The Mountain Girl Part 12

As he pa.s.sed the great holly tree where Ca.s.sandra had sat beside him, he placed his hand on the stone and paused. His heart leaned toward her. He wanted her. Should he go down to her now and refuse to leave her? But no. He had promised. Something warm splashed down upon his hand as he bent over the rock. He sprang up, ashamed to weep, and, seizing the doctor's valise, plunged on through the shadows up the steep ascent.

He had no definite idea of how he would explain his act, for he did not comprehend his own motives. It was only a wordless repugnance that possessed him, vague and sullen, against this man's offered friendship; and his relief was great when he found David asleep before his open door.

Stealthily he entered and placed his burden beneath the couch, gazed a moment at the sleeping face whereon the firelight still played, and softly crept away. Ca.s.sandra should know that she had no need to thank the Englishman for his freedom.

Then came the weary tramp down the mountain, skulking and hiding by day, and struggling on again by night--taking by-paths and unused trails--finding his uncertain way by moonlight and starlight--barked at by dogs, and followed by hounds baying loudly whenever he came near a human habitation--wading icy streams and plunging through gorges to avoid cabins or settlements--keeping life in him by gnawing raw turnips which had been left in the fields ungathered, until at last, pallid, weary, dirty, and utterly forlorn, he found himself, in the half-light of the dawn of the fourth day, near Farington. Shivering with cold, he stole along the village street and hid himself in the bishop's grounds until he should see some one astir in the house.

The bishop had sat late the night before, half expecting him, for he had received Ca.s.sandra's letter, also one from Thryng. Neither letter threw light on Frale's deed, although Ca.s.sandra's gave him to understand that something more serious than illicit distilling had necessitated his flight. David's was a joyous letter, craving his companionship whenever his affairs might bring him near, but expressing the greatest contentment.

When Black Carrie went out to unlock the chicken house door and fetch wood for her morning fire, she screamed with fright as the young man in his wretched plight stepped before her.

"G'long, yo--pore white trash!" she cried.

"I'm no poor white trash," he murmured. "Be Bishop Towah in the house?"

"Co'se he in de haouse. Whar yo s'poses he be dis time de mawnin'?" She made with all haste toward her kitchen, bearing her armful of wood, muttering as she went.

"I reckon I'll set hyar ontwell he kin see me," he said, dropping to the doorstep in sheer exhaustion. And there he was allowed to sit while she prepared breakfast in her own leisurely way, having no intention of disturbing her "white folkses fer no sech trash."

The odor of coffee and hot cakes was maddening to the starving boy, as he watched her through the open door, yet he pa.s.sively sat, withdrawn into himself, seeking in no way either to secure a portion of the food or to make himself known. After a time, he heard faintly voices beyond the kitchen, and knew the family must be there at breakfast, but still he sat, saying nothing.

At last the door of the inner room was burst open, and a child ran out, demanding sc.r.a.ps for her puppy.

"I may! I may, too, feed him in the dining room. Mamma says I may, after we're through."

"Go off, honey chile, mussin' de flo' like dat-a-way fer me to clean up agin. Naw, honey. Go out on de stoop wif yer fool houn' dog." And the tiny, fair girl with her plate of sc.r.a.ps and her small black dog leaping and dancing at her heels, tumbled themselves out where Frale sat.

Scattering her crusts as she ran, she darted back, calling: "Papa, papa!

A man's come. He's here." The small dog further emphasized the fact by barking fiercely at the intruder, albeit from a safe distance.

"Yas," said Carrie, as the bishop came out, led by his little daughter, "he b'en hyar sence long fo' sun-up."

"Why didn't you call me?" he said sternly.

"Sho--how I know anybody wan' see yo, hangin' 'roun' de back do'? He ain' say nuthin', jes' set dar." She continued muttering her crusty dislike of tramps, as the bishop led his caller through her kitchen and sent his little daughter to look after her puppy.

He took Frale into his private study, and presently returned and himself carried him food, placing it before him on a small table where many a hungry caller had been fed before. Then he occupied himself at his desk while he quietly observed the boy. He saw that the youth was too worn and weak to be dealt with rationally at first, and he felt it difficult to affix the thought of a desperate crime upon one so gentle of mien and innocent of face; but he knew his people well, and what masterful pa.s.sions often slept beneath a mild and harmless exterior.

Nor was it the first time he had been called upon to adjust a conflict between his own conscience and the law. Often in his office of priest he had been the recipient of confidences which no human pressure of law could ever wrest from him. So now he proceeded to draw from Frale his full and free confession.

Very carefully and lovingly he trespa.s.sed in the secret chambers of this troubled soul, until at last the boy laid bare his heart.

He told of the cause of his anger and his drunken quarrel, of his evasion of his pursuers and his vow with Ca.s.sandra before G.o.d, of his rejection of Doctor Thryng's help and his flight by night, of his suffering and hunger. All was told without fervor,--a simple pa.s.sive narration of events. No one could believe, while listening to him, that storms of pa.s.sion and hatred and fear had torn him, or the overwhelming longing he had suffered at the thought of Ca.s.sandra.

But when the bishop touched on the subject of repentance, the hidden force was revealed. It was as if the tormenting spirit within him had cried out loudly, instead of the low, monotonous tone in which he said:--

"Yas, I kin repent now he's dade, but ef he war livin' an' riled me agin that-a-way like he done--I reckon--I reckon G.o.d don't want no repentin'

like I repents."

It was steel against flint, the spark in the narrow blue line of his eyes as he said the words, and the bishop understood.

But what to do with this man of the mountains--this force of nature in the wild; how guard him from a far more pernicious element in the civilized town life than any he would find in his rugged solitudes?

And Ca.s.sandra! The bishop bowed his head and sat with the tips of his fingers pressed together. The thought of Ca.s.sandra weighed heavily upon him. She had given her promise, with the devotion of her kind, to save; had truly offered herself a living sacrifice. All hopes for her growth into the gracious womanhood her inheritance impelled her toward,--her sweet ambitions for study, gone to the winds--scattered like the fragrant wild rose petals on her own hillside--doomed by that promise to live as her mother had lived, and like other women of her kin, to age before her time with the bearing of children in the midst of toil too heavy for her--dispirited by privation and the sorrow of relinquished hopes. Oh, well the bishop knew! He dreaded most to see the beautiful light of aspiration die out of her eyes, and her spirit grow sordid in the life to which this untamed savage would inevitably bring her. "What a waste!"

And again he repeated the words, "What a waste!" The youth looked up, thinking himself addressed, but the bishop saw only the girl. It was as if she rose and stood there, dominant in the sweet power of her girlish self-sacrifice, appealing to him to help save this soul. Somehow, at the moment, he failed to appreciate the beauty of such giving. Almost it seemed to him a pity Frale had thus far succeeded in evading his pursuers. It would have saved her in spite of herself had he been taken.

But now the situation was forced upon the bishop, either to give him up, which seemed an arbitrary taking into his own hands of power which belonged only to the Almighty, or to shield him as best he might, giving heed to the thought that even if in his eyes the value of the girl was immeasurably the greater, yet the youth also was valued, or why was he here?

He lifted his head and saw Frale's eyes fixed upon him sadly--almost as if he knew the bishop's thoughts. Yes, here was a soul worth while.

Plainly there was but one course to pursue, and but one thread left to hold the young man to steadfast purpose. Using that thread, he would try. If he could be made to sacrifice for Ca.s.sandra some of his physical joy of life, seeking to give more than to appropriate to himself for his own satisfaction--if he could teach him the value of what she had done--could he rise to such a height, and learn self-control?

The argument for repentance having come back to him void, the bishop began again. "You tell me Ca.s.sandra has given you her promise? What are you going to do about it?"

"Hit's 'twixt her an' me," said the youth proudly.

"No," thundered the bishop, all the man in him roused to beat into this crude, triumphant animal some sense of what Ca.s.sandra had really done.

"No. It's betwixt you and the G.o.d who made you. You have to answer to G.o.d for what you do." He towered above him, and bending down, looked into Frale's eyes until the boy cowered and looked down, with lowered head, and there was silence.

Then the bishop straightened himself and began pacing the room. At last he came to a stand and spoke quietly. "You have Ca.s.sandra's promise; what are you going to do about it?"

Frale did not move or speak, and the bishop felt baffled. What was going on under that pa.s.sive mask he dared not think. To talk seemed futile, like hammering upon a flint wall; but hammer he must, and again he tried.

"You have taken a man's life; do you know what that means?"

"Hangin', I reckon."

"If it were only to hang, boy, it might be better for Ca.s.sandra. Think about it. If I help you, and shield you here, what are you going to do?

What do you care most for in all this world? You who can kill a man and then not repent."

"He hadn't ought to have riled me like he done; I--keer fer her."

"More than for Frale Farwell?"

The boy looked vaguely before him. "I reckon," was all he said.

Again the bishop paced the floor, and waited.

"I hain't afeared to work--right hard."

"Good; what kind of work can you do?" Frale flushed a dark red and was silent. "Yes, I know you can make corn whiskey, but that is the devil's work. You're not to work for him any more."

Again silence. At last, in a low voice, he ventured: "I'll do any kind o' work you-all gin' me to do--ef--ef only the officers will leave me be--an' I tol' Ca.s.s I'd larn writin'."

"Good, very good. Can you drive a horse? Yes, of course."

Frale's eyes shone. "I reckon."