IN WHICH DAVID TAKES LITTLE HOYLE TO CANADA
"David," said his wife next day, as he came whistling up to his cabin
from the farm below, "do you mind if I give mother a little help with
the weaving? Mattie can't do it. She's right nigh spoiled the
counterpane we had on when she came, and since mother's hurt, she can't
work the treadles, so now the hotel's open Miss Mayhew may come and find
them not half done."
"Do I mind? Why should I mind, if you don't 'right nigh' spoil your back
and wear yourself out?"
"Then I'll go down with you after dinner and see can I patch up Mattie's
mistakes. It takes so much patience--a loom does, to understand it."
Mattie was the cousin David had imported from the low country to relieve
Cassandra from the burden of the work in the home below. Although a
disappointment to them, she still did her work after her own fashion,
clumsily and slowly, but her Aunt 'Marthy' was never at rest, prodding
the dull nature forward, trying to make her take the interest Cassandra
had done.
David had wisely persuaded his wife to leave them to themselves, to work
out the problem of adjustment to the new conditions as best they might,
and his persuasions had been of a more peremptory nature than he
realized. To Cassandra they had been as commands, but now--when the
weaving on which the widow had counted so much was likely to be ruined
by Mattie's unskilled hands--the old mother had declared she could not
bear to see her niece around and should "pack her off whar she come
from."
Therefore Cassandra had made her timid request--the first evidence of
shrinking from her husband she had ever given. Why was it? he asked
himself. What had he ever said or done to make her prefer a request in
that way? But it was over in an instant, and her own poised manner
returned as they ate and chatted together.
Little Hoyle came running up to eat with them. He had conceived a
dislike to the home below since the incumbent had come to take his
sister's place, and evaded thus, as often as possible, his mother's
vigilance. David did not mind the intrusion, but suffered the adoring
little chap to sit at his side, ever twisting his small body about to
fix his great eyes on David's face, while he plied him with questions
and hung on his words too intent to attend to his own eating unless
admonished thereto by his sister.
"If you don't eat, son, I'll send you back to mother," she threatened.
"I won't go," he rebelled joyously. "I'll jes' set here 'longside
brothah David."
"No, you won't, young man. You'll do whatever sister says. That's what I
do." He put his hand on the boy's tousled head and turned him about to
his plate, well filled with food still untouched, but he noticed that
the child ate listlessly, more as an act of obedience than from a normal
desire. He glanced up at his wife and saw that she also noticed Hoyle's
languor. They finished the meal in a silence only broken by Hoyle's
questions and David's replies, now serious, now teasing and bantering.
"You are so full of interrogation points you have no room for your
dinner. Here--drink this milk--slowly; don't gulp it."
"I know what they be. They go this-a-way." The boy set down his glass to
illustrate with his slender little hand the form of the question mark.
Then he laughed out gayly. "You know hu' come I got filled up with them
things? I done swallered that thar catechism Cass b'en teachin' me
Sundays."
"No, I'm thinking you just are one yourself."
"'Cause I'm crooked like this-a-way?" He twisted about and looked up at
David gravely.
"No, no, son. Doctor didn't mean that," said his sister.
"Finish your milk," said David. "We'll have some fun with the
microscope." And once again the child essayed to eat and drink a little.
But the languor and pallor grew in spite of all David could do for him,
and as the weeks passed his large eyes burned more brilliantly and his
thin form grew more meagre. Cassandra got in the way of keeping him up
at the cabin with her, and when she went down to weave, he went also and
used to lie on the bundles of cotton, poring over the books which David
procured for him from time to time.
"What he gets in that way won't hurt him. It's not like having set tasks
to learn, and he's not burdened with any 'ought' or 'ought not' about
it. Let him vegetate until cooler weather. Then, if he doesn't improve,
we'll see what can be done. Something radical, I imagine."
The fall arrived in a splendor that was truly oriental in its
gorgeousness. The changing colors of the foliage surpassed in brilliancy
anything David had ever seen or imagined possible. The mantle of deepest
green which had clothed the mountain sides all summer, became
transmuted, until all the world was glorified and glowing as if the heat
of the summer sun had been stored up during the drowsy days to burst
forth thus in warmest reds and golds.
"The hills look as if they had clothed themselves in Turkish rugs,
ancient and fine," said David one evening, as he sat on his rock,
watching them burn in the afterglow of the setting sun.
"How much there is for me to learn and know," Cassandra replied in a low
voice. "I never saw a Turkish rug. You often speak of things I know
nothing about."
David laughed and turned upon her happy eyes. "Why so sad for that? Did
you think I loved you and married you for your worldly knowledge?" She
smiled back at him and was silent. Presently he continued. "Now, while
Hoyle is not here, I wish to talk to you a little about him."
"Yes, David." Her heart fluttered with a nameless fear, but she betrayed
no sign of emotion.
"You've seen, of course. It's not necessary to tell you."
"No, David--only--does it mean death?" She put her hand out to him, and
he took it in his and stroked it.
"Not surely. We'll make a fight for him, won't we, dear?"
"Oh, David! What can we do?" she moaned.
"There's a thing to do that I've been reserving as a last resort. I
think the time has come to try it. This curvature presses on some vital
part, and the action of his heart is uncertain. He needs the tonic of
the cold,--the ice and snow. Would you trust him to me, dear? I'll take
him to Doctor Hoyle. You know very well everything kindness and skill
can do will be done for him there."
"Yes, yes, David. You are so good to him always! Would--would you
go--alone with him?" She drew closer to him, her head on his shoulder
and her hand in his, but he could not see her face.
"You mean without you, dearest?"
"Yes."
"That may be as you say. Would you prefer to go with us?"
She drew a long breath, slowly, like an indrawn sigh, and something
trembled to pass her heart, but suddenly the old habit of reserve sealed
her lips and she remained silent.
"What do you say?" he urged.
"Tell me first--do you want me to go?"
He was silent, and they sat waiting for each other. Then he said, "I do
want you to go--and yet I don't want you to go--yet. Sometime, of
course, we must go where I may find wider scope for my activities." He
felt her quiver of anxiety. "Not until you are quite ready yourself,
dear, always remember that." Still she was silent, and he continued: "I
can't say that I'm quite ready myself. I would prefer one more year
here, but Hoyle must be removed without delay. We may have waited too
long as it is. Will your mother consent? She must, if she cares to see
him live."
"Oh, David! Go, go. Take him and go to-morrow. Leave me here and
go--but--come back to me, David, soon--very soon. I--I shall need you,
I-- Can you leave Hoyle there and come back, David? Or must you bide
there, too?" Suddenly she bowed her face in her hands. "Oh, I'm so
wicked and selfish to think of leaving him there without you or me or
mother--one. David, what can we do? He might die there, and you--you
must come back for the winter; what would save him, might kill you. Oh,
David! Take me with you, and leave me there with him, and you come back.
Doctor Hoyle will take care of him--of us--once we are there."
"Now, now, now! hold your dear heart in peace. Why, I'm well. To stay
another winter would only be to establish myself in a more rugged
condition of body--not that I must do so. We'll talk with your mother
to-morrow. It may be hard to persuade her."
But he found the mother most reasonable and practical. He even tried to
abate her perfect trust in him and his ability to bring the child back
to her quite well and strong.
"This isn't a trouble that is ever really cured, you know. When taken
young enough, it may be helped, and I've known people who have lived
long and useful lives in spite of it. That's all we may hope for."
"Waal, I 'low ye can't git him no younger'n he be now, an' he's that
peart, I reckon he's worth hit--leastways to we-uns."
"Of course he's worth it."
"You are right good to keer fer him like you have. I'd do a heap fer you
ef I could. All I have is jest this here farm, an' hit's fer you an'
Cass. On'y ef ye'd 'low me an' leetle Hoyle to bide on here whilst we
live--"
David was touched. "Do you realize I've found here the two greatest
things in the world, love and health? All I want is for you to know and
remember that if I can't succeed in doing all I would like for the boy,
at least I tried my very best. I may not succeed, you know, but this is
the only thing to do now--the only thing."
David parted from his young wife, leaving her standing in the door of
their cabin, clad in her white homespun frock, smiling, yet tearful and
pale. He was to walk down to the Fall Place, where Jerry Carew waited
with the wagon in which he had arrived, and where his baggage had been
brought the day before. When he came to the steepest part of the
descent, he looked back and saw Cassandra still standing as if in a
trance, gazing after him. He felt his heart lean towards her, and,
turning sharply, walked swiftly to her and took her once more in his
arms and looked down into those deep springs--her sweet gray eyes. Thus
for a long moment he held her to his heart with never a word. Then she
entered the little home, and he walked away, looking back no more.