 18. In which David Thring awakes. Thring lay in hope-beloose cabin, not in the one great living-room where were the fireplace and the large bed and the tiny cradle, but in the smaller addition at the side entered only from the porch which extended along the front of both parts. He still lay on the litter upon which he had been placed to carry him down the mountain, an improvised thing made by stretching quilts across two poles of slender green pines. The litter was placed on low trestles to raise it from the floor and close to the open door to give him air. David had not regained consciousness since his hurt, but lay like one dead with closed eyes and blanched lips, yet they knew him to be living. Cassandra sat beside him alone, all night long she had been there, unsleeping, hollow-eyed, and worn with tearless grief. She had done all she knew how to do. Before going for help she had removed his clothing and bound about his body strips torn from her dress to stop the bleeding of his shoulders where the silver bullet had torn across them. How the ball had missed giving a mortal wound was like a miracle. Hope-beloo had tried to arouse him, but had failed. At intervals during the night Cassandra had managed to drop a little whiskey between his lips with a spoon and she had bathed him with a stimulant over heart and lungs and chafed his hands and had tried to warm his feet by rubbing them and wrapping them up between jugs of hot water. She had bathed his bruised head and cut away the soft curling hair from the spot where his head had struck the rock. What more she could do she knew not, and now she sat at his side while chafing his hands and waiting for Hope-beloo's return. Hope had gone to the station to telegraph for Bishop Towers. Fortunately, as the hotel was so soon to be open and the busy summer life to begin, the operator was already there. Azalea, in the great room, was preparing dinner, stopping now and then to touch her baby's cradle or to stoop a moment over the treasure therein. Aunt Sally sat in the doorway smoking her cob pipe and telling gruesome tales of how she had seen people hurt in that a way and never come out of it. Sally had ridden over to give help and sympathy, but Cassandra had said she would watch alone. She had eaten nothing since the day before, only sipping the coffee Azalea had brought her. It was one of those breathless hours before a rain when not a leaf stirs, even the birds were silent. Cassandra tried once more to give David a few drops of the whisky, and this time it seemed as if he swallowed a little. She thought she saw his eyelids quiver and her heart pounded suffocatingly in her breast. She dropped beside him on her knees and once again tried to give him the only stimulant they had. This time she was sure he took it, and still kneeling there, she bowed her head and pressed her lips upon the hand she had been chafing. Did it move or not? She could not tell, and again she sat gazing in the still white face. Oh, the suspense! Oh, the joy that was agony! If this were truly the awakening and meant life! In her intensity of longing for some further signs she drew slowly nearer and nearer until at last her lips touched his. Then in shame she hid her face in the quilt at his side, and weak with the exhaustion of her long anguish and fasting and watching. She wept the first tears. Tears of hope she was not strong enough to bear. As she thus knelt weeping softly, his fluttering eyelids lifted, and he saw her there, and felt the quivering hand beneath his head. Not understanding how or why this should be, he waited perfectly still trying to gather his thoughts. A great peace was in his heart. A peace and content so sweet he did not wish to move. Lingering beneath this content he held a dim memory of a great anger, a horror of anger, when he saw red and hungered for blood. Vaguely it seemed to him now that all was as he wished it to be with Cassandra near. He liked to feel her hand beneath his head, and her other hand upon his own, and her heavy bronze hair so close, and he closed his eyes once more to shut out all else, for the room was strange to him. This raftered place all whitewashed from ceiling to floor. He had forgotten what had happened, but Cassandra was there, and he was content. Something had touched his lips and brought him back, he was sure of that, and his weakly beating heart stirred to more vigorous action. He turned his head a little, a very little, toward her, and his fingers closed about her hand to hold it there. She lifted her head then, and they looked into each other's eyes, a long, deep look. Later when Azalea entered she found them both sleeping. Cassandra's hand still beneath his head, his face pressed to her soft hair, and his free arm flung about her. Azalea stowed away, and hurried with the news to old Sally, who also crept in and looked on them, and stowed away. Yes, she sure have saved his life, said Sally. Hate the times that never do come out in that thorough kind of sleep. I done seen such before. If he have come to himself, you reckon I better wake him up and give him a little hot milk? She ain't eaten nothing since yesterday. Ah, leave him be. Nobody never ain't starved in his sleep yet, I reckon. He ain't eaten nothing, neither. He sure have been bad-hearted. The two women sat in the large room and talked in low tones, while at intervals Azalea crept to the door and looked in on them. At last the baby wailed out with lusty cry which sounded through the stillness of the house and roused Cassandra, but as she lifted her head David clung to her and drew her cheek to his lips. Are you hurt? he murmured. In some strange way he had confused matters and thought it was she who had been shot. It's not me that's hurt, she said tenderly. Azalea hurried away and returned with the warm milk she had prepared for Cassandra who took it and held it to David's lips. Drink it, doctor. She won't touch anything till you do. Then he obeyed slowly drinking it all, his eyes fixed on Cassandra's as a child looks up to his mother. As she rose he held her with his free hand. What is it? How long? his voice sounded thin and weak. Strange. I can't lift his arm at all. Tell me. Seems like I can't. When you are strong again I will. Feebly he tried to raise himself. Don't. Oh, don't, Dr. Thring. If you bleed again you'll die. She wailed. Sit near me. She drew a low chair and sat near him as she had through the slow and anxious hours and again he drowsed off only to open his eyes from time to time as if to assure himself that she was still there. Again Azalea brought her milk and white beaten biscuit, hot and sweet, and Cassandra ate. When David opened his eyes to look at her she smiled on him and would not let him talk to her. Nevertheless his mind was busy trying to understand why he was lying thus and dimly the events of the last few days came back to him shadowy and confused. When he looked up and saw her smile his heart was satisfied but when he closed his eyes again a strange sense of tragedy settled down upon him. But what or why he knew not. Suddenly he called to her as if from his sleep. Have I killed someone? And there was horror in his voice. No. No, Dr. Thring. You've been nigh about killed yourself. Oh, why didn't I send for a doctor who could do you right? Bishop Towers won't know anything about this. What have you done? I sent for Bishop Towers. Who did me up like this? She was silent and rising quickly stepped out on the porch, her cheeks flaming crimson. Yesterday in her terror and frenzy she could have done anything. But now, with his eyes fixed on her face so intently, she could not reply nor tell how alone she had stripped him to the waist and bound him about with the homespun cotton of her dress to stanch the bleeding before hurrying down the mountain for help. Instinctively she had done the right thing and had done it well. But now she could not talk about it. David tried to call after her but she had gone around into the next room and taken the baby from his cradle where he was wailing his demands for attention. Azalea had gone out for a moment and Aunt Sally, loud there warn't no use spiling him by taking him up every time he fretted for it. It would do him good to holler a stretch. So she sat still and smoked. Cassandra walked up and down the porch comforted by the feeling of the child in her arms. The small head bobbed this way and that until she pressed it against her cheek and held him close, and he gradually settled down on her bosom. His face tucked softly in the curve of her neck and slept. She heard David speaking her name and went to him. But he only looked up at her and smiled. I'm sorry I left you alone, she said tenderly. I'll call Aunt Sally. No, wait. I only want to look at you. She stood swaying her life body to rock the sleeping child. David thought he had never seen anything lovelier. How serious his wounds were he did not know. But one thing he knew well and to that one thing he clung. He wanted Cassandra where he could see her all the time. He wished she would talk to him and not let him lose consciousness relapsing into the horror of a strange dream that continued to haunt him. Do you love that baby? He asked, his voice faint and high. He's a right nice baby. I say, do you love him? Why, I reckon I do. Don't try to move that way, doctor. You may not be done right, and you'll bleed again. But we don't know. We are so ignorant, Azalea and me. He smiled. Nothing matters now, he said. They heard voices and she looked out from the doorway. It's hope. They sent old Dr. Bartlett. I'm so glad. Aunt Sally, I reckon they'll need hot water. Get some ready, will you? Cassandra, Cassandra, called David almost irritably. She came back to him. Where are they? Down the road apiece. I'm glad. You'll be done right now. Stooped me. She obeyed and the free arm caught and held her. Then, as the voices drew near, released her with glowing eyes and burning cheeks. She stepped out on the porch to meet them, half hiding her face behind the babe in her arms, and old Dr. Bartlett, as he looked on her with less prejudiced and more experienced eyes, thought he, too, never had seen anything lovelier. He's awake, said Cassandra quietly to hulk, and the two men went to David. She carried the child back and asked Aunt Sally to wait on them, while she sat down in the low-splint rocker clinging to the little one and listening, with throbbing nerves to the voices in the room beyond. When hulk came out to them a moment later, Azalea began eagerly to question him, but Cassandra was silent. The doctor says we better toad him over to his own place today. Aunt Sally allows she can bide there for a while and see him well again. You ain't going to allow that, be you hulk? It might look like we weren't willing for him to bide along with us. It ain't what looks like, it's what's best for him, said hulk sagely. Whatever doctor says we'll do. Then hulk laughed quietly. He done told Dr. Bartlett that he reckoned somebody must have took him from some sort of wild critter and shot him by mistake. I guess frail's safe enough from him if the fool boy only noted. Frail, he's plum crazy the way he'd been acting, says Azalea. In Bishop Towers he telegraphed that he'd send us here, Doctor, and he'd come up to Mara with Miss Towers to stop over with you, so I reckon your ma'll want you down there, Cassandra. Cassandra rose quickly and placed the sleeping child gently in his cradle box. I'll go, she said. There's no need for me here now. Hulk, you've been right good. She stopped abruptly and turned to his wife. I must wear your dress off, Azalea, but I'll send it back by hulk as soon as it's been washed. She went out the door, almost, as if she were eager to escape. Ain't you going to wait for your horse, said hulk laughing? Wait a minute till I fetch him. I clean for God, she said, and when he had left she turned to her friend. Azalea, don't say anything to hulk about me, us. Did ain't Sally see? You know I didn't know myself until I woke and found myself there. I'd been trying to make him take a little whiskey and I must have gone to sleep like I was. And he woke up and must have felt like he had to kiss somebody. Was that glad to be alive? Never, you fret, child, Azalea smiled a quiet smile. I'm not one to talk. Anyway, I reckon Dr. Thring's about right. He sure have been good to me. The widow sat on her little stoop, waiting and watching as her daughter rode to the door and wearily elated. Cassandre Merlin, for the Lord's sake, what all is up now? Oh, well, where is that boy? Oh, well, come here and take the horse for sister. Be your most dead, honey. I reckon you be. You look like it. Cassandre kissed her mother and passed on into the house. I couldn't send you word last night. Anyway, I reckon you'd rest better if you didn't know, for we all thought Dr. Thring was sure killed. Did hope tell you this morning? I loud you was stopping with Azalea, that baby was sick or something, when oil came up to the cabin and said Dr. Weren't there. Frail sure have done for himself. I reckon you are clear shed of him now, and I glad you be, since he took to the idea of marrying with you. What all have he done the doctor this away for? There weren't nothing twist him and the doctor. Poor fool boy he. I'll be glad for your sake, Cass, if he'll quit these here mountains. Oh, mother, mother, don't talk about me. Don't think of me. The doctor's nigh about killed, let alone the sin Frail has on him now. Wearing beyond further endurance, she flung herself on her bed and broke into uncontrollable sobbing, while Hoyle stood in the middle of the room and gazed with white-eyed wonder. Be the doctor dead-maw? He asked in an odd whisper. No, child, no. You fetch a little light and chips and we'll make her some coffee. Sister's that tired, poor child. Have you been up all night, Cass? She nodded her head and still sobbed on. He's getting on all right now, be he? Again she nodded, but did not take her hands from her face. Then you ought to be glad. It ain't like Frail had a killed him. Far well he had many a time such as this with one and another and he never come to no harm from it. I reckon Frail will be safe. Be a crime for him, Cass. Poor child. I never did think you cared for Frail that away. Then Cassandra burst forth with impetuous fire. Oh, mother, mother! Never say that name to me again. Mother, I saw them. I saw them fighting and all the time the doctor was bleeding, bleeding and dying where Frail had shot him. I don't know how long they'd been fighting, but I came there and I saw them. I saw him slip and how Frail crushed him down, down and how his head struck the rock. I saw and I almost cursed Frail. I hope I didn't. Oh, I hope not. But mother, mother, don't ask me anything more now. Oh, I want to cry. I want to cry and never stop. While she lay thus weeping the soft rain that had been threatening all day began pattering down, blessed and soothing the rain to the earth and the tears to the girl. In spite of the rain, Tring was carried home that afternoon according to the physician's orders and placed in his cabin with Aunt Sally to stand guard over him and provide for his wants. A bed was improvised for her on the floor of the cabin, while David lay in his own bed in his canvas room, bandaged about both body and head and with all moderately comfortable, sufficiently himself to realize what had occurred and overjoyed because of the reward his wounds had brought him. Dr. Bartlett came down to the fall place and was given the bed in the loom shed as David had been, and had the pleasure of again seeing Cassandra, who, her tears dried and her manner composed, looked after his needs as if no storms had ever shaken her soul. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 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 Sandra Estenson. The Mountain Girl by Payne Urskine. Chapter 19, in which David sends Hoke below on a commission, and Cassandra makes a confession. Early one morning, Hoke Belu put his hand at the door of String's cabin, where Aunt Sally was squatted before the fireplace, preparing breakfast for the patient. How's Doc? He asked. He's right far. He might be worse, and he might be better. You reckon I'm not going yonder while he's at? You can look and see he's awake. I'm getting his hot bread and coffee. You better buy and have a little, she said, with ever-ready hospitality. He crossed the floor with careful steps and paused in the doorway of the canvas room, big and smiling. That you, Hoke? Come in, said David cheerfully. He extended a hand which Hoke took in his and held awkwardly, shocked at the white face before him. You do look puny, he said at last, but we in sure be glad you're livin'. You told me to come early so I come. It's awfully good of you. Bring a chair and sit near so we can talk a bit. Now, Hoke, laid up here as I am, I need your help. I want to send you to Farrington, or Lone Pine, somewhere. I don't know where such things are to be had. But, Hoke, you've been married and know all about what's needed here. You want me to get you a license, I reckon, said Hoke, grinning. And you might send me a errant, I'd like a heap worse, that so. But what good will it be to you now? You can't stand on your feet. I can put it under my pillow and keep it to get well on. See here, Hoke, I don't even know if she'll marry me. She has not said so. But I'll be ready. You keep this quiet for me, Hoke. Because it would trouble her if the whole mountainside should know what I have done before she does. Yet a girl like Cassandra is worth winning if you have to go to the edge of the grave to do it. So whenever she will have me, I want to be ready. They talked in low tones. Hoke leaning forward close to David, his elbows on his knees. I reckon you're thinking to buy it on here, long Lewyans, and not carry her off nowhere else. He asked gravely. David's paleness left him for a moment as the warm tide swept up from his heart. My home is not in this country. And wherever a man goes he expects to take his wife with him. Don't you people here in the mountains do the same? I reckon so. But it would not about kill Zaeli if she were to lose Cass. They've been friends ever since they were little ones. Hoke, if you were to find it necessary to go away anywhere, would you leave your wife behind to please Cassandra Merlin? The man was silent. And David continued. Before you were married, if you had known there was another man and a criminal at that, hanging around determined to get her, wouldn't you have married her out of hand as soon as you could get her consent? It's my opinion, knowing the sort of man you are, that you would. I sure would. Then you can understand why I wish to have a marriage license under my pillow. I reckon so. But you, you all hate our kind. Not being kind to none of us. You understand me, sir? Weans are our proud people here. And we think of people are women. It will be right hard should you get sort of tired of Cassandre when you come to get her amongst your people. Being shant like none of your folks understand? And Cassandre, she's sort of hard hit just now. She don't rightly know what all she do think. Me and Azalee, we be speaking right smart together and, well, we do sure think a heap of you, Doc. And it ain't no disrespect to youans, neither. Have you said anything to her, ma? Not a word. When I learned another man was before me, I stood one side as an honorable man should, and gave him his chance. But when it comes to being attacked by the other man and shot in the back by heaven, no power on earth will hold me from trying to win her. As for the other matter, never you fear. Be my friend, Hoke. Well, I reckon you'll have your own way, and I am on as well to get it for you. But I did promise Azalee that I'd speak that word, gee, said the young man, rising with an air of relief. Tell your wife that you are both of you quite right, and that I am right also. Just hunt up my trousers, will you? I want my pocketbook. If I have to sign anything before anybody, bring here. I don't care what you do, so you get it. There on that card you have it all. My full name and all that, you know. David tried to eat what Salah prepared for him, using his unbound hand. But his egg was hard, his coffee thick and boiled. He could not drink it very well, for his head was too low, and he could not raise himself. So he lay silent and uncomfortable, watching her move about his rooms, wearing her great black sun bonnet. She appeared kindly unpleasant when he could see her face, which was thin and very much lined, but motherly and good. He fell in the way of calling her aunt Salah, as others did, and this seemed to please her. She treated him as if he were a big boy who did not know what was good for himself. She called all the green-blossoming things with which Cassandra had adorned the cabin, thrashed, and asked who had toted Hitthar. Waiting and listening, sure Cassandra would not leave him all day without coming to him. Even though Aunt Salah had taken him in charge, David's mind was full of her. If he closed his eyes, he saw her. If he opened them and watched Sally's meager form and black sun bonnet moving about, he thought what it might be to see Cassandra there. He could not and would not look at the future. The picture hope-blue had summoned up when he had suggested the taking of Cassandra away among people alien to her. He put from him. He would not see it or think of it. The present was his and it was all he had, perhaps all he ever would have. And now he would not allow one little joy of it to escape him. He would be greedy of it and have all the gladness of the moments as they came. He could see her down below, making ready for their visitors, and he knew she would not come until the last task was done. But meantime his patience was wearing away. Aunt Salah finished her work and David could see her from where he lay, seated in the doorway with her pipe, looking out on the gently falling rain. Without, all was very peaceful. Only within himself was turmoil and impatience, but he knew that to remain calm and unmoved was to keep back his fever and hasten recuperation. So he closed his eyes and tried to live for the moment, in the remembrance of that awakening when he had found her kneeling at his side. Thus he dropped to sleep. And again, when he awoke, he found Cassandra there, as if an answer to his silent call. She was seated quietly sowing, as if it were no unusual thing for her to visit him thus, and when his earnest gaze caused her to look up, she only smiled without perturbation and came to him. I sent Aunt Salah down to see Mother while I could stay by you and do for you a little, she said. 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 morning. Aunt Salah 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 sowing 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 mountaintop? 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 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, 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 wrote down to Teasley's mill to try to persuade them, Giles Teasley, to allow him to go free. She paused and put her hand to her throat, as was her way. I think, Dr. Thuring, I'd better build up the fire and get you some hot milk. Dr. 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 frail out of his trouble. Cassandra, have you loved that boy? Her face assumed its old look of mask-like 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, Dr. Thuring, 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 Kate 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 frail 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 could ever 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 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, placing her arms about him, ever mindful of his hurt. She lifted his head to her shoulder. The floodgates 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, 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 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. Should you run 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 mountainside had been there to see. But afterwards, when that strange doctor from Farrington 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'm 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 sweetest lesson. Your arms tremble They're 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, Dr. Thuring. My name is David. You must call me by it. Please, Dr. Thuring, Dr. 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 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, frail and eye. 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, frail 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 when 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, Hope Baloo ran up to the door of David's cabin and called Aunt Sally out to speak with him. How's Doc? He's doing right well. He's asleep now. Won't you light and come in? I reckon not. Azalea, she's been alone all day and I guess she'll be some feared. Will you put that thar under Doc's pillow where he can find it in the morning? It's a paper he sent me for. Tell him I reckon it's all straight. He can see. Then people Cassandra was expecting from Farrington. Did they come by today? Yes, they come. They're down to Miss Farewell's. Will you tell Doc at Azalea and me we'll be here long leaven in the mornin'. Hope 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 mountaintops. 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 weakened 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. End of chapter 19 Chapter number 20 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 Sandra Estenson. The Mountain Girl, by Payne Erskine, chapter 20, in which the bishop and his wife pass an eventful day 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've 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 red bird'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 Thring 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 the city's 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 it is 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 cat bird. 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 Farrington without me. Perhaps we have something interesting up here if you'll hurry a little. What is it, James? I can't really 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'm 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 knotus. 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 bare-headed 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 it all come about. For Sally went back into the family history of the Teasleys and the Caswells and the Merlins and the Farewells, 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. Dr. Thring, you look better than when you were in Farrington. Doesn't he, James? Aunt Sally gave me to understand you were nearly dead. David laughed happily. I was, but I'm very much alive now. I'm to be married, Mrs. Towers. Our wedding is to be quite cum il fo. 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, Dr., from Mr. Below'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 stood ready to save her. I'm so glad for Cassandra. I could hug you, Dr. Thring. 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, Dr.? Are you sure you can make them understand over there? Won't they think this is 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 its 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, Dr. 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 today? 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. 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 oil. He can have a piece. He can ride the mule and tote anything he like. And slardy. I reckon you can get her up here on my horse. It's Thar at her place, said Sally, who had been standing in the doorway, keenly interested. When they were alone, she said to David, it's a right-quare way of doing things, getting married in bed. But if Bishop Towers do it, it sure must be all right. Lestway's Cassandria'll think so. David took the superintendents of the arrangement of his cabin upon himself, and Hoke Belou, 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 Cassandria 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 treetops, fluting their own gladness, while Hoke Belou went down below, and the bishop sat out on the rock and meditated. Cassandria 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 oil 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 feats. 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? Azalea brought them. Who put them in your hair? Mrs. Toa's did that. Do you like me this way? You're 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-wolven 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 in 15 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 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 is it sweet and peaceful too? And waiting for something good to happen? Yes, David. God forgive me if I ever 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 green 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 was 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 too, and me to set things out for you. Lie quiet and close your eyes, David, and make out like you're 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 part of her and 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 at 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 picture 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 turned 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 shelled them himself. I made the biscuit this morning, and Aunt Sally fried the chicken when she came down, and Azalea prepared the peas, and we all kept them hot in the fireplace. There's down there and ours up here. Cassandra laughed merrily. I reckon it looked funny everyone carried something when they came up. Hoyle had the peas in a tin pail, and Mother wrote Aunt Sally's speckle and carried the biscuit in a pan in 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 I 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 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. Ah, no, that's enough. We've a thousand things to say and plans to make. You eat while I talk. When I am up, we must find someone to stay with your mother. She should not be left alone. Cassandra paled a little. He was watching her face. You will be staying up here with me, you know, all the time. Yes, I know. Her throat seemed to tighten and she looked off towards the hills as was her way. Don't you like the thought of staying up here with me? Make your confession, dearest one. He drew her down to look in his eyes. It's done. We are man and wife. Her eyes swam with tears, but her lips smiled. I do. I do want to bide with you all the way before me now. Looks like a long path of light. Like what I've dreamed, sometimes when the moon shines long, the mists at night. Only one place I can't quite see. It is shadow or not. Perhaps it's only the thought of mother down there alone. She spoke dreamily and with the same look of seeing things beyond, except that now she fixed her eyes, not on the mountaintop, but on his own. Is it in my eyes you see the long path of light? Are we together in it? I see you always with the light about you. I saw you so first in your own home before the blazing fire. Such a hearth fire as I have never seen before. You have appeared to me in my dreams with light about you ever since, and in my visions when I've been riding over these hills alone. What are you seeing now? You, as you helped me that first time there in the snow. You looked so ill, but your way was strong and I thought all at once in a flash like it came from goon, like it came from my father. One will come for you. She hid her face in his bosom and her words came smothered and brokenly. All the ride home I put them away, but they would come back his words. On the mountaintop one will come for you. But we were in such trouble. I thought it was just the thought of my father. It's always strongest when trouble comes, like he would comfort me. Don't you have it also when happiness comes to you as on this morning while we waited together? No great happiness like this ever came before. I have been glad, like when mother said I might go to Farrington to school, and when I knelt and was confirmed, I was glad then. The first gladness I can remember was when my father used to carry me in his arms up and down his path and repeat strange poetry to me. When you are well we will go there, won't we? Yes, dearest. But didn't that remembrance come to you just now when you saw the long path of light before us? I think no, David. I'm afraid I forgot everyone but you then, when you asked what I like to bide here with you. And the long path of light was our love, for it reaches up to heaven. Doesn't it, David? It reaches to heaven, Cassandra. They were silent, for there was no more to say. Chapter No. 21 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 Sandra Estenson The Mountain Girl by Payne Urskine Chapter 21 In Which The Summer Passes Midsummer arrived, and David, healed of his wounds, pronounced himself as strong as a cricketer. What he meant by that, Hoyle could only conjecture, and, after much pondering, decided that his strength was now so great that, should he desire to do so, he could leap into the air or jump long distances after the manner of crickets. You reckon you could jump as fur in one jump now, as from here to the other side the water trough yonder? He asked one day, as they sat on the porch steps together. No, I don't reckon so. Said David, laughing. What could you jump over this here house and the loom shed in one jump? I don't reckon so. Be sensible, honey son. You mustn't allow him to actually fool questions, doctor. You know that he ain't nobody can do such as that, Hoyle, called his mother from within. He has some idea in his head. What is it, brother Hoyle? I heard you telling Cass that you was getting strong as one of those there cricket bugs, and I had one to the day he could jump as fur as clay across the porch, and he was only about an inch long or less, less than an inch. I thought if brother David was that strong, he could jump a heap. David had comforted Hoyle for the loss of Cassandra from the home, by explaining that they were now become brothers for the rest of their lives. And in order to give this assurance appreciable significance, he had taken the small chap to the circus, and had treated him to pink lemonade and a toy balloon. They had remained over until the next day, and Dr. Bartlett and David examined him all over at the old physician's office, and then had gone into a little room by themselves and stayed a long time, leaving him outside. Then to compensate for such gross neglect, David had taken him to a clothing store and bought him a complete suit of store clothing, very neat and pretty. Hoyle would have been in the seventh heaven over all this, were it not, alas, that there the child for the first time in his life looked into a mirror that revealed him to himself from head to foot, little rye neck, hunched back and all. David not realizing this was a revelation to the little man, wondered as they walked away, that all his enthusiasm and exuberance of spirits had left him, and that he walked at his side wearily and sadly silent. His pathetic little legs spindled down from the smart new trousers, and his hands dangled weakly from his thin wrists, all but his fingers clunk tightly to his toy balloon. We're going back to the bishops now, and we'll have a good dinner, and then you'll have a whole hour to play with Dorothy before we leave for home, said David cheeringly. The child made no response other than to slip his hand into David's. What are you thinking about, Brother Hoyle? Just nothing. I wore a wand around. Oh, there's a difference. What were you wondering? Ma told me if you were that good to take me to a circus, I mustn't bother you with a heap of questions that want no good. That's all right. I'm questioning you. What were you and that old man feeling me all over for? Were you trying to make out how come my head is sought like this away? Wrecking you really could set it straight and get this air lump off my bag? Don't worry about your head and your back. You have a very good head. That's more than some can say. I never seen an airy other boy like Ivy. You reckon that little girl she thought I were queer? What little girl? Miss Towerslit girl. She said turn round, and when I down hit, she said turn round again. Then she said, why don't you hoy your head like I do? What did you say? Didn't say nothing. Just asked her why and she hoy her head like I did. And she said don't want to. So I said don't want to. He twisted his head about to look up at David's face, and his lips smiled. But in his eyes was a suspicion of tears. His heart heavy for the child, David praised him for a brave little chap comforting him as best he could. You reckon she'll like me if I were to give her this here balloon? No. You take that home to sister. The little girl can get one when the circus comes again. But after dinner, David did not send Hoyle off to play the hour with Dorothy. He took her on his knee and entertained them both with tales and mimicry, until he had them in gales of laughter. And for the time being, Hoyle forgot his troubles. As the days passed, David became more and more interested in his patch of ground and the growing things in his garden. Never had he labored with his hands in this fashion, and each night he lay down to sleep physically weary in contentment of spirit. Steadily he progressed toward the desired goal of health. In his young wife, also, he found that he had a desire for health. He found her rich satisfaction, watching her unfold and blossom into the gracious wifehood and ladyhood he had dreamed of for her. Together they used to stroll to the little farm where she told him all she knew about the crops, what was best for the animals, and what would be needed for themselves. Long before David was able to oversee the work himself, she had set elwine timbs to sowing cow peas and planting corn. Behold your heritage, David said to her one morning as they strolled thus among the thrifty greenness and patches of vetch, where the cow was contentedly feeding. He laughed joyously and drew his wife's arm through his. She looked up at him wistfully. He thought she sighed and bent his head to listen. What was that little sound? I was only thinking. We'll sit here where we sat that morning when we both put our hands to the plow and you tell me what you were thinking. I ought not to stop now, David. I've left all for mother to do. I was that busy at the cabin I didn't get down to her this morning. You can't keep two homes going with only your own two dear hands, Cassandra. It must be stopped. We'll find someone to live with your mother and take your place. She gave a little gasp. Then sat silently. Her hands dropped passively in her lap. And he thought she seemed sad. He took her face between his hands and made her look into his eyes. Don't be worried, sweetheart. We'll make a few changes. You're mine now, you know. Not only to serve me and labor for me as you've been doing all these weeks, but I like it, David. I like doing for you. I hope it may always be so I can do for you. Would you like me to become an invalid again so you can keep on in the way you began? Not that. But sometimes I think, what if you shouldn't really need me? She hit her face on his breast. I... I want you to need me, David. It was almost like a cry for help, as she said it. Dear heart, dear heart, what are you thinking and fearing? Can't you understand? You are mine now to be cared for and loved and held very near and dear to my heart. We are no more tween. We are one. Yes, but... But, David, I... I want you to need me. She sobbed, and he knew some thought was stirring in her heart, which she could not yet put into words. He comforted her and soothed her, explaining certain plans which later he put into execution, so that her duties at the fall place were brought to an end, and he could have her always with him. A daughter of Uncle Cotton, who had gone down into South Carolina to live, was induced to come and stay with the widow, and the girl's brother came with her and helped David on the farm. Then David made changes in and about his cabin. He built on another room and put there in a cook's stove. He could not bear to see his young wife bending at the hearth, preparing their meals. And when she demirred, he explained that he wished to keep her as she was, and not see her growing old and wrinkled before her time, with the burning heat of the open fire in her face, like many of the mountain women. One evening they had eaten their supper out under the trees. She proposed they should walk up to her father's path, as she called the spot, towards which she so often lifted her eyes. And David was well pleased to go with her. As they set out, she asked him to wait a moment, while she went back for something and quickly returned, bringing his flute. I've often wished father could have heard you play on this, she said, as he took it from her hand. They crossed the little river that tumbled and rushed among great moss-covered boulders on its way to the fall, and followed its wayward course toward its head, where the way was untrodden and wild as if no human foot had ever climbed along its banks. After a little, they turned off toward a tremendous rock of solid granite that had been cleft smoothly in twain by some gigantic force of nature, and walking between the towering walls of stone, came out on the farther side, upon a small level space, where immense ferns and flags grew thickly in the rich soil, held in place, and kept damp by the great cool masses of stone. Above this little dell the hill rose steeply, and Cassandra led him to a narrow opening in the dense shrubbery surrounding the spot, from which a beaten path wound upward, overarched with thickly interlacing branches of birch wood and hemlocks. Along this winding trail they climbed, until they reached a cluster of enormous cedars, which made the dark place on the mountain Cassandra had pointed out to him from below. Here the path widened so they could walk side by side, and continued along a level line at the foot of the dark mass of trees. Here father used to walk up and down reading in his little books. Seems like I can hear his voice now. Sometimes he would look off over the valley below us there and repeat parts by heart. Isn't it beautiful here, David? Heavenly beautiful. I'm glad we never came here before. Why, dearest? Because. She hesitated with parted lips and cheeks flushed from the climb. David stood with bared head and felt as if he were in a cathedral. And why, because, he asked again, for now we bring just happiness with us. We're not troubled or wondering about anything. No sorrow comes with us. In our hearts we are sure, sure. She paused again and lifted her eyes to his. Sure that all is right when we belong to each other this way? Yes. Sure. Oh, David. Sure, sure. She threw her arms about his neck and drew his face down to hers. It's even a greater happiness than when he used to carry me in his arms here. There's no sorrow near us. It's all far away. Thus, sometimes she would throw off all the habitual reserve of her manner and open her heart to him following the rich impulses of her nature to their glorious revelation. Now, David, sit here and play. Play your flute as you did that first time when I learned who made the music that I thought must be the voices, that time I climbed up to see. They sat under the great cedars on a bank of moss and David took the flute from her hand, smiling as he thought of that moment when he had stood among the blossoming laurel and watched her as she moved about his cabin. The day before his hurt and how she had kissed it. I used to sit here like this. She bent forward and rested her head on his knee. She had a way of putting her two hands together as a child is taught to hold them in prayer and placing them beneath her cheek. And so she waited while David paused, his hand on her hair and his eyes fixed on the sea of hilltops where they melted into the sky. A mysterious, undulating line of the faintest blue seen through the arching branches above and the swaying hemlocks on either side and over the tops of a hundred varieties of pines and deciduous trees beneath them all down the long slope, up which they had climbed. Thus they waited until she lifted her head and looked into his eyes questioningly. He bent forward and kissed her lips, then lifted the flute to his own but again paused. What are you thinking now, David? She asked. So you really thought it was the voices? What was their message, Cassandra? I couldn't make it out then but I thought of this place and a father and it was all at once like as if he would make me know something. And I prayed, God, would he lead me to understand? Was it a message or not? So that was the way I kept on following until I... You came to me, dear. Yes. And what did you think the interpretation was then? Yes, it was you, you, David. It was love and hope and gladness, everything, everything. Go on. Everything good and beautiful but sometimes it comes again. What comes? Play, David, play. I'll tell you another time and another place, not here. No, no. So he played for her until the dusk deepened around and below them and they had to make their way back stumblingly. When they came to the wild untrodden bank of the little river, David resigned the choosing of their path entirely to her and followed close, holding her hand where she led. When at last they reached their cabin, they did not light candles but sat long on the doorway conversing on the deep things of their souls. It still seemed to David as if she held something back from him and now he begged her for a more perfect, self-revealing. It is no longer as if we were separate, dearest. Can't you remember and feel that we are one? In a way I do. It is very sweet. You say in a way. In what way? Why, David? I want your point of view. I see. We're not really one until we see from each other's hilltop, are we? No. And you never take me into the secret places of your heart and let me look off from your own hilltop. Didn't I this very evening, David? We stood on the same spot of earth and looked off on the same distance. Yet in my soul I know I did not see what you saw. Pictures come to me very suddenly and just float by, hardly understood by myself. I didn't want you to see all I saw, David. I don't know how comes it, but all the time, even in the midst of our great gladness, right when it is most beautiful, far before me, right across our way, is a place that is dim. It seems most like the shadows that fall on the hills when those great piles of clouds pass through the sky, when it is deep blue all around them and the sun shines everywhere else. Your soul is still an undiscovered country to me, Cassandra. I should think you'd like that. Don't men love to go discovering? And if you could get into the secret chambers as you called them, you wouldn't find much. Then you'd be sorry. Cassandra, what are you covering and holding back? I don't know, David. It's like it was when I couldn't understand the message of the voices when it comes clear and strong, I'll tell you. Then there is something. With a little sigh she rose and entered the cabin. He sat in silence as she had left him, but soon she returned. Standing behind him in the darkness, she put her interlaced fingers under his chin and drew his face backward until she could see it, white in the dusk beneath her eyes. You have come back to explain? If I can, David, it's hard for me to put into words what is so dim, what I see. It's all just love for you, David. The love burns and blazes up in me like the fire when it's fiercest on the hearth, when the day is cold outside. You've seen it so. In the little books my father used to read, there is a tale of a woman who had my name. She foretold the sorrows to come. Perhaps she saw, as I see, things in the dim pictures. Only more clearly, and wisdom was given her to interpret them. Often and often I felt that in me, that strange seeing and knowing before. And I don't like it. Only once it made me feel glad when it led me to you and frail that terrible moment. But it wasn't a picture that time. It was a feeling that pulled me and made me go. I would have gone that time if I had died for it. He took her two hands and covered them with kisses there in the darkness. I told you you were my priestess of all that is good. But I don't want to be always seeing the shadows and foreboding. I want to be all happy, happy the way you are. I believe you are one of the blessed ones of God who have the gift. But you are right to feel as you do. Your life will be more normal and wholesome. Not to try to probe into the future. I'll not attempt to take my coarser humanity into your holy places, dear. He led her into their canvas-sleeping chamber. And there she was soon calmly slumbering at his side. But he lay long pondering and trying to see his way out of a certain dilemma of unrest that had been creeping into his veins and prodding him forward ever since his re-established health had become an assured fact. He recognized it as no more than the proper impulse of his manhood not to stagnate and slumber in a lotus dream, even as delicious a dream as this. Ah, it was inevitable. His world must become her world. Herein lay the dilemma. This unsullied, beautiful being must enter that sordid old world that had so pressed upon him and broken him down. This idol might go on for perhaps a year longer, but not for always. Not for always. He slept at last and dreamed that they were being driven along a dark, cold river, wide and swift, that they had entered it where it was only a narrow rushing stream sparkling and tumbling over rocks and winding and intricate turnings on itself, that they had laughed as they followed it, splashing along the stones where she led him by the hand until it grew wider and deeper and colder and they were lifted from their feet and were tossed and swirled about and she cried and clung to him and even as he clasped her and held her he knew her to be slipping from him. Then in terror he awoke and reaching out in the darkness drew her into his embrace. And slept again. Chapter 22 In which David takes little oil to Canada David said his wife next day as he came whistling up to his cabin from the farm below. Do you mind if I give Mother a little help with the weaving? Maddie can't do it. She's right now spoiled the counterpain we had on when she came and since Mother's hurt, she can't work the treadles, so now the hotel's open. Miss Mayhew may come and find them not half done. Do I mind? Why should I mind if you don't? Right now I spoil your back and wear yourself out. Then I'll go down with you after dinner and see can I patch up Maddie's mistakes. It takes so much patience a loom does to understand it. Maddie was the cousin David had imported from the low country of Cassandra from the burden of the work in the home below. Although a disappointment to them, she still did her work after her own fashion, clumsily and slowly, but her Aunt Marcy was never at rest prodding the dull nature forward trying to make her take the interest Cassandra had done. David had wisely persuaded his wife to leave them to themselves to work out the problem of adjustment to the new conditions as best they might and his persuasions had been more of a peremptory nature than he realized. To Cassandra they had been as commands, but now when the weaving on which the widow had counted so much was likely to be ruined by Maddie's unskilled hands, the old mother had declared she could not bear to see her knees surround and should pack her off where she come from. Therefore Cassandra had made her timid request the first evidence of shrinking from her husband she had ever given. Why was it, he asked himself, what had he ever said or done to make her prefer a request in that way? But it was over in an instant and her own poised manner returned as they ate and chatted together. Little Hoyle came running up to eat with them. He had conceived a dislike to the home below since the incumbent had come to take his sister's place and evaded thus, as often as possible, his mother's vigilance. David did not mind the intrusion but suffered the adoring little chap to sit at his side ever twisting his small body about to fix his great eyes on David's face while he plied him with questions and hung on his words too intent to attend his own eating unless admonished there too by his sister. If you don't eat, son, I'll send you back to mother," she threatened. I won't go, he rebelled joyously. I'll just sit here alongside, Brother David. No, you won't, young man. You'll do whatever sister says. That's what I do. He put his hand on the boy's tousled head and turned him about to his plate well filled with food still untouched but he noticed that the child ate listlessly more as an act of obedience than from a normal desire. He glanced up at his wife and saw that she also noticed Hoyle's langer. They finished the meal in silence only broken by Hoyle's questions and David's replies now serious, now teasing and bantering. You are so full of interrogation points you have no room for your dinner. Here. Jink this milk slowly. Don't gulp it. I know what they be. They go this away. The boy set down his glass to illustrate with his slender little hand the form of a question mark. Then he laughed out gaily. You know how come I got filled up with them things? I done swaller that their catechism cast being teaching me Sundays. No, I'm thinking you just are one yourself. Because I'm crooked like this away? He twisted about and looked up at David gravely. No, no, son. Doctor didn't mean that, said his sister. Finish your milk, said David. We'll have some fun with the microscope. And once again the child essayed to eat and drink a little. But the langer and pallor grew in spite of all David could do for him. And as the weeks passed his large eyes burned more brilliantly and his thin form grew more meagre. Cassandra got in the way of keeping him up at the cabin with her and when she went down to weave he went also and used to lie on the bundles of cotton pouring over the books which David procured for him from time to time. What he gets in that way won't hurt him. It's not like having set tasks to learn. He's not burdened with any ought or ought not about it. Let him vegetate until cooler weather. Then if he doesn't improve we'll see what can be done. Something radical I imagine. The fall arrived in a splendor that was truly oriental in its gorgeousness. The changing colors of the foliage surpassed in brilliancy anything David had ever seen or imagined possible. The mantle of deepest green which had clothed the mountain sides all summer became transmuted until all the world was glorified and glowing as if the heat of the summer sun had stored up during the drowsy days to burst forth thus in warmest reds and golds. The hills look as if they had clothed themselves in Turkish rugs, ancient and fine, said David one evening as he sat on his rock watching them burn in the afterglow of the setting sun. How much there is for me to learn and know? Cassandra replied in a low voice I never saw a Turkish rug. You often speak of things I know nothing about. David laughed and turned upon her happy eyes. Why so sad for that? Did you think I loved and married you for your worldly knowledge? She smiled back at him and was silent. Presently he continued, now while Hoyle is not here I wish to talk to you a little about him. Yes, David. Her heart fluttered with a nameless fear. But she portrayed no sign of emotion. You've seen, of course, it's not necessary to tell you. No, David. Only, does it mean death? She put her hand out to him and he took it in his and stroked it. Not surely. We'll make a fight for him, won't we, dear? Oh, David, what can we do? She moaned. There's a thing to do that I've been reserving as a last resort. I think the time has come to try it. This curvature presses on some vital part and the action of his heart is uncertain. He needs the tonic of the cold, the ice and snow. Would you trust him to me, dear? I'll take him to Dr. Hoyle. You know very well everything kindness and skill can do will be done for him there. Yes. Yes, David, you are so good to him always. Would... Would you go? Alone with him? She drew closer to him, her head on his shoulder and her hand on his, but he could not see her face. You mean without you, dearest? Yes. That may be as you say. Would you prefer to go with us? She drew a long breath slowly like an in-drawn sigh and something trembled to pass her heart, but suddenly the old habit of reserve sealed her lips and she remained silent. What do you say? He urged. Tell me first. Do you want me to go? He was silent and they sat waiting for each other. Then he said, I do want you to go and yet I don't want you to go yet. Sometime of course we must go where I may find wider scope for my activities. He felt her quiver of anxiety. Not until you are quite ready yourself, dear. Always remember that. Still she was silent and he continued. I can't say that I'm quite ready myself. I would prefer one more year here, but Hoyle must be removed without delay. We may have waited too long as it is. Will your mother consent? She must if she cares to see him live. Oh, David, go! Go! Take him and go tomorrow. Leave me here and go. But come back to me, David, soon. Very soon. I shall need you. I— Can you leave Hoyle there and come back, David? Or must you bide there too? Suddenly she bowed her face in her hands. Oh, I'm so wicked and selfish to think of leaving him there without you or me or mother. One. David, what can we do? He might die there. And you—you must come back for the winter. What would save him might kill you. Oh, David. Take me with you and leave me there with him and you come back. Dr. Hoyle will take care of him of us once we are there. Now, now, now, hold your dear heart in peace. Why? I'm well. To stay another winter would only be to establish myself in a more rugged condition of a body, not that I must do so. We'll talk with your mother tomorrow. It may be hard to persuade her. But he found the mother most reasonable and practical. He even tried to abate her perfect trust in him and his ability to bring the child back to her quite well and strong. This isn't a trouble that is ever really cured, you know, when taken young enough it may be helped. And I've known people who have lived long and useful lives in spite of it. That's all we may hope for. Well, I allow you can't get him no younger than he be now. And he's that pert. I reckon he's worth it, lest ways to win. Of course he's worth it. You are right good to care for him like you have. I'd do a heap for you if I could. All I have is just this ear farm and it's for you and Cass. Only if you allow me and little Hoyle to bite on here whilst we live. David was touched. Do you realize I've found here the two greatest things in the world, love and health, all I want is for you to know and remember that if I can't succeed in doing all I would like for the boy, at least I tried my very best. I may not succeed, you know, but this is the only thing to do now, the only thing. David parted from his young wife, leaving her standing in the door of their cabin, clad in her white homespun frock, smiling, yet tearful and pale. He was to walk down to the fall place where Jerry Carew waited with the wagon in which he had arrived and where his baggage had been brought the day before. When he came to the steepest part of the descent, he looked back and saw Cassandra still standing as if in a trance, gazing after him. He felt his heart lean towards her and turning sharply, walked swiftly to her and took her once more in his arms and looked down into those deep springs, her sweet gray eyes. Thus for a long moment he held her to his heart with never a word. Then she entered the little home and he walked away, looking back no more. End of Chapter 22 Recording by Sandra Estenson Dr. Hoyle sat in his office staring straight before him, not as if he were looking at David Thring, who sat in range of his vision, but as if seeing beyond him into some other time and place. David had been speaking, but now they both were silent, and the young man wondered if his old friends had really been paying attention to his words or not. Well, doctor, said he at last. Well, David, you don't seem satisfied. Is it with my condition? Your condition? No, no, no, it's not your condition. Yes, yes, fine, fine, I never saw such a marvelous change in my life, never. David smiled over the old doctor's stammer of enthusiasm. It was as if his thoughts fertile and vehement, and the feelings of his great warm heart welled up within him, and trying to burst forth all at once, tumbled over themselves, unable to secure words rapidly enough in which to give them utterance. Then why so silent and dubious? Why—why, young man, I wasn't thinking anything about you just then. And again David laughed, while his wiry old friend jumped up and walked rapidly and restlessly about the small apartment and laughed in sympathy. It's not, not— I know, David grew instantly sober again. Of course, the little chap's case is serious. Very. Or I would not have brought him to you. Oh, no, no, I'm not thinking of Adam. Bless you, no. The doctor always called his little namesake, Adam. I'm thinking of her. The little girl you left behind you. Yes. Yes, of her. She's not so little now, doctor. She's tall. Tall enough to be beautiful. I remember her. Slight. Slight little creature. All eyes and hair, all soul and mind. Now, what are you going to do with her, eh? What is she going to do with me, rather? I'll go back to her as soon as I dare leave the boy. But man alive, what—what are— You can't live down there all your days. It's to be life and work for you, sir. And what are you going to do with her, I say? I'll bring her here with me. She'll come. Of course, you'll bring her here with you. And you, you'll have plenty of friends. Maybe they'll appreciate her and maybe they won't. I say. Understand? And she'll come. Oh, yes, she'll come. She'll do whatever you say, and presently she'll break her heart and die for you. She'll never say a word. But that's what she'll do. Why, doctor, cried David appalled. I love her as my own life, my very soul. Of—of course. That goes without saying. We all do, we men, but we— Damn it all, do you suppose I've lived all these years and not seen? Why, we think of ourselves first every time. Don't we, though? Rather? But selfish as we are, we can love. A man can, if he sets himself to it honestly, love a woman and make her happy, even without the appreciation of others in spite of environment, everything. It's the destiny of women to love us, thank God. She would have been doomed surely to die if she had married the one who wanted her first, or to live a life for her worse than death. Oh, Lord, bless you, boy, yes. It's a woman's destiny. I'm an old fool. There, there's my own little girl. She's married and gone, gone to live in England. They will do it, the woman will. Come, we'll go see Adam. The doctor sprang up, brushed his hand across his eyes, and caught up a battered silk hat. He turned it about and looked at it ruefully, with a quizzical smile playing about the corners of his eyes. Remember that hat? He asked. Well, do I remember it? You've driven many a mile and many a rainstorm by my side under that hat. When you're done with it, leave it to me on your will. I have a fancy for it. Will you? Here, take it, take it, I'm done with it. Mary scolds me every day about it. No peace in life because of it. Here's a new one I bought the other day. Good one, good enough. He lifted a box which had fallen from his cluttered office table, and took from it a new hat, which had evidently not been unpacked before. He tried it on his head, turned it about and about, took it off and gazed at it within and without, then hastily tossed it aside and snatching his old one from David, put it on his head, and they started off. Hoyle had been placed in a small ward where were only two other little beds, both occupied, with one nurse to attend on the three patients. One of them had broken his leg and had to lie in a cast, and the other was convalescing from a fever, but both were well enough to be companionable with a lonely little southerner. Hoyle's face beamed upon David as he bent over him. I can make pictures whilst I'm a layin' here, he cried ecstatically. That barlady, she lous me to make him, she lous minor goodens. David glanced at the young woman indicated. She was pleasant-faced and rosy, and looked practical and good. He's such an odd little chap, she said. What be that odd? Does it mean this fur lump on my back? He pulled David down and whispered the question in his ear. No, no, she only means that you're a dear, queer little chap. What be I queer for? What are all these drawings? Tell us what they mean. This one hits the ocean, and that there hits a steamship sailing on the ocean, like you done told me about. And this one hits our house, and here's where old Pete buys at. And this one's old Pete kicking out like he hated something, like he does when we give frails cult his corn first. The other small boys from their beds laughed out merrily and strained their necks to see. These were there, I made this and for him, and this and for him. He tossed the pictures feebly towards them, and they fluttered to the floor. David gathered them up and gave them to their respective owners. The old doctor stood beside the cot and looked down on the little artist. His lips twitched and his eyes twinkled. Which one is yours, he asked? I keep this and with a C. And here, I made this and for you. He paused and selected carefully among the pile of papers under his hand. You reckon you can tell what T is? The doctor took the paper and regarded it gravely a moment. Then lifted his eyebrows and made grimaces of wonderment until the three patients and the three little beds were in gales of laughter. At last, he said, it's a pile of sausages. It ain't no sausages. It's just a straight, claw picture of a house and hits your house, too, where Brella David lives at. See? There's the winder and the other winder hits on the other side where you can't see it. The doctor turned the paper over and regarded it a moment. Show me the window. I see no window on the other side. Again the three little invalids laughed uproariously at their visitor. David smilingly looked on. How often had he seen the delightful old man amuse himself thus with the children? He would contort his mobile face into all the varying expressions of wonder and dismay, of terror or stupefaction, and his entrance to the children's ward was always greeted with outcries of delight when the little ones were well enough to allow of such freedom. Haven't you one to send to your sister, as David, stooping low to the child and speaking quietly? The voice face lighted with a radiant smile that caused the old man to stand regarding him more intently. Well, send her this end of the sea. You reckon it looks like the ocean where the ships go a-sailing to the other side of the world? He held it in his slender fingers and eyed it critically. How did you come to try to make a picture of the sea when you never saw it? Dunno. I feel like I done sea-dotion when I'm sitting there on the rock and then white big clouds go a-sailing far, far like they're going to another world and ain't quite touching this end. I wondered why you had your ship so high above the sea. I don't guess it's a very good said the child, roofily, clinging to the scrap of paper with a reluctant grasp. You reckon she'd care for this end? I reckon she'd care for anything you made. Give it to me and I'll send it to her. She told me the sea hit war blue and I can't make it right blue and soft like she said. That bar blue pencil hits too slick. I can't make it stay on the paper. What are these mounds here on either side of the sea? Them's mountains. But why did you put mountains in the sea? The boy looked with wide eyes dreamily past the two men so attentively regarding him. Ah, I reckon I just put a bar for to look like the sea hit war on the world. I don't guess they'd be no ocean nor no world that there were mountains for to hold everything where it belongs at. I shall bring you a box of paints tomorrow if the nurse will allow you to have them. I'll provide an oil cloth to spread around so he won't throw paint over your nice clean bed, he said to the pleasant face young woman. That's all right doctor, she said. Then you can make the blue stay on and you can make the ocean with real water and blue for the sky and the sea. The child's eyes glowed. He pulled David down and held him with his arm about his neck and whispered in his ear and what he said was when there are pulling on me to get my head straight and my back right, I just think about the far far away sea with the ships sailing and how it look and it don't hurt so much. I can borrow the heat better. When you coming back brother David, does it hurt you very much well? I reckon it have to hurt, said the child with fatalistic resignation. I don't guess he'd hurt me thought he had to. He released David slowly then pulled him down again. Don't tell him I load it hurt me. I reckon he'd rather hurt himself if he could do me right that you guess I I'm going to get shadow of the misery some day that's what we're trying for my brave little brother and the two physicians bade the small patients goodbye and walked out upon the street. End of Chapter 23