IN WHICH SPRING COMES TO THE MOUNTAINS, AND CASSANDRA TELLS DAVID OF HER
FATHER
Ere long such a spring as David had never dreamed of swept up the
mountain, with a charm so surpassing and transcending any imagined
beauty that he was filled with a sort of ecstasy. He was constantly out
upon the hills revelling in the lavish bounty of earth and sky, of
rushing waters, and all the subtile changes in growing things, as if at
last he had been clasped to the heart of nature. He visited the cabins
wherever he was called, and when there was need for Cassandra's
ministrations he often took her with him; thus they fell naturally into
good camaraderie. Thus, also, quite as naturally, Cassandra's speech
became more correct and fluent, even while it lost none of its lingering
delicacy of intonation.
David provided her with books, as he had promised himself. Sometimes he
brought them down to her, and they read together; sometimes he left them
with her and she read them by herself eagerly and happily; but so busy
was she that she found very little time to be with him. Not only did all
the work of the household fall on her, but the weaving, which her mother
had done heretofore, and the care of the animals, which had been done by
Frale.
The life she had hoped to lead and the good she had longed to do when
she left home for school, encouraged by the bishop and his wife, she now
resolutely put away from her, determined to lead in the best way the
life that she knew must henceforth be hers. She hoped at least she might
be able to bring the home place back to what it used to be in her
Grandfather Caswell's time, and to this end she labored patiently,
albeit sadly.
David was ever aware of a barrier past which he might never step, no
matter how merry or how intimate they might seem to be, and always about
her a silent air of waiting, which deterred him in his efforts to draw
her into more confidential relations. Yet as the days passed, he became
more interested in her, influenced by her nearness to him, and still
more by her remoteness.
Allured and baffled, often in the early morning or late evening he would
sit in the doorway of his cabin, or out on his rock with his flute, when
his thoughts were full of her. Simple, maidenly, and strong, his heart
yearned toward her, while instinctively she held herself aloof in quiet
dignity. Never had she presented herself at his door unless impelled by
necessity. Never had she sat with him in his cabin since that first time
when she came to him so heavy hearted for Frale.
Only when she knew him to be absent had she gone to his cabin and set
all its disorder to rights. Then he would return to find it swept and
cleaned, and sweet with wild flowers and pine greenery and vines, his
cooking utensils washed and scoured, the floor whitened with scrubbing,
in his larder newly baked corn-bread and white beaten biscuits, his
honey jar refilled and fresh butter pats in the spring. Sometimes a
brown, earthen jug of cool, refreshing buttermilk stood on his table,
but always his thanks would be swept aside with the words:--
"Mother sent me up to see could I do anything for you. You are always
that kind and we can't do much."
"And you never come up when I am at home?"
"It isn't every time I can get to go up, I'm that busy here most days."
"Only the days when I am absent can you 'get to go up'?" he would say
teasingly. "Don't I ever deserve a visit?"
"Cass don't get time fer visitin' these days. Since Frale lef' she have
all his work an' hern too on her, an' mine too, only the leetle help she
gets out'n Hoyle, an' hit hain't much," said the mother. "Doctah, don't
ye guess I can get up an' try walkin' a leetle?"
"If you will promise me you will only try it when I am here to help you,
I will take off the weight, and we'll see what you can do to-day."
Cassandra loved to watch David attend on her mother, so tender was he;
and he adopted a playful manner that always dispelled her pessimism and
left her smiling and talkative. Ere he was aware, also, he made a place
for himself In Cassandra's heart when he became interested in the case
of her little brother, and attempted gradually to overcome his
deformity.
Every morning when the child climbed to his eyrie and brought his supply
of milk, David took him in and gently, out of his knowledge and skill,
gave him systematic care, and taught him how to help himself; but he
soon saw that a more strenuous course would be the only way to bring
permanent relief, or surely the trouble would increase.
"What did Doctor Hoyle say about it?" he asked one day.
"He wa'n't that-a-way when doctah war here last. Hit war nigh on five
year ago that come on him. He had fevah, an' a right smart o' times when
we thought he war a-gettin' bettah he jes' went back, ontwell he began
to kind o' draw sideways this-a-way, an' he hain't nevah been straight
sence, an' he has been that sickly, too. When doctah saw him last, he
war nigh three year old an' straight as they make 'em, an' fat--you
couldn't see a bone in him."
David pondered a moment. "Suppose you give him to me awhile," he said.
"Let him live with me in my cabin--eat there, sleep there--everything,
and we'll see what can be done for him."
"I'm willin', more'n willin', when only I can get to help Cass some.
Hoyle, he's a heap o' help, with me not able to do a lick. He can milk
nigh as well as she can, an' tote in water, an' feed the chick'ns an'
th' pig, an' rid'n' to mill fer meal--yas, he's a heap o' help. Cass,
she got to get on with th' weavin'. We promised bed kivers an' such fer
Miss Mayhew. She sells 'em fer ladies 'at comes to the hotel in summah.
We nevah would have a cent o' money in hand these days 'thout that, only
what chick'ns 'nd aigs she can raise fer the hotel, too. Hit's only in
summah. I don't rightly see how we can spare Hoyle."
"Where's Miss Cassandra now?" he asked, only more determined on his
course the more he was hampered by circumstances.
"She's in the loom shed weavin'. I throwed on the warp fer a blue and
white bed kiver 'fore I war hurt, an' she hain't had time to more'n half
finish hit. I war helpin' to get the weavin' done whilst she war at
school this winter, an' come spring she war 'lowin' to come back an'
help Frale with the plantin' an' makin' crap fer next year. Here in the
mountains we-uns have to be forehanded, an' here I be an' can't crawl
scarcely yet."
After the thrifty soul had taken a few steps, instead of realizing her
good fortune in being able to take any, she was bitterly disappointed to
find that weeks must still pass ere she could walk by herself. She was
seated on her little porch where David had helped her, looking out on
the growing things and the blossoming spring all about--a sight to make
the heart glad; but she saw only that the time was passing, and it would
soon be too late to make a crop that year.
She was such a neat, self-respecting old woman as she sat there. Her
work-worn old hands were not idle, for she turned and mended Hoyle's
funny little trousers, home-made, with suspenders attached.
"I don't know what-all we can do ef we can't make a crap. We won't have
no corn nor nothin', an' nothin' to feed stock, let alone we-uns. We'll
be in a fix just like all the poor white trash, me not able to do a
lick."
David came and sat beside her a few moments and said a great many
comforting things, and when he rose to go the world had taken on a new
aspect for her eyes--bright, dark eyes, looking up at him with a gleam
of hope.
"I believe ye," she said. "We'll do anything you say, Doctah."
Thryng walked out past the loom shed and paused to look in on the young
girl as she sat swaying rhythmically, throwing the shuttles with a sweep
of her arm, and drawing the great beam toward her with steady beat,
driving the threads in place, and shifting the veil of warp stretched
before her with a sure touch of her feet upon the treadles, all her
lithe body intent and atune. It seemed to him as he sat himself on the
step to watch, that music must come from the flow of her action. The
noise of the loom prevented her hearing his approach, and silently he
watched and waited, fascinated in seeing the fabric grow under her hand.
As silently she worked on, and slowly, even as the pattern took shape
and became plain before her, his thoughts grew and took definite shape
also, until he became filled with a set purpose. He would not disturb
her now nor make her look around. It was enough just to watch her in her
sweet serious unconsciousness, with the flush of exercise on her cheeks
as he could see when she slightly turned her head with every throw of
the shuttle.
When at last she rose, he saw a look of care and weariness on her face
that disturbed him. He sprang up and came to her. She little dreamed how
long he had been there.
"Please don't go. Stay here and talk to me a moment. Your mother is all
right; I have just been with her. May I examine what you have been
doing? It is very interesting to me, you know." He made her show him all
the manner of her work and drew her on to tell him of the different
patterns her mother had learned from her grandmother and had taught her.
"They don't do much on the hand-looms now in the mountains, but Miss
Mayhew at the hotel last summer--I told you about her--sold some of
mother's work up North, and I promised more, but I'm afraid--I don't
guess I can get it all done now."
"You are tired. Sit here on the step awhile with me and rest. I want to
talk to you a little, and I want you alone." She looked hesitatingly
toward the declining sun. He took her hand and led her to the door.
"Can't you give me a few, a very few moments? You hold me off and won't
let me say what I often have in mind to ask you." She sat beside him
where he placed her and looked wonderingly into his face, but not in the
least as if she feared what his question might be, or as if she
suspected anything personal. "You know it's not right that this sort of
thing should go on indefinitely?"
"I don't know what sort of thing you mean." She lifted grave, wide eyes
to his--those clear gray eyes--and his heart admonished him that he had
begun to love to look into their blue and green depths, but heed the
admonishment he would not.
"I mean working day in and day out, as you do. You have grown much
thinner since I saw you first, and look at your hands." He took one of
them in his and gently stroked it. "See how thin they are, and here are
callous places. And you are stooping over with weariness, and, except
when you have been exercising, your face is far too white."
She looked off toward the mountain top and slowly drew her hand from
his. "I must do it. There is no one else," she said in a low voice.
"But it can't go on always--this way."
"I reckon so. Once I thought--it might--be some different, but now--"
She waited an instant in silence.
"But now--what?"
"It seems as if it must go on--like this way--always, as if I were
chained here with iron."
"But why? Won't you tell me so I may help you?"
"I can't," she said sadly and with finality. "It must be."
He brooded a moment, clasping his hands about one knee and gazing at
her. "Maybe," he said at last, "maybe I can help you, even if you can't
tell me what is holding you."
She smiled a faintly fleeting smile. "Thank you--but I reckon not."
"Miss Cassandra, when you know I am at your service, and will do
anything you ask of me, why do you hold something back from me? I can
understand, and I may have ways--"
"It's just that, suh. Even if I could tell you, I don't guess you could
understand. Even if I went yonder on the mountain and cried to heaven to
set me free, I'd have to bide here and do the work that is mine to do,
as mother has done hers, and her mother before her."
"But they did it contentedly and happily--because they wished it. Your
mother married your father because she loved him, and was glad--"
"Yes, I reckon she did--but he was different. She could do it for him.
He lived alone--alone. Mother knew he did--she could understand. It was
like he had a room to himself high up on the mountain, where she never
could climb, nor open the door."
David leaned toward her. "What do you see when you look off at the
mountain like that?"
"It's like I could see him. He would take his little books up there and
walk the high path. I never have showed you his path. It was his, and
he would walk in it, up and down, up and down, and read words I couldn't
understand, reading like he was singing. Sometimes I would climb up to
him, and he'd take me in his arms and carry me like I was a baby, and
read. Sometimes he would sit on a bank of moss under those trees--see
near the top by that open spot of sky a right dark place? There are no
other trees like them. They are his trees. He would sit with me there
and tell me the stories of the strange words; but we never told mother,
for she said they were heathen and I mustn't give heed to him." When
deeply absorbed, she often lapsed into her old speech. David liked it.
He almost wished she would never change it for his. "After father died I
hunted and hunted for those little books, but I never could find them."
"You remember him so well, won't you tell me how he looked?"
She slowly brought her eyes down from the mountain top and fixed them on
his face. "Sometimes--just for a minute--you make me think of him--but
you don't look like him. I never heard any one laugh like he could
laugh--and with his eyes, too. He was tall like you, and he carried his
shoulders high like you do when you hurry, but he was a dark man. When
he stood here in the door of the loom shed, his head touched the top. I
thought of it when you stood here a bit ago and had to stoop. He always
did that." She lifted her gaze again to the mountain, and was silent.
"Tell me a little more? Just a little? Don't you remember anything he
said?"
"He used to preach, but I was too little to remember what he said. They
used to have preaching in the schoolhouse, and in winter he used to
teach there--when he could get the children to come. They had no books,
but he marked with charcoal where they could all see, and showed them
writing and figures; but somehow they got the idea he didn't know
religion right, and they wouldn't go to hear him any more. Mother says
it nigh broke his heart, for he fell to ailing and grew that thin and
white he couldn't climb to his path any more." She stopped and put her
hand to her throat, as her way was. She too had grown white with the
ache of sorrowful remembrance. He thought it cruel to urge her, but
felt impelled to ask for more.
"And then?"
"Yes. One day we were all alone sitting right here in the loom shed
door. He put one hand on my head, and then he put the other hand under
my chin and turned my face to look in his eyes--so great and far--like
they could see through your heart. Seems like I can feel the touch of
his hand here yet and hear him say: 'Little daughter, never be like the
rest. Be separate, and God will send for you some day here on the
mountain. He will send for you on the mountain top. He will compass you
about and lift you up and you shall be blessed.' Then he kissed me and
went into the house. I could hear him still saying it as he walked, 'On
the mountain top one will come for you, on the mountain top.' He went in
and lay down, and I sat here and waited. It seemed like my heart stood
still waiting for him to come back to me, and it must have been more
than an hour I sat, and mother came home and went in and found him gone.
He never spoke again. He lay there dead."
She paused and drew in a long, sighing breath. "I have never said those
words aloud until now, to you, but hundreds of times when I look up on
the mountain I have said them in my heart. I reckon he meant I was to
bide here until my time was come, and do all like I ought to do it. I
did think I could go to school and learn and come back and teach like he
used to, and so keep myself separate like he did, but the Lord called me
back and laid a hard thing on me, and I must do it. But in my heart I
can keep separate like father did."
She rose and stood calmly, her eyes fixed on the mountain. David stood
near and longed to touch her passive hand--to lift it to his lips--but
forebore to startle her soul by so unusual an act. For all she had given
him a confidence she had never bestowed on another, he felt himself held
aloof, her spirit withdrawn from him and lifted to the mountain top.