CHAPTER XXVIII
IN WHICH FRALE RETURNS TO THE MOUNTAINS
Doctor Hoyle lingered until the last of the laurel bloom was gone, and the widow had become so absorbed in her grandchild as to make the parting much easier. Then he took the small Adam and departed for the North. Never did the kind old man dream that his frail and twisted little namesake would one day be the pride of his life and the comfort of his declining years.
"Hoyle sure do look a heap bettah'n when Doctah David took him off that day. Hit did seem like I'd nevah see him again. Don't you guess 'at he's beginnin' to grow some? Seems like he do."
The widow was seated on her little porch with the doctor, the evening before they left, and Cassandra, who, since the birth of the heir, had been living again in her own little cabin, had brought the baby down. He lay on his grandmother's lap quietly sleeping, while his mother gathered Hoyle's treasures, and packed his diminutive trunk. The boy followed her, chattering happily as she worked. She also had noticed the change in him, and suggested that perhaps, as he had gained such a start toward health, he need not return, but would do quite well at home.
"He's a care to you, Doctor, although you're that kind and patient,—I don't see how ever we can thank you enough for all you've done!" Then Hoyle, to their utter astonishment, threw himself on the ground at the doctor's feet and burst into bitter weeping.
"Why, son, are ye cryin' that-a-way so's you can get to go off an' leave maw here 'lone?" But he continued to weep, and at last explained to them that the "Lord done crooked him up that-a-way so't he could git to go an' learn to be a painter an' make a house full of pictures," and that the doctor had said he might. Doctor Hoyle lifted him to his knees with many assurances that he would keep his word, but for a long time the child sobbed hysterically, his face pressed against the old man's sleeve.
"What's that you sayin', child, 'bouts the Lord twistin' yer neck? Bettah lay sech as that to the devil, more'n likely."
At the mention of that sinister individual, the babe wakened and stretched out his plump, bare arms, with little pink fists tightly closed. He yawned a prodigious yawn for so small a countenance, and gazed vacantly in his grandmother's face. Then a look of intelligence crept into his eyes, and he smiled one of those sweet, evanescent smiles of infancy.
"Look at him now, laughin' at me that-a-way. He be the peartest I eveh did see. Cass, she sure be mean not to tell his fathah 'at he have a son, she sure be."
Cassandra came and tenderly took the babe in her arms and held him to her breast. "There, there. Sleep, honey son, sleep again," she cooed, swaying her body to the rhythm of her speech. "Sleep, honey son, sleep again."
"Don't you reckon she be mean to Doctah David, nevah to let on 'at he have a son, and he a-growin' that fast? You a-doin' his fathah mean, Cassandry." Still Cassandra swayed and sang.
"Sleep, honey son, sleep again."
"He nevah will forgive you when he finds out how you have done him. I can't make out what-all ails ye, nohow."
"Hush, mother. I'm just leaving his heart in peace. He'll come when he can, and then he'll forgive me."
As the doctor walked slowly at her side that evening, carrying the sleeping child back to her cabin, he also ventured a remonstrance, but without avail.
"It's hardly fair to his father—such a fine little chap. You—you have a monopoly of him this way, you know."
She flushed at the implication of selfishness, but said nothing.
"How—how is that? Don't you think so?" he persisted kindly.
"I reckon you can't feel what I feel, Doctor. Why should I make his heart troubled when he must stay there? David knows I hate it to bide so long without him. He—he knows. If he could get to come back, don't you guess he'd come right quick, anyway? Would he come any sooner for his son than for me?" It was the doctor's turn for silence. She asked again, this time with a tremor in her voice. "You reckon he would, Doctor?"
"No! Of—of course not," he cried.
"Then what would be the use of telling him, only to trouble him?"
"He—he might like to think about him—you know—might like it."
"He said he must go to Africa in May, so now he must have started—and our wedding was on May-day. Now it's the last of May; he must be there. He might be obliged to bide in that country a whole month—maybe two. It's so far away, and his letters take so long to come! Doctor, are they fighting there now? Sometimes I wake in the night and think what if he should die away off there in that far place—"
"No, no. That's done. Not fighting, thank God. Rest your heart in peace. Now, after I'm gone, don't stay up here alone too much. I'm a physician, and I know what's best for you."
She took the now soundly sleeping child from the doctor's arms and laid him on the bed in the canvas room. The day had been warm, and the fire was out in the great fireplace; the evening wind, light and cool, laden with sweet odors, swept through the cabin.
They talked late that night of Hoyle and his future, but never a word more of David. The old man thought he now understood her feeling, and respected it. She certainly had a right to one small weakness, this strong fair creature of the hills. Her husband must release himself from his absorbing cares and return simply for love of her—not at the call of his baby's wail.
So the doctor and his diminutive namesake drove contentedly away next morning in the great covered wagon, and Cassandra, standing by her mother's door, smiled and lifted her baby for one last embrace from his loving little uncle.
"I'm goin' to grow a big man, an' I'll teach him to make pictures—big ones," he called back.
"Yas, you'll do a heap. You bettah watch out to be right good and peart; that's what you bettah do."
David, not unmindful of affairs on the far-away mountain side, made it quite worth the while of the two cousins to stay on with the widow and run the small farm under Cassandra's directions, and she found herself fully occupied. She wrote David all the details: when and where things were planted—how the vines he had set on the hill slope were growing—how the pink rose he had brought from Hoke Belew's and planted by their threshold had grown to the top of the door, and had three sweet blossoms. She had shaken the petals of one between the pages of her letter on May-day, and sent it to remind him, she said.
Nearly a month later than he had intended to sail, David left England, overwhelmed with many small matters which seemed so great to his mother and sister, and burdened with duties imposed upon him by the realization that he had come into the possession of enormous wealth, more than he could comprehendingly estimate; and that he was now setting out to secure and prevent the loss of possibly double what he already possessed.
People gathered about him and presented him with worthy and unworthy opportunities for its disposal. They flocked to him in herds, with importunities and flatteries. The tower which he had built up with his ideals, and in which he had intrenched himself, was in danger of being undermined and toppled into ruins, burying his soul beneath the debris. When seated on the deck, the rose petals dropped into his hand as he tore open Cassandra's letter. Some, ere he could catch them, were caught up and blown away into the sea.
He held them and inhaled their sweetness, and everything seemed to find its true value and proportion and to fall into its right place. Again on the mountain top, with Cassandra at his side, he viewed in a perspective of varying gradations his life, his aims, and his possessions.
The personality of his young wife, of late a vague thing to him, distant and fair, and haloed about with sweet memories dimly discerned like a dream that is past, presented itself to him all at once vivid and clear, as if he held her in his arms with her head on his breast.
He heard again her voice with its quaint inflections and lingering tones. Their love for each other loomed large, and became for him at once the one truly vital thing in all his share of the universe. Had his body been endowed with the wings of his soul, he would have left all and gone to her; but, alas for the restrictions of matter! he was gliding rapidly away and away, farther from the immediate attainment. Yet was his tower strengthened wherein he had intrenched himself with his ideals. The withered rose petals had brought him exaltation of purpose.
In the mountains, July came with unusually sultry heat, yet the rich pocket of soil, watered by its never failing stream, suffered little from the drought. Weeds grew apace, and Cassandra had much ado to hold her cousin Cotton Caswell, easy-going and thriftless, to his task of keeping the small farm in order.
For a long time now, Cassandra had avoided those moments of far-seeing and brooding. Had not David said he feared them for her? In these days of waiting, she dreaded lest they show her something to which she would rather remain blind. In the evenings, looking over the hilltops from her rock, visions came to her out of the changing mists, but she put them from her and calmed her breast with the babe on her bosom, and solaced her longing by keeping all in readiness for David's return. Perhaps at any moment, with wind-lifted hair and buoyant smile, he might come up the laurel path.
For this reason she preferred living in her own cabin home, and, that she might not be alone at night, Martha Caswell or her brother slept on a cot in the large cabin room, but Cassandra cared little for their company. They might come or not as they chose. She was never afraid now that she was strong again and baby was well.
One evening sitting thus, her babe lying asleep on her knees and her heart over the sea, something caused her to start from her revery and look away from the blue distance, toward the cabin. There, a few paces away, regarding her intently, stalwart and dark, handsome and eager, stood Frale. Much older he seemed, more reckless he appeared, yet still a youth in his undisciplined impulse. She sat pale as death, unable to move, in breathless amazement.
He smiled upon her out of the gathering dusk. For some minutes he had been regarding her, and the tumult within him had become riotous with long restraint. He came swiftly forward and, ere she could turn her head, his arms were about her, and his lips upon hers, and she felt herself pinioned in her chair—nor, for guarding her baby unhurt by his vehemence, could she use her hands to hold him from her; nor for the suffocating beating of her heart could she cry out; neither would her cry have availed, for there were none near to hear her.
"Stop, Frale! I am not yours; stop, Frale," she implored.
"Yas, you are mine," he said, in his low drawl, lifting his head to gaze in her face. "You gin me your promise. That doctah man, he done gone an' lef' you all alone, and he ain't nevah goin' to come back to these here mountins."
She snatched her hands from the child on her knees, and, with sudden movement, pushed him violently; but he only held her closer, and it was as if she struggled against muscles of iron.
"Naw, you don't! I have you now, an' I won't nevah leave you go again." He had not been drinking, yet he was like one drunken, so long had he brooded and waited.
Rapidly she tried to think how she might gain control over him, when, wakened by the struggle, the babe wailed out and he started to his feet, his hands clutching into his hair as if he were struck with sudden fear. He had not noticed or given heed to what lay upon her knees, and the cry penetrated his heart like a knife.
A child! His child—that doctor's child? He hated the thought of it, and the old impulse to strike down anything or any creature that stood in his way seized him—the impulse that, unchecked, had made him a murderer. He could kill, kill! Cassandra gathered the little body to her heart and, standing still before him, looked into his eyes. Instinctively she knew that only calmness and faith in his right action would give her the mastery now, and with a prayer in her heart she spoke quietly.
"How came you here, Frale? You wrote mother you'd gone to Texas." His figure relaxed, and his arms dropped, but still he bent forward and gazed eagerly into her eyes.
"I come back when I heered he war gone. I come back right soon. Cate Irwin's wife writ me 'at he war gone; an' now she done tol' me he ain't nevah goin' to come back to these here mountins. Ev'ybody on the mountins knows that. He jes' have fooled you-all that-a-way, makin' out to marry you whilst he war in bed, like he couldn' stand on his feet, an' then gittin' up an' goin' off this-a-way, an' bidin' nigh on to a year. We don't 'low our women to be done that-a-way, like they war pore white trash. I come back fer you like I promised, an' you done gin me your promise, too. I reckon you won't go back on that now." He stepped nearer, and she clasped the babe closer, but did not flinch.
"Yes, Frale, you promised, and I—I—promised—to save you from yourself—to be a good man; but you broke yours. You didn't repent, and you went on drinking, and—then you tried to kill an innocent man when he was alone and unarmed; like a coward you shot him. I called back my words from God; I gave them to the man I loved—promise for promise, Frale."
"Yas, and curse for curse. You cursed me, Cass." He made one more step forward, but she stood her ground and lifted one hand above her head, the gesture he so well remembered.
"Keep back, Frale. I did not curse you. I let you go free, and no one followed you. Go back—farther—farther—or I will do it now— Oh, God—" He cowered, his arm before his eyes, and moved backward.
"Don't, Cass," he cried. For a moment she stood regally before him, her babe resting easily in the hollow of her arm. Then she slowly lowered her hand and spoke again, in quiet, distinct tones.
"Now, for that lie they have told you, I am going to my husband. I start to-morrow. He has sent me money to come to him. You tell that word all up and down the mountain side, wherever there bides one to hear."
She lifted her baby, pressing his little face to her cheek, and turning, walked slowly toward her cabin door.
"Cass," he called.
She paused. "Well, Frale?"
"Cass, you hev cursed me."
"No, Frale, it is the curse of Cain that rests on your soul. You brought it on you by your own hand. If you will live right and repent, Christ will take it off."
"Will you ask him for me, Cass? I sure hev lost you now—forever, Cass!"
"Yes, Frale. I'll ask him to cover up all this year out of your life. It has been full of mad badness. Be like you used to be, Frale, and leave off thinking on me this way. It is sin. Go marry somebody who can love you and care for you like you need, and come back here and do for mother like you used to. Giles Teasley can't pester you. He's half dead with his badness—drinking his own liquor."
She came to him, and, taking his hand, led him toward the laurel path. "Go down to mother now, Frale, and have supper and sleep in your own bed, like no evil had ever come into your neart," she pleaded. "The good is in you, Frale. God sees it, and I see it. Heed to me, Frale. Good-night."
Slowly, with bent head, he walked away.
Trembling, Cassandra laid her baby in the cradle Hoke Belew had made her, and, kneeling beside the rude little bed, she bowed her head over it and wept scalding, bitter tears. She felt herself shamed before the whole mountain side. Oh, why—why need David have left her so long—so long! The first reproach against him entered her heart, and at the same time she reasoned with herself.
He could not help it—surely he could not. He was good and true, and they should all know it if she had to lie for it. When she had sobbed herself into a measure of calmness, she heard a step cross the cabin floor. Quickly drying her tears, she rose and stood in the doorway of the canvas room, with dilated eyes and indrawn breath, peering into' the dusk, barring the way. It was only her mother.
"Why, mothah!" she cried, relieved and overjoyed.
"Have you seen Frale?"
"Yes, mothah. He was here. Sit down and get your breath. You have climbed too fast."
Her mother dropped into a chair and placed a small bundle on the table at her side.
"What-all is this Frale say you have told him? Have David writ fer you like Frale say? What-all have Frale been up to now? He come down creepin' like he a half-dade man—that soft an' quiet."
"I'm going to David, mother. You know he sent me money to use any way I choose, and I'm going." She caught her breath and faltered.
The mother rose and took her in her arms, and, drawing her head down to her wrinkled cheek, patted her softly.
"Thar, honey, thar. I reckon your ol' maw knows a heap more'n you think. You keep mighty still, but you can't fool her."
Cassandra drew herself together. "Why didn't Martha come up this evening?"
"She war makin' ready, in her triflin' slow way, an' then Frale come down an' said that word, an' I knew right quick 'at ther war somethin' behind—his way war that quare—so I told Marthy to set him out a good suppah, an' I'd stop up here myself this night. She war right glad to do hit. Fool, she be! I could see how she went plumb silly ovah Frale all to onc't."
"Mothah, you know right well what they're saying about David and me. Is it true, that word Frale said, that everyone says he nevah will come back?" The mother was silent. "That's all right, mothah. We'll pack up to-night, and I'll go down to Farington to-morrow. Mrs. Towahs will help me to start right."
She lighted candles and began to lay out her baby's wardrobe. "I haven't anything to put these in, but I can carry everything I need down there in baskets, and she will help me. They've always been that good to me—all my life."
"Cass, Cass, don't go," wailed her mother. "I'm afraid somethin'll happen you if you go that far away. If you could leave baby with me, Cass! Give hit up. Be ye 'feared o' Frale, honey?"
"No, mother, the man doesn't live that I'm afraid of." She paused, holding the candle in her hand, lighting her face that shone whitely out of the darkness. Her eyes glowed, and she held her head high. Then she turned again to her work, gathering her few small treasures and placing them on one of the highest shelves of the chimney cupboard. As she worked, she tried to say comforting things to her mother.
"I'll write to you every day, like David does me, mother. See? I've kept all his letters. They're in this box. I don't want to burn them because I love them; and I don't want any one else to read them; and I don't want to carry them with me because I'll have him there. Will you lock them in your box, mother, and if anything happens to me, will you sure—sure burn them?" She laid them on the table at her mother's elbow. "You promise, mothah?"
"Yas, Cass, yas."
"What's in that bundle, mothah?"
With trembling fingers the widow opened her parcel and displayed the silver teapot, from which the spout had been melted to be moulded into silver bullets.
"Thar," she said, holding it out by the handle, "hit's yourn. Farwell, he done that one day whilst I war gone, an' the last bullet war the one Frale used when he nigh killed your man. No, I reckon you nevah did see hit before, fer I've kept hit hid good. I knowed ther were somethin' to come outen hit some day. Hit do show your fathah come from some fine high fambly somewhar. I done showed hit to Doctah David, fer I 'lowed he mount know was hit wuth anything, but he seemed to set more by them two leetle books. He has them books yet, I reckon."
"Yes, he has them."
"When Frale told me you war a-goin' to David, I guessed 'at thar war somethin' 'at I'd ought to know, an' I clum up here right quick, fer if he war a-lyin', I meant to find out the reason why." She looked keenly in her daughter's face, which remained passive under the scrutiny.
"Has Frale been a-pesterin' you?"
"He did—some—at first; but I sent him away."
"I reckoned so. Now heark. You tell me straight, did David send fer ye, er didn't he?"
In silence Cassandra turned to her work, until it seemed as if the room were filled with the suspense of the unanswered question. Then she tried evasion.
"Why do you ask in that way, mothah?"
"Because if he sont fer ye, I'll help ye all I can; but if he didn't, I'll hinder ye, and ye'll bide right whar ye be."
"You won't do that, mothah."
"I sure will. If David haven't sont fer ye, an' ye go, ye'll have to walk ovah me to get thar, hear?"
The mother's voice was raised to a higher pitch than was her wont, and the little silver pot shook in her hand. Cassandra took it and regarded it without interest, absorbed in other thoughts. Then, throwing off her abstraction, she began questioning her mother about it, and why she had brought it to her now. The widow told all she knew, as she had told David, and pointed out the half obliterated coat of arms on the side.
"I've heered your paw say 'at ther war more pieces'n this, oncet, but this'n come straight to him from his grandpaw, an' now hit's yourn. If he have sont fer ye, take hit with ye. Hit may be wuth more'n you think fer now. I been told they do think a heap o' fambly ovah thar, jest like we do here in the mounting. Leastways, hit's all we do have—some of us. My fambly war all good stock, capable and peart; an' now heark to me. Wharevah you go, just you hold your hade up. The' hain't nothin' more despisable than a body 'at goes meachin' around like some old sheep-stealin' houn' dog. Now if he sure 'nough have sont fer ye, go, an' I'll help ye, but if he haven't, bide whar ye be."
Cassandra drew in her breath sharply, no longer able to evade the question, with her mother's keen eyes searching her face. All her reasons for going flashed through her mind in a moment's space of time. The book she had been reading—what were English people really like? And David—her David—her boy's father—what shameful things were they saying of him all over the mountain that Frale should dare come to her as he had done? She could not stay now; she would not. Her cheeks flamed, and she walked silently into the canvas room and stood by her baby's cradle. Her mother began wrapping up the silver pot.
"I guess I'll take this back an' lock hit up again. You sure hain't to go if ye can't give me that word."
Cassandra went quickly and took it from her mother's hand. "No, mother, give it to me. I told Frale David had sent for me, and I'm going."
"And he have sont fer ye?"
"Yes, mothah." Her reply was low as she turned again to her work.
"Waal, now, why couldn't you have give me that word first off? Hit's his right to have ye, an' I'll he'p ye. You'd ought to go to him if he can't come to you."
Instantly up and alert, putting bravely aside her own feelings at the thought of parting, the mother began helping her daughter; but long after they were finished and settled for the night, she lay wakeful and dreading the coming day.
Cassandra slept less, and lay quietly thinking, sorrowful that she must leave her home, and not a little anxious over what might be her future and what might be her fate in that strange land.
When at last she slept, she dreamed of the people she had met in Vanity Fair, with David strangely mixed up among them, and Frale ever alert and watchful, moving wherever she moved, silently lingering near and never taking his eyes from her face.
In the morning, mother and daughter were up betimes, but no word was spoken between them to betoken hesitation or fear. Cassandra walked in a sort of dumb wonder at herself, and smouldering deep beneath the surface was a fierce resentment against those who, having known her from childhood, and receiving many favors and kindnesses from her, should now presume to so speak against her husband as to make Frale dare to approach her as he had. Oh, the burning shame of those kisses! The shame of the thought against David that pervaded her beloved mountains! For the sake of his good name, she would put away her pride and go to him.