The Mountain Girl Part 45

"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 sh.e.l.ls so they can't get out? What did G.o.d 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 G.o.d '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 Ca.s.s 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 G.o.d '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 th.o.r.n.y shrub some paces away, while the child continued to pipe his questions, for the most part unanswerable.

"You reckon G.o.d 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--s.h.i.+ps?"

The doctor laughed heartily and merrily. "Come, come. We must go home now to Ca.s.sandra 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'-gla.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 Ca.s.sandra, 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 a.s.surances 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. Ca.s.s, she sure be mean not to tell his fathah 'at he have a son, she sure be."

Ca.s.sandra 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, Ca.s.sandry." Still Ca.s.sandra 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.