The Mountain Girl

Calm and restful she seemed, yet when he extended his free hand and took hers, he felt a tremor in her touch that delighted his heart. He brought it to his lips.

"I've been needing you all the morning. Aunt Sally has done everything – all she could. If I should let you have this hand again, would you go so far away from me that I could not reach you?"

"Not if you want me near."

"Then put away your sewing and bring your chair close to me, and let us talk together while we may."

She obeyed and sat looking away from him out through the open door. Were her eyes searching for the mountain top?

"You have thoughts – sweet, big thoughts, dear girl; put them in words for me now, while we are so blessedly alone."

"I can't say rightly what I think. Seems like if I had some other way – something besides words to tell my thoughts with, I could do it better; but words are all we have – and seems like when I want them most they won't come."

"That's the way with all of us. Don't you see you are still beyond my reach? Come. If you can't tell your thoughts in words, give them by the touch of your hands as you did a moment ago."

She did as he bade her and, leaning forward, took his hand in both her own.

"That's right. I'll teach you how to tell your thoughts without words. Now, how came you to find us the other day?"

"I don't know myself. It was a strange way. First I rode down to Teasley's Mill to – to try to persuade them – Giles Teasley – to allow him to go free." She paused and put her hand to her throat, as her way was. "I think, Doctor Thryng, I'd better build up the fire and get you some hot milk. Doctor Bartlett said you must have it often – and – to keep you very quiet."

"Not until you tell me now – this moment – what I ask you. You went to the mill to try to help Frale out of his trouble. Cassandra, have you loved that boy?"

Her face assumed its old look of masklike impassivity. "I reckoned he might hold himself steady and do right – would they only leave him be – and give him the chance – "

"Cassandra, answer me. Was it for love of him that you gave him your promise?"

Her face grew white, and for a moment she bowed her head on his hand.

"Please, Doctor Thryng, let me tell you the strange part first, then you can answer that question in your own way." She lifted her head and looked steadily in his eyes. "You remember that day we went to Cate Irwin's? When we came to the place where we can see far – far over the mountains – I laughed – with something glad in my heart. It was the same this time when I got to that far open place. All at once it seemed like I was so free – free from the heavy burden – and all in a kind of light that was only the same gladness in my heart.

"I stopped there and waited and thought how you said that time, 'It's good just to be alive,' and I thought if you were there with me and should put your hand on my bridle as you did that night in the rain, and if you should lead me away off – even into the 'Valley of the shadow of death' into those deep shadows below us I would go and never say a word. All at once it seemed as if you were doing that, and I forgot Frale and kept on and on; and wherever it seemed like you were leading me, I went.

"It seemed like I was dreaming, or feeling like a hand was on my heart – a hand I could not see, pulling me and making me feel, 'This way, this way, I must go this way.' I never had been where my horse took me before. I didn't think how I ever could get back again. I didn't seem to see anything around me – only to go on – on – on, and at last it seemed I couldn't go fast enough, until all at once I came to your horse tied there, and I heard strange trampling sounds a little farther on where my horse could not go – and I got off and ran.

"I fell down and got up and ran again; and it seemed as if my feet wouldn't leave the ground, but only held me back. It seemed like they hadn't any more power to run – and – then I came there and I saw." She paused, covering her face with her hand as if to shut out the sight, and slipped to her knees beside him. "Oh, I saw your faces – all terrible – " He put his arm about her and drew her close. "I saw you fall, and your face when it seemed like you were dying as you fought. I saw – " Her sobs shook her, and she could not go on.

"My beautiful priestess of good and holy things!" he said.

She leaned to him then and, placing her arms about him, ever mindful of his hurt, she lifted his head to her shoulder. The flood-gates of her reserve once lifted, the full tide of her intense nature swept over him and enveloped him. It was as light to his soul and healing to his body. How often it had seemed as if he saw her with that halo of light about her, and now it was as if he had been drawn within its charmed radius, as surely he had.

"And then, dear heart, what did you do?"

"I thought you were killed, and almost – almost I cursed him. I hope now I wasn't so wicked. But I – I – called back from God the promise I had given him."

"And then – tell me all the blessed truth – and then – "

"You were bleeding – bleeding – and I took off your clothes – and I saw where you were bleeding your life away, and I tied my dress around you. I tore it in pieces and wound it all around you as well as I could, and then I put your coat back on you, and still you didn't waken. It seemed as if you had stopped breathing. And then I saw the bruise on your head, and I thought maybe you were only stunned. I brought water from the branch and put your head on the wet cloth and bound it all around, but still you looked like he had killed you, and then – " he stirred in her arms to feel their clasp.

"And then – then – "

"I went for help," she said, in so low a tone it seemed hardly spoken.

"First you did something you have not told me."

She waited in a sweet shame he recognized and gloried in, but he wanted the confession from her lips.

"And then?"

"You said you would teach me to say things without words," she said tremulously.

"Not now. Later. Put everything you did in words. And then – "

"I thought you were dying." She drew in a long, sighing breath.

"And you kissed me. I have a right to know, for I missed them all – "

"I did, I did," she cried vehemently. "A hundred times I kissed you. I had called my promise back from God – and I dared it. I wasn't ashamed. I would have done it if all the mountain side had been there to see – but afterwards – when that strange doctor from Farington came, and I knew he must uncover you and find my torn dress around you – somehow, then I felt I didn't want for him to look at me, and I was glad to go away."

"Do you want to know what he said when he saw it? 'Whoever did this kept you alive, young man.' So you see how you are my beautiful bringer of good. You are – Oh, I have only one arm now. I am at a disadvantage. When I can stand on my feet, I will pay them all back – those kisses you threw away on me then. We shan't need words then, dearest. I'll teach you the sweet lesson. Your arms tremble; they are tired, dear. Could you let your head rest here and sleep as you did the other day? To think how I woke and found you beside me sleeping – "

"Let me go now. I have things I ought to do for you."

"Not yet. I have things I must say to you."

"Please, Doctor Thryng."

"My name is David. You must call me by it."

"Please, Doctor David, let me go."

"Why?"

"To warm some milk. I brought it up for you."

"Pity we must eat to live. Then if I let you take your arms away, will you come back to me?"

"Yes. I'll bring the milk."

"There, go. I'm giving you your own way because I know I will recover the sooner the strength I have lost. A man flat on his back, with but one arm free, is no good."

"But you don't let me go."

"Listen, Cassandra. You brought me back to life. Do you know what for? What did your father tell you? That one should be sent for you? It is I, dearest. From away over on the other side of the earth, I have come for you. We fought like beasts – Frale and I. I had given you up – you – Cassandra; had said in my heart, 'I will go away and leave her to the one she has chosen, if that be right,' and even at that moment, Frale shot me and sprang upon me, and I fought. I was glad the chance was given me there in the wilderness in that old and primitive way, to settle it and win you.

"I put all the force and strength of my body into it, and more; all the strength of my love for you. It was with that in my heart, we clinched. I said I will fight to the death for her. She shall be mine whether I live or die. Stop crying, sweet; be glad as I am. Give thanks that it was to the life and not to the death. Listen, once more, while I can feel and know; give way to your great heart of love and treat me as you did after you had bound up my wounds. Learn the sweet lesson I said I would teach you."

Late that evening, Hoke Belew rode up to the door of David's cabin and called Aunt Sally out to speak with him.

"How's doc?"

"He's doin' right well. He's asleep now. Won't ye 'light an' come in?"

"I reckon not. Azalie, she's been alone all day, an' I guess she'll be some 'feared. Will you put that thar under doc's pillow whar he kin find hit in the mawnin'? Hit's a papah he sont me fer. Tell 'im I reckon hit's all straight. He kin see. Them people Cassandry was expectin' from Farington, did they come to-day?"

"Yas, they come. They're down to Miz Farwell's."

"Well, you tell doc 'at Azalie an' me, we'll be here 'long 'leven in the mawnin'." Hoke rode off under the winking stars, for the clouds after the long day of rain had lifted, and in the still night were rolling away over the mountain tops.

Aunt Sally slipped quietly back into the cabin and softly closed the door of the canvas room, lest the rustling of paper should waken her charge, for she meant to examine that paper, quite innocently, since she could neither read nor write, but out of sheer childish curiosity.

She need not have feared waking David, however, for, all his physical discomfort forgotten, dominated by the supreme happiness that possessed him, yet weak in body to the point of exhaustion, he slept profoundly and calmly on, even when she came stealthily and slipped the paper beneath his pillow, as Hoke had requested.

CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH THE BISHOP AND HIS WIFE PASS AN EVENTFUL DAT AT THE FALL PLACE

"Do you know, James," said Betty Towers, as she walked at her husband's side in the sweet morning, slowly climbing up to David's cabin from the Fall Place, "I feel almost vexed with you for never bringing me here before."

"Why – my dear!"

"Yes, I do. To think of all this loveliness, and for six years you have been here many times, and never once told me you knew a place hardly two hours away as entrancing as heaven. Even now, James, if it hadn't been for Cassandra, I wouldn't have come. Why – it's the loveliest spot on earth. Stand still a minute, James, and listen. That's a thrush. Oh, something smells so sweet! It's a locust! And that's a redbird's note. There he is, like a red blossom in those bushes. There – no, there. You will look in the wrong direction, James, and now he's gone. You remember what David Thryng wrote? 'It's good just to be alive.' He's always saying that, and now I understand – in such a place as this. Oh, just breathe the air, James!"

"I certainly can't help doing that, dear." The bishop was puffing a little over the climb his slight young wife took so easily.

"I don't care. Here I've lived in cities all my life, while you have lived down here, and it has lost its charm to you. Only think of all this gorgeous display of nature just for these mountain people, and what is it to them?"

"To them it's the natural order of things, just as you implied in regard to me."

"Hark, James. Now, that's a catbird!"

"And not a thrush?"

"The other was a thrush. I know the difference."

"Wise little woman! Come. There's that young man getting up a fever by fretting. We said – I said we would come early."

"James, I'm going to stay up here and let you go to that stupid wedding down in Farington without me."

"Perhaps we may have something interesting up here, if you'll hurry a little."

"What is it, James?"

"I really can't say, dear." She took his hand, and they walked on.

"Wouldn't this be an ideal spot to spend a honeymoon? Hear that fall away down below us. How cool it sounds! Why don't you pay attention to me? What are you thinking about, James?"

"I am making a little poem for you, dear. Listen: —

"Chatter, chatter, little tongue,What a wonder how you're hung!Up above the epiglottis,Tied on with a little knot 'tis."

"Only geniuses may be silly, James, but perhaps you can't help it. I think married people ought to establish the custom of sabbatical honeymoons to counteract the divorce habit. Suppose we set the example, now we have arrived at just the right time for one, and spend ours here."

"Anything you say, dear."

Being an absent-minded man, the bishop had fallen in the way of saying that, when, had he paused to think, he would have admitted that everything was made to bend to his will or wish by the spirited little being at his side. Moreover, being an absent-minded man, he drew her to him and kissed her. Aunt Sally, watching them from the cabin door, wondered if the bishop were going away on a journey, to leave his wife behind, for why else should he kiss her thus?

"Will you sit there on the rock and enjoy the mountains while I see how he is?" said the bishop.

So they parted at the door, and Aunt Sally brought her a chair and stood beside her, giving her every detail of the affair as far as she knew it. She sat bareheaded in the sun, to Sally's amazement, for she had her hat in her lap and could have worn it.

The wind blew wisps of her fine straight hair across her pink cheeks and in her eyes, as she gazed out upon the blue mountains and listened to Sally's tale of "How hit all come about." For Sally went back into the family history of the Teasleys, and the Caswells, and the Merlins, and the Farwells, until Betty forgot the flight of time and the bishop called her. Then she went in to see David.

He had worked his right hand free from its bandages and was able to lift it a little. She took it in hers, and looked brightly down at him.

"Why, Doctor Thryng, you look better than when you were in Farington! Doesn't he, James? Aunt Sally gave me to understand you were nearly dead."

David laughed happily. "I was, but I am very much alive now. I am to be married, Mrs. Towers; our wedding is to be quite comme il faut. It is to be at high noon, and the ceremony performed by a bishop."

"James!" Betty dropped into a chair and looked helplessly at her husband. "You haven't your vestments here!"

"I have all I need, dear. You know, Doctor, from Mr. Belew's telegram we were led to expect – "

"A death instead of a wedding?" David finished.

Betty turned to him. "Why didn't you tell us when you were down? You never gave the slightest hint of your state of mind, and there I was with my heart aching for Cassandra, when you – you stood ready to save her. I'm so glad for Cassandra; I could hug you, Doctor Thryng." Suddenly she turned on her husband. "James! Have you thought of everything – all the consequences? What will his mother – and the family over in England say?"

James threw up his hand and laughed.

"Don't laugh, James. Have you thought this all out, Doctor? Are you sure you can make them understand over there? Won't they think this awfully irregular? Will they ever be reconciled? I know how they are. My father was English."

"They never need be reconciled. It's our affair, and there's nothing to call me back there to live. What I do, or whom I make my wife, is nothing to them. I may visit my mother, of course, but for the rest, they gave me up years ago, when I had no use for the life they mapped out for me. I have nothing to inherit there. It would go to my older brother, anyway. I may follow my own inclination – thank God! And as for it's being irregular – on the contrary – we are distinguished enough to have a bishop perform the ceremony. That will be considered a great thing at home – when they do come to hear of it."

"But it is very sudden, Doctor; I suppose that's why I said irregular." Betty Towers paused a moment with a little frown, then laughed outright. "Does Cassandra know she is to be married to-day?"

"She learned the fact yesterday – incidentally – bless her! and her only objection was a most feminine one. She had no proper dress. She said she was wearing her best when she found me and – but – I told her the trousseau was to come later."

Betty rose with impulsive importance. "Well, James, we've so little time, I must go and help her prepare. And you'll rest now, won't you, Doctor? You stay up here with him, James, and I'll find some way of sending your things up."

"Thar's Hoyle; he kin he'p a heap. He kin ride the mule an' tote anything ye like; and Marthy, I reckon ye kin git her up here on my horse – hit's thar at her place," said Sally, who had been standing in the doorway, keenly interested.

When they were alone she said to David: "Hit's a right quare way o' doin' things – gitt'n married in bed, but if Bishop Towahs do hit, hit sure must be all right – leastways Cassandry'll think so."

David took the superintendence of the arrangement of his cabin upon himself, and Hoke Belew, with the bishop's aid, carried out his directions. One side of his canvas room was rolled to the top, leaving the place open to the hills and the beauty without. His bed was placed so that he might face the open space, and that Cassandra could kneel at his right side. His writing-table, draped with a white cloth and covered with green hemlock boughs, formed the altar. It was all very quickly and simply done, and then David lay quiet, with closed eyes, listening to his musicians in the tree-tops, fluting their own gladness, while Hoke Belew went down below, and the bishop sat out on the rock and meditated.

Cassandra came up to the cabin alone and sat with David, while the bishop donned his priestly vestments, and the wedding procession wound slowly up the trail from the Fall Place, decorously and gravely, clad in their best. Azalea and Betty came, side by side, the mother rode Sally's speckled white horse, and little Hoyle ran on ahead; Hoke carried his baby in his arms. Behind them all rode Uncle Jerry Carew, full of the liveliest interest and curiosity.

Said David: "This is May-day. I know what they're doing at home now, if the weather will let them. They're having gay times with out-of-door fêtes. The country girls are wearing their prettiest gowns, and the men are wearing sprigs of May in their buttonholes. Where did you get your roses?"

"Azalie brought them."

"And who put them in your hair?"

"Mrs. Towahs did that. Do you like me this way, David?"

"You are the loveliest being my eyes ever rested on."

"This was my best dress last year. I did it up and mended it this morning. It's home-woven like the one I – like the other one you said you liked."

David smiled, looking up into the gray eyes with the green lights and blue depths in them. How serene and poised her manner was, on the verge of the momentous step she was about to take, while his own heart was beating high. He wondered if she really comprehended the change it was to make in her life, that she showed no apprehension or fear.

"Cassandra, do you realize that in fifteen minutes you will be my wife? It will be a great change for you, dearest. In spite of all I can do, you may be sad sometimes, and I may ask of you things you don't want to do."

"I've been sad already in my life, and done things I didn't want to do. I don't guess you could change that – only God could."

"And you don't feel in the least disturbed? Your heart doesn't beat any harder nor your breath come quicker? Tell me how you feel."

She smiled and drew a long breath. "I don't know how it is. Everything is right peaceful and sweet outside – the sky and the hills and all the birds – even the wind is still in the trees, like everything was waiting for something good to happen."

"In your heart it is sweet and peaceful, too, and waiting for something good to happen?"

"Yes, David."

"God forgive me if ever I fail you," he said, drawing her down to him. "God make me worthy of you."

Then the bishop entered, and the little procession followed, and gathered about while the solemn words of the service were uttered. Cassandra knelt at David's side, as together they partook of the bread and wine, and with the worn circlet of gold which had been tied to her father's little Greek books, they were pronounced man and wife. Then, rising from her knees, she bent and kissed David, the long first kiss of the wedded pair, and turned her gravely happy face to the bishop, who admitted to Betty afterward that he had never kissed a bride, other than his own, with such unalloyed satisfaction.

It was all over quickly, and Cassandra was standing in a new world. Her eyes shone with the love-light no longer held back and veiled. She accompanied them all to the door and parted from them, even her mother and little Hoyle, as a hostess parting from her guests. She would not allow any one to stay behind, for the wedding feast had been spread in her mother's house, and thither they repaired to eat, and talk everything over.

"Mother felt right bad to leave us alone. She meant to bring everything up and all eat together here, but I thought it would be better, just we two, and me to set things out for you. Lie quiet and close your eyes, David, and make out like you are sleeping while I do it."

With perfect contentment he obeyed, and lay watching her through half-closed lids. It was always the same vision. She moved between him and a halo of light that seemed to be a part of her and to go with her, now at his bedside, now bending before the fireplace. At last the small pine table, which had served as an altar, was set with their first meal. The home was established.

He opened his eyes and looked on the feast she had set before him. The pink rose was still in her hair, and one at her throat, and two perfect ones were in a glass near his plate. The table was drawn close to his bedside, and strawberries were upon it, and a glass pitcher of cream. There were white beaten biscuit, and tea – as he had made it for her so long ago on her first and only visit to his cabin when he was at home, so she had made it for him now. There were chicken and green peas, also.

"How quickly everything has happened! How perfect it all is! How did you get all these things together?"

So she told him where everything came from. "Mother churned the butter to have it right fresh, and she left it without salt for you, like you said you used to have it in England. Uncle Jerry brought the peas from his garden, and he shelled them himself. I made the biscuit this morning, and Aunt Sally fried the chicken when she came down, and Azalie prepared the peas, and we kept them all hot in the fireplace, theirs down there, and ours up here." Cassandra laughed merrily. "I reckon it looked funny. Every one carried something when they came up. Hoyle had the peas in a tin pail, and mother rode Aunt Sally's Speckle and carried the biscuit in a pan on front. Shut your eyes and you can see them come that way, David, while I sit here with you, talking and feeling that happy. Don't try to use your right hand that way; I can see it hurts you. Let me go on feeding you like I am. Don't I do it right?"

"Perfectly, but I want you to bring that cushion over here and put it under my pillow so you won't have to lift my head. That's right. Now I want to see you eat. You can't feed me and yourself at the same time. You won't? Then we'll take it turn about."

"How have you managed these days? Did Aunt Sally feed you? Oh, I don't believe you ate anything. You couldn't, could you?"

She spoke so sadly, he laughed. "It's a lucky thing you sent for the bishop instead of the doctor, or I would have had no wife and would have starved to death. I couldn't have survived another day."

Again she laughed out, as she seemed so suddenly to have learned to do. "And I would have stayed away and let you starve to death? You must open your mouth, David, and not try to talk now."