Chapter VIII: 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.”