 9. In which David accompanies Cassandra on an errand This was continually the refrain of his heart, nor had he begun to exhaust his resources for entertainment in his solitary life. Never were the days too long. Each was filled with such new and lively interest as to preclude the thought of ennui. To provide against it he had sent for books, more than he had had time to read, in all the busy days of the last three years. These, and his microscope, and his surgical instruments, had been brought him on a mule-team by Jerry Carew, who did his totem for him, fetching all he needed for work or comfort in this way from the nearest station where goods could be sent until the hotel opened in the early summer. Not that he needed them, but that, as an artist loves to keep a supply of paints and canvas, or a writer, even when idle, is happier to know that he has at hand plenty of pens and blank paper, he liked to have them. Thus far he had felt no more need of his books than he had for his surgical instruments, but now he was glad he had them, for the sake of the girl who was that sought on all such. He would open the box the moment he had eaten and looked them over. The little brother should take them down to her one at a time, or better, he would take them himself, and watch the smile which came so rarely and sweetly, to play about her lips and in her eyes, and vanish. Surely he had a right to that for his pains. He heard the sound of rapid hoof beats approaching across the leveled space from the cabin above him, and looking up, as if conjured from his innermost thoughts, he saw her coming, allowing the colt to swing along as he would. Her bonnet hung by the strings from her arm, her hair blue in crinkling wisps across her face, and the rapid exercise had brought roses into the creamy whiteness of her skin. She kept to the brow of the ridge, and would have passed him unseen. Her eyes fixed on the distant hills, had he not called to her in his clear alpine yodel. She reigned in sharply, and slipping from the saddle walked quickly to him, leading the colt, which was warm and panting, as if he had carried her a good distance at that pace. Oh, Dr. Thring, we need you right bad. That's why I took this way home. Have you been to the house? Yes. I have just come from there. Is mother all right? Doing splendidly. He waited, and she lifted her face to him anxiously. We need you, bad doctor. Yes, but not you. You're not. He began stupidly. It's Mr. Irwin. I went there to see could I help any, and seemed like I couldn't get here soon enough. When I found you were not at home, I was that troubled. Can you go up there and see why I can't rest for thinking he's a heap worse than he reckons? He thinks he's better, but come in and rest, and tell me about it. Mr. Irwin isn't quite well, and I must go back as soon as I can get everything done at home. I must get dinner for mother and hawel. You've been that kind of mother. I thought, I thought if you could only see him. They can't spare him to die. Indeed, I'll go gladly. But you must tell me more so that I may know what to take with me. What is the matter with the man? Is he ill or hurt? Let me—oh, you are an independent young woman. She had turned from him to mount, and he stepped forward without stretched hand to aid her. But in a breath, not seeing his offer, she placed her two hands on the horn of the saddle, and from the slight rise of ground whereon she stood, with one agile spring, landed easily in the saddle and wheeled about. He's been cutting trees to clear patch for corn, in some way he hurt his foot, and he's been lying there nigh a week with the misery. Last evening she sent one of the children for mother not knowing she was bad herself, so I went for Aunt Sally, but she was gone, so I rode on to the Irwins to see could I help. He said he wasn't suffering so much today, and it made my heart just stop to hear that when he couldn't lift himself. You see, my stepfather, he—he was shot in the arm, and right soon, when the misery left him, he died. So I didn't say much, but on the way home I thought of you, and I came here fast. We know so little here on the mountains, she added, sadly, as she looked earnestly down at him. You have acted wisely. Just ride on, Miss Cassandra, and I will follow as soon as—come down with me now and have dinner at our place, then we can start together. Thank you, I will. You are more expert in the art of dinner-getting than I am, so we will lose less time. He laughed, and was rewarded with the flash of a grateful smile as she started on without another word. It took David but a few minutes to select what articles he suspected from her account might be required. He hurried his preparations, and being his own groom, stable boy, and man of all work, he was very busy about it. As a strain of music or a floating melody will linger in the background with insistent repetition, while the brain is at the same time busily occupied with surface affairs, so he found himself repeating some of her quaint phrases and seeing her eyes, the wisps of wind-blown hair, and the smile on her lips as she turned away, like an accompaniment to all he was thinking and doing. Soon, equipped for whatever the emergency might demand, he was at the widow's door. His horse knickered and stretched out his nose toward Cassandra's colt, as if glad to have once more a little horse companionship. Side by side they stood, with bridles slipped back and hung to their saddles, while they crunched contentedly at the corn on the ear which Hoyle had brought them. While at dinner Cassandra showed David her books, pleased that he asked to see them. I brought them to study should I get time. It's right hard to give up hope. She glanced at her mother and lowered her voice. To stop, anyhow. I thought I might teach Hoyle a little. Ah, these are mostly school books, he said, glancing them over. Yes, I was at school this time. Near Farrington it was. Once I stayed with Bishop Towers and helped do housework, I could learn a heap there between times. They let me have all the books I wanted to read. She looks lovingly at her few precious school books. I haven't touched these since I got back. We're that busy. Then she resumed her work about the house, cooking at the fireplace, waiting upon David and serving her mother, while directing Hoyle what to do, should she be detained that night. He demurred and hung about her, begging her not to stay. I won't, son, without I can't help it. You won't care so much now. Mother's not bad like she was. Yes, I will, he mourned. I reckon I'll have to call you baby again, said his mother. You're getting that babyfied since Cass come back doing all for you. You as a heap of company. There's the cow I took care for, an old peed hollering at you, and the chickens telling how many eggs they laid for you. Run now. There's all frizzle-cackling. Get the egg, and we'll send it to the poor sick man. There, Cass, she added as Hoyle ran out half ashamed to do her bidding. Hit your own fault for making such a baby a hymn. I low you better take long few fresh eggs. Likely they'll need them so trifling they be. I don't guess you'll find a thing in the house for him to eat. Cassandra packed one of her oddly shaped little baskets, as her mother suggested, for the sadly demoralized and distracted family to which they were going, and tucked in with the rest the warm, newly laid egg Hoyle brought her, smiling indulgently and kissing his upturned face as she took it from him. Toward David she was always entirely simple and natural, except when abashed by his speech, which seemed to her most elaborate and sometimes mystifying. She would pause and gaze at him an instant, when he extended to her a courtesy, as if to give it its exact value. Perhaps it she in the least distrusted him, quite the contrary, but that she was wholly unused to hearing phrased courtesies or enthousiasms expressed in the form of words. She had seen something of it in the bishop's pretty complementary pleasantries with his wife, but David's manner of handing her a chair, offering her a suggestion with a, may I be allowed, was foreign to her, and she accepted such remarks with a moment's hesitation and a certain aloofness hardly understood by him. He found himself treating her with a measure of freedom from the constraint which men often place upon themselves because of the recognition of the personal element which will protrude between them and femininity in general. He recognized the reason for this, and her absolute lack of cockatry toward him, but analyzed the phenomenon as yet he could not. To her he was a being from another world, strange and delightful, but set as far from her as if the seed divided them. She turned toward him sweet expectant eyes. She listened attentively, gropingly sometimes. She would understand him if she could, would learn from him, and trust him implicitly, but her femininity never obtruded itself. Her personality seemed to be enclosed within herself, and never to lead toward him with the subtle flattery men feel and like to awaken but which they often fear to arouse when they wish to remain themselves unsteered. Her dignified poise and perfect freedom from all arts to attract his favor and attention pleased him, but while it gave him the safe and unconstrained feeling when with her it still peaked his man's nature a little to see her so capable of showing tenderness to her own yet so unsteered by himself. Cassandra had never been up to his cabin when he was there, until to-day, since the morning she came to consult him about frail, nor had that young man's name been uttered between them. David had said nothing to her of the return of the Velice, not wishing to touch on the subject unless she gave the opportunity for him to ask what she knew about it. Now, since his morning's talk with her mother had envisioned an ideal and shown a glory beyond, he was glad to have this opportunity of being alone with her and sounding her depths. For a long time they wrote in silence, and he remembered her mother's words. He may have told Cass, but she is that still. She carried her basket carefully before her on the pommel of her saddle. Gradually the large sun-bonnet which quite hit her face slipped back, and the sun lighted the bronze tints of her hair. As he wrote at her side he studied her watchfully, so simply dressed in homespun material which had faded from its original color to a sort of turquoise green. The stuff was heavy and clung closely to her figure, and she rode easily perched on her small, old-fashioned side saddle, swaying with life movement to the motion of her horse. She wore no wrap, only a soft silk kerchief knotted about her neck, the fluttering ends of which caressed her chin. Her cheeks became rosy with the exercise, and her gray eyes under the green pines and among the dense laurel thickets took on a warm, luminous green tint like the hue of her dress. David at last found it difficult to keep his eyes from her, this veritable flower of the wilderness, and all this time no word had been spoken between them. How impersonal and far away from him she seemed. While he was filled with interest in her, and eager to learn the secret springs of her life, she was riding on and on, swaying to her horse, as a flower on its slender stem sways in a breeze, as undisturbed by him, as if she were not a human breathing girl subject to man's dominating power. Was she then so utterly untouched by his masculine presence, he wondered? If he did not speak first, would she keep silent forever? Should he wait and see? Should he will her to speak and of herself unfold to him? Suddenly she turned and looked clearly and pleasantly in his eyes. We'll be on a straight road for a piece after this hill. Shall we hurry a little then? Certainly, if you think best. You set the pace, and I'll follow. Again silence fell. Do you feel in a hurry? he asked at length. I would like to get there soon. We can't tell what might be. She pressed her hand an instant to her throat, and drew in her breath as if something hurt her. What is it? he asked, drawing his horse nearer. Nothing. Only I wish we were there now. You are suffering in anticipation, and it isn't necessary. Better not, indeed. Think of something else. Yes, sir. The two little words sounded humbly submissive. He had never been so baffled in an endeavor to bring another soul into a mood responsive to his own. This gentle acquiescence was not what he wished, but that she should reveal herself and betray to him even a hint, a gleam, of the deep undercurrent of her life. Suddenly they emerged on the crest of a narrow ridge from which they could see off over range after range of mountain peaks on one side, growing dimmer, bluer, and more evanescent until lost in a heavenly distance, and on the other side a valley dropping down and down into a deep and purple gloom, richly wooded and dense, surrounded by precipices topped with scrubby, windblown pines and oaks, a wild and rocky descent into mystery and seclusion. Here and there a slender thread of smoke intensely blue rose circling and filtering through the purple density against a black-green background of hemlocks. Contrasted with the view on the other side so celestially fair, this seemed to present something sinister, yet weirdly beautiful, a baffling, untamed wilderness. Along this ridge the road ran straight before them for a distance, stony and bleak, and the air swept over it sweet and strong from the sea far away. Wait! Wait a moment, he called, as his panting horse rounded the last curve of the climb, and she had already put her own to a gallop. She reigned in sharply and came back to him a glowing vision. Stand a moment near me. We'll let our horses rest a bit and ourselves, too. There is strength and vitality in this air. Breathe it in deeply. What joy to be alive! She came near, and their horses held quiet communion, putting their noses together contentedly. Cassandra lifted her head high and turned her face toward the billowed mountains, and did what Tring had not known her to do, what he had wondered if she ever did. She laughed, laughed aloud and joyously. Why do you laugh? he asked, and laughed with her. I'm that glad all at once. I don't know why. If the mountains could feel and be glad, seems like they'd be laughing now, away off there by the sea. I wonder, will I ever see the ocean? Of course you will. You're not going to live always shut up in these mountains. Laugh again. Let me hear you. But she turned on him startled eyes. I clean forgot that poor man down below, so like to die I am most afraid to get back there. Look down. It must have been in a place like that, where Christians slew a poillon in the dark valley, like I was reading to Hoyle last night. Does he live down in there? I mean the man Irwin, not a poillon. He's dead, for Christians slew him. Yes, the Irwins live there. See yonder that spot of cleared red ground? There's their place. The house is hid by the dark trees nigh the red spot. Can you make it out? Yes, but I call that far. It's easy riding. Shall we go on? I'm that frightened. We better hurry. Is that your way when you are afraid to do a thing? You hurry to do it all the more? Seems like we have to a heap of times. Seems like if I were only a man, I could be brave. But being a girl so it is right hard. She started her horse to a gallop, and side by side they hurried over the level top of the ridge, to thring an exhilarating moment, to her a speeding toward some terrible unknown trial. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of The Mountain Girl This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell. The Mountain Girl by Payne Erskine, in which Cassandra and David visit the home of Decatur Irwin. Soon the way became steep and difficult, and the path so narrow that they were forced to go single file. Then Cassandra led, and David followed. They passed no dwellings, and even the little house to which they were going was lost to view. He wondered if she were not weary, remembering that she had been over the distance twice before that day, and begged her, as he had done when they set out, to allow him to carry the basket, but still she would not. I never think of it. I often carry things this way. We have to here in the mountains. She glanced back at him and smiled. I reckon you find it hard, because you're not used to living like we do. We're soon there now. See, yonder. A turn in the path brought him inside of the cabin, set in its bare, desolate patch of red soil. About the door swarmed unkempt children of all sizes, as bees hang out of an overfilled hive, the largest not more than twelve years old, and the youngest carried on the mother's arm. It was David's first visit to one of the poorest of the mountain homes, and he surveyed the scene before him with dismay. Below the house was a spring, and there suspended from the long reaching branch of a huge beech tree, now leafless and bare, a great black iron pot swung by a chain over a fire built on the ground, among a heap of stones. On a board at one side lay wet gray garments, twisted in knots as they had been wrung out of the soapy water. The woman had been washing, and the vapor was rising from the black pot of boiling suds. But seeing their approach, she had gone to her door, her babe on her arm, and the other children trooping at her heels and clinging to her skirts. They peered up from under frowsy, overhanging locks of hair, like a group of ragged, bedraggled, scotch terriers. The mother herself seemed scarcely older than the oldest, and Thring regarded her with amazement when he noticed her infantile, undeveloped face, and learned that she had brought into the world all those who clustered about her. His amazement grew as he entered the dark little cabin, and saw that they must all eat and sleep in its one small room, which they seemed to fill to overflowing as they crowded in after him, accompanied by three lean hounds, who sniffed suspiciously at his leggings. Far in the darkest corner lay the father on a pallet of corn husks covered with soiled bed-clothing. The windows were mere holes in the walls, unglazed, unframed, and closed at night, or in bad weather, by wooden shutters, when the room was lighted only by the flames from the now black and empty fireplace. Here, while mother and children were out by the branch washing, the injured man lay alone, stoically patient, declaring that his leg was much better, that he did not feel so much misery it hit as yesterday. Thring had seen much squalor and wretchedness, but never before in a home in the country where women and children were to be found. For a moment he looked helplessly at the silent, staring group, and at the man who feebly tried to indicate to his wife the extending of some courtesy to the stranger. Said a cheer, Polly, he said weakly, offering his great hand. You're right, welcome, sir. Are you visiting these parts? This is the doctor I was telling you about, Kate, Dr. Thring. I begged him to come up and see could he do anything for you, said Cassandra. Then she urged the woman to go back to her work and take the children with her. Doctor and I will look after your old man while. She succeeded in clearing the place of all but one lean hound who continued to stand by his master and lick his hand, whining presciently, and one or two of the children who lingered around the door to peer in curiously at the doctor. A shutter near the bed was tightly closed, and in struggling to open it Cassandra discovered it was broken at the hinges and had been nailed in place. David flew to her assistance and, wrenching out the nails, tore it free, letting in a flood of light upon the wretchedness around them. Then he turned his attention to the patient, a man of powerful frame, but lean almost to emaciation who watched the young physician's face silently with widely opened blue eyes, their pale color intensified by the surrounding shock of matted, curling, vividly red hair and beard. It required but a few moments to ascertain that the man's condition was indeed critical. Cassandra had gone out and now returned with her hands full of dry pine sticks, bending on one knee before the empty fireplace she arranged them, and hung a kettle over them full of fresh water. David turned and watched her light the fire. Good, we shall need hot water immediately. How long since you have eaten, he asked the man. He ain't eatin' nothin' all day, said the wife, who had returned and again stood in the door with her flock gazing at him. Then the woman grew plaintively garrulous about the trouble she had had doin' for him, and begged David to tell her, could he happen? At last, Tring put a hurried end to her talk by saying he could do nothing, nothing at all for her old man, unless she took herself and the children all away. She looked terror-stricken, and her mouth drew together in a stubborn, resentful line, as if in some way he had precipitated ill luck upon them by his coming. Cassandra at once took her basket and walked out toward the string, and they all followed, leaving David and the father in sole possession of the place. Then he turned to the bed and began a kindly explanation. He found the man more intelligent and much more tractable than the woman. But it was hard to make him believe that he must immediately lose either his life or his foot, and that they had not an hour, not a half hour to spare, but must decide at once. David's manner, gentle, but firmly urgent, at last succeeded. The big man broke down and wept weakly, but yielded. Only he stipulated that his wife must not be told. No, no, she and the children must be kept away. But I need help. Is there no one, no man whom we can get to come here quickly? There is nobody, no, I reckon not. David was distressed, but he searched about until he found an old battered pail in which to prepare his antiseptic and visit himself replenishing the fire and boiling the water. All the time his every move was watched by the hound and the pathetic blue eyes of his master. Soon Cassandra returned to David's great relief alone. She smiled as she looked in his face and spoke quietly. I told her to take the children and gather dock and mullan leaves and such like to make tea for her old man, and if she'd stay a while I'd look after him and have supper for them when they got back. Is there anything I can do now? David was troubled indeed, but what could he do? He explained his need of her quickly in low tones outside the door. I believe you are strong and brave and can do it as well as a man, but I hate to ask it of you. There is not time to wait. It must be done today, now. I'll help you, she said simply, and walked into the hut. She had become deadly pale, and he followed her and placed his fingers on her pulse, holding her hand and looking down in her eyes. You trust me, he asked? Oh yes, I must. Yes, you must, dear child. You are all right. Don't be troubled, but just think we are trying to save his life. Look at me now and take in all I say. Then he placed her with her back to his work, taught her how to count the man's pulse and to give the ether. But the patient demurred. He would not take it. Nah, I can stand it. Go ahead, doctor. See here, Kate Irwin, you are bound to do as Dr. Thring says, or die, she said, bending over him. Take this, and I'll sit by you every minute, and never take my hand off yours. Stop tossing! There. He obeyed her, and she sat rigidly still and waited. The moments passed in absolute silence. Her heart pounded in her breast, and she grew cold, but never took her eyes from the still death-like face before her. In her heart she was praying, praying to be strong enough to endure the horror of it, not to faint nor fall, until at last it seemed to her that she had turned to stone in her place. But all the time she could feel the faintly beating pulse beneath her fingers, and kept repeating David's words, We're trying to save his life. We're trying to save his life. David finished. Moving rapidly about, he washed, covered, and carried away, and said all in order so that nothing betrayed his gruesome task. Then he came to her and took both her cold hands in his warm ones and led her to the door. She swayed and walked weakly. He supported her with his arm, and once out into the sweet air she quickly recovered. He praised her warmly, eagerly taking her hands in his, and for the first time as the faint rose crept into her cheeks he felt her to be moved by his words. But she only smiled as she drew her hands away and turned toward the house. They'll be back directly, and I promise to have something for them to eat. Then I'll help you, for our man is coming out all right now, and I feel, if he can have any kind of care, he will live. The sky had become overcast with heavy clouds, and the wind had risen, blowing cold from the north. David replaced the shutter he had torn off, and mended the fire with fuel he found scattered about the yard. While Cassandra swept and set the place in order, and the resuscitated patient looked about a room neater and more home-like than he had ever slept in before. Cassandra searched out a few articles with which to prepare a meal, the usual food of the mountain poor, salt-pork, and corn meal mixed with water and salt, and baked in the ashes. David watched her as she moved about the dark cabin, lighted only by the fitful flames of the fireplace, to perform those gracious, homely tasks. And would have helped her, but he could not. At last the woman in her brood came streaming in, and Cassandra and the doctor were glad to escape into the outer air. He tried to make the mother understand his directions as to the care of her husband, but her passive, Eessa, did not reassure him that his wishes would be carried out, and his hopes for the man's recovery grew less as he realized the conditions of the home. After riding a short distance he turned to Cassandra. Won't you go back and make her understand that he is to be left absolutely alone? Scare her into making the children keep away from his bed and not climb into it. You made him do as I wished, with only a word. And maybe you can do something with her. I can't. She turned back, and David watched her at the door talking with the woman who came out to her and handed her a bundle of something tied in a meal sack. He wondered what it might be, and Cassandra explained. These are the yarbs I sent her and the children after. I didn't know how to rid the cabin of them without I sent for something, and now I don't know what to do with these. We—we're obliged to use them some way, she hesitated. I reckon I didn't do right telling her that, do you guess. I had to make out like you needed them, and had sent back for them. It wouldn't do to mad her, not one of her sort. Her head drooped with shame, and she added pleadingly. Mother has used these plants for making tea for sick folks, but— He rode to her side, and lifted the unwieldy load to his own horse. Be ye wise as a serpent, and harmless as a dove, he said, laughing. How do ye mean? You were wise. You did right, where I would only have done harm and been brutal. Can't ye see that these have already served their purpose? I don't understand. You told her to get them because you wished to make her think she was doing something for her husband, didn't you? And ye couldn't say to her that she would help most by taking herself out of the way, could ye? She could not understand. And so they have served their purpose as a means of getting her quickly and harmlessly away, so we could properly do our work. But I didn't say so, not rightly. I made her think. Never mind what you said, or made her think. You did right, God knows. We are all made to work out good, often when we think erroneously, just as you made her uncomprehendingly do what she ought. If ever she grows wise enough to understand, well and good. If not, no harm is done. Cassandra listened, but doubtingly. At last she stopped her horse. If ye can't use them, I feel like I ought to go back and explain, she said. Her face gleamed whitely out of the gathering dusk, and ye saw her shiver in the cold and bitter wind. He was more warmly dressed than she, and still he felt it cut through him, icily. No, you shall not go back one step. It would be a useless waste of your time and strength. Later, if you still feel that you must, you can explain. Come. She yielded, touched her horse lightly with her whip, and they hurried on. The night was rapidly closing in, the thick dark shadows creeping up from the gorges below as they climbed the rugged steep they had descended three hours earlier. They picked their way in silence, she ahead, and he following closely. He wondered what might be her thoughts, and if she had inherited, along with much else that he could receive, the puritan conscience which had possibly driven some ancestor here to live undisturbed of his precious scruples. And they emerged at last on the level ridge, where she had so joyously laughed out, thring hurried forward, and again wrote at her side. She sat wearily now, holding the reins with chilled hands. Had she forgotten the happy moment? He had not. The wind blew more shrewdly past them, and a few drops of rain, large and icy cold, struck their faces. Put these on your hands, please, he begged, pulling off his thick gloves, but she would not. He reached for the bridle of her horse, and drew him nearer, then caught her cold hands, and began chafing them, first one, and then the other. Then he slipped the warm gloves over them. Wear them a little while to please me, he urged. You have no coat, and mine is thick and warm. Suddenly he became aware that she was, and had been, silently weeping, and he was filled with anxiety for her. So brave she had been. So tired she must be. Worn out, poor little heart. Are you so tired, he asked? Oh, no, no. Won't you tell me what troubles you? Let me put this over your shoulder to keep off the rain. Oh, no, no, she cried, as he began to remove his coat. You needed a heat more than I. You've been sick, and I'm well. Please wear it. I will walk a little to keep warm. Oh, I can't. I'm not cold, Dr. Thring. It isn't that. He became imperative through anxiety. Then tell me what it is, he said. I can't stop thinking of Decatur Irwin. I can feel you working there yet, and seems like I will never forget. I keep going over it, and over it, and can't stop. Doctor, are you sure? Sure it was right for us to do what we did. Poor child, it was terrible for you. And you were fine, you know. Fine. You are a heroine. You are. I don't care for me. It isn't me. Was it right, Doctor? Was there no other way? She wailed. As far as human knowledge goes, there was no other way. Listen, Miss Cassandra. I have been where such accidents were frequent. Many a man's leg have I taken off. Surgery is my work in life. Don't be horrified. I chose it because I wanted to be a savior of life, and a helper of my fellows. She was shivering more from the nervous reaction than from the cold. And to David it seemed as if she were trying to draw farther away from him. Don't shrink from me. There are so many in the world to kill and wound. Some there must be to mend where it is possible. I saw in a moment that your intuition had led you rightly, and soon I knew what must be done. I only hope we were not too late. Don't cry, Miss Cassandra. It makes me feel such a brute to have put you through it. No. No. You were right, kind and good. I'm only crying now because I can't stop. There. There, child. We'll ride a little faster. I must get you home and do something for you. He spoke out of the tenderness of his heart toward her. But soon there were again a lot of things to do. He began descending, and the horses, careful for their own safety if not for their riders, continued slowly and stumblingly to pick their footing in the darkness. Now the rain began to beat more fiercely, and before they reached the fall place they were wet to the skin. David feared neither the wetting nor the cold for himself, only for her in her utter weariness was he anxious. She would help him stable the horses and let away one while he led the other. But once in the house he took matters in his own hands preemptorily. He rebuilt the fire and himself removed her wet garments and her shoes. She was too exhausted to resist. Following the old mother's directions he found woolen blankets, and wrapping her about he took her up like a baby and laid her on her bed. Then he brewed her a hot milk punch and made her take it. You need this more than I, Doctor. If you'll just take some yourself. As soon as I can I'll make your bed in the loom shed again and drink it. Drink it and go to sleep. Yes, yes, I'll have some too. Cass, you lie still and do as Doctor says. You nigh-about-day child. If only I could get off in this bed and walk a little. I'd have had your place all ready for you, Doctor. There's a feather bed up Garrett. If you could tote it down and drape it on the floor here for— David laughed cheerily. Why, this is nothing for me. He stood turning himself about to dry his clothing on all sides before the blaze. As soon as Miss Cassandra closes her eyes and sleeps I will look after myself. It's a shame to bring all these wet things in here, I say. You are a steaman like you are a steam engine, typed little Hoyle, peering at him over his mother's shoulder from the far corner of her bed. You lie down and go to sleep again, youngster, said David. And gradually they all fell asleep, while Fring sat long before the fire and pondered until Cassandra slept. Once and again a deep quivering sigh trembled through her parted lips as he watched beside her. A warm rose-hue played over her still features cast by the dancing red flames, and her hair in a disheveled mass swept across the pillow and down to the floor. At last the rain ceased. Warmed and dried, Fring stole away from the silent house and rode back to his own cabin. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of The Mountain Girl This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell. The Mountain Girl by Payne Erskine, in which Spring comes to the mountains, and Cassandra tells David about her father. Air long, such a spring as David had never dreamed of, swept up the mountain, with a charm so surpassing and transcending any imagined beauty, that he was filled with a sort of ecstasy. He was constantly out upon the hills, reveling in the lavish bounty of earth and sky, of rushing waters, and all the subtle changes in growing things, as if at last he had been clasped to the heart of nature. He visited the cabins wherever he was called, and when there was need for Cassandra's ministrations, he often took her with him. Thus they fell naturally into good camaraderie. Thus also quite as naturally, Cassandra's speech became more correct and fluent, even while it lost none of its lingering delicacy of intonation. David provided her with books as he had promised himself. Sometimes he brought them down to her, and they read together. Sometimes he left them with her, and she read them by herself eagerly and happily. But so busy was she, that she found very little time to be with him. Not only did all the work of the household fall on her, but the weaving, which her mother had done here before, and the care of animals, which had been done by frail. The life she had hoped to lead, and the good she had longed to do when she left home for school, encouraged by the bishop and his wife, she now resolutely put away from her, determined to lead in the best way the life that she knew must henceforth be hers. She hoped at least she might be able to bring the home-place back to what it used to be in her grandfather Caswell's time, and to this end she labored patiently, albeit sadly. David was ever aware of a barrier past which he might never step, no matter how merry or how intimate they might seem to be, and always about her a silent air of waiting, which deterred him in his efforts to draw her into more confidential relations. Yet as the days passed he became more interested in her, influenced by her nearness to him, and still more by her remoteness. A lord and baffled, often in the early morning or late evening, he would sit in the doorway of his cabin, or out on his rock with his flute, when his thoughts were full of her. Simple, maidenly, and strong, his heart yearned toward her, while instinctively she held herself aloof in quiet dignity. Never had she presented herself at his door unless impelled by necessity. Never had she sat with him in his cabin since that first time when she came for him so heavy-hearted for frail. Only when she knew him to be absent had she gone to his cabin and set all its disorder to rights. Then he would return to find it swept and cleaned, and sweet with wild flowers and pine greenery and vines. His cooking utensils washed and scoured, the floor whitened with scrubbing, in his larder newly baked cornbread and white beaten biscuits, his honey jar refilled, and fresh butter-pats in the spring. Sometimes a brown earthen jug of cool refreshing butter-milk stood on his table, but always his thanks would be swept aside with the words, Mother sent me up to see could I do anything for you. You are always that kind and we can't do much. And you never come up when I am at home. It isn't every time I can get to go up. I am that busy here most days. Only the days when I am absent can you get to go up, he would say teasingly. Don't I ever deserve a visit? Cass don't get time for visiting these days. Since frail left, she have all his work and hern to honour, and mine too. Only the little help she gets out and hoil, and it ain't much, said the mother. Doctor, don't you guess I can get up and try walking a little? If you will promise me you will only try it when I am here to help you, I will take off the weight and we'll see what you can do today. Cassandra loved to watch David attend on her mother so tender was he, and he adopted a playful manner that always dispelled her pessimism and left her smiling and talkative. Air he was aware, also he made a place for himself in Cassandra's heart when he became interested in the case of her little brother, and attempted gradually to overcome his deformity. Every morning when the child climbed to his airy and brought his supply of milk, David took him in and gently, out of his knowledge and skill, gave him systematic care, and taught him how to help himself. But he soon saw that a more strenuous course would be the only way to bring permanent relief, or surely the trouble would increase. What did Dr. Hoyle say about it? he asked one day. He weren't that away when Doctor were here last. It were nine or five years ago that come on him. He had fever, and a right smart of times when we thought he was getting better, he just went back, until he began to kind of draw sideways this away, and he ain't never been straight since. And he's been that sickly, too. When Doctor saw him last, he weren't nine three year old, and straight as they can make him, and fat, you couldn't see a bone in him. David pondered a moment. Suppose you give him to me a while, he said. Let him live with me in my cabin. Eat there, sleep there, everything, and we'll see what can be done for him. I'm willing, more than willing, when only I can get to help cast some. Hoyle, he's a heap of help, with me not able to do a lick. He can milk nigh well as she can, and tote in water, and feed the chickens and the pig, and and ride into the mill for meal. Yes, he's a heap of help. Pass, she got to get on with the weaving. We promised bed civers and such for Miss Mayhew. She sells them for ladies that come to the hotel in summer. We never would have a cent of money in hand these days without that. Only what chickens and eggs she can raise for the hotel, too. It's only in summer. I don't rightly see how we can spare Hoyle. Where's Miss Cassandra now, he asked, only more determined on his course, the more he was hampered by circumstances. She's in the loom shed weaving. I throw down the warp for a blue and white bed civer for our hurt, and she ain't had time to more than half finish it. Our helping to get the weaving done, while she were at school this winter, and come spring she were allowing to come back and help frail with the planting and making crap for next year. Here in the mountains we ain't have to be forehanded, and here I be in Can't Crawl scarcely yet. After the thrifty soul had taken a few steps, instead of realizing her good fortune in being able to take any, she was bitterly disappointed to find that weeks must still pass ere she could walk by herself. She was seated on her little porch where David had helped her, looking out on the growing things and the blossoming spring all about, a sight to make the heart glad. But she saw only that the time was passing, and it would soon be too late to make a crop that year. She was such a neat, self-respecting old woman as she sat there. Her work-worn old hands were not idle, where she turned and mended Hoyle's funny little trousers, homemade, with suspenders attached. I don't know what all we can do if we can't make a crop. We won't have no corn or nothing, and nothing to feed stock, let alone weans. We'll be in a fix just like all the poor white trash, me not able to do a lick. David came and sat beside her a few moments, and set a great many comforting things. And when he rose to go, the world had taken on a new aspect to her eyes. Bright, dark eyes, looking up at him with a gleam of hope. I believe you, she said. We'll do anything you say, doctor. Thring walked out past the loom shed and paused to look in on the young girl as she sat swaying rhythmically, throwing the shuttles with a sweep of her arm, and drawing the great beam toward her, the steady beach, driving the threads in place, and shifting the veil of warp stretched before her, with a sure touch of her feet upon the treadles, all her life-body intent and attune. It seemed to him, as he sat himself on the step to watch, that music must come from the flow of her action. The noise of the loom prevented her hearing his approach, and silently he watched and waited. Fascinated in seeing the fabric grow under her hand. As silently she worked on, and slowly, even as the pattern took shape and came plain before her, his thoughts grew and took definite shape also until he became filled with a set purpose. He would not disturb her now, nor make her look around. It was just enough to watch her in her sweet serious unconsciousness, with the flash of exercise on her cheeks as he could see when she slightly turned her head with every throw of the shuttle. When at last she rose, he saw a look of care and weariness on her face that disturbed him. He sprang up and came to her. She little dreamed how long he had been there. Please don't go. Stay here and talk to me a moment. Your mother's all right. I've just been with her. May I examine what you've been doing? It's very interesting to me, you know. He made her show him all the manner of her work, and drew her on to tell him of the different patterns her mother had learned from her grandmother and had taught her. They don't do much on the handlooms now in the mountains, but Miss Mayhew at the hotel last summer, I told you about her, sold some of mother's work up north, and I promised more. But I'm afraid I don't guess I can get it all done now. You're tired. Sit here on the step awhile with me and rest. I want to talk to you a little, and I want you alone. She looked hesitatingly toward the declining son. He took her hand and led her to the door. Can't you give me a few, a very few moments? You hold me off and won't let me say what I often have in mind to ask you. She sat beside him where he placed her and looked wonderingly into his face, but not in the least as if she feared what his question might be, or as if she suspected anything personal. You know it's not right that this sort of thing should go on indefinitely. I don't know what sort of thing you mean. She lifted grave wide eyes to his, those clear gray eyes, and his heart admonished him that he had begun to love to look into their blue and green depths. But heed the admonishment he would not. I mean working day in and day out as you do. You have grown much thinner since I saw you first, and look at your hands. He took one of them in his and gently stroked it. See how thin they are. And here are callous places. And you are stooping over with weariness, and except when you have been exercising your face is far too white. She looked off toward the mountain top, and slowly drew her hand from his. I must do it. There's no one else, she said at a low voice. But it can't go on always this way. I reckon so. Once I thought it might be some different, but now she waited an instant in silence. But now what? It seems as if it must go on, like this way, always, as if I were chained here with iron. But why? Won't you tell me so I can help you? I can't, she said sadly, and with finality. It must be. He brooded a moment, clasping his hands about one knee and gazing at her. Maybe, he said at last, maybe I can help you, even if you can't tell me what is holding you. She smiled, a faintly fleeting smile. Thank you, but I reckon not. Miss Cassandra, when you know I am at your service and will do anything you ask me, why do you hold something back from me? I can understand, and I may have ways. It's just that, sir. Even if I could tell you, I don't guess you could understand. Even if I went yonder on the mountain and cried to heaven to set me free, I'd have to bide here and do the work that is mine to do, as mother has done hers and her mother before her. But they did it contentedly and happily, because they wished it. Your mother married your father because she loved him, and was glad, yes, I reckon she did. But he was different. She could do it for him. He lived alone. Alone. Mother knew he did. She could understand. It was like he had a room to himself, high up on the mountain, where she could never climb, nor open the door. David leaned toward her. What do you see when you look off at the mountains like that? It's like I could see him. He would take his little books up there and walk the high path. I never have showed you his path. It was his, and he would walk in it, up and down, up and down, and read words I couldn't understand, reading like he was singing. Sometimes I would climb up to him, and he'd take me in his arms and carry me like I was a baby, and read. Sometimes he would sit on a bank of moss under those trees, see there near the top by that open spot of sky, a right dark place. There no other trees like them. They are his trees. He would sit with me there, and tell me the stories of the strange words. But we never told Mother, for she said they were heathen, and I mustn't give heed to him. When deeply absorbed she often lapsed into her old speech. David liked it. He almost wished she would never change it for his. After Father died I hunted and hunted for those little books. But I never could find them. You remember him so well. Won't you tell me how he looked? She slowly brought her eyes down from the mountaintop and fixed them on his face. Sometimes, just for a minute, you make me think of him. But you don't look like him. I never heard anyone laugh like he could laugh, with his eyes too. He was tall like you, and he carried his shoulders high like you do when you hurry. But he was a dark man. When he stood there in the door of the loom shed, his head touched the top. I thought of it when you stood here a bit ago and had to stoop. He always did that. She lifted her gaze again to the mountain and was silent. Tell me a little more. Just a little. Don't you remember anything he said? He used to preach, but I was too little to remember what he said. They used to have preaching in the schoolhouse, and in winter he used to teach there when he could get the children to come. They had no books, but he marked with charcoal where they could all see and show them writing in figures. But somehow they got the idea he didn't know religion right, and they wouldn't go to hear him any more. Mother says it, and I broke his heart, for he fell to Alen and grew that thin and white he couldn't climb to his path any more. She stopped and put her hand to her throat as her way was. She too had grown white with the ache of sorrowful remembrance. He thought it cruel to urge her, but felt impelled to ask for more. And then? Yes. One day we were all alone sitting right here in the loom shed door. He put one hand on my head, and then he put the other hand under my chin, and turned my face to look in his eyes, so great and far, like they could see through your heart. Seems like I can feel the touch of his hand here yet and hear him say, little daughter, never be like the rest. Be separate, and God will sin for you some day here on the mountain. He will sin for you on the mountaintop. He will compass you about, and lift you up, and you shall be blessed. Then he kissed me and went into the house. I could hear him still saying it as he walked. On the mountaintop one will come for you. On the mountaintop. He went in and lay down and I sat here and waited. It seemed like my heart stood still waiting for him to come back to me. And it must have been more than an hour I sat. And mother came home and went in and found him gone. He never spoke again. He lay there dead. She paused and drew in a long sighing breath. I have never said those words aloud till now, to you. But hundreds of times when I look up on the mountain I have said them in my heart. I reckon he meant I was to bide here till my time was come and do all like I ought to do it. I did think I could go to school and learn and come back and teach like he used to, and so keep myself separate like he did. But the Lord called me back and laid a hard thing on me and I must do it. But in my heart I can keep separate like father did. She rose and stood calmly, her eyes fixed on the mountain. David stood near and longed to touch her passive hand, to lift it to his lips, but for beau to startle her soul by so unusual an act. For all she had given him, the confidence she had never bestowed on another, he felt himself held aloof, her spirit withdrawn from him and lifted to the mountaintop. CHAPTER XII IN WHICH CASANDRA HEARS THE VOICES AND David leases a farm. That evening David sat long on his rock holding his flute and watching the thin golden crescent of the new moon floating through a pale amber sky, and one star near its tip slowly sliding down with it toward the deepening horizon. The glowing sky bending to the purple hilltops, the crescent moon and the lone shining star, the evening breeze singing in the pines above him, the delicate Arbutus blossoms hiding near his feet, the call of a bird to its mate and the faint answering call from some distant shade, the call in his own heart that as yet returned to him unanswered, but with its quiet surety of ultimate response. The joy of these moments perfect in beauty and a more abundant assurance of gladness near at hand filled him and lifted his soul to follow the star. Guided by the unseen hand that held the earth, the crescent moon and the star to their orbits, would he find the great happiness that should be not his alone, but also for the eyes uplifted to the mountaintop and the heart waiting in the shadows for the one to be sent. Ah, surely, surely for this had he come. He stooped to the Arbutus blossoms to inhale their fragrance. He rose and lifting his flute to his lips, played to solace his own waiting, inventing new caprices and tossing forth the notes daringly, delicately, rapturously, now penetrating and strong, now faintly following, scarcely heard, uttering a wordless gladness. Under the great holly-tree in the shadows, Cassandra sat, watching as he watched the crescent moon and the lone star sailing in the pale amber light with the deepening purple mountains hiding the dim distance below them. Often in the early evening when her mother and Hoyle were sleeping, she would climb up here to pray for frail that he might truly repent, and for herself that she might be strong in her purpose to give up all her cherished hopes and plans, if thereby she might save him from his own wild reckless self. It was here his boy's passion had been revealed to her, and here she had seen him changed from boy to man, filled with a man's hunger for her which had led him to crime, and held him unrepentant and glad, could he thus hold her his own. She must give up the life she had hoped to lead, and take upon her the life of the wife of Cain to help him expiate his deed, for this must she bow her head to the yoke her mother had borne before her. In the sadness of her heart she said again and again, Christ will understand. He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. He will understand. Again came to her, as they had often come of late, dropping down through the still air, down through the leafless bowels like joyful hopes yet to be realized. The flute notes. What were they those sweet sounds? She held her breath and and lifted her face toward the sky. Once long ago in France the peasant girl had heard the voices. Were they heavenly sweet like these sounds? Did they drop from the sky and fill the air like these? Oh, why should they seem like hopes to her who had put away from her all hope? Were they bringing hope to her who must rise to toil and lie down in weariness for labor never done? Who must hold always with sorrowing heart and clinging hands to the soul of a murderer? Hold and cling if happily she might save, and weep for that which for her might never be. Were they bringing hope that she might yet live gladly as the birds live? That she might go beyond that and live like those who have no sin imposed on them, to walk with the gods, she knew not how, but to rise to things beyond her kin. Down came the notes, sweet shrill white notes, hurrying, drifting, lingering, calling her to follow. Down on her heart with healing and comfort they fell, lightly as dew on flowers, sparkling with life, joy giving and pure. Slowly she began climbing, listening, waiting, one step upward after another following the sound, as if in a trance she moved. Below her, the noise of falling water made a murmuring accompaniment to the music dropping from above. An earth made accompaniment to heaven sent melody, meeting and forming a perfect harmony in her heart as she climbed. Gradually the horror and the sorrow fell away from her, even as the soul shall one day shed its garment of earth, until at last she stood alone and silent near David, etherealized in the faint light to a spirit-like semblance of a woman. With a glad pounding of his heart he sprang towards her, scarcely conscious of the act, he held out both his arms, but she did not move. She stood silently regarding him, her hands dropped at her side. Then with drooping head she turned and began wearily to descend the way she had come. He followed her and took her hand. She let it lie passively in his and walked on. He wished he might feel her fingers close warmly about his own, but no, they were cold. She seemed wholly withdrawn from him, and her face bore the look of one who was walking in her sleep, yet he knew her to be awake. Miss Cassandra speak to me, he begged in quiet tomes. Don't walk away until you tell me why you came. She seemed then to become aware that he was holding her by the hand and withdrew it, and in the faint light he thought she smiled. It was just foolishness. You will laugh at me. I heard the music and I thought it might be. You made it, I reckon, but down there it sounded like it might be the voices. You remember how they came to Joan of Arc, like we were reading last week. She began to walk on more hurriedly. I will go down with you, he said. You thought it might be the voices? What did they say to you? Oh, don't go with me. I never heed the dark. Won't you let me go with you? What did the flute say to you? Can't you tell me? She laughed a little then. It was only foolishness. I reckon the voices never come these days. I've heard it before, but didn't know where it came from. It just seemed to drop down from heaven like, and this time it seemed like some different, as if it might be the voices calling. It was pretty, sir, far away and soft, like part of everything. My father's playing sounded sad most times, like sweet crying. But this was more like sweet laughing. I never heard anything so glad like this was, so I tried to find it. Now I know it was you who make it. I won't disturb you against her. Good evening. She hastened away and was soon lost in the gloom. David stood until he heard her footsteps no more, then turned and entered his cabin, his mind and heart full of her. Surely he had called her, and the sound of his call was to her like sweet laughing. Her face and her quaint expressions went with him into his dreams. When he hurried down to the widow's place next morning, his mind filled with plans which he meant to carry out, and was sure with the boyish certainty of his nature he could compass, he heard the voice of little Hoyle, shrilly calling out to old Pete. Whoa, mule! Ha, there! Ha, there, mule! What you going that side for? Come round here! Below the widow's house the stream, after its riotous descent from the fall, meandered quietly through the rich bit of meadow and field. Her inheritance for over a hundred years, establishing her claim to distinction among her neighbors. Here Martha Caswell had lived with her mother and her two brothers until she married and went with her young husband over to the side Piska. Then her mother sent for them to return, begging her son-in-law to come and care for the place. Her two sons, reckless and wild, were allowing the land to run to waste, and the buildings to fall in pieces through neglect. The daughter Martha, true to her name, was thrifty and careful, and under her influence her gentle dreamer of a husband who cared more for his fiddle, his books, and his sermons, gradually redeemed the soil from weeds, and the buildings from dilapidation, until at last, with the proceeds of her weaving and his own hard labor, they saved enough to buy out the brothers' interests. By that time, the younger son had fallen a victim to his wild life, and the other moved down into the low country among his wife's people. Thus were the Merlins left alone on their primitive estate. Here they lived contentedly with Cassandra, their only child, and her father's constant companion, until the tragedy, which she had so simply related to David. Her father's learning had been peculiar. Only a little classic lore, treasured where schools were none and books were few, handed down from grandfather to grandson. His Greek he had learned from the two small books the widow had so carefully preserved, their marginal notes his only lexicon. They and his Bible, and a copy of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, were all that were left of his treasures. A teething puppy had torn his dialogues of Plato to shreds. And when his successor had come into the home, he had used the Marcus Aurelius for gun-wadding, ere his wife's precaution of placing the padlock from the door on her mother's old linen chest. Today, as David passed the house, the old mother sat on her little porch churning butter in a small dasher churn. She was glad, as he could see, because she could do something once more. Now, are you happy? He called laughingly as he paused beside her. Well, I be. It's been a right smarter while, since I've been able to do a lick of work. We sure do have a heap to thank you for. Bita Cater Irwin is glad to lose his foot, as I be to get my leg back, she queried whimsically. I reckon not. But with him it was a case of losing his life or his foot, while with you it was only a question of walking about or being bedridden for the next twenty years. They be ignorant, them Irwins, and she more than that, for she's a fool. She come round yesterday wanting to bury a hole to fix up her garden patch. And she loud, if you and Cass had only left and be, he'd have come through all right. For it were getting better the day you and took it off. I told her, yes, he'd have come clear through to the next world, like far well done. When the misery left him, he up and died, and Lord knows where it went. I'll get him an artificial foot as soon as he's able to wear one. He'll get on very well with a peg under his knee until then. What's Hoyle doing with the mule? He's riding him for Cass. She's trying to get the ground ready for the crop. It's all we can do. Our women never were used to do such work neither, but she would try. What's that? Is she plowing? he asked sharply, and strode away. I reckon she don't want you there, doctor. The widow called after him, but he walked on. The land lay in a warm hollow completely surrounded by hills. It had been many years cleared, and the soil was free from stumps and roots. When Thring arrived, three furrows had been run rather crookedly the length of the patch, and Cassandra stood surveying them roofily, flushed and troubled, holding to the handles of the small plow, and struggling to set it straight for the next furrow. The noise of the fall behind them covered his approach, and ere she was aware he was at her side. Placing his two hands over hers, which clung stubbornly to the handles of the plow, he possessed himself of them. Laughingly he turned her about after the short tussle, and looked down into her warm, flushed face. Still holding her hands, he pulled her away from the plow to the grassy edge of the field, leaving foil waiting astride the mule. Wow, mule! Stand still there! he shrilled. As the beast sought to cross the bit of plowed ground to reach the grass beyond. Let him eat a minute, Hoyle, said David. Let him eat until I come. Now, Miss Cassandra, what does this mean? Do you think you can plow all that land? Is that it? I must. You must not. There's no one else now. I must. He could feel her hands quiver in his, as he forcibly held them, and knew from her panting breath how her heart was beating. She held her head high, nevertheless, and looked bravely back into his eyes. You must let me, he paused. Intuitively he knew he must not say as yet what he would. Let me direct you a little. You have been most kind to me. And it is my place. I am a doctor, you know. If I were sick or hurt, I would give heed to you. I would do anything you say. But I'm not. And this is laid on me to do. Leave go my hands, Dr. Thring. If you'll sit down here a moment and talk this thing out with me, I will. Now tell me first of all, why is this laid on you? Frail is gone, and it must be done, or we will have no crop. And then we must sell the animals, and then go down and live like poor white trash. Her low passive monotone sounded like a moan of sorrow. You must hire someone to do this heavy work. Everyone is working on his own patch now, and, no, I have no money to hire with. I reckon I've thought it all over every way, doctor. She looks sadly down at her hands, and then up at the mountain top. I know you think this is no work for a girl to do, and you're right. Our women never have done such. Only in the war times my grandmother Caswell did it, and I can now. A girl can do what she must. I have no way to turn, but to live as my people have lived before me. I thought once I might do different, go to school and keep separate, but she spread out her hands with a hopeless gesture, and rose to resume her work. Give me a moment. I'm not through yet. That's right. Now listen. I see the truth of what you say, and I came down this morning to make a proposition to your mother, not for your sake only, don't be afraid, for my own as well. But I didn't make it, because I hadn't time. She told me what you were doing, and I hurried off to stop you. Don't speak yet, let me finish. I feel I have the right. I know I was sent here just now for a purpose, guided, to come here. He paused to allow his words to have their full weight, whether she would perceive his meaning remain to be seen. I understand, she spoke quietly. Dr. Hoyle sent you to be helped like he was, and you've been right kind more than us. You've helped that many, it seems like you were sent here for. We all, as well, for your own sake. But that can't help me now, doctor. It—ah, yes, it can. I'm far from well yet. I shall be, but I must stay on for a long time, and I want some interest here. I want to see things of my own growing. The ground up around my little cabin is stony and very poor, and I want to rent this little farm of yours. Listen, I'll pay enough so you need not sell your cattle, and you—you can go on with your weaving. You can work in the house again, as you have always done. Sometime, when your mother is stronger, you can take up your life again and go to school, as you meant to live. Can't you? That can never be now. If you take the farm or not, I must buy it on here in the old way. I must take up the life my mother lived and my grandmother and hers before her. It is mine forever to live it that way, or die. Why do you talk so? God knows, but I can't tell you. Thank you, sir. I will be right glad to rent you the farm. I'd a heap rather you had it than anyone else I ever knew, for we care more for it than you would guess. But for the rest? No. I must buy it and work till I die. Only maybe I can save little Hoyle and give him a chance to learn something, for he never could work being like he is. Thring's eyes danced with joy as he regarded her. Hoyle is not going to be always as he is, and he shall have a chance to learn something also. Look up, Miss Cassandra. Look squarely into my eyes and laugh. Be happy, Miss Cassandra, and laugh. I say it. She laughed softly, then. She could not help it. Wasn't that what the voices were saying last night when you followed? Yes. Yes. They seemed like they were calling. Hope. Hope. But they were not the real voices. You made it. Yes, I made it, and I was truly calling that to you, and you replied, You came to me. Ah, but this is different from the voices she heard. But if they call the truth to you, what then? Doctor, there is no longer any hope for me. God called me, and let me cut off all hope once. I did it, and now only death can change it. If I believe you, you must believe me. We won't talk about it anymore. I'm hungry. Your mother was churning up there. Let's go and get some buttermilk and settle the business of the rent. You've run three good furrows, and I'll run three more beside them. My first, remember, in all my life. Then we'll plant that strip to sunflowers. Come, Hoyle, hide the mule and follow us. So David carried his way. They walked merrily back to the house, chattering of his plans and what he could raise. He knew nothing whatever of the sort of crops to be raised, and she was naively gay at his expense, a mood he was overjoyed to awaken in her. He vowed that merely to walk over plowed ground made a man stronger. On the porch he sat and drank his buttermilk, and placing his paper on the step drew up a contract for rent. Then Cassandra went to her weaving, and he and Hoyle returned to the field, where with much labor he succeeded in turning three furrows besides Cassandra's rather crooked and uncertain ones it is true, but quite as good as hers as Hoyle reluctantly admitted, which served to give David a higher respect for farmers in general, and plowmen especially. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of The Mountain Girl This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell. The Mountain Girl by Payne Erskine Chapter 13 in which David discovers Cassandra's trouble. After turning his furrows, David told Hoyle to ride the mule to the stable. Then he sat himself on the fence and meditated. He bethought him that in the paper he had drawn up he had made no provision for the use of the mule. He wiped his forehead and rubbed the perspiration from his hair and coughed a little after his exertion, glad at heart to find himself so well off. He would come and plow a little every day. Then he began to calculate the number of days it would take him to finish the patch, measuring the distance covered by the six furrows with his eye and comparing it with the 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 a plowman. Then the lane out of the ground. Why should he not have a vineyard up on the Farther Hill slope? He never could have any fruit from it, but what of that, even if he went away and never returned? He would know it to be adding its beauty to this wonderful dream. Who could know what the future held for him? What this little spot might mean to him in the days to come? That he would go out fully recovered and strong to play his part in life he never doubted. Might not this idol be a part of it? He thought of the girl, sitting at her loom, swaying as she threw her shuttle with the rhythm of a poem and weaving, weaving his life and his heart into her web, unknown to herself. Weaving a thread of joy through it all, which as yet she could not see. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and stood a moment gazing about him. Yes, he really must have a vineyard and a bit of pasture somewhere and a field of clover. What grew best there, he little knew, so he decided to go 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 become so absorbed in his pastoral romance as to forget Hoyle. He was looking actually haggard these last few days and his mother said he would not eat. It might be that he needed more than the casual care he was giving him. Possibly he could take him to Dr. Hoyle's hospital for radical treatment later in the season when his crops were well started. He smiled as he thought of his crops, then laughed outright and strolled back to the house, weary and hungry and happy as a boy. Well now, I like the look of ye, called the old mother from the porch where she still sat. Peers like it done you good already to turn plant her. There ain't nothing better than the smell of new soil for them it's consumpted. Mother, cried Cassandra from within, don't call the doctor that. Come up and have dinner with us, doctor. She set a chair for him as she spoke, but he would not. As he stood below them, looking up and exchanging Mary Bantor with her mother, he laughed his contagious laugh. I bet he's tired, shrilled Hoyle from his perch on the porch roof. He'd been settin' on the fence smokin' and rubbin' his head with his handkerchief like he'd had enough with his plowin'. You can not about beat him, Cass. His and don't look no better than what your'n 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 reach of his long arm. He pulled him headlong from his high position and caught him in mid-air. Now how shall I punish you? You'd better wallop him. He ain't never been switched good in his whole life. Maybe that's what ails him, the child grinned. I ain't afeard. Get me down on the ground once and I can run faster than he can. Suppose I duck him in the water trough yonder. I reckon he needs it. He generally do, smiled Cassandra from the doorway. Come, son, go wash up. David allowed the child to slip to the ground. Seems like Hoyle is right enough about you, though. Don't go away 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 way up to my cabin that will not pass your door. How about that? Was dinner included in the rent? And the mule? The mule's dinner? And what is Hoyle going to pay me for allowing him to ride Pete up and down while I plow? Yes. And what are you going to give him for allowing you to set his head round straight and what are you going to give me for allowing you to set me on my legs again? If you go accounting that away, I'm feared you're laying up a right smart adept to Ian's. I reckon you'll use that mule all you want to and you'll lick him good too when he needs it and take care of yourself for he's a mean critter. And you'll keep that path right where it is for it goes with the farm long as you bite up yonder. You good people have the best of me. We'll call it all even. Ever since I leaped off that train in the snow I have been dependent on you for my comfort. 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 plowing? Miss Cassandra here may be able to do it without help, but I confess I'm not equal to it. I'll be telling Cass that Alwein Timms he ought to be able to do the hull of that work. Widow Timms is his son. They live over neither Garrett Place nor at Long Pine Creek. He used to help frail with the still. And then there's Hoke Belew. He ought to do something for all you done for his wife, sitting up the whole night long and getting up at midnight and run to them. Oh, I hear in a heap sitting here. Things come to me that a way. There ain't much going on within twenty mile a year and 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 I need. What more can a man ask? The other day a man brought me a sack of cornmeal, fresh and sweet from the mill. A man with six children and a sick mother to feed. But what could I do? He would leave it, and I? Well, I— When they bring you things, you take them. You'll help a heap more in that way and you will cure in them. There ain't nothing so good for a man as paying his debts. He keeps his hate up, where a man that's good for anything ought to keep it. I hear in a heap of talk here in these mountains abouts being stuck up. But I tell them, if a body feels he ain't good for nothing, he pretty generally ain't. He'd a heap better feel stuck up to my thinking. They've done pretty well all they could. They've brought me everything from corn whiskey to fodder from my horse. A woman brought me a bag of dried blueberries the other day. I don't know what to do with them. I have to take them, for I can't be graceless enough to send them away with their gifts. You bring them here, and Cass'll make you a blueberry cake to eat hot with butter-milting on it, and it'll make you think the world's a good place to live in. I'll do it, he said, laughing, and took his solitary path up the steep. Halfway to his cabin, he heard quick scrambling steps behind him, and turning saw little Hoyle bringing Cassandra's small, melon-shaped basket covered with a white cloth. I said I could run faster you could. Cass, she sent some chicken fry. He thrust the basket at Thring 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? Yes, sir. And the queer little gnome disappeared among the laurel below. In the morning David found the place of the widow Timms, and her son agreed to come down the next day and accept wages for work. A weary, spiritless young man he was, and the home was as poverty-stricken as was that of Decatur Irwin, and with almost as many children. It was with a feeling of depression that David rode on after his call. Leaving the grandmother seated in the doorway, snusted between her yellow teeth, the grandchildren clustering about her knees are squatting in the dirt like young savages. Their father, lounged in the wretched cabin, hardly to be seen in the windowless, smoke-blackened space, nearly filled with beds heaped with ragged bedclothes, and broken, splint-bottomed chairs hung about with torn and soiled garments. The dirt and disorder irritated David, and he felt angered at the clay-faced son for not being out preparing his little patch of ground. Fortunately he had been able to conceal his annoyance enough to secure the man's promise to begin work next day, or he would have gained nothing but the family's resentment for his pains. Already David had learned that a sort of resentful pride was the last shred of respectability to which the poorest and most thriftless of the mountain-people clung. Pride if he knew not what, and resentfulness toward any who by thrift and labour were better off than themselves. He reasoned that as the young man had been frail's helper at the still, no doubt Cornwhiskey was at the bottom of their misery. This brought his mind to the thought of frail himself. The young man had not been mentioned 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 Pine Creek on his way to the home of Hope Beleu, whose wife he was going to see. David was interested in this young family. They seemed to him to be quite of the better sort, and as he put space between himself and the widow Timbs' deplorable state, his irritation gradually passed, and he was able to take note of the changes a week had wrought in the growing things about him. More than once he diverged to investigate blossoming shrubs which were new to him, attracted now by a sweet odor where no flowers appeared until closer inspection revealed them, and now by a blaze of colour against the dark background of laurel leaves and grey rocks. Ah! the flaming azalea had made its appearance at last. Huge clusters of brilliant bloom on leafless shrubs. How dazzlingly gay! In the midst of his observance of things about him and underneath his surface thoughts he carried with him a continual feeling of satisfaction in the remembrance of the little farm below the fall-place, and, in an amused way, planned about it, and built idly his castles in Spain. A bit of stone wall whose lower end was overgrown with vines pleased him especially, and a few enormous trees which had been left standing when the spot had been originally cleared, and the vine entangled, drooping trees along the banks of the small river that coursed crookedly through it. What possibilities it all presented to his imagination! If only he could find the right man to carry out his ideas for him he would lease the place for fifty years for the privilege of doing as he would with it. After a time he came out upon the cleared farm in the hope-belu who was industriously plowing his field for cotton and called out to him. How's the wife? She ain't not to say right smart and the baby don't act like he's well neither, sir. Right on to the house and light. She's there and I'll be up directly. Thring rode on and dismounted, tying his horse to a sapling near the door. The place was an old one. The vine very ancient covered the small porch and the black old moss-grown roof. The small green foliage had come out all over it in the week since he was last there. The glazed windows were open and white home-spun curtains were swaying in the light breeze. A small fire blazed on the hearth and before it in a huge, splint-bottomed rocking chair the pale young mother reclined languidly, wrapped in a patchwork quilt. The hearth was swept and all was neat, but very bare. Close to the black fireplace on a low chair with the month old baby on her knees sat Cassandra. She was warming something at the fire which she reached over to stir now and then while the red light played brightly over her sweet grave face. Very intense she was and lovely to see. She wore a creamy white home-spun gown, coarse in texture, such as she had begun to wear about the house since the warm days had come. Thring 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 her attention between it and the porridge she was making, she sat. A living embodiment of David's vision silhouetted against and haloed by the red fire, softened by the blue obscuring smoke wreaths that slowly circled in great rings and then swept up the wide overarching chimney. He heard her low voice speaking and his heart leaked toward her as he stood an instant unheeded by them ere he rapped lightly. They both turned with a slight start. Cassandra rose holding the sleeping babe in the hollow of her arm at a chair for him before the fire. Then she laid the child carefully in the mother's arms and removed the porridge from the fire. Shall I call hope? she asked, moving toward the door. David did not want her to leave them, loving the sight of her. Don't go. 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 leafed out. Later it would be covered with a wealth of sweet white blossoms swarming with honeybees and the air all about it would be filled with its lavish fragrance and the noise of humming wings. Presently, Hoke came plodding up from the field and smiled as he passed her. Dock inside, he asked. She nodded. When David came out, he found her still seated there, her head resting wearily against the rough tree. She rose and came toward him. I thought I wouldn't leave until I knew if there was anything more I could 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 coat down to see could Aunt Sally come here for a day or two till Miss Baloo can do for herself better. She turned back to the house. 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 Azalee first. Don't wait. She went in and David mounted and rode slowly on, but not far. Where the trail led through a small stream which he knew she must cross, he dismounted and allowed the horse to drink while he stood looking back along the way for her to come to him. Soon he saw her white dress among the glossy rhododendron leaves as she moved swiftly along and he walked back to meet her. I have waited for you. You're not used to this kind of saddle, I know. But what's the difference? You can ride cross-saddle as the young ladies do in the north, can't you? I reckon I could. She laughed a little. Do they ride that way where you 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 sir. Don't wait. Then I will walk with you. I may do that, may I not? He caught the bridal rain on the saddle, leaving the horse to browse along behind as he would and walked at her side. She made no further protest, but was silent. You don't object to this, do you? He insisted. It's pleasanter than being alone, but it's right far to walk seems like for you. Then why not for you? She smiled, her mysterious quiet smile. You must know that I am stronger than you, he persisted. I ought to think so, since the day we rode over to Kate Irwin's. But I was right afraid for you that time, lest you get cold. And then it was me. She paused and looked squarely in his eyes and laughed. You wouldn'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 said something not right, as you would say it. Do you indeed? He walked nearer, boyishly happy, because she was close beside him. He wanted to touch her, to take her hand and walk as children do, but could not because of the subtle barrier he felt between them. He determined to break it down. Finish what you were saying. 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 one of his extravagances and merrily smiled indulgently as if amused at it. She did not even flush, but accepted it as she would an outburst from oil. David was amazed. It only served to show him how completely outside that charmed circle within which she lived he still was. He was maddened by it. He came nearer and bent to look in her face until she lifted her eyes to look fairly in his. That's right. Look at me and understand me. I waited there only that I might 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 quite still and gazed at him in amazement, almost as if in terror. Her face grew white and she pressed her two hands to her heart then slowly slid them up to her round white throat as if it hurt her, a movement 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, sir, 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 the barrier, whatever it might be, should halo her. He had spoken so tenderly he had no need to tell her. The love was in his eyes and his voice, but he went on. Then I must be cruel and hurt you. I love you all the days and the nights, 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 still looked into his eyes piteously, imploringly. With trembling lips she seemed 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 us as the star, the star of gold is from our world in the night. So far I didn't guess you could come so near. She bowed her head and wept. You are the star at yourself. You beautiful you are, but she stopped him crying out. She could not draw her hands away, for he still held them clasped to his heart. No, no, the wall is there. It must be between us for always. I am promised. The grief wailed and wept in her tones, and her eyes were wide and pleading. I must lead my life, and you must stay outside the wall. If you love me, doctor, you must never know it, and I must never know it. Her beating heart stopped her speech, and they both stood thus a moment, each seeing only the other soul. Promised, the word sank into his heart like lead. Promised? Slowly he released her hands, and she covered her face with them and sank at his 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 her life only to torment and trouble her? Aught he to leave the place? Could he bear to live so near her? What had she done, this flower? Was she to be 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 over to himself. If you love me, you must never know it, and I must never know it. Her heart should be sacred from his personal intrusion, and their old relations must be re-established at whatever cost to himself. With flashlight clearness he saw his difficulty, and that only by the elimination of self could he serve her, and also that her manner of receiving his revelation had but intensified his feeling for her. The few short moments sink hours of struggle within himself, ere he raised her to her feet and spoke slowly in his old way. He lifted her hand to his lips. It is past, Miss Cassandra. Drop these last few moments out of your life into a deep well, and it shall be as if they had never been. He thought as he spoke that the well was his own heart, but that he must not say, for henceforth his love and service must be selfless. We may be good friends still, just as we were. Yes, sir, she spoke meekly. And we can go right on helping each other as we have done all these weeks. I do not need to leave you. Oh, no, no! She spoke with a gasp of dismay at the thought. It won't hurt so much. If I can see you going right on, getting strong, like you have been, and being happy, and— she paused in her slowly trailing speech and looked about her. They were down in a little glen, and there were no mountaintops in sight for her to look up to as was her custom. And what, Cassandra? Finish what you were saying. Still, for a while she was silent, and they walked on together. And now, won't you say what you were going to say? He could not talk himself, and he longed to hear her voice. I was thinking of the music you made. It was so glad. I can't talk and say things what I think like you do. But seems like it won't hurt me so here, she put her hand to her throat. Where it always hurts me when I'm sorry at anything, if I can hear you glad in the music. Like you were that night, I thought you were the voices. Cassandra, I shall be glad for you always. She looked into his eyes an instant, with the clear light of understanding in her own. But for you! It is for you I want it to be glad. End of Chapter 13