The Mountain Girl

by Payne Erskine

  CHAPTER V

  IN WHICH CASSANDRA GOES TO DAVID WITH HER TROUBLE, AND GIVES FRALE HERPROMISE

  After his sleep on Hanging Rock, David, allured by the sunset, remainedlong in his doorway idly smoking his pipe, and ruminating, until anormal and delightful hunger sent him striding down the winding pathtoward the blazing hearth where he had found such kindly welcome theevening before. There, seated tilted back against the chimney side, hefound a huge youth, innocent of face and gentle of mien, who rose as heentered and offered him his chair, and smiled and tossed back a fallinglock from his forehead as he gave him greeting.

  "This hyar is Doctah Thryng, Frale, who done me up this-a-way. He 'lowshe's goin' to git me well so's I can walk again. How air you, suh? Youcertainly do look a heap better'n when you come las' evenin'."

  "So I am, indeed. And you?" David's voice rang out gladly. He went tothe bed and bent above the old woman, looking her over carefully. "Areyou comfortable? Do the weights hurt you?" he asked.

  "I cyan't say as they air right comfortable, but ef they'll help me togit 'round agin, I reckon I can bar hit."

  Early that morning, with but the simplest means, David had arrangedbandages and weights of wood to hold her in position.

  She was so slight he hoped the broken hip might right itself withpatience and care, more especially as he learned that her age was not soadvanced as her appearance had led him to suppose.

  Now all suspicion of him seemed to have vanished from the household.Hoyle, happy when the fascinating doctor noticed him, leaned against hischair, drinking in his words eagerly. But when Thryng drew him to hisknee and discovered the cruel mark across his face and asked how it hadhappened, a curious change crept over them all. Every face became asexpressionless as a mask; only the boy's eyes sought his brother's,then turned with a frightened look toward Cassandra as if seeking help.

  Thryng persisted in his examination, and lifted the boy's face towardthe light. If the big brother had done this deed, he should be made tofeel shame for it. The welt barely escaped the eye, which was swollenand discolored; and altogether the face presented a pitiable appearance.

  As David talked, the hard look which had been exorcised for a time bythe gentle influence of that home, and more than all by the sight ofCassandra performing the gracious services of the household, settledagain upon the youth's face. His lips were drawn, and his eyes ceasedfollowing Cassandra, and became fixed and narrowed on one spot.

  "You have come near losing that splendid eye of yours, do you know that,little chap?" Hoyle grinned. "It's a shame, you know. I have somethingup at the cabin would help to heal this, but--" he glanced about theroom--"What are those dried herbs up there?"

  "Thar is witch hazel yandah in the cupboard. Cass, ye mount bile some upfer th' doctah," said the mother. "Tell th' doctah hu-come hit happened,son; you hain't afeared of him, be ye?" A trampling of horse's hoofs washeard outside. "Go up garret to your own place, Frale. What ye bid'nhere fer?" she added, in a hushed voice, but the youth sat doggedlystill.

  Cassandra went out and quickly returned. "It's your own horse, Frale.Poor beast! He's limping like he's been hurt. He's loose out there. Youbetter look to him."

  "Uncle Carew rode him down an' lef' him, I reckon." Frale rose and wentout, and David continued his care of the child.

  "How was it? Did your brother hurt you?"

  "Naw. He nevah hurted me all his life. Hit--war my own se'f--"

  Cassandra patted the child on his shoulder. "He can't beah to tellhu-come he is hurted this way, he is that proud. It was a mean, bad,coward man fetched him such a blow across the face. He asked little sonsomething, and when Hoyle nevah said a word, he just lifted his arm andhit him, and then rode off like he had pleased himself." A flush ofanger kindled in her cheeks. "Nevah mind, son. Doctah can fix you up allright."

  A sigh of relief trembled through the boy's lips, and David asked nomore questions.

  "You hain't goin' to tie me up that-a-way, be you?" He pointed to thebed whereon his mother lay, and they all laughed, relieving the tension.

  "Naw," shrilled the mother's voice, "but I reckon doctah mount take offyour hade an' set hit on straight agin."

  "I wisht he could," cried the child, no whit troubled by the suggestion."I'd bar a heap fer to git my hade straight like Frale's." Just then hisbrother entered the room. "You reckon doctah kin take off my hade an'set hit straight like you carry yours, Frale?" Again they all laughed,and the big youth smiled such a sweet, infantile smile, as he lookeddown on his little brother, that David's heart warmed toward him.

  He tousled the boy's hair as he passed and drew him along to the chimneyside, away from the doctor. "Hit's a right good hade I'm thinkin' ef hitbe set too fer round. They is a heap in hit, too, more'n they is inmine, I reckon."

  "He's gettin' too big to set that-a-way on your knee, Frale. Ye make ababy of him," said the mother. The child made an effort to slip down,but Frale's arm closed more tightly about him, and he nestled backcontentedly.

  So the evening passed, and Thryng retired early to the bed in the loomshed. He knew something serious was amiss, but of what nature he couldnot conjecture, unless it were that Frale had been making illicitwhiskey. Whatever it was, he chose to manifest no curiosity.

  In the morning he saw nothing of the young man, and as a warm rain wassteadily falling, he was glad to get the use of the horse, and rode awayhappily in the rain, with food provided for both himself and the beastsufficient for the day slung in a sack behind him.

  "Reckon ye'll come back hyar this evenin'?" queried the old mother, ashe adjusted her bandages before leaving.

  "I'll see how the cabin feels after I have had a fire in the chimney allday."

  As he left, he paused by Cassandra's side. She was standing by the spoutof running water waiting for her pail to fill. "If it happens that youneed me for--anything at all, send Hoyle, and I'll come immediately.Will you?"

  She lifted her eyes to his gratefully. "Thank you," was all she said,but his look impelled more. "You are right kind," she added.

  Hardly satisfied, he departed, but turned in his saddle to glance backat her. She was swaying sidewise with the weight of the full pail,straining one slender arm as she bore it into the house. Who did all thework there, he wondered. That great youth ought to relieve her of suchtasks. Where was he? Little did he dream that the eyes of the greatyouth were at that moment fixed darkly upon him from the small pane ofglass set in under the cabin roof, which lighted Frale's garret room.

  David stabled the horse in the log shed built by Doctor Hoyle for hisown beast,--for what is life in the mountains without a horse,--thenlingered awhile in his doorway looking out over the billows of rangesseen dimly through the fine veil of the falling rain. Ah, wonderful,perfect world it seemed to him, seen through the veil of the rain.

  The fireplace in the cabin was built of rough stone, wide and high, andthere he made him a brisk fire with fat pine and brushwood. He drew ingreat logs which he heaped on the broad stone hearth to dry. He piledthem on the fire until the flames leaped and roared up the chimney, solong unused. He sat before it, delighting in it like a boy with abonfire, and blessed his friend for sending him there, smoking a pipe inhis honor. Among the doctor's few cooking utensils he found a stout irontea-kettle and sallied out again in the wet to rinse it and fill it withfresh water from the spring. He had had only coffee since leavingCanada; now he would have a good cup of decent tea, so he hung thekettle on the crane and swung it over the fire.

  In his search for his tea, most of his belongings were unpacked andtossed about the room in wild disorder, and a copy of _Marius theEpicurean_ was brought to light. His kettle boiled over into the fire,and immediately the small articles on his pine table were shoved back inconfusion to make room for his tea things, his bottle of milk, his cornpone, and his book.

  Being by this time weary, he threw himself on his couch, andcontentment began--his hot tea within reach, his door wide open to thesweetness of the day, his fire dancing
and crackling with good cheer,and his book in his hand. Ah! The delicious idleness and rest! Nodisorders to heal--no bones to mend--no problems to solve; a littlesipping of his tea--a little reading of his book--a little luxuriatingin the warmth and the pleasant odor of pine boughs burning--a littledreamy revery, watching through the open door the changing lights on thehills, and listening to an occasional bird note, liquid and sweet.

  The hour drew near to noon and the sky lightened and a rift of deep bluestretched across the open space before him. Lazily he speculated as tohow he was to get his provisions brought up to him, and when and how hemight get his mail, but laughed to think how little he cared for ahundred and one things which had filled his life and dogged his days erethis. Had he reached Nirvana? Nay, he could still hunger and thirst.

  A footstep was heard without, and a figure appeared in his doorway,quietly standing, making no move to enter. It was Cassandra, and he waspleased.

  "My first visitor!" he exclaimed. "Come in, come in. I'll make a placefor you to sit in a minute." He shoved the couch away from before thefire, and removing a pair of trousers and a heap of hose from one of hissplint-bottomed chairs, he threw them in a corner and placed it beforethe hearth. "You walked, didn't you? And your feet are wet, of course.Sit here and dry them."

  She pushed back her sunbonnet and held out to him a quaint little basketmade of willow withes, which she carried, but she took no step forward.Although her lips smiled a fleeting wraith of a smile that came and wentin an instant, he thought her eyes looked troubled as she lifted them tohis face.

  He took the basket and lifted the cover. "I brought you some pa'triges,"she said simply.

  There lay three quail, and a large sweet potato, roasted in the ashes ontheir hearth as he had seen the corn pone baked the evening before, anda few round white cakes which he afterwards learned were beaten biscuit,all warm from the fire.

  "How am I ever to repay you people for your kindness to me?" he said."Come in and dry your feet. Never mind the mud; see how I've tracked itin all the morning. Come."

  He led her to the fire, and replenished it, while she sat passivelylooking down on the hearth as if she scarcely heeded him. Not knowinghow to talk to her, or what to do with her, he busied himself trying tobring a semblance of order to the cabin, occasionally dropping a remarkto which she made no response. Then he also relapsed into silence, andthe minutes dragged--age-long minutes, they seemed to him.

  In his efforts at order, he spread his rug over the couch, tossed acrimson cushion on it and sundry articles beneath it to get them out ofhis way, then occupied himself with his book, while vainly trying tosolve the riddle which his enigmatical caller presented to hisimagination.

  All at once she rose, sought out a few dishes from the cupboard, and,taking a neatly smoothed, coarse cloth from the basket, spread it overone end of the table and arranged thereon his dinner. Quietly Davidwatched her, following her example of silence until forced to speak.Finally he decided to question her, if only he could think of questionswhich would not trespass on her private affairs, when at last she brokethe stillness.

  "I can't find any coffee. I ought to have brought some; I'll go fetchsome if you'll eat now. Your dinner'll get cold."

  He showed her how he had made tea and was in no need of coffee. "We'llthrow this out and make fresh," he said gayly. "Then you must have a cupwith me. Why, you have enough to eat here for three people!" She seemedweary and sad, and he determined to probe far enough to elicit someconfidence, but the more fluent he became, the more effectively shewithdrew from him.

  "See here," he said at last, "sit by the table with me, and I will eatto your heart's content. I'll prepare you a cup of tea as I do my own,and then I want you to drink it. Come."

  She yielded. His way of saying "Come" seemed like a command to beobeyed.

  "Now, that is more like." He began his dinner with a relish. "Won't youshare this game with me? It is fine, you know."

  He could not think her silent from embarrassment, for her poise seemedundisturbed except for the anxious look in her eyes. He determined tofathom the cause, and since no finesse availed, there remained but oneway,--the direct question.

  "What is it?" he said kindly. "Tell me the trouble, and let me helpyou."

  She looked full into his eyes then, and her lips quivered. Somethingrose in her throat, and she swallowed helplessly. It was so hard for herto speak. The trouble had struck deeper than he dreamed.

  "It is a trouble, isn't it? Can't you tell it to me?"

  "Yes. I reckon there isn't any trouble worse than ours--no, I reckonthere is nothing worse."

  "Why, Miss Cassandra!"

  "Because it's sin, and--and 'the wages of sin is death.'" Her tone washopeless, and the sadness of it went to his heart.

  "Is it whiskey?" he asked.

  "Yes--it's whiskey 'stilling and--worse; it's--" She turned deathlywhite. Too sad to weep, she still held control of her voice. "It's aheap worse--"

  "Don't try to tell me what it is," he cried. "Only tell me how I mayhelp you. It's not your sin, surely, so you don't have to bear it."

  "It's not mine, but I do have to bear it. I wish my bearing it was all.Tell me, if--if a man has done--such a sin, is it right to help him getaway?"

  "If it is that big brother of yours, whom I saw last night, I can'tbelieve he has done anything so very wicked. You say it is not thewhiskey?"

  "Maybe it was the whiskey first--then--I don't know exactly how cameit--I reckon he doesn't himself. I--he's not my brothah--not rightly,but he has been the same as such. They telegraphed me to come homequick. Bishop Towahs told me a little--all he knew,--but he didn't knowwhat all was it, only some wrong to call the officahs and set them aftahFrale--poor Frale. He--he told me himself--last evening." She pausedagain, and the pallor slowly left her face and the red surged into hercheeks and mounted to the waves of her heavy hair.

  "It is Frale, then, who is in trouble! And you wish me to help him getaway?" She looked down and was silent. "But I am a stranger, and knownothing about the country."

  He pushed his chair away from the table and leaned back, regarding herintently.

  "Oh, I am afraid for him." She put her hand to her throat and turnedaway her face from his searching eyes, in shame.

  "I prefer not to know what he has done. Just explain to me your plan,and how I can help. You know better than I."

  "I can't understand how comes it I can tell you; you are a strangah toall of us--and yet it seems like it is right. If I could get someclothes nobody has evah seen Frale weah--if--I could make him lookdifferent from a mountain boy, maybe he could get to some town down themountain, and find work; but now they would meet up with him before hewas halfway there."

  Thryng rose and began pacing the room. "Is there any hurry?" hedemanded, stopping suddenly before her.

  "Yes."

  "Then why have you waited all this time to tell me?"

  She lifted her eyes to his in silence, and he knew well that she had notspoken because she could not, and that had he not ventured with hisdirect questions, she would have left him, carrying her burden with her,as hopelessly silent as when she came.

  He sat beside her again and gently urged her to tell him without furtherdelay all she had in her mind. "You feel quite sure that if he could getdown the mountain side without being seen, he would be safe; where doyou mean to send him? You don't think he would try to return?"

  "Why--no, I reckon not--if--I--" Her face flamed, and she drew on herbonnet, hiding the crimson flush in its deep shadow. She knew thatwithout the promise he had asked, the boy would as surely return as thatthe sun would continue to rise and set.

  "He must stay," she spoke desperately and hurriedly. "If he can justmake out to stay long enough to learn a little--how to live, and willkeep away from bad men--if I--he only knows enough to make mean cornliquor now--but he nevah was bad. He has always been different--and heis awful smart. I can't think how came he to change so."

  Taking the empty basket with
her, she walked toward the door, and Davidfollowed her. "Thank you for that good dinner," he said.

  "Aunt Sally fetched the pa'triges. Her old man got them for mothah, andshe said you sure ought to have half. Sally said the sheriff had goneback up the mountain, and I'm afraid he'll come to our place again thisevening. Likely they're breaking up Frale's 'still' now."

  "Well, that will be a good deed, won't it?"

  The huge bonnet had hid her face from him, but now she lifted her eyesfrankly to his, with a flash of radiance through her tears. "I reckon,"was all she said.

  "Are they likely to come up here, do you think, those men?"

  "Not hardly. They would have to search on foot here. It's out of theirway; only no place on the mountain is safe for Frale now."

  "Send him to me quickly, then. I have cast my lot with you mountainpeople for some time to come, and your cause shall be mine."

  She paused at the door with grateful words on her lips unuttered.

  "Don't stop for thanks, Miss Cassandra; they are wasted between us. Youhave opened your doors to me, a stranger, and that is enough. Hurry,don't grieve--and see here: I may not be able to do anything, but I'lltry; and if I can't get down to-night, won't you come again in themorning and tell me all about it?"

  Instantly he thought better of his request, yet who was here tocriticise? He laughed as he thought how firmly the world and itsconventions held him. Sweet, simple-hearted child that she was, why,indeed, should she not come? Still he called after her. "If you are toobusy, send Hoyle. I may be down to see your mother, anyway."

  She paused an instant in her hurried walk. "I'll be right glad to come,if I can help you any way."

  He stood watching her until she passed below his view, as her long easysteps took her rapidly on, although she seemed to move slowly. Then hewent back to his fire, and her words repeated themselves insistently inhis mind--"I'll be right glad to come, if I can help you any way."

  Aunt Sally was seated in the chimney-corner smoking, when Cassandrareturned. "Where is he?" she cried.

  "He couldn't set a minute, he was that restless. He 'lowed he'd go up tothe rock whar you found him las' evenin'."

  Without a word, Cassandra turned and fled up the steep toward the headof the fall. Every moment, she knew, was precious. Frale met her halfwaydown and took her hand, leading her as he had been used to do when shewas his "little sister," and listened to her plans docilely enough.

  "I mean you to go down to Farington, to Bishop Towahs'. He will give youwork." She had not mentioned Thryng.

  Frale laughed.

  "Don't, Frale. How can you laugh?"

  "I ra'ly hain't laughin', Cass. Seems like you fo'get how can I get downthe mountain; but I reckon I'll try--if you say so."

  Then she explained how the doctor had sent for him to come up therequickly, and how he would help him. "You must go now, Frale, you hear?Now!"

  Again he laughed, bitterly this time. "Yas--I reckon he'll be right gladto help me get away from you. I'll go myse'f in my own way."

  Under the holly tree they had paused, and suddenly she feared lest theboy at her side return to his mood of the evening before. She seized hishand again and hurried him farther up the steep.

  "Come, come!" she cried. "I'll go with you, Frale."

  "Naw, you won't go with me neithah," he said stubbornly, drawing back.

  "Frale!" she pleaded. "Hear to me."

  "I'm a-listenin'."

  "Frale, I'm afraid. They may be on their way now. For all we know theymay be right nigh."

  "I've done got used to fearin' now. Hit don't hurt none. On'y one thinghurts now."

  "I've been up to see Doctor Thryng, and he's promised he'll fix you upsome way so that if anybody does see you, they--they'll think you belongsomewhere else, and nevah guess who you be. Frale, go."

  He held her, with his arm about her waist, half carrying her with him,instead of allowing her to move her own free gait, and she tried vainlywith her fingers to pull his hands away; but his muscles were like ironunder her touch. He felt her helplessness and liked it. Her voice shookas she pleaded with him.

  "Oh, Frale! Hear to me!" she wailed.

  "I'll hear to you, ef you'll hear to me. Seems like I've lost my fearnow. I hain't carin' no more. Ef I should see the sheriff this minute,an' he war a-puttin' his rope round my neck right now, I wouldn't care'thout one thing--jes' one thing. I'd walk straight down to hell ferhit,--I reckon I hev done that,--but I'd walk till I drapped, an' worktill I died for hit." He stood still a moment, and again she essayed tomove his hands, but he only held her closer.

  "Oh, hurry, Frale! I'm afraid. Oh, Frale, don't!"

  "Be ye 'feared fer me, Cass?"

  "You know that, Frale. Leave go, and hear to me."

  "Be ye 'feared 'nough to give me your promise, Cass?"

  "Take your hand off me, Frale."

  "We'll go back. I 'low they mount es well take me first as last. Ihain't no heart lef' in me. I don't care fer that thar doctah manhe'pin' me, nohow," he choked.

  "Leave me go, and I'll give you promise for promise, Frale. I can't makeout is it sin or not; but if God can forgive and love--when you turn andseek Him--the Bible do say so, Frale, but--but seem like you don'trepent your deed whilst you look at me like that way." She paused,trembling. "If you could be sorry like you ought to be, Frale, and turnyour heart--I could die for that."

  He still held her, but lifted one shaking hand above his head.

  "Before God, I promise--"

  "What, Frale? Say what you promise."

  He still held his hand high. "All you ask of me, Cass. Tell me word byword, an' I'll promise fair."

  "You will repent, Frale?"

  "Yas."

  "You will not drink?"

  "I will not drink."

  "You will heed when your own heart tells you the right way?"

  "I will heed when my heart tells me the way: hit will be the way to you,Cass."

  "Oh, don't say it that way, Frale. Now say, 'So help me God,' and don'tthink of me whilst you say it."

  "Put your hand on mine, Cass. Lift hit up an' say with me that word."She placed her palm on his uplifted palm. "So help me, God," they saidtogether. Then, with streaming tears, she put her arms about his neckand gently drew his face down to her own.

  "I'll go back now, Frale, and you do all I've said. Go quick. I'll writeBishop Towahs, and he'll watch out for you, and find you work. LetDoctah Thryng help you. He sure is a good man. Oh, if you only couldwrite!"

  "I'll larn."

  "You'll have a heap more to learn than you guess. I've been there, and Iknow. Don't give up, Frale, and--and stay--"

  "I hain't going to give up with your promise here, Cass; kiss me."

  She did so, and he slowly released her, looking back as he walked away.

  "Oh, hurry, Frale! Don't look back. It's a bad omen." She turned, andwithout one backward glance descended the mountain.