The Mountain Girl

by Payne Erskine

  CHAPTER VIII

  IN WHICH DAVID THRYNG MAKES A DISCOVERY

  Standing on the great hanging rock before his cabin, Thryng imaginedhimself absolutely solitary in the centre of a wide wilderness. Even theFall Place, where lived the Widow Farwell, although so near, was notvisible from this point; but when he began exploring the region abouthim, now on foot and now on horseback, he discovered it to be really acountry of homes.

  Every mule path branching off into what seemed an inaccessible wild ledto some cabin, often set in a hollow on a few acres of rich soil,watered by a never failing spring, where the forest growth had been cutaway to make cultivation possible. Sometimes the little log house wouldbe perched like a lonely eagle's nest on a mere shelflike ledge juttingout from the mountain wall, but always below it or above it or off atone side he found the inevitable pocket of rich soil accumulated by thewash of years, where enough corn and cow-peas could be raised forcattle, and cotton and a few sheep to provide material for clothing thefamily, with a few fowls and pigs to provide their food.

  Here they lived, those isolated people, in quiet independence andcontented poverty, craving little and often having less, caring nothingfor the great world outside their own environment, looking after eachother in times of sickness and trouble, keeping alive the traditions oftheir forefathers, and clinging to the ancient family feuds andfriendships from generation to generation.

  David soon learned that they had among themselves their classdistinctions, certain among them holding their heads high, in theknowledge of having a self-respecting ancestry, and training theirchildren to reckon themselves no "common trash," however much theydeprecated showing the pride that was in them.

  Many days passed after Frale's departure before David learned more ofthe young man's unhappy deed. He had gone down to give the old mothersome necessary care and, finding her alone, remained to talk with her.Pleased with her quaint expressions and virile intellect, he led her onto speak of her youth; and one morning, weary of the solitude andsilence, she poured out tales of Cassandra's father, and how, after hisdeath, she "came to marry Farwell." She told of her own mother, and thehard times that fell upon them during the bitter days of the Civil War.

  The traditions of her family were dear to her, and she was well pleasedto show this young doctor who had found the key to her warm, yetreserved, heart that she "wa'n't no common trash," and her "chillenwa'n't like the run o' chillen."

  "Seems like I'm talkin' a heap too much o' we-uns," she said, at last.

  "No, no. Go on. You say you had no school; how did you learn? You werereading your Bible when I came in."

  "No. Thar wa'n't no schools in my day, not nigh enough fer me to go to.Maw, she could read, an' write, too, but aftah paw jined the ahmy, shehad to work right ha'd and had nothin' to do with. Paw, he had to jineone side or t'othah. Some went with the North and some went with theSouth,--they didn't keer much. The' wa'n't no niggahs up here to fightovah. But them war cruel times when the bushwackers come searchin''round an' raidin' our homes. They were a bad lot--most of 'em wardesertahs from both ahmies. We-uns war obleeged to hide in the bresh orup the branch--anywhar we could find a place to creep into. Them werebad times fer the women an' chillen left at home.

  "Maw used to save ev'y scrap of papah she could find with printin' onhit to larn we-uns our lettahs off'n. One time come 'long a right decentcaptain and axed maw could she get he an' his men suthin' to eat. He hadnigh about a dozen sogers with him; an' maw, she done the bes' shecould,--cooked corn-bread, an' chick'n an' sich. I c'n remember how hesot right on the hearth where you're settin' now, an' tossed flapjacksfer th' hull crowd.

  "He war right civil when he lef', an' said he'd like to give mawsuthin', but they hadn't nothin' but Confed'rate money, an' hit wa'n'tworth nothin' up here; an' maw said would he give her the newspapah hehad. She seed the end of hit standin' out of his pocket; an' he laughedand give hit out quick, an' axed her what did she want with hit; and she'lowed she could teach me a heap o' readin' out o' that papah, an' helaughed again, an' said likely, fer that hit war worth more'n the money.All the schoolin' I had war just that thar papah, an' that oldspellin'-book you see on the shelf; I c'n remembah how maw come by that,too."

  "Tell me how she came by the spelling-book, will you?"

  "Hit war about that time. Paw, he nevah come home again. I cyan'tremembah much 'bouts my paw. Maw used to say a heap o' times if she onlyhad a spellin'-book like she used to larn out'n, 'at she could larnwe-uns right smart. Well, one day one o' the neighbors told her 'at he'dseed one at Gerret's, ovah t'othah side Lone Pine Creek, nigh abouteight mile, I reckon; an' she 'lowed she'd get hit. So she sont we-unsovah to Teasley's mill--she war that scared o' the Gorillas she didn'tlike leavin' we-uns home alone--an' she walked thar an' axed could shedo suthin' to earn that thar book; an' ol' Miz Gerret, she 'lowed ifmaw'd come Monday follerin' an' wash fer her, 'at she mount have hit.Them days we-uns an' the Teasleys war right friendly. The' wa'n't nofeud 'twixt we-uns an' Teasleys then--but now I reckon thar's bound tobe blood feud." She spoke very sadly and waited, leaving the tale of thespelling-book half told.

  "Why must there be 'blood feud' now? Why can't you go on in the oldway?"

  "Hit's Frale done hit. He an' Ferd'nan' Teasley, they set up 'stillin'ovah in Dark Cornder yandah. Hit do work a heap o' trouble, that thar. Ireckon you-uns don't have nothin' sich whar you come from?"

  "We have things quite as bad. So they quarrelled, did they?"

  "Yaas, they quarrelled, an' they fit."

  "No doubt they had been drinking."

  "Yas, I reckon."

  "But just a drunken quarrel between those two ought not to affect allthe rest. Couldn't you patch it up among you, and keep the boy at home?You must need his help on the place."

  "We need him bad here, but the' is no way fer to make up an' right ablood feud. Frale done them mean. He lifted his hand an' killed hisfriend. Hit war Sunday evenin' he done hit. They had been havin' asingin' thar at the mill, an' preachah, he war thar too, an' all warkind an' peaceable; an' Ferd an' Frale, they sot out fer thar'still'--Ferd on foot an' Frale rid'n' his horse--the one you havenow--they used to go that-a-way, rid'n' turn about--one horse with theman' one horse kep' alluz hid nigh the 'still' lest the gov'nment mencome on 'em suddent like. Frale, he war right cute, he nevah war come upwith.

  "'Pears like they stopped 'fore they'd gone fer, disputin' 'boutssomethin'. Ol' Miz Teasley say she heered ther voices high an' loud, an'then she heered a shot right quick, that-a-way, an' nothin' more; an'she sont ol' man Teasley an' the preachah out, an' the hull housefulfollered, an' thar they found Ferd lyin' shot dade--an' Frale--he an'the horse war gone. Ferd, he still held his own gun in his hand tight,like he war goin' to shoot, with the triggah open an' his fingah onhit--but he nevah got the chance. Likely if he had, hit would have beenhim a-hidin' now, an' Frale dade. I reckon so."

  Thryng listened in silence. It made him think of the old tales of theScottish border. So, in plain words, the young man was a murderer. Withdeep pity he recalled the haunted look in Frale's eyes, and the sadnessthat trembled around Cassandra's lips as she said, "I reckon there is notrouble worse than ours." A thought struck him, and he asked:--

  "Do you know what they quarrelled about?"

  "He nevah let on what-all was the fuss. Likely he told Cass, but she isthat still. Hit's right hard to raise a blood feud thar when we-uns an'the Teasleys alluz war friends. She took keer o' me when my chillencome, an' I took keer o' her with hern. Ferd'nan' too, he war like myown, fer I nursed him when she had the fever an' her milk lef' her. Casswar only three weeks old then, an' he war nigh on a year, but thatlittle an' sickly--he like to 'a' died if I hadn't took him." She pausedand wiped away a tear that trickled down the furrow of her thin cheek."If hit war lef' to us women fer to stir 'em up, I reckon thar wouldn'tbe no feuds, fer hit's hard on we-uns when we're friendly, an' Ferd likemy own boy that-a-way."

  "But perhaps--" David spoke musingly--"perhaps it was a woman
whostirred up the trouble between them."

  The widow looked a moment with startled glance into his face, thenturned her gaze away. "I reckon not. The' is no woman far or near as Ievah heern o' Frale goin' with."

  Still pondering, David rose to go, but quickly resumed his seat, andturned her thoughts again to the past. He would not leave her thus sadat heart.

  "Won't you finish telling me about the spelling-book?"

  "I forget how come hit, but maw didn't leave we chillen to Teasleys'that day she went to do the washin'. Likely Miz Teasley war sick--anywayshe lef' us here. She baked corn-bread--hit war all we had in the houseto eat them days, an' she fotched water fer the day, an' kivered up thefire. Then she locked the door an' took the key with her, an' tol'we-uns did we hear a noise like anybody tryin' to get in, to go upgarret an' make out like thar wa'n't nobody to home. The' war three o'us chillen. I war the oldest. We war Caswells, my fam'ly. My littlebrothah Whitson, he war sca'cely more'n a baby, runnin' 'round pullin'things down on his hade whar he could reach, an Cotton war mos' as muchkeer--that reckless."

  She paused and smiled as she recalled the cares of her childhood, thenwandered on in her slow narration. "They done a heap o' things that dayto about drive me plumb crazy, an' all the time we was thinkin' weheered men talkin' or horses trompin' outside, an' kep' ourselves rightbusy runnin' up garret to hide.

  "Along towa'ds night hit come on to snow, an' then turned to rain, aright cold hard rain, an' we war that cold an' hungry--an' Whit, hecried fer maw,--an' hit come dark an' we had et all the' war to eat longbefore, so we had no suppah, an' the poor leetle fellers war that coldan' shiverin' thar in the dark--I made 'em climb into bed like they war,an' kivered 'em up good, an' thar I lay tryin' to make out like I warmaw, gettin' my arms 'round both of 'em to oncet. Whit cried hisself tosleep, but Cotton he kep' sayin' he heered men knockin' 'round outside,an' at last he fell asleep, too. He alluz war a natch'ly skeered kind o'child.

  "Then I lay thar still, list'nin' to the rain beat on the roof, an'thinkin' would maw ever get back again, an' list'nin' to hear herworkin' with the lock--hit war a padlock on the outside--an' thar I musto' drapped off to sleep that-a-way, fer I didn't hear nothin', no moreuntil I woke up with a soft murmurin' sound in my ears, an' thar I seedmaw. The rain had stopped an' hit war mos' day, I reckon, with a mornin'moon shinin' in an' fallin' on her whar she knelt by the bed, clost nighto me. I can see hit now, that long line o' white light streamin' acrostthe floor an' fallin' on her, makin' her look like a white ghost spirit,an' her two hands held up with that thar book 'twixt 'em.

  "I knew hit war maw, fer I'd seed her pray before, but I war skeered ferall that. I lay right still an' held my breath, an' heered her thank theLord fer keerin' fer we-uns whilst she war gone, an' fer 'lowin' her toget that thar book.

  "I don't guess she knew I seed her, fer she got up right still an' soft,like not to wake we-uns, an' began to light the fire an' make some yarbtea. She war that wet an' cold I could see her hand shake whilst sheheld the match to the light'ud stick. Them days maw made coffee out'nburnt corn-bread, an' tea out'n dried blackberry leaves an' sassafraxroot." She paused and turned her face toward the open door. Davidthought she had lost somewhat the appearance of age; certainly, whatwith the long rest, and Cassandra's loving care, she had no longer theweary, haggard look that had struck him when he saw her first.

  Following the direction of her gaze, he went to the shelf and took downthe old spelling-book, and turned the leaves, now limp and worn. So thiswas Cassandra's inheritance--part of it--the inward impulse that wouldurge to toil all day, then walk miles in rain and darkness through awilderness, and thank the Lord for the privilege--to own this book--notfor herself, but for the generations to come. David touched itreverently, glad to know so much of her past, and turned to the oldmother for more.

  "Have you anything else--like this?"

  Her sharp eyes sparkled as she looked narrowly at him. "I have suthin''at I hain't nevah told anybody livin' a word of, not even DoctahHoyle--only he war some differ'nt from you. But I'm gettin' old, an' Imay as well tell you. Likely with all your larnin' you can tell me isit any good to Cass. She be that sot on all sech." She fumbled at herthroat a moment and drew from the bosom of her gown a leathershoe-lacing, from which dangled an iron key. Slowly she undid the knot,and handed it toward him.

  "I nevah 'low nobody on earth to touch that thar box, an' the' ain't asoul livin' knows what's in hit. I been gyardin' them like they wargold, fer they belonged to my ol' man--the first one--Cassandra'sfathah; but I reckon if I die the' won't nobody see any good in themthings. If you'll onlock that thar padlock on that box yander, you'llfind it wropped in a piece o' gingham. My paw's mothah spun an' wovethat gingham--ol' Miz Caswell. They don't many do work like thatnowadays. They lived right whar we a' livin' now."

  David unlocked the chest and lifted the heavy lid.

  "Hit's down in the further cornder--that's hit, I reckon. Just step tothe door, will you, an' see is they anybody nigh."

  He went to the door, but saw no one; only from the shed came anintermittent rat-tat-tat.

  "I don't see any one, but I hear some one pounding."

  "Hit's only Hoyle makin' his traps." She sighed, then slowly andtenderly untied the parcel and placed in his hands two smallleather-bound books. Tied to one by a faded silk cord which marked thepages was a thin, worn ring of gold.

  "That ring war his maw's, an' when we war married, I wore hit, but whenI took Farwell fer my ol' man, I nevah wore hit any more, fer he 'lowed,bein' hit war gold that-a-way, we'd ought to sell hit. That time I tookthe lock off'n the door an' put hit on that thar box. Hit war mygran'maw's box, an' I done wore the key hyar evah since. Can you tellwhat they be? Hit's the quarest kind of print I evah see. He used tomake out like he could read hit. Likely he did, fer whatevah he said, hedone."

  It seemed to her little short of a miracle that any one could read it,but David soon learned that her confidence in her first "old man" wasunlimited.

  "What-all's in hit?" She grew restless while he carefully and silentlyexamined her treasure, the true significance of which she so littleknew. Filled with amazement and with a keen pleasure, he took the booksto the light. The print was fine, even, and clear.

  "What-all be they?" she reiterated. "Reckon the're no good?"

  David smiled. "In one way they're all the good in the world, but not formoney, you know."

  "No, I don't guess. Can you read that thar quare printin'?"

  "Yes. The letters are Greek, and these books are about a hundred yearsold."

  "Be they? Then they won't be much good to Cass, I reckon. He sot a heapby them, but I war 'feared they mount be heathen. Greek--that thar beheathen. Hain't hit?"

  David continued, speaking more to himself than to her. "They werepublished in London in eighteen twelve. They have been read by some onewho knew them well, I can see by these marginal notes."

  "What be they?" Her curiosity was eager and intent.

  "They are explanations and comments, written here on themargin--see?--with a fine pen."

  "His grandpaw done that thar. What be they about, anyhow?"

  "They are very old poems written long before this country wasdiscovered."

  "An' that must 'a' been before the Revolution. His grandpaw fit in that.The' is somethin' more in thar. I kept hit hid, fer Farwell, he warbound to melt hit up fer silver bullets. He 'lowed them bullets warplumb sure to kill. Reckon you can find hit? Thar 'tis." Her eyes shoneas Thryng drew out another object also wrapped in gingham. "Hit's ateapot, I guess, but Farwell, he got a-hold of hit an' melted off thespout to make his silvah bullets. That time I hid all in the box an' puton the bolt an' lock whilst he war away 'stillin'. The' is one bulletleft, but I reckon Frale has hit."

  David took it from her hand and turned it about. "Surely! This is atreasure. Here is a coat of arms--but it is so worn I can't make out theemblem. Was this your husband's also? Is there anything else?"

  "That's all. Yes, they wa
r hisn. I war plumb mad at Farwell. I nevahcould get ovah what he done, all so't he mount sure kill somebody.Likely he meant them bullets fer the revenue officers, should they comeup with him."

  "It would have been a great pity if he had destroyed this mark. Ithink--I'm not sure--but if it's what I imagine, it is from an oldfamily in Wales."

  "I reckon you're right, fer they were Welsh--his paw's folks way back.He used to say the' wa'n't no name older'n hisn since the Bible. I toldhim 'twar time he got a new one if 'twere that old, but he said hereckoned a name war like whiskey--hit needed a right smart o' age tomake hit worth anything."

  Thryng laid the antique silver pot on the bed beside the old mother'shand and again took up the small volumes. As he held them, a thoughtflashed through his mind, yet hardly a thought,--it was more of anillumination,--like a vista suddenly opened through what had seemed animpenetrable, impalpable wall, beyond which lay a joy yet to be, butbefore unseen. In that instant of time, a vision appeared to him of whatlife might bring, glorified by a tender light as of red fire seenthrough a sweet, blue, obscuring mist, and making thus a halo about theone figure of the vision outlined against it, clear and fine.

  "'Pears like you find somethin' right interestin' in that book; be youreadin' hit?"

  "I find a glorious prophecy. Was your first husband born and raised hereas you were?"

  "Not on this spot; but he was born an' raised like we-uns here in themountains--ovah th'other side Pisgah. I seed him first when I wa'n'tmore'n seventeen. He come here fer--I don't rightly recollect what, onlyhe had been deer huntin' an' come late evenin' he drapped in. He hadlost his dog, an' he had a bag o' birds, an' he axed maw could she cook'em an' give him suppah, an' maw, she took to him right smaht.

  "Aftah suppah--I remember like hit war last evenin'--he took gran'paw'sold fiddle an' tuned hit up an' sot thar an' played everything you evahheered. He played like the' war birds singin' an' rain fallin', an' likethe wind when hit goes wailin' round the house in the pine tops--softan' sad--like that-a-way. Gran'paw's old fiddle. I used to keer a heapfer hit, but one time Farwell got religion, an' he took an' broke hit'cause he war 'feared Frale mount larn to play an' hit would be atemptation of the devil to him."

  "Well, I say! That was a crime, you know."

  "Yes. Sometimes I lay here an' say what-all did I marry Farwell fer,anyway. Well--every man has his failin's, the' say, an' Farwell, he surehad hisn."

  "May I keep these books a short time? I will be very careful of them.You know that, or you would not have shown them to me."

  "You take them as long as you like. Hit ain't like hit used to be. Booksis easy come by these days--too easy, I reckon. Cassandry, she brung awhole basketful of 'em with her. Thar they be on that cheer behin' myspinnin'-wheel."

  "Was the basket full of books? So, that was why it was so heavy. Might Ihave a look at them?"

  "Look 'em ovah all you want to. She won't keer, I reckon. She hain't hada mite o' time since she come home to look at 'em."

  But David thought better of it. He would not look in her basket and pryamong her treasures without her permission.

  "When is she coming back?" he asked, awakened to desire furtherknowledge of the silent girl's aspirations.

  "Soon, I reckon. She's been a right smart spell longah now 'n she 'lowedshe'd be. Hit's old man Irwin. He's been hurted some way. She went ovahto see could Aunt Sally Carew go an' help Miz Irwin keer fer him--she'sa fool thing, don't know nothin'. They sont down fer me--but here I be,so she rode the colt ovah fer Sally."

  David wrapped and tied the piece of silver as he had found it. As hereplaced it in the box, he discovered the pieces of the broken fiddleloosely tied in a sack, precious relics of a joy that was past.Carefully he locked the box and returned the key, but the books hefolded in the strip of gingham and carried away with him.

  "I'll be back to-night or in the morning. If she doesn't return, sendHoyle for me. You mustn't be too long alone. Shall I mend the fire?"

  He threw on another log, then lifted her a little and brought her aglass of cool water, and climbed back to his cabin, walking lightly andswiftly.