IN WHICH FRALE GOES DOWN TO FARINGTON IN HIS OWN WAY
Frale felt himself exalted by the oath he had sworn to Cassandra, as if
those words had lifted the burden from his heart, and taken away the
stain. As he walked away in his disguise, it seemed to him that he had
acted under an irresistible spell cast upon him by this Englishman, who
was to bide so near Cassandra--to be seen by her every day--to be
admired by her, while he, who had the first right, must hide himself
away from her, shielding himself in that man's clothes. Fine as they
seemed to him, they only abashed him and filled him with a sense of
obligation to a man he dreaded.
Like a child, realizing his danger only when it was close upon him, his
old recklessness returned, and he moved down the path with his head held
high, looking neither to the right nor to the left, planning how he
might be rid of these clothes and evade his pursuers unaided. The men,
climbing toward him as he descended, hearing his footsteps above them,
parted and stood watching, only half screened by the thick-leaved
shrubs, not ten feet from him on either side; but so elated was he, and
eager in his plans, that he passed them by, unseeing, and thus Thryng's
efforts saved him in spite of himself; for so amazed were they at the
presence of such a traveller in such a place that they allowed him to
pass unchallenged until he was too far below them to make speech
possible. Later, when they found David seated on his rock, they assumed
the young man to be a friend, and thought no further of it.
Frale soon left the path and followed the stream to the head of the
fall, where he lingered, tormented by his own thoughts and filled with
conflicting emotions, in sight of his home.
To go down to the settlement and see the world had its allurements, but
to go in this way, never to return, never to feel again the excitement
of his mountain life, evading the law and conquering its harassments,
was bitter. It had been his joy and delight in life to feel himself
masterfully triumphant over those set to take him, too cunning to be
found, too daring and strong to be overcome, to take desperate chances
and win out; all these he considered his right and part of the game of
life. But to slink away like a hunted fox followed by the dogs of the
law because, in a blind frenzy, he had slain his own friend! What if he
had promised to repent; there was the law after him still!
If only his fate were a tangible thing, to be grappled with! To meet a
foe and fight hand to hand to the death was not so hard as to yield
himself to the inevitable. Sullenly he sat with his head in his hands,
and life seemed to stretch before him, leading to a black chasm. But one
ray of light was there to follow--"Cass, Cass." If only he would accept
the help offered him and go to the station, take his seat in the train,
and find himself in Farington, while still his pursuers were scouring
the mountains for him, he might--he might win out. Moodily and
stubbornly he resisted the thought.
At last, screened by the darkness, he turned out his soiled and torn
garments, and divesting himself of every article Thryng had given him,
he placed them carefully in the valise. Then, relieved of one
humiliation, he set himself again on the path toward Hanging Rock cabin.
As he passed the great holly tree where Cassandra 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. Cassandra 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 Cassandra's letter, also one from Thryng. Neither letter threw
light on Frale's deed, although Cassandra'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 passively 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 scraps 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 scraps 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
passions 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 trespassed 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 Cassandra before God, 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 passive
narration of events. No one could believe, while listening to him, that
storms of passion and hatred and fear had torn him, or the overwhelming
longing he had suffered at the thought of Cassandra.
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 God 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 Cassandra! The bishop bowed his head and sat with the tips of his
fingers pressed together. The thought of Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 Cassandra had really done.
"No. It's betwixt you and the God who made you. You have to answer to
God 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 Cassandra'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 passive 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 Cassandra. 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' Cass I'd larn writin'."
"Good, very good. Can you drive a horse? Yes, of course."
Frale's eyes shone. "I reckon."
The bishop grew more hopeful. The holy greed for souls fell upon him.
The young man must be guarded and watched; he must be washed and
clothed, as well as fed, and right here the little wife must be
consulted. He went out, leaving the youth to himself, and sought his
brown-eyed, sweet-faced little wisp of a woman, where she sat writing
his most pressing business letters for him.
"Dearest, may I interrupt you?"
"In a minute, James; in a minute. I'll just address these."
He dropped into a deep chair and waited, with troubled eyes regarding
her. "There!" She rubbed vigorously down on the blotter. "These are all
done, every blessed one, James. Now what?"
In an instant she was curled up, feet and all, like a kitten in his lap,
her small brown head, its wisps of fine, straight hair straying over
temples and rounded cheeks, tucked comfortably under his chin; and thus
every point was carefully talked over.
With many exclamations of anxiety and doubt, and much discreet
suggestion from the small adviser, it was at last settled. Frale was to
be properly clothed from the missionary boxes sent every year from the
North. He should stay with them for a while until a suitable place could
be found for him. Above all things he must be kept out of bad company.
"Oh, dear! Poor Cassandra! After all her hopes--and she might have done
so much for her people--if only--" Tears stood in the brown eyes and
even ran over and dropped upon the bishop's coat and had to be carefully
wiped off, for, as he feelingly remarked,--
"I can't go about wearing my wife's tears in plain view, now, can I?"
And then Doctor Hoyle's young friend--she must hear his letter. How
interesting he must be! Couldn't they have him down? And when the bishop
next went up the mountain, might she accompany him? Oh, no. The trip was
not too rough. It was quite possible for her. She would go to see
Cassandra and the old mother. "Poor Cassandra!"
But the self-respecting old stepmother and her daughter did not allow
these kind friends to trespass on any missionary supplies, for Uncle
Jerry was despatched down the mountain with a bundle on the back of his
saddle, which was quietly left at the bishop's door; and Frale next
appeared in a neat suit of homespun, home woven and dyed, and home-made
clothing.