A week later, early in the evening, a four-horse stage was coming slowly
down the last mile or two of road above the little North Carolina
village of Old Fort at the eastern base of the Blue Ridge. It was a
creaking, crazy vehicle, thickly encrusted with red clay. But as it had
pounded all the way from Asheville by the abominable mountain-road, no
doubt it had cause to be vociferous and tarnished. Above, the stars were
shining brightly; and the forest also appeared to be starlit, owing to
the myriads of fire-flies that gleamed like sparks against the dark
trees.
A man who was coming up the road hailed the stage as it approached.
"Hello! Is Mr. Hill inside? The Rev. Mr. Hill of Asheville?"
"Yes," answered a voice from the back seat of the vehicle, and a head
appeared at the window. "What--Mr. Chase? Is that you?" And, opening the
door, Malachi Hill, with his bag in his hand, jumped out.
"I came up the road, thinking I might meet you," Horace Chase explained.
"Let's walk; there's something I want to talk over." They went on
together, leaving the stage behind. "I've got a new idea," Chase began.
"What do you say to going up to New York to get my wife? I had intended
to go for her myself, as you know, starting from here to-night, as soon
as I had put the other ladies in your charge, to take back to Asheville.
But Mrs. Franklin looks pretty bad; and Dolly--she might have one of her
attacks. And, take it altogether, I've begun to feel that it's my
business to go with 'em all the way. For it's a long drive over the
mountains at best, and though the night's fine so far, there's no moon,
and the road is always awful. I have four men from Raleigh along--the
undertaker (who is a damn fool, always talking), and his assistants; and
so there'll be four teams--a wagon, the two carriages, and the hearse. I
guess I know the most about horses, and if you can fix it so as to take
my place, I'll see 'em through."
"Certainly. I am anxious to help in any way you think best," answered
Malachi. "I wish I could start at once! But the stage is so late
to-night that, of course, the train has gone?"
"That's just it--I kept it," Chase answered; "I knew one of us would
want to take it. You'll have to wait over at Salisbury in the usual
stupid way. But as Ruth can't be here in time for the funeral, it's not
of vital importance. The only thing that riles me is that, owing to that
confounded useless wait, you can't be on the dock to meet her when her
steamer comes in at New York; you won't be able to get there in time.
There'll be people, of course--I've telegraphed. But no one she knows
as well as she knows you."
Reaching the village, they walked quickly towards the railroad and
finished their talk as they stood beside the waiting train. There was no
station, the rails simply came to an end in the main street. A small
frame structure, which bore the inscription "Blue Ridge Hotel," faced
the end of the rails.
"He's in there," said Chase, in a low tone, indicating a lighted window
of this house; "that room on the ground-floor. And the old lady--she is
sitting there beside him. She is quiet, she doesn't say anything. But
she just sits there."
"Mrs. Jared and Miss Dolly are with her, aren't they?" said the young
clergyman.
"Well, Dolly is keeping Gen in the other room across the hall as much as
she _can_. For Dolly tells me that her mother likes best to sit there
alone. Women, you know, about their sons--sometimes they're queer!"
remarked Chase.
"The mother's love--yes," Malachi answered, his voice uncertain for a
moment. He swallowed. "There isn't a man who doesn't feel, sooner or
later, after it has gone, that he hasn't prized it half enough--that it
was the best thing he had! It was brain-fever, wasn't it?" he went on,
hurriedly, to cover his emotion. For he, too, had been an only son.
"Yes, and bad. He was raving; he knocked down one of the doctors. After
the fever left him, it was just possible, they told me, that he might
have pulled through, if he had only been stronger. But he was played out
to begin with; I discovered that myself as soon as I reached Raleigh.
Gen got there in time to see him. But the old lady was too late; and
pretty hard lines for her! She kept telegraphing from different stations
as she and Dolly hurried up from Charleston; and I did my best to
hearten her by messages that met her here and there; but she missed it.
By only half an hour. When I saw that it had come--that he was sinking
and she wouldn't find him alive--I went out and just cursed, cursed the
luck! For Gen had his last words, and everything. And his poor old
mother had nothing at all."
Here the conductor came up.
"Ready?" said Chase. "All right, here's your through ticket, Hill--the
one I bought for myself. And inside the envelope is a memorandum, with
the number and street of our house in New York, and other items. I'm no
end obliged to you for going." They shook hands cordially. "When you
come back, don't let my wife travel straight through," added the
husband. "Make her stop over and sleep."
"I'll do my best," answered Hill, as the train started. In deference to
the mourning party which it had brought westward, there was no whistle,
no ringing of the bell; the locomotive moved quietly away, and the
clergyman, standing on the rear platform, holding on by the handle of
the door, watched as long as he could see it the lighted window of the
room where lay all that was mortal of Jared Franklin.
An hour later the funeral procession started up the mountain. First,
there was a wagon, with the undertaker and his three assistants. Then
followed the large, heavy hearse drawn by four horses. Next came a
carriage containing Mrs. Franklin and Dolly; and, finally, a second
carriage for Genevieve and Horace Chase.
"Poor mamma is sadly changed," commented Genevieve to her companion.
"She insisted upon being left alone with the remains at the hotel, you
know; and now she wishes her carriage to be as near the hearse as
possible. Fortunately, these things are very unimportant to me, Horace.
I do not feel, as they do, that Jay is _here_. My husband has gone--gone
to a better world. He knew that he was going; he said good-bye to me so
tenderly. He was always so--_so_ kind." And covering her face, Genevieve
gave way to tears.
"Yes, he thought the world and all of you, Gen. There's no doubt about
that," Chase answered.
He did full justice to the sobbing woman by his side. He was more just
to her than her husband's family had ever been, or ever could be; he had
known her as a child, and he comprehended that according to her nature
and according to her unyielding beliefs as to what was best, she had
tried to be a good wife. In addition (as he was a man himself), he
thought that it was to her credit that her husband had always been fond
of her, that he had remained devoted to her to the last. "That doesn't
go for nothing!" he said to himself.
The ascent began. The carriages plunged into holes and lurched out of
them; they jolted across bits of corduroy; now and then, when the track
followed a gorge, they forded a brook. The curves were slippery, owing
to the red clay. Then, without warning, in the midst of mud would come
an unexpected sharp grind of the wheels over an exposed ledge of bare
rock. Before midnight clouds had obscured the stars and it grew very
dark. But the lamps on the carriages burned brightly, and a negro was
sent on in advance carrying a pitch-pine torch.
In the middle of the night, at the top of the pass, there was a halt.
Chase had made Genevieve comfortable with cushions and shawls, and soon
after their second start she fell asleep. Perceiving this, he drew up
the window on her side, and then, opening the carriage-door softly, he
got out; it was easy to do it, as all the horses were walking. Making a
detour through the underbrush, so that he should not be seen by Mrs.
Franklin and Dolly in case they were awake, he appeared by the side of
the hearse.
"Don't stop," he said to the driver, in a low tone; "I'm going to get up
there beside you." He climbed up and took the reins. "I'll drive the
rest of the way, or at least as far as the outskirts of the town. For
between here and there are all the worst places. You go on and join that
fellow in front. You might carry a second torch; you'll find some in the
wagon."
The driver of the hearse, an Asheville negro, who knew Chase, gave up
his seat gladly. There were bad holes ahead, and there was a newly
mended place which was a little uncertain; he would not have minded
taking the stage over that place (none of the Blue Ridge drivers minded
taking the stage anywhere), but he was superstitious about a hearse.
"Fo' de Lawd, I'm glad to be red of it!" he confided to the other negro,
as they went on together in advance with their flaring torches. "It
slips an' slews when dey ain't no 'casion! Sump'n mighty quare 'bout it,
I tell you _dat_!"
Presently the plateau came to an end, and the descent began. Rain was
now falling. The four vehicles moved slowly on, winding down the zigzags
very cautiously in the darkness, slipping and swaying as they went.
After half an hour of this progress, the torch-bearers in front came
hurrying back to give warning that the rain had loosened the temporary
repairs of the mended place, so that its edge had given away; for about
one hundred and forty yards, therefore, the track was dangerously narrow
and undefended, with the sheer precipice on one side and the high cliff
on the other; in addition, the roadway slanted towards this verge, and
the clay was very slippery.
Chase immediately sent word back to the drivers of the carriages behind
to advance as slowly as was possible, but not to stop, for that might
waken the ladies; then, jumping down from the hearse, and leaving one of
the negroes in charge of his team, he hurried forward to make a personal
inspection. The broken shelf, without its parapet, certainly looked
precarious; so much so that the driver of the wagon, when he came up,
hesitated. Chase, ordering him down, took his place, and drove the wagon
across himself. Whereupon the verbose undertaker began to thank him.
"Don't worry; I didn't do it for _you_" answered Chase, grimly. "If
you'd gone over, you'd have carried away more of the track; that was
all." Going back, he resumed his place on the hearse. Then speaking to
his horses, he guided them on to the shelf. Here he stood, in order to
see more clearly, the men on the far side watching him breathlessly, and
trying meanwhile (at a safe distance) to aid him as much as they could,
by holding their torches high. The ponderous hearse began to slip by its
own weight towards the verge. Then, with strong hand, Chase sent his
team sharply towards the cliff that towered above them, and kept them
grinding against it as they advanced, the two on the inside fairly
rubbing the rock, until, by main strength, the four together had dragged
their load away. But in a minute or two it began over again. It happened
not once merely, but four times. And, the last time, the hind wheels
slipped so far, in spite of Chase's efforts, that it seemed as if they
would inevitably go over, and drag the struggling horses with them. But
Chase was as bold a driver as he was speculator. How he inspired them,
the horror-stricken watchers could not discover; but the four bays,
bounding sharply round together, sprang in a heap, as it were, at the
rocky wall on the left, the leaders rearing, the others on top of them;
and by this wild leap, the wheels (one of them was already over) were
violently jerked away. It was done at last; the dark, ponderous car
stood in safety on the other side, and the spectators, breathing again,
rubbed down the wet horses. Then Horace Chase went back on foot, and, in
turn, drove the two carriages across. Through these last two transits
not a word was spoken by any one; he mounted soundlessly, so that
Genevieve slept on undisturbed, and Mrs. Franklin and Dolly, unaware of
the danger or of the new hand on the reins, continued to gaze vaguely at
the darkness outside, their thoughts pursuing their own course. Finally,
leaving one of the negroes on guard to warn other travellers of the
wash-out and its perils, Chase resumed his place on the hearse, and the
four vehicles continued their slow progress down the mountain.
After a while, the first vague clearness preceding dawn appeared; the
rain ceased. Happening to turn his head fifteen minutes later, he was
startled to see, in the dim light, the figure of a woman beside the
hearse. It was Mrs. Franklin. The road was now smoother, and she walked
steadily on, keeping up with the walk of the horses. As the light grew
clearer, she saw who the driver was, and her eyes met his with
recognition. But her rigid face seemed to have no power for further
expression; it was set in lines that could not alter. Chase, on his
side, bowed gravely, taking off his hat; and he did not put it on again,
he left it on the seat by his side. He made no attempt to stop her, to
persuade her to return to her carriage; he recognized the presence of
one of those moods which, when they take possession of a woman, no power
on earth can alter.
As they came to the first outlying houses of Asheville, he gave up his
place to the negro driver, and getting down on the other side of the
hearse, away from Mrs. Franklin, he went back for a moment to Dolly.
"You must let her do it! _Don't_ try to prevent her," Dolly said,
imperatively, in a low tone, the instant she saw him at the carriage
door.
"I'm not thinking of preventing her," Chase answered. Waiting until the
second carriage passed, he looked in; Genevieve was still asleep. Then,
still bareheaded, he joined Mrs. Franklin, and, without speaking, walked
beside her up the long, gradual ascent which leads into the town.
The sun now appeared above the mountains; early risers coming to their
windows saw the dreary file pass--the wagon and the two carriages, heavy
with mud; the hearse with four horses, and the mother walking beside
it. As they reached the main street, Chase spoke. "The Cottage?"
"No; home," Mrs. Franklin answered. As the hearse turned into the
driveway of L'Hommedieu, she passed it, and, going on in advance, opened
the house door; here, waving away old Zoe and Rinda, who came hurrying
to meet her, she waited on the threshold until the men had lifted out
the coffin; then, leading the way to the sitting-room, she pointed to
the centre of the floor.
"Oh, not to _our_ house?" Genevieve whispered, as she alighted, her eyes
full of tears.
But Dolly, to whom she spoke, limped in without answering, and Mrs.
Franklin paid no more heed to her daughter-in-law, who had followed her,
than as though she did not exist. Genevieve, quivering from her grief,
turned to Horace Chase.
He put his arm round her, and led her from the sitting-room. "Give way
to her, Gen," he said, in a low tone. "She isn't well--don't you see it?
She isn't herself; she has been walking beside that hearse for the last
hour! Let her do whatever she likes; it's her only comfort. And now I am
going to take you straight home, and you must go to bed; if you don't,
you won't be able to get through the rest--and you wouldn't like that.
I'll come over at noon and arrange with you about the funeral; to-morrow
morning will be the best time, won't it?" And half leading, half
carrying her, for Genevieve was now crying helplessly, he took her
home.
When he came back, Dolly was in the hall, waiting for him.
There was no one in the sitting-room save Mrs. Franklin; he could see
her through the half-open door. She was sitting beside the coffin, with
her head against it, and one arm laid over its top. Her dress was
stained with mud; she had not taken off her bonnet; her gloves were
still on. Dolly closed the door, and shut out the sight.
"You ought to see to her; she must be worn out," Chase said,
expostulatingly.
"I'll do what I can," Dolly answered. "But mother has now no desire to
live--that will be the difficulty. She loves Ruth, and she loves me. But
not in the same way. Her father, her husband, and her son--these have
been mother's life. And now that the last has gone, the last of the
three men she adored, she doesn't care to stay. That is what she is
thinking now, as she sits there."
"Come, you can't possibly know what she is thinking," Chase answered,
impatiently.
"I always know what is in mother's mind; I wish I didn't!" said Dolly,
her features working convulsively for a moment. Then she controlled
herself. "I am sorry you came all the way back with us, Mr. Chase. It
wasn't necessary as far as _we_ were concerned. We could have crossed
the mountain perfectly well without you. But Ruth--that is another
affair, and I wish you had gone for her yourself, instead of sending Mr.
Hill! You must be prepared to see Ruth greatly changed. I should not be
surprised if she should arrive much broken, and even ill. She was very
fond of Jared. She will be overwhelmed--" Here, feeling that she was
saying too much, the elder sister abruptly disappeared.
Chase, left alone, went out to see to the horses. The men were waiting
at the gate, the carriages and the hearse were drawn up at a little
distance; the undertaker and his assistants were standing in the garden.
"Get your breakfast at the hotel; I'll send for you presently," he said
to the latter. Then he paid the other men, and dismissed them. "You go
and tell whoever has charge, to have that bad bit of road put in order
to-day," he directed. "Tell them to send up a hundred hands, if
necessary. I'll pay the extra."