IN WHICH DAVID SENDS HOKE BELEW ON A COMMISSION, AND CASSANDRA MAKES A
CONFESSION
Early one morning Hoke Belew put his head in at the door of Thryng's
cabin, where Aunt Sally was squatted before the fireplace, preparing
breakfast for the patient.
"How's doc?" he asked.
"He's right fa'r. He mount be worse an' he mount be bettah."
"You reckon I mount go in yandah whar he is at?"
"Ye can look an' see is he awake. I'm gittin' his hot bread an' coffee.
You bettah bide an' have a leetle," she said, with ever ready
hospitality.
He crossed the floor with careful steps and paused in the doorway of the
canvas room, big and smiling.
"That you, Hoke? Come in," said David, cheerfully. He extended a hand
which Hoke took in his and held awkwardly, shocked at the white face
before him.
"Ye do look puny," he said at last. "But we-uns sure be glad yer livin'.
Ye tol' me to come early, so I come."
"It's awfully good of you. Bring a chair and sit near, so we can talk a
bit. Now, Hoke, laid up here as I am, I need your help. I want to send
you to Farington or Lone Pine--somewhere--I don't know where such things
are to be had--but, Hoke, you've been married and know all about what's
needed here."
"Ye want me to git ye a license, I reckon," said Hoke, grinning, "an' ye
mount send me a errant I'd like a heap worse--that's so; but what good
will hit be to ye now? You can't stan' on your feet."
"I can put it under my pillow and keep it to get well on. See here,
Hoke. I don't even know if she'll marry me; she has not said so, but
I'll be ready. You'll keep this quiet for me, Hoke? Because it would
trouble her if the whole mountain side should know what I have done
before she does. Yet a girl like Cassandra is worth winning if you have
to go to the edge of the grave to do it, so whenever she will have me, I
want to be ready."
They talked in low tones, Hoke leaning forward close to David, his
elbows on his knees. "I reckon you are a-thinkin' to bide on here 'long
o' we-uns an' not carry her off nowhar else?" he asked gravely.
David's paleness left him for a moment, as the warm tide swept upward
from his heart. "My home is not in this country, and wherever a man
goes, he expects to take his wife with him. Don't you people here in the
mountains do the same?"
"I reckon so, but hit would nigh about kill Azalie if she war to lose
Cass. They have been frien's evah sence they war littlin's."
"Hoke, if you were to find it necessary to go away anywhere, would you
leave your wife behind to please Cassandra Merlin?" The man was silent,
and David continued. "Before you were married if you had known there was
another man, and a criminal at that, hanging around determined to get
her, wouldn't you have married her out of hand as soon as you could get
her consent? It's my opinion, knowing the sort of man you are, that you
would."
"I sure would."
"Then you can understand why I wish to have a marriage license under my
pillow."
"I reckon so--but--you--you-all hain't quite our kind--not bein' kin to
none of us-- You understand me, suh. We-uns are a proud people here, an'
we think a heap o' our women. Hit would be right hard should you git
sorter tired o' Cassandry when you come to git her amongst your
people--bein' she hain't like none o' your folks, understand; an'
Cassandry, she's sorter hard hit jest now, she don't rightly know
what-all she do think. Me an' Azalie, we been speakin' right smart
together--an'--well, we do sure think a heap o' you, Doc--an' hit ain't
no disrespect to you-uns, neither. Have you said anything to her maw?"
"Not a word. When I learned another man was before me, I stood one side
as an honorable man should and gave him his chance. But when it comes to
being attacked by the other man and shot in the back-- by heaven! no
power on earth will hold me from trying to win her. As for the other
matter, never you fear. Be my friend, Hoke."
"Waal, I reckon you'll have yer own way, an' I mount as well git hit fer
ye, but I did promise Azalie 'at I'd speak that word to ye," said the
young man, rising with an air of relief.
"Tell your wife that you are both of you quite right, and that I am
right also. Just hunt up my trousers, will you? I want my pocket-book.
If I have to sign anything before anybody--bring him here. I don't care
what you do, so you get it. There, on that card you have it all--my full
name and all that, you know."
David tried to eat what Sally prepared for him, using his unbound hand;
but his egg was hard, his coffee thick and boiled. He could not drink it
very well for his head was too low, and he could not raise himself, so
he lay silent and uncomfortable, watching her move about his rooms,
wearing her great black sunbonnet. She appeared kindly and pleasant when
he could see her face, which was thin and very much lined, but motherly
and good. He fell in the way of calling her "Aunt Sally" as others did,
and this seemed to please her. She treated him as if he were a big boy
who did not know what was good for himself. She called all the green
blossoming things with which Cassandra had adorned the cabin, "trash,"
and asked who had "toted hit thar."
Waiting and listening, sure Cassandra would not leave him all day
without coming to him, even though Aunt Sally had taken him in charge,
David's mind was full of her. If he closed his eyes, he saw her. If he
opened them and watched Sally's meagre form and black sunbonnet moving
about, he thought what it might be to see Cassandra there.
He could not and would not look at the future. The picture Hoke Belew
had summoned up when he had suggested the taking of Cassandra away among
people alien to her, he put from him. He would not see it nor think of
it. The present was his, and it was all he had, perhaps all he ever
would have; and now he would not allow one little joy of it to escape
him. He would be greedy of it and have all the gladness of the moments
as they came.
He could see her down below making ready for their visitors, and he
knew she would not come until the last task was done, but meantime his
patience was wearing away. Aunt Sally finished her work, and David could
see her from where he lay, seated in the doorway with her pipe, looking
out on the gently falling rain.
Without, all was very peaceful; only within himself was turmoil and
impatience. But he knew that to remain calm and unmoved was to keep back
his fever and hasten recuperation, so he closed his eyes and tried to
live for the moment in the remembrance of that awakening when he had
found her kneeling at his side. Thus he dropped to sleep, and again,
when he awoke, he found Cassandra there as if in answer to his silent
call.
She was seated quietly sewing, as if it were no unusual thing for her to
visit him thus, and when his earnest gaze caused her to look up, she
only smiled without perturbation and came to him.
"I sent Aunt Sally down to see mother while I could stay by you and do
for you a little," she said.
Calm and restful she seemed, yet when he extended his free hand and took
hers, he felt a tremor in her touch that delighted his heart. He brought
it to his lips.
"I've been needing you all the morning. Aunt Sally has done
everything--all she could. If I should let you have this hand again,
would you go so far away from me that I could not reach you?"
"Not if you want me near."
"Then put away your sewing and bring your chair close to me, and let us
talk together while we may."
She obeyed and sat looking away from him out through the open door. Were
her eyes searching for the mountain top?
"You have thoughts--sweet, big thoughts, dear girl; put them in words
for me now, while we are so blessedly alone."
"I can't say rightly what I think. Seems like if I had some other
way--something besides words to tell my thoughts with, I could do it
better; but words are all we have--and seems like when I want them most
they won't come."
"That's the way with all of us. Don't you see you are still beyond my
reach? Come. If you can't tell your thoughts in words, give them by the
touch of your hands as you did a moment ago."
She did as he bade her and, leaning forward, took his hand in both her
own.
"That's right. I'll teach you how to tell your thoughts without words.
Now, how came you to find us the other day?"
"I don't know myself. It was a strange way. First I rode down to
Teasley's Mill to--to try to persuade them--Giles Teasley--to allow him
to go free." She paused and put her hand to her throat, as her way was.
"I think, Doctor Thryng, I'd better build up the fire and get you some
hot milk. Doctor Bartlett said you must have it often--and--to keep you
very quiet."
"Not until you tell me now--this moment--what I ask you. You went to the
mill to try to help Frale out of his trouble. Cassandra, have you loved
that boy?"
Her face assumed its old look of masklike impassivity. "I reckoned he
might hold himself steady and do right--would they only leave him
be--and give him the chance--"
"Cassandra, answer me. Was it for love of him that you gave him your
promise?"
Her face grew white, and for a moment she bowed her head on his hand.
"Please, Doctor Thryng, let me tell you the strange part first, then you
can answer that question in your own way." She lifted her head and
looked steadily in his eyes. "You remember that day we went to Cate
Irwin's? When we came to the place where we can see far--far over the
mountains--I laughed--with something glad in my heart. It was the same
this time when I got to that far open place. All at once it seemed like
I was so free--free from the heavy burden--and all in a kind of light
that was only the same gladness in my heart.
"I stopped there and waited and thought how you said that time, 'It's
good just to be alive,' and I thought if you were there with me and
should put your hand on my bridle as you did that night in the rain, and
if you should lead me away off--even into the 'Valley of the shadow of
death' into those deep shadows below us I would go and never say a word.
All at once it seemed as if you were doing that, and I forgot Frale and
kept on and on; and wherever it seemed like you were leading me, I went.
"It seemed like I was dreaming, or feeling like a hand was on my
heart--a hand I could not see, pulling me and making me feel, 'This way,
this way, I must go this way.' I never had been where my horse took me
before. I didn't think how I ever could get back again. I didn't seem to
see anything around me--only to go on--on--on, and at last it seemed I
couldn't go fast enough, until all at once I came to your horse tied
there, and I heard strange trampling sounds a little farther on where my
horse could not go--and I got off and ran.
"I fell down and got up and ran again; and it seemed as if my feet
wouldn't leave the ground, but only held me back. It seemed like they
hadn't any more power to run--and--then I came there and I saw." She
paused, covering her face with her hand as if to shut out the sight, and
slipped to her knees beside him. "Oh, I saw your faces--all terrible--"
He put his arm about her and drew her close. "I saw you fall, and your
face when it seemed like you were dying as you fought. I saw--" Her sobs
shook her, and she could not go on.
"My beautiful priestess of good and holy things!" he said.
She leaned to him then and, placing her arms about him, ever mindful of
his hurt, she lifted his head to her shoulder. The flood-gates of her
reserve once lifted, the full tide of her intense nature swept over him
and enveloped him. It was as light to his soul and healing to his body.
How often it had seemed as if he saw her with that halo of light about
her, and now it was as if he had been drawn within its charmed radius,
as surely he had.
"And then, dear heart, what did you do?"
"I thought you were killed, and almost--almost I cursed him. I hope now
I wasn't so wicked. But I--I--called back from God the promise I had
given him."
"And then--tell me all the blessed truth--and then--"
"You were bleeding--bleeding--and I took off your clothes--and I saw
where you were bleeding your life away, and I tied my dress around you.
I tore it in pieces and wound it all around you as well as I could, and
then I put your coat back on you, and still you didn't waken. It seemed
as if you had stopped breathing. And then I saw the bruise on your head,
and I thought maybe you were only stunned. I brought water from the
branch and put your head on the wet cloth and bound it all around, but
still you looked like he had killed you, and then--" he stirred in her
arms to feel their clasp.
"And then--then--"
"I went for help," she said, in so low a tone it seemed hardly spoken.
"First you did something you have not told me."
She waited in a sweet shame he recognized and gloried in, but he wanted
the confession from her lips.
"And then?"
"You said you would teach me to say things without words," she said
tremulously.
"Not now. Later. Put everything you did in words. And then--"
"I thought you were dying." She drew in a long, sighing breath.
"And you kissed me. I have a right to know, for I missed them all--"
"I did, I did," she cried vehemently. "A hundred times I kissed you. I
had called my promise back from God--and I dared it. I wasn't ashamed. I
would have done it if all the mountain side had been there to see--but
afterwards--when that strange doctor from Farington came, and I knew he
must uncover you and find my torn dress around you--somehow, then I felt
I didn't want for him to look at me, and I was glad to go away."
"Do you want to know what he said when he saw it? 'Whoever did this kept
you alive, young man.' So you see how you are my beautiful bringer of
good. You are--Oh, I have only one arm now. I am at a disadvantage. When
I can stand on my feet, I will pay them all back--those kisses you threw
away on me then. We shan't need words then, dearest. I'll teach you the
sweet lesson. Your arms tremble; they are tired, dear. Could you let
your head rest here and sleep as you did the other day? To think how I
woke and found you beside me sleeping--"
"Let me go now. I have things I ought to do for you."
"Not yet. I have things I must say to you."
"Please, Doctor Thryng."
"My name is David. You must call me by it."
"Please, Doctor David, let me go."
"Why?"
"To warm some milk. I brought it up for you."
"Pity we must eat to live. Then if I let you take your arms away, will
you come back to me?"
"Yes. I'll bring the milk."
"There, go. I'm giving you your own way because I know I will recover
the sooner the strength I have lost. A man flat on his back, with but
one arm free, is no good."
"But you don't let me go."
"Listen, Cassandra. You brought me back to life. Do you know what for?
What did your father tell you? That one should be sent for you? It is I,
dearest. From away over on the other side of the earth, I have come for
you. We fought like beasts--Frale and I. I had given you
up--you--Cassandra; had said in my heart, 'I will go away and leave her
to the one she has chosen, if that be right,' and even at that moment,
Frale shot me and sprang upon me, and I fought. I was glad the chance
was given me there in the wilderness in that old and primitive way, to
settle it and win you.
"I put all the force and strength of my body into it, and more; all the
strength of my love for you. It was with that in my heart, we clinched.
I said I will fight to the death for her. She shall be mine whether I
live or die. Stop crying, sweet; be glad as I am. Give thanks that it
was to the life and not to the death. Listen, once more, while I can
feel and know; give way to your great heart of love and treat me as you
did after you had bound up my wounds. Learn the sweet lesson I said I
would teach you."
Late that evening, Hoke Belew rode up to the door of David's cabin and
called Aunt Sally out to speak with him.
"How's doc?"
"He's doin' right well. He's asleep now. Won't ye 'light an' come in?"
"I reckon not. Azalie, she's been alone all day, an' I guess she'll be
some 'feared. Will you put that thar under doc's pillow whar he kin find
hit in the mawnin'? Hit's a papah he sont me fer. Tell 'im I reckon
hit's all straight. He kin see. Them people Cassandry was expectin' from
Farington, did they come to-day?"
"Yas, they come. They're down to Miz Farwell's."
"Well, you tell doc 'at Azalie an' me, we'll be here 'long 'leven in the
mawnin'." Hoke rode off under the winking stars, for the clouds after
the long day of rain had lifted, and in the still night were rolling
away over the mountain tops.
Aunt Sally slipped quietly back into the cabin and softly closed the
door of the canvas room, lest the rustling of paper should waken her
charge, for she meant to examine that paper, quite innocently, since she
could neither read nor write, but out of sheer childish curiosity.
She need not have feared waking David, however, for, all his physical
discomfort forgotten, dominated by the supreme happiness that possessed
him, yet weak in body to the point of exhaustion, he slept profoundly
and calmly on, even when she came stealthily and slipped the paper
beneath his pillow, as Hoke had requested.