VII
THE FUNERAL OCCASION
Afterthe first month of the women's stay on Troublesome, there was a change in their daily programme, on account of the beginning of the public-school term the fourth week in July.
The school at The Forks was taught by Giles Kent, Uncle Ephraim's grandson and Darcy's cousin—a quiet, studious young man, who had been all along the most voracious reader of the brought-on books. When his school opened, with nearly two hundred scholars of all ages, and grades from first to eighth, to instruct in the threeR's, and only one pupil-assistant to help him, he was only too glad to have the women continue their singing, sewing, and cooking classes in connection with his work. Cynthia Fallon offered the use of two rooms in her hotel, opposite the schoolhouse; various citizens lent tables, chairs, a stove, and tinware; and the cooking teacher established herself in one hotel room, while in the other Amy, assisted by Isabel, taught sewing, Isabel also going over to the schoolhouse every morning for an opening half-hour of singing. The kindergarten was still held on the hill all morning; and after school the young folks still gathered there for the play-hour, and often came up again after supper for a "sing."
This left the heads of the work—Amy and Virginia—with their afternoons free for their cherished plan of visiting every home in the county within a radius of ten or twelve miles. They intended, first, walking to all not farther than six miles; and, later, riding to more distant ones.
The only disadvantage about the new arrangement was that it provided no occupation for the young men, Fult and his crowd, and Darcy and his, who had been so assiduous in their attendance upon cooking, sewing, and singing classes on the hill.
Uncle Ephraim was troubled. "Hit is bad," he said; "the onliest way to keep them boys civil is to keep 'em busy. They won't go to school, where they need to be, with their sorry store of larning; and soon as time gets to laying heavy on their hands, they'll likely go back to stilling and drinking and shooting. I hain't so afeared for Darcy—he's got his mind so sot on the cook, he's aiming to keep peace if he sees any chanct; but hit's ontelling what Fult's crowd may do."
Amy spoke to Fult on the subject the evening he brought Isabel back from hearing Aunt Ailsie sing the devil's ditties.
"It would distress us deeply," she said, "if you young men got into bad ways just because after to-day there's nothing more going on up here to keep you interested."
"Don't have no fears," he replied; "there'll beno drinking or shooting long as you women stay with us. As for me and Charlie and t'other boys, we have us a job of getting out timber down on my land; but we'll be in here reg'lar of an evening for the play-parties, and of a night for the sings, you can depend."
He was true to his word. In mid-afternoon he and his friends rode in from his farm a mile down Troublesome, and stayed on the hill until supper-time, coming up again an hour later for the singing; and when the rest of the crowd left at eight, Fult always made some excuse to remain for an additional half hour—usually it was to teach Isabel a new ballad. Darcy Kent often lingered a while, too, talking with the cooking teacher; but the two enemies apparently never saw each other at such times.
There was a period in mid-morning when Amy taught the old folks on the shady hotel-porch, and when Isabel had nothing to do. On Thursday of the first week, she was in the sewing-room, writing letters home. She was in the midst of one to Thomas Vance, giving a graphic account of the young feud leader and his dash and charm,—she always told Thomas everything,—when voices on the back porch penetrated to her consciousness. Cynthia Fallon was saying, in her sharp tones:—
"No, Lethie don't never go up the hill to the play-parties no more, and hit's no wonder!"
Aunt Ailsie, who had evidently finished her primer lesson and joined her daughter for a while, replied: "She allowed to me, that day I started on my A B C's, that hit was her clothes—she said they looked so quare atter the singing gal come in, she didn't aim to shame Fulty by playing pardners with him no more. She said she'd give nigh her life to have some clothes that sot as good on her as the singing gal's."
"Clothes!" jeered Cynthia. "The reason she hain't been on that hill for nigh two weeks is because Fulty hain't never seed her nor heared her nor thought of her sence that air singing gal come in. He's pure franzied about her—hain't got eyes nor years for nobody else, and done forgot Lethie time out of mind. Man-like," she added, bitterly; "hit's allus the newest face with them. Hit was with his paw. And, of course, there's allus females laying wait to take 'em from their rightful women."
"The singing gal hain't one of 'em," spoke up Aunt Ailsie, with warmth; "I'll be bound she hain't got no idee Fulty and Lethie been a-talking for nigh two year, and would have married afore now if Lethie'd a-been minded to leave her paw's young-uns. Or else she don't see Fulty's manœuvres. Not that he likely means anything by hit; and I don't know as a body can blame him for liking pretty people—I like 'em myself. And as forFighting Fult, Cynthy, if you had a-just helt yourself in, and been kindly blind-like, and not give him a tongue-lash every time he cast a seeing eye on a fair-looker, hit's my opinion life would have run a sight smoother for both, and he wouldn't have done the wandering he done. Faulting a man kindly aggs him on, 'pears like."
"Yes, lay hit all on me!" exclaimed Cynthia, angrily.
Isabel, shocked at what she had heard,—for though she had seen Lethie on the hill the first day or two, noticed her devotion to her baby brother, and been struck by her beauty, she had not known that Lethie and Fult were sweethearts, or been aware of her later absence,—rose at once, and went straight across the street to Madison Lee's store, and up the stairway on the outside.
A startled, but smiling Lethie, with little Madison in her arms, answered her knock and invited her in.
"I can't stay just now," said Isabel; "I ran over just between classes, to ask why you don't come over to our sewing lessons? The older girls are learning to make simple dresses now, and I believe you would like that, wouldn't you? And I would so gladly help you, not only in class but at other times; for I know how busy you must be kept with your father's house and all the children on your hands. Suppose we run down right now to your father'sstore and pick out a dress, and maybe I'll have time to cut it out before I leave."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Lethie, her large gray eyes starry; "oh, nobody knows how I have pined for pretty frocks; but I never knowed how to make 'em."
She looked down apologetically at her faded blue cotton dress.
"And another thing," smiled Isabel: "you must have not only sewing lessons, but singing lessons—special ones, all by yourself. For since you and Fult are sweethearts, and to be married some day, and he is so very fond of music,—of course that is why he has been on the hill so much,—it is your duty to learn the things that will give him happiness. And now let's go down and find the dress."
From a miscellaneous stock of saddles, bridles, ploughshares, hardware, salt, coffee, sugar, crackers, and stick candy in glass jars, they finally extracted several bolts of gingham and calico, and selected the prettiest. Going up again, Isabel quickly cut out the dress, and pinned it on Lethie.
"I'll run up again and finish this after dinner," she said, "and to-morrow you can begin another in class. I wonder, Lethie, if you know how pretty you are? You ought to be dressed in silks and gossamers all the time, like a fairy princess."
A rosy flush dyed Lethie's milk-white skin. "Inever had no looks," she said. "You are the one that's pretty—the prettiest ever I seed!"
"In a beauty-show I'd never for an instant hold a candle to you," said Isabel. "Do you mind taking your hair down and letting me see it before I go?"
Lethie unfastened the large knot tightly drawn to the back of her head, and her beautiful pale gold hair fell in a thick shower, almost to her knees.
"Truly a fairy princess!" said Isabel. "Now do you mind if I put it up for you as a fairy princess ought to wear hers?"
She plaited the shining tresses in two large braids, and, leaving the hair loose and waving about Lethie's face, wound the braids about her head coronet-fashion, then held the child off, and gazed at her.
"Lethie," she said, "when I go home, I'm going to take you with me and astonish the Blue Grass with your beauty. I mean it!" as Lethie looked at her breathless. "From this day I'm going to adopt you for a younger sister, and see that your looks are properly set off."
As soon as dinner was over, Isabel returned to work on the dress, and by four it was finished and on Lethie, as were also a pair of Isabel's white canvas shoes and white stockings. Before the two started up the hill together, Lethie gazed at her reflection in the little looking-glass on the porch, with a loudly beating heart.
Isabel managed to see Fult before the playing began.
"Lethie is here to-day," she said; "and must be your partner the first time, and at least half the others."
So Lethie was made happy again by seeing Fult come to claim her. And she was no longer afraid of shaming him. Joy flushed her cheeks. She hoped he would say something about her changed appearance; but when he seemed abstracted and failed to, she was not deeply disappointed. Her unselfish heart demanded very little. To be near him, and to catch Isabel's reassuring smile across the circle, filled her cup.
That evening after the "sing," when the others, Charlie and Charlotta, Thad and Ruby and Lethie were starting down, and Fult, banjo in hand, prepared to linger, Isabel told him that she would be too busy about other things to learn ballads that night, and he must hurry down with the others. He went, with a darkened brow.
The following days brought to him always the same bafflement. Isabel was as friendly and smiling as ever, but never by any chance or effort could he see her alone; Lethie was always on hand, and Isabel was especially solicitous, even affectionate, toward her.
He waited, however, in expectation of the ride they were to have together on Sunday, to a funeraloccasion over on Clinch. Several of the women, and some of the young folks from the village, were going in a party, for the first time deserting the Sunday School, which was to be conducted that day by just the kindergartner and the nurse, with Giles Kent's assistance.
The pleasure of the women in the trip was marred, however, by some shooting in the village the night before—the first since they had been settled on the hill. The nurse, coming up early in the morning, after sitting up with Polly Ainslee, who had typhoid, reported that it was not done by Fult and his crowd, as the women had at first feared, but by some of the very young boys, who had in some way gotten whiskey.
"Bob Ainslee came in the room where his mother was half dead with fever, and shot several times into the ceiling and then fell over on the other bed, too drunk to sit up," she said. "I wonder who is giving those boys liquor?"
When they went down to the hotel to mount their nags, Virginia spoke of the disturbance to Fult.
"I was so afraid at first it was your crowd," she said, "and so very thankful to hear it wasn't."
Fult flushed. "Had you forgot what I done to Charlie the Fourth of July?" he asked.
"I didn't really think you'd fail us," she said. "I wonder where those poor boys, Bob and the others, are getting whiskey?"
"I reckon they could find hit up most any hollow, now the corn is laid by," he said. "They ought to have sense enough not to take too much."
He had already noticed, and felt some surprise over the fact, that Lethie was in the crowd, saying her farewells to little Madison, who was to be kept by Cynthia Fallon. He knew that he had not asked her, or provided the nag. Silently he helped her, and the others, into their side-saddles; and, as soon as they had started, began to manœuvre so that he and Isabel should fall behind. But in vain. Nothing could detach her from Lethie's side.
After following Left Fork of Troublesome for a few miles, they went up a smaller branch, and then crossed a mountain. As they reached the "gap" in the ridge and looked down on the far side, a faint thread of song came up to them from the valley, increasing in volume as they descended; until, as they reached the burying-ground, on a little rise beside the creek, it became a rich, minor, hauntingly beautiful chorus of men's voices.
Hundreds of people were already gathered, some seated on rows of planks laid across logs in the shade, others wandering about on the outskirts. There were a number of small, latticed grave-houses; and with their backs to these, and facing the crowd, sat five preachers, on a special plank under a spreading beech.
When the party from The Forks took seats on a rear plank, Fult achieved a seat beside Isabel, only to have her, at the last moment, change, leaving Lethie between them. She did not see the angry glance he turned upon her.
As they were seated, the singing ceased, and one of the preachers, an old man with a kind face, arose and announced that this crowd was "mustered" and this meeting held for the purpose of "doing up" the funerals of four deceased persons—Elhannon Bowles, who had passed away the previous summer with the fever; his month-old child, who had died the year before; his old father, dead five years; and his mother, dead eight years.
Short biographies were then given of the four, beginning with the infant child, who had "gone home to glory with the choking-disease afore sin had ever smirched the whiteness of hits soul"; of the old father, who had "drapped dead all unthoughted" one day in the cornfield, ill-prepared, it was to be feared, for what awaited him; of the old mother, who had "allus fit the good fight, and passed on a-shouting"; and, finally, of Elhannon, whose future status would have been shrouded in some doubt had it not been for a vision of a "shining nag," which brightened his last moments and left hope in the bosoms of his bereaved widow and seven orphant offsprings.
"Yes, Ardely," he said, addressing the widow, who, in black sunbonnet and dress, occupied the front plank with her seven small children and a disconsolate-looking man, "you have a right hope of j'ining Elhannon again in the land where there hain't no widows or orphants, no sorrow or no parting or no tears, no fever or no choking-disease. Yes, I know all about hit, Ardely—twicet have I been along the lonesome road you now tread; twicet was I called upon to part with a fond companion, and to be paw and maw to my young-uns; two good women have I got in glory, and one in this mortal spere. I know how to sympathize with all widows, having been twicet a lone-lie widow myself, and a fair prospect, my present companion being puny-turned, of walking yet again in that vale of tears. Yes, Ardely, nobody knows better than me what hit is to have the heartstrings tore and frazzled, and the light of day everly put out, by affliction."
The widow bowed her head and wept loudly beneath the black sunbonnet, and the seven offsprings laid their heads on her lap or on one another's shoulders and joined in the lament, as did also a number of black-bonneted women on the front seats.
With the words, "I feel to take the hand of every widow here, man or woman, that has ever lost a dear companion," the preacher, stepping forward,offered a consoling hand, first to Ardelia, and then to all the other bereaved ones who pressed forward, the women weeping, the men silent, but with working faces, to clasp the understanding hands of one who could enter into the fellowship of their sufferings. The spectacle of human loss and sorrow, always a poignant one, was relieved and softened by the outpouring of this old man's sympathy and love.
With tears trickling down his own cheeks, the preacher then returned to his place, to begin, in a breathless singsong, a minute history of the death-bed scenes of his two companions. During these recitations, the weeping on all sides increased to such an extent that he was again impelled to come forward and shake hands all around to assuage the storm of feeling he had raised.
After returning to his place this time, it was with a different voice and manner that he spoke—sternly, and to the point.
"Hiram," he said, addressing the dejected-looking young man who sat with the widow and children, "hit now remains my duty to speak a few words of counsel and admonishment to you. Ardely here, not being able, as no lone woman is, to keep food in the mouths of seven young-uns and several head of property, tuck and married you at corn-planting time in Aprile, so's to have a manto make the crap for her. Hit is a mighty solemn thing for a man to take upon hisself sech a yoke as you have, and it behooves you often to examinate yourself and study on whether you are doing right by Elhannon's widow and orphants. Keep Elhannon's memory green, ricollect that, as him and you is now husbands-in-law, you must one day give account, not only to God Almighty, but to Elhannon hisself, for how you done his woman and young-uns. Elhannon allus had what might be called a fiery natur', and onless he's changed a sight, I'd hate to be in your shoes and face him, Hiram, on the Day of Judgment, if I didn't have a clear bill of quittance writ in the Book of Life. You allus was, as far as I knowed, a well-intended boy, and never done much meanness, and I hope you never will do no more.
"And now, people, I will give way, and take my seat, as there's four more preachers sp'iling for a chanct to talk. Will one of the brethering line out the old hime-tune, 'My head and stay is called away.'"
Again the volume of song, rich, minor, beautiful, rolled forth, and this time the "lined out" words were plainly audible:—
"My head and stay is called awayAnd I am left alone.My husband dear, who was so near,Is fled away and gone."Hit breaks my heart, 'tis hard to partWith one who was so kind.Where shall I go to ease my smart,Or heal my troubled mind?"Naught can I find to ease my mindIn things which are below.For earthly toys but vex my joysAnd aggravate my woe."
Nothing could have been better than the new husband's solemn, self-effacing manner during the singing. Not only did he appear entirely reconciled to being a "mere earthly toy," and playing second fiddle to Elhannon in both time and eternity, but also he seemed solicitous not to "aggravate" Ardelia's woe in any possible way.
The next preacher then flung off his coat, and launched into a vigorous exposition of the controversy between predestination and free will, which lasted for two hours. Many of the younger folks, and older ones, too, would quietly rise and take a rest-cure by promenading around through the trees for a while; but the real Old Primitives up in front, among them Uncle Lot, sat rapt and immovable throughout, strong doctrine being very meat and drink to their souls.
A third preacher discoursed for an hour upon the four beasts of Daniel's vision; a fourth for another hour upon nothing in particular; a fifth in his talk took a fling at "this here new-fangled,fotched-on notion of Sunday Schools, which fine-haired furriners has brung amongst us, and which I defy 'em to find mentioned from one eend of the Bible to t'other." In the discourses of the last four preachers, there were two things in common—each took a special singsong and preached to it, and not one of the four referred in the slightest way to the occasion for the meeting, or to any of the deceased persons.
Before the meeting broke, at three o'clock, the invitation was extended to all and singular to come to dinner with Ardelia, who had "cooked up" for a week, and was ready for all comers.
Much as the party from The Forks wanted to go to the dinner, they felt that it was too late. They mingled with the crowd for a short while, talking and handshaking, and hearing from various persons that it had been a "pretty meeting." Then, half-famished, they fell upon the lunch they had brought with them, and, as soon as possible afterward, started homeward.
Fult helped Isabel on her nag last of all, and in a low voice, with handsome, imploring eyes, begged her to let the others ride on and wait a minute for him.
She said, "All right," and called out: "Lethie, come back—Mr. Fallon wants us to wait a minute for him."
Fult, flinging himself on his nag, darted a furiousglance at her. A dark flush mounted to his very forehead. He rode beside the two girls in silence a few minutes, then quickened the pace until the three had caught up with the others. Just before the ascent of the mountain began, he jumped down, saying something about Isabel's saddle-girth, and did something to it, she could not see what.
He remounted, and they rode on as before, along the road as it wound around the lower part of the mountain. Then suddenly, at the first steep ascent, Isabel felt her girth give, her saddle slip from under her, and clutched wildly at her horse's mane.
Fult was at hand, and caught her before she could fall to the ground.
"Girt's broke," he said, "I allowed hit wasn't very safe. Anybody got a stout string, or a piece of ground-hog hide?"
Nobody had. "I'll have to ride back to that house nigh the burying-ground and get some," he said. "The rest of you go right on; you too, Lethie,—hit's getting late,—and me and Miss Isabel will catch up with you in just a little grain."
The others, including Lethie, rode on; and Isabel sat on a small bank alongside the road and waited for Fult, who was delayed somewhat longer than she had expected. At last he rode up, waving a string of ground-hog hide in his hand.
"Had to wait to cut the string off the hide," he explained.
He drew the saddle up on the bank beside her, and began to work at the girth. She watched him idly for a while, then suddenly leaned forward and took the girth from his hands.
"This girth was cut, not worn," she said, in an astonished voice.
Fult laughed, "Are you just finding hit out?" he said.
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
"You seed me get off and fix hit back there?"
"Yes," said Isabel, puzzled.
"Well, I cut hit then," he said, "nigh in two, not quite."
"You cut it—why?"
With anger gathering in his eyes, he dropped knife and string and slowly faced her. "Because," he said, "I've stood being treated this way as long as I aim to. For four days you hain't hardly looked at me or spoke to me; and when I try to talk to you, or sing to you, you all the time drag somebody else in,—Lethie or somebody,—so I don't never get a chance to be with you like I want to. And I'm tired of hit. I aim to talk to you, whether or no." His eyes blazed, his chest heaved.
"I don't think I just understand you," Isabel replied.
"Yes, you do," he exclaimed, angrily. "You seed, from the minute I laid eyes on you in that wagon down Troublesome, how things was withme—how I was plumb crazy about you, couldn't stay away from you a minute hardly, or get you off my mind day or night. You knowed hit as well as I did."
"I did not," replied Isabel, slowly. "I knew, or hoped, that you liked me, because I liked you immensely; but I didn't imagine that it was—the other thing."
"You was bound to," cried Fult. "Hit was there plain in my heart and my eyes for you to see. Hit wouldn't be possible for me to feel so much and you not know hit."
"I wasn't thinking of such matters. I came up here to work, not to have love-affairs. And, another thing, I didn't know anything about you and Lethie being sweethearts, or maybe I would have been more careful not to let you be with me so much."
"I thought that was hit," exulted Fult; "I allowed somebody had been telling you tales."
"No," said Isabel; "I simply overheard someone say how you had changed to Lethie; and then, of course, I was distressed to death over being a possible cause of suffering to her. It is really best, perhaps, that you and I should have this talk, and understand each other plainly. I want you to know that I won't permit this feeling you say you have for me to go on, or be spoken about, or even thought of. You must put it instantly out of yourmind, unless you want me to leave for home to-morrow; for I'll never stay here and be the cause of suffering to that beautiful child, who already carries so many burdens. Of course she is the one you truly love, deep down in your heart; you have loved her truly, haven't you?"
"I loved her all right, or thought I did, till you come in; then she seemed to me just like you said,—a child,—and I knowed you was the woman for me, the one I had allus heared tell of in song-ballats, and had drempt about all my life. I knowed hit the minute I seed you setting there in the wagon in the middle of Troublesome, with the sunlight sifting down on your hair."
"It was because I was something new and strange," said Isabel. "People have these infatuations, but they don't amount to anything, they don't last. You'll get over it and wonder how you ever could have looked at me. I'm a most ordinary everyday person, but Lethie is beautiful, body and soul."
"Your looks suit me all right," said Fult, shortly. "You said a minute back you liked me immensely. Did you mean hit?"
"I meant just what I said, and no more: like, not love," said Isabel, firmly.
"Well," demanded Fult, tensely, "is there anybody else youdolove?"
An unexpected thought of Thomas Vance crossedIsabel's mind, only to be carelessly dismissed. "I can answer you truly, I am not in love with any man; I don't think I am the falling-in-love kind."
Fult veiled a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Hit's all I want to know," he said. "If you don't already love nobody else, you can learn to love me."
Isabel answered sharply: "Of one thing you may be sure—I'd never let myself love a man who changes so easily as you do, and can be willing to treat a girl as you would treat Lethie."
Fult laughed, as if highly amused. "I'd never change toyou," he said, with conviction; "I'd never treatyouno way but right." Then, leaning toward her with pleading eyes, he said: "I hain't so hard to love, am I?"
Isabel rose. "I have told you what I shall do if you persist in this," she said.
Fult smiled. "I'd foller you down to the level land if you went," he declared. "Hit wouldn't make any difference to me where you was. I don't know but what I'd like hit better down there, without so many people around all the time."
"There would be my father and mother," said Isabel; "and I can tell you they would be very far from approving of you."
"Why?" demanded Fult, in a tone of surprise.
"Because of the wild and reckless things you have done."
Fult threw back his head and laughed aloud.
"Do you allow that would make any difference to me?" he asked. "I wouldn't ax nobody for my wife—if she liked me, I'd take her in the teeth of all the devils of hell! You mind how Earl Brand, and the Elf Knight, and all them other old-time fellows in the ballats done? Well, that's my way. I don't know but what I'd enjoy hit better if I did have to steal you!"
"Mr. Fallon," said Isabel, with dignity, "I see it is useless for us to talk further. Finish the girth and put the saddle on for me, please, and I'll ride on, and get my things together to start home to-morrow."
Fult reached up and gripped her wrist till it hurt.
"Do you think you can get away from me that way?" he said fiercely. "Don't you know I allus have what I want before I finish? That nothing can't stop me?"
The next instant, however, he was another man, calm, gentle, smiling. He released her hand, with the words: "I don't want to bother you none, though, or make you go home. Stay another week, and try me. I'll do like you say—be just friends. I got a lot to do this week, getting out timber, and maybe I can kindly work you off my mind."
"I don't doubt you can if you try," said Isabel; "I'll give you the chance, anyhow. You see, Iknow I am very much needed in the work here, and really don't want to leave."
He helped her into the saddle, and they rode on as rapidly as possible, in the effort to catch up with the crowd.