"Father," said the girl, "they are calling you by name."But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, andwas unwilling to show himself too solicitous of gain by invitingpeople to patronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to the door;and the lash being soon applied, the travellers plunged into theNotch, still singing and laughing, though their music and mirth cameback drearily from the heart of the mountain.
"There, mother!" cried the boy, again. "They'd have given us a rideto the Flume."Again they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy for a nightramble. But it happened that a light cloud passed over thedaughter's spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and drew a breaththat was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of a littlestruggle to repress it. Then starting and blushing, she looked quicklyround the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom.
The stranger asked what she had been thinking of.
"Nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile. "Only I feltlonesome just then.""Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in otherpeople's hearts," said he, half seriously. "Shall I tell the secretsof yours? For I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warmhearth, and complains of lonesomeness at her mother's side. Shall Iput these feelings into words?""They would not be a girl's feelings any longer if they could beput into words," replied the mountain nymph, laughing, but avoidinghis eye.
All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing intheir hearts, so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since itcould not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignityas his; and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly soul is oftenestcaptivated by simplicity like hers. But while they spoke softly, andhe was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shyyearnings of a maiden's nature, the wind through the Notch took adeeper and drearier sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said,like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast, who in oldIndian times had their dwelling among these mountains, and madetheir heights and recesses a sacred region. There was a wail along theroad, as if a funeral were passing. To chase away the gloom, thefamily threw pine branches on their fire, till the dry leaves crackledand the flame arose, discovering once again a scene of peace andhumble happiness. The light hovered about them fondly, and caressedthem all. There were the little faces of the children, peeping fromtheir bed apart, and here the father's frame of strength, the mother'ssubdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the budding girl, andthe good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. The agedwoman looked up from her task, and, with fingers ever busy, was thenext to speak.
"Old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as young ones.
You've been wishing and planning; and letting your heads run on onething and another, till you've set my mind a-wandering too. Now whatshould an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two beforeshe comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt me night and daytill I tell you.""What is it, mother?" cried the husband and wife at once.
Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circlecloser round the fire, informed them that she had provided hergrave-clothes some years before- a nice linen shroud, a cap with amuslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn sinceher wedding day. But this evening an old superstition had strangelyrecurred to her. It used to be said, in her younger days, that ifanything were amiss with a corpse, if only the ruff were not smooth,or the cap did not set right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath theclods would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The barethought made her nervous.
"Don't talk so, grandmother!" said the girl, shuddering.
"Now," continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yetsmiling strangely at her own folly, "I want one of you, my children-when your mother is dressed and in the coffin- I want one of you tohold a looking-glass over my face. Who knows but I may take aglimpse at myself, and see whether all's right?""Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments," murmured thestranger youth. "I wonder how mariners feel when the ship issinking, and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buriedtogether in the ocean- that wide and nameless sepulchre?"For a moment, the old woman's ghastly conception so engrossed theminds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like theroar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fatedgroup were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled;the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awfulsound were the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged onewild glance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, withoututterance, or power to move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneouslyfrom all their lips.
"The Slide! The Slide!"
The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, theunutterable horror of the catastrophe. The victims rushed from theircottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot- where, incontemplation of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared.
Alas! they had quitted their security, and fled right into the pathwayof destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain, in acataract of ruin. Just before it reached the house, the stream brokeinto two branches- shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed thewhole vicinity, blocked up the road, and annihilated everything in itsdreadful course. Long ere the thunder of the great Slide had ceased toroar among the mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and thevictims were at peace. Their bodies were never found.
