Payne Erskine - The Mountain Girl

All at once she rose, sought out a few dishes from the cupboard, and, taking a neatly smoothed, coarse cloth from the basket, spread it over one end of the table and arranged thereon his dinner. Quietly David watched her, following her example of silence until forced to speak. Finally he decided to question her, if only he could think of questions which would not trespass on her private affairs, when at last she broke the stillness.

"I can't find any coffee. I ought to have brought some; I'll go fetch some if you'll eat now. Your dinner'll get cold."

He showed her how he had made tea and was in no need of coffee. "We'll throw this out and make fresh," he said gayly. "Then you must have a cup with me. Why, you have enough to eat here for three people!" She seemed weary and sad, and he determined to probe far enough to elicit some confidence, but the more fluent he became, the more effectively she withdrew from him.

"See here," he said at last, "sit by the table with me, and I will eat to your heart's content. I'll prepare you a cup of tea as I do my own, and then I want you to drink it. Come."

She yielded. His way of saying "Come" seemed like a command to be obeyed.

"Now, that is more like." He began his dinner with a relish. "Won't you share this game with me? It is fine, you know."

He could not think her silent from embarrassment, for her poise seemed undisturbed except for the anxious look in her eyes. He determined to fathom the cause, and since no finesse availed, there remained but one way, – the direct question.

"What is it?" he said kindly. "Tell me the trouble, and let me help you."

She looked full into his eyes then, and her lips quivered. Something rose in her throat, and she swallowed helplessly. It was so hard for her to speak. The trouble had struck deeper than he dreamed.

"It is a trouble, isn't it? Can't you tell it to me?"

"Yes. I reckon there isn't any trouble worse than ours – no, I reckon there is nothing worse."

"Why, Miss Cassandra!"

"Because it's sin, and – and 'the wages of sin is death.'" Her tone was hopeless, and the sadness of it went to his heart.

"Is it whiskey?" he asked.

"Yes – it's whiskey 'stilling and – worse; it's – " She turned deathly white. Too sad to weep, she still held control of her voice. "It's a heap worse – "

"Don't try to tell me what it is," he cried. "Only tell me how I may help you. It's not your sin, surely, so you don't have to bear it."

"It's not mine, but I do have to bear it. I wish my bearing it was all. Tell me, if – if a man has done – such a sin, is it right to help him get away?"

"If it is that big brother of yours, whom I saw last night, I can't believe he has done anything so very wicked. You say it is not the whiskey?"

"Maybe it was the whiskey first – then – I don't know exactly how came it – I reckon he doesn't himself. I – he's not my brothah – not rightly, but he has been the same as such. They telegraphed me to come home quick. Bishop Towahs told me a little – all he knew, – but he didn't know what all was it, only some wrong to call the officahs and set them aftah Frale – poor Frale. He – he told me himself – last evening." She paused again, and the pallor slowly left her face and the red surged into her cheeks and mounted to the waves of her heavy hair.

"It is Frale, then, who is in trouble! And you wish me to help him get away?" She looked down and was silent. "But I am a stranger, and know nothing about the country."

He pushed his chair away from the table and leaned back, regarding her intently.

"Oh, I am afraid for him." She put her hand to her throat and turned away her face from his searching eyes, in shame.

"I prefer not to know what he has done. Just explain to me your plan, and how I can help. You know better than I."

"I can't understand how comes it I can tell you; you are a strangah to all of us – and yet it seems like it is right. If I could get some clothes nobody has evah seen Frale weah – if – I could make him look different from a mountain boy, maybe he could get to some town down the mountain, and find work; but now they would meet up with him before he was halfway there."

Thryng rose and began pacing the room. "Is there any hurry?" he demanded, stopping suddenly before her.

"Yes."

"Then why have you waited all this time to tell me?"

She lifted her eyes to his in silence, and he knew well that she had not spoken because she could not, and that had he not ventured with his direct questions, she would have left him, carrying her burden with her, as hopelessly silent as when she came.

He sat beside her again and gently urged her to tell him without further delay all she had in her mind. "You feel quite sure that if he could get down the mountain side without being seen, he would be safe; where do you mean to send him? You don't think he would try to return?"

"Why – no, I reckon not – if – I – " Her face flamed, and she drew on her bonnet, hiding the crimson flush in its deep shadow. She knew that without the promise he had asked, the boy would as surely return as that the sun would continue to rise and set.

"He must stay," she spoke desperately and hurriedly. "If he can just make out to stay long enough to learn a little – how to live, and will keep away from bad men – if I – he only knows enough to make mean corn liquor now – but he nevah was bad. He has always been different – and he is awful smart. I can't think how came he to change so."

Taking the empty basket with her, she walked toward the door, and David followed her. "Thank you for that good dinner," he said.

"Aunt Sally fetched the pa'triges. Her old man got them for mothah, and she said you sure ought to have half. Sally said the sheriff had gone back up the mountain, and I'm afraid he'll come to our place again this evening. Likely they're breaking up Frale's 'still' now."

"Well, that will be a good deed, won't it?"

The huge bonnet had hid her face from him, but now she lifted her eyes frankly to his, with a flash of radiance through her tears. "I reckon," was all she said.

"Are they likely to come up here, do you think, those men?"

"Not hardly. They would have to search on foot here. It's out of their way; only no place on the mountain is safe for Frale now."

"Send him to me quickly, then. I have cast my lot with you mountain people for some time to come, and your cause shall be mine."

She paused at the door with grateful words on her lips unuttered.

"Don't stop for thanks, Miss Cassandra; they are wasted between us. You have opened your doors to me, a stranger, and that is enough. Hurry, don't grieve – and see here: I may not be able to do anything, but I'll try; and if I can't get down to-night, won't you come again in the morning and tell me all about it?"

Instantly he thought better of his request, yet who was here to criticise? He laughed as he thought how firmly the world and its conventions held him. Sweet, simple-hearted child that she was, why, indeed, should she not come? Still he called after her. "If you are too busy, send Hoyle. I may be down to see your mother, anyway."

She paused an instant in her hurried walk. "I'll be right glad to come, if I can help you any way."

He stood watching her until she passed below his view, as her long easy steps took her rapidly on, although she seemed to move slowly. Then he went back to his fire, and her words repeated themselves insistently in his mind – "I'll be right glad to come, if I can help you any way."

Aunt Sally was seated in the chimney-corner smoking, when Cassandra returned. "Where is he?" she cried.

"He couldn't set a minute, he was that restless. He 'lowed he'd go up to the rock whar you found him las' evenin'."

Without a word, Cassandra turned and fled up the steep toward the head of the fall. Every moment, she knew, was precious. Frale met her halfway down and took her hand, leading her as he had been used to do when she was his "little sister," and listened to her plans docilely enough.