The Mountain Girl Part 28

"I can't see with you standing there, Frale. I reckon you'll have to sleep here, because it's too late to fill your bed to-night."

"Oh, leave that be and come and sit here with me," he said, dropping on the step where the doctor had sat when she opened her heart to him and told him about her father. It all surged back upon her now. She could not sit there with Frale. "I'll make my bed myself, an' I'll--I'll sleep wharevah you want me to, ef hit's up on the roof or out yandah in the water trough. Come, sit."

"We'll go back on the porch, and I'll take mother's chair. I'm right tired."

"When we git in our own cabin ovah t'othah side Lone Pine, you won't have nothin' to do only tend on me," he said, drawing her to him. He led her across the open s.p.a.ce and placed her gently in her mother's chair on the little porch.

"Now, Frale, sit down there and listen," she said, pointing to the step at her feet where Thryng had sat only a few days before to make out the lease of their land. Everything seemed to cry out to her of him to-night, but she must steel her heart against the thought.

"I'm going to talk to you straight, just what I mean, Frale. You've been talking as you pleased in there, and I 'lowed you to, I was that set back. Anyway, I'd rather talk to you alone. Frale, our promise was made before G.o.d, and you know I will keep to mine. But you must keep to yours, too. Listen at me. Mrs. Towers wrote me you had been drunk twice.

Is that keeping your promise to leave whiskey alone? Is it, Frale?"

"You have somebody down thar watchin' me, an' I hain't n.o.body a-watchin'

you," he said sullenly. She felt degraded by his words.

"Frale, do you know me all these years to think such as that of me now?"

"I tell you he have put a spell on you. I kin feel hit an' see hit. Hit ain't your fault, Ca.s.s. I'd put one on you myself, ef I could. Anyhow, I'll take you out of this fer he have done hit."

"Do you never say that word to me again as long as you live, Frale," she said sternly. "Listen at me, I say. You go back there and work like you said you would--"

"Didn't I tell you that thar houn' dog Giles Teasley war on my scent? I seen him. I got to come back ontwell I c'n git shet o' him."

"And that means another murder! Oh, Frale, Frale!" She covered her face with her hands and moaned. Then they sat silent awhile.

After a little she lifted her head. "Frale, I'll go over to Teasleys'

and beg for them to leave you be. I'll beg Giles Teasley on my knees, I will. Then when you have bided your year and kept your promise like you swore before G.o.d, I'll marry you like I promised, and we'll live here and keep the old place like it ought to be kept. You hear, Frale? Good night, now. It's only fair you should give heed to me, Frale, if I do that for you. Good night."

She glided past him into the house like a wraith, and he rose without a word of reply and stretched himself on the half-made bed in the loom shed, as he was. Sullen and angry, he lay far into the night with the moonlight streaming over him, but he did not sleep, and his mood only grew more bitter and dangerous.

When the first streak of dawn was drawn across the eastern sky, he rose unrefreshed, and began a search, feeling along the rafters high above the bags of cotton. Presently he drew forth an ancient, long-barrelled rifle, and, taking it out into the light, examined it carefully. He rubbed and cleaned the barrel and polished the stock and oiled the hammer and trigger. Then he brought from the same hiding-place a horn of powder and gun wadding, and at last took from his pocket the silver bullet, with which he loaded his old weapon even as he had seen it charged in past days by his father's hand.

Below the house, built over a clear welling spring which ran in a bright little rivulet to the larger stream, was the spring-house. Here, after the warm days came, the milk and b.u.t.ter were kept, and here Frale sauntered down--his gun slung across his arm, his powder-horn at his belt, in his old clothes--with his trousers thrust in his boot-tops--to search for provisions for the day and his breakfast as well. He had no mind to allow the family to oppose his action or reason him out of his course.

He found a jug of b.u.t.termilk placed there the evening before for Hoyle to carry to the doctor in the morning, and slung it by a strap over his shoulder. In one of the sheds lay two chickens, ready dressed to be cut up for the frying-pan, and one of these, with a generous strip of salt pork from the keg of dry salt where it was kept, he dropped in a sack.

He would not enter the house for corn-bread, even though he knew he was welcome to all the home afforded, but planned to arrive at some mountain cabin where friends would give him what he required to complete his stock of food. His gun would provide him with an occasional meal of game, and he thus felt himself prepared for as long a period of ambush as might be necessary.

Before sunrise he was well on his way over the mountain. He did not attempt to go directly to his old haunt, but turned aside and took the trail leading along the ridge--the same Thryng and Ca.s.sandra had taken to go to the cabin of Decatur Irwin. Frale had no definite idea of going there, but took the high ridge instinctively. So long had he been in the low country that he craved now to reach the heights where he might see the far blue distances and feel the strong sweet air blowing past him.

It was much the same feeling that had caused him to thrust his head under the trough of running water the evening before.

As a wild creature loves the freedom of the plains, or an eagle rises and circles about in the blue ether aimless and untrammelled, so this man of the hills moved now in his natural environment, living in the present moment, glad to be above the low levels and out from under all restraint, seeing but a little way into his future, content to satisfy present needs and the cravings of his strong, virile body.

Moments of exaltation and aspiration came to him, as they must come to every one, but they were moments only, and were quickly swept aside and but vaguely comprehended by him. As a child will weep one minute over some creature his heedlessness has hurt and the next forget it all in the pursuit of some new delight, so this child of nature took his way, swayed by his moods and desires--an elemental force, like a swollen torrent taking its vengeful way--forgetful of promises--glad of freedom--angry at being held in restraint, and willing to crush or tear away any opposing force.

At last, breakfastless and weary after his long climb, his sleepless night, and the depression following his talk with Ca.s.sandra the evening before, he paused at the edge of the descent, loath to leave the open height behind him, and stretched himself under a great black cedar to rest. As he lay there dreaming and scheming, with half-shut eyes, he spied below him the bare red patch of soil around the cabin of Decatur Irwin. Instantly he rose and began rapidly to descend.

Decatur was away. He had got a "job of hauling," his wife said, and had to be away all day, but she willingly set herself to bake a fresh corn-cake and make him coffee. He had already taken a little of his b.u.t.termilk, but he did not care for raw salt pork alone. He wanted his corn-bread and coffee,--the staple of the mountaineer.

She talked much, in a languid way, as she worked, and he sat in the doorway. Now and then she asked questions about his home and "Ca.s.sandry," which he answered evasively. She gossiped much about all the happenings and sayings of her neighbors far and near, and complained much, when she came to take pay from him for what she provided, of the times which had come upon them since "Cate had hurt his foot." She told how that fool doctor had come there and taken "hit off, makin' out like Cate'd die of hit ef he didn't," and how "Ca.s.sandry Merlin had done cheated her into goin' off so 't she could bide thar at the cabin alone with that doctah man herself an' he'p him do hit."

With her snuff stick between her yellow teeth and her numerous progeny squatting in the dirt all about the doorway, idly gazing at Frale, she retailed her grievances without reserve. How the wife of Hoke Belew had been "ailin'," and Ca.s.sandra had "be'n thar ev'y day keerin' fer her. I 'low she jes' goes 'cause she 'lows she'll see that doctah man thar an'

ride back with him like she done when she brung him here," said the pallid, spiteful creature, and spat as she talked. "She nevah done that fer me. I be'n sick a heap o' times, an' she hain't nevah come nigh me to do a lick."

Frale was annoyed to hear Ca.s.sandra thus spoken against, for was she not his own? He chose to defend her, while purposely concealing his bitter anger against the doctor. "The' hain't nothin' agin Ca.s.sandry. She's sorter kin to me, an' I 'low the' hain't."

"Naw," said the woman, changing instantly at the threatening tone, "the'

hain't nothin' agin her. I reckon he tells her whar to go, an' she jes'

goes like he tells her."

Frale threw his sack over his shoulder and started on in silence, and the woman smiled evilly after him as she sat there and licked her lips, and chewed on her snuff stick and spat.

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 ma.n.u.script 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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."