 | XXVII.
THE FOREST ROAD. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
27. XXVII.
THE FOREST ROAD.
On the edge of the town of Huntersford was a railway-station,
consisting simply of a platform of hemlock-boards, erected upon
a sand-hill, in a lonely and barren spot, which the corporation had
not seen fit to decorate with a “dépôt.”
One cold and windy afternoon, late in November, a long, dark
train of cars flew smoking and whizzing to the foot of the platform,
and stopped. Two passengers were landed, with their baggage,
and, once more the mighty monster of steam twanging his terrible
cross-bow, the arrowy train sped on, thundering with faint and
fainter echoes among the hills. The two passengers looked around
in astonishment. A moment since they were in the midst of a
little, crowded world of human life. Now they stood upon a
solitary hill, alone; the train out of sight; not a human being
visible; no habitation near; but all around the earth looked
desolate and cold, under its crust of snow.
“This rather takes one's breath away! Four miles from home,
and no vehicle at hand! It is a cold welcome I have prepared
for you, my poor girl — is it not?”
“I am content as long as you are with me,” — and a smile of
trustful affection played, like sunshine, over the speaker's face.
“But isn't there some mistake? Have we stopped at the right
place?”
“It 's the right place, — but there is a blunder somewhere. I
think Corny must have been sent for us; and if he were told to
come to this station, he would be sure to find some other. What
shall we do? — wait here, or walk?”
Hector looked all around. The prospect was discouraging. No
were to travel, but a rough wagon-track cut through the crusty
snow. Added to this, night was setting in, and the place was
disagreeably suggestive of wolves.
“I must confess myself, for once in my life, completely puzzled!
If we wait here, there is a fine prospect of freezing. If we walk
on, we may miss the wagon, should it come by the other road. I
was never more fully persuaded that it is my duty to be vexed!”
“That will be a good plan,” replied Charlotte, “if it will bring
the wagon.”
“It is growing dark very fast,” said Hector. “I think, before
it is too late, I will make an excursion into the hollow, and see
what I can discover.”
“Let me go with you!”
“Are you afraid to stay alone?”
“No, not afraid; but let me go with you.”
“Dear child, the road will be rough for these tender feet of
yours; but I will not leave you for a moment. We will stay or
go together.”
Until now Charlotte had managed to wear a cheerful aspect;
but when Hector, talking to her so kindly and affectionately, made
her sit down upon a piece of baggage, and warmed her cold feet
in his hands, she could no longer repress her tears.
“Forgive me!”
“Forgive you, indeed! You have a right to cry,” said Hector,
looking up into her face.
“It is as much for happiness as for anything else,” replied
Charlotte, through her tears. “You are so good to me!”
“So good! when I have brought you out here in the wilderness,
as if to perish! This, too, at a time when your path should
be all strewn with flowers!”
“It is nothing, since you are with me! But, O, Hector! I
have all along seen a dark shadow before me, in the direction of
Huntersford.”
“A shadow? how?”
“A foreboding of something to happen to us both. O, it is
warn us. You think me weak, I know.”
“Not weak, brave girl! if, when the disappointments come, you
are strong to bear them.”
“With you to assure me of this, how can I be unhappy?”
responded Charlotte, with a beaming look.
They left the baggage on the platform, and walked to the foot
of the acclivity. Beyond was the bed of Wild River, which flowed
through chasms and gorges among the hills. The road they were
to follow led along its banks, on the borders of an old forest, whose
deep silence was broken only by the voice of the pouring waters.
Wagons had passed when the earth was soft; it was now frozen,
and the way appeared toothed with irregular, sharp clods of ice.
It was painful for Charlotte to proceed; but, fortunately, the
distance was not long through the the woods, and on the other
side was a small village, where a conveyance could be procured.
Hector cheered his companion with this prospect; but before they
had gone far they heard the sound of a wagon. Then somebody
cracked a whip in the woods, and said, “Go 'long!” The voice
was unmistakable.
“Mr. Jackwood!”
“Hello!” cried the farmer, pulling up his horse. “That you,
Hector Dunbury? Ye got Cha'lotte Woods with ye, too, han't
ye? How d'e du, Cha'lotte?”
Charlotte submitted her hand to the hearty grasp of the farmer,
who got out of his wagon to greet her.
“I 'm glad enough to see ye agin! Got tired o' waitin',
did n't ye? I was jes' goin' over to the railroad arter ye. I ca'-c'lated
I was goin' to be a leetle late.”
“Where is father?” asked Hector.
“O! your father — he 's met with a bit of an accident to-day,
I 'm sorry to say.”
“An accident!”
“P'raps you 'd better not git in till I turn about,” suggested
Mr. Jackwood. “'T an't a very comf'table place to turn in; I
shall haf to cramp and back.”
He stepped to the horse's head, and, holding the bridle with
both hands, commenced turning very slowly and carefully.
“What has happened at home?” demanded Hector.
“Look an' see if I 'm backin' aginst that 'ere stump,” cried
the farmer. “I thought I should jes' graze it. If it 's in the
way, sing out.”
“You are all right. Start up a little now,” said Hector.
“Hold! Come, Charlotte.”
They got up into the wagon; and Mr. Jackwood, placing a
board, with a woolly sheep-skin upon it, across the box before
them, as a seat for himself, gathered up his reins and whip, and
drove back through the woods.
“That 's a terrible awk'ard place to stop at, where you come,”
— turning his head so as to throw his voice behind him, and at the
same time to keep an eye on his horse. “Unless ye have a
team to meet ye, ye might as well be set down in Egypt. I 'll
git ye home quick as I can, then go back arter yer baggage.”
Hector interrupted him, to ask again about the accident.
“Wal,” said Mr. Jackwood. “I thought best to let your
narves git settled a leetle mite, 'fore I told ye. It 's as well as
any way to take sich things easy-like, ye know. Yer father was
goin' over to East Huntersford with a load o' grain; I guess
't was 'bout 'leven o'clock when he drove by my house; me and
Bim'lech was haulin' a leetle jag o' wood to the door, an' I should
judge it could n't ben much arter 'leven, if 't was at all. I ruther
thought Mr. Dunbury was takin' his produce over to the East, so
I hailed him; for I 'd heerd him say a man there had offered
some three cents on a bushel more 'n they give in the village, to
have it delivered at the railroad. He stopped to talk a little
while, an' it struck me he had on too much of a load. Says I,
`An't you 'fraid you 've got more 'n your team 'll git along 'ith comf't'bly?'
says I. He said no, he guessed not; he had jes' so
much grain to spare, an' he thought 't was better to take it all one
load, than make two bites to a cherry. `Of course,' said I, `you
know a good deal the best about it,' says I; `but, if 't was mine,
I should feel jest the least mite ticklish 'bout that 'ere off hoss.
When Wing owned him,' says I, `he had a bad trick of frettin',
sometimes,' says I, `he 'd git spunky, and would n't draw at all.'
Your father said he 'd broke him o' that trick, he guessed. `If
so,' says I, `I should n't be 'fraid of a middlin' kind o' load, like
that 'ere. My team would n't think nothin' on 't.' But I noticed,
when he started, the off hoss acted kind o' ugly; he jerked, an'
flinched, as though the collar hurt his breast, — jes' 's he use' to,
when Wing owned him, for all the world. But I thought I
would n't say nothin' more, though I 'm sorry now I did n't; for
it 'pears Mist' Dunbury had n't more 'n got to the railroad crossin',
when the pesky beast made a fuss agin, an' balked, with the load
right acrost the track. I never 'd let a team stop that way; I 'd
git 'em off the track, somehow; if they would n't go ahead, I 'd
made 'em back, if there was any back to 'em! But prob'bly Mr.
Dunbury did n't think o' that. Wal, sir,” said Mr. Jackwood,
turning almost entirely around, and demonstrating to his listeners
with his hands, “there he was when the cars come. The man 't
told me the story see 'em, an' yelled out; but your father was
prob'bly doin' his best, an' could n't do no more, to save the
nation. I asked the man, says I, `Why did n't you help,' says I,
`instid o' standin' there an' hollerin', when hollerin' could n't do
no good?' says I. But he said he had a skittish hoss to hold,
an' he did n't dare to leave him a minit, when the ingine was
in sight. I thought it a kind o' milk-an'-water excuse, but I
did n't say nothin'; the hoss was stole, an' there wan't no use
lockin' the barn-door. Wal, sir,” repeated Mr. Jackwood, warming
as he approached the catastrophe, “the cars come! My —
informer” — he appeared to hesitate a little about making use of
so elegant a word — “told me 't was the awfulest sight he ever see.
He no more expected to find Mist' Dunbury alive than — Wal,
he 'd no idee on 't! But the cars did n't hit him, mind ye. He
was jest untacklin' the team, to git 'em out o' the way, when the
ingine struck. He was insenseless when they took him up, but
he turned out to be not half so much hurt as everybody thought
for. They brought him home, this arternoon, an' I guess he 's
doin' as well as could be expected. What was queer, the cars
wan't thrown off the track; they ripped right through the wagon,
Mist' Dunbury had got 'em unhitched jes' 't the minute the ingine
struck. They was too mad to be scart, I imagine, or else they 'd
a' started 'ith the wagon when the whistle blowed; but they
did n't, an' when the cars come up, they run right agin the nearest
fence, an' stopped. If 't had been my team, they 'd stripped
their harnesses and gone to Jericho. On the hull, it seems a
providential escape, an' we 've every reason to feel thankful
't wan't no wus,” he added, by way of moral; “though, I mus'
say, 't was a hard rub for the wagon, an' it made dre'ful bad work
with the grain!”
| XXVII.
THE FOREST ROAD. Neighbor Jackwood | |