Erskine Payne
The Mountain Girl

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CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH DAVID THRYNG MEETS AN ENEMY

The next day David gave his attention to the letters which he found awaiting him. One was from Doctor Hoyle in Canada. He had but just returned from a visit to England, and it was full of news of David's family there.

"Your two cousins and your brother are gone with their regiments to South Africa," he wrote. "They are jubilant to be called to active service, as they ought to be, but your mother is heartbroken over their departure. You stay where you are, my boy. She is glad enough to have you out of England now, and far from the temptation which besets youth in times of war. It has already caused a serious blood-letting for Old England. I have grave doubts about this contention. In these days there ought to be a way of preventing such disaster. Write to your mother and comfort her heart, – she needs it. I was careful not to betray to her what your condition has been, as I discovered you had not done so. Hold fast and fight for health, and be content. Your recuperative power is good."

David was filled with contrition as he opened his mother's letter, which was several weeks old and had come by way of Canada, since she did not know he had gone South. For some time he had sent home only casual notes, partly to save her anxiety, and partly because writing was irksome to him unless he had something particularly pleasant to tell her. His plans and actions had been so much discussed at home and he had been considered so censurably odd – so different from his relatives and friends in his opinions, and so impossible of comprehension (which branded him in his own circle as being quite at fault) – that he had long ago abandoned all effort to make himself understood by them, and had retired behind his mask of reserve and silence to pursue his own course undisturbed. Thus, at best, an occasional perfunctory letter that all was well with him was the sum total of news they received. Thryng had no money anxieties for his family. The needs of his mother and his sister – not yet of age – were amply provided for by a moderate annuity, while his brother had his position in the army, and help from his uncle besides. For himself, he had saved enough, with his simple tastes and much hard work, to tide him over this period of rest.

David sat now and turned his mother's letter over and over. He read and reread it. It was very sad. Her splendid boys both gone from her, one possibly never to return – neither of them married and with no hope of grandchildren to solace her declining years. "Stay where you are, David," she wrote; "Doctor Hoyle tells us you are doing well. Don't, oh, don't enter the army! One son I have surrendered to my country's service; let me feel that I still have one on whom I may depend to care for Laura and me in the years to come. We do not need you now, but some day we may."

David's quandary was how to give her as much of his confidence as filial duty required without betraying himself so far as to arouse the antagonistic comment of her immediate circle upon his course.

At last he found a way. Telling her he did not know how soon he might return to Canada, he requested her to continue to address him there. He then filled his letter with loving thoughts for her and Laura, and a humorous description of what he had seen and experienced in the "States" and the country about him, all so foreign and utterly strange to her as to be equal to a small manuscript romance. It was a cleverly written letter, so hiding the vital matters of his soul, which he could not reveal even to the most loving scrutiny, that all her motherly intuition failed to read between the lines. The humorous portions she gave to the rector's wife, – her most intimate friend, – and the dear son's love expressed therein she treasured in her heart and was comforted.

Then David rode away up the mountain without descending to his little farm. He craved to get far into the very heart of the wildest parts, for with the letters the old conventional and stereotyped ideals seemed to have intruded into his cabin.

He passed the home of Hoke Belew and stopped there to see that all was well with them. The rose vine covering the porch roof was filled with pink blossoms, hundreds of them swinging out over his head. The air was sweet with the odor of honeysuckle. The old locust tree would soon be alive with bees, for it was already budded. He took the baby in his arms and saw that its cheeks were growing round and plump, and that the young mother looked well and happy, and he was glad.

"Take good care of them, Hoke; they are worth it," he said to the young father, as he passed him coming in from the field.

"I will that," said the man.

"Can you tell me how to reach a place called 'Wild Cat Hole'? I have a fancy to do a little exploring."

"Waal, hit's sorter round about. I don't guess ye c'n find hit easy." The man spat as if reluctant to give the information asked, which only stimulated David all the more to find the spot.

"Keep right on this way, do I?"

"Yas, you keep on fer a spell, an' then you turn to th' right an' foller the stream fer a spell, an' you keep on follerin' hit off an' on till you git thar. Ye'll know hit when you do git thar, but th' still's all broke up."

"Oh, I don't care a rap about the still."

"Naw, I reckon not. Better light an' have dinner 'fore you go on. Azalie, keep the doc to dinner. I'm comin' in a minute," he called to his wife, who stood smiling in the doorway.

David willingly accepted the proffered hospitality, as he had often done before, knowing it would be well after nightfall ere he could return to his cabin, and rode back to the house.

While Azalea prepared dinner, Hoke sat in the open door and held his baby and smoked. David took a splint-bottomed chair out on the porch and smoked with him, watching pleasantly the pride of the young father, who allowed the tiny fist to close tightly around his great work-roughened finger.

"Look a-thar now. See that hand. Hit ain't bigger'n a bumble-bee, an' see how he kin hang on."

"Yes," said David, absently regarding them. "He's a fine boy."

"He sure is. The' hain't no finer on this mountain."

Azalea came and looked down over her husband's shoulder. "Don't do that-a-way, Hoke. You'll wake him up, bobbin' his arm up an' down like you a-doin'. Hoke, he's that proud, you can't touch him."

"You hear that, Doc? Azalie, she's that sot on him she's like to turn me outen the house fer jes' lookin' at him. She 'lows he'll grow up a preacher, on account o' the way he kin holler an' thrash with his fists, but I tell her hit hain't nothin' but madness an' devilment 'at gits in him."

With a mother's superior smile playing about her lips, she glanced understandingly at David, and went on with her cooking. As they came in to the table, she called David's attention to a low box set on rockers, and, taking the baby from her husband's arms, carefully placed him, still asleep, in the quaint nest.

"Hoke made that hisself," she said with pride. "And Cassandry, she made that kiver."

Thryng touched the cover reverently, bending over it, and left the cradle rocking as he sat down at Hoke's side and began to put fresh butter between his hot biscuit, as he had learned to do. His mother would have flung up her hands in horror had she seen him doing this, or could she have known how many such he had devoured since coming to recuperate in these mountain wilds.

The home was very bare and simple, but sweet and clean, and love was in it. To sit there for a while with the childlike young couple, enjoying their home and their baby and the hospitality generously offered according to their ability, warmed David's heart, and he rode away happier than he came.

With mind absorbed and idle rein, he allowed his horse to stray as he would, while his thoughts and memory played strange tricks, presenting contrasting pictures to his inward vision. Now it was his mother reading by the evening lamp, carelessly scanning a late magazine, only half interested, her white hair arranged in shining puffs high on her head, and soft lace – old lace – falling from open sleeves over her shapely arms; and Laura, red-cheeked and plump, curled, feet and all, in a great lounging chair, poring over a novel and yawning now and then, her dark hair carelessly tied, with straight, straying ends hanging about her face as he had many a time seen her after playing a game of hockey with her active, romping friends.

His mother and Laura were the only ones at home now, since the big elder brother was gone. Of course they would miss him and be sad sometimes, but Laura would enjoy life as much as ever and keep the home bright with youth. Even as he thought of them, the room faded and his own cabin appeared as he had seen it the day before, through the open window, with Cassandra moving about in her quiet, gliding way, haloed with light. Again he would see a picture of another room, all white and gold, with slight French chairs and tables, and couches and cushions, and candelabra of quivering crystals, with pale green walls and gold-framed paintings, and a great, three-cornered piano, massive and dark, where a slight, fair girl sat idly playing tinkling music in keeping with herself and the room, but quite out of keeping with the splendid instrument.

He saw people all about her, chatting, laughing, sipping tea, and eating thin bread and butter. He saw, as if from a distance, another man, himself, in that room, standing near the piano to turn her music, while the tinkling runs and glib, expressionless trills wove in and out, a ceaseless nothing.

She spent years learning to do that, he thought, and any amount of money. Oh, well. She had it to spend, and of what else were they capable – those hands? He could see them fluttering caressingly over the keys, pink, slender, pretty, – and then he saw other hands, somewhat work-worn, not small nor yet too large, but white and shapely. Ah! Of what were they not capable? And the other girl in coarse white homespun, seated before the fire in Hoke Belew's cabin, holding in her arms the small bundle – and her smile, so rare and fleeting!

He saw again the handsome sullen youth in Bishop Towers' garden, regarding him over the hedge with narrowed eyes, and his whole nature rebelled and cried out as before, "What a waste!" Why should he allow it to go on? He must thrash this thing out once for all before he returned to his cabin – the right and the wrong of the case before he should see her again, while as yet he could be engineer of his own forces and hold his hand on the throttle to guide himself safely and wisely.

Could he succeed in influencing her to set her young lover's claims one side? But in his heart he knew if such a thing were possible, she would not be herself; she would be another being, and his love for her would cease. No, he must see her but little, and let the tragedy go on even as the bishop had said – go on as if he never had known her. As soon as possible he must return and take up his work where he could not see the slow wreck of her life. A heavy dread settled down upon him, and he rode on with bowed head, until his horse stumbled and thus roused him from his revery.

To what wild spot had the animal brought him? David lifted his head and looked about him, and it was as if he had been caught up and dropped in an enchanted wood. The horse had climbed among great boulders and paused beneath an enormous overhanging rock. He heard, off at one side, the rushing sound of a mountain stream and judged he was near the head of Lone Pine Creek. But oh, the wildness of the spot and the beauty of it and the lonely charm! He tied his horse to a lithe limb that swung above his head and, dismounting, clambered on towards the rushing water.

The place was so screened in as to leave no vista anywhere, hiding the mountains on all sides. Light green foliage overhead, where branches thickly interlaced from great trees growing out of the bank high above, made a cool, lucent shadowiness all around him. There was a delicious odor of sweet-shrub in the air, and the fruity fragrance of the dark, wild wake-robin underfoot. The tremendous rocks were covered with the most exquisite forms of lichen in all their varied shades of richness and delicacy.

He began carefully removing portions here and there to examine under his microscope, when he noticed, almost crushed under his foot, a pale purple orchid like the one Cassandra had placed on his table. Always thinking of her, he stooped suddenly to lift the frail thing, and at the instant a rifle-shot rang out in the still air, and a bullet meant for his heart cut across his shoulders like a trail of fire and flattened itself on the rock where he had been at work. At the same moment, with a bound of tiger-like ferocity and swiftness, one leaped toward him from a near mass of laurel, and he found himself grappling for life or death with the man who fired the shot.

Not a word was spoken. The quick, short breathing, the scuffling of feet among the leaves, and the snapping of dead twigs underfoot were the only sounds. Had the youth been a trained wrestler, David would have known what to expect, and would have been able to use method in his defence. As it was, he had to deal with an enraged creature who fought with the desperate instinct of an antagonist who fights to the death. He knew that the odds were against him, and felt rising within him a wild determination to win the combat, and, thinking only of Cassandra, to settle thus the vexed question, to fight with the blind passion and the primitive right of the strongest to win his mate. He gathered all his strength, his good English mettle and nerve, and grappled with a grip of steel.

This way and that, twisting, turning, stumbling on the uneven ground, with set teeth and faces drawn and fierce, they struggled, and all the time the light tweed coat on David's back showed a deeper stain from his heart's blood, and his face grew paler and his breath shorter. Yet a joy leaped within him. It was thus he might save her, either to win her or to die for her, for should Frale kill him, she would turn from him in hopeless horror, and David, even in dying, would save her.

Suddenly the battle was ended. Thryng's foot turned, on a rounded stone, causing him to lose his foothold. At the same instant, with terrible forward impetus, Frale closed with him, bending him backward until his head struck the lichen-covered rock. The purple orchid was bruised beneath him, and its color deepened with his blood. Then Frale rose and looked down upon the pallid, upturned face and inert body, which lay as he had crushed it down. As he stood thus, a white figure, bareheaded and alone, came swiftly through the wall of laurel which hid them and pausing terror-stricken in the open space, looked from one to the other.

For an instant Cassandra waited thus, as if she too were struck dead where she stood. Then she looked no more on the fallen man, but only at Frale, with eyes immovable and yet withdrawn, as if she were searching in her own soul for a thing to do, while her heart stood still and her throat closed. Those great gray eyes, with the green sea depths in them, began to glow with a cruel light, as if she too could kill, – as if they were drawing slowly from the deep well of her being, as it were, a sword from its scabbard wherewith to cut him through the heart. Her hand stole to her throat and pressed hard. Then she lifted it high above her head and held it, as if in an instant more one might see the invisible sword flash forth and strike him. Frale cried out then, "Don't, don't curse me, Cass," and lifted his arm to shield his face, while great beads of moisture stood out on his face.

"It's not for me to curse, Frale." Her voice was low and clear. "Curses come from hell, like what you been carrying in your heart that made you do this." Her voice grew louder, and her hand trembled and shut as if it grasped something. "I take it back – back from God – the promise I gave you there by the fall." Then, looking up, her voice grew low again, though still distinct. "I take that promise back forever, oh, God!" Her hand dropped. The cruel light died slowly out of her eyes, and she turned and knelt by the prostrate man, and began pulling open his coat. Frale took one step toward her.

"Cass," he said, with shaking voice, "I'll he'p you."

Her hands clinched into David's coat as she held it. "Go back. Don't you touch even his least finger," she cried, looking up at him from where she knelt like a creature hurt to the heart, defending its own. "You've done your work. Take your face where I never can see it again."

He still stood and looked down on her. She turned again to David, and, thrusting her hand into his bosom, drew it forth with blood upon it.

"I say, you Frale!" she cried, holding it toward him, quivering with the ferocity she could no longer restrain, "leave here, or with this blood on my hand I'll call all hell to curse you."

Frale turned with bowed head and left her there.

CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH DAVID THRYNG AWAKES

Thryng lay in Hoke Belew's 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.

Hoke Belew 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 the 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 softly 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 still chafing his hands and waiting for Hoke Belew's return.

Hoke had gone to the station to telegraph for Bishop Towers. Fortunately, as the hotel was so soon to be opened 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 grewsome tales of how she had "seen people hurted that-a-way and nevah come out en hit." 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 whiskey, 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 stole away and hurried with the news to old Sally, who also crept in and looked on them and stole away.

"Yas, she sure have saved his life," said Sally. "Heap o' times they nevah do come out en that thar kin' o' sleep. I done seed sech before."

"Ef he have come to hisself, you reckon I bettah wake 'em up and give her a leetle hot milk? She hain't eat nothin' sence yestiday."

"Naw, leave 'em be. No body nevah hain't starved in his sleep yit, I reckon."

"He hain't eat nothin', neithah. He sure have been bad hurted."

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, Doctah. 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 this 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, Doctah Thryng. 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, but 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 some one?" and there was horror in his voice.

"No, no, Doctor Thryng. You 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 "lowed the' wa'n't no use sp'ilin him by takin' him up every time he fretted fer hit. Hit would do him good to holler an' 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 lithe body to rock the sleeping child. David thought he never had seen anything lovelier. How serious his wounds were, he did not know. But one thing he knew well, and to that one thought 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, Doctah. You may not be done right, and you'll bleed again. Oh, we don't know – we are so ignorant – Azalie and me – "

He smiled. "Nothing matters now," he said.

They heard voices, and she looked out from the doorway. "It's Hoke. They've sent old Doctor 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 a piece. I'm glad. You'll be done right now."

"Stoop to 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 Hoke, 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 a low splint rocker, clinging to the little one and listening, with throbbing nerves, to the voices in the room beyond.

When Hoke came out to them a moment later, Azalea began eagerly to question him, but Cassandra was silent.

"Doctah says we bettah tote 'im ovah to his own place to-day. Aunt Sally 'lows she can bide thar fer a while an' see him well again."

"You hain't goin' to 'low that, be ye, Hoke? Hit mount look like we wa'n't willin' fer him to bide 'long of us."

"Hit hain't what looks like, hit's what's best fer him," said Hoke, sagely. "Whatevah doctah says, we'll do." Then Hoke laughed quietly. "He done tol' Doctor Bartlett 'at he reckoned somebody mus' 'a' took him fer some sorter wild creetur an' shot him by mistake. I guess Frale's safe enough f'om him, if the fool boy only know'd hit."

"Frale, he's plumb crazy, the way he's b'en actin'," said Azalea.

"An' Bishop Towahs he telegrafted 'at he'd send this here doctah, an' he'd come up to-morrer with Miz Towahs to stop ovah with you, so I reckon yer maw wants you down thar, Cass."

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. Hoke – you've been right good – " She stopped abruptly and turned to his wife. "I must wear your dress off, Azalie, but I'll send it back by Hoke as soon as hit's been washed." She went out the door almost as if she were eager to escape.

"Hain't ye goin' to wait fer yer horse?" said Hoke, laughing. "Set a minute till I fetch him."

"I clean forgot," she said, and when he had left, she turned to her friend. "Azalie – don't say anything to Hoke about me – us. Did Aunt 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 asleep like I was – and he woke up and must 'a' felt like he had to kiss somebody – he was that glad to be alive."

"Nevah you fret, child." Azalea smiled a quiet smile. "I'm not one to talk; anyway, I reckon Doctah Thryng'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 alighted.

"Cassandry Merlin! For the Lord's sake! What-all is up now? Hoyle – where is that boy? – Hoyle, come here an' take the horse fer sister. Be ye most dade, honey? I reckon ye be. Ye look like hit."