IN WHICH THE OLD DOCTOR AND LITTLE HOYLE COME BACK TO THE MOUNTAINS
Cassandra, seated on the great hanging rock before her cabin, watched
the sunrise where David had so often stood and waited for the dawn
during his winter there alone. This morning the mists obscured the
valleys and the base of the mountains, while the sky and the whole earth
glowed with warm rose color.
Presently she rose and walked with lifted head into the cabin, and
prepared to light a fire on the hearth. In the canvas room the bed was
made smoothly, as she had made it the morning David left. No one had
slept in it since, although Cassandra spent most of her days there.
Everything he had used was carefully kept as he had left it. His
microscope, covered from dust, stood with the last specimen still under
the lens. A book they were reading together lay on the corner shelf,
with the mark still in the place where they had read last.
After lighting the fire, she sat near it, watching the flames steal up
from the small pile of fat pine chips underneath, sending up red tongues
of fire, until the great logs were wrapped in the hot embrace of the
flames, trembling, quivering, and leaping high in their mad joy,
transmuting all they touched.
"It's like love," she murmured, and smiled. "Only it's quicker. It does
in one hour what love takes a lifetime to do. Those logs might have lain
on the ground and rotted if they'd been left alone, but now the fire
just holds them and caresses them like, and they grow warm and glow like
the sun, and give all they can while they last, until they're almost too
bright to look at. I reckon God has been right good to me not to let me
lie and rot my life away. He sent David to set my heart on fire, and I
guess I can wait for him to come back to me in God's own time."
She rose and brought from the canvas room a basket of willow, woven in
open-work pattern. It was a gift from Azalea, who had learned from her
mother the art of basket weaving. Some said Azalea's grandmother was
half Indian, and that it was from her they had learned their quaint
patterns and shapes, and that she, and her Indian mother before her, had
been famous basket weavers.
This pretty basket was filled with very delicate work of fine muslin,
much finer than anything Cassandra had ever worked upon before. Her
hands no longer showed signs of having been employed in rough, coarse
tasks; they were soft and white. She placed the basket of dainty sewing
on the same table which had served as an altar when she knelt beside
David and was made his wife. It was serving as an altar still, bearing
that basket of delicate work.
She had become absorbed in a book--not one of those David had suggested.
It is doubtful, had he been there, whether he would have really liked to
see her reading this one, although it was written by Thackeray, dear to
all English hearts. It is more than probable that he would have thought
his young wife hardly need be enlightened upon just the sort of things
with which _Vanity Fair_ enriches the understanding.
Be it how it may, Cassandra was reading _Vanity Fair_, which she found
in the box of books David had opened so long before. While she read she
worked with her fingers, incessantly, at a piece of narrow lace, with a
shuttle and very fine thread. This she did so mechanically that she
could easily read at the same time by propping the book open on the
table before her. For a long time she sat thus, growing more and more
interested, until the fire burned low, and she rose to replenish it.
The logs were piled beside the door of the small kitchen David had built
for her, and where he had placed the cook stove. She had come up early
this morning, because she was sad over his last letter, in which he had
told her of his disappointment in having to cancel his passage to
America. Hopeful and cheery though the letter was, it had struck dismay
to her heart; it was her way when sad, and longing for her husband, to
go up to her little cabin--her own home--and think it all over alone and
thus regain her equanimity.
Here she read and thought things out by herself. What strange people
they were over there! Or perhaps that was so long ago--they might have
changed by this time. Surely they must have changed, or David would have
said something about it. He never would become a lord, to be one of such
people--never--never! It was not at all like David.
A figure appeared in the doorway. "Cassandra! What are you doing here
all by yourself?"
It was Betty Towers. Cassandra ran joyfully forward and clasped the
little woman in her arms. Almost carrying her in, she sat her by the
pleasant open fire. Then, seeing Betty's eyes regarding her
questioningly, she suddenly dropped into her own chair by the table,
leaned her head upon her arms, and began to weep, silently.
In an instant Betty was kneeling by her side, holding the lovely head to
her breast. "Dearest! You shan't cry. You shan't cry like that. Tell me
all about it. Why on earth doesn't Doctor Thryng come home?"
Cassandra lifted her head and dried her tears. "He was coming. The last
letter but one said he was to sail next day. Then last night came
another saying the only man who could look after very important business
for him had been thrown from his horse and hurt so bad he may die, and
David had to give up his passage and go back to London. He may have to
go to Africa. He felt right bad--but--"
"Goodness me, child! Why, he has no business now more important than
you! What a chump!"
Cassandra stiffened proudly and drew away, taking up her shuttle and
beginning her work calmly as if nothing had happened to destroy her
composure.
"I've not written David--anything to disturb him--or make him hurry
home."
"Oh, Cassandra, Cassandra! You're not treating either him or yourself
fairly."
"For him--I can't help it; and for me, I don't care. Other women have
got along as best they could in these mountains, and I can bear what
they have borne."
"But why on earth haven't you told him?"
Cassandra bent her head lower over her bit of lace and was silent. Betty
drew her chair nearer and put her arms about the drooping girl.
"Can't you tell me all about it, dear?"
"Not if you are going to blame David."
"I won't, you lovely thing! I can't, since he doesn't know--but why--"
"At first I couldn't speak. I tried, but I couldn't. Then he had to take
Hoyle North, and I thought he would see for himself when he came
back--or I could tell him by that time. Then came that dreadful
news--you know--four, all dead. His brother and his two cousins all
killed, and his uncle dying of grief; and he had to go to his mother or
she might die, too, and then he found so much to do. Now, you know he
has to be a--"
She was going to say "a lord," but, happening to glance down at her open
book, the name of "Lord Steyne" caught her eye, and it seemed to her a
title of disgrace. She must talk with David before she allowed him to be
known as "a lord," so she ended hurriedly: "He has to be a different
kind of a man, now--not a doctor. He has a great many things to do and
look after. If I told him, he would leave everything and come to me,
even if he ought not, and if he couldn't come, he would be troubled and
unhappy. Why should I make him unhappy? When he does come home, he'll be
glad--oh, so glad! Why need he know when the knowing will do no good,
and when he will come to me as soon as he can, anyway?"
"You strange girl, Cassandra! You brave old dear! But he must come,
that's all. It is his right to know and to come. I can tell him. Let
me."
"No, no. Please, Mrs. Towers, you must not. He will come back as soon as
he can; and now--now--he will be too late, since he--he did not sail
when he meant to."
Betty rose with a set look about the mouth. "Unless we cable him,
Cassandra. Would there be time in that case? Come, you must tell me."
"No, no," wailed the girl. "And now he must not know until he comes. It
would be cruel. I will not let you write him or cable him either."
"Then what will you do?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'll think out a way. You'll help me think, but you
must promise me not to write to David. I send him a letter every day,
but I never tell him anything that would make him uneasy, because he
has very important business there for his mother and sister, even more
than for himself. You see how bad I would be to write troubling things
to him when he couldn't help me or come to me." A light broke over Betty
Towers's face.
"I can think out a way, dear, of course I can. Just leave matters to
me."
Thus it was that Doctor Hoyle received a letter in Betty's own
impassioned and impulsive style, begging him, for love's sake, to leave
all and come back to the mountains and his own little cabin, where
Cassandra needed him.
"Never mind Doctor Thryng or anything surprising about his being absent;
just come if you possibly can and hear what Cassandra has to say about
it before you judge him. She is quaint and queer and wholly lovely. If
you can bring little Hoyle with you, do so, for I fear his mother is
grieving to see him. She wrote me a most peculiar and pathetic letter,
saying her daughter was so silent about her affairs that she herself
'war nigh about dead fer worryin', and would I please come and see could
I make Cass talk a leetle,' so you may be sure there is need of you. The
winter is glorious in the mountains this year. Your appearance will set
everything right at the Fall Place, and Cassandra will be safe."
Old Time, the unfailing, who always marches apace, bringing with him
changes for good or evil, brought the dear old doctor back to the Fall
Place--brought the small Adam Hoyle, with his queer little twisted neck
and hunched back, drawn by harness and plaster into a much improved
condition, although not straight yet--brought many letters from David
filled with postponements and regrets therefor--and brought also a
little son for Cassandra to hold to her bosom and dream and pray over.
And the dreams and the prayers travelled far--far, to the sunny-haired
Englishman wrapped in the intricate affairs of a great estate. How much
money would accrue? How should it be spent? What improvements should be
made in their country home? When Laura's coming out should be? How many
of her old companions might she retain? How many might she call friends?
How many were to be hereafter thrust out as quite impossible? Should
she be allowed a kennel, or should her sporting tendencies be
discouraged?
All these things were forced upon David's consideration; how then could
he return to his young wife, especially when he could not yet bring
himself to say to his world that he had a young wife. Impatient he might
be, nervous, and even irritable, but still what could he do? While there
in the faraway hills sat Cassandra, loving him, brooding over him with
serene and peaceful longing, holding his baby to her white breast,
holding his baby's hand to her lips, full of courage, strong in her
faith, patient in spirit, until as days and weeks passed she grew well
and strong in body.
Being sadly in need of rest, the old doctor lingered on in the mountains
until spring was well advanced. Slight of body, but vigorous and wiry,
and as full of scientific enthusiasm as when he was thirty years
younger, he tramped the hills, taking long walks and climbs alone, or
shorter ones with Hoyle at his heels like a devoted dog, shrilling
questions as he ran to keep up. These the good doctor answered according
to his own code, or passed over as beyond possibility of reply with
quizzical counter-questioning.
They sat together one day, eating their luncheon in the shelter of a
great wall of rock, and below them lay a pool of clear water which
trickled from a spring higher up. Now and then a bullfrog would sound
his deep bass note, and all the time the high piping of the peepers made
shrill accompaniment to their voices as they conversed.
The doctor had made an aquarium for Hoyle, using a great glass jar which
he obtained from a druggist in Farington. They had come to-day on a
quest for snails to eat the green growth, which had so covered the sides
of the jar as to hide the interesting water world within from the boy's
eyes. Many things had already occurred in that small world to set the
boy thinking.
"Doctah Hoyle, you remembeh that thar quare bunch of leetle sticks an'
stones you put in my 'quar'um first day you fixed hit up fer me?"
"Yes, yes."
"Well, the' is a right quare thing with a big hade come outen hit, an'
he done eat up some o' the leetle black bugs. I seed him jump quicker'n
lightnin' at that leetlist fish only so long, an' try to bite a piece
outen his fin--his lowest fin. What did he do that fer?"
"Why--why--he was hungry. He made his dinner off the little black bugs,
and he wanted the fin for his dessert."
"I don't like that kind of a beast. Oncet he was a worm in a kind of a
hole-box, an' then he turned into a leetle beast-crittah; an' what'll he
be next?"
"Next--why, next he'll be a fly--a--a beautiful fly with four wings all
blue and gold and green--"
"I seen them things flyin' round in the summeh. Hit's quare how things
gits therselves changed that-a-way into somethin' else--from a worm into
that beast-crittah an' then into one o' these here devil flies. You
reckon hit'll eveh git changed into something diff'ent--some kind er a
bird?"
"A bird? No, no. When he becomes a f--fly, he's finished and done for."
"P'r'aps ther is some folks that-a-way, too. You reckon that's what ails
me?"
"You? Why,--why what ails you?"
"You reckon p'r'aps I mount git changed some way outen this here quare
back I got, so't I can hol' my hade like otheh folks? Jes' go to sleep
like, an' wake up straight like Frale?"
The old doctor turned and looked down a moment on the child sitting
hunched at his side. His mouth worked as he meditated a reply.
"What would you do if you could c--arry your head straight like Frale?
If you had been like him, you would be running a 'still' pretty soon.
You never would have come to me to set you straight, and so you would
n--never have seen all the pictures and the great cities. You are going
to be a man before you know it, and--"
"And I'll do a heap o' things when I'm a man, too--but I wisht--I
wisht-- These here snails we b'en hunt'n', you reckon they're done
growed to ther shells so they can't get out? What did God make 'em
that-a-way fer?"
"It's all in the order of things. Everything has its place in the world
and its work to do. They don't want to get out. They like to carry their
bones on the outside of their bodies. They're made so. Yes, yes, all in
the order of things. They like it."
"You reckon you can tell me hu' come God 'lowed me to have this-er lump
on my back? Hit hain't in no ordeh o' things fer humans to be like I
be."
The sceptical old man looked down on the child quizzically, yet sadly.
His flexible mouth twitched to reply, but he was silent. Hoyle looked
back into the old doctor's eyes with grave, direct gaze, and turned
away. "You reckon why he done hit?"
"See here. Suppose--just suppose you were given your choice this minute
to change places with Frale--Lord knows where he is now, or what he's
doing--or be as you are and live your own life; which would you be?
Think it over; think it out."
"Ef I had 'a' been straight, brother David never would 'a' took me up to
you?"
"No--no--no. You would have been a--"
"You mean if a magic man should come by here an' just touch me so, an'
change me into Frale, would I 'low him to do hit?"
"That's what I mean."
"I don't guess Frale, he'd like to be done that-a-way." The loving
little chap nestled closer to the doctor's side. "I like you a heap,
Doctah Hoyle. Frale, he fit brothah David--an' nigh about killed him. I
reckon I rutheh be like I be, an' bide nigh Cass an' th' baby--an' have
the 'quar'um--an' see maw--an' go with you. You reckon I can go back
with you?"
"Go back? Of course--go back."
"Be I heap o' trouble to you? You reckon God 'lowed me to have this er
hump, so't I could get to go an' bide whar you were at, like I done?"
A suspicious moisture gathered in the doctor's eyes, and he sprang up
and went to examine earnestly a thorny shrub some paces away, while the
child continued to pipe his questions, for the most part unanswerable.
"You reckon God just gin my neck er twist so't brothah David would take
me to Canada to you, an' so't maw'd 'low me to go? You reckon if I'm
right good, He'll 'low me to make a picture o' th' ocean some day, like
the one we seed in that big house? You reckon if I tried right hard I
could paint a picture o' th' mountain, yandah--an' th' sea--an'--all
the--all the--ships?"
The doctor laughed heartily and merrily. "Come, come. We must go home
now to Cassandra and the baby. Paint? Of--of course you could paint! You
could paint p--pictures enough to fill a house."
"We don't want no magic man, do we, Doctah Hoyle? I cried a heap after I
seed myself in the big lookin'-glass down in Farington whar brothah
David took me. I cried when hit war dark an' maw war sleepin'. Next time
I reckon I bettah tell God much obleeged fer twistin' my hade 'roun'
'stead er cryin' an' takin' on like I been doin'. You reckon so, Doctah
Hoyle?"
"Yes--yes--yes. I reckon so," said the doctor, meditatively, as they
descended the trail. From that day the child's strength increased. Sunny
and buoyant, he shook off the thought of his deformity, and his
beauty-loving soul ceased introspective brooding and found delight in
searching out beauty, and in his creative faculty.