The Mountain Girl Part 18

"Drink it; drink it and go to sleep. Yes, yes. I'll have some, too."

"Ca.s.s, you lie still and do as doctah says. You nigh about dade, child.

If only I could get off'n this bed an' walk a leetle, I'd 'a' had your place all ready fer ye, Doctah. The' is a featheh bade up garret, if ye could tote hit down an' drap on the floor here fer--"

David laughed cheerily. "Why, this is nothing for me." He stood turning himself about to dry his clothing on all sides before the blaze. "As soon as Miss Ca.s.sandra closes her eyes and sleeps, I will look after myself. It's a shame to bring all these wet things in here, I say!"

"You are a-steamin' like you are a steam engine," piped little Hoyle, peering at him over his mother's shoulder from the far corner of her bed.

"You lie down and go to sleep again, youngster," said David.

And gradually they all fell asleep, while Thryng sat long before the fire and pondered until Ca.s.sandra slept. Once and again a deep quivering sigh trembled through her parted lips, as he watched beside her. A warm rose hue played over her still features, cast by the dancing red flames, and her hair in a dishevelled ma.s.s swept across the pillow and down to the floor. At last the rain ceased; warmed and dried, Thryng stole away from the silent house and rode back to his own cabin.

CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH SPRING COMES TO THE MOUNTAINS, AND Ca.s.sANDRA TELLS DAVID OF HER FATHER

Ere long such a spring as David had never dreamed of swept up the mountain, with a charm so surpa.s.sing 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 Ca.s.sandra's ministrations he often took her with him; thus they fell naturally into good camaraderie. Thus, also, quite as naturally, Ca.s.sandra'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 pa.s.sed, 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 b.u.t.ter pats in the spring. Sometimes a brown, earthen jug of cool, refreshing b.u.t.termilk 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."

"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 say teasingly. "Don't I ever deserve a visit?"

"Ca.s.s don't get time fer visitin' these days. Since Frale lef' she have all his work an' hern too on her, an' mine too, only the leetle help she gets out'n Hoyle, an' hit hain't much," said the mother. "Doctah, don't ye 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."

Ca.s.sandra loved to watch David attend on her mother, so tender was he; and he adopted a playful manner that always dispelled her pessimism and left her smiling and talkative. Ere he was aware, also, he made a place for himself In Ca.s.sandra's heart when he became interested in the case of her little brother, and attempted gradually to overcome his deformity.

Every morning when the child climbed to his eyrie and brought his supply of 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 he soon saw that a more strenuous course would be the only way to bring permanent 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 five year ago that come on him. He had fevah, an' a right smart o' times when we thought he war a-gettin' bettah he jes' went back, ontwell he began to kind o' draw sideways this-a-way, an' he hain't nevah been straight sence, an' he has been that sickly, too. When doctah saw him last, he war nigh three year old an' straight as they make 'em, an' fat--you couldn'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 Ca.s.s some.

Hoyle, he's a heap o' help, with me not able to do a lick. He can milk nigh 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. Ca.s.s, she got to get on with th' weavin'. We promised bed kivers an' such fer Miss 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, only what chick'ns 'nd aigs she can raise fer the hotel, too. Hit's only in summah. I don't rightly see how we can spare Hoyle."

"Where's Miss Ca.s.sandra now?" he asked, only more determined on his course the more he was hampered by circ.u.mstances.

"She's in the loom shed weavin'. I throwed on the warp fer a blue and white bed kiver 'fore I war hurt, an' she hain't had time to more'n half finish hit. I war helpin' to get the weavin' done whilst she war at school this winter, an' come spring she war 'lowin' to come back an'

help Frale with the plantin' an' makin' c.r.a.p fer next year. Here in the mountains we-uns have to be forehanded, an' here I be an' can't crawl scarcely yet."

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

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

"I don't know what-all we can do ef we can't make a c.r.a.p. We won't have no corn nor nothin', an' nothin' to feed stock, let alone we-uns. We'll be in a fix just like all the poor white trash, me not able to do a lick."

David came and sat beside her a few moments and said a great many comforting things, and when he rose to go the world had taken on a new aspect for her eyes--bright, dark eyes, looking up at him with a gleam of 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 young girl as she sat swaying rhythmically, throwing the shuttles with a sweep of her arm, and drawing the great beam toward her with steady beat, driving the threads in place, and shifting the veil of warp stretched before her with a sure touch of her feet upon the treadles, all her lithe body intent and atune. It seemed to him as he sat himself on the step to watch, that music must come from the flow of her action. The noise of the loom prevented her hearing his approach, and silently he watched and waited, fascinated in seeing the fabric grow under her hand.

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

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

"Please don't go. Stay here and talk to me a moment. Your mother is all right; I have just been with her. May I examine what you have been doing? It is very interesting to me, you know." He made her show him all the manner of her work and drew her on to tell him of the different patterns 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 Miss Mayhew at the hotel last summer--I told you about her--sold some of mother's work up North, and I promised more, but I'm afraid--I don't guess I can get it all done now."

"You are tired. Sit here on the step awhile with me and rest. I want to talk to you a little, and I want you alone." She looked hesitatingly toward 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't let me say what I often have in mind to ask you." She sat beside him where he placed her and looked wonderingly into his face, but not in the least as if she feared what his question might be, or as if she suspected anything personal. "You know it's not right that this sort of thing should go on indefinitely?"

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

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

She looked off toward the mountain top and slowly drew her hand from his. "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.