? The Mission and the Colored Home, Horace,
are--"
But here Chase, like a madman, made a sudden bound, and grasped the top
of Miss Billy Breeze's head.
Quick as his spring had been, however, Ruth's was quicker. She pulled
his hands away. "Don't hurt him! _Don't!_"
But the squirrel was not under Chase's fingers; he had already escaped,
and, running down the front of Miss Billy's dress (to her unspeakable
terror), he now made another leap, and landed on Dolly's arm, where Ruth
caught him.
"What in creation is it?" said Chase, who had followed. "A bird? Or a
mouse?"
"Mouse!" said Ruth, indignantly. "It's Bob, my dear little
flying-squirrel; I saw him on the cornice, but I thought he would fly to
me. It's amazing that any one can possibly be afraid of the darling,"
she added, with a reproachful glance towards Miss Billy, who was still
cowering. "I had him when he was nothing but a baby, Mr. Chase--he had
fallen from his nest--and I have brought him up myself. Now that he is
getting to be a big boy, he naturally likes to fly about a little. He
cannot be always climbing his one little tree in the dining-room. He is
so soft and downy. Look at his bright eyes." Here she opened her hand so
that Chase could see her pet. "Would you like to hold him for a moment?"
"Oh, I'll look at _you_ holding him," answered Chase. "Hollo! here's
another." For Petie Trone, Esq., his jealousy roused by his mistress's
interest in the squirrel, had come out from under the sofa, and was now
seated on his hind-legs at the edge of her dress, begging. "Wouldn't you
like an owl?" Chase suggested. "Or a 'possum? A 'coon might be tamed, if
caught young."
Ruth walked away, offended.
This made him laugh still more as he returned to his place beside
Genevieve.
"She is only eighteen," murmured the younger Mrs. Franklin,
apologetically. Her words were covered by a rapturous "Gen'lem!" from
Rinda at the door. For Rinda was always perfectly delighted to see
anybody; when, therefore, there were already two or three guests, and
still another appeared, her voice became ecstatic. The new-comer was
Anthony Etheridge.
"How fortunate!" said Genevieve. "For it makes another for our little
charity party. There is to be an impromptu entertainment at the rink
to-night, commodore, for the benefit of the Mission, and mamma is going,
I hope. Won't you accompany her? Let me introduce Mr. Chase--a very old
friend of mine. Mr. Chase, Commodore Etheridge."
"Happy to meet you," said Chase, rising in order to shake hands.
"Gen'lem!" called Rinda again; this time fairly in a yell.
The last "gen'lem" was a slender man of thirty-five, who came in with
his overcoat on. "Thanks; I did not take it off," he said, in answer to
Mrs. Franklin, "because I knew that you were all going to the"--(here
Ruth gave a deep cough)--"because I thought it possible that you might
be going to the rink to-night," he went on, changing the form of his
sentence, with a slight smile; "and in that case I hoped to accompany
you."
"Yes," said Genevieve, "mamma is going, Mr. Larue. I only wish I could
go, also."
The cheeks of Miss Billy Breeze had become flushed with rose-color as
the new-comer entered. Noticing instantly the change he had made in his
sentence when Ruth coughed, she at once divined that the girl had gone,
bareheaded and in the darkness, to his residence during that long
absence before dinner, in order to secure his co-operation in the frolic
of the evening. Ruth had, in fact, done this very thing; for nothing
amused her so much as to watch Billy herself when Larue was present. The
girl was now wicked enough to carry on her joke a little longer. "I am
_so_ sorry, Miss Billy, that you do not care to go," she said,
regretfully.
Miss Billy passed her handkerchief over her mouth and tried to smile.
But she was, in fact, winking to keep back tears.
And then Mrs. Franklin, always kind-hearted, came to the rescue. "Did
you tell Ruth that you could not go, Billy? Change your mind, my dear;
change it to please _me_."
"Oh, if _you_ care about it, dear Mrs. Franklin," murmured Billy,
escaping, and hurrying happily up the stairs to put on her wraps.
The rink was a large, bare structure of wood, with a circular arena for
roller-skating. This evening the place was lighted, and the gallery was
occupied by the colored band. The members of this band, a new
organization, had volunteered their services with the heartiest
good-will. It was true that they could play (without mistakes) but one
selection, namely, "The lone starry hours give me, love." But they
arranged this difficulty by playing it first, softly; then as a solo on
the cornet; then fortissimo, with drums; by means of these alterations
it lasted bravely throughout the evening. Nearly the whole village was
present; the promenade was crowded, and there were many skaters on the
floor below. The Rev. Malachi Hill, the originator of the entertainment,
was distributing programmes, his face beaming with pleasure as he
surveyed the assemblage. Presently he came to the party from
L'Hommedieu. "Programmes, Mrs. Franklin? Programmes, gentlemen?" He had
written these programmes himself, in his best handwriting. "The
performance will soon begin," he explained. "The procession will skate
round the arena five times, and afterwards most of the characters will
join in a reel--" Here some one called him, and he hastened off.
Chase, who had received a programme, looked at it in a business-like
way. "Christopher Columbus," he read aloud; "Romeo and Juliet; the
Muses, Calliope, and--and others," he added, glancing down the list.
His Calliope had rhymed with hope, and a gleam of inward entertainment
showed itself for one instant in the eyes of Etheridge and Larue. Ruth
saw this scintillation; instantly she crossed to Chase's side, as he
still studied the programme, and bending to look at it, said, "Please,
may I see too?"
"Oh! I thought you had one," said Chase, giving her the sheet of paper.
"The Muses," read Ruth again, aloud. "Cally-ope," she went on, giving
the word Chase's pronunciation. "And Terp-si-core." She made this name
rhyme with "more." Then, standing beside her new acquaintance, she
glared at the remainder of the party, defiantly.
Mrs. Franklin was so much overcome by this performance of her daughter's
that she was obliged to turn away to conceal her laughter.
"What possesses her--the witch!" asked Etheridge, following.
"It is only because she thinks I don't like him. He has given her those
magnificent roses, and so she intends to stand up for him. I never know
whom she will fancy next. Do look at her now!"
"I am afraid you have spoiled her," commented Etheridge, but joining in
the mother's laugh himself, as he caught a glimpse of Ruth starting off,
with high-held head and firm step, to walk with Chase round the entire
promenade.
Owing to this sudden departure, Miss Billy Breeze found herself
unexpectedly alone with Larue. She was so much excited by this state of
things that at first she could hardly speak. How many times, during this
very month, had she arranged with herself exactly what she should say if
such an opportunity should be given her. Her most original ideas, her
most beautiful thoughts (she kept them written out in her diary),
should be summoned to entertain him. The moment had come. And this is
what she actually did say: "Oh!" (giggle), "how pretty it is, isn't it?"
(Giggle.) "Really a most beautiful sight. So interesting to see so many
persons, and all so happy, is it not? I don't know when I've seen
anything lovelier. Yes, indeed--_lovely_. But I hope you won't take
cold, Mr. Larue? Really, now, do be careful. One takes cold so easily;
and then it is sometimes so hard to recover." With despair she heard
herself bringing out these inanities. "I hope you are not in a draught?"
she wandered on. "Colds are _so_ tiresome."
And now, with a loud burst from the band, the procession issued from an
improvised tent at the end of the building. First came Christopher
Columbus at the head; then Romeo and Juliet; the Muses, three and three;
George Washington and his wife, accompanied by Plato and a shepherdess;
other personages followed, and all were mounted on roller-skates, and
were keeping time to the music as well as they could. Then the rear was
closed by a single American Indian in a complete costume of
copper-colored tights, with tomahawk, war-paint, and feathers.
This Indian, as he was alone, was conspicuous; and when he skated into
the brighter light, there came from that part of the audience which was
nearest to him, a sound of glee. The sound, however, was instantly
suppressed. But it rose again as he sailed majestically onward, in long
sweeps to the right and the left, his head erect, his tomahawk
brandished; it increased to mirth which could not be stifled. For nature
having given to this brave slender legs, the costume-maker had supplied
a herculean pair of calves, and these appendages had shifted their
position, and were now adorning the front of each limb at the knee, the
chieftain meanwhile remaining unconscious of the accident, and
continuing to perform his part with stateliness at the end of the
skating line. Ruth, with her hands dropping helplessly by her side,
laughed until her mother came to her. Mrs. Franklin herself was laughing
so that she could hardly speak. But Ruth's laughs sometimes were almost
dangerous; they took such complete possession of her.
"Give her your arm and make her walk up and down," said Mrs. Franklin to
Etheridge.
And Etheridge took the girl under his charge.
Chase, who had grinned silently each time the unsuspecting Moose came
into view (for the procession had passed round the arena three times),
now stepped down to the skating-floor as he approached on his fourth
circuit, and stopped him. There was a short conference, and then, amid
peals of mirth, the Moose looked down, and for the first time discovered
the aspect of his knees. Chase signalled to the band to stop.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "this Indian was not aware of his
attractions." (Applause.)
"But now that he knows what they are, he will take part in the reel
(which he had not intended to do), and he will take part _as he is_! For
the benefit of the Mission, ladies and gentlemen. The hat will be passed
immediately afterwards." Signing to the musicians to go on again, he
conducted the chief to the space which had been left free for the reel,
and then, when the other couples had skated to their places, he led off
with his companion in a sort of quickstep (as he had no skates); and it
is safe to say that North Carolina had never beheld so original a dance
as that which followed (to the inexhaustible "Starry Hours" played as a
jig). Chase and the Indian led and reled. Finally Chase, with his hat
tilted back on his head, and his face extremely solemn, balanced with
his partner, taking so much pains with remarkable fancy steps, which
were immediately imitated by the Indian's embossed legs, that the entire
audience was weak from its continuous mirth. Then removing his hat,
Chase made the rounds, proffering it with cordial invitation to all:
"For the Mission, ladies and gentlemen. For _Big Moose's_ Mission."
Big Moose, on his way home later (in his clergyman's attire this time),
was so happy that he gave thanks. He would have liked, indeed, to chant
a gloria. For the Mission was very near his heart, and from its
beginning it had been so painfully fettered by poverty that, several
times, he had almost despaired. But now that magic hat had brought to
the struggling little fund more than it had ever dreamed of possessing;
for underneath the dimes and the quarters of Asheville had laid a fat
roll, a veritable Golconda roll of greenbacks. But one person could have
given this roll, namely, the one stranger, Horace Chase.