CHAPTER X
IN WHICH CASSANDRA AND DAVID VISIT THE HOME OF DECATUR IRWIN
Soon the way became steep and difficult and the path so narrow they wereforced to go single file. Then Cassandra led and David followed. Theypassed no dwellings, and even the little home to which they were goingwas lost to view. He wondered if she were not weary, remembering thatshe had been over the distance twice before that day, and begged her, ashe had done when they set out, to allow him to carry the basket, butstill she would not.
"I never think of it. I often carry things this way.--We have to here inthe mountains." She glanced back at him and smiled. "I reckon you findit hard because you are not used to living like we do; we're soon therenow, see yonder?"
A turn in the path brought them in sight of the cabin, set in its bare,desolate patch of red soil. About the door swarmed unkempt children ofall sizes, as bees hang out of an over-filled hive, the largest not morethan twelve years old, and the youngest carried on the mother's arm. Itwas David's first visit to one of the poorest of the mountain homes, andhe surveyed the scene before him with dismay.
Below the house was a spring, and there, suspended from thelong-reaching branch of a huge beech tree, now leafless and bare, agreat, black iron pot swung by a chain over a fire built on the groundamong 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. Thewoman had been washing, and the vapor was rising from the black pot ofboiling suds, but, seeing their approach, she had gone to her door, herbabe on her arm and the other children trooping at her heels andclinging to her skirts. They peered up from under frowzy, overhanginglocks of hair like a group of ragged, bedraggled Scotch terriers.
The mother herself seemed scarcely older than the oldest, and Thryngregarded her with amazement when he noticed her infantile, undevelopedface and learned that she had brought into the world all those whoclustered about her. His amazement grew as he entered the dark littlecabin 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 hisleggings.
Far in the darkest corner lay the father on a pallet of corn-huskscovered with soiled bedclothing. The windows were mere holes in thewalls, unglazed, unframed, and closed at night or in bad weather bywooden shutters, when the room was lighted only by the flames from thenow black and empty fireplace. Here, while mother and children were outby "the branch" washing, the injured man lay alone, stoically patient,declaring that his "laig" was some better, that he did not feel "so muchmisery in hit as yesterday."
Thryng had seen much squalor and wretchedness, but never before in ahome in the country where women and children were to be found. For amoment he looked helplessly at the silent, staring group, and at theman, who feebly tried to indicate to his wife the extending of somecourtesy to the stranger.
"Set a cheer, Polly," he said weakly, offering his great hand. "You areright welcome, suh. Are you visitin' these parts?"
"This is the doctor I was telling you about, Cate,--Doctor Thryng. Ibegged him to come up and see could he do anything for you," saidCassandra. Then she urged the woman to go back to her work and take thechildren with her. "Doctor and I will look after your old man awhile."She succeeded in clearing the place of all but one lean hound, whocontinued 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 incuriously 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 inplace. David flew to her assistance and, wrenching out the nails, toreit 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 facesilently with widely opened blue eyes, their pale color intensified bythe surrounding shock of matted, curling, vividly red hair and beard.
It required but a few moments to ascertain that the man's condition wasindeed critical. Cassandra had gone out and now returned with her handsfull 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. Davidturned and watched her light the fire.
"Good. We shall need hot water immediately. How long since you haveeaten?" he asked the man.
"He hain't eat nothing all day," said the wife, who had returned andagain stood in the door with all her flock, gazing at him. Then thewoman grew plaintively garrulous about the trouble she had had "doin'fer him," and begged David to tell her "could he he'p 'im." At lastThryng put a hurried end to her talk by saying he could donothing--nothing at all for her old man, unless she took herself and thechildren all away. She looked terror-stricken, and her mouth drewtogether in a stubborn, resentful line as if in some way he hadprecipitated ill luck upon them by his coming. Cassandra at once tookher basket and walked out toward the stream, 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 theman more intelligent and much more tractable than the woman, but it washard to make him believe that he must inevitably lose either his life orhis foot, and that they had not an hour--not a half hour--to spare, butmust decide at once. David's manner, gentle, but firmly urgent, at lastsucceeded. The big man broke down and wept weakly, but yielded; only hestipulated that his wife must not be told.
"No, no! She and the children must be kept away; but I need help. Isthere no one--no man whom we can get to come here quickly?"
"They is nobody--naw--I reckon not."
David was distressed, but he searched about until he found an oldbattered pail in which to prepare his antiseptic, and busied himself inreplenishing the fire and boiling the water; all the time his every movewas watched by the hound and the pathetic blue eyes of his master.
Soon Cassandra returned, to David's great relief, alone. She smiled asshe looked in his face, and spoke quietly: "I told her to take thechildren and gather dock and mullein leaves and such like to make teafor her old man, and if she'd stay awhile, I'd look after him and havesupper 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 needof her quickly, in low tones, outside the door. "I believe you arestrong and brave and can do it as well as a man, but I hate to ask it ofyou. There is not time to wait. It must be done to-day, now."
"I'll help you," she said simply, and walked into the hut. She hadbecome deadly pale, and he followed her and placed his fingers on herpulse, 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, butjust think we are trying to save his life. Look at me now, and take inall I say."
Then he placed her with her back to his work, taught her how to countthe man's pulse and to give the ether; but the patient demurred. Hewould not take it.
"Naw, I kin stand hit. Go ahead, Doctor."
"See here, Cate Irwin. You are bound to do as Doctor Thryng says ordie," she said, bending over him. "Take this, and I'll sit by you everyminute and never take my hand off yours. Stop tossing. There!" He obeyedher, and she sat rigidly still and waited.
The moments passed in absolute silence. Her heart pounded in her breastand she grew cold, but never took her eyes from the still, deathlikeface before her. In her heart she was praying--praying to be strongenough to endure the horror of it--not to faint nor fall--until at lastit seemed to her that she had turned to stone in her place; but all thetime she could feel the faintly beating pulse beneath her fingers, andkept repeating David's words: "We are trying to save his life--we aretrying to save his life."
David finished. Moving rapidly about, he washed, covered, and carriedaway, and set all in order so that not
hing betrayed his grewsome task.Then he came to her and took both her cold hands in his warm ones andled her to the door. She swayed and walked weakly. He supported her withhis arm and, once out in the sweet air, she quickly recovered. Hepraised her warmly, eagerly, taking her hands in his, and for the firsttime, as the faint rose crept into her cheeks, he felt her to be movedby his words; but she only smiled as she drew her hands away and turnedtoward the house.
"They'll be back directly, and I promised to have something for them toeat."
"Then I'll help you, for our man is coming out all right now, and Ifeel--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 offand mended the fire with fuel he found scattered about the yard; whileCassandra swept and set the place in order and the resuscitated patientlooked about a room neater and more homelike than he had ever slept inbefore. Cassandra searched out a few articles with which to prepare ameal--the usual food of the mountain poor--salt pork, and corn-mealmixed with water and salt and baked in the ashes. David watched her asshe moved about the dark cabin, lighted only by the fitful flames of thefireplace, to perform those gracious, homely tasks, and would havehelped her, but he could not.
At last the woman and her brood came streaming in, and Cassandra and thedoctor were glad to escape into the outer air. He tried to make themother understand his directions as to the care of her husband, but herpassive "Yas, suh" did not reassure him that his wishes would be carriedout, and his hopes for the man's recovery grew less as he realized theconditions of the home. After riding a short distance, he turned toCassandra.
"Won't you go back and make her understand that he is to be leftabsolutely alone? Scare her into making the children keep away from hisbed, and not climb into it. You made him do as I wished, with only aword, and maybe you can do something with her. I can't."
She turned back, and David watched her at the door talking with thewoman, who came out to her and handed her a bundle of something tied ina meal sack. He wondered what it might be, and Cassandra explained.
"These are the yarbs I sent her and the children aftah. I didn't knowhow to rid the cabin of them without I sent for something, and now Idon't know what to do with these. We--we're obliged to use them someway." She hesitated--"I reckon I didn't do right telling her that--doyou guess? I had to make out like you needed them and had sent back forthem; it--it wouldn't do to mad her--not one of her sort." Her headdrooped with shame and she added pleadingly, "Mother has used theseplants for making tea for sick folks--but--"
He rode to her side and lifted the unwieldy load to his own horse, "Beye wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove," he said, laughing.
"How do you mean?"
"You were wise. You did right where I would only have done harm and beenbrutal. Can't you see these have already served their purpose?"
"I don't understand."
"You told her to get them because you wished to make her think she wasdoing something for her husband, didn't you? And you couldn't say to herthat she would help most by taking herself out of the way, could you?She could not understand, and so they have served their purpose as ameans of getting her quietly and harmlessly away so we could properly doour 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, justas you made her uncomprehendingly do what she ought. If ever she growswise enough to understand, well and good; if not, no harm is done."
Cassandra listened, but doubtingly. At last she stopped her horse. "Ifyou can't use them, I feel like I ought to go back and explain," shesaid. Her face gleamed whitely out of the gathering dusk, and he saw hershiver 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 yourtime and strength. Later, if you still feel that you must, you canexplain. Come."
She yielded, touched her horse lightly with her whip, and they hurriedon. The night was rapidly closing in, the thick, dark shadows creepingup from the gorges below as they climbed the rugged steep they haddescended three hours earlier. They picked their way in silence, sheahead, and he following closely. He wondered what might be her thoughts,and if she had inherited, along with much else that he could perceive,the Puritan conscience which had possibly driven some ancestor here tolive undisturbed of his precious scruples.
When they emerged at last on the level ridge where she had so joyouslylaughed out, Thryng hurried forward and again rode at her side. She satwearily now, holding the reins with chilled hands. Had she forgotten thehappy moment? He had not. The wind blew more shrewdly past them, and afew drops of rain, large and icy cold, struck their faces.
"Put these on your hands, please," he begged, pulling off his thickgloves; but she would not.
He reached for the bridle of her horse and drew him nearer, then caughther 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 toplease 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, andhe was filled with anxiety for her, so brave she had been, so tired shemust 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 yourshoulders to keep off the rain."
"Oh, no, no!" she cried, as he began to remove his coat. "You need it aheap more than I. You have been sick, and I am well."
"Please wear it. I will walk a little to keep warm."
"Oh! I can't. I'm not cold, Doctor Thryng. It isn't that."
He became imperative through anxiety. "Then tell me what it is," hesaid.
"I can't stop thinking of Decatur Irwin. I can feel you working thereyet, and seems like I never will forget. I keep going over it and overit and can't stop. Doctor, are you sure--sure--it was right for us to dowhat 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 noother way?" she wailed.
"As far as human knowledge goes, there was no other way. Listen, MissCassandra, I have been where such accidents were frequent. Many a man'sleg have I taken off. Surgery is my work in life--don't be horrified. Ichose it because I wished to be a saver of life and a helper of myfellows." She was shivering more from the nervous reaction than from thecold, and to David it seemed as if she were trying to draw farther awayfrom 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 thatyour intuition had led you rightly, and soon I knew what must be done; Ionly hope we were not too late. Don't cry, Miss Cassandra. It makes mefeel such a brute to have put you through it."
"No, no. You were right kind and good. I'm only crying now because Ican't stop."
"There, there, child! We'll ride a little faster. I must get you homeand do something for you." He spoke out of the tenderness of his hearttoward her.
But soon they were again descending, and the horses, careful for theirown safety if not for their riders', continued slowly and stumblingly topick their footing in the darkness. Now the rain began to beat morefiercely, and before they reached the Fall Place they were wet to theskin.
David feared neither the wetting nor the cold for himself; only for herin her utter weariness was he anxious. She would help him stable thehorses and led away one while he led the other, but once in the house hetook matters in his own hands peremptorily. He rebuilt the fire andhimself removed her wet garments and her shoes. She was too exhausted toresist. Following the old mother's directions, he found woollen blanketsan
d, wrapping her about, he took her up like a baby and laid her on herbed. Then he brewed her a hot milk punch and made her take it.
"You need this more than I, Doctah. 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 doctah says. You nigh about dade, child.If only I could get off'n this bed an' walk a leetle, I'd 'a' had yourplace all ready fer ye, Doctah. The' is a featheh bade up garret, if yecould tote hit down an' drap on the floor here fer--"
David laughed cheerily. "Why, this is nothing for me." He stood turninghimself about to dry his clothing on all sides before the blaze. "Assoon as Miss Cassandra closes her eyes and sleeps, I will look aftermyself. It's a shame to bring all these wet things in here, I say!"
"You are a-steamin' like you are a steam engine," piped little Hoyle,peering at him over his mother's shoulder from the far corner of herbed.
"You lie down and go to sleep again, youngster," said David.
And gradually they all fell asleep, while Thryng sat long before thefire and pondered until Cassandra slept. Once and again a deep quiveringsigh trembled through her parted lips, as he watched beside her. A warmrose hue played over her still features, cast by the dancing red flames,and her hair in a dishevelled mass swept across the pillow and down tothe floor. At last the rain ceased; warmed and dried, Thryng stole awayfrom the silent house and rode back to his own cabin.