Up the Witch Brook road : a summer idyl

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I. A Runaway ....

Chapter I

I T was when I was about seven years old that the horse ran away. As everything in the family, for several years before and after that event, was historically dated accordingly, it made a lasting impression upon my childish mind. This was strengthened by the romantic and exciting complications which followed. It was, as I now see, the most wonderful period of my life — which, indeed, has been rather tame and commonplace during the long years since then. My children and grandchildren complain that I forget the happenings of last year, and even of yesterday ; but every trifling incident of that long, strange summer after the horse ran away stands out clearly in my mind.

My young mother, who had been old

II

Square Wells’s eldest child, had died in the South when I was a baby. My Southern father had died soon afterward, and I had fallen to the care of my maternal grandparents and their daughters, and especially of my mother’s next younger sister, Apphia. Three sons had been bom between my mother and my Aunt Apphia, but they had all died in infancy.

My Aunt Apphia, who was my idol then and has been ever since, was at this time about twenty-six years old and very beautiful. Her auburn hair curled closely all over her head, and hung across her fair temples in two long ringlets at each side, according to a fashion of the time — the late forties of the last century. Her eyes were dark hazel in hue, large and very bright, and her complexion was smooth and delicate. She was, like all of my grandfather’s family, of only average height, but she was slight, alert and graceful in movement. Her nature was passionately self-sacrificing. She seemed to live entirely for me and for her sisters and parents. She would have made a good heroine in that class of fiction in which the self-effacing damsel lends herself joyously to be the football of destiny; except that she was endowed with a delicious sense of humor, and a fiery temper, which not even her stern Puritan training and high principle could always control. She and my other aunts were fine scholars, and usually taught a term or more each year in one of the village or nearby district schools.

My Grandfather Wells hated to drive, and there was a well-grounded belief in the family that he could not; though he had to keep a horse, and consequently drove more or less nearly every day. I remember well my own trepidation as I often sat shuddering beside him in the old carriage, while he drove along, jerking the reins gently and clucking without pause, but utterly oblivious of what he was doing. He was wont to pursue a straight course, budging for nobody, and absorbed in his own thoughts. Often he would cease to cluck in order to recite some poem in a low, wavering voice. I should have greatly enjoyed these literary privileges if I had not been so much afraid of running into people. It was currently believed that ^‘Square” Wells had locked wheels with nearly every vehicle in town.

When the ladies of the family rode forth in the afternoons for pleasure, sedately packed into the old-fashioned, covered carry-all. Aunt Apphia always drove — quietly and admirably, as she did everything, especially everything relating to a horse. She was a born horsewoman, and never showed to better advantage than on old Tansy^s back. Our horse was named Tansy on account of her tan color, and was esteemed a judicious and sweettempered beast. She had become endeared to the family during her fourteen years of service, and the last syllable of her name had been added partly as a mark of this fondness ; \ind also partly because Tansy’s character was tinctured with a certain agreeable pungency, like the wayside herb of spicy savor.

On the afternoon of the momentous day of which I have spoken, Josiah Vibber, the hired man, brought around Tansy to the front door, and waited for us to come out. Josiah, by the way, was a descendant of a Revolutionary Hessian, who had settled down in this country after the war, and had married a native farmer’s daughter. The Vibber ” was doubtless a corruption of “ Weber.” Josiah’s college-bred posterity call it an Anglicization.”

My grandparents believed in scriptural appellations — though, to do them justice, Apphia, Jerusha and Leah, as my three aunts were christened, were all family names. Grandmother's name was Apphia, and so had been her mother’s before her.

Presently my aunts appeared, in their pretty Thibet gowns and broadcloth capes; for the air was still sharp, though May had come in some days before. Aunt Jerusha, commonly called Jerry,” and Aunt Leah climbed into the back seat. Then Cousin Calista Summers, who lived with us, and Aunt Apphia and I, took our places in front, and off we started.

Tansy was a remarkably large, strong and handsome horse, and Josiah took good care of her. The harness was old, but fine, and the carry-all was rather elegant, so that, though the Square,” who drove his law-business much as he did his horse, was not rich and never would be, his family presented no mean appearance when they were rolling through the village street behind Tansy.

At this time she had been known, in spite of frequent opportunities and even strong provocations, to run away but once. Then my grandfather had been out with her in the lumber wagon,” getting potatoes from a distant part of his farm, called the island,” because at flood-times an arm of the river encircled it. This arm was the merest rill during most of the year, and, in spite of the fact that it was noted for a certain fertility in snakes, it was a favorite place of amusement for me, when grandfather allowed me occasionally to go with him and Josiah to “ farm the island.” The snakes there were called by a title which until I was a large girl I supposed to be chickadaddles.”

On the day of that first runaway, Josiah had not gone with grandfather, who had left home shortly after eight in the morning. It was nearly four when the dear old man came up the walk on foot, with his bald head cut and bleeding and a dazed look on his kind face. A trail of potatoes extended for a mile or more up the road, and the lumber wagon reposed in fragments a few rods away. Grandfather never told anybody exactly what had happened ; and my aunts, who adored Tansy, and considered their father’s driving as bad enough to account for anything, never blamed the good old beast.

It is said that, after a horse has once tasted the delights of running away, he cannot rest until he tries it again. It is as the first sip of blood to the tamed wolf. But my aunts had never heard of this theory, and they would not have believed such a thing possible of Tansy, in any case. Therefore, we were all very happy on that beautiful May afternoon, as we jogged along the rather sandy road which lay for miles beside the sparkling river. The season had been late and wet, but now the lilacs were budding, and the one wistaria vine in town, which wound in great cables over the low roof of Mr. Duncan Dart^s house, was effervescing in mammoth lavender clusters.

Cousin Calista went into raptures over them, as we drove up to Mr. Dart’s door. I thought her silly to say so much about them. She was fond of pretending to be very young, and talking in a species of baby dialect which was offensive to me. It was a plague that I could not find out just how old she was. When I asked Aunt Apphia, she said, “ Oh, about the age of the rest of us,” and that was all I could get out of her. Cousin Calista had yellowish curls, which hung in pairs at each side of her face, just as Aunt Apphia’s did, and she was blonde,” Aunt Leah said, while Aunt Apphia was brown ” ; but I could see, much as I hated to admit it, that they looked alike, in spite of an utter unlikeness in their characters. Cousin Calista was always wheedling and affected and plotting, it seemed to me, while Aunt Apphia was as open as the sky at noonday.

It was Saturday, and the object of our drive was to gather flowers for the decoration of the church for the Sunday services. Mrs. Dart promised to bring a branch of wistaria to hang across the front of the pulpit. Then we drove on five or six miles further to a quiet forest road. We reined up beside a low stone wall, and all of the rest alighted to gather flowers, while I was allowed, as a great favor, to remain in the carriage and hold the horse.” These particular woods were very famous for their flowers, and now they were aglow with blossoms, many of which, on account of the long winter, were a heritage to May from April. Bloodroot, liverwort, ladies’ slippers, blue, yellow and white violets, trilliums and anemones were everywhere.

For a while I could hear my aunts calling to each other from the different parts of the grove : “ Here’s the knoll where the trilliums were so thick last year — not one here now,

i8 but plenty over in that swamp there — how queer!” Or, Here are a million anemones in a new place.” Or, “ These hollows are simply lined with spring beauties.”

After awhile I heard Cousin Calista shout.

We sha^n’t have to go up on the rocks for columbine, as we did last year. Here it is by the handful — and no end of crane’s bill.”

This was the last word that I heard from them, and presently they were all out of sight, and the very sound of their voices became a vague and indistinguishable part of the sweet forest murmur.

I began to feel rather lonely. Holding the horse” was not the unmixed bliss which my fancy had painted. It seemed as though I had never been in such a desolate spot before, in spite of all the greenness and flowers. I grasped the lines ” more tightly, and was just settling myself more firmly into my seat, with a little sigh, when a great old sheep came rushing, as it were, out of nowhere, and charged madly at Tansy, belching forth a startling “ Ba-a-a.”

Tansy gave one frightened plunge, making the carry-all shiver and tip in every direction, and then she ran with all her might — ran in long, jerky gallops, which scared me almost to death.

Down on my knees I plumped, leaning over the dashboard and clinging desperately to the reins. Nature had gifted me with excellent lungs, and, as we sped along, I shrieked and howled at the top of my voice. This did not abate Tansy’s panic. Up hill and down she tore with unlessening speed. The road was a lonely one, but we passed an occasional farmhouse, and then I screeched with more fervor than ever. Now and then a man in the fields started in pursuit of us — but Tansy was going like lightning, and left all followers far behind.

My poor frenzied little mind cast wildly about for expedients, but I could think of nothing to do except to hold on to the reins and try to keep from being thrown out. Here and there we passed just above the river on high and rocky ledges, and I uttered shriller wails than ever. Again, we rattled across rude bridges, and a picture would fiash before me of myself lying in the water under them, with the swift waves closing over my little face, and my body fioating down, down to the great falls, a dozen or more miles away, and then hurtling and thumping over them.

It was twenty minutes or more of perfect agony — and all the while I was in mortal terror, above everything else, of meeting a team — a fear which the complaints of the family had rendered chronic with me when I rode with grandfather, and which was now only more acute.

Suddenly I heard a loud yelling in front of me, where a brook crossed my road, and a branch road, which followed it, came in. Two young men were rushing down that branch road toward ma Their arms were wide outstretched, and they seemed to me the most beautiful beings that I had ever beheld. By this time my poor parched throat could scarcely give forth a sound, but I made a last supreme effort, and they seemed to respond pityingly to my appeal. I imagined^ that they were saying, “We will save you or die.” The last thing that I remember was a vision of those two heaven-sent figures running toward me, one on either side of the narrow road, and each with an outstretched arm. Then there was a back-breaking jerk. I felt myself flying through the air — and I knew nothing more.

When I came to myself, I was in the arms of one of the young men, who was soothing me like a mother. We were sitting beside the little brook, into which, from time to time, he dipped his hand and then sprinkled my face. Not far away sat his friend, and, to my utter amazement, in his arms lay my Aunt Apphia, her pretty Thibet gown soiled and torn, her small hands scratched and bleeding, and her face like marble.

As I looked about in a dazed way, I took in nothing definite except that face and figure. Then I fell back, moaning, Oh, my auntie is dead ! Oh, auntie, auntie ! ” and went off again into unconsciousness. When I awoke a second time, I was lying on the stones, and my friend was dashing water frantically over my head, until my long yellow curls were drenched. I sat up slowly. Then I heard Aunt Apphia groaning. This meant that she was at least alive, and I took heart. She still lay across the arms of the other young man, and her face was still deathly white, but she moved her hands even while I was looking at her, and her groans continued.

The young men talked softly together. I thought their voices the most musical that I had ever heard. When at last I sat up, my especial protector left me and went over to help his friend, who called out to me, “ Sit still, little girl. Yon^re all right, I reckon.”

I had never heard any one say, “ I reckon ”, since my father had died in my babyhood. One of my few distinct recollections of his speech had been of that ‘‘ I reckon ”, and my heart warmed more than ever toward the young man who had rescued me. Incidentally, I may remark that very early in my life I remember thinking it strange that the unreckoning Southerner should habitually reckon ”, while his thrifty and careful Northern brother should prefer to guess.”

Both of the young men now hung over Aunt Apphia, and I saw that one of them had a pocket-cup into which, from time to time, he poured a few drops from a flask, and then gave her a draught.

She is coming to, Dick,” said, at last, the one who was holding her. He spoke very gravely. I hate to lay her down on those rough stones. Here — ^spread out my coat for her head. There—that grassy place isn't so bad. It might shock her into fainting again if she woke up and found me holding her.”

She makes me think of a white rose,” said the other one softly, as they made the transfer. He called his friend “ George.” Cousin Calista’s father had been Aunt Apphia’s Uncle George,” and the name made me feel as though these young men might properly be recognized as family friends.

George,” he said, “ my arms ache like the deuce. Did you ever feel anything pull like that confounded brute?”

This sort of language was new to me, but it did not offend me.

<< I’ve got a strain in my back which will make practical mining impossible for some days to come,” answered “ George,” still gravely.

At that instant Aunt Apphia’s moans became louder, and she sprang to her feet with a startled cry.

“ Barbara ! ” she murmured, in an agonized tone. “ Where is Barbara? ”

** — thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise And make it halt behind her.”

Prospero, in the “ Tempest.**

Chapter II

“ TJ'ERB I am, auntie!” I wailed, sob- I I bing piteously in my weakness and bewilderment. I tried to crawl toward her, but I could not, because my knees were lame and I felt sore and shaken all over. The mere sound of my voice, however, seemed to reassure her. She opened her beautiful hazel eyes, and light and color overspread her face. Then she sat down slowly, while the young men fell back to a respectful distance, removing their hats, with a scrupulous regard to etiquette which was foreign to the customs of our little village. They were dressed in a rough but picturesque costume, and seemed to me to belong to a species of demi-gods; and though I afterward came to know them well and they made a great pet of me, I never quite recovered from the slight awe of them which began beside the brook that day.

Aunt Apphia put her hand to her forehead 27 and looked around her in a dazed way. The young man named George ” bent over her deferentially, and said in a gentle voice, while the color mounted up into his face, You are all right. Don’t be worried about the child. All that either of you needed was a little care, and, as luck would have it, we were on hand to give it. My name is George Holly, and this is my friend, Richard Perrine.”

My name is Apphia Wells,” murmured Aunt Apphia faintly, “ and this is my little niece, Barbara. Are you sure — oh, are you sure ”

She looked toward me, and the red began again to fade out from her face.

I can’t stand up very well, auntie,” I piped up, cheerfully, “ or I would come over there.”

She staggered to her feet and tried to walk toward me, but she had taken scarcely two steps when she swayed to one side, fainting again. Both of the young men sprang to save her, but it was again into the arms of Mr. George Holly that she fell. I had already decided that, though both of them were good-looking, he was the handsomer, as he was the larger, of the two, and I liked him better than

Dick.”

Water! Water!” cried George Holly, impatiently.

His friend brought a cupful, and presently Aunt Apphia revived again. This time she was quite herself for several minutes, bending over me and caressing me and going into a delirium bf joy over me. Then she turned toward the young men, to whom she had as yet paid little heed, and her voice choked as she said brokenly, “ I can’t thank you enough — ever. You have saved her life — the dearest thing on earth to me. She has been mine for six years — ever since her mother died — and you can imagine how I love her. It would kill me to lose her. You must let us do something for you. Oh, my father will ”

Here her emotion became too much for her once more, and, even while she was holding out her hand to Mr. George Holly, she swayed again, and again he caught her and saved her from a bad fall on the brookside stones.

This little drama of alternate swooning and recovery might have gone on indefinitely — for, as I remembered it afterward, I could see that it was most agreeable to Mr. George Holly — but for the fact that, just as Aunt Apphia straightened up for the third time, the rattle 29 of a cart was heard, and presently a farmer whom we had always known, and who lived in a house near the woods in which we had been picking flowers, drove up noisily. He brought with him, huddled tearfully together on the rude cross-boards of his farm-wagon. Aunt Jerry, Aunt Leah and Cousin Calista, all of them agitated nearly to the point of hysterics.

There was a perfect Babel of exclamations, explanations and introductions, and the tears of the young ladies were dried when they saw that both Aunt Apphia and I, though scratched and bruised and besmirched, were safe and in good hands. Perhaps a better way of describing their condition would be to say that their agitation was not allayed, but only changed to a more agreeable kind. Cousin Calista was especially exhilarated at the sight of these handsome and well-behaved youths. She began at once to “ make eyes ” at them and to talk in what I have since heard called “ the artless prattle style ” of conversation, which she was apt to affect in company.

“ It was perfectly wonderful to see you ride off bareback on that dreadful horse, Affie!” she cried, glowingly.

“ You would have wondered more if you could have seen me fall off three or four times,” laughed Aunt Apphia, who, except for a pronounced nervousness, seemed quite like herself by this time.

“ Where did you get it? I don’t understand,” gasped Aunt Leah.

Why, I told you,” answered Cousin Calista, rather sharply, and seizing the narrative for herself. ‘‘ Just as soon as we heard that wild rattle of the carry-all and then Barbara screaming, Affie flew through the woods and down the road. You were rods away, but I was pretty near, and I dragged along after her, getting further and further behind every instant. I was running as fast as I could, too. Then I saw Affie climb over the wall and rush into Mr. Beals’s pasture, and begin to call most winsomely to old Jack. Why under the sun did you choose old Jack, Affie? ”

“ I knew Jack wasn’t the most amiable beast in the world,” admitted Aunt Apphia, smilingly turning to Mr. Beals, who gave his head an expressive wrench. The vagaries of Beals’s old Jack ” were familiar to every man for miles around. He was the nearest to the modern bucking broncho” then known in that neighborhood; but he could drag more hay and heavier stone-boats, and could travel faster, than any other horse in town.

“ But I knew, too,” continued Aunt Apphia, “ that he was strong and could go — and, besides, he was close by, while the others were ever so far away. I knew he would throw me off, and he did. But every time he threw me off, he would run a little way and then stand still and let me get on again. Then I would hold on to his mane as hard as I could, and lie perfectly flat on his back, like a circus performer — and chirrup to him, and strike him with my hand — and he went like the wind. I don’t mind his throwing me off — oh, he is the only horse on earth which could have come anywhere near that wicked Tansy ! ”

Aunt Apphia’s voice broke, and she began to sob.

“ It was a brilliant feat of horsemanship,” burst in Mr. George Holly, with an eagerness which testified not only to his fervent admiration of Aunt Apphia, but to his essentially masculine dislike to see a woman cry. “ You are a heroine. Miss Wells.”

The young men around Birchmont village did not speak in this way, but we had many 32 city relatives who visited us from time to time, and my aunts and Cousin Calista had attended city boarding schools, so that we all, with a pleasant thrill, detected at once the fact that, somehow or other, two men possessed of urban culture had stumbled into these wilds.

Mr. Holly ^s tone and compliment restored Aunt Apphia’s self-control, and she retorted, with a half-indignant catch in her voice, “ Indeed, I am no heroine at all, I am simply a young woman who has been used, from her cradle, to horseback riding. I can ride on any sort of a saddle, and almost as well without any. There seemed to be no other horse available, so I took Jack. Why, Mr. Beals, where is Jack? ”

Sure enough, there was no Jack in sight. We all began to look around in an anxious way, especially the two young men, who started up guiltily, but Mr. Beals reassured us by bursting forth disgustedly, “ ^ Whereas Jack? ’ I don’t know nor care. Gol darn his old hide, I say — an’ I don’t care who hears me. Why, when I think. Miss Affie— ” his rough old voice shook, and the tears started to the eyes of us all, in spite of the way in which we had laughed at him, to begin with— when I think how that dum old brute sarved ye — why, Miss Affie, I could kill him. Ihn afeard I would kill him if I had him here now — I am, sure as ye live. It’s a wonder you ain’t killed. How did you ever durst to git onto him so many times? The Square had orter be proud on ye — I swan he had ! ”

“ Oh, don’t, Mr. Beals ! ” cried Aunt Appliia, looking very lovely, as she sat blushing on a big stone, with her tangled curls shining around her face. “ You mustn’t talk so — and, above all, when Jack comes back to you, as he probably will, don’t you hurt him. I fairly love him for getting me here so quickly. Why, Mr. Holly tells me that I was not more than ten or twelve minutes behind Tansy — and just think how she was going! But we ought not to stay here any longer. Such accidents are always heard of — and probably dreadful things will be said all over the village, and father and mother will be alarmed.”

She sprang up, forgetting her disabilities. Then she found that she could scarcely step, and Aunt Leah and Cousin Calista flew to her side to help her, before either of the young men could get there. Eichard Perrine lifted me in his arms, while Aunt Jerry held my hand. Mr. Beals turned his springless old cart around, and, one by one, we were bestowed on the rough seats which had been improvised in it. Aunt Leah and Cousin Calista could not, of course, lift Aunt Apphia into this uncouth vehicle, but the useful Mr. Holly was close beside them. Aunt Apphia^s face flushed scarlet, as, apologizing for having to clasp her so tightly, he hoisted her up quite over the side plank and into Mr. Bealses brawny arms. Both of the young men were tall and well set up, and the effort of carrying any one of us would not have been too much for either one of them. Aunt Apphia’s weight, which, indeed, was little more than a hundred pounds, seemed nothing at all to George Holly, in spite of the strain which he must have suffered in stopping our runaway horse. Tansy, by the way, had been tied in the bushes beside the brook, and was now ready to be led home behind our equipage. Aunt Jerry holding the halter. The carry-all was considerably broken up. The young men dragged it into a patch of woods not far away, and the next day my grandfather went, with a blacksmith, to get it

It was repaired, and seemed then as good as ever. I rode in it almost daily until I was a woman grown.

Aunt Apphia and I were deposited in the middle of the wagon, as that was considered the most comfortable portion. Aunt Apphia sat on a crossboard, propped against the knees of Aunt Leah, who, with Aunt Jerry, occupied the back seat. Cousin Calista sat beside Mr. Beals in front. I lay in the bottom of the wagon, with my head in Aunt Apphia^s lap, and a coat of Mr. Holly’s wrapped around my shoulders.

When at last we were ready to start for home, we bade our young benefactors farewell, with much regret. We had a drive of fourteen miles before us, and the roads were rough, but the young men assured us that they rode on horseback a great deal, and would not in the least mind the trifling expedition to the village. They would certainly do themselves the honor to ride down and inquire for us within a few days — as soon as they felt that such invalids had had time to regain their strength.

Suddenly Cousin Calista cried out, just as we were about to drive away, “ Why, girls, this is Witch Brook. Don’t you remember when 36

Uncle Wells brought us up here, a year or two ago? He has told us many times about the witch’s house, a mile or more up the stream from here, and we have always been planning to have a picnic there.”

Oh, yes, this is the Witch Brook road,” corroborated Richard Perrine. We live about two miles up yonder. We pass near the old house every time we come down.”