IN WHICH CASSANDRA AND DAVID VISIT THE HOME OF DECATUR IRWIN
Soon the way became steep and difficult and the path so narrow they were
forced to go single file. Then Cassandra led and David followed. They
passed no dwellings, and even the little home to which they were going
was lost to view. He wondered if she were not weary, remembering that
she had been over the distance twice before that day, and begged her, as
he had done when they set out, to allow him to carry the basket, but
still she would not.
"I never think of it. I often carry things this way.--We have to here in
the mountains." She glanced back at him and smiled. "I reckon you find
it hard because you are not used to living like we do; we're soon there
now, see yonder?"
A turn in the path brought them in sight of the cabin, set in its bare,
desolate patch of red soil. About the door swarmed unkempt children of
all sizes, as bees hang out of an over-filled hive, the largest not more
than twelve years old, and the youngest carried on the mother's arm. It
was David's first visit to one of the poorest of the mountain homes, and
he surveyed the scene before him with dismay.
Below the house was a spring, and there, suspended from the
long-reaching branch of a huge beech tree, now leafless and bare, a
great, black iron pot swung by a chain over a fire built on the ground
among a heap of stones. On a board at one side lay wet, gray garments,
twisted in knots as they had been wrung out of the soapy water. The
woman had been washing, and the vapor was rising from the black pot of
boiling suds, but, seeing their approach, she had gone to her door, her
babe on her arm and the other children trooping at her heels and
clinging to her skirts. They peered up from under frowzy, overhanging
locks of hair like a group of ragged, bedraggled Scotch terriers.
The mother herself seemed scarcely older than the oldest, and Thryng
regarded her with amazement when he noticed her infantile, undeveloped
face and learned that she had brought into the world all those who
clustered about her. His amazement grew as he entered the dark little
cabin and saw that they must all eat and sleep in its one small room,
which they seemed to fill to overflowing as they crowded in after him,
accompanied by three lean hounds, who sniffed suspiciously at his
leggings.
Far in the darkest corner lay the father on a pallet of corn-husks
covered with soiled bedclothing. The windows were mere holes in the
walls, unglazed, unframed, and closed at night or in bad weather by
wooden shutters, when the room was lighted only by the flames from the
now black and empty fireplace. Here, while mother and children were out
by "the branch" washing, the injured man lay alone, stoically patient,
declaring that his "laig" was some better, that he did not feel "so much
misery in hit as yesterday."
Thryng had seen much squalor and wretchedness, but never before in a
home in the country where women and children were to be found. For a
moment he looked helplessly at the silent, staring group, and at the
man, who feebly tried to indicate to his wife the extending of some
courtesy to the stranger.
"Set a cheer, Polly," he said weakly, offering his great hand. "You are
right welcome, suh. Are you visitin' these parts?"
"This is the doctor I was telling you about, Cate,--Doctor Thryng. I
begged him to come up and see could he do anything for you," said
Cassandra. Then she urged the woman to go back to her work and take the
children with her. "Doctor and I will look after your old man awhile."
She succeeded in clearing the place of all but one lean hound, who
continued to stand by his master and lick his hand, whining presciently,
and one or two of the children, who lingered around the door to peer in
curiously at the doctor.
A shutter near the bed was tightly closed and, in struggling to open it,
Cassandra discovered it was broken at the hinges and had been nailed in
place. David flew to her assistance and, wrenching out the nails, tore
it free, letting in a flood of light upon the wretchedness around them.
Then he turned his attention to the patient, a man of powerful frame,
but lean almost to emaciation, who watched the young physician's face
silently with widely opened blue eyes, their pale color intensified by
the surrounding shock of matted, curling, vividly red hair and beard.
It required but a few moments to ascertain that the man's condition was
indeed critical. Cassandra had gone out and now returned with her hands
full of dry pine sticks. Bending on one knee before the empty fireplace,
she arranged them and hung a kettle over them full of fresh water. David
turned and watched her light the fire.
"Good. We shall need hot water immediately. How long since you have
eaten?" he asked the man.
"He hain't eat nothing all day," said the wife, who had returned and
again stood in the door with all her flock, gazing at him. Then the
woman grew plaintively garrulous about the trouble she had had "doin'
fer him," and begged David to tell her "could he he'p 'im." At last
Thryng put a hurried end to her talk by saying he could do
nothing--nothing at all for her old man, unless she took herself and the
children all away. She looked terror-stricken, and her mouth drew
together in a stubborn, resentful line as if in some way he had
precipitated ill luck upon them by his coming. Cassandra at once took
her basket and walked out toward the stream, and they all followed,
leaving David and the father in sole possession of the place.
Then he turned to the bed and began a kindly explanation. He found the
man more intelligent and much more tractable than the woman, but it was
hard to make him believe that he must inevitably lose either his life or
his foot, and that they had not an hour--not a half hour--to spare, but
must decide at once. David's manner, gentle, but firmly urgent, at last
succeeded. The big man broke down and wept weakly, but yielded; only he
stipulated that his wife must not be told.
"No, no! She and the children must be kept away; but I need help. Is
there no one--no man whom we can get to come here quickly?"
"They is nobody--naw--I reckon not."
David was distressed, but he searched about until he found an old
battered pail in which to prepare his antiseptic, and busied himself in
replenishing the fire and boiling the water; all the time his every move
was watched by the hound and the pathetic blue eyes of his master.
Soon Cassandra returned, to David's great relief, alone. She smiled as
she looked in his face, and spoke quietly: "I told her to take the
children and gather dock and mullein leaves and such like to make tea
for her old man, and if she'd stay awhile, I'd look after him and have
supper for them when they got back. Is there anything I can do now?"
David was troubled indeed, but what could he do? He explained his need
of her quickly, in low tones, outside the door. "I believe you are
strong and brave and can do it as well as a man, but I hate to ask it of
you. There is not time to wait. It must be done to-day, now."
"I'll help you," she said simply, and walked into the hut. She had
become deadly pale, and he followed her and placed his fingers on her
pulse, holding her hand and looking down in her eyes.
"You trust me?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. I must."
"Yes--you must--dear child. You are all right. Don't be troubled, but
just think we are trying to save his life. Look at me now, and take in
all I say."
Then he placed her with her back to his work, taught her how to count
the man's pulse and to give the ether; but the patient demurred. He
would not take it.
"Naw, I kin stand hit. Go ahead, Doctor."
"See here, Cate Irwin. You are bound to do as Doctor Thryng says or
die," she said, bending over him. "Take this, and I'll sit by you every
minute and never take my hand off yours. Stop tossing. There!" He obeyed
her, and she sat rigidly still and waited.
The moments passed in absolute silence. Her heart pounded in her breast
and she grew cold, but never took her eyes from the still, deathlike
face before her. In her heart she was praying--praying to be strong
enough to endure the horror of it--not to faint nor fall--until at last
it seemed to her that she had turned to stone in her place; but all the
time she could feel the faintly beating pulse beneath her fingers, and
kept repeating David's words: "We are trying to save his life--we are
trying to save his life."
David finished. Moving rapidly about, he washed, covered, and carried
away, and set all in order so that nothing betrayed his grewsome task.
Then he came to her and took both her cold hands in his warm ones and
led her to the door. She swayed and walked weakly. He supported her with
his arm and, once out in the sweet air, she quickly recovered. He
praised her warmly, eagerly, taking her hands in his, and for the first
time, as the faint rose crept into her cheeks, he felt her to be moved
by his words; but she only smiled as she drew her hands away and turned
toward the house.
"They'll be back directly, and I promised to have something for them to
eat."
"Then I'll help you, for our man is coming out all right now, and I
feel--if he can have any kind of care--he will live."
The sky had become overcast with heavy clouds and the wind had risen,
blowing cold from the north. David replaced the shutter he had torn off
and mended the fire with fuel he found scattered about the yard; while
Cassandra swept and set the place in order and the resuscitated patient
looked about a room neater and more homelike than he had ever slept in
before. Cassandra searched out a few articles with which to prepare a
meal--the usual food of the mountain poor--salt pork, and corn-meal
mixed with water and salt and baked in the ashes. David watched her as
she moved about the dark cabin, lighted only by the fitful flames of the
fireplace, to perform those gracious, homely tasks, and would have
helped her, but he could not.
At last the woman and her brood came streaming in, and Cassandra and the
doctor were glad to escape into the outer air. He tried to make the
mother understand his directions as to the care of her husband, but her
passive "Yas, suh" did not reassure him that his wishes would be carried
out, and his hopes for the man's recovery grew less as he realized the
conditions of the home. After riding a short distance, he turned to
Cassandra.
"Won't you go back and make her understand that he is to be left
absolutely alone? Scare her into making the children keep away from his
bed, and not climb into it. You made him do as I wished, with only a
word, and maybe you can do something with her. I can't."
She turned back, and David watched her at the door talking with the
woman, who came out to her and handed her a bundle of something tied in
a meal sack. He wondered what it might be, and Cassandra explained.
"These are the yarbs I sent her and the children aftah. I didn't know
how to rid the cabin of them without I sent for something, and now I
don't know what to do with these. We--we're obliged to use them some
way." She hesitated--"I reckon I didn't do right telling her that--do
you guess? I had to make out like you needed them and had sent back for
them; it--it wouldn't do to mad her--not one of her sort." Her head
drooped with shame and she added pleadingly, "Mother has used these
plants for making tea for sick folks--but--"
He rode to her side and lifted the unwieldy load to his own horse, "Be
ye wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove," he said, laughing.
"How do you mean?"
"You were wise. You did right where I would only have done harm and been
brutal. Can't you see these have already served their purpose?"
"I don't understand."
"You told her to get them because you wished to make her think she was
doing something for her husband, didn't you? And you couldn't say to her
that she would help most by taking herself out of the way, could you?
She could not understand, and so they have served their purpose as a
means of getting her quietly and harmlessly away so we could properly do
our work."
"But I didn't say so--not rightly; I made her think--"
"Never mind what you said or made her think. You did right, God knows.
We are all made to work out good--often when we think erroneously, just
as you made her uncomprehendingly do what she ought. If ever she grows
wise enough to understand, well and good; if not, no harm is done."
Cassandra listened, but doubtingly. At last she stopped her horse. "If
you can't use them, I feel like I ought to go back and explain," she
said. Her face gleamed whitely out of the gathering dusk, and he saw her
shiver in the cold and bitter wind. He was more warmly dressed than she,
and still he felt it cut through him icily.
"No. You shall not go back one step. It would be a useless waste of your
time and strength. Later, if you still feel that you must, you can
explain. Come."
She yielded, touched her horse lightly with her whip, and they hurried
on. The night was rapidly closing in, the thick, dark shadows creeping
up from the gorges below as they climbed the rugged steep they had
descended three hours earlier. They picked their way in silence, she
ahead, and he following closely. He wondered what might be her thoughts,
and if she had inherited, along with much else that he could perceive,
the Puritan conscience which had possibly driven some ancestor here to
live undisturbed of his precious scruples.
When they emerged at last on the level ridge where she had so joyously
laughed out, Thryng hurried forward and again rode at her side. She sat
wearily now, holding the reins with chilled hands. Had she forgotten the
happy moment? He had not. The wind blew more shrewdly past them, and a
few drops of rain, large and icy cold, struck their faces.
"Put these on your hands, please," he begged, pulling off his thick
gloves; but she would not.
He reached for the bridle of her horse and drew him nearer, then caught
her cold hands and began chafing them, first one and then the other.
Then he slipped the warm gloves over them. "Wear them a little while to
please me," he urged. "You have no coat, and mine is thick and warm."
Suddenly he became aware that she was and had been silently weeping, and
he was filled with anxiety for her, so brave she had been, so tired she
must be--worn out--poor little heart!
"Are you so tired?" he asked.
"Oh, no, no."
"Won't you tell me what troubles you? Let me put this over your
shoulders to keep off the rain."
"Oh, no, no!" she cried, as he began to remove his coat. "You need it a
heap more than I. You have been sick, and I am well."
"Please wear it. I will walk a little to keep warm."
"Oh! I can't. I'm not cold, Doctor Thryng. It isn't that."
He became imperative through anxiety. "Then tell me what it is," he
said.
"I can't stop thinking of Decatur Irwin. I can feel you working there
yet, and seems like I never will forget. I keep going over it and over
it and can't stop. Doctor, are you sure--sure--it was right for us to do
what we did?"
"Poor child! It was terrible for you, and you were fine, you know--fine;
you are a heroine--you are--"
"I don't care for me. It isn't me. Was it right, Doctor? Was there no
other way?" she wailed.
"As far as human knowledge goes, there was no other way. Listen, Miss
Cassandra, I have been where such accidents were frequent. Many a man's
leg have I taken off. Surgery is my work in life--don't be horrified. I
chose it because I wished to be a saver of life and a helper of my
fellows." She was shivering more from the nervous reaction than from the
cold, and to David it seemed as if she were trying to draw farther away
from him.
"Don't shrink from me. There are so many in the world to kill and wound,
some there must be to mend where it is possible. I saw in a moment that
your intuition had led you rightly, and soon I knew what must be done; I
only hope we were not too late. Don't cry, Miss Cassandra. It makes me
feel such a brute to have put you through it."
"No, no. You were right kind and good. I'm only crying now because I
can't stop."
"There, there, child! We'll ride a little faster. I must get you home
and do something for you." He spoke out of the tenderness of his heart
toward her.
But soon they were again descending, and the horses, careful for their
own safety if not for their riders', continued slowly and stumblingly to
pick their footing in the darkness. Now the rain began to beat more
fiercely, and before they reached the Fall Place they were wet to the
skin.
David feared neither the wetting nor the cold for himself; only for her
in her utter weariness was he anxious. She would help him stable the
horses and led away one while he led the other, but once in the house he
took matters in his own hands peremptorily. He rebuilt the fire and
himself removed her wet garments and her shoes. She was too exhausted to
resist. Following the old mother's directions, he found woollen blankets
and, wrapping her about, he took her up like a baby and laid her on her
bed. Then he brewed her a hot milk punch and made her take it.
"You need this more than I, Doctah. If you'll just take some yourself,
as soon as I can I'll make your bed in the loom shed again, and--"
"Drink it; drink it and go to sleep. Yes, yes. I'll have some, too."
"Cass, 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 Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 mass 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.