CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH SPRING COMES TO THE MOUNTAINS, AND CASSANDRA TELLS DAVID OF HER FATHER
Ere long such a spring as David had never dreamed of swept up the mountain, with a charm so surpassing and transcending any imagined beauty that he was filled with a sort of ecstasy. He was constantly out upon the hills revelling in the lavish bounty of earth and sky, of rushing waters, and all the subtile changes in growing things, as if at last he had been clasped to the heart of nature. He visited the cabins wherever he was called, and when there was need for Cassandra's ministrations he often took her with him; thus they fell naturally into good camaraderie. Thus, also, quite as naturally, Cassandra's speech became more correct and fluent, even while it lost none of its lingering delicacy of intonation.
David provided her with books, as he had promised himself. Sometimes he brought them down to her, and they read together; sometimes he left them with her and she read them by herself eagerly and happily; but so busy was she that she found very little time to be with him. Not only did all the work of the household fall on her, but the weaving, which her mother had done heretofore, and the care of the animals, which had been done by Frale.
The life she had hoped to lead and the good she had longed to do when she left home for school, encouraged by the bishop and his wife, she now resolutely put away from her, determined to lead in the best way the life that she knew must henceforth be hers. She hoped at least she might be able to bring the home place back to what it used to be in her Grandfather 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, no matter how merry or how intimate they might seem to be, and always about her a silent air of waiting, which deterred him in his efforts to draw her into more confidential relations. Yet as the days passed, he became more interested in her, influenced by her nearness to him, and still more by her remoteness.
Allured and baffled, often in the early morning or late evening he would sit in the doorway of his cabin, or out on his rock with his flute, when his thoughts were full of her. Simple, maidenly, and strong, his heart yearned toward her, while instinctively she held herself aloof in quiet dignity. Never had she presented herself at his door unless impelled by necessity. Never had she sat with him in his cabin since that first time when she came to him so heavy hearted for Frale.
Only when she knew him to be absent had she gone to his cabin and set all its disorder to rights. Then he would return to find it swept and cleaned, and sweet with wild flowers and pine greenery and vines, his cooking utensils washed and scoured, the floor whitened with scrubbing, in his larder newly baked corn-bread and white beaten biscuits, his honey jar refilled and fresh butter pats in the spring. Sometimes a brown, 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 always that kind and we can't do much."