IN WHICH CASSANDRA HEARS THE VOICES, AND DAVID LEASES A FARM
That evening David sat long on his rock holding his flute and watching
the thin golden crescent of the new moon floating through a pale amber
sky, and one star near its tip slowly sliding down with it toward the
deepening horizon.
The glowing sky bending to the purple hilltops--the crescent moon and
the lone shining star--the evening breeze singing in the pines above
him--the delicate arbutus blossoms hiding near his feet--the call of a
bird to its mate, and the faint answering call from some distant
shade--the call in his own heart that as yet returned to him unanswered,
but with its quiet surety of ultimate response--the joy of these moments
perfect in beauty and a more abundant assurance of gladness near at
hand--filled him and lifted his soul to follow the star.
Guided by the unseen hand that held the earth, the crescent moon and the
star to their orbits, would he find the great happiness that should be
not his alone, but also for the eyes uplifted to the mountain top and
the heart waiting in the shadows for the one to be sent? Ah, surely,
surely, for this had he come. He stooped to the arbutus blossoms to
inhale their fragrance. He rose and, lifting his flute to his lips,
played to solace his own waiting, inventing new caprices and tossing
forth the notes daringly--delicately--rapturously--now penetrating and
strong, now faintly following and scarcely heard, uttering a wordless
gladness.
Under the great holly tree in the shadows Cassandra sat, watching, as he
watched, the crescent moon and the lone star sailing in the pale amber
light, with the deepening purple mountain hiding the dim distance below
them. Often in the early evening when her mother and Hoyle were
sleeping, she would climb up here to pray for Frale that he might truly
repent, and for herself that she might be strong in her purpose to give
up all her cherished hopes and plans, if thereby she might save him from
his own wild, reckless self.
It was here his boy's passion had been revealed to her, and here she had
seen him changed from boy to man, filled with a man's hunger for her,
which had led him to crime, and held him unrepentant and glad could he
thus hold her his own. She must give up the life she had hoped to lead
and take upon her the life of the wife of Cain, to help him expiate his
deed. For this must she bow her head to the yoke her mother had borne
before her. In the sadness of her heart she said again and again:
"Christ will understand. He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with
grief! He will understand."
Again came to her, as they had often come of late, dropping down through
the still air, down through the leafless boughs like joyful hopes yet to
be realized, the flute notes. What were they, those sweet sounds? She
held her breath and lifted her face toward the sky. Once, long ago in
France, the peasant girl had heard the "Voices." Were they heavenly
sweet, like these sounds? Did they drop from the sky and fill the air
like these? Oh, why should they seem like hopes to her who had put away
from her all hope? Were they bringing hope to her who must rise to toil
and lie down in weariness for labor never done; who must hold always
with sorrowing heart and clinging hands to the soul of a murderer--hold
and cling, if haply she might save--and weep for that which, for her,
might never be? Were they bringing hope that she might yet live gladly
as the birds live; that she might go beyond that and live like those who
have no sin imposed on them, to walk with the gods, she knew not how,
but to rise to things beyond her ken?
Down came the notes, sweet, shrill, white notes,--hurrying, drifting,
lingering, calling her to follow; down on her heart with healing and
comfort they fell, lightly as dew on flowers, sparkling with life,
joy-giving and pure.
Slowly she began climbing, listening, waiting, one step upward after
another, following the sound. As if in a trance she moved. Below her the
noise of falling water made a murmuring accompaniment to the music
dropping from above--an earth-made accompaniment to heaven-sent melody,
meeting and forming a perfect harmony in her heart as she climbed.
Gradually the horror and the sorrow fell away from her even, as the soul
shall one day shed its garment of earth, until at last she stood alone
and silent near David, etherealized in the faint light to a spirit-like
semblance of a woman.
With a glad pounding of his heart he sprang towards her. Scarcely
conscious of the act he held out both his arms, but she did not move.
She stood silently regarding him, her hands dropped at her side, then
with drooping head she turned and began wearily to descend the way she
had come. He followed her and took her hand. She let it lie passively in
his and walked on. He wished he might feel her fingers close warmly
about his own, but no, they were cold. She seemed wholly withdrawn from
him, and her face bore the look of one who was walking in her sleep, yet
he knew her to be awake.
"Miss Cassandra, speak to me," he begged, in quiet tones. "Don't walk
away until you tell me why you came."
She seemed then to become aware that he was holding her by the hand and
withdrew it, and in the faint light he thought she smiled. "It was just
foolishness. You will laugh at me. I heard the music, and I thought it
might be--you made it I reckon, but down there it sounded like it might
be the 'Voices.' You remember how they came to Joan of Arc, like we were
reading last week?" She began to walk on more hurriedly.
"I will go down with you," he said, "you thought it might be the voices?
What did they say to you?"
"Oh, don't go with me. I never heed the dark."
"Won't you let me go with you? What did the flute say to you? Can't you
tell me?"
She laughed a little then. "It was only foolishness. I reckon the
'Voices' never come these days. I have heard it before, but didn't know
where it came from. It just seemed to drop down from heaven like, and
this time it seemed some different, as if it might be the 'Voices'
calling. It was pretty, suh, far away and soft--like part--of
everything. My father's playing sounded sad most times, like sweet
crying, but this was more like sweet laughing. I never heard anything so
glad like this was, so I tried to find it. Now I know it is you who
make it I won't disturb you again, suh. Good evening." She hastened away
and was soon lost in the gloom.
David stood until he heard her footsteps no more, then turned and
entered his cabin, his mind and heart full of her. Surely he had called
her, and the sound of his call was to her like "sweet laughing." Her
face and her quaint expressions went with him into his dreams.
When he hurried down to the widow's place next morning, his mind filled
with plans which he meant to carry out and was sure, with the boyish
certainty of his nature he could compass, he heard the voice of little
Hoyle shrilly calling to old Pete: "Whoa, mule. Haw there. Haw there,
mule. What ye goin' that side fer; come 'round here."
Below the widow's house, the stream, after its riotous descent from the
fall, meandered quietly through the rich bit of meadow and field, her
inheritance for over a hundred years, establishing her claim to
distinction among her neighbors. Here Martha Caswell had lived with her
mother and her two brothers until she married and went with her young
husband over "t'other side Pisgah"; then her mother sent for them to
return, begging her son-in-law to come and care for the place. Her two
sons, reckless and wild, were allowing the land to run to waste, and the
buildings to fall in pieces through neglect.
The daughter Martha, true to her name, was thrifty and careful, and
under her influence, her gentle dreamer of a husband, who cared more for
his fiddle, his books, and his sermons, gradually redeemed the soil from
weeds and the buildings from dilapidation, until at last, with the
proceeds of her weaving and his own hard labor, they saved enough to buy
out the brothers' interests.
By that time the younger son had fallen a victim to his wild life, and
the other moved down into the low country among his wife's people. Thus
were the Merlins left alone on their primitive estate. Here they lived
contentedly with Cassandra, their only child, and her father's constant
companion, until the tragedy which she had so simply related to David.
Her father's learning had been peculiar. Only a little classic lore,
treasured where schools were none and books were few, handed down from
grandfather to grandson. His Greek he had learned from the two small
books the widow had so carefully preserved, their marginal notes his
only lexicon. They and his Bible and a copy of Bunyan's _Pilgrim's
Progress_ were all that were left of his treasures. A teething puppy had
torn his _Dialogues of Plato_ to shreds, and when his successor had come
into the home, he had used the _Marcus Aurelius_ for gun wadding, ere
his wife's precaution of placing the padlock from the door on her
mother's old linen chest.
To-day, as David passed the house, the old mother sat on her little
porch churning butter in a small dasher churn. She was glad, as he could
see, because she could do something once more.
"Now are you happy?" he called laughingly, as he paused beside her.
"Well, I be. Hit's been a right smart o' while since I been able to do a
lick o' work. We sure do have a heap to thank you fer. Be Decatur Irwin
as glad to lose his foot as I be to git my laig back?" she queried
whimsically; "I reckon not."
"I reckon not, too, but with him it was a case of losing his life or his
foot, while with you it was only a question of walking about, or being
bedridden for the next twenty years."
"They be ignorant, them Irwins, an' she's more'n that, fer she's a fool.
She come round yest'day wantin' to borry a hoe to fix up her gyarden
patch, an' she 'lowed ef you'n Cass had only lef' him be, he'd 'a' come
through all right, fer hit war a-gettin' better the day you-uns took hit
off. I told her yas, he'd 'a' come cl'ar through to the nex' world, like
Farwell done. When the misery left him, he up an' died, an' Lord knows
whar he went."
"I'll get him an artificial foot as soon as he is able to wear one.
He'll get on very well with a peg under his knee until then. What's
Hoyle doing with the mule?"
"He's rid'n' him fer Cass. She's tryin' to get the ground ready fer a
crap. Hit's all we can do. Our women nevah war used to do such work
neither, but she would try."
"What's that? Is she ploughing?" he asked sharply, and strode away.
"I reckon she don't want ye there, Doctah," the widow called after him,
but he walked on.
The land lay in a warm hollow completely surrounded by hills. It had
been many years cleared, and the mellow soil was free from stumps and
roots. When Thryng arrived, three furrows had been run rather crookedly
the length of the patch, and Cassandra stood surveying them ruefully,
flushed and troubled, holding to the handles of the small plough and
struggling to set it straight for the next furrow.
The noise of the fall behind them covered his approach, and ere she was
aware he was at her side. Placing his two hands over hers which clung
stubbornly to the handles of the plough, he possessed himself of them.
Laughingly he turned her about after the short tussle, and looked down
into her warm, flushed face. Still holding her hands, he pulled her away
from the plough to the grassy edge of the field, leaving Hoyle waiting
astride the mule.
"Whoa, mule. Stand still thar," he shrilled, as the beast sought to
cross the bit of ploughed ground to reach the grass beyond.
"Let him eat a minute, Hoyle," said David. "Let him eat until I come.
Now, Miss Cassandra, what does this mean? Do you think you can plough
all that land? Is that it?"
"I must."
"You must not."
"There is no one else now. I must." He could feel her hands quiver in
his, as he forcibly held them, and knew from her panting breath how her
heart was beating. She held her head high, nevertheless, and looked
bravely back into his eyes.
"You must let me--" he paused. Intuitively he knew he must not say as
yet what he would. "Let me direct you a little. You have been most kind
to me--and--it is my place; I am a doctor, you know."
"If I were sick or hurt, I would give heed to you, I would do anything
you say; but I'm not, and this is laid on me to do. Leave go my hands,
Doctor Thryng."
"If you'll sit down here a moment and talk this thing out with me, I
will. Now tell me first of all, why is this laid on you?"
"Frale is gone and it must be done, or we will have no crop, and then
we must sell the animals, and then go down and live like poor white
trash." Her low, passive monotone sounded like a moan of sorrow.
"You must hire some one to do this heavy work."
"Every one is working his own patch now, and--no, I have no money to
hire with. I reckon I've thought it all over every way, Doctor." She
looked sadly down at her hands and then up at the mountain top. "I know
you think this is no work for a girl to do, and you are right. Our women
never have done such. Only in the war times my Grandmother Caswell did
it, and I can now. A girl can do what she must. I have no way to turn
but to live as my people have lived before me. I thought once I might do
different, go to school and keep separate--but--" She spread out her
hands with a hopeless gesture, and rose to resume her work.
"Give me a moment longer. I'm not through yet. That's right, now listen.
I see the truth of what you say, and I came down this morning to make a
proposition to your mother--not for your sake only--don't be afraid, for
my own as well; but I didn't make it because I hadn't time. She told me
what you were doing, and I hurried off to stop you. Don't speak yet, let
me finish. I feel I have the right, because I know--I know I was sent
here just now for a purpose--guided to come here." He paused to allow
his words to have their full weight. Whether she would perceive his
meaning remained to be seen.
"I understand." She spoke quietly. "Doctor Hoyle sent you to be helped
like he was--and you have been right kind to more than us. You've helped
that many it seems like you were sent here for we-all as well as for
your own sake, but that can't help me now, Doctor; it--"
"Ah, yes it can. I'm far from well yet. I shall be, but I must stay on
for a long time, and I want some interest here. I want to see things of
my own growing. The ground up around my little cabin is stony and very
poor, and I want to rent this little farm of yours. Listen--I'll pay
enough so you need not sell your cattle, and you--you can go on with
your weaving. You can work in the house again as you have always done.
Sometime, when your mother is stronger, you can take up your life again
and go to school--as you meant to live--can't you?"
"That can never be now. If you take the farm or not, I must bide on here
in the old way. I must take up the life my mother lived and my
grandmother, and hers before her. It is mine, forever, to live it that
way--or die."
"Why do you talk so?"
"God knows, but I can't tell you. Thank you, suh. I will be right glad
to rent you the farm. I'd a heap rather you had it than any one else I
ever knew, for we care more for it than you would guess, but for the
rest--no. I must bide and work till I die; only maybe I can save little
Hoyle and give him a chance to learn something, for he never could
work--being like he is."
Thryng's eyes danced with joy as he regarded her. "Hoyle is not going to
be always as he is, and he shall have the chance to learn something
also. Look up, Miss Cassandra, look squarely into my eyes and laugh. Be
happy, Miss Cassandra, and laugh. I say it."
She laughed softly then. She could not help it.
"Wasn't that what the 'Voices' were saying last night when you
followed?"
"Yes, yes. They seemed like they were calling, 'Hope, hope,' but they
were not the real 'Voices.' You made it."
"Yes, I made it; and I was truly calling that to you. And you replied;
you came to me."
"Ah, but that is different from the 'Voices' she heard."
"But if they called the truth to you--what then?"
"Doctah, there is no longer any hope for me. God called me and let me
cut off all hope, once. I did it, and now, only death can change it."
"If I believe you, you must believe me. We won't talk of it any more.
I'm hungry. Your mother was churning up there; let's go and get some
buttermilk, and settle the business of the rent. You've run three good
furrows and I'll run three more beside them--my first, remember, in all
my life. Then we'll plant that strip to sunflowers. Come, Hoyle, tie the
mule and follow us."
So David carried his way. They walked merrily back to the house,
chattering of his plans and what he would raise. He knew nothing
whatever of the sort of crops to be raised, and she was naively gay at
his expense, a mood he was overjoyed to awaken in her. He vowed that
merely to walk over ploughed ground made a man stronger.
On the porch he sat and drank his buttermilk and, placing his paper on
the step, drew up a contract for rent. Then Cassandra went to her
weaving, and he and Hoyle returned to the field, where with much labor
he succeeded in turning three furrows beside Cassandra's, rather crooked
and uncertain ones, it is true, but quite as good as hers, as Hoyle
reluctantly admitted, which served to give David a higher respect for
farmers in general and ploughmen especially.