DAVID SPENDS HIS FIRST DAY AT HIS CABIN, AND FRALE MAKES HIS CONFESSION
Doctor Hoyle had built his cabin on one of the pinnacles of the earth,
and David, looking down on blue billowing mountain tops with only the
spaces of the air between him and heaven--between him and the
ocean--between him and his fair English home--felt that he knew why the
old doctor had chosen it.
Seated on a splint-bottomed chair in the doorway, pondering, he thought
first of his mother, with a little secret sorrow that he could not have
taken to his heart the bride she had selected for him, and settled in
his own home to the comfortable ease the wife's wealth would have
secured for him. It was not that the money had been made in commerce; he
was neither a snob nor a cad. Although his own connections entitled him
to honor, what more could he expect than to marry wealth and be happy,
if--if happiness could come to either of them in that way. No, his heart
did not lean toward her; it was better that he should bend to his
profession in a strange land. But not this, to live a hermit's life in a
cabin on a wild hilltop. How long must it be--how long?
Brooding thus, he gazed at the distance of ever paling blue, and
mechanically counted the ranges and peaks below him. An inaccessible
tangle of laurel and rhododendron clothed the rough and precipitous wall
of the mountain side, which fell sheer down until lost in purple shadow,
with a mantle of green, deep and rich, varied by the gray of the
lichen-covered rocks, the browns and reds of the bare branches of
deciduous trees, and the paler tints of feathery pines. Here and there,
from damp, springy places, dark hemlocks rose out of the mass, tall and
majestic, waving their plumy tops, giant sentinels of the wilderness.
Gradually his mood of brooding retrospect changed, and he knew himself
to be glad to his heart's core. He could understand why, out of the
turmoil of the Middle Ages, men chose to go to sequestered places and
become hermits. No tragedies could be in this primeval spot, and here he
would rest and build again for the future. He was pleased to sit thus
musing, for the climb had taken more strength than he could well spare.
His cabin was not yet habitable, for the simple things Doctor Hoyle had
accumulated to serve his needs were still locked in well-built
cupboards, as he had left them.
Thryng meant soon to go to work, to take out the bed covers and air
them, and to find the canvas and nail it over the framework beside the
cabin which was to serve as a sleeping apartment. All should be done in
time. That was a good framework, strongly built, with the corner posts
set deep in the ground to keep it firm on this windswept height, and
with a door in the side of the cabin opening into the canvas room. Ah,
yes, all that the old doctor did was well and thoroughly done.
His appetite sharpened by the climb and the bracing air, David
investigated the contents of one of those melon-shaped baskets which
Cassandra had given him when he started for his new home that morning,
with little Hoyle as his guide.
Ah, what hospitable kindness they had shown to him, a stranger! Here
were delicate bits of fried chicken, sweet and white, corn-bread, a
glass of honey, and a bottle of milk. Nothing better need a man ask; and
what animals men are, after all, he thought, taking delight in the mere
acts of eating and breathing and sleeping.
Utterly weary, he would not trouble to open the cot which lay in the
cabin, but rolled himself in his blanket on the wide, flat rock at the
verge of the mountain. Here, warmed by the sun, he lay with his face
toward the blue distance and slept dreamlessly and soundly,--very
soundly, for he was not awakened by a crackling of the brush and
scrambling of feet struggling up the mountain wall below his hard
resting-place. Yet the sound kept on, and soon a head appeared above the
rock, and two hands were placed upon it; then a strong, catlike spring
landed the lithe young owner of the head only a few feet away from the
sleeper.
It was Frale, his soft felt hat on the back of his head and the curl of
dark hair falling upon his forehead. For an instant, as he gazed on the
sleeping figure, the wild look of fear was in his eyes; then, as he
bethought himself of the words of Aunt Sally, "They is a man thar," the
expression changed to one more malevolent and repulsive, transforming
and aging the boyish face. Cautiously he crept nearer, and peered into
the face of the unconscious Englishman. His hands clinched and his lips
tightened, and he made a movement with his foot as if he would spurn him
over the cliff.
As suddenly the moment passed; he drew back in shame and looked down at
his hands, blood-guilty hands as he knew them to be, and, with lowered
head, he moved swiftly away.
He was a youth again, hungry and sad, stumbling along the untrodden way,
avoiding the beaten path, yet unerringly taking his course toward the
cleft rock at the head of the fall behind the great holly tree. It was
not the food Cassandra had promised him that he wanted now, but to look
into the eyes of one who would pity and love him. Heartsick and weary as
he never had been in all his young life, lonely beyond bearing, he
hurried along.
As he forced a path through the undergrowth, he heard the sound of a
mountain stream, and, seeking it, he followed along its rocky bed,
leaping from one huge block of stone to another, and swinging himself
across by great overhanging sycamore boughs, drawing, by its many
windings, nearer and nearer to the spot where it precipitated itself
over the mountain wall. Ever the noise of the water grew louder, until
at last, making a slight detour, he came upon the very edge of the
descent, where he could look down and see his home nestled in the cove
at the foot of the fall, the blue smoke curling upward from its great
chimney.
He seated himself upon a jutting rock well screened by laurel shrubs on
all sides but the one toward the fall. There, his knees clasped about
with his arms, and his chin resting upon them, he sat and watched.
Behind the leafage and tangle of bare stems and twigs, he was so far
above and so directly over the spot on which his gaze was fixed as to be
out of the usual range of sight from below, thus enabling him to see
plainly what was transpiring about the house and sheds, without himself
being seen.
Long and patiently he waited. Once a dog barked,--his own dog Nig. Some
one must be approaching. What if the little creature should seek him out
and betray him! He quivered with the thought. The day before he had
driven him down the mountain, beating him off whenever he returned.
Should the animal persist in tracking him, he would kill him.
He peered more eagerly down, and saw little Hoyle run out of the cow
shed and twist himself this way and that to see up and down the road.
Both the child and the dog seemed excited. Yes, there they were, three
horsemen coming along the highway. Now they were dismounting and
questioning the boy. Now they disappeared in the house. He did not move.
Why were they so long within? Hours, it seemed to Frale, but in reality
it was only a short search they were making there. They were longer
looking about the sheds and yard. Hoyle accompanied them everywhere, his
hands in his pockets, standing about, shivering with excitement.
All around they went peering and searching, thrusting their arms as far
as they could reach into the stacks of fodder, looking into troughs and
corn sacks, setting the fowls to cackling wildly, even hauling out the
long corn stalks from the wagon which had served to make Thryng's ride
the night before comfortable. No spot was overlooked.
Frequently they stood and parleyed. Then Frale's heart would sink within
him. What if they should set Nig to track him! Ah, he would strangle the
beast and pitch him over the fall. He would spring over after him before
he would let himself be taken and hanged. Oh, he could feel the
strangling rope around his neck already! He could not bear it--he could
not!
Thus cowering, he waited, starting at every sound from below as if to
run, then sinking back in fear, breathless with the pounding of his
heart in his breast. Now the voices came up to him painfully clear. They
were talking to little Hoyle angrily. What they were saying he could not
make out, but he again cautiously lifted his head and looked below.
Suddenly the child drew back and lifted his arm as if to ward off a
blow, but the blow came. Frale saw one of the men turn as he mounted his
horse to ride away, and cut the boy cruelly across his face and arm with
his rawhide whip. The little one's shriek of fright and pain pierced his
big brother to the heart and caused him to forget for the moment his own
abject fear.
He made as if he would leap the intervening space to punish the brute,
but a cry of anger died in his throat as he realized his situation. The
selfishness of his fear, however, was dispelled, and he no longer
cringed as before, but had the courage again to watch, awake and alert
to all that passed beneath him.
Hoyle's cry brought Cassandra out of the house flying. She walked up to
the man like an angry tigress. Frale rose to his knees and strained
eagerly forward.
"If you are such a coward you must hit something small and weak, you can
strike a woman. Hit me," she panted, putting the child behind her.
Muttering, the man rode sullenly away. "He no business hangin' roun'
we-uns, list'nin' to all we say."
Frale could not make out the words, but his face burned red with rage.
Had he been in hiding down below, he would have wreaked vengeance on the
man; as it was, he stood up and boldly watched them ride away in the
opposite direction from which they had come.
He sank back and waited, and again the hours passed. All was still but
the rushing water and the gentle soughing of the wind in the tops of the
towering pines. At last he heard a rustling and sniffing here and there.
His heart stood still, then pounded again in terror. They had--they had
set Nig to track him. Of course the dog would seek for his old friend
and comrade, and they--they would wait until they heard his bark of joy,
and then they would seize him.
He crept close to the rock where the water rushed, not a foot away, and
clinging to the tough laurel behind him, leaned far over. To drop down
there would mean instant death on the rocks below. It would be
terrible--almost as horrible as the strangling rope. He would wait until
they were on him, and then--nearer and nearer came the erratic trotting
and scratching of the dog among the leaves--and then, if only he could
grapple with the man who had struck his little brother, he would drag
him over with him. A look of fierce joy leaped in his eyes, which were
drawn to a narrow blue gleam as he waited.
Suddenly Nig burst through the undergrowth and sprang to his side, but
before the dog could give his first bark of delight the yelp was crushed
in his throat, and he was hurled with the mighty force of frenzy, a
black, writhing streak of animate nature into the rushing water, and
there swept down, tossed on the rocks, taken up and swirled about and
thrown again upon the rocks, no longer animate, but a part of nature's
own, to return to his primal elements.
It was done, and Frale looked at his hands helplessly, feeling himself a
second time a murderer. Yet he was in no way more to blame for the first
than for this. As yet a boy untaught by life, he had not learned what to
do with the forces within him. They rose up madly and mastered him. With
a man's power to love and hate, a man's instincts, his untamed nature
ready to assert itself for tenderness or cruelty, without a man's
knowledge of the necessity for self-control, where some of his kind
would have been inert and listless, his inheritance had made him intense
and fierce. Loving and gentle and kind he could be, yet when stirred by
liquor, or anger, or fear,--most terrible.
His deed had been accomplished with such savage deftness that none
pursuing could have guessed the tragedy. They might have waited long in
the open spaces for the dog's return or the sound of his joyous yelp of
recognition, but the sacrifice was needless. The affectionate creature
had been searching on his own behalf, careless of the blows with which
his master had driven him from his side the day before.
Trembling, Frale crouched again. The silence was filled with pain for
him. The moments swept on, even as the water rushed on, and the sun
began to drop behind the hills, leaving the hollows in deepening purple
gloom. At last, deeming that the search for the time must have been
given up, he crept cautiously toward the great holly tree, not for food,
but for hope. There, back in the shadow, he sat on a huge log, his head
bowed between his hands, and listened.
Presently the silence was broken by a gentle stirring of the fallen
leaves, not erratically this time, only a steady moving forward of human
feet. Again Frale's heart bounded and the red sought his cheek, but now
with a new emotion. He knew of but one footstep which would advance
toward his ambush in that way. Peering out from among the deepest
shadows, he watched the spot where Cassandra had promised food should be
placed for him, his eyes no longer a narrow slit of blue, but wide and
glad, his face transformed from the strain of fear with eager joy.
Soon she emerged, walking wearily. She carried a bundle of food tied in
a cloth, and an old overcoat of rough material trailed over one arm.
These she deposited on the flat stone, then stood a moment leaning
against the smooth gray hole of the holly tree, breathing quickly from
the exertion of the steep climb.
Her eyes followed the undulating line of the mountain above them, rising
tree-fringed against the sky, to where the highest peak cut across the
setting sun, haloed by its long rays of gold. No cloud was there, but
sweeping down the mountain side were the earth mists, glowing with
iridescent tints, draping the crags and floating over the purple
hollows, the verdure of the pines showing through it all, gilded and
glorified.
Cassandra waiting there might have been the dryad of the tree come out
to worship in the evening light and grow beautiful. So Thryng would have
thought, could he have seen her with the glow on her face, and in her
eyes, and lighting up the fires in her hair; but no such classic dream
came to the youth lingering among the shadows, ashamed to appear before
her, bestowing on her a dumb adoration, unformed and wordless.
Because his friend had maudlinly boasted that he was the better man in
her eyes, and could any day win her for himself, he had killed him.
Despite all the anguish the deed had wrought in his soul, he felt
unrepentant now, as his eyes rested on her. He would do it again, and
yet it was that very boast that had first awakened in his heart such
thought of her.
For years Cassandra had been as his sister, although no tie of blood
existed between them, but suddenly the idea of possession had sprung to
life in him, when another had assumed the right as his. Frale had not
looked on her since that moment of revelation, of which she was so
ignorant and so innocent. Now, filled with the shame of his deed and his
desires, he stood in a torment of longing, not daring to move. His knees
shook and his arms ached at his sides, and his eyes filled with hot
tears.
Quickly the sun dropped below the edge of the mountain. Cassandra drew a
long sigh, and the glow left her face. She looked an instant lingeringly
at the articles she had brought, and turned sadly away. Then he took a
step toward her with hands outstretched, forgetful of his shame, and
all, except that she was slipping away from him. Arrested by the sound
of his feet among the leaves, she spoke.
"Frale, are you there?" Her voice was low as if she feared other ears
than his might hear.
He did not move again, and speak he could not, for remembrance rushed
back stiflingly and overwhelmed him. Descrying his white face in the
shadow, a pity as deep as his shame filled her heart and drew her
nearer.
"Why, Frale, come out here. No one can see you, only me."
Still tongue-tied by his emotion, he came into the light and stood near
her. In dismay she looked up in his face. The big boy brother who had
taken her to the little Carew Crossing station only two months before,
rough and prankish as the colt he drove, but gentle withal, was gone. He
who stood at her side was older. Anger had left its mark about his
mouth, and fear had put a strange wildness in his eyes--but--there was
something else in his reckless, set lips that hurt her. She shrank from
him, and he took a step closer. Then she placed a soothing hand on his
arm and perceived he was quivering. She thought she understood, and the
soft pity moistened her eyes and deepened in her heart.
"Don't be afraid, Frale; they're gone long ago, and won't come back--not
for a while, I reckon."
He smiled faintly, never taking his eyes from her face. "I hain't
afeared o' them. I hev been, but--" He shook her hand from his arm and
made as if he would push her away, then suddenly he leaned toward her
and caught her in his arms, clasping her so closely that she could feel
his wildly beating heart.
"Frale, Frale! Don't, Frale. You never used to do me this way."
"No, I never done you this-a-way. I wisht I had. I be'n a big fool." He
kissed her, the first kisses of his young manhood, on brow and cheeks
and lips, in spite of her useless writhings. He continued muttering as
he held her: "I sinned fer you. I killed a man. He said he'd hev you. He
'lowed he'd go down yander to the school whar you war at an' marry you
an' fetch you back. I war a fool to 'low you to go thar fer him to
foller an' get you. I killed him. He's dade."
The short, interrupted sentences fell on her ears like blows. She ceased
struggling and, drooping upon his bosom, wept, sobbing heart-brokenly.
"Oh, Frale!" she moaned, "if you had only told me, I could have given
you my promise and you would have known he was lying and spared him and
saved your own soul." He little knew the strength of his arms as he held
her. "Frale! I am like to perish, you are hurting me so."
He loosed her and she sank, a weary, frightened heap, at his feet. Then
very tenderly he gathered her in his arms and carried her to the great
flat rock and placed her on the old coat she had brought him.
"You know I wouldn't hurt you fer the hull world, Cass." He knelt beside
her, and throwing his arms across her lap buried his face in her dress,
still trembling with his unmastered emotion. She thought him sobbing.
"Can you give me your promise now, Cass?"
"Now? Now, Frale, your hands are blood-guilty," she said, slowly and
hopelessly.
He grew cold and still, waiting in the silence. His hands clutched her
clothing, but he did not lift his head. He had shed blood and had lost
her. They might take him and hang him. At last he told her so, brokenly,
and she knew not what to do.
Gently she placed her hand on his head and drew the thick silken hair
through her fingers, and the touch, to his stricken soul, was a
benediction. The pity of her cooled the fever in his blood and swept
over his spirit the breath of healing. For the first time, after the
sin and the horror of it, after the passion and its anguish, came
tears. He wept and wiped his tears with her dress.
Then she told him how her mother had been hurt. How Hoyle had driven the
half-broken colt and the mule all the way to Carew's alone, to bring her
home, and how he had come nigh being killed. How a gentleman had helped
her when the colt tried to run and the mule was mean, and how she had
brought him home with her.
Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his haggard face drawn with
suffering, and the calmness of her eyes still further soothed and
comforted him. They were filled with big tears, and he knew the tears
were for him, for the change which had come upon him, lonely and
wretched, doomed to hide out on the mountain, his clothes torn by the
brambles and soiled by the red clay of the holes into which he had
crawled to hide himself. He rose and sat at her side and held her head
on his shoulder with gentle hand.
"Pore little sister--pore little Cass! I been awful mean an' bad," he
murmured. "Hit's a badness I cyan't 'count fer no ways. When I seed that
thar doctah man--I reckon hit war him I seed lyin' asleep up yander on
Hangin' Rock--a big tall man, right thin an' white in the face--" he
paused and swallowed as if loath to continue.
"Frale!" she cried, and would have drawn away but that he held her.
"I didn't hurt him, Cass. I mount hev. I lef' him lie thar an' never
woke him nor teched him, but--I felt hit here--the badness." He struck
his chest with his fist. "I lef' thar fast an' come here. Ever sence I
killed Ferd, hit's be'n follerin' me that-a-way. I reckon I'm cursed to
hell-fire fer hit now, ef they take me er ef they don't--hit's all one;
hit's thar whar I'm goin' at the las'."
"Frale, there is a way--"
"Yes, they is one way--only one. Ef you'll give me your promise, Cass,
I'll get away down these mountains, an' I'll work; I'll work hard an'
get you a house like one I seed to the settlement, Cass, I will. Hit's
you, Cass. Ever sence Ferd said that word, I be'n plumb out'n my hade.
Las' night I slep' in Wild Cat Hole, an' I war that hungered an' lone, I
tried to pray like your maw done teached me, an' I couldn' think of
nothin' to say, on'y just, 'Oh, Lord, Cass!' That-a-way--on'y your
name, Cass, Cass, all night long."
"I reckon Satan put my name in your heart, Frale; 'pears to me like it
is sin."
"Naw! Satan nevah put your name thar. He don't meddle with sech as you.
He war a-tryin' to get your name out'n my heart, that's what he war
tryin', fer he knowed I'd go bad right quick ef he could. Hit war your
name kep' my hands off'n that doctah man thar on the rock. Give me your
promise now, Cass. Hit'll save me."
"Then why didn't it save you from killing Ferd?" she asked.
"O Gawd!" he moaned, and was silent.
"Listen, Frale," she said at last. "Can't you see it's sin for you and
me to sit here like this--like we dared to be sweethearts, when you have
shed blood for this? Take your hands off me, and let me go down to
mothah."
Slowly his hold relaxed and his head drooped, but he did not move his
arms. She pushed them gently from her and stood a moment looking down at
him. His arms dropped upon the stone at his side, listless and empty,
and again her pitying soul reached out to him and enveloped him.
"Frale, there is just one way that I can give you my promise," she said.
He held out his arms to her. "No, I can't sit that way; you can see
that. The good book says, 'Ye must repent and be born again.'" He
groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Then you would be a new
man, without sin. I reckon you have suffered a heap, and repented a
heap--since you did that, Frale?"
"I'm 'feared--I'm 'feared ef he war here an' riled me agin like he done
that time--I'm 'feared I'd do hit agin--like he war talkin' 'bouts you,
Cass." He rose and stood close to her.
The soft dusk was wrapping them about, and she began to fear lest she
lose her control over him. She took up the bundle of food and placed it
in his hand.
"Here, take this, and the coat, too, Frale. Come down and have suppah
with mothah and me to-night, and sleep in your own bed. They won't
search here for one while, I reckon, and you'll be safah than hiding in
Wild Cat Hole. Hoyle heard them say they reckoned you'd lit off down
the mountain, and were hiding in some near-by town. They'll hunt you
there first; come."
She walked on, and he obediently followed. "When we get nigh the house,
I'll go first and see if the way is clear. You wait back. If I want you
to run, I'll call twice, quick and sharp, but if I want you to come
right in, I'll call once, low and long."
After that no word was spoken. They clambered down the steep, winding
path, and not far from the house she left him. She wondered Nig did not
bound out to greet her, but supposed he must be curled up near the
hearth in comfort. Frale also thought of the dog as he sat cowering
under the laurel shrubs, and set his teeth in anguish and sorrow.
"Cass'll hate hit when she finds out," he muttered.
After a moment, waiting and listening, he heard her long, low call float
out to him. Falling on his hurt spirit, it sounded heavenly sweet.