# The Heart Of Kentucky/The Passing Stage

Nothing could be more picturesquely beautiful than was the old "Wilderness Road," or "Emigrant Trail," as it was more generally called in the early days of the eighteenth century—the great highway of travel, then as now, leading toward the setting sun, over the mountains into the dark mysterious valley beyond.
For many miles it ran through a sparsely settled country over the foothills leading up to the eastern slope of the Appalachian Chain. Then through the "Cumberland Gap," the giant gateway between Virginia and the wildly beautiful country called Transylvania, it continued its zigzag course westward, always westward, down the rough mountain sides until it pierced the fertile bluegrass lands lying beyond. Of this valley the bold hunters on their return home would tell such wondrous stories that The Trail was soon dotted with movers’ wagons, and camp-fires glowed like stars from the depths of the pine forests which clothed the mountain sides. They were not disappointed, these hardy adventurers who first penetrated the wilderness in search of game and new hunting grounds, for they found a paradise instead. No wonder they called it "God’s country."
After passing through the Gap, the western slope of this mountain range was dotted here and there with springs and small inland lakes to which deer and other wild creatures of the forest came to slake their thirst. One of these pellucid lakes fed by a mountain spring situated on a plateau well up on the mountain side, of too little geographical importance to require a name, was remarkable, however, for the picturesque beauty of its surroundings, and always caught the eye of the traveler on this lonely trail. Here the road, deeply furrowed by the heavy wagons that passed that way, wound round the lake on one side, the shore from time to time reaching out into the water forming little tongues of land covered with reed grass or weeping willows, under which the wild fowl hid their nests.
To the right of the road beyond the lake stood a noble group of ancient hemlocks guarding “The Manor House,” a building of Colonial style with broad porch and fluted columns, its high gable roof disappearing in the lofty firs behind it, which stood out against the blue sky like the pines on the Campagna. It was built of light gray limestone hewn no doubt from the hillside near the spring, and against the background of the everlasting green of the mountains shone in the sunlight like silver.
Into the pit from which the stones for the building had been taken, the waters had overflowed, forming an arm, over which was built a bridgeway leading to the house.
In spite of the natural beauty of the surroundings, it was a lonely, desolate place. Many miles away from any other dwelling, it was so absolutely secluded from the world that it seemed as if the builder, wearying of the seclusion, had soon abandoned it to the bats and owls that continued to build their nests in the fluted columns and tall chimneys and under the eaves of the great house. When the storms of winter came roaring over the mountain, shaking and twisting the old trees until they groaned louder than the howling of the storm, the ill-omened birds driven from shelter and circling uneasily about their nesting places lent color to the tradition that the Manor had been delivered over to evil spirits. As time passed it became known to travelers upon the road as "the haunted house"; for, as the wilderness opened up and the first emigrants moved on into the interior, there was soon no one left to recall when or how it had been built; not within the memory of man had it been occupied.
Great was the surprise, therefore, when one day a train of wagons loaded, with sumptuous furnishings, came toiling through "The Gap" and over the trail; then, winding around the lake and crossing the bridge, turned into the private roadway leading up to "The Manor House."
A month or so later the mid-afternoon of a fine June day found the stage coach making its weekly pilgrimage through the Gap. Drawing near this point the tired horses slackened their gait, and wound slowly around the lake, giving the occupants upon the box ample opportunity to observe the changes made by time—and springtime—which seemed to have chased all hobgoblins away.
Though the scenery in the immediate vicinity was still picturesquely wild, about the house the gardens and the lawn the judicious pruner had brought something like order out of the confusion of wild woods and shrubbery and vines which had hitherto run riot to the very doors.
Now roses were climbing everywhere; not the roses of floriculture, but wild roses. The sweet briar, as it was then known, was trained over windows, walls, fences, and trees, filling the air with its spicy fragrance. Trailing through the grass, reaching out its arms for the low parapet which bounded the lakeside nearest the road—preventing the encroachment of the waters—it clothed luxuriantly the rampart and, falling over, scattered its pretty pink petals upon the bosom of the lake.
Near the house the flower borders had been weeded out; and the old-fashioned favorites, bleeding heart, columbine, pinks, sweet-william, larkspur, and ladyslipper having taken a new lease on life, made pretty patches of bloom. Close by the steps on either side grew great bunches of yucca, their long spear-shaped leaves, erect and glistening in the sunlight, guarding the threshold.
"Yonder’s the Manor House," said the driver, pointing with his whip hand to the lordly home, "and thar’s the new tenant."
The coach was now nearing the bridge where, seated upon the low parapet overrun with roses, was a young woman, her face turned toward the roadway watching the coming stage.
How young she was it would be difficult to say, since time had left no mark by which one could calculate her age. Her lustrous brown hair was coifed high, as was the fashion of that day, the waving bands about the forehead showing by contrast the creamy fairness of her brow. With more than a passing glance her large eyes, blue as the violets at her feet, rested upon each passenger on the coach, acknowledging by a slight inclination of the head the respectful bows made to her, as was the custom of wayfarers on the road in those days.
"What a woman with whom to make the journey of life," thought the traveler who that day shared the box seat with the driver.
In answer to his thought, it seemed, the lady allowed her eyes to rest upon his face for a moment; meeting his intense and ardent gaze, betraying as it did a more than cursory interest, she hastily turned her head. In her eyes was kindled a strange, disturbed light, and a faint color spread over her cheek as the passenger turned for a parting glance.
It was a picture not to be easily forgotten and the face of the beautiful stranger lingered in the mind of the passenger on the coach long after the Manor House was left behind; a memory as tantalizing as the elusive fragrance of a flower which one wishes to recall.
The coach soon passed from view and a few moments later the lady was joined by a young man, whose arm she took as they proceeded to continue an interrupted walk. Her companion, a typical Kentuckian of border days, tall and sinewy and good to look upon, was young, not having passed many milestones beyond his majority, perhaps, as time goes. But in those days years counted for more, somehow, than in these; those were days of great deeds in the wilderness, making men of boys.
This young man, irrespective of age, impressed one as a person of marked characteristics, for in his face, handsome and intelligent, there were indications of great firmness, of decision, and fixedness of purpose, betokening maturer years than he perhaps counted. As he drew the lady’s hand within his arm, he betrayed withal the modesty, the ingenuousness of youth, and a gentleness in deportment inherent, no doubt, to his nature.
"Who are the occupants of the Manor?" asked the box passenger of the driver of the stage as they passed out of sight.
"Tt 'pears like to me, suh, you oughter know," said the driver, "seein’ you’re two of a kind."
"A lawyer?"
"Yes, 'n' a pollytishan. A risin' one, they say, suh. Wallace Dar'll is his name, suh."
"Darrall! I have heard of him. He seems to me very young?"
"That’s the way he seems, suh; but he 'pears to have a pirty ole head on his young shoulders."
"And a pretty wise one, I've heard. He's a great 'Anti-Relief' man. They are talking of running him for the next Assembly, I hear."
"I wisht he might git thar, suh; but they ain't no hope uv that, I reckin."
"You are then 'Anti-Relief', I take it?"
"Course I am; you see, I don't own no land, and I ain't got no bank nor stores; all I've got is my stage and my teams, scattered all along the road, from old Virginny to Frankfort; an' my contrac' to carry the people same as I'm carry'n you and the mail, suh. Now I'm boun' ter take whatever they gives me, suh, an' ef I lends it out, or puts it in anything, or ef I keep it, the chances is, suh, that it won't be worth one half uv what I took it fur. No, suh, I ain't in favor of allowin' any bank jest to print money fast as they want it, 'thout they've got the money, gole and silver, to show fur it. I hope you ain't fur Relief, suh?"
"I can't say that I am—nor that I am not. It's been a good many years since I went back to Virginia, after locating some land here, so I am not fully informed in regard to Kentucky politics."
"Is you calkerlatin' on stayin' here, suh? Cause, ef you is, you'll soon git posted, fur you'll be like everybody else, a followin' yo' own int'rust."
Whipping up the horses, now that they had a good level bit of road, he returned to the occupants of the Manor House.
"They ain't bin here long, suh. I see a great commotion, a movin' in of stuff and one thing or other, an' a cleanin' about a munt ago, and then the next time I pass I see 'em still fixin' things, and now this is three times. It's a mighty fine ole place, suh, but it looks lonesome-like to me."
"Surely not lonesome to her—if, as it seems, she is newly wed."
"But I don't kno' that, suh."
"Somehow you gave me that impression."
"All I know 'bout it is—that's Dar'll I see thar with her."
"Then who is the woman?"
"I dunno. It mout be his wife, suh, I reckin'; tho' I ain't hearn nothin' 'bout his marryin', he mout'er marri'd somebody. News travels slow, suh, with only a fo'-hoss stage; an' riders horseback to carry it."
"What about the house? I must have passed this way when I first came into the wilderness and again when I went back to old Virginia, about ten or more years ago; I remember I stayed all night the first time in a log cabin hereabouts."
"Well, suh, I dunno rightly 'bout the house. To tell the truth, nobody don't know rightly 'bout the house, suh. All they kin tell is that it wuz built by a Englishman, what wuz so struck on these heyer mount'ins that he bought land and built him a cabin; and in a valley over thar he laid out a park, and was goin' ter keep deer, an' elk, an' buffalo in it; all uv the wile things, like they did over whar he cum from. A foolish notion it always 'peared to me, fur thar's plenty uv sich things all "round in the woods."
"Certainly—now; but the time will come when there won't be any. They will be killed and die out when the forests are cut down, and the sight of a real canebrake and wild animals in a natural park would be something to go miles to see. I hope he carried out his intentions?"
"No, he died. His horse, jumping a fence, rolled over and killed him. He was a great hand to hunt, they say, an' never minded a fence nor nothin'. Come to think of it, I dunno whether the house wuz built before he died or no. He left a widder, an' one mity pirty little gal. He wuz gwine ter build it, I know. He had patents, they say, on thousan's an' thousan's of lan' all through the bluegrass country."
"Maybe it was built by his wife?"
"No, suh, they went away soon after he was killed. They wuz skeered to live so lonesome-like by theirselves, an' they never did come back. I did hear they went back to his people in the Ole Country, suh; he always set great stor' by his people."
"And no one has ever lived in this house?"
"Course they mighter, but nobody ain't never lived in it since I've been drivin' this stage, suh, seven years now come September. You see, it's too big fur ennybody without a passel of niggers, an' a big farm to work, an' plenty uv money; an' sich people would natchelly stay in Ole Virginny, whar thar's plenty mo' sich houses, an' coaches, and chair'ots to ride 'round in to see the neighbors; an' neighbors to see, suh."
"It has been empty all of these years?"
"Eyer since I bin drivin'. Nobody be'n in it so long, suh, it natchelly got a bad name. The country people say it's ha'nted, an' you couldn’t get a nigger to go nigh it at night. All the niggers they've got thar they fetched with 'em from Ole Virginny, or somewhar."