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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.
CHAPTER XXVIII
IN WHICH FRALE RETURNS TO THE MOUNTAINS
Doctor Hoyle lingered until the last of the laurel bloom was gone, and the widow had become so absorbed in her grandchild as to make the parting much easier. Then he took the small Adam and departed for the North. Never did the kind old man dream that his frail and twisted little namesake would one day be the pride of his life and the comfort of his declining years.
"Hoyle sure do look a heap bettah'n when Doctah David took him off that day. Hit did seem like I'd nevah see him again. Don't you guess 'at he's beginnin' to grow some? Seems like he do."
The widow was seated on her little porch with the doctor, the evening before they left, and Cassandra, who, since the birth of the heir, had been living again in her own little cabin, had brought the baby down. He lay on his grandmother's lap quietly sleeping, while his mother gathered Hoyle's treasures, and packed his diminutive trunk. The boy followed her, chattering happily as she worked. She also had noticed the change in him, and suggested that perhaps, as he had gained such a start toward health, he need not return, but would do quite well at home.
"He's a care to you, Doctor, although you're that kind and patient, – I don't see how ever we can thank you enough for all you've done!" Then Hoyle, to their utter astonishment, threw himself on the ground at the doctor's feet and burst into bitter weeping.
"Why, son, are ye cryin' that-a-way so's you can get to go off an' leave maw here 'lone?" But he continued to weep, and at last explained to them that the "Lord done crooked him up that-a-way so't he could git to go an' learn to be a painter an' make a house full of pictures," and that the doctor had said he might. Doctor Hoyle lifted him to his knees with many assurances that he would keep his word, but for a long time the child sobbed hysterically, his face pressed against the old man's sleeve.
"What's that you sayin', child, 'bouts the Lord twistin' yer neck? Bettah lay sech as that to the devil, more'n likely."
At the mention of that sinister individual, the babe wakened and stretched out his plump, bare arms, with little pink fists tightly closed. He yawned a prodigious yawn for so small a countenance, and gazed vacantly in his grandmother's face. Then a look of intelligence crept into his eyes, and he smiled one of those sweet, evanescent smiles of infancy.
"Look at him now, laughin' at me that-a-way. He be the peartest I eveh did see. Cass, she sure be mean not to tell his fathah 'at he have a son, she sure be."
Cassandra came and tenderly took the babe in her arms and held him to her breast. "There, there. Sleep, honey son, sleep again," she cooed, swaying her body to the rhythm of her speech. "Sleep, honey son, sleep again."
"Don't you reckon she be mean to Doctah David, nevah to let on 'at he have a son, and he a-growin' that fast? You a-doin' his fathah mean, Cassandry." Still Cassandra swayed and sang.
"Sleep, honey son, sleep again."
"He nevah will forgive you when he finds out how you have done him. I can't make out what-all ails ye, nohow."
"Hush, mother. I'm just leaving his heart in peace. He'll come when he can, and then he'll forgive me."
As the doctor walked slowly at her side that evening, carrying the sleeping child back to her cabin, he also ventured a remonstrance, but without avail.
"It's hardly fair to his father – such a fine little chap. You – you have a monopoly of him this way, you know."
She flushed at the implication of selfishness, but said nothing.
"How – how is that? Don't you think so?" he persisted kindly.
"I reckon you can't feel what I feel, Doctor. Why should I make his heart troubled when he must stay there? David knows I hate it to bide so long without him. He – he knows. If he could get to come back, don't you guess he'd come right quick, anyway? Would he come any sooner for his son than for me?" It was the doctor's turn for silence. She asked again, this time with a tremor in her voice. "You reckon he would, Doctor?"
"No! Of – of course not," he cried.
"Then what would be the use of telling him, only to trouble him?"
"He – he might like to think about him – you know – might like it."
"He said he must go to Africa in May, so now he must have started – and our wedding was on May-day. Now it's the last of May; he must be there. He might be obliged to bide in that country a whole month – maybe two. It's so far away, and his letters take so long to come! Doctor, are they fighting there now? Sometimes I wake in the night and think what if he should die away off there in that far place – "
"No, no. That's done. Not fighting, thank God. Rest your heart in peace. Now, after I'm gone, don't stay up here alone too much. I'm a physician, and I know what's best for you."
She took the now soundly sleeping child from the doctor's arms and laid him on the bed in the canvas room. The day had been warm, and the fire was out in the great fireplace; the evening wind, light and cool, laden with sweet odors, swept through the cabin.
They talked late that night of Hoyle and his future, but never a word more of David. The old man thought he now understood her feeling, and respected it. She certainly had a right to one small weakness, this strong fair creature of the hills. Her husband must release himself from his absorbing cares and return simply for love of her – not at the call of his baby's wail.
So the doctor and his diminutive namesake drove contentedly away next morning in the great covered wagon, and Cassandra, standing by her mother's door, smiled and lifted her baby for one last embrace from his loving little uncle.
"I'm goin' to grow a big man, an' I'll teach him to make pictures – big ones," he called back.
"Yas, you'll do a heap. You bettah watch out to be right good and peart; that's what you bettah do."
David, not unmindful of affairs on the far-away mountain side, made it quite worth the while of the two cousins to stay on with the widow and run the small farm under Cassandra's directions, and she found herself fully occupied. She wrote David all the details: when and where things were planted – how the vines he had set on the hill slope were growing – how the pink rose he had brought from Hoke Belew's and planted by their threshold had grown to the top of the door, and had three sweet blossoms. She had shaken the petals of one between the pages of her letter on May-day, and sent it to remind him, she said.
Nearly a month later than he had intended to sail, David left England, overwhelmed with many small matters which seemed so great to his mother and sister, and burdened with duties imposed upon him by the realization that he had come into the possession of enormous wealth, more than he could comprehendingly estimate; and that he was now setting out to secure and prevent the loss of possibly double what he already possessed.
People gathered about him and presented him with worthy and unworthy opportunities for its disposal. They flocked to him in herds, with importunities and flatteries. The tower which he had built up with his ideals, and in which he had intrenched himself, was in danger of being undermined and toppled into ruins, burying his soul beneath the debris. When seated on the deck, the rose petals dropped into his hand as he tore open Cassandra's letter. Some, ere he could catch them, were caught up and blown away into the sea.
He held them and inhaled their sweetness, and everything seemed to find its true value and proportion and to fall into its right place. Again on the mountain top, with Cassandra at his side, he viewed in a perspective of varying gradations his life, his aims, and his possessions.
The personality of his young wife, of late a vague thing to him, distant and fair, and haloed about with sweet memories dimly discerned like a dream that is past, presented itself to him all at once vivid and clear, as if he held her in his arms with her head on his breast.
He heard again her voice with its quaint inflections and lingering tones. Their love for each other loomed large, and became for him at once the one truly vital thing in all his share of the universe. Had his body been endowed with the wings of his soul, he would have left all and gone to her; but, alas for the restrictions of matter! he was gliding rapidly away and away, farther from the immediate attainment. Yet was his tower strengthened wherein he had intrenched himself with his ideals. The withered rose petals had brought him exaltation of purpose.
In the mountains, July came with unusually sultry heat, yet the rich pocket of soil, watered by its never failing stream, suffered little from the drought. Weeds grew apace, and Cassandra had much ado to hold her cousin Cotton Caswell, easy-going and thriftless, to his task of keeping the small farm in order.
For a long time now, Cassandra had avoided those moments of far-seeing and brooding. Had not David said he feared them for her? In these days of waiting, she dreaded lest they show her something to which she would rather remain blind. In the evenings, looking over the hilltops from her rock, visions came to her out of the changing mists, but she put them from her and calmed her breast with the babe on her bosom, and solaced her longing by keeping all in readiness for David's return. Perhaps at any moment, with wind-lifted hair and buoyant smile, he might come up the laurel path.
For this reason she preferred living in her own cabin home, and, that she might not be alone at night, Martha Caswell or her brother slept on a cot in the large cabin room, but Cassandra cared little for their company. They might come or not as they chose. She was never afraid now that she was strong again and baby was well.
One evening sitting thus, her babe lying asleep on her knees and her heart over the sea, something caused her to start from her revery and look away from the blue distance, toward the cabin. There, a few paces away, regarding her intently, stalwart and dark, handsome and eager, stood Frale. Much older he seemed, more reckless he appeared, yet still a youth in his undisciplined impulse. She sat pale as death, unable to move, in breathless amazement.