The Mountain Girl

  CHAPTER XI

  IN WHICH SPRING COMES TO THE MOUNTAINS, AND CASSANDRA TELLS DAVID OF HERFATHER

  Ere long such a spring as David had never dreamed of swept up themountain, with a charm so surpassing and transcending any imaginedbeauty that he was filled with a sort of ecstasy. He was constantly outupon the hills revelling in the lavish bounty of earth and sky, ofrushing waters, and all the subtile changes in growing things, as if atlast he had been clasped to the heart of nature. He visited the cabinswherever he was called, and when there was need for Cassandra'sministrations he often took her with him; thus they fell naturally intogood camaraderie. Thus, also, quite as naturally, Cassandra's speechbecame more correct and fluent, even while it lost none of its lingeringdelicacy of intonation.

  David provided her with books, as he had promised himself. Sometimes hebrought them down to her, and they read together; sometimes he left themwith her and she read them by herself eagerly and happily; but so busywas she that she found very little time to be with him. Not only did allthe work of the household fall on her, but the weaving, which her motherhad done heretofore, and the care of the animals, which had been done byFrale.

  The life she had hoped to lead and the good she had longed to do whenshe left home for school, encouraged by the bishop and his wife, she nowresolutely put away from her, determined to lead in the best way thelife that she knew must henceforth be hers. She hoped at least she mightbe able to bring the home place back to what it used to be in herGrandfather Caswell's time, and to this end she labored patiently,albeit sadly.

  David was ever aware of a barrier past which he might never step, nomatter how merry or how intimate they might seem to be, and always abouther a silent air of waiting, which deterred him in his efforts to drawher into more confidential relations. Yet as the days passed, he becamemore interested in her, influenced by her nearness to him, and stillmore by her remoteness.

  Allured and baffled, often in the early morning or late evening he wouldsit in the doorway of his cabin, or out on his rock with his flute, whenhis thoughts were full of her. Simple, maidenly, and strong, his heartyearned toward her, while instinctively she held herself aloof in quietdignity. Never had she presented herself at his door unless impelled bynecessity. Never had she sat with him in his cabin since that first timewhen she came to him so heavy hearted for Frale.

  Only when she knew him to be absent had she gone to his cabin and setall its disorder to rights. Then he would return to find it swept andcleaned, and sweet with wild flowers and pine greenery and vines, hiscooking utensils washed and scoured, the floor whitened with scrubbing,in his larder newly baked corn-bread and white beaten biscuits, hishoney jar refilled and fresh butter pats in the spring. Sometimes abrown, earthen jug of cool, refreshing buttermilk stood on his table,but always his thanks would be swept aside with the words:--

  "Mother sent me up to see could I do anything for you. You are alwaysthat kind and we can't do much."

  "And you never come up when I am at home?"

  "It isn't every time I can get to go up, I'm that busy here most days."

  "Only the days when I am absent can you 'get to go up'?" he would sayteasingly. "Don't I ever deserve a visit?"

  "Cass don't get time fer visitin' these days. Since Frale lef' she haveall his work an' hern too on her, an' mine too, only the leetle help shegets out'n Hoyle, an' hit hain't much," said the mother. "Doctah, don'tye guess I can get up an' try walkin' a leetle?"

  "If you will promise me you will only try it when I am here to help you,I will take off the weight, and we'll see what you can do to-day."

  Cassandra loved to watch David attend on her mother, so tender was he;and he adopted a playful manner that always dispelled her pessimism andleft her smiling and talkative. Ere he was aware, also, he made a placefor himself In Cassandra's heart when he became interested in the caseof her little brother, and attempted gradually to overcome hisdeformity.

  Every morning when the child climbed to his eyrie and brought his supplyof milk, David took him in and gently, out of his knowledge and skill,gave him systematic care, and taught him how to help himself; but hesoon saw that a more strenuous course would be the only way to bringpermanent relief, or surely the trouble would increase.

  "What did Doctor Hoyle say about it?" he asked one day.

  "He wa'n't that-a-way when doctah war here last. Hit war nigh on fiveyear ago that come on him. He had fevah, an' a right smart o' times whenwe thought he war a-gettin' bettah he jes' went back, ontwell he beganto kind o' draw sideways this-a-way, an' he hain't nevah been straightsence, an' he has been that sickly, too. When doctah saw him last, hewar nigh three year old an' straight as they make 'em, an' fat--youcouldn't see a bone in him."

  David pondered a moment. "Suppose you give him to me awhile," he said."Let him live with me in my cabin--eat there, sleep there--everything,and we'll see what can be done for him."

  "I'm willin', more'n willin', when only I can get to help Cass some.Hoyle, he's a heap o' help, with me not able to do a lick. He can milknigh as well as she can, an' tote in water, an' feed the chick'ns an'th' pig, an' rid'n' to mill fer meal--yas, he's a heap o' help. Cass,she got to get on with th' weavin'. We promised bed kivers an' such ferMiss Mayhew. She sells 'em fer ladies 'at comes to the hotel in summah.We nevah would have a cent o' money in hand these days 'thout that, onlywhat chick'ns 'nd aigs she can raise fer the hotel, too. Hit's only insummah. I don't rightly see how we can spare Hoyle."

  "Where's Miss Cassandra now?" he asked, only more determined on hiscourse the more he was hampered by circumstances.

  "She's in the loom shed weavin'. I throwed on the warp fer a blue andwhite bed kiver 'fore I war hurt, an' she hain't had time to more'n halffinish hit. I war helpin' to get the weavin' done whilst she war atschool this winter, an' come spring she war 'lowin' to come back an'help Frale with the plantin' an' makin' crap fer next year. Here in themountains we-uns have to be forehanded, an' here I be an' can't crawlscarcely yet."

  After the thrifty soul had taken a few steps, instead of realizing hergood fortune in being able to take any, she was bitterly disappointed tofind that weeks must still pass ere she could walk by herself. She wasseated on her little porch where David had helped her, looking out onthe growing things and the blossoming spring all about--a sight to makethe heart glad; but she saw only that the time was passing, and it wouldsoon be too late to make a crop that year.

  She was such a neat, self-respecting old woman as she sat there. Herwork-worn old hands were not idle, for she turned and mended Hoyle'sfunny little trousers, home-made, with suspenders attached.

  "I don't know what-all we can do ef we can't make a crap. We won't haveno corn nor nothin', an' nothin' to feed stock, let alone we-uns. We'llbe in a fix just like all the poor white trash, me not able to do alick."

  David came and sat beside her a few moments and said a great manycomforting things, and when he rose to go the world had taken on a newaspect for her eyes--bright, dark eyes, looking up at him with a gleamof hope.

  "I believe ye," she said. "We'll do anything you say, Doctah."

  Thryng walked out past the loom shed and paused to look in on the younggirl as she sat swaying rhythmically, throwing the shuttles with a sweepof her arm, and drawing the great beam toward her with steady beat,driving the threads in place, and shifting the veil of warp stretchedbefore her with a sure touch of her feet upon the treadles, all herlithe body intent and atune. It seemed to him as he sat himself on thestep to watch, that music must come from the flow of her action. Thenoise of the loom prevented her hearing his approach, and silently hewatched and waited, fascinated in seeing the fabric grow under her hand.

  As silently she worked on, and slowly, even as the pattern took shapeand became plain before her, his thoughts grew and took definite shapealso, until he became filled with a set purpose. He would not disturbher now nor make her look around. It was enough just to watch her in hersweet serious unconsciousness, with the flush of exercise on her cheeks
as he could see when she slightly turned her head with every throw ofthe shuttle.

  When at last she rose, he saw a look of care and weariness on her facethat disturbed him. He sprang up and came to her. She little dreamed howlong he had been there.

  "Please don't go. Stay here and talk to me a moment. Your mother is allright; I have just been with her. May I examine what you have beendoing? It is very interesting to me, you know." He made her show him allthe manner of her work and drew her on to tell him of the differentpatterns her mother had learned from her grandmother and had taught her.

  "They don't do much on the hand-looms now in the mountains, but MissMayhew at the hotel last summer--I told you about her--sold some ofmother's work up North, and I promised more, but I'm afraid--I don'tguess I can get it all done now."

  "You are tired. Sit here on the step awhile with me and rest. I want totalk to you a little, and I want you alone." She looked hesitatinglytoward the declining sun. He took her hand and led her to the door."Can't you give me a few, a very few moments? You hold me off and won'tlet me say what I often have in mind to ask you." She sat beside himwhere he placed her and looked wonderingly into his face, but not in theleast as if she feared what his question might be, or as if shesuspected anything personal. "You know it's not right that this sort ofthing should go on indefinitely?"

  "I don't know what sort of thing you mean." She lifted grave, wide eyesto his--those clear gray eyes--and his heart admonished him that he hadbegun to love to look into their blue and green depths, but heed theadmonishment he would not.

  "I mean working day in and day out, as you do. You have grown muchthinner since I saw you first, and look at your hands." He took one ofthem in his and gently stroked it. "See how thin they are, and here arecallous places. And you are stooping over with weariness, and, exceptwhen you have been exercising, your face is far too white."

  She looked off toward the mountain top and slowly drew her hand fromhis. "I must do it. There is no one else," she said in a low voice.

  "But it can't go on always--this way."

  "I reckon so. Once I thought--it might--be some different, but now--"She waited an instant in silence.

  "But now--what?"

  "It seems as if it must go on--like this way--always, as if I werechained here with iron."

  "But why? Won't you tell me so I may help you?"

  "I can't," she said sadly and with finality. "It must be."

  He brooded a moment, clasping his hands about one knee and gazing ather. "Maybe," he said at last, "maybe I can help you, even if you can'ttell me what is holding you."

  She smiled a faintly fleeting smile. "Thank you--but I reckon not."

  "Miss Cassandra, when you know I am at your service, and will doanything you ask of me, why do you hold something back from me? I canunderstand, and I may have ways--"

  "It's just that, suh. Even if I could tell you, I don't guess you couldunderstand. Even if I went yonder on the mountain and cried to heaven toset me free, I'd have to bide here and do the work that is mine to do,as mother has done hers, and her mother before her."

  "But they did it contentedly and happily--because they wished it. Yourmother married your father because she loved him, and was glad--"

  "Yes, I reckon she did--but he was different. She could do it for him.He lived alone--alone. Mother knew he did--she could understand. It waslike he had a room to himself high up on the mountain, where she nevercould climb, nor open the door."

  David leaned toward her. "What do you see when you look off at themountain like that?"

  "It's like I could see him. He would take his little books up there andwalk the high path. I never have showed you his path. It was his, andhe would walk in it, up and down, up and down, and read words I couldn'tunderstand, reading like he was singing. Sometimes I would climb up tohim, and he'd take me in his arms and carry me like I was a baby, andread. Sometimes he would sit on a bank of moss under those trees--seenear the top by that open spot of sky a right dark place? There are noother trees like them. They are his trees. He would sit with me thereand tell me the stories of the strange words; but we never told mother,for she said they were heathen and I mustn't give heed to him." Whendeeply absorbed, she often lapsed into her old speech. David liked it.He almost wished she would never change it for his. "After father died Ihunted and hunted for those little books, but I never could find them."

  "You remember him so well, won't you tell me how he looked?"

  She slowly brought her eyes down from the mountain top and fixed them onhis face. "Sometimes--just for a minute--you make me think of him--butyou don't look like him. I never heard any one laugh like he couldlaugh--and with his eyes, too. He was tall like you, and he carried hisshoulders high like you do when you hurry, but he was a dark man. Whenhe stood here in the door of the loom shed, his head touched the top. Ithought of it when you stood here a bit ago and had to stoop. He alwaysdid that." She lifted her gaze again to the mountain, and was silent.

  "Tell me a little more? Just a little? Don't you remember anything hesaid?"

  "He used to preach, but I was too little to remember what he said. Theyused to have preaching in the schoolhouse, and in winter he used toteach there--when he could get the children to come. They had no books,but he marked with charcoal where they could all see, and showed themwriting and figures; but somehow they got the idea he didn't knowreligion right, and they wouldn't go to hear him any more. Mother saysit nigh broke his heart, for he fell to ailing and grew that thin andwhite he couldn't climb to his path any more." She stopped and put herhand to her throat, as her way was. She too had grown white with theache of sorrowful remembrance. He thought it cruel to urge her, butfelt impelled to ask for more.

  "And then?"

  "Yes. One day we were all alone sitting right here in the loom sheddoor. He put one hand on my head, and then he put the other hand undermy chin and turned my face to look in his eyes--so great and far--likethey could see through your heart. Seems like I can feel the touch ofhis hand here yet and hear him say: 'Little daughter, never be like therest. Be separate, and God will send for you some day here on themountain. He will send for you on the mountain top. He will compass youabout and lift you up and you shall be blessed.' Then he kissed me andwent into the house. I could hear him still saying it as he walked, 'Onthe mountain top one will come for you, on the mountain top.' He went inand lay down, and I sat here and waited. It seemed like my heart stoodstill waiting for him to come back to me, and it must have been morethan an hour I sat, and mother came home and went in and found him gone.He never spoke again. He lay there dead."

  She paused and drew in a long, sighing breath. "I have never said thosewords aloud until now, to you, but hundreds of times when I look up onthe mountain I have said them in my heart. I reckon he meant I was tobide here until my time was come, and do all like I ought to do it. Idid think I could go to school and learn and come back and teach like heused to, and so keep myself separate like he did, but the Lord called meback and laid a hard thing on me, and I must do it. But in my heart Ican keep separate like father did."

  She rose and stood calmly, her eyes fixed on the mountain. David stoodnear and longed to touch her passive hand--to lift it to his lips--butforebore to startle her soul by so unusual an act. For all she had givenhim a confidence she had never bestowed on another, he felt himself heldaloof, her spirit withdrawn from him and lifted to the mountain top.