IN WHICH DAVID THRYNG MAKES A DISCOVERY
Standing on the great hanging rock before his cabin, Thryng imagined
himself absolutely solitary in the centre of a wide wilderness. Even the
Fall Place, where lived the Widow Farwell, although so near, was not
visible from this point; but when he began exploring the region about
him, now on foot and now on horseback, he discovered it to be really a
country of homes.
Every mule path branching off into what seemed an inaccessible wild led
to some cabin, often set in a hollow on a few acres of rich soil,
watered by a never failing spring, where the forest growth had been cut
away to make cultivation possible. Sometimes the little log house would
be perched like a lonely eagle's nest on a mere shelflike ledge jutting
out from the mountain wall, but always below it or above it or off at
one side he found the inevitable pocket of rich soil accumulated by the
wash of years, where enough corn and cow-peas could be raised for
cattle, and cotton and a few sheep to provide material for clothing the
family, with a few fowls and pigs to provide their food.
Here they lived, those isolated people, in quiet independence and
contented poverty, craving little and often having less, caring nothing
for the great world outside their own environment, looking after each
other in times of sickness and trouble, keeping alive the traditions of
their forefathers, and clinging to the ancient family feuds and
friendships from generation to generation.
David soon learned that they had among themselves their class
distinctions, certain among them holding their heads high, in the
knowledge of having a self-respecting ancestry, and training their
children to reckon themselves no "common trash," however much they
deprecated showing the pride that was in them.
Many days passed after Frale's departure before David learned more of
the young man's unhappy deed. He had gone down to give the old mother
some necessary care and, finding her alone, remained to talk with her.
Pleased with her quaint expressions and virile intellect, he led her on
to speak of her youth; and one morning, weary of the solitude and
silence, she poured out tales of Cassandra's father, and how, after his
death, she "came to marry Farwell." She told of her own mother, and the
hard times that fell upon them during the bitter days of the Civil War.
The traditions of her family were dear to her, and she was well pleased
to show this young doctor who had found the key to her warm, yet
reserved, heart that she "wa'n't no common trash," and her "chillen
wa'n't like the run o' chillen."
"Seems like I'm talkin' a heap too much o' we-uns," she said, at last.
"No, no. Go on. You say you had no school; how did you learn? You were
reading your Bible when I came in."
"No. Thar wa'n't no schools in my day, not nigh enough fer me to go to.
Maw, she could read, an' write, too, but aftah paw jined the ahmy, she
had to work right ha'd and had nothin' to do with. Paw, he had to jine
one side or t'othah. Some went with the North and some went with the
South,--they didn't keer much. The' wa'n't no niggahs up here to fight
ovah. But them war cruel times when the bushwackers come searchin'
'round an' raidin' our homes. They were a bad lot--most of 'em war
desertahs from both ahmies. We-uns war obleeged to hide in the bresh or
up the branch--anywhar we could find a place to creep into. Them were
bad times fer the women an' chillen left at home.
"Maw used to save ev'y scrap of papah she could find with printin' on
hit to larn we-uns our lettahs off'n. One time come 'long a right decent
captain and axed maw could she get he an' his men suthin' to eat. He had
nigh about a dozen sogers with him; an' maw, she done the bes' she
could,--cooked corn-bread, an' chick'n an' sich. I c'n remember how he
sot right on the hearth where you're settin' now, an' tossed flapjacks
fer th' hull crowd.
"He war right civil when he lef', an' said he'd like to give maw
suthin', but they hadn't nothin' but Confed'rate money, an' hit wa'n't
worth nothin' up here; an' maw said would he give her the newspapah he
had. She seed the end of hit standin' out of his pocket; an' he laughed
and give hit out quick, an' axed her what did she want with hit; and she
'lowed she could teach me a heap o' readin' out o' that papah, an' he
laughed again, an' said likely, fer that hit war worth more'n the money.
All the schoolin' I had war just that thar papah, an' that old
spellin'-book you see on the shelf; I c'n remembah how maw come by that,
too."
"Tell me how she came by the spelling-book, will you?"
"Hit war about that time. Paw, he nevah come home again. I cyan't
remembah much 'bouts my paw. Maw used to say a heap o' times if she only
had a spellin'-book like she used to larn out'n, 'at she could larn
we-uns right smart. Well, one day one o' the neighbors told her 'at he'd
seed one at Gerret's, ovah t'othah side Lone Pine Creek, nigh about
eight mile, I reckon; an' she 'lowed she'd get hit. So she sont we-uns
ovah to Teasley's mill--she war that scared o' the Gorillas she didn't
like leavin' we-uns home alone--an' she walked thar an' axed could she
do suthin' to earn that thar book; an' ol' Miz Gerret, she 'lowed if
maw'd come Monday follerin' an' wash fer her, 'at she mount have hit.
Them days we-uns an' the Teasleys war right friendly. The' wa'n't no
feud 'twixt we-uns an' Teasleys then--but now I reckon thar's bound to
be blood feud." She spoke very sadly and waited, leaving the tale of the
spelling-book half told.
"Why must there be 'blood feud' now? Why can't you go on in the old
way?"
"Hit's Frale done hit. He an' Ferd'nan' Teasley, they set up 'stillin'
ovah in Dark Cornder yandah. Hit do work a heap o' trouble, that thar. I
reckon you-uns don't have nothin' sich whar you come from?"
"We have things quite as bad. So they quarrelled, did they?"
"Yaas, they quarrelled, an' they fit."
"No doubt they had been drinking."
"Yas, I reckon."
"But just a drunken quarrel between those two ought not to affect all
the rest. Couldn't you patch it up among you, and keep the boy at home?
You must need his help on the place."
"We need him bad here, but the' is no way fer to make up an' right a
blood feud. Frale done them mean. He lifted his hand an' killed his
friend. Hit war Sunday evenin' he done hit. They had been havin' a
singin' thar at the mill, an' preachah, he war thar too, an' all war
kind an' peaceable; an' Ferd an' Frale, they sot out fer thar
'still'--Ferd on foot an' Frale rid'n' his horse--the one you have
now--they used to go that-a-way, rid'n' turn about--one horse with them
an' one horse kep' alluz hid nigh the 'still' lest the gov'nment men
come on 'em suddent like. Frale, he war right cute, he nevah war come up
with.
"'Pears like they stopped 'fore they'd gone fer, disputin' 'bouts
somethin'. Ol' Miz Teasley say she heered ther voices high an' loud, an'
then she heered a shot right quick, that-a-way, an' nothin' more; an'
she sont ol' man Teasley an' the preachah out, an' the hull houseful
follered, an' thar they found Ferd lyin' shot dade--an' Frale--he an'
the horse war gone. Ferd, he still held his own gun in his hand tight,
like he war goin' to shoot, with the triggah open an' his fingah on
hit--but he nevah got the chance. Likely if he had, hit would have been
him a-hidin' now, an' Frale dade. I reckon so."
Thryng listened in silence. It made him think of the old tales of the
Scottish border. So, in plain words, the young man was a murderer. With
deep pity he recalled the haunted look in Frale's eyes, and the sadness
that trembled around Cassandra's lips as she said, "I reckon there is no
trouble worse than ours." A thought struck him, and he asked:--
"Do you know what they quarrelled about?"
"He nevah let on what-all was the fuss. Likely he told Cass, but she is
that still. Hit's right hard to raise a blood feud thar when we-uns an'
the Teasleys alluz war friends. She took keer o' me when my chillen
come, an' I took keer o' her with hern. Ferd'nan' too, he war like my
own, fer I nursed him when she had the fever an' her milk lef' her. Cass
war only three weeks old then, an' he war nigh on a year, but that
little an' sickly--he like to 'a' died if I hadn't took him." She paused
and wiped away a tear that trickled down the furrow of her thin cheek.
"If hit war lef' to us women fer to stir 'em up, I reckon thar wouldn't
be no feuds, fer hit's hard on we-uns when we're friendly, an' Ferd like
my own boy that-a-way."
"But perhaps--" David spoke musingly--"perhaps it was a woman who
stirred up the trouble between them."
The widow looked a moment with startled glance into his face, then
turned her gaze away. "I reckon not. The' is no woman far or near as I
evah heern o' Frale goin' with."
Still pondering, David rose to go, but quickly resumed his seat, and
turned her thoughts again to the past. He would not leave her thus sad
at heart.
"Won't you finish telling me about the spelling-book?"
"I forget how come hit, but maw didn't leave we chillen to Teasleys'
that day she went to do the washin'. Likely Miz Teasley war sick--anyway
she lef' us here. She baked corn-bread--hit war all we had in the house
to eat them days, an' she fotched water fer the day, an' kivered up the
fire. Then she locked the door an' took the key with her, an' tol'
we-uns did we hear a noise like anybody tryin' to get in, to go up
garret an' make out like thar wa'n't nobody to home. The' war three o'
us chillen. I war the oldest. We war Caswells, my fam'ly. My little
brothah Whitson, he war sca'cely more'n a baby, runnin' 'round pullin'
things down on his hade whar he could reach, an Cotton war mos' as much
keer--that reckless."
She paused and smiled as she recalled the cares of her childhood, then
wandered on in her slow narration. "They done a heap o' things that day
to about drive me plumb crazy, an' all the time we was thinkin' we
heered men talkin' or horses trompin' outside, an' kep' ourselves right
busy runnin' up garret to hide.
"Along towa'ds night hit come on to snow, an' then turned to rain, a
right cold hard rain, an' we war that cold an' hungry--an' Whit, he
cried fer maw,--an' hit come dark an' we had et all the' war to eat long
before, so we had no suppah, an' the poor leetle fellers war that cold
an' shiverin' thar in the dark--I made 'em climb into bed like they war,
an' kivered 'em up good, an' thar I lay tryin' to make out like I war
maw, gettin' my arms 'round both of 'em to oncet. Whit cried hisself to
sleep, but Cotton he kep' sayin' he heered men knockin' 'round outside,
an' at last he fell asleep, too. He alluz war a natch'ly skeered kind o'
child.
"Then I lay thar still, list'nin' to the rain beat on the roof, an'
thinkin' would maw ever get back again, an' list'nin' to hear her
workin' with the lock--hit war a padlock on the outside--an' thar I must
o' drapped off to sleep that-a-way, fer I didn't hear nothin', no more
until I woke up with a soft murmurin' sound in my ears, an' thar I seed
maw. The rain had stopped an' hit war mos' day, I reckon, with a mornin'
moon shinin' in an' fallin' on her whar she knelt by the bed, clost nigh
to me. I can see hit now, that long line o' white light streamin' acrost
the floor an' fallin' on her, makin' her look like a white ghost spirit,
an' her two hands held up with that thar book 'twixt 'em.
"I knew hit war maw, fer I'd seed her pray before, but I war skeered fer
all that. I lay right still an' held my breath, an' heered her thank the
Lord fer keerin' fer we-uns whilst she war gone, an' fer 'lowin' her to
get that thar book.
"I don't guess she knew I seed her, fer she got up right still an' soft,
like not to wake we-uns, an' began to light the fire an' make some yarb
tea. She war that wet an' cold I could see her hand shake whilst she
held the match to the light'ud stick. Them days maw made coffee out'n
burnt corn-bread, an' tea out'n dried blackberry leaves an' sassafrax
root." She paused and turned her face toward the open door. David
thought she had lost somewhat the appearance of age; certainly, what
with the long rest, and Cassandra's loving care, she had no longer the
weary, haggard look that had struck him when he saw her first.
Following the direction of her gaze, he went to the shelf and took down
the old spelling-book, and turned the leaves, now limp and worn. So this
was Cassandra's inheritance--part of it--the inward impulse that would
urge to toil all day, then walk miles in rain and darkness through a
wilderness, and thank the Lord for the privilege--to own this book--not
for herself, but for the generations to come. David touched it
reverently, glad to know so much of her past, and turned to the old
mother for more.
"Have you anything else--like this?"
Her sharp eyes sparkled as she looked narrowly at him. "I have suthin'
'at I hain't nevah told anybody livin' a word of, not even Doctah
Hoyle--only he war some differ'nt from you. But I'm gettin' old, an' I
may as well tell you. Likely with all your larnin' you can tell me is
it any good to Cass. She be that sot on all sech." She fumbled at her
throat a moment and drew from the bosom of her gown a leather
shoe-lacing, from which dangled an iron key. Slowly she undid the knot,
and handed it toward him.
"I nevah 'low nobody on earth to touch that thar box, an' the' ain't a
soul livin' knows what's in hit. I been gyardin' them like they war
gold, fer they belonged to my ol' man--the first one--Cassandra's
fathah; but I reckon if I die the' won't nobody see any good in them
things. If you'll onlock that thar padlock on that box yander, you'll
find it wropped in a piece o' gingham. My paw's mothah spun an' wove
that gingham--ol' Miz Caswell. They don't many do work like that
nowadays. They lived right whar we a' livin' now."
David unlocked the chest and lifted the heavy lid.
"Hit's down in the further cornder--that's hit, I reckon. Just step to
the door, will you, an' see is they anybody nigh."
He went to the door, but saw no one; only from the shed came an
intermittent rat-tat-tat.
"I don't see any one, but I hear some one pounding."
"Hit's only Hoyle makin' his traps." She sighed, then slowly and
tenderly untied the parcel and placed in his hands two small
leather-bound books. Tied to one by a faded silk cord which marked the
pages was a thin, worn ring of gold.
"That ring war his maw's, an' when we war married, I wore hit, but when
I took Farwell fer my ol' man, I nevah wore hit any more, fer he 'lowed,
bein' hit war gold that-a-way, we'd ought to sell hit. That time I took
the lock off'n the door an' put hit on that thar box. Hit war my
gran'maw's box, an' I done wore the key hyar evah since. Can you tell
what they be? Hit's the quarest kind of print I evah see. He used to
make out like he could read hit. Likely he did, fer whatevah he said, he
done."
It seemed to her little short of a miracle that any one could read it,
but David soon learned that her confidence in her first "old man" was
unlimited.
"What-all's in hit?" She grew restless while he carefully and silently
examined her treasure, the true significance of which she so little
knew. Filled with amazement and with a keen pleasure, he took the books
to the light. The print was fine, even, and clear.
"What-all be they?" she reiterated. "Reckon the're no good?"
David smiled. "In one way they're all the good in the world, but not for
money, you know."
"No, I don't guess. Can you read that thar quare printin'?"
"Yes. The letters are Greek, and these books are about a hundred years
old."
"Be they? Then they won't be much good to Cass, I reckon. He sot a heap
by them, but I war 'feared they mount be heathen. Greek--that thar be
heathen. Hain't hit?"
David continued, speaking more to himself than to her. "They were
published in London in eighteen twelve. They have been read by some one
who knew them well, I can see by these marginal notes."
"What be they?" Her curiosity was eager and intent.
"They are explanations and comments, written here on the
margin--see?--with a fine pen."
"His grandpaw done that thar. What be they about, anyhow?"
"They are very old poems written long before this country was
discovered."
"An' that must 'a' been before the Revolution. His grandpaw fit in that.
The' is somethin' more in thar. I kept hit hid, fer Farwell, he war
bound to melt hit up fer silver bullets. He 'lowed them bullets war
plumb sure to kill. Reckon you can find hit? Thar 'tis." Her eyes shone
as Thryng drew out another object also wrapped in gingham. "Hit's a
teapot, I guess, but Farwell, he got a-hold of hit an' melted off the
spout to make his silvah bullets. That time I hid all in the box an' put
on the bolt an' lock whilst he war away 'stillin'. The' is one bullet
left, but I reckon Frale has hit."
David took it from her hand and turned it about. "Surely! This is a
treasure. Here is a coat of arms--but it is so worn I can't make out the
emblem. Was this your husband's also? Is there anything else?"
"That's all. Yes, they war hisn. I war plumb mad at Farwell. I nevah
could get ovah what he done, all so't he mount sure kill somebody.
Likely he meant them bullets fer the revenue officers, should they come
up with him."
"It would have been a great pity if he had destroyed this mark. I
think--I'm not sure--but if it's what I imagine, it is from an old
family in Wales."
"I reckon you're right, fer they were Welsh--his paw's folks way back.
He used to say the' wa'n't no name older'n hisn since the Bible. I told
him 'twar time he got a new one if 'twere that old, but he said he
reckoned a name war like whiskey--hit needed a right smart o' age to
make hit worth anything."
Thryng laid the antique silver pot on the bed beside the old mother's
hand and again took up the small volumes. As he held them, a thought
flashed through his mind, yet hardly a thought,--it was more of an
illumination,--like a vista suddenly opened through what had seemed an
impenetrable, impalpable wall, beyond which lay a joy yet to be, but
before unseen. In that instant of time, a vision appeared to him of what
life might bring, glorified by a tender light as of red fire seen
through a sweet, blue, obscuring mist, and making thus a halo about the
one figure of the vision outlined against it, clear and fine.
"'Pears like you find somethin' right interestin' in that book; be you
readin' hit?"
"I find a glorious prophecy. Was your first husband born and raised here
as you were?"
"Not on this spot; but he was born an' raised like we-uns here in the
mountains--ovah th'other side Pisgah. I seed him first when I wa'n't
more'n seventeen. He come here fer--I don't rightly recollect what, only
he had been deer huntin' an' come late evenin' he drapped in. He had
lost his dog, an' he had a bag o' birds, an' he axed maw could she cook
'em an' give him suppah, an' maw, she took to him right smaht.
"Aftah suppah--I remember like hit war last evenin'--he took gran'paw's
old fiddle an' tuned hit up an' sot thar an' played everything you evah
heered. He played like the' war birds singin' an' rain fallin', an' like
the wind when hit goes wailin' round the house in the pine tops--soft
an' sad--like that-a-way. Gran'paw's old fiddle. I used to keer a heap
fer hit, but one time Farwell got religion, an' he took an' broke hit
'cause he war 'feared Frale mount larn to play an' hit would be a
temptation of the devil to him."
"Well, I say! That was a crime, you know."
"Yes. Sometimes I lay here an' say what-all did I marry Farwell fer,
anyway. Well--every man has his failin's, the' say, an' Farwell, he sure
had hisn."
"May I keep these books a short time? I will be very careful of them.
You know that, or you would not have shown them to me."
"You take them as long as you like. Hit ain't like hit used to be. Books
is easy come by these days--too easy, I reckon. Cassandry, she brung a
whole basketful of 'em with her. Thar they be on that cheer behin' my
spinnin'-wheel."
"Was the basket full of books? So, that was why it was so heavy. Might I
have a look at them?"
"Look 'em ovah all you want to. She won't keer, I reckon. She hain't had
a mite o' time since she come home to look at 'em."
But David thought better of it. He would not look in her basket and pry
among her treasures without her permission.
"When is she coming back?" he asked, awakened to desire further
knowledge of the silent girl's aspirations.
"Soon, I reckon. She's been a right smart spell longah now 'n she 'lowed
she'd be. Hit's old man Irwin. He's been hurted some way. She went ovah
to see could Aunt Sally Carew go an' help Miz Irwin keer fer him--she's
a fool thing, don't know nothin'. They sont down fer me--but here I be,
so she rode the colt ovah fer Sally."
David wrapped and tied the piece of silver as he had found it. As he
replaced it in the box, he discovered the pieces of the broken fiddle
loosely tied in a sack, precious relics of a joy that was past.
Carefully he locked the box and returned the key, but the books he
folded in the strip of gingham and carried away with him.
"I'll be back to-night or in the morning. If she doesn't return, send
Hoyle for me. You mustn't be too long alone. Shall I mend the fire?"
He threw on another log, then lifted her a little and brought her a
glass of cool water, and climbed back to his cabin, walking lightly and
swiftly.