CHAPTER III
IN WHICH AUNT SALLY TAKES HER DEPARTURE AND MEETS FRALE
The loom shed was one of the log cabins connected with the main buildingby a roofed passage, which Thryng had noticed the evening before asbeing an odd fashion of house architecture, giving the appearance of asmall flock of cabins all nestling under the wings of the old buildingin the centre.
The shed was dark, having but one small window with glass panes near theloom, the other and larger opening being tightly closed by a woodenshutter. David slept late, and awoke at last to find himself thousandsof miles away from his dreams in this unique room, all in the deepestshadow, except for the one warm bar of sunlight which fell across hisface. He drowsed off again, and his mind began piecing togetherfragments and scenes from the previous day and evening, and immediatelyhe was surrounded by mystery, moonlit, fairylike, and white, a littlecrooked being at his side looking up at him like some gnome creature ofthe hills, revealed as a part of the enchantment. Then slowly resolvingand melting away after the manner of dreams, the wide spaces of themystery drew closer and warmer, and a great centre of blazing logs threwgrotesque, dancing lights among them, and an old face peered out withbright, keen eyes, now seen, now lost in the fitful shadows, now paleand appealing or cautiously withdrawn, but always watching--watchingwhile the little crooked being came and watched also. Then between himand the blazing light came a dark figure silhouetted blackly against it,moving, stooping, rising, going and coming--a sweet girl's head withheavily coiled hair through which the firelight played with flashes ofits own color, and a delicate profile cut in pure, clean lines meltinginto throat and gently rounded breast; like a spirit, now here, nowgone, again near and bending over him,--a ministering spirit bringinghim food,--until gradually this half wake, dreaming reminiscenceconcentrated upon her, and again he saw her standing holding the candlehigh and looking up at him,--a wondering, questioning spirit,--thendrooping wearily into the chair by the uncleared table, and againwaiting with almost a smile on her parted lips as he said "good night."Good night? Ah, yes. It was morning.
Again he heard the continuous rushing noise to which he had listened inthe white mystery, that had soothed him to slumber the night before,rising and falling--never ceasing. He roused himself with sudden energyand bounded from his couch. He would go out and investigate. His sleephad been sound, and he felt a rejuvenation he had not experienced inmany months. When he threw open the shutter of the large unglazed windowspace and looked out on his strange surroundings, he found himself in anew world, sparkling, fresh, clear, shining with sunlight and glisteningwith wetness, as though the whole earth had been newly washed andvarnished. The sunshine streamed in and warmed him, and the air, filledwith winelike fragrance, stirred his blood and set his pulses leaping.
He had been too exhausted the previous evening to do more than fall intothe bed which had been provided him and sleep his long, uninterruptedsleep. Now he saw why they had called this part of the home the loomshed, for between the two windows stood a cloth loom left just as it hadbeen used, the warp like a tightly stretched veil of white threads, andthe web of cloth begun.
In one corner were a few bundles of cotton, one of which had been tornopen and the contents placed in a thick layer over the long bench onwhich he had slept, and covered with a blue and white homespuncounterpane. The head had been built high with it, and sheets spreadover all. He noticed the blankets which had covered him, and saw thatthey were evidently of home manufacture, and that the white spread whichcovered them was also of coarse, clean homespun, ornamented in squareswith rude, primitive needlework. He marvelled at the industry hererepresented.
As for his toilet, the preparation had been most simple. A shelf placedon pegs driven between the logs supported a piece of looking-glass; asplint chair set against the wall served as wash-stand andtowel-rack--the homespun cotton towels neatly folded and hung over theback; a wooden pail at one side was filled with clear water, over whichhung a dipper of gourd; a white porcelain basin was placed on the chair,over which a clean towel had been spread, and to complete all, a squarecut from the end of a bar of yellow soap lay beside the basin.
David smiled as he bent himself to the refreshing task of bathing inwater so cold as to be really icy. Indeed, ice had formed over stillpools without during the night, although now fast disappearing under theglowing morning sun. Above his head, laid upon cross-beams, were bundlesof wool uncarded, and carding-boards hung from nails in the logs. In onecorner was a rudely constructed reel, and from the loom dangled the idleshuttle filled with fine blue yarn of wool. Thryng thought of the wornold hands which had so often thrown it, and thinking of them he hastenedhis toilet that he might go in and do what he could to help the patient.It was small enough return for the kindness shown him. He feared tooffer money for his lodgment, at least until he could find a way.
At last, full of new vigor and very hungry, he issued from hissleeping-room, sadly in need of a shave, but biding his time, satisfiedif only breakfast might be forthcoming. He had no need to knock, for thehouse door stood open, flooding the place with sunlight and frosty air.The huge pile of logs was blazing on the hearth as if it had neverceased since the night before, and the flames leaped hot and red up thegreat chimney.
Old Sally no longer presided at the cookery. With a large cup of blackcoffee before her, she now sat at the table eating corn-bread and bacon.A drooping black sunbonnet on her head covered her unkempt, grizzlyhair, and a cob pipe and bag of tobacco lay at her hand. She was readyfor departure. Cassandra had returned, and her gratuitous neighborlyoffices were at an end. The girl was stooping before the fire, arranginga cake of corn-bread to cook in the ashes. A crane swung over the flameson which a fat iron kettle was hung, and the large coffee-pot stood onthe hearth. The odor of breakfast was savory and appetizing. As David'stall form cast a shadow across the sunlit space on the floor, the oldmother's voice called to him from the corner.
"Come right in, Doctah; take a cheer and set. Your breakfast's ready, Ireckon. How have you slept, suh?"
The girl at the fire rose and greeted him, but he missed the boy."Where's the little chap?" he asked.
"Cassandry sont him out to wash up. F'ust thing she do when she getshome is to begin on Hoyle and wash him up."
"He do get that dirty, poor little son," said the girl. "It's like Ihave to torment him some. Will you have breakfast now, suh? Just takeyour chair to the table, and I'll fetch it directly."
"Won't I, though! What air you have up here! It makes me hungry merelyto breathe. Is it this way all the time?"
"Hit's this-a-way a good deal," said Sally, from under her sunbonnet,"Oh, the' is days hit's some colder, like to make water freeze righthard, but most days hit's a heap warmer than this."
"That's so," said the invalid. "I hev seen it so warm a heap o' winters'at the trees gits fooled into thinkin' hit's spring an' blossoms allout, an' then come along a late freez'n' spell an' gits their fruit allkilled. Hit's quare how they does do that-a-way. We-all hates it whenthe days come warm in Feb'uary."
"Then you must have been glad to have snow yesterday. I wasdisappointed. I was running away from that sort of thing, you know."
Thryng's breakfast was served to him as had been his supper of theevening before, directly from the fire. As he ate he looked out upon theusual litter of corn fodder scattered about near the house, and a fewimplements of the simplest character for cultivating the small pocket ofrich soil below, but beyond this and surrounding it was a scene of thewildest beauty. Giant forest trees, intertwined and almost overgrown bya tangle of wild grapevines, hid the fall from sight, and behind themthe mountain rose abruptly. A continuous stream of clearest water, icycold, fell from high above into a long trough made of a hollow log.There at the running water stood little Hoyle, his coarse cotton towelhung on an azalia shrub, giving himself a thorough scrubbing. In amoment he came in panting, shivering, and shining, and still wet aboutthe hair and ears.
"Why, you are not half dry, son," said his
sister. She took the towelfrom him and gave his head a vigorous rubbing. "Go and get warm, honey,and sister'll give you breakfast by the fire." She turned to David:"Likely you take milk in your coffee. I never thought to ask you." Sheleft the room and returned with a cup of new milk, warm and sweet. Hewas glad to get it, finding his black coffee sweetened only withmolasses unpalatable.
"Don't you take milk in your coffee? How came you to think of it forme?"
"I knew a lady at the hotel last summer. She said that up no'th 'mosteverybody does take milk or cream, one, in their coffee."
"I never seed sech. Hit's clar waste to my thinkin'."
Cassandra smiled. "That's because you never could abide milk. Mothahthinks it's only fit to make buttah and raise pigs on."
Old Sally's horse, a thin, wiry beast, gray and speckled, stood readysaddled near the door, his bridle hanging from his neck, the bitdangling while he also made his repast. When he had finished his cornand she had finished her elaborate farewells at the bedside, and littleHoyle had with much effort succeeded in bridling her steed, she steppedquickly out and gained her seat on the high, narrow saddle with the easeof a young girl. Meagre as a willow withe in her scant black cottongown, perched on her bony gray beast, and only the bowl of her cob pipeprojecting beyond the rim of her sunbonnet as indication that a facemight be hidden in its depths, with a meal sack containing in either endsundry gifts--salt pork, chicken, corn-bread, and meal--slung over thehorse's back behind her, and with contentment in her heart, Aunt Sallyrode slowly over the hills to rejoin her old man.
Soon she left the main road and struck out into a steep, narrow trail,merely a mule track arched with hornbeam and dogwood and mulberry trees,and towered over by giant chestnuts and oaks and great white pines anddeep green hemlocks. Through myriad leafless branches the wind soughedpleasantly overhead, unfelt by her, so completely was she protected bythe thickly growing laurel and rhododendron on either side of her path.The snow of the day before was gone, leaving only the glistening wetnessof it on stones and fallen leaves and twigs underfoot, while in openspaces the sun beat warmly down upon her.
The trail led by many steep scrambles and sharp descents more directlyto her home than the road, which wound and turned so frequently as tomore than double the distance. At intervals it cut across the road orfollowed it a little way, only to diverge again. Here and there othertrails crossed it or branched from it, leading higher up the mountain,or off into some gorge following the course of a stream, so that, exceptto one accustomed to its intricacies, the path might easily be lost.
Old Sally paid no heed to her course, apparently leaving the choice oftrails to her horse. She sat easily on the beast and smoked her pipeuntil it was quite out, when she stowed it away in the black cloth bag,which dangled from her elbow by its strings. Spying a small sassafrasshrub leaning toward her from the bank above her head, she gave it avigorous pull as she passed and drew it, root and all, from its hold inthe soil, beat it against the mossy bank, and swished it upon her skirtto remove the earth clinging to it. Then, breaking off a bit of theroot, she chewed it, while she thrust the rest in her bag and used thetop for a switch with which to hasten the pace of her nag.
The small stones, loosened when she tore the shrub from the bank,rattled down where the soil had been washed away, leaving the steepshelving rock side of the mountain bare, and she heard them leap thesmooth space and fall softly on the moss among the ferns and lodgedleaves below. There, crouched in the sun, lay a man with a black felthat covering his face. The stones falling about him caused him to raisehimself stealthily and peer upward. Descrying only the lone woman andthe gray horse, he gave a low peculiar cry, almost like that of ananimal in distress. She drew rein sharply and listened. The cry wasrepeated a little louder.
"Come on up hyar, Frale. Hit's on'y me. Hu' come you thar?"
He climbed rapidly up through the dense undergrowth, and stood at herside, breathing quickly. For a moment they waited thus, regarding eachother, neither speaking. The boy--he seemed little more than ayouth--looked up at her with a singularly innocent and appealingexpression, but gradually as he saw her impassive and unrelenting face,his own resumed a hard and sullen look, which made him appear yearsolder. His forehead was damp and cold, and a lock of silken black hair,slightly curling over it, increased its whiteness. Dark, heavy ringswere under his eyes, which gleamed blue as the sky between long darklashes. His arms dropped listlessly at his side, and he stood beforeher, as before a dread judge, bareheaded and silent. He bore her lookonly for a minute, then dropped his eyes, and his hand clinched moretightly the rim of his old felt hat. When he ceased looking at her, hereyes softened.
"I 'low ye mus' hev suthin' to say fer yourse'f," she said.
"I reckon." The corners of his mouth drooped, and he did not look up. Hemade as if to speak further, but only swallowed and was silent.
"Ye reckon? Waal, why'n't ye say?"
"They hain't nothin' to say. He war mean an'--an'--he's dade. I reckonhe's dade."
"Yas, he's dade--an' they done had the buryin'." Her voice wasmonotonous and plaintive. A pallor swept over his face, and he drew theback of his hand across his mouth.
"He knowed he hadn't ought to rile me like he done. I be'n tryin' tomake his hoss go home, but I cyan't. Hit jes' hangs round thar. I donebrung him down an' lef' him in your shed, an' I 'lowed p'rhaps UncleJerry'd take him ovah to his paw." Again he swallowed and turned hisface away. "The critter'd starve up yander. Anyhow, I ain't hossstealin'. Hit war mo'n a hoss 'twixt him an' me." From the low, quiettones of the two no one would have dreamed that a tragedy lay beneaththeir words.
"Look a-hyar, Frale. Thar wa'n't nothin' 'twixt him an' you. Ye warboth on ye full o' mean corn whiskey, an' ye war quarrellin' 'boutsCass." A faint red stole into the boy's cheeks, and the blue gleam ofhis eyes between the dark lashes narrowed to a mere line, as he lookedan instant in her face and then off up the trail.
"Hain't ye seed nobody?" he asked.
"You knows I hain't seed nobody to hurt you-uns 'thout I'd tell ye. Looka-hyar, son, you are hungerin'. Come home with me, an' I'll get yesuthin' to eat. Ef you don't, ye'll go back an' fill up on whiskey agin,an' thar'll be the end of ye." He walked on a few steps at her side,then stopped suddenly.
"I 'low I better bide whar I be. You-uns hain't been yandah to the fall,have ye?"
"I have. You done a heap mo'n you reckoned on. When Marthy heered o' thekillin', she jes' drapped whar she stood. She war out doin' work 'atyou'd ought to 'a' been doin' fer her, an' she hain't moved sence. Shelike to 'a' perished lyin' out thar. Pore little Hoyle, he run all theway to our place he war that skeered, an' 'lowed she war dade, an' mean' the ol' man went ovah, an' thar we found her lyin' in the yard, an'the cow war lowin' to be milked, an' the pig squeelin' like hit warstuck, fer hunger. Hit do make me clar plumb mad when I think how youhev acted,--jes' like you' paw. Ef he'd nevah 'a' started that tharstill, you'd nevah 'a' been what ye be now, a-drinkin' yer own whiskeyat that. Come on home with me."
"I reckon I'm bettah hyar. They mount be thar huntin' me."
"I know you're hungerin'. I got suthin' ye can eat, but I 'lowed ifyou'd come, I'd get you an' the ol' man a good chick'n fry." She tookfrom her stores, slung over the nag, a piece of corn-bread and a largechunk of salt pork, and gave them into his hand. "Thar! Eat. Hit'sheart'nin'."
He was suffering, as she thought, and reached eagerly for the food, butbefore tasting it he looked up again into her face, and the infantileappeal had returned to his eyes.
"Tell me more 'bouts maw," he said.
"You eat, an' I'll talk," she replied. He broke a large piece from thecorn-cake and crowded the rest into his pocket. Then he drew forth ahuge clasp-knife and cut a thick slice from the raw salt pork, andpulling a red cotton handkerchief from his belt, he wrapped it aroundthe remainder and held it under his arm as he ate.
"She hain't able to move 'thout hollerin', she's that bad hurted. Pawan' I, we got her to bed, an' I been thar ever since with all
to doontwell Cass come. Likely she done broke her hip."
"Is Cass thar now? Hu' come she thar?" Again the blood sought hischeeks.
"Paw rode down to the settlement and telegrafted fer her. Pore thing!You don't reckon what-all you have done. I wisht you'd 'a' took aftahyour maw. She war my own sister, 'nd she war that good she must 'a' wentstraight to glory when she died. Your paw, he like to 'a' died too thattime, an' when he married Marthy Merlin, I reckoned he war cured o' hisways; but hit did'n' last long. Marthy, she done well by him, an' shedone well by you, too. They hain't nothin' agin Marthy. She be'n a goodstepmaw to ye, she hev, an' now see how you done her, an' Cass givin' upher school an' comin' home thar to ten' beastes an' do your work likeshe war a man. Her family wa'n't brought up that-a-way, nor mine wa'n'tneither. Big fool Marthy war to marry with your paw. Hit's that-a-waywith all the Farwells; they been that quarellin' an' bad, makin' meanwhiskey an' drinkin' hit raw, killin' hyar an' thar, an' now you godoin' the same, an' my own nephew, too." Her face remained impassive,and her voice droned on monotonously, but two tears stole down herwrinkled cheeks. His face settled into its harder lines as she talked,but he made no reply, and she continued querulously: "Why'n't you payheed to me long ago, when I tol' ye not to open that thar still again?You are a heap too young to go that-a-way,--my own kin, like to be hungfer man-killin'."
"When did Cass come?" he interrupted sullenly.
"Las' evenin'."
"I'll drap 'round thar this evenin' er late night, I reckon. I have toget feed fer my own hoss an' tote hit up er take him back--one. All Ifetched up last week he done et." He turned to walk away, but stood withaverted head as she began speaking again.
"Don't you do no such fool thing. You keep clar o' thar. Bring the hossto me, an' I'll ride him home. What you want o' the beast on themountain, anyhow? Hit's only like to give away whar ye'r' at. All youwant is to git to see Cass, but hit won't do you no good, leastways notnow. You done so bad she won't look at ye no more, I reckon. They is aman thar, too, now." He started back, his hands clinched, his headlifted, in his whole air an animal-like ferocity. "Thar now, look at ye.'Tain't you he's after."
"'Tain't me I'm feared he's after. How come he thar?"
"He come with her las' evenin'--" A sound of horses' hoofs on the roadfar below arrested her. They both waited, listening intently. "Thar theybe. Git," she whispered. "Cass tol' me ef I met up with ye, to say 'atshe'd leave suthin' fer ye to eat on the big rock 'hind the holly treeat the head o' the fall." She leaned down to him and held him by thecoat an instant, "Son, leave whiskey alone. Hit's the only way you kindo to get her."
"Yas, Aunt Sally," he murmured. His eyes thanked her with one look forthe tone or the hope her words held out.
Again the laugh, nearer this time, and again the wild look of hauntingfear in his face. He dropped where he stood and slipped stealthily as acat back to the place where he had lain, and crawling on his bellytoward a heap of dead leaves caught by the brush of an old fallen pine,he crept beneath them and lay still. His aunt did not stir. Patting herhorse's neck, she sat and waited until the voices drew nearer, cameclose beneath her as the road wound, and passed on. Then she once moremoved along toward her cabin.
The Mountain Girl Page 4