The Mountain Girl

by Payne Erskine

  CHAPTER VII

  IN WHICH FRALE GOES DOWN TO FARINGTON IN HIS OWN WAY

  Frale felt himself exalted by the oath he had sworn to Cassandra, as ifthose words had lifted the burden from his heart, and taken away thestain. As he walked away in his disguise, it seemed to him that he hadacted under an irresistible spell cast upon him by this Englishman, whowas to bide so near Cassandra--to be seen by her every day--to beadmired by her, while he, who had the first right, must hide himselfaway from her, shielding himself in that man's clothes. Fine as theyseemed to him, they only abashed him and filled him with a sense ofobligation to a man he dreaded.

  Like a child, realizing his danger only when it was close upon him, hisold recklessness returned, and he moved down the path with his head heldhigh, looking neither to the right nor to the left, planning how hemight be rid of these clothes and evade his pursuers unaided. The men,climbing toward him as he descended, hearing his footsteps above them,parted and stood watching, only half screened by the thick-leavedshrubs, not ten feet from him on either side; but so elated was he, andeager in his plans, that he passed them by, unseeing, and thus Thryng'sefforts saved him in spite of himself; for so amazed were they at thepresence of such a traveller in such a place that they allowed him topass unchallenged until he was too far below them to make speechpossible. Later, when they found David seated on his rock, they assumedthe young man to be a friend, and thought no further of it.

  Frale soon left the path and followed the stream to the head of thefall, where he lingered, tormented by his own thoughts and filled withconflicting emotions, in sight of his home.

  To go down to the settlement and see the world had its allurements, butto go in this way, never to return, never to feel again the excitementof his mountain life, evading the law and conquering its harassments,was bitter. It had been his joy and delight in life to feel himselfmasterfully triumphant over those set to take him, too cunning to befound, too daring and strong to be overcome, to take desperate chancesand win out; all these he considered his right and part of the game oflife. But to slink away like a hunted fox followed by the dogs of thelaw because, in a blind frenzy, he had slain his own friend! What if hehad promised to repent; there was the law after him still!

  If only his fate were a tangible thing, to be grappled with! To meet afoe and fight hand to hand to the death was not so hard as to yieldhimself to the inevitable. Sullenly he sat with his head in his hands,and life seemed to stretch before him, leading to a black chasm. But oneray of light was there to follow--"Cass, Cass." If only he would acceptthe help offered him and go to the station, take his seat in the train,and find himself in Farington, while still his pursuers were scouringthe mountains for him, he might--he might win out. Moodily andstubbornly he resisted the thought.

  At last, screened by the darkness, he turned out his soiled and torngarments, and divesting himself of every article Thryng had given him,he placed them carefully in the valise. Then, relieved of onehumiliation, he set himself again on the path toward Hanging Rock cabin.

  As he passed the great holly tree where Cassandra had sat beside him, heplaced his hand on the stone and paused. His heart leaned toward her. Hewanted her. Should he go down to her now and refuse to leave her? Butno. He had promised. Something warm splashed down upon his hand as hebent over the rock. He sprang up, ashamed to weep, and, seizing thedoctor's valise, plunged on through the shadows up the steep ascent.

  He had no definite idea of how he would explain his act, for he did notcomprehend his own motives. It was only a wordless repugnance thatpossessed him, vague and sullen, against this man's offered friendship;and his relief was great when he found David asleep before his opendoor.

  Stealthily he entered and placed his burden beneath the couch, gazed amoment at the sleeping face whereon the firelight still played, andsoftly crept away. Cassandra should know that she had no need to thankthe Englishman for his freedom.

  Then came the weary tramp down the mountain, skulking and hiding by day,and struggling on again by night--taking by-paths and unusedtrails--finding his uncertain way by moonlight and starlight--barked atby dogs, and followed by hounds baying loudly whenever he came near ahuman habitation--wading icy streams and plunging through gorges toavoid cabins or settlements--keeping life in him by gnawing raw turnipswhich had been left in the fields ungathered, until at last, pallid,weary, dirty, and utterly forlorn, he found himself, in the half-lightof the dawn of the fourth day, near Farington. Shivering with cold, hestole along the village street and hid himself in the bishop's groundsuntil he should see some one astir in the house.

  The bishop had sat late the night before, half expecting him, for he hadreceived Cassandra's letter, also one from Thryng. Neither letter threwlight on Frale's deed, although Cassandra's gave him to understand thatsomething more serious than illicit distilling had necessitated hisflight. David's was a joyous letter, craving his companionship wheneverhis affairs might bring him near, but expressing the greatestcontentment.

  When Black Carrie went out to unlock the chicken house door and fetchwood for her morning fire, she screamed with fright as the young man inhis wretched plight stepped before her.

  "G'long, yo--pore white trash!" she cried.

  "I'm no poor white trash," he murmured. "Be Bishop Towah in the house?"

  "Co'se he in de haouse. Whar yo s'poses he be dis time de mawnin'?" Shemade with all haste toward her kitchen, bearing her armful of wood,muttering as she went.

  "I reckon I'll set hyar ontwell he kin see me," he said, dropping to thedoorstep in sheer exhaustion. And there he was allowed to sit while sheprepared breakfast in her own leisurely way, having no intention ofdisturbing her "white folkses fer no sech trash."

  The odor of coffee and hot cakes was maddening to the starving boy, ashe watched her through the open door, yet he passively sat, withdrawninto himself, seeking in no way either to secure a portion of the foodor to make himself known. After a time, he heard faintly voices beyondthe kitchen, and knew the family must be there at breakfast, but stillhe sat, saying nothing.

  At last the door of the inner room was burst open, and a child ran out,demanding scraps for her puppy.

  "I may! I may, too, feed him in the dining room. Mamma says I may, afterwe're through."

  "Go off, honey chile, mussin' de flo' like dat-a-way fer me to clean upagin. Naw, honey. Go out on de stoop wif yer fool houn' dog." And thetiny, fair girl with her plate of scraps and her small black dog leapingand dancing at her heels, tumbled themselves out where Frale sat.

  Scattering her crusts as she ran, she darted back, calling: "Papa, papa!A man's come. He's here." The small dog further emphasized the fact bybarking fiercely at the intruder, albeit from a safe distance.

  "Yas," said Carrie, as the bishop came out, led by his little daughter,"he b'en hyar sence long fo' sun-up."

  "Why didn't you call me?" he said sternly.

  "Sho--how I know anybody wan' see yo, hangin' 'roun' de back do'? Heain' say nuthin', jes' set dar." She continued muttering her crustydislike of tramps, as the bishop led his caller through her kitchen andsent his little daughter to look after her puppy.

  He took Frale into his private study, and presently returned and himselfcarried him food, placing it before him on a small table where many ahungry caller had been fed before. Then he occupied himself at his deskwhile he quietly observed the boy. He saw that the youth was too wornand weak to be dealt with rationally at first, and he felt it difficultto affix the thought of a desperate crime upon one so gentle of mien andinnocent of face; but he knew his people well, and what masterfulpassions often slept beneath a mild and harmless exterior.

  Nor was it the first time he had been called upon to adjust a conflictbetween his own conscience and the law. Often in his office of priest hehad been the recipient of confidences which no human pressure of lawcould ever wrest from him. So now he proceeded to draw from Frale hisfull and free confession.

  Very carefully and lovingly he trespassed in the secret chamber
s of thistroubled soul, until at last the boy laid bare his heart.

  He told of the cause of his anger and his drunken quarrel, of hisevasion of his pursuers and his vow with Cassandra before God, of hisrejection of Doctor Thryng's help and his flight by night, of hissuffering and hunger. All was told without fervor,--a simple passivenarration of events. No one could believe, while listening to him, thatstorms of passion and hatred and fear had torn him, or the overwhelminglonging he had suffered at the thought of Cassandra.

  But when the bishop touched on the subject of repentance, the hiddenforce was revealed. It was as if the tormenting spirit within him hadcried out loudly, instead of the low, monotonous tone in which hesaid:--

  "Yas, I kin repent now he's dade, but ef he war livin' an' riled me aginthat-a-way like he done--I reckon--I reckon God don't want no repentin'like I repents."

  It was steel against flint, the spark in the narrow blue line of hiseyes as he said the words, and the bishop understood.

  But what to do with this man of the mountains--this force of nature inthe wild; how guard him from a far more pernicious element in thecivilized town life than any he would find in his rugged solitudes?

  And Cassandra! The bishop bowed his head and sat with the tips of hisfingers pressed together. The thought of Cassandra weighed heavily uponhim. She had given her promise, with the devotion of her kind, to save;had truly offered herself a living sacrifice. All hopes for her growthinto the gracious womanhood her inheritance impelled her toward,--hersweet ambitions for study, gone to the winds--scattered like thefragrant wild rose petals on her own hillside--doomed by that promise tolive as her mother had lived, and like other women of her kin, to agebefore her time with the bearing of children in the midst of toil tooheavy for her--dispirited by privation and the sorrow of relinquishedhopes. Oh, well the bishop knew! He dreaded most to see the beautifullight of aspiration die out of her eyes, and her spirit grow sordid inthe life to which this untamed savage would inevitably bring her. "Whata waste!"

  And again he repeated the words, "What a waste!" The youth looked up,thinking himself addressed, but the bishop saw only the girl. It was asif she rose and stood there, dominant in the sweet power of her girlishself-sacrifice, appealing to him to help save this soul. Somehow, at themoment, he failed to appreciate the beauty of such giving. Almost itseemed to him a pity Frale had thus far succeeded in evading hispursuers. It would have saved her in spite of herself had he been taken.

  But now the situation was forced upon the bishop, either to give him up,which seemed an arbitrary taking into his own hands of power whichbelonged only to the Almighty, or to shield him as best he might, givingheed to the thought that even if in his eyes the value of the girl wasimmeasurably the greater, yet the youth also was valued, or why was hehere?

  He lifted his head and saw Frale's eyes fixed upon him sadly--almost asif he knew the bishop's thoughts. Yes, here was a soul worth while.Plainly there was but one course to pursue, and but one thread left tohold the young man to steadfast purpose. Using that thread, he wouldtry. If he could be made to sacrifice for Cassandra some of his physicaljoy of life, seeking to give more than to appropriate to himself for hisown satisfaction--if he could teach him the value of what she haddone--could he rise to such a height, and learn self-control?

  The argument for repentance having come back to him void, the bishopbegan again. "You tell me Cassandra has given you her promise? What areyou going to do about it?"

  "Hit's 'twixt her an' me," said the youth proudly.

  "No," thundered the bishop, all the man in him roused to beat into thiscrude, triumphant animal some sense of what Cassandra had really done."No. It's betwixt you and the God who made you. You have to answer toGod for what you do." He towered above him, and bending down, lookedinto Frale's eyes until the boy cowered and looked down, with loweredhead, and there was silence.

  Then the bishop straightened himself and began pacing the room. At lasthe came to a stand and spoke quietly. "You have Cassandra's promise;what are you going to do about it?"

  Frale did not move or speak, and the bishop felt baffled. What was goingon under that passive mask he dared not think. To talk seemed futile,like hammering upon a flint wall; but hammer he must, and again hetried.

  "You have taken a man's life; do you know what that means?"

  "Hangin', I reckon."

  "If it were only to hang, boy, it might be better for Cassandra. Thinkabout it. If I help you, and shield you here, what are you going to do?What do you care most for in all this world? You who can kill a man andthen not repent."

  "He hadn't ought to have riled me like he done; I--keer fer her."

  "More than for Frale Farwell?"

  The boy looked vaguely before him. "I reckon," was all he said.

  Again the bishop paced the floor, and waited.

  "I hain't afeared to work--right hard."

  "Good; what kind of work can you do?" Frale flushed a dark red and wassilent. "Yes, I know you can make corn whiskey, but that is the devil'swork. You're not to work for him any more."

  Again silence. At last, in a low voice, he ventured: "I'll do any kindo' work you-all gin' me to do--ef--ef only the officers will leave mebe--an' I tol' Cass I'd larn writin'."

  "Good, very good. Can you drive a horse? Yes, of course."

  Frale's eyes shone. "I reckon."

  The bishop grew more hopeful. The holy greed for souls fell upon him.The young man must be guarded and watched; he must be washed andclothed, as well as fed, and right here the little wife must beconsulted. He went out, leaving the youth to himself, and sought hisbrown-eyed, sweet-faced little wisp of a woman, where she sat writinghis most pressing business letters for him.

  "Dearest, may I interrupt you?"

  "In a minute, James; in a minute. I'll just address these."

  He dropped into a deep chair and waited, with troubled eyes regardingher. "There!" She rubbed vigorously down on the blotter. "These are alldone, every blessed one, James. Now what?"

  In an instant she was curled up, feet and all, like a kitten in his lap,her small brown head, its wisps of fine, straight hair straying overtemples and rounded cheeks, tucked comfortably under his chin; and thusevery point was carefully talked over.

  With many exclamations of anxiety and doubt, and much discreetsuggestion from the small adviser, it was at last settled. Frale was tobe properly clothed from the missionary boxes sent every year from theNorth. He should stay with them for a while until a suitable place couldbe found for him. Above all things he must be kept out of bad company.

  "Oh, dear! Poor Cassandra! After all her hopes--and she might have doneso much for her people--if only--" Tears stood in the brown eyes andeven ran over and dropped upon the bishop's coat and had to be carefullywiped off, for, as he feelingly remarked,--

  "I can't go about wearing my wife's tears in plain view, now, can I?"

  And then Doctor Hoyle's young friend--she must hear his letter. Howinteresting he must be! Couldn't they have him down? And when the bishopnext went up the mountain, might she accompany him? Oh, no. The trip wasnot too rough. It was quite possible for her. She would go to seeCassandra and the old mother. "Poor Cassandra!"

  But the self-respecting old stepmother and her daughter did not allowthese kind friends to trespass on any missionary supplies, for UncleJerry was despatched down the mountain with a bundle on the back of hissaddle, which was quietly left at the bishop's door; and Frale nextappeared in a neat suit of homespun, home woven and dyed, and home-madeclothing.