The Mountain Girl

Sometimes he dismounted to investigate plants new to him, or to gather a bit of moss or fungi or parasite – anything that promised an elucidating hour with his splendid microscope. For these he always carried at the pommel of his saddle an air-tight box. The mountain people supposed he collected such things for the compounding of his drugs.

When they reached the Fall Place, David continued along the main road below and took a trail farther on, merely a foot trail little used, to his eyrie. He had not seen Cassandra since they had walked together down from Hoke Belew's place. He had gone to Farington partly to avoid seeing her, nor did he wish to see her again until he should have so mastered himself as to betray nothing by his manner that might embarrass her or remind her painfully of their last interview, knowing he must eliminate self to reëstablish their previous relations.

David rode directly to his log stable, put up his horse, then unslung his box and walked with it toward his cabin. Suddenly he stopped. From the thick shrubbery where he stood he could see in at the large window where his microscope was placed quite through his cabin into the light, white canvas room beyond. Before the fireplace, clearly relieved against the whiteness of the farther room, stood Cassandra, gazing intently at something she held in her hand. David recognized it as a small, framed picture of his mother – a delicately painted miniature. He kept it always on the shelf near which she was standing. He saw her reach up and replace it, then brush her hand quickly across her eyes, and knew she had been weeping. He was ashamed to stand there watching her, but he could not move. Always, it seemed to him, she was being presented to him thus strongly against a surrounding halo of light, revealing every gracious line of her figure and her sweet, clean profile.

He turned his eyes away, but as quickly gazed again; she had disappeared. He waited, and again she passed between his eyes and the light, here and there, moving quietly about, seeing that all was in order, as her custom was when she knew him to be absent.

He saw her brushing about the hearth, carefully wiping the dust from his disordered table, lifting the books, touching everything tenderly and lightly. His flute lay there. She took it in her hands and looked down at it solemnly, then slowly raised it to her lips. What? Was she going to try to play upon it? No, but she kissed it. Again and again she kissed the slender, magic wand, hurriedly, then laid it very gently down and with one backward glance walked swiftly out of the cabin and away from him, down the trail, with long, easy steps. Only once more she drew her hand across her eyes, and with head held high moved rapidly on. Never did she look to the right or the left or she must have seen him as he stood, scarcely breathing and hard beset to hold himself back and allow her to pass him thus.

Now he knew that she had been deeply stirred by him, and the revelation fell upon his spirit, filling him with a joy more intense than anything he had ever felt or experienced before, so poignantly sweet that it hurt him. Had he indeed entered into her dreams and become an undercurrent in her life even as she had in his, and did her soul and body ache for him as his for her?

Then he suffered remorse for what he had done. How long she had defended herself by that wall of impersonality with which she had surrounded herself! He had beaten down the ramparts and trampled in the garden of her soul. As he stood in the door of his cabin, the place seemed to breathe of her presence. She had made a veritable bower of it for his return. Every sweet thing she had gathered for him, as if, out of her love and her sorrow, she had meant to bring to him an especial blessing.

A shallow basin filled with wild forget-me-nots stood on the shelf before his mother's picture. Ferns and vines fell over the stone mantle, and in earthen jars of mountain ware the early rhododendron, with its delicate, pearly pink blossoms, filled the dark corners. Masses of the plumed white ash shook feathery tassels along the walls, making the air sweet with their fragrance. Ah, how clean and fresh everything was! All his disorder was set to rights, and fresh linen was on his bed in his canvas room.

Even his table was laid with his small store of dishes, and food placed upon it, still covered in the basket he was now so accustomed to see. Sweet and dainty it all was. He had only to light the fat pine sticks laid beneath the kettle swung above and make his tea, and his meal was ready. Had she divined he would not stop at the Fall Place this time, when in the past it had been his custom to do so? Ah, she knew; for is not the little winged god a wonderful teacher?

Thryng was humbled in the very dust and ashes of repentance as he sat down to his late dinner. The fragrance in the room, all he ate, everything he touched, filled his senses with her; and he – he had only brought her sorrow. He had come into her life but to bruise her spirit and leave her sad at heart with a deep sadness he dared not and could not alleviate. He lifted a pale purple orchid she had placed in a tumbler at his hand and examined it. Evidently she had thought this the choicest of all the woodland treasures she had brought him, and had placed it there, a sweet message. What should he do? Ah, what could he do? He must not see her yet – at least not until to-morrow.

Later, David brought in his specimens and occupied himself with his microscope. He had begun a careful study of certain destructive things. Even here in the wild he found them, evil and unwholesome, clinging to the well and strong, slowly but surely sapping the vitality of those who gave them life. Every evil, he thought, must, in the economy of nature, have its antidote. So, with the ardor of the scientist, he divided with care the nasty, pasty growth he had found and prepared his plates. Systematically he made drawings and notes as he studied the magnified atoms beneath his powerful lens, and while he sat absorbed in his work, Hoyle's childish voice piped at him from the doorway.

"Howdy, Doctah Thryng."

"Why, hello! Howdy!" said David, without looking up from his work.

"What you got in that thar gol' machine? Kin I look, too?"

"What have I got? Why – I've got a bit of the devil in here."

"Whar'd you git him? Huh?"

"Oh, I found him along the road between here and the station."

"Did – did he come on the cyars with you? Whar war he at? Hu come he in thar?" David did not reply for an instant, and the awed child drew a step nearer. "Whar war he at?" he insisted. "Hu come he in thar?"

"He was hanging to a bush as I came along, and I put him in my box and brought him home and cut him up and put a little bit of him in here."

Then there was silence, and David forgot the small boy until he heard a deep-drawn sigh behind him. Looking up for the first time, he saw him standing aloof, a look of terror in his wide eyes as if he fain would run away, but could not from sheer fright. Poor little mite! David in his playful speech had not dreamed of being taken in earnest. He drew the child to his side, where he cuddled gladly, nestling his twisted little body close, partly for protection, and partly in love.

"You reckon he's plumb dade?" David could feel the child's heart beating in a heavy labored way against his arm as he held him, and, pushing his papers one side, he lifted him to his knee.

"Do I reckon who's dead?" he asked absently, with his ear pressed to the child's back.

"The devil what you done brought home in yuer box."

"Dead? Oh, yes. He's dead – good and dead. Sit still a moment – so – now take a long breath. A long one – deep – that's right. Now another – so."

"What fer?"

"I want to hear your heart beat."

"Kin you hear hit?"

"Yes – don't talk, a minute, – that'll do."

"What you want to hear my heart beat fer? I kin feel hit. Kin you feel yourn? Be they more'n one devil?"

"Heaps of them."

"When I go back, you reckon I'll find 'em hanging on the bushes? Do they hang by ther tails, like 'possums does?"

Comfortable and happy where he was, the little fellow dreaded the distance he must traverse to reach his home under the peculiar phenomena of devils hanging to the bushes along his route.

"Oh, no, no. Here, I'll show you what I mean." Then he explained carefully to the child what he really meant, showing him some of the strange and beautiful ways of nature, and at last allowing him to look into the microscope to see the little cells and rays. As he patiently and kindly taught, he was pleased with the child's eager, receptive mind and naïve admiration. Towards evening Hoyle was sent home, quite at rest concerning devils and all their kin, and radiantly happy with a box of many colored pencils and a blank drawing-book, which David had brought him from Farington.

"I kin larn to make things like you b'en makin' with these, an' Cass, she'll he'p me," he cried.

"What is Cass doing to-day?" David ventured.

"She be'n up here most all mornin', an' I he'ped get the light ud fer fire, an' then she sont me home to he'p maw whilst she stayed to fix up."

"But now, I mean, when you came up here?"

"Weavin' in the loom shed. Maw, she has a lot o' little biddies. The ol' hen hatched 'em, she did."

"What have you done to your thumb?" asked David, seeing it tied about with a rag.

"I plunked hit with the hammer when I war a-makin' houses fer the biddies. I nailed 'em, I did."

"You made the chicken coops? Well, you are a clever little chap. Let me see your hand."

"Yas, maw said I war that, too."

"But you weren't very clever to do this. Whew! What did you hit your thumb like that for?"

"Dunno." He looked ruefully at the crushed member which the doctor laved gently and soothingly.

"Why didn't you come to me with it?"

"Maw 'lowed the' wa'n't no use pesterin' you with eve'ything. She tol' me eve'y man had to larn to hit a nail on the haid."

David laughed, and the child trotted away happy, his hand in a sling made of one of the doctor's linen handkerchiefs, and his box of pencils and his book hugged to his irregularly beating heart; but it was with a grave face that Thryng saw him disappear among the great masses of pink laurel bloom.

That evening, as the glow in the west deepened and died away and the stars came out one by one and sent their slender rays down upon the hills, David sat on his rock with his flute in his hand, waiting for a moment to arrive when he could put it to his lips and send out the message of glad hopes he had sent before. She had asked that one little thing, that his music might still be glad, and so for Cassandra's sake it must be.

He tried once and again, but he could not play. At last, putting away from him his repentant thoughts, he gave his heart full sway, saying to himself: "For this moment I will imagine harmlessly that my vision is all mine and my dream come true. It is the only way." Then he played as if it were he whom she had kissed so passionately, instead of his flute; and thus it was the glad notes were falling on her spirit when Frale found her.

CHAPTER XVI

IN WHICH FRALE RETURNS AND LISTENS TO THE COMPLAINTS OF DECATUR IRWIN'S WIFE

All was quiet and lonely around Carew's Crossing when Frale dropped from the train and struck off over the mountain. Soon there would be bustle and stir and life about the place, for the hotel would be open and people would be crowding in, some to escape the heat of the far South and the low countries, some from the cities either North or South to whom the bracing air of the mountains would bring renewed vitality – business men with shattered nerves and women whose high play during the winter at the game of social life had left them nervous wrecks.

But now the beauty of the spring and the sweet silences were undisturbed by alien chatter. As yet were to be heard only the noises of the forest – of wind and stream – of bird calls and the piping of turtles and the shrilling of insects or vibrant croaking of frogs – or mayhap the occasional sound of a gun, discharged by some solitary mountain boy, regardless of game laws, to provide a supper at home, – only these, as Frale climbed rapidly away from the station toward the Fall Place, and Cassandra. He would stop there first and then strike for his old haunts and hiding-places.

He felt a leaping joy in his veins to be again among his hills. How lonely he had been for them he had not known until now, when, with lifted head and bounding heart, he trod lightly and easily the difficult way. And yet the undercurrent of a tragedy lay quiet beneath his joy and haunted him, keeping him to the trails above, – the secret paths which led circuitously to his home, – even while the thought of Cassandra made his heart buoyant and eager.

The sight of Doctor Thryng who during these months had been near her – perhaps seeing her daily – aroused all the primitive jealousy of his nature. He would go now and persuade her to marry him and stand by him until he could fight his way through to the unquestioned right to live there as his father had done, defying any who would interfere with his course. Had he not a silver bullet for the heart of the man who would dare contest his rights? It only remained for him to meet Giles Teasley face to face to settle the matter forever.

Since it was purely a mountain affair, and the officers of the law had already searched to their satisfaction, there was little chance that the pursuit would be renewed by the State. It would, however, be impossible for him to go back to the Fall Place and live there openly until the last member of the Teasley family capable of wreaking vengeance on his head had been settled with; but as the father was crippled with rheumatism and could do no more than totter about his mill and talk, only this one brother was left with whom to deal. Now that Frale was back in his own hills again, all terror slipped from him, and the old excitement in the presence of danger to be met, or avoided, stimulated him to a feeling of exuberance and triumph. With childlike facility he tossed aside the thought of his promise to Cassandra. It all seemed to him as a dream – all the horror and the remorse. Time had quickly dulled this last.

"Ef I hadn't 'a' killed Ferd, he would 'a' shot me. Anyhow, he hadn't ought to 'a' riled me that-a-way."

He thought with shame of how he had sat cowering at the head of the fall, and had hurled his own dog to destruction, in his fear. "I war jes' plumb crazy," he soliloquized.

As to how he could deal with Cassandra, he did not as yet know, but he would find a way. In his heart, he reached out to her and already possessed her. His blood leaped madly through his veins that he was so soon to see her and touch her. Have her he would, if he must continue to kill his way to her through an army of opponents.

The evening was falling, and, imagining they would all be sleeping, he meant to creep quietly up and spend the night in the loom shed. There was no dog there now to disturb them with joyful bark of recognition. At last he found himself above the home, where, by striking through the undergrowth a short distance, he would come out by the great holly tree near the head of the fall. Already he could hear the welcome sound of rushing water.

He drew nearer through the thick laurel and azalea shrubs now in full bloom; their pollen clung to his clothing as he brushed among them. Cautiously he approached the spot which recalled to him the emotions he had experienced there – now throbbing through him anew. He peered into the gathering dusk with eager eyes as if he thought to find her still there. Ah, he could crush her in his mad joy!

Suddenly he paused and listened. Other sounds than those of the night and the running water fell on his ear – sounds deliciously sweet and thrilling, filling all the air, mingling with the rushing of the fall and accenting its flow. From whence did they come – those new sounds? He had never heard them before. Did they drop from the sky – from the stars twinkling brightly down on him – now faint and far as if born in heaven – now near and clear – silvery clear and strong and sweet – penetrating his very soul and making every nerve quiver to their pulsating rhythm? He felt a certain fear of a new kind creep tinglingly through him, holding him cold and still – for the moment breathless. Was she there? Had she died, and was this her spirit trying to speak?

Very quietly he drew nearer to the great rock. Yes, she was there, standing with her back to the silvery gray bole of the holly tree, her face lifted toward the mountain top and her expression rapt and listening – holy and pure – far removed from him as was the star above the peak toward which her gaze was turned. He could not touch her, nor crush her to him as a moment before he had felt he must, but he slowly approached.

She heard his step and then saw him waiting there in the dim light of the starry dusk. For an instant she regarded him in silence, then she essayed to speak, but her lips only trembled over the words voicelessly. He could not see her emotion, but he felt it, although her stillness made her seem calm. Hungrily he stood and watched her. At last she spoke: —

"Why, Frale, Frale!"

"Hit's me, Cass."

"Have – have you been down to the house, Frale?"

"Naw, I jes' come this-a-way from the station."

"Is it – is it safe for you to come here, Frale?"

She stood a short distance from him, speaking so softly, and yet he could not touch her; his hands seemed numb, and his breath came pantingly.

"I reckon hit's safe here as thar," he said huskily. "An' I'm come to stay, too."

"Then let's go down to mother. Likely she's a-bed by now, but she'll be right glad to see you. She can walk a little now." She hastened to fill the moments with words, anything to divert that fixed gaze and take his thoughts from her. Instinctively she groped thus for time, she who like a deer would flee if flight were possible, even while her heart welled with pity for him. "Come. You can talk with her whilst I get you some supper." She felt his pent-up emotion and secretly feared it, but held herself bravely. "Hoyle will nigh jump out of his skin, he'll be that glad you come back."

He stood stubbornly where he was, and lifted his hand to grasp her arm, but she glided on just beyond his reach, either not seeing it, or avoiding it, he could not decide which, and still she said, "Come, Frale." He followed stumblingly in her wake, as a man follows an ignis fatuus, unconscious of the roughness of the way or of the steps he was taking – and the flute notes followed them from above – sweetly – mockingly, as it seemed to him. What were they? Why were they? How came Cassandra there listening? He could stand this mystery no longer – and he cried out to her.

"Cass, hear. Listen to that."

"Yes, Frale." She spoke wearily, but did not pause.

"Wait, Cass. What be hit, ye reckon? Hit sure hain't no fiddle. Thar! Heark to hit. Whar be hit at?"

"I reckon it's up yonder at Doctor Thryng's cabin. He has a little pipe like, that he blows on and it makes music like that."

"An' you clum' up thar to heark to him?" He bounded forward in the darkness and walked close to her. She quivered like a leaf, but held her voice low and steady as she replied.

"No, Frale. I go there evenings when I'm not too tired. I've been going there ever since you left to – "

"That doctah, he's be'n castin' a spell on you, Cass. I kin see hit – how you walkin' off an' nevah 'low me to touch you. Ye hain't said howd'y to me nor how you glad I come. You like a col' white drift o' snow blowin' on ahead o' me. You hain't no human girl like you used to be. I got somethin' to put a spell on him, too, ef he don't watch out."

He spoke in his mild, low-voiced drawl, but he kept close to her side, and she could hear his breathing, quick and panting. She felt as if a tiger were keeping pace with her, and she knew the sinister meaning beneath his words. She knew that all she could do now was to take him back to his promise and hold him to it.

"There's no such thing as spell casting, Frale. You know that, and you have my promise and I have yours. Have you forgot? Talking that way seems like you have forgot." She walked on rapidly, taking him nearer and nearer their home, and in her haste she stumbled. In an instant his arm was thrown around her, holding her on her feet.

"Look at you now, like to fall cl'ar headlong, runnin' that-a-way to get shet o' me. 'Pears like you mad that I come."

He held her back, and they went slowly, but he did not release her, nor did she struggle futilely against his strength, knowing it wiser to continue calmly leading him on; but she could not reply. The start of her fall and her wildly beating heart rendered her breathless and weak.

"I tell you that thar doctah man, he have put a spell on you. He done drawed you up thar to hear to him. I seed you lookin' like he'd done drawed yuer soul outen yuer body. I have heard o' sech. He's be'n down to Bishop Towahs', too, whar I be'n workin' at. I seed him watchin' me like he come to spy on me, an' he no sooner gone than I seed that thar Giles Teasley sneakin' 'long the fence lookin' over an' searchin' eve'y place like he war a-hungerin' fer a sight o' me." He stopped and swallowed angrily. They had arrived at the trough of running water, and she breathed easier to find herself so near her haven.

"What have you done with your dog, Frale? You reckon he followed you off? I haven't seen him since you left."

He released her then and, stooping to the water-pipe, drank a long draft, and thrust his head beneath it, allowing the water to drench his thick hair. Then he stood a moment, shaking his curling locks like a spaniel.

"Wait here. I'll fetch a towel." She hastened within. "Mother, Frale's come back," she said quietly, not to awaken Hoyle; then returned and tossed him the towel which he caught and rubbed vigorously over his head and face.

"Now you are like yourself again, Frale."

"Yas, I'm here an' I'm myself, I reckon. Who'd ye think I be?" He caught her and kissed her, and, with his arm about her, entered the cabin.

His mood changed with childish ease according to whatever the moments brought him. Cassandra lighted a candle, for now that the days had grown warm, the fire was allowed to go out unless needed for cooking. His stepmother had roused herself and peered at him from out her dark corner, where little Hoyle lay sleeping soundly in the farther side of her bed. Frale strode across the uneven floor and kissed her also, resoundingly. Astounded, she dropped back on her pillow.

"What ails ye, Frale!" The mountain people are for the most part too reserved to be lavish with their kisses.

"Nothin' ails me. I'm kissin' you fer Cass's sake. Me an' her's goin' to get jined an' set up togethah. I'm come back fer to marry with her, and we're goin' ovah t'othah side Lone Pine, an' I'm goin' to build a cabin thar. That's how I'm kissin' you. Will you have anothah, or shall I give hit to Cass?"

"You hush an' go 'long," said the mother, half contemptuously.

"Frale's making fool talk, mothah. Don't give heed to him. He's light-headed, I reckon, and I'm going to get him something to eat right quick."

"I 'low he be light-headed. Nobody's goin' to git Cass whilst I'm livin', 'thout he's got more'n a cabin ovah t'othah side Lone Pine. She's right well off here, an' here she'll 'bide."

Frale turned darkly on the mother. "I reckon you'd bettah give heed to me mor'n to her," he said, in the low drawl which boded much with him.

Cassandra, on her knees at the hearth, was arranging sticks of fat pine to light the fire. Her hands shook as she held them. This Frale saw, and his eyes gleamed. He came to her side and, kneeling also, took them from her.

"Hit's my place to do this fer you now, Cass. F'om now on – I reckon. I'll hang the kittle fer ye, too, an' fetch the water."

The mother stared at them in silence, and Cassandra, taking up the coffee-pot, rose and went out. When she returned, the fire was crackling merrily, and the great kettle swung over it. Hoyle was up and seated on his half-brother's knee. Cassandra's eyes looked heavy and showed traces of tears.

Frale saw it all, with eyes gleaming blue through narrowly drawn lids. His lips quivered a little as he talked with Hoyle. He drew out his money for the child to count over gleefully, thus diverting himself with the boy, while he watched Cassandra furtively. He decided to say no more at present until she should have had time to adjust her mind to the thought he had so daringly announced to her mother. The two cakes little Dorothy had given him he took from his bundle and gave to Hoyle, then carried him back and put him to bed and told him to sleep again.