Part 12 (2/2)
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 Ca.s.sandra! The bishop bowed his head and sat with the tips of his fingers pressed together. The thought of Ca.s.sandra 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 Ca.s.sandra 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 Ca.s.sandra 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 Ca.s.sandra had really done.
”No. It's betwixt you and the G.o.d who made you. You have to answer to G.o.d 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 Ca.s.sandra'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 pa.s.sive 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 Ca.s.sandra. Think about it. If I help you, and s.h.i.+eld 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' Ca.s.s I'd larn writin'.”
”Good, very good. Can you drive a horse? Yes, of course.”
Frale's eyes shone. ”I reckon.”
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