The Mountain Girl Part 47

Slowly, with bent head, he walked away.

Trembling, Ca.s.sandra laid her baby in the cradle Hoke Belew had made her, and, kneeling beside the rude little bed, she bowed her head over it and wept scalding, bitter tears. She felt herself shamed before the whole mountain side. Oh, why--why need David have left her so long--so long! The first reproach against him entered her heart, and at the same time she reasoned with herself.

He could not help it--surely he could not. He was good and true, and they should all know it if she had to lie for it. When she had sobbed herself into a measure of calmness, she heard a step cross the cabin floor. Quickly drying her tears, she rose and stood in the doorway of the canvas room, with dilated eyes and indrawn breath, peering into' the dusk, barring the way. It was only her mother.

"Why, mothah!" she cried, relieved and overjoyed.

"Have you seen Frale?"

"Yes, mothah. He was here. Sit down and get your breath. You have climbed too fast."

Her mother dropped into a chair and placed a small bundle on the table at her side.

"What-all is this Frale say you have told him? Have David writ fer you like Frale say? What-all have Frale been up to now? He come down creepin' like he a half-dade man--that soft an' quiet."

"I'm going to David, mother. You know he sent me money to use any way I choose, and I'm going." She caught her breath and faltered.

The mother rose and took her in her arms, and, drawing her head down to her wrinkled cheek, patted her softly.

"Thar, honey, thar. I reckon your ol' maw knows a heap more'n you think.

You keep mighty still, but you can't fool her."

Ca.s.sandra drew herself together. "Why didn't Martha come up this evening?"

"She war makin' ready, in her triflin' slow way, an' then Frale come down an' said that word, an' I knew right quick 'at ther war somethin'

behind--his way war that quare--so I told Marthy to set him out a good suppah, an' I'd stop up here myself this night. She war right glad to do hit. Fool, she be! I could see how she went plumb silly ovah Frale all to onc't."

"Mothah, you know right well what they're saying about David and me. Is it true, that word Frale said, that everyone says he nevah will come back?" The mother was silent. "That's all right, mothah. We'll pack up to-night, and I'll go down to Farington to-morrow. Mrs. Towahs will help me to start right."

She lighted candles and began to lay out her baby's wardrobe. "I haven't anything to put these in, but I can carry everything I need down there in baskets, and she will help me. They've always been that good to me--all my life."

"Ca.s.s, Ca.s.s, don't go," wailed her mother. "I'm afraid somethin'll happen you if you go that far away. If you could leave baby with me, Ca.s.s! Give hit up. Be ye 'feared o' Frale, honey?"

"No, mother, the man doesn't live that I'm afraid of." She paused, holding the candle in her hand, lighting her face that shone whitely out of the darkness. Her eyes glowed, and she held her head high. Then she turned again to her work, gathering her few small treasures and placing them on one of the highest shelves of the chimney cupboard. As she worked, she tried to say comforting things to her mother.

"I'll write to you every day, like David does me, mother. See? I've kept all his letters. They're in this box. I don't want to burn them because I love them; and I don't want any one else to read them; and I don't want to carry them with me because I'll have him there. Will you lock them in your box, mother, and if anything happens to me, will you sure--sure burn them?" She laid them on the table at her mother's elbow.

"You promise, mothah?"

"Yas, Ca.s.s, yas."

"What's in that bundle, mothah?"

With trembling fingers the widow opened her parcel and displayed the silver teapot, from which the spout had been melted to be moulded into silver bullets.

"Thar," she said, holding it out by the handle, "hit's yourn. Farwell, he done that one day whilst I war gone, an' the last bullet war the one Frale used when he nigh killed your man. No, I reckon you nevah did see hit before, fer I've kept hit hid good. I knowed ther were somethin' to come outen hit some day. Hit do show your fathah come from some fine high fambly somewhar. I done showed hit to Doctah David, fer I 'lowed he mount know was. .h.i.t wuth anything, but he seemed to set more by them two leetle books. He has them books yet, I reckon."

"Yes, he has them."

"When Frale told me you war a-goin' to David, I guessed 'at thar war somethin' 'at I'd ought to know, an' I clum up here right quick, fer if he war a-lyin', I meant to find out the reason why." She looked keenly in her daughter's face, which remained pa.s.sive under the scrutiny.

"Has Frale been a-pesterin' you?"

"He did--some--at first; but I sent him away."

"I reckoned so. Now heark. You tell me straight, did David send fer ye, er didn't he?"

In silence Ca.s.sandra turned to her work, until it seemed as if the room were filled with the suspense of the unanswered question. Then she tried evasion.

"Why do you ask in that way, mothah?"

"Because if he sont fer ye, I'll help ye all I can; but if he didn't, I'll hinder ye, and ye'll bide right whar ye be."

"You won't do that, mothah."

"I sure will. If David haven't sont fer ye, an' ye go, ye'll have to walk ovah me to get thar, hear?"

The mother's voice was raised to a higher pitch than was her wont, and the little silver pot shook in her hand. Ca.s.sandra took it and regarded it without interest, absorbed in other thoughts. Then, throwing off her abstraction, she began questioning her mother about it, and why she had brought it to her now. The widow told all she knew, as she had told David, and pointed out the half obliterated coat of arms on the side.

"I've heered your paw say 'at ther war more pieces'n this, oncet, but this'n come straight to him from his grandpaw, an' now hit's yourn. If he have sont fer ye, take hit with ye. Hit may be wuth more'n you think fer now. I been told they do think a heap o' fambly ovah thar, jest like we do here in the mounting. Leastways, hit's all we do have--some of us.

My fambly war all good stock, capable and peart; an' now heark to me.

Wharevah you go, just you hold your hade up. The' hain't nothin' more despisable than a body 'at goes meachin' around like some old sheep-stealin' houn' dog. Now if he sure 'nough have sont fer ye, go, an' I'll help ye, but if he haven't, bide whar ye be."

Ca.s.sandra drew in her breath sharply, no longer able to evade the question, with her mother's keen eyes searching her face. All her reasons for going flashed through her mind in a moment's s.p.a.ce of time.

The book she had been reading--what were English people really like? And David--her David--her boy's father--what shameful things were they saying of him all over the mountain that Frale should dare come to her as he had done? She could not stay now; she would not. Her cheeks flamed, and she walked silently into the canvas room and stood by her baby's cradle. Her mother began wrapping up the silver pot.

"I guess I'll take this back an' lock hit up again. You sure hain't to go if ye can't give me that word."

Ca.s.sandra went quickly and took it from her mother's hand. "No, mother, give it to me. I told Frale David had sent for me, and I'm going."

"And he have sont fer ye?"

"Yes, mothah." Her reply was low as she turned again to her work.

"Waal, now, why couldn't you have give me that word first off? Hit's his right to have ye, an' I'll he'p ye. You'd ought to go to him if he can't come to you."

Instantly up and alert, putting bravely aside her own feelings at the thought of parting, the mother began helping her daughter; but long after they were finished and settled for the night, she lay wakeful and dreading the coming day.

Ca.s.sandra slept less, and lay quietly thinking, sorrowful that she must leave her home, and not a little anxious over what might be her future and what might be her fate in that strange land.

When at last she slept, she dreamed of the people she had met in _Vanity Fair_, with David strangely mixed up among them, and Frale ever alert and watchful, moving wherever she moved, silently lingering near and never taking his eyes from her face.

In the morning, mother and daughter were up betimes, but no word was spoken between them to betoken hesitation or fear. Ca.s.sandra walked in a sort of dumb wonder at herself, and smouldering deep beneath the surface was a fierce resentment against those who, having known her from childhood, and receiving many favors and kindnesses from her, should now presume to so speak against her husband as to make Frale dare to approach her as he had. Oh, the burning shame of those kisses! The shame of the thought against David that pervaded her beloved mountains! For the sake of his good name, she would put away her pride and go to him.

CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH Ca.s.sANDRA VISITS DAVID THRYNG'S ANCESTORS