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HORACE CHASE

A Novel

by

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON

AUTHOR OF "JUPITER LIGHTS" "EAST ANGELS" ETC.

NEW YORK

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

1894

Copyright, 1894, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

_All rights reserved._




HORACE CHASE



CHAPTER I


In a mountain village of North Carolina, in the year 1873, the spring
had opened with its accustomed beauty. But one day there came a pure
cold wind which swept through the high valley at tremendous speed from
dawn to midnight. People who never succumb to mere comfort did not
relight their fires. But to the Franklin family comfort was a goddess,
they would never have thought of calling her "mere"; "delightful" was
their word, and Ruth would probably have said "delicious." The fire in
Mrs. Franklin's parlor, therefore, having been piled with fresh logs at
two o'clock as an offering to this deity, was now, at four, sending out
a ruddy glow. It was a fire which called forth Ruth's highest
approbation when she came in, followed by her dog, Petie Trone, Esq. Not
that Ruth had been facing the blast; she never went out from a sense of
duty, and for her there was no pleasure in doing battle with things that
were disagreeable for the sake merely of conquering them. Ruth had come
from her own room, where there was a fire also, but one not so generous
as this, for here the old-fashioned hearth was broad and deep. The girl
sat down on the rug before the blaze, and then, after a moment, she
stretched herself out at full length there, with her head resting on her
arm thrown back behind it.

"It's a pity, Ruth, that with all your little ways, you are not little
yourself," remarked Dolly Franklin, the elder sister. "Such a whalelike
creature sprawled on the floor isn't endearing; it looks like something
out of Gulliver."

"It's always so," observed Mrs. Franklin, drowsily. "It's the oddest
thing in the world--but people never will stay in character; they want
to be something different. Don't you remember that whenever poor Sue
Inness was asked to sing, the wee little creature invariably chanted,
'Here's a health to King Charles,' in as martial a voice as she could
summon? Whereas Lucia Lewis, who is as big as a grenadier, always
warbles softly some such thing as 'Call me pet names, dearest. Call me a
bird.' Bird! Mastodon would do better."

"Mastodon?" Ruth commented. "It is evident, His Grand, that you have
seen Miss Billy to-day!"

Ruth was not a whale, in spite of Dolly's assertion. But she was tall,
her shoulders had a marked breadth, and her arms were long. She was very
slender and supple, and this slenderness, together with her small hands
and feet, took away all idea of majesty in connection with her, tall
though she was; one did not think of majesty, but rather of girlish
merriment and girlish activity. And girlish indolence as well. Mrs.
Franklin had once said: "Ruth is either running, or jumping, or doing
something in such haste that she is breathless; or else she is stretched
out at full length on the carpet or the sofa, looking as though she
never intended to move again!"

The girl had a dark complexion with a rich color, and hair that was
almost black; her face was lighted by blue eyes, with long thick black
lashes which made a dark fringe round the blue. The persons who liked
Ruth thought her beautiful; they asserted that her countenance had in it
something which was captivating. But others replied that though her
friends might call her captivating if they pleased, since that word
denotes merely a personal charm, they had no right to say that she was
beautiful; for as regards beauty, there are well-defined rules, and,
with the exception of her wonderful eyes, the face of the second Miss
Franklin transgressed every one of these canons. Ruth's features were
without doubt irregular. And especially was it true that her mouth was
large. But the lips were exquisitely cut, and the teeth very white.
Regarding her appearance as a whole, there was a fact which had not as
yet been noticed, namely, that no man ever found fault with it; the
criticism came always from feminine lips. And these critics spoke the
truth; but they forgot, or rather they did not see, some of the
compensations. There were people not a few, even in her own small
circle, who did not look with favor upon Ruth Franklin; it was not
merely, so they asserted, that she was heedless and frivolous, caring
only for her own amusement, and sacrificing everything to that, for of
many young persons this could be said; but they maintained in addition
that hers was a disposition in its essence self-indulgent; she was
indolent; she was fond of luxuries; she was even fond of "good
eating"--an odd accusation to be brought against a girl of that age. In
this case also the charges were made by feminine lips. And again it may
be added that while these critics spoke the truth, or part of the truth,
they did not, on the other hand, see some of the compensations.

"Why do you say '_poor_ Sue Inness,' His Grand?" inquired Dolly, in an
expostulating tone. "Why do people always say '_poor_' so-and-so, of any
one who is dead? It is an alarmingly pitying word; as though the
unfortunate departed must certainly be in a very bad place!"

"Here is something about the bishop," said Mrs. Franklin, who was
reading a Raleigh newspaper in the intervals of conversation. Her tone
was now animated. "He has been in Washington, and one of his sermons
was--"

But she was interrupted by her daughters, who united their voices in a
chant as follows:

    "Mother Franklin thinks,
     That General Jackson,
     Jared the Sixth,
     Macaroon custards,
     And Bishop Carew,
     Are per-_fec_-tion!"

Mrs. Franklin made no reply to these Gregorian assertions (which she had
often heard before), save the remark, "You have torn your skirt, Ruth."

"Oh, please don't look at me over your glasses, His Grand. It spoils
your profile so," answered Ruth; for Mrs. Franklin was surveying the
skirt with her head bent forward and her chin drawn sharply in, so that
her eyes could be brought to bear upon the rent over her spectacles.

She now drew off these aids to vision impatiently. "Whether I look
through them or over them doesn't matter; you and Dolly are never
satisfied. I cannot read the paper without my glasses; do you wish me to
know nothing of the news of the world?"

"We'll _tell_ you," responded Dolly, going on busily with her knitting.
"For instance, to-day: Genevieve has had _all_ the paint cleaned and
_all_ the windows washed; she is now breathing that righteous atmosphere
of cold, fireless bleakness and soap which she adores. Miss Billy Breeze
has admired everything that she can think of, because admiration is so
uplifting. And she has written another page about the primeval world;
now she--"

Here the door which led to the entrance-hall was opened with a jerk by
Linda, a plump <DW64> girl, who bounced in, ejaculated "Lady!" in a
congratulatory tone, and then bounced out to act as usher for the
incoming guest.

"Billy herself, probably," said Mrs. Franklin. "Ruth, are you stretched
out there under the plea that you are not yet fully grown?"

But Ruth did not deem it necessary to leave her couch for Miss Billy
Breeze. "Hail, Billy!" she said, as the visitor entered. "Mother thinks
that I ought to be seated politely on the sofa; will you please imagine
that I am there?"

"Oh, certainly," replied Miss Breeze, in a conciliatory tone. Miss
Breeze lived under the impression that the members of this family
quarrelled with each other almost incessantly; when she was present,
therefore, she did her best to smooth over their asperities. "It is
rather good for her, you know," she said reassuringly to Mrs. Franklin;
"for it is a windy day, and Ruth is not robust." Then to Ruth: "Your
mother naturally wishes you to look your best, my dear."

"Do you, His Grand?" inquired Ruth. "Because if you do, I must certainly
stay where I am, so that I can tuck under me, very neatly, this rip in
my skirt, which Miss Billy has not yet seen. Petie Trone, Esq., shake
hands with the lady." The dog, a small black-and-tan terrier, was
reposing on the rug beside Ruth; upon hearing her command, he trotted
across to the visitor, and offered a tiny paw.

"Dear little fellow," said Miss Breeze, bending, and shaking it gently.
"His Grand must allow that he looks extremely well?"

For the circle of friends had ended by accepting the legend (invented by
Ruth) that Mrs. Franklin was Petie Trone's grandmother, or "His Grand."
The only person who still held out against this title was Genevieve, the
daughter-in-law; Mrs. Franklin the younger thought that the name was
ridiculous. Her husband's family seemed to her incomprehensibly silly
about their pets.

Miss Wilhelmina Breeze was thirty-five; but no one would have thought so
from her fair pink-and-white complexion, and young, innocent eyes. From
her earliest years she had longed to hear herself called "Wilhelmina."
But the longing was almost never gratified; the boyish name given to her
in joke when she was a baby had clung to her with the usual fatal
tenacity.

"Miss Billy, have you seen mother to-day?" Dolly inquired.

"Not until now," answered the visitor, surprised.

"Well, then, have you thought of mastodons?"

"Certainly I have; and if you yourself, Dolly, would think more
seriously of the whole subject, the primeval world--you would soon be as
fascinated with it as I am. Imagine one of those vast extinct animals,
Dolly, lifting his neck up a hill to nibble the trees on its top!" said
Miss Breeze with enthusiasm. "And birds as large as chapels flying
through the air! Probably they sang, those birds. What sort of voices
do you suppose they had? The cave-lion was twenty-nine feet high. The
horned tryceratops was seventy-five feet long! It elevates the mind even
to think of them."

"You see, His Grand, that she _has_ thought of mastodons," commented
Dolly. "Your unexpected mention of them, therefore, is plainly the
influence of her mind acting upon yours from a distance--the distance of
the Old North Hotel."

"Have you really thought of them, dear Mrs. Franklin? And do you believe
there can be such a thing as the conscious--I mean, of course,
_un_conscious--influence of one mind upon another?" inquired Miss Billy,
her face betraying a delighted excitement.

"No, no; it's only Dolly's nonsense," answered Mrs. Franklin.

"It's easy to say nonsense, His Grand. But how, then, do you account for
the utterances of my planchette?" demanded Dolly, wagging her head
triumphantly.

Dolly, the second of Mrs. Franklin's three children, was an invalid. The
Franklins, as a family, were tall and dark, and Dolly was tall and dark
also; her face, owing to the pain which frequently assailed her, was
thin, worn, and wrinkled. She sat in a low easy-chair, and beside her
was her own especial table, which held what she called her "jibs." These
were numerous, for Dolly occupied herself in many ways. She sketched,
she carved little knick-knacks, she played the violin; she made lace,
she worked out chess problems, and she knitted; she also scribbled
rhymes which her family called poetry. The mantel-piece of this parlor
was adorned with a hanging which bore one of her verses, stitched in old
English text, the work of her mother's needle:

    "O Fire! in these dark frozen days
       So gracious is thy red,
     So warm thy comfort, we forget
       The violets are dead."

The family thought this beautiful. Dolly's verses, her drawing and
wood-carving, her lace-making and chess, were amateurish; her
violin-playing was at times spirited, and that was the utmost that could
be said of it. But her knitting was remarkable. She knitted nothing but
silk stockings, and these, when finished, had a wonderful perfection.
Dolly was accustomed to say of herself that in the heels of her
stockings was to be found the only bit of conscience which she
possessed.

When she mentioned planchette, her mother frowned. "I do not approve of
such things."

"Yes, because you are afraid!" chuckled Dolly.

"Oh, anything that dear Mrs. Franklin does not approve of--" murmured
Miss Billy.

Mrs. Franklin rose.

"His Grand is fleeing!" Dolly announced, gleefully.

"I must make the salad-dressing, mustn't I? Ruth will not touch Zoe's
dressing. Billy, Mr. Chase is to dine with us to-day, informally; don't
you want to stay and help us entertain him?" added the mistress of the
house as she left the room.

"Dolly," suggested Ruth, from her place on the rug, "set planchette to
work, and make it tell us secrets; make it tell us whether Miss Billy
understands the _true_ character of Achilles Larue!"

"She does not; I can tell her that without planchette," replied Dolly.
"Only one person in the world has ever fully understood Achilles--had
the strength to do it; and _he_ died!"

"Yes, I know; I have heard Mr. Larue speak of that one friend," said
Miss Billy, regretfully. "How unfortunate that he lost him!"

"Yes, baddish. And the term is quite in his own line," commented Dolly.
"With him it is never warm, but warmish; the bluest sky is bluish; a
June day, fairish; a twenty-mile walk, longish. In this way he is not
committed to extravagant statements. When he is dead, he won't be more
than deadish. But he's that now."

Mrs. Franklin, having made the salad-dressing (when she made it, it was
always perfection), returned to the parlor. "Ruth, go and change your
dress. Take Miss Billy with you, but take her to my room, not yours. For
of course you will stay, Billy?"

"I don't think I'd better; I'm not dressed for the evening; and I said I
should be back," answered Miss Breeze, hesitatingly.

"To whom did you say it? To the Old North? Run along," said Mrs.
Franklin, smiling. "If it is shoes you are thinking of, as yours are
muddy, Ruth can lend you a pair."

"That she cannot," remarked Dolly. "Buy Ruth six pairs of new shoes, and
in six days all will be shabby. But you can have a pair of mine, Miss
Billy."

When she was left alone with her elder daughter, Mrs. Franklin said:
"Poor Billy! She is always haunted by the idea that she may possibly
meet Achilles Larue here. She certainly will not meet him at the Old
North, for he never goes near the place, in spite of her gentle
invitations. But here there is always a chance, and I never can resist
giving it to her, although in reality it is folly; he has never looked
at her, and he never will."

"No. But you need not be anxious about her," replied Dolly; "she has the
happy faculty of living in illusions, day after day. She can go on
hopefully admiring Achilles to the last moment of her life, and I dare
say she even thinks that he has a liking for her, little as he shows it.
She has occult reasons for this belief; she would find them in a kick."

"Goose!" said Mrs. Franklin, dismissing Billy's virginal dreams with the
matron's disillusioned knowledge. "Aren't you going to change your
dress, Dolly?"

"Why? Am I not tidy as I am? I thought you considered me too tidy?" And
it was true that the elder Miss Franklin was always a personification
of rigid neatness; from the dark hair that shaded her tired face, to the
shoes on her feet, all was severely orderly and severely plain.

"Oh, go, go!" answered her mother, impatiently.

Dolly screwed up her mouth, shook her head slowly, and laid her work
aside; then she rose, and with her cane walked towards the door. On her
way she stopped, and, bending, kissed her mother's forehead. "Some of
these days, mother, I shall be beautiful. It will be during one of our
future existences somewhere. It must be so, dear; you have earned it for
me by your loving pity here." Nothing could exceed the tenderness of her
tone as she said this.

Mrs. Franklin made no response beyond a little toss of her head, as
though repudiating this account of herself. But after Dolly had left the
room, a moisture gathered in the mother's eyes.

Ruth, meanwhile, had conducted Miss Billy to her own chamber.

"But Mrs. Franklin said I was to go to _her_ room?" suggested the guest.

"She doesn't mind; she only meant that Bob is probably here," answered
Ruth, as she opened the windows and threw back the blinds; for the
afternoon was drawing towards its close.

Miss Billy took off her bonnet, and, after a moment's thought, hung it
by its crown on