Читать книгу The Mountain Girl - Erskine Payne - Страница 7

Frale felt himself exalted by the oath he had sworn to Cassandra, as if those words had lifted the burden from his heart, and taken away the stain. As he walked away in his disguise, it seemed to him that he had acted under an irresistible spell cast upon him by this Englishman, who was to bide so near Cassandra – to be seen by her every day – to be admired by her, while he, who had the first right, must hide himself away from her, shielding himself in that man's clothes. Fine as they seemed to him, they only abashed him and filled him with a sense of obligation to a man he dreaded.

Like a child, realizing his danger only when it was close upon him, his old recklessness returned, and he moved down the path with his head held high, looking neither to the right nor to the left, planning how he might be rid of these clothes and evade his pursuers unaided. The men, climbing toward him as he descended, hearing his footsteps above them, parted and stood watching, only half screened by the thick-leaved shrubs, not ten feet from him on either side; but so elated was he, and eager in his plans, that he passed them by, unseeing, and thus Thryng's efforts saved him in spite of himself; for so amazed were they at the presence of such a traveller in such a place that they allowed him to pass unchallenged until he was too far below them to make speech possible. Later, when they found David seated on his rock, they assumed the young man to be a friend, and thought no further of it.

Frale soon left the path and followed the stream to the head of the fall, where he lingered, tormented by his own thoughts and filled with conflicting emotions, in sight of his home.

To go down to the settlement and see the world had its allurements, but to go in this way, never to return, never to feel again the excitement of his mountain life, evading the law and conquering its harassments, was bitter. It had been his joy and delight in life to feel himself masterfully triumphant over those set to take him, too cunning to be found, too daring and strong to be overcome, to take desperate chances and win out; all these he considered his right and part of the game of life. But to slink away like a hunted fox followed by the dogs of the law because, in a blind frenzy, he had slain his own friend! What if he had promised to repent; there was the law after him still!

If only his fate were a tangible thing, to be grappled with! To meet a foe and fight hand to hand to the death was not so hard as to yield himself to the inevitable. Sullenly he sat with his head in his hands, and life seemed to stretch before him, leading to a black chasm. But one ray of light was there to follow – "Cass, Cass." If only he would accept the help offered him and go to the station, take his seat in the train, and find himself in Farington, while still his pursuers were scouring the mountains for him, he might – he might win out. Moodily and stubbornly he resisted the thought.

At last, screened by the darkness, he turned out his soiled and torn garments, and divesting himself of every article Thryng had given him, he placed them carefully in the valise. Then, relieved of one humiliation, he set himself again on the path toward Hanging Rock cabin.

As he passed the great holly tree where Cassandra had sat beside him, he placed his hand on the stone and paused. His heart leaned toward her. He wanted her. Should he go down to her now and refuse to leave her? But no. He had promised. Something warm splashed down upon his hand as he bent over the rock. He sprang up, ashamed to weep, and, seizing the doctor's valise, plunged on through the shadows up the steep ascent.

He had no definite idea of how he would explain his act, for he did not comprehend his own motives. It was only a wordless repugnance that possessed him, vague and sullen, against this man's offered friendship; and his relief was great when he found David asleep before his open door.

Stealthily he entered and placed his burden beneath the couch, gazed a moment at the sleeping face whereon the firelight still played, and softly crept away. Cassandra should know that she had no need to thank the Englishman for his freedom.

Then came the weary tramp down the mountain, skulking and hiding by day, and struggling on again by night – taking by-paths and unused trails – finding his uncertain way by moonlight and starlight – barked at by dogs, and followed by hounds baying loudly whenever he came near a human habitation – wading icy streams and plunging through gorges to avoid cabins or settlements – keeping life in him by gnawing raw turnips which had been left in the fields ungathered, until at last, pallid, weary, dirty, and utterly forlorn, he found himself, in the half-light of the dawn of the fourth day, near Farington. Shivering with cold, he stole along the village street and hid himself in the bishop's grounds until he should see some one astir in the house.

The bishop had sat late the night before, half expecting him, for he had received Cassandra's letter, also one from Thryng. Neither letter threw light on Frale's deed, although Cassandra's gave him to understand that something more serious than illicit distilling had necessitated his flight. David's was a joyous letter, craving his companionship whenever his affairs might bring him near, but expressing the greatest contentment.

When Black Carrie went out to unlock the chicken house door and fetch wood for her morning fire, she screamed with fright as the young man in his wretched plight stepped before her.

"G'long, yo – pore white trash!" she cried.

"I'm no poor white trash," he murmured. "Be Bishop Towah in the house?"

"Co'se he in de haouse. Whar yo s'poses he be dis time de mawnin'?" She made with all haste toward her kitchen, bearing her armful of wood, muttering as she went.

"I reckon I'll set hyar ontwell he kin see me," he said, dropping to the doorstep in sheer exhaustion. And there he was allowed to sit while she prepared breakfast in her own leisurely way, having no intention of disturbing her "white folkses fer no sech trash."

The odor of coffee and hot cakes was maddening to the starving boy, as he watched her through the open door, yet he passively sat, withdrawn into himself, seeking in no way either to secure a portion of the food or to make himself known. After a time, he heard faintly voices beyond the kitchen, and knew the family must be there at breakfast, but still he sat, saying nothing.

At last the door of the inner room was burst open, and a child ran out, demanding scraps for her puppy.

"I may! I may, too, feed him in the dining room. Mamma says I may, after we're through."

"Go off, honey chile, mussin' de flo' like dat-a-way fer me to clean up agin. Naw, honey. Go out on de stoop wif yer fool houn' dog." And the tiny, fair girl with her plate of scraps and her small black dog leaping and dancing at her heels, tumbled themselves out where Frale sat.

Scattering her crusts as she ran, she darted back, calling: "Papa, papa! A man's come. He's here." The small dog further emphasized the fact by barking fiercely at the intruder, albeit from a safe distance.

"Yas," said Carrie, as the bishop came out, led by his little daughter, "he b'en hyar sence long fo' sun-up."

"Why didn't you call me?" he said sternly.

"Sho – how I know anybody wan' see yo, hangin' 'roun' de back do'? He ain' say nuthin', jes' set dar." She continued muttering her crusty dislike of tramps, as the bishop led his caller through her kitchen and sent his little daughter to look after her puppy.

He took Frale into his private study, and presently returned and himself carried him food, placing it before him on a small table where many a hungry caller had been fed before. Then he occupied himself at his desk while he quietly observed the boy. He saw that the youth was too worn and weak to be dealt with rationally at first, and he felt it difficult to affix the thought of a desperate crime upon one so gentle of mien and innocent of face; but he knew his people well, and what masterful passions often slept beneath a mild and harmless exterior.

Nor was it the first time he had been called upon to adjust a conflict between his own conscience and the law. Often in his office of priest he had been the recipient of confidences which no human pressure of law could ever wrest from him. So now he proceeded to draw from Frale his full and free confession.

Very carefully and lovingly he trespassed in the secret chambers of this troubled soul, until at last the boy laid bare his heart.

He told of the cause of his anger and his drunken quarrel, of his evasion of his pursuers and his vow with Cassandra before God, of his rejection of Doctor Thryng's help and his flight by night, of his suffering and hunger. All was told without fervor, – a simple passive narration of events. No one could believe, while listening to him, that storms of passion and hatred and fear had torn him, or the overwhelming longing he had suffered at the thought of Cassandra.

But when the bishop touched on the subject of repentance, the hidden force was revealed. It was as if the tormenting spirit within him had cried out loudly, instead of the low, monotonous tone in which he said: —

"Yas, I kin repent now he's dade, but ef he war livin' an' riled me agin that-a-way like he done – I reckon – I reckon God don't want no repentin' like I repents."

It was steel against flint, the spark in the narrow blue line of his eyes as he said the words, and the bishop understood.

But what to do with this man of the mountains – this force of nature in the wild; how guard him from a far more pernicious element in the civilized town life than any he would find in his rugged solitudes?

And Cassandra! The bishop bowed his head and sat with the tips of his fingers pressed together. The thought of Cassandra weighed heavily upon him. She had given her promise, with the devotion of her kind, to save; had truly offered herself a living sacrifice. All hopes for her growth into the gracious womanhood her inheritance impelled her toward, – her sweet ambitions for study, gone to the winds – scattered like the fragrant wild rose petals on her own hillside – doomed by that promise to live as her mother had lived, and like other women of her kin, to age before her time with the bearing of children in the midst of toil too heavy for her – dispirited by privation and the sorrow of relinquished hopes. Oh, well the bishop knew! He dreaded most to see the beautiful light of aspiration die out of her eyes, and her spirit grow sordid in the life to which this untamed savage would inevitably bring her. "What a waste!"

And again he repeated the words, "What a waste!" The youth looked up, thinking himself addressed, but the bishop saw only the girl. It was as if she rose and stood there, dominant in the sweet power of her girlish self-sacrifice, appealing to him to help save this soul. Somehow, at the moment, he failed to appreciate the beauty of such giving. Almost it seemed to him a pity Frale had thus far succeeded in evading his pursuers. It would have saved her in spite of herself had he been taken.

But now the situation was forced upon the bishop, either to give him up, which seemed an arbitrary taking into his own hands of power which belonged only to the Almighty, or to shield him as best he might, giving heed to the thought that even if in his eyes the value of the girl was immeasurably the greater, yet the youth also was valued, or why was he here?

He lifted his head and saw Frale's eyes fixed upon him sadly – almost as if he knew the bishop's thoughts. Yes, here was a soul worth while. Plainly there was but one course to pursue, and but one thread left to hold the young man to steadfast purpose. Using that thread, he would try. If he could be made to sacrifice for Cassandra some of his physical joy of life, seeking to give more than to appropriate to himself for his own satisfaction – if he could teach him the value of what she had done – could he rise to such a height, and learn self-control?

The argument for repentance having come back to him void, the bishop began again. "You tell me Cassandra has given you her promise? What are you going to do about it?"

"Hit's 'twixt her an' me," said the youth proudly.

"No," thundered the bishop, all the man in him roused to beat into this crude, triumphant animal some sense of what Cassandra had really done. "No. It's betwixt you and the God who made you. You have to answer to God for what you do." He towered above him, and bending down, looked into Frale's eyes until the boy cowered and looked down, with lowered head, and there was silence.

Then the bishop straightened himself and began pacing the room. At last he came to a stand and spoke quietly. "You have Cassandra's promise; what are you going to do about it?"

Frale did not move or speak, and the bishop felt baffled. What was going on under that passive mask he dared not think. To talk seemed futile, like hammering upon a flint wall; but hammer he must, and again he tried.

"You have taken a man's life; do you know what that means?"

"Hangin', I reckon."

"If it were only to hang, boy, it might be better for Cassandra. Think about it. If I help you, and shield you here, what are you going to do? What do you care most for in all this world? You who can kill a man and then not repent."

"He hadn't ought to have riled me like he done; I – keer fer her."

"More than for Frale Farwell?"

The boy looked vaguely before him. "I reckon," was all he said.

Again the bishop paced the floor, and waited.

"I hain't afeared to work – right hard."

"Good; what kind of work can you do?" Frale flushed a dark red and was silent. "Yes, I know you can make corn whiskey, but that is the devil's work. You're not to work for him any more."

Again silence. At last, in a low voice, he ventured: "I'll do any kind o' work you-all gin' me to do – ef – ef only the officers will leave me be – an' I tol' Cass I'd larn writin'."

"Good, very good. Can you drive a horse? Yes, of course."

Frale's eyes shone. "I reckon."

The bishop grew more hopeful. The holy greed for souls fell upon him. The young man must be guarded and watched; he must be washed and clothed, as well as fed, and right here the little wife must be consulted. He went out, leaving the youth to himself, and sought his brown-eyed, sweet-faced little wisp of a woman, where she sat writing his most pressing business letters for him.

"Dearest, may I interrupt you?"

"In a minute, James; in a minute. I'll just address these."

He dropped into a deep chair and waited, with troubled eyes regarding her. "There!" She rubbed vigorously down on the blotter. "These are all done, every blessed one, James. Now what?"

In an instant she was curled up, feet and all, like a kitten in his lap, her small brown head, its wisps of fine, straight hair straying over temples and rounded cheeks, tucked comfortably under his chin; and thus every point was carefully talked over.

With many exclamations of anxiety and doubt, and much discreet suggestion from the small adviser, it was at last settled. Frale was to be properly clothed from the missionary boxes sent every year from the North. He should stay with them for a while until a suitable place could be found for him. Above all things he must be kept out of bad company.

"Oh, dear! Poor Cassandra! After all her hopes – and she might have done so much for her people – if only – " Tears stood in the brown eyes and even ran over and dropped upon the bishop's coat and had to be carefully wiped off, for, as he feelingly remarked, —

"I can't go about wearing my wife's tears in plain view, now, can I?"

And then Doctor Hoyle's young friend – she must hear his letter. How interesting he must be! Couldn't they have him down? And when the bishop next went up the mountain, might she accompany him? Oh, no. The trip was not too rough. It was quite possible for her. She would go to see Cassandra and the old mother. "Poor Cassandra!"

But the self-respecting old stepmother and her daughter did not allow these kind friends to trespass on any missionary supplies, for Uncle Jerry was despatched down the mountain with a bundle on the back of his saddle, which was quietly left at the bishop's door; and Frale next appeared in a neat suit of homespun, home woven and dyed, and home-made clothing.