Rose and Amos exchanged rueful smiles. But in less than two hours, the carriage ride had lost its novelty, and the night’s sleep they’d missed, along with the rhythm of the road combined to lull the children to sleep.
Amos was silent, and Rose didn’t intrude on his thoughts. They knew each other so well, in any case, that she had no need to ask how he was feeling. The telegram that had come had been blunt, in the fashion of mountain people: Come home. Mama is dying.
As soon as they had heard, they had bundled the children up and had caught the first train out of New York. Now, as they made their way through the foothills of the Ozarks, her husband, Rose knew, was berating himself for not having visited his people in over a year. She watched him covertly, though he was so lost in his world of thought he would not have seen her gaze.
Finally she could not keep still any longer. “Amos, don’t blame yourself. Mr. Hearst has kept you so busy. You couldn’t have gotten home when you were off all over the world.”
Amos turned to her, a deep furrow creasing his brow. He studied her, then found a small smile. “Know me pretty well, don’t you?” He put his arm around her and drew her close. “How about a little kiss now that our chaperones are asleep.” He kissed her. Even after more than five years of marriage, Rose still felt like a girl when Amos embraced her. She pulled away, happy to have brightened his mood. “I’m praying for your mother,” she said. “We’ve seen God do great things, Amos.”
“Yes, we have.” He sighed and shook his head. “She’s been sick so long, though. I wish I could have talked them into moving to a drier climate—Arizona, maybe.”
“She’d never leave the hills, Amos. You know that.”
They made good time, the children waking up at noon. Stopping at a country store, Amos bought crackers, cheese, and pickles, and when the owner said, “Got some of them new drinks—Coca Cola,” Amos ordered four of them. “You all headed far?” the storekeeper asked.
“Just north of Mountain View…over in Stone County,” Amos replied. At that, the four loafers who were sitting around the potbellied wood stove looked up curiously. “My people live on a farm…Will Stuart’s my father.”
“Do tell…Will Stuart!” one of the loafers piped up. “I’ve played with your pa at many a dance. Let’s see, you’d be Will’s oldest boy, but I disremember your name?”
“Amos Stuart.”
“’Course! Well, now this is extra fine. Goin’ home for a visit, are you?”
Amos glanced at Rose, then nodded. “Yes. I haven’t been home in a year.”
“You watch out for that brother of yourn.” The man nodded knowingly. “That boy is a hoss! Plays the banjo better ’n any man in Stone County.”
“Does pretty good with the girls, too,” put in one of his cronies with a snort. “Him and Horace Wayfield had a rambunctious fight over to Baytown over that Perkins gal—the oldest one.”
“Wasn’t her a’tall! It was the middle one—Trudy!”
The two argued that out, then the first speaker said, “Anyhow, Owen whupped the tar outta Horace! Didn’t think there was a man in the hills could do that.”
Amos smiled briefly as the men jawed on about Owen’s exploits, and he realized they were carefully refraining from mentioning his father’s own adventures.
After lunch, Amos loaded his family into the buggy and drove the grays hard to make up the time. The roads were frozen, and the ruts caused the buggy to bounce roughly.
Finally, they pulled up over the last ridge. “There it is,” Amos said. Though the children were excited, he was dreading what was to come. His lips tightened. “I just hope we’re in time.”
Owen was waiting for them as they pulled up to the cabin. He had been all day, and now he stepped forward, towering over Amos. He put out his hand, crushing his brother’s hand in his massive palm. “Glad you got here, Amos,” Owen said. “And you, too, Rose.”
“How is she?” Amos was almost afraid to ask, but Owen nodded soberly. “Still holding her own. Come on inside.”
“Is Lylah here?” Rose asked as they moved toward the cabin.
“Not yet. She called Johnson’s store. Said she’d be here in the morning. She was way out to California.”
The main room of the cabin was full to overflowing. His father wasn’t in the room, but all of Amos’s brothers and sisters came to greet him. He was shocked at how much they’d all grown. Logan, at nineteen, was the smallest of the boys. He had rich chestnut hair and his mother’s dark blue eyes. The boy greeted them shyly, as always, then stepped back. At thirteen, Lenora had been a child—now at age fourteen, she was fast becoming a woman in the way of mountain girls. Gavin, twelve, was the “black” Stuart, a throwback to his father’s grandmother, and Christie, eight, was as blond as Gavin was dark.
After Amos and Rose had greeted them all, Owen said, “Come on in. Ma’s been asking for you.”
“The children—?” Rose asked tentatively.
“Bring ’em in.” Owen nodded. “Ma wants to see them.”
He turned and led the way to his parents’ bedroom, followed by Amos, Rose, and the children. A single lamp burned on a walnut washstand, and Will Stuart got up at once and came to them.
“Amos—Rose—” He gave them an awkward embrace, then said huskily, “Glad you made it, boy!”
He was a fine-looking man, Amos thought, little changed despite his fifty-three years. His face showed signs of recent strain, but it had always been his wife who bore the brunt of the responsibility in the family.
“She’s awake, Amos,” Will said and stepped back to let his son advance to the bed where his mother lay.
Beneath the quilt that covered her, her body seemed scarcely to make an indentation in the feather tick. Was she breathing? Amos could barely make out the slight rise and fall of her frail chest.
“Ma? It’s me—Amos.” He saw her eyes open, and she smiled up at him. “I–I’m glad I got here, Ma.”
Marian Stuart should have died three days earlier, but she had told the doctor sternly, “I won’t go until I’ve given my blessing to Amos and Lylah—and that’s that!”
She reached out with a thin hand, the blue veins startling against the ivory skin, and stroked his face. “I knew…you’d come, son,” she whispered. Her hand was so light on his face, like a feather, and Amos bit his lip. “Tell me…are you still following Jesus?”
“Yes, Ma. He means everything to me and Rose.”
Rose came forward, still holding the children’s hands. “Amos is the best husband in the world, Marian,” she said. “You taught him well. No man was ever more thoughtful of his wife and family than Amos Stuart.”
For one instant the sick woman’s eyes moved to her own husband, and Will Stuart dropped his head, his lips trembling. But Marian’s words were for the children. “You big people go away,” she said. “I have something to say to my grandchildren. Something private…just between us.”
Amos smiled, and they all filed out of the room.
“What is she telling them, I wonder,” Will asked, pacing outside her door.
Just as he spoke, Owen held up his hand to signal silence. “Listen!” They all broke off, listening hard. “It’s a car coming, I think.” Owen had always had the keenest hearing of any man Amos had ever known. “May be the doctor. He’s got one of them automobiles.”
Owen moved to the door, and the others followed him. An automobile was no novelty to Amos or Rose, but few of them had yet penetrated the hills of Arkansas. Automobiles were rich men’s toys, for the most part. Still, it looked like a man named Henry Ford had come up with a way to make them less expensive. Just two years ago, in 1903, Ford had founded his little company, and Model A Fords were beginning to be seen all over the country.
“That’s not the doctor,” Owen said as the machine crested the ridge and came chugging down the rutted road. It was almost dark, and only when the automobile was twenty feet away did he grin and shout, “It’s Lylah! Drivin’ that contraption her owns
elf!”
It was Lylah, Amos saw, and when the racket of the engine stopped and she got out, he joined the rush to greet her.
“Now don’t eat me alive!” Lylah laughed, hugging them all—or trying to. “My lands, Pa!” she gasped, giving them an appraising look. “What have you been feeding this bunch!”
“Cold water cornbread and possum, Sis!” Owen put his hands under Lylah’s arms and lifted her high, then spun her around as she squealed.
When he set her down, she looked up into his face and shook her head. “Owen, you’d better stay in these hills, because those city girls will grab you for sure!”
She let them lead her into the cabin. “You boys…bring the packages in. I missed your last two Christmases, so I brought presents enough to make up for it!”
But as soon as she stepped inside, Lylah turned to her father. “Did I get here in time, Pa?”
“Yes.” Will nodded. “She’s…just been holding on to see you and Amos.” He stared at this flamboyant daughter of his, never quite able to believe that she was part of him. She had left home with a raw kind of beauty, but not like this!
Lylah had fought her way to the high ranks of the world of the theater—not that Lillian Russell and Maude Adams were worried. Still, Lylah had starred in two very good plays with long runs, and producers always mentioned her name when it was time for casting a play.
She stood out in the cabin like a peacock among yard chickens, her wealth of auburn hair and strange violet eyes taking their breath away. Even in New York, Amos knew, she commanded attention in any crowd.
But now the violet eyes were hollow from lack of sleep, and lines of fatigue tugged at the corners of her full lips. “Can I see her, Pa?”
“Sure, Lylah.” Will nodded. “She’s with Amos’s young ’uns right now. Sit down and rest for a minute.”
Lylah stretched her back. “I’ve sat down halfway across this country. My bottom’s dead!” She saw the shock on the faces around her and laughed. “I see I’ll have to watch my language around here.”
Will got her some coffee, and they all hovered around her. She told them about some of the exotic places she’d been, and Amos and Owen smiled at each other.
When she finally slowed down, Owen spoke up. “I remember when you left here to go to Bible school, Lylah. I caught you smoking a cigarette out behind the barn.”
A giggle rippled around the room, and Will smiled faintly. “Seems like a million years ago since you left here, daughter.”
Lylah gave her father an odd look. “Yes, it does, Pa.”
They stayed up all night, or most of them did. The younger children went off to the sleeping loft, and Amos and Rose were assigned the only other full-sized bed.
But Amos and Owen and Lylah sat beside the fire most of the night. Amos told of the war and the Boxer Rebellion, making little of his own role. Rose and Lylah moved to Marian’s bedroom in shifts, taking care of the sick woman’s needs.
Morning came and with it the neighbors. Amos and Lylah had forgotten how it was with hill people.
Amos shook his head. “They feud like cats and dogs…but when one of their own is in trouble, there’s nobody like them!”
One of the first to arrive was a woman of no more than thirty, a widow named Agnes Barr. She came into the cabin with a great deal of energy, insisting on cooking a meal. “These children have to be fed, Will,” she said firmly. “Now you just sit down and let me take care of things.”
“Who is she, Owen?” Lylah asked quietly.
“The widow Barr,” Owen said, and both Lylah and Amos turned to stare at him, for there was a bitter edge to his voice. He said nothing more, but it was enough.
When Amos and Lylah were alone, she said fiercely, “She’s one of Pa’s women, Amos! I could kill her for coming here at a time like this!”
“You don’t know that, Lylah,” Amos protested weakly. But he knew Will too well, and he’d seen the guilty look on his father’s face.
“She’s after Pa!” Lylah snorted. “I knew it as soon as I saw her!”
And though Will Stuart made a few feeble attempts to get Agnes Barr to leave, they could all tell his heart wasn’t in it. Agnes was a full-bodied woman, lush and ripe, and though she would be fat and blowsy in a few years, right now she had an animal magnetism men like Will could not resist.
Finally Lylah could stand it no longer. At one o’clock, she marched up to the woman. Amos was alarmed. What would his sister do?
But Lylah had certain skills against which Agnes Barr was helpless. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Barr,” she said sweetly, taking the woman’s arm and propelling her toward the door. “The family needs to be alone now. Don’t bother to come back. We’ll make out somehow.”
Lylah did not miss the poisonous glance she received from the woman, but it lasted only a moment. Then Mrs. Barr composed herself and replied, “Of course. I was about to leave. Will…send for me if you need me.”
The air was thick for a moment after the woman left, but then Owen whispered loudly to Lylah, “I was hoping you’d knock the heifer down with a stick of stove wood!”
Just after midnight, Lylah came into the main room, her face twitching in a spasm of grief. “Come on…she’s going—”
They jumped to their feet. Amos found that his legs were trembling and was grateful when Rose slipped her hand into his, whispering, “I’m here, Amos!”
They circled the bed, and at first they thought they were too late. Marian’s face was smooth, not lined as it had been for years. The evidence of pain was gone from her features, and she looked almost like a young woman again.
Will was sitting beside her, his face working, tears running down his cheeks. Marian slowly opened her eyes, and when she saw him weeping, she said, “Will…I love you!”
“Oh, Marian…I’ve been—”
“Don’t say it, Will. It’s all right. We’ve had a fine family. Be a good father to them, Will.”
Stuart dropped his head and clenched his teeth. He knew they all thought of him as a failure—which was true enough—for he was a weak man. He’d intended to change—to be a good husband and father—but now it was too late.
Marian looked slowly around the circle, taking in each face, studying it carefully. She began speaking of her love for them all, calling every name, giving each one a kind or encouraging word. She sounded almost prophetic, like Jacob blessing his children, Amos thought.
Finally she said her farewells to the younger children, then asked for her three oldest to stay.
When only Owen, Lylah, and Amos were left, Marian began, “Amos, my firstborn…you’re so much like me. Take care of the little ones. The world is getting worse…it will take a strong man to keep them safe…promise me!”
“I promise, Ma!”
Marian kissed him, then turned to Lylah. Her eyes were luminous, and she spoke in a whisper. “You have chosen a hard way, daughter. But my God has told me that you will find your way back to him.”
Lylah put her head down on the shrunken bosom and wept wildly. It was Owen who picked her up, and then Marian took his free hand. She held it for a long time, and the only sounds in the room were Lylah’s muted sobs.
“Owen—,” the dying woman whispered, “you’ve had to pay the price for holding the family together. You’re the one who wanted most to see the world…but you stayed and helped your father and me. You’ve been bitter, son, but God is going to reward you greatly—” Her breast heaved as she struggled for breath, and she lifted herself up in the bed, gasping. “Owen, my son, never…be bitter.”
Then Marian Stuart gazed on her children one last time. She smiled, her face more serene than they had ever seen it. She closed her eyes, calling, “Jesus…Jesus!” And then she slumped back against the pillows.
Will cried aloud and fell on her body, weeping. But Amos, Lylah, and Owen knew that their mother was at last free from pain and grief, as she had never been in life.
“Let us never forget,” Amos whispe
red as he held his mother’s worn hand, “how well she endured her going forth.”
17
NIGHT AT THE CARNIVAL
Lylah…I’ve got to talk to you!”.
Amos had come to the Minerva Theater where Lylah was rehearsing for her new play, Girl of the Golden West. He had waited impatiently in the wings until the scene was over, then took her arm as she came to him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked at once, noting his look of agitation.
“I’ve just received a letter from Pa,” he said. “He married that woman—that Agnes Barr.”
“He couldn’t!” Lylah exploded. “And Ma not in her grave two months!” Anger swept over her for a moment, then she sighed. “Yes, I guess he could, Amos. I knew it was going to happen. She was after him even while Ma was dying.”
They stood there, angry and bitter, each knowing that nothing good would come of the marriage. “She’ll make life a nightmare for the kids,” Amos said gloomily, “and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“I’ll write to Pa,” Lylah said as Amos turned to go, “but he’s a fool where women are concerned.” She hesitated, then looked at her brother, a dark wisdom in her violet eyes. “I’ll tell you something else, Amos,” she said in a hard voice, “Agnes Barr’s the kind of woman who can’t let men alone. You mark it down…inside of six months, she’ll be cheating on Pa!”
Lylah was right–and wrong. Agnes Barr did not last even six months before she grew restless. She loved dances and insisted that her new husband take her to every party within fifty miles of the farm.
At first, Will was delighted with this arrangement, for he had always felt guilty over leaving his family to play his music. But Agnes just smiled and ran her hand through his hair. “We’re lucky to have older children to stay home and take care of the young ones, honey. Besides, we’re still on our honeymoon!”
After two months of chasing around frantically to every barn raising and dance in Stone County and some even farther away, Will Stuart began to feel his years. “We’ve got to settle down, Agnes,” he said wearily after the pair returned from a three-day circuit, where he’d played every night. “I can’t ask the boys to do all the work…and the house is a wreck.”
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