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The Mountain Girl

Page 14

by Payne Erskine


  CHAPTER XIII

  IN WHICH DAVID DISCOVERS CASSANDRA'S TROUBLE

  After turning his furrows, David told Hoyle to ride the mule to thestable, then he sat himself on the fence, and meditated. He bethoughthim that in the paper he had drawn up he had made no provision for theuse of the mule. He wiped his forehead and rubbed the perspiration fromhis hair, and coughed a little after his exertion, glad at heart to findhimself so well off.

  He would come and plough a little every day. Then he began to calculatethe number of days it would take him to finish the patch, measuring thedistance covered by the six furrows with his eye, and comparing it withthe whole. He laughed to find that, at the rate of six furrows a day,the task would take him well on into the summer. Plainly he must find aploughman.

  Then the laying out of the ground! Why should he not have a vineyard upon the farther hill slope? He never could have any fruit from it, butwhat of that! Even if he went away and never returned, he would know itto be adding its beauty to this wonderful dream. Who could know what thefuture held for him--what this little spot might mean to him in the daysto come? That he would go out, fully recovered and strong to play hispart in life, he never doubted. Might not this idyl be a part of it? Hethought of the girl sitting at her loom, swaying as she threw hershuttle with the rhythm of a poem, and weaving--weaving his life and hisheart into her web, unknown to herself--weaving a thread of joy throughit all which as yet she could not see. He knocked the ashes from hispipe and stood a moment gazing about him.

  Yes, he really must have a vineyard, and a bit of pasture somewhere, anda field of clover. What grew best there he little knew, so he decided togo up and consult the widow.

  There were other things also to claim his thoughts. Over toward "WildCat Hole" there was a woman who needed his care; and he must not becomeso absorbed in his pastoral romance as to forget Hoyle. He was lookingactually haggard these last few days, and his mother said he would noteat. It might be that he needed more than the casual care he was givinghim. Possibly he could take him to Doctor Hoyle's hospital for radicaltreatment later in the season, when his crops were well started. Hesmiled as he thought of his crops, then laughed outright, and strolledback to the house, weary and hungry, and happy as a boy.

  "Well, now, I like the look of ye," called the old mother from theporch, where she still sat. "'Pears like it's done ye good a-ready toturn planter. The' hain't nothin' better'n the smell o' new sile ferthem 'at's consumpted."

  "Mother," cried Cassandra from within, "don't call the doctor that! Comeup and have dinner with us, Doctor." She set a chair for him as shespoke, but he would not. As he stood below them, looking up andexchanging merry banter with her mother, he laughed his contagiouslaugh.

  "I bet he's tired," shrilled Hoyle, from his perch on the porch roof."He be'n settin' on the fence smokin' an' rubbin' his hade with hishandkercher like he'd had enough with his ploughin'. You can nigh aboutbeat him, Cass. Hisn didn't look no better'n what yourn looked."

  "Here, you young rascal you, come down from there," cried David.Catching him by the foot, which hung far enough over to be within reachof his long arm, he pulled him headlong from his high position andcaught him in mid-air. "Now, how shall I punish you?"

  "Ye bettah whollop him. He hain't nevah been switched good in his hulllife. Maybe that's what ails him."

  The child grinned. "I hain't afeared. Get me down on the ground oncet,an' I c'n run faster'n he can."

  "Suppose I duck him in the water trough yonder?"

  "I reckon he needs it. He generally do," smiled Cassandra from thedoorway. "Come, son, go wash up." David allowed the child to slip to theground. "Seems like Hoyle is right enough about you, though. Don't goaway up the hill; bide here and have dinner first."

  David dropped on the step for a moment's rest. "I see I must make a wayup to my cabin that will not pass your door. How about that? Was dinnerincluded in the rent, and the mule and the mule's dinner? And what isHoyle going to pay me for allowing him to ride Pete up and down while Iplough?"

  "Yas, an' what are ye goin' to give him fer 'lowin' ye to set his haderound straight, an' what are ye goin' to give me fer 'lowin' ye to setme on my laigs again? Ef ye go a-countin' that-a-way, I'm 'feared ye'relayin' up a right smart o' debt to we-uns. I reckon you'll use that muleall ye want to, an' ye'll lick him good, too, when he needs hit, an'take keer o' yourself, fer he's a mean critter; an' ye'll keep that pathright whar hit is, fer hit goes with the farm long's you bide upyandah."

  "You good people have the best of me; we'll call it all even. Ever sinceI leaped off that train in the snow, I have been dependent on you for mycomfort. Well, I must hurry on; since I've turned farmer I'm a busy man.Can you suggest any one I might get to do that ploughing? Miss Cassandrahere may be able to do it without help, but I confess I'm not equal toit."

  "I be'n tellin' Cass that thar Elwine Timms, he ought to be able to dothe hull o' that work. Widow Timmses' son. They live ovah nigh theGerret place thar at Lone Pine Creek. He used to help Frale with thestill. An' then thar's Hoke Belew--he ought to do sumthin' fer all youdone fer his wife--sittin' up the hull night long, an' gettin' up atmidnight to run to them. Oh, I hearn a heap sittin' here. Things comesto me that-a-way. Thar hain't much goin' on within twenty mile o' here'at I don't know. They is plenty hereabouts owes you a heap."

  "I think I've been treated very well. They keep me supplied with all Ineed. What more can a man ask? The other day, a man brought me a sack ofcorn meal, fresh and sweet from the mill--a man with six children and asick mother to feed, but what could I do? He would leave it, andI--well, I--"

  "When they bring ye things, you take 'em. Ye'll help 'em a heap morethat-a-way 'n ye will curin' 'em. The' hain't nothin' so good fer a manas payin' his debts. Hit keeps his hade up whar a man 'at's good feranything ought to keep hit. I hearn a heap o' talk here in thesemountains 'bouts bein' stuck up, but I tell 'em if a body feels hehain't good fer nothin', he pretty generally hain't. He'd a heap betterfeel stuck up to my thinkin'."

  "They've done pretty well, all who could. They've brought me everythingfrom corn whiskey to fodder for my horse. A woman brought me a bag ofdried blueberries the other day. I don't know what to do with them. Ihave to take them, for I can't be graceless enough to send them awaywith their gifts."

  "You bring 'em here, an' Cass'll make ye a blueberry cake to eat hotwith butter melt'n' on hit 'at'll make ye think the world's a good placeto live in."

  "I'll do it," he said, laughing, and took his solitary path up thesteep. Halfway to his cabin, he heard quick, scrambling steps behindhim, and, turning, saw little Hoyle bringing Cassandra's smallmelon-shaped basket, covered with a white cloth.

  "I said I could run faster'n you could. Cass, she sont some th' chick'nfry." He thrust the basket at Thryng and turned to run home.

  "Here, here!" David called after the twisted, hunched little figure."You tell your sister 'thank you very much,' for me. Will you?"

  "Yas, suh," and the queer little gnome disappeared among the laurelbelow.

  In the morning, David found the place of the Widow Timms, and her sonagreed to come down the next day and accept wages for work. A weary,spiritless young man he was, and the home as poverty-stricken as wasthat of Decatur Irwin, and with almost as many children. It was with afeeling of depression that David rode on after his call, leaving thegrandmother seated in the doorway, snuff stick between her yellow teeth,the grandchildren clustering about her knees, or squatting in the dirt,like young savages. Their father lounged in the wretched cabin, hardlyto be seen in the windowless, smoke-blackened space nearly filled withbeds heaped with ragged bedclothes, and broken splint-bottomed chairshung about with torn and soiled garments.

  The dirt and disorder irritated David, and he felt angered at theclay-faced son for not being out preparing his little patch of ground.Fortunately, he had been able to conceal his annoyance enough to securethe man's promise to begin work next day, or he would have gainednothing but the family's resentment for his pai
ns. Already David hadlearned that a sort of resentful pride was the last shred ofrespectability to which the poorest and most thriftless of the mountainpeople clung--pride of he knew not what, and resentfulness toward anywho, by thrift and labor, were better off than themselves.

  He reasoned that as the young man had been Frale's helper at the still,no doubt corn whiskey was at the bottom of their misery. This broughthis mind to the thought of Frale himself. The young man had not beenmentioned between him and Cassandra since the day she sought his help.He thought he could not be far from the still, as he forded Lone PineCreek, on his way to the home of Hoke Belew, whose wife he was going tosee.

  David was interested in this young family; they seemed to him to bequite of the better sort, and as he put space between himself and theWidow Timms' deplorable state, his irritation gradually passed, and hewas able to take note of the changes a week had wrought in the growingthings about him.

  More than once he diverged to investigate blossoming shrubs which werenew to him, attracted now by a sweet odor where no flowers appeared,until closer inspection revealed them, and now by a blaze of coloragainst the dark background of laurel leaves and gray rocks. Ah, theflaming azalea had made its appearance at last, huge clusters ofbrilliant bloom on leafless shrubs. How dazzlingly gay!

  In the midst of his observance of things about him, and underneath hissurface thoughts, he carried with him a continual feeling ofsatisfaction in the remembrance of the little farm below the Fall Place,and in an amused way planned about it, and built idly his "Castles inSpain." A bit of stone wall whose lower end was overgrown with vinespleased him especially, and a few enormous trees, which had been leftstanding when the spot had been originally cleared, and thevine-entangled, drooping trees along the banks of the small river thatcoursed crookedly through it,--what possibilities it all presented tohis imagination! If only he could find the right man to carry out hisideas for him, he would lease the place for fifty years for theprivilege of doing as he would with it.

  After a time he came out upon the cleared farm of Hoke Belew, who wasindustriously ploughing his field for cotton, and called out to him,"How's the wife?"

  "She hain't not to say right smart, an' the baby don't act like he'swell, neither, suh. Ride on to th' house an' light. She's thar, an' I'llbe up d'rectly."

  Thryng rode on and dismounted, tying his horse to a sapling near thedoor. The place was an old one. A rose vine, very ancient, covered thesmall porch and the black, old, moss-grown roof. The small green foliagehad come out all over it in the week since he was last there. The glazedwindows were open, and white homespun curtains were swaying in the lightbreeze. A small fire blazed on the hearth, and before it, in ahuge-splint-bottomed rocking-chair, the pale young mother reclinedlanguidly, wrapped in a patchwork quilt. The hearth was swept and allwas neat, but very bare.

  Close to the black fireplace on a low chair, with the month-old baby onher knees, sat Cassandra. She was warming something at the fire, whichshe reached over to stir now and then, while the red light playedbrightly over her sweet, grave face. Very intent she was, and lovely tosee. She wore a creamy white homespun gown, coarse in texture, such asshe had begun to wear about the house since the warm days had come.Thryng had seen her in such a dress but once before, and he liked it.With one arm guarding the little bundle in her lap, dividing herattention between it and the porridge she was making, she sat, a livingembodiment of David's vision, silhouetted against and haloed by the redfire, softened by the blue, obscuring smoke-wreaths that slowly circledin great rings and then swept up the wide, overarching chimney.

  He heard her low voice speaking, and his heart leaped toward her as hestood an instant, unheeded by them, ere he rapped lightly. They bothturned with a slight start. Cassandra rose, holding the sleeping babe inthe hollow of her arm, and set a chair for him before the fire. Thenshe laid the child carefully in the mother's arms, and removed theporridge from the fire.

  "Shall I call Hoke?" she asked, moving toward the door.

  David did not want her to leave them, loving the sight of her. "Don'tgo. I saw him as I came along," he said.

  But she went on, and sat herself on a seat under a huge locust tree.Tardiest of all the trees, it had not yet leaved out. Later it would becovered with a wealth of sweet white blossoms swarming with honey-bees,and the air all about it would be filled with its lavish fragrance andthe noise of humming wings.

  Presently Hoke came plodding up from the field, and smiled as he passedher. "Doc inside?" he asked.

  She nodded. When David came out, he found her still seated there, herhead resting wearily against the rough tree. She rose and came towardhim.

  "I thought I wouldn't leave until I knew if there was anything more Icould do," she said simply.

  "No, you've done all you can. She'll be all right. Where's your horse?"

  "I walked."

  "Why did you do that? You ought not, you know."

  "Hoyle rode the colt down to see could Aunt Sally come here for a day ortwo, until Miz Belew can do for herself better." She turned back to thehouse.

  "Come home now with me. Ride my horse, and I'll walk. I'd like to walk,"urged David.

  "Oh, no. Thank you, Doctor, I must speak to Azalie first. Don't wait."

  She went in, and David mounted and rode slowly on, but not far. Wherethe trail led through a small stream which he knew she must cross, hedismounted and allowed the horse to drink, while he stood looking backalong the way for her to come to him. Soon he saw her white dress amongthe glossy rhododendron leaves as she moved swiftly along, and he walkedback to meet her.

  "I have waited for you. You are not used to this kind of a saddle, Iknow, but what's the difference? You can ride cross-saddle as the youngladies do in the North, can't you?"

  "I reckon I could." She laughed a little. "Do they ride that way whereyou come from? It must look right funny. I don't guess I'd like it."

  "But just try--to please me? Why not?"

  "If you don't mind, I'd rather walk, please, suh. Don't wait."

  "Then I will walk with you. I may do that, may I not?" He caught thebridle-rein on the saddle, leaving the horse to browse along behind ashe would, and walked at her side. She made no further protest, but wassilent.

  "You don't object to this, do you?" he insisted.

  "It's pleasanter than being alone, but it's right far to walk, seemslike, for you."

  "Then why not for you?" She smiled her mysterious, quiet smile. "Youmust know that I am stronger than you?" he persisted.

  "I ought to think so, since that day we rode over to Cate Irwin's, but Iwas right afraid for you that time, lest you get cold; and then it wasme--" she paused, and looked squarely in his eyes and laughed. "Youwouldn't say 'it was me,' would you?"

  He joined merrily in her laughter. "I never corrected you on that."

  "You never did, but you didn't need to. I often know, after I've saidsomething--not--right--as you would say it."

  "Do you, indeed?" he walked nearer, boyishly happy because she was closebeside him. He wanted to touch her, to take her hand and walk aschildren do, but could not because of the subtile barrier he feltbetween them. He determined to break it down. "Finish what you weresaying? And then it was me--what?"

  "And then it was I who gave out, not you."

  "But you were a heroine--a heroine from the ground up, and I love you."He spoke with such boyish impulsiveness that she took the remark as oneof his extravagances, and merely smiled indulgently, as if amused at it.She did not even flush, but accepted it as she would an outburst fromHoyle.

  David was amazed. It only served to show him how completely outside thatcharmed circle within which she lived he still was. He was maddened byit. He came nearer and bent to look in her face, until she lifted hereyes to look fairly in his.

  "That's right. Look at me and understand me. I waited there only that Imight tell you. Why do you put a wall between us? I tell you I love you.I love you, Cassandra; do you understand?"

  She stood quit
e still and gazed at him in amazement, almost as if interror. Her face grew white, and she pressed her two hands on her heart,then slowly slid them up to her round white throat as if it hurt her--amovement he had seen in her twice before, when suffering emotion.

  "Why, Cassandra, does it hurt you for me to tell you that I love you?Beautiful girl, does it?"

  "Yes, suh," she said huskily.

  He would have taken her in his arms, but refrained for very love of her.She should be sacred even from his touch, if she so wished, and thebarrier, whatever it might be, should halo her. He had spoken sotenderly he had no need to tell her. The love was in his eyes and hisvoice, but he went on.

  "Then I must be cruel and hurt you. I love you all the days and thenights--all the moments of the days--I love you."

  In very terror, she flung out her hands and placed them on his breast,holding him thus at arm's-length, and with head thrown back, stilllooked into his eyes piteously, imploringly. With trembling lips, sheseemed to be speaking, but no voice came. He covered her hands with his,and held them where she had placed them.

  "You have put a wall between us. Why have you done it?"

  "I didn't--didn't know; I thought you were--as far--as far away from usas the star--the star of gold is--from our world in the night--so far--Ididn't guess--you could come so--near." She bowed her head and wept.

  "You are the star yourself, you beautiful--you are--"

  But she stopped him, crying out. She could not draw her hands away, forhe still held them clasped to his heart.

  "No, no! The wall is there. It must be between us for always, I ampromised." The grief wailed and wept in her tones, and her eyes werewide and pleading. "I must lead my life, and you--you must stay outsidethe wall. If you love me--Doctor,--you must never know it, and I mustnever know it." Her beating heart stopped her speech and they both stoodthus a moment, each seeing only the other's soul.

  "Promised?" The word sank into his heart like lead. "Promised?" Slowlyhe released her hands, and she covered her face with them and sank athis feet. He bent down to her and asked almost in a whisper: "Promised?Did you say that word?"

  She drooped lower and was silent.

  All the chivalry of his nature rose within him. Should he come into herlife only to torment and trouble her? Ought he to leave the place? Couldhe bear to live so near her? What had she done--this flower? Was she tobe devoured by swine? The questions clamored at the door of his heart.But one thing could he see clearly. He must wait without the wall,seeking only to serve and protect her.

  With the unerring instinct which led her always straight to the mark,she had seen the only right course. He repeated her words over and overto himself. "If you love me, you must never know it, and I must neverknow it." Her heart should be sacred from his personal intrusion, andtheir old relations must be reestablished, at whatever cost to himself.

  With flash-light clearness he saw his difficulty, and that only by theelimination of self could he serve her, and also that her manner ofreceiving his revelation had but intensified his feeling for her. Thefew short moments seemed hours of struggle with himself ere he raisedher to her feet and spoke quietly, in his old way.

  He lifted her hand to his lips. "It is past, Miss Cassandra. We willdrop these few moments out of your life into a deep well, and it shallbe as if they had never been." He thought as he spoke that the well washis own heart, but that he would not say, for henceforth his love andservice must be selfless. "We may be good friends still? Just as wewere?"

  "Yes, suh," she spoke meekly.

  "And we can go right on helping each other, as we have done all theseweeks? I do not need to leave you?"

  "Oh, no, no!" She spoke with a gasp of dismay at the thought. "It--won'thurt so much if I can see you going right on--getting strong--like youhave been, and being happy--and--" She paused in her slowly trailingspeech and looked about her. They were down in a little glen, and therewere no mountain tops in sight for her to look up to as was her custom.

  "And what, Cassandra? Finish what you were saying." Still for a whileshe was silent, and they walked on together. "And now won't you say whatyou were going to say?" He could not talk himself, and he longed to hearher voice.

  "I was thinking of the music you made. It was so glad. I can't talk andsay always what I think, like you do, but seems like it won't hurt me sohere," she put her hand to her throat, "where it always hurts me when Iam sorry at anything, if I can hear you glad in the music--like you werethat--night I thought you were the 'Voices.'"

  "Cassandra, it shall be glad for you, always."

  She looked into his eyes an instant with the clear light ofunderstanding in her own. "But for you? It is for you I want it to beglad."

 

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