It was a pleasant morning in London, with as clear a sky as is ever permitted to that great city. Cassandra had placed her little son in the middle of a huge bed which nearly filled the small room she had been given in a hotel, recommended to her by Betty Towers as one where "nice ladies travelling alone" could stop.
The child was dressed in a fresh white coat, and Cassandra had much ado to keep him clean. She heaped him about with pillows and bedclothing to make a nest for him, and gave him a spoon and a drinking cup for entertainment, while she arranged her own toilet before a cloudy mirror by a slant ray of daylight that managed to sift through the heavy draperies and lace curtains that obscured the one high, narrow window of her room.
She had tried to put them one side that she might look out when she awoke, but she could see only chimney-pots and grimy, irregularly tiled roofs. A narrow opening at the top of the window let in a little air; still she felt smothered, and tried to raise the lower sash, but could not move it. She thought of the books she had read about great cities, and how some people had to live in places like this always; and her heart filled with a large pity for them. Here only a small triangle of blue sky could be seen—not a tree, not a bit of earth—and in the small room all those heavy furnishings closed around her, dark red, stuffy, and greasy with London smoke. She could not touch them without blackening her hands, nor let her baby sit on the floor for the dirt he wiped up on his clothing as he rolled and kicked about.
The room seemed to sway and tip as the ship had done, and there was a continuous sound as of thunder, a strange undercurrent that seemed to her strained nerves like themoaning of the lost souls of all the ages, who had lived and toiled and smothered in this monstrous and terrible city.
Ah, she must get out of it. She must hurry—hurry and find David. He would be glad to see his little son. He would take him in his arms. He would hold them both to his heart. She would see him smile again and look in his eyes, and all this foreboding would cease, and the woful sounds die out of the air and become only the natural roar of the activities and traffic of a great city. She must get used to all this, and not expect to find all the world like her own sunny mountains.
The bishop's careful little wife had tried to explain to her how to meet her new experiences. She was to go nowhere alone, without taking a cab, and never start out on foot, carrying her baby in her arms, as she might do at home. She had given her written instructions how to conduct herself under all ordinary circumstances, at her hotel or on the street—how to ring for a servant, order her meals, or call a cab.
Now, standing before her mirror, Cassandra essayed to arrange her hair as she had seen other young women wear theirs, but she thought the new way looked untidy, and she took it all down and rearranged it as she was used to wear it. David would not mind if she did not do her hair as others did, he would be so glad to see her and his little son. Ah, the comfort of that little son! She leaned over the bed, half dressed as she was, and murmured pretty cooing phrases, kissing and cuddling him to contented laughter.
Betty Towers had procured clothing for her—a modest supply—using her own good taste, and not disguising Cassandra's natural grace and dignity by a too-close adherence to the prevailing mode. There were a blue travelling gown and jacket, and a toque of the same color with a white wing; a soft clinging black silk, made with girlish simplicity which admirably became her, and a wide, flexible brimmed hat with a single heavy plume taken from Betty's own hat of the last winter. Cassandra stood a long moment before the two gowns. She desired to don the silk, but Betty had told her always to wear the blue in the morning, so at last she obeyed her kind adviser.
While waiting with her baby in her arms for the hotel boy to call her cab, she observed another lady, young andgraceful, enter a cab, and a maid following her wearing a pretty cap, and carrying a child. Eager, for David's sake, to draw no adverse comment upon herself, she took note of everything. Ought she then to arrive attended by a maid, carrying her baby? But David would know she did not need one; bringing him his little son in her own arms, what would he care for anything more? So the address was given the cabman, and they were rattled away over the rough paving, a long, lonely ride through the wonderful city—so many miles of houses and splendid buildings, of gardens and monuments.
Strangely, the people ofVanity Fairleaped out of the book she had read, and walked the streets or dashed by her in cabs—albeit in modern dress. The soldiers—the guardsmen—the liveried lackeys—the errand boys—all were there, and the ladies in fine carriages. There were the nursemaids—the babies—the beggars—the ragged urchins and the venders of the street, with their raucous cries rending the air. Her brain whirled, and a new feeling to which she had hitherto been blessedly a stranger crept over her, a feeling of fear.
As the great two-story coaches and trams thundered by, she clasped her baby closer, until he looked up in her face with round-eyed wonder and put up his lip in pitiful protest. She soothed and comforted him until her panic passed, and when, at last, they stopped before a great house built in on either side by other houses, with wide steps of stone descending directly upon the street, she had regained a measure of composure. She was assured by the cabman, leaning respectfully down to her with his cap in his hand, that this was "the 'ouse, ma'm," and should he wait?
"Oh, yes. Wait," cried Cassandra. What if David were not there! And of course, he might be out. Then they were swallowed up in the dark interior. She was admitted to a hall that seemed to her empty and vast, by a little old man in livery. For a moment, bewildered, she could hardly understand what he was saying to her. "'Er ladyship's at 'er country 'ome and the 'ouse closed."
Although dazed and baffled, Cassandra betrayed no sign of the tumult within, and the little old man stood before her hesitating, his curiosity piqued into adetermination to discover her business and identity. Her gravity and silence gave her a poise and dignity that allayed suspicion, but he and his old wife liked diversion, and a spice of gossip lightened the monotony of their lives, so he waited, then coughed behind his hand.
"Yes, 'er ladyship and Lady Laura are at their country 'ome now, ma'm. Maybe you came to see the 'ouse, ma'm?"
"No, it was not the house—it was—" Again she waited, not knowing how to introduce her husband's name.
A mystery! A visitor at this hour, and seemingly a lady, yet with a baby in her arms, and alone, and not to see the house. Again he coughed behind his hand.
"A many do come to see the 'ouse, ma'm, with a permit from 'is lordship, ma'm. 'E's not 'ere now, but strangers are halways welcome—to the gallery, ma'm."
"Yes, I'm a stranger." She caught at the word. Seized by an inward terror of the small eyes fixed curiously on her, she intuitively shrank from betraying her identity, and the old servant had told her what she needed to know. Of course her husband was "his lordship," over here. "I am from America, and I would like to see the gallery." She must do so to give a pretext for having come to visit an empty house. David must not be compromised before the old servant, but a great lump filled her throat, and tears were burning unshed beneath her eyes.
For all of the warm August sun shining without, a chill struck to her bones as they passed through the vast, closed rooms. She held her now sleeping baby close to her breast as she followed the old man about from picture to picture.
"Yes, a many do come 'ere—especially hartists—to see this gallery. They say as 'ow 'is lordship wouldn't take a thousand pounds for this one, ma'm. We'll let in a little more light. A Vandyke—and worth it's weight in gold."
Cassandra watched him cross the floor, his short bow legs reflected grotesquely in its shining surface as he walked, then turned and gazed again at the life-size, half-length portrait of a young man with sunny hair like David's and warm brown eyes.
"There, you see, it's more than a Vandyke to the family, ma'm, for it's a hancestor, and my wife says it's as like as two peas to 'is young lordship, who has just come into the title, ma'm. And that's strange, isn't it, for 'im to look so like, being as 'e belonged to the younger branch who 'aven't 'eld the title for four generations; but come to dress 'im in velvet and gold lace, and the likeness would be nigh as perfect as if 'e 'ad stood for it."
Cassandra gazed so long silently at this picture that again the little man coughed his deprecatory cough and essayed to lead her on; but she was seeing visions and did not heed him. When at last she turned, her gray eyes had deepened, and a clearly defined spot of delicate red burned on one pale cheek. She drew a deep breath and looked down the length of the long gallery. Everything was being impressed upon her mind as upon sensitized paper.
She followed slowly in the old man's wake, never opening her lips until they had made the circuit and were again standing before the portrait of the fair-haired youth. Then, roused suddenly by a direct question, she responded.
The old servant was saying: "You 'aven't 'appened to meet a Samuel Cutter in America, 'ave you? 'E's our son. England was too slow for 'im. Young men aren't like old ones; they wants hadventure, and they gets it. That's 'ow so many of 'em joins the harmy and gets killed like 'is lordship's two sons, and young Lord Thryng's brother as would 'ave been 'is lordship, if 'e' ad lived. You 'aven't 'appened to know a Samuel Cutter over there? 'E went to Canada."
"No, I never met any one by that name. I live a long way from Canada."
"About 'ow far do you think, ma'm?"
Cassandra had no idea of the distance, but she knew how long David and Hoyle were journeying there, so she answered as best she could. "It takes three or four days to get there from my home."
The old man's eyes opened wide, and his jaw dropped. "It's a big country—America is. England may be a small place, but she 'as tremendous big possessions." He felt it all belonged to England, and spoke with swelling pride as his short legs carried him toward the door. There again he paused. He had learned nothing of this youngwoman to tell his old wife, except that she came from America, and had never met Samuel Cutter. The mystery was still unsolved.
"Yes, 'is young lordship do look amazing like that picture. If you'd ever seen 'im, you'd think 'e'd dressed up in velvet and lace and stood for it. 'E's lived in America five years, but if you never were in Canada and never met our Sammy, it's more likely you never saw 'im either."
"Is he at their country home also?" Cassandra asked. She had seated herself in the hall, for her heart throbbed chokingly, and the lump was heavy in her throat. It was as she had dreamed sometimes, when her feet seemed to cling to the earth, and would not lift her weight up some steep hill.
"'Is lordship is still in Hafrica, mam. 'E 'ave been a great traveller, but 'e can't stay much longer now, for Lady Laura is to 'ave a grand coming out, and 'is lordship is to be married. Her ladyship's 'eart is set on it, and on 'is marrying 'igh, too. That's gossip, you know."
Cassandra rose and stood suddenly poised for flight. She must get out of that house and hear no more. She had a silver shilling in her hand, for Betty Towers had told her all servants expected a tip, and this was intended for the cabman. Had she followed her impulse, she would have darted by with her fingers in her ears, but instead, she dropped the shilling in the old man's hand, and quietly turned toward the door.
"Thank you," his fingers closed over the shilling. Her pallor struck him then, even as the red spot on her cheek deepened, and he held out his arms for the child.
"Let me carry 'im for you, ma'm. Is it a boy?"
But her arms closed tighter about her baby. "He is my little son." It was almost a cry, as she said it, but again she forced herself to calmness, and, walking slowly out, added, with a quiet smile: "I always keep him myself. We do in America."
In a moment she was gone. The warm sunlight burst in on them and flooded the cold hall as the old man stood in the doorway looking after the retreating cab, and down at the silver shilling.
Darker, dingier, stuffier, seemed the box of a room, as she walked into it and laid her still sleeping babe on thebed. She felt herself moving in an unreal world. David—her David—she had not come to him after all; she had come to an empty place. She knelt and threw her arms about her little son, encircling his head and his feet. She neither wept nor prayed; and the red spot burned against the creamy whiteness of her skin. She was not thinking, only looking, seeing into the past and down the long vista of her future.
Pictures came to her—pictures of her girlhood—her dim aspirations—her melancholy-eyed father—his hilltop—and beloved, sunlit mountains. In the radiance of the spring, she saw them, and in the glory of the autumn; she breathed the fragrance of the pines in winter and heard the soft patter of summer rains on widespreading leaves. She saw David walking at her side, and heard his laugh, sun-bright and glorious he seemed, her Phœbus Apollo—the father of her little son.
She saw the terrible sea which she had crossed to come to him—the white-crested waves, with turquoise lights and indigo depths, shifting and sliding unceasingly where all the world seemed swallowed in space, and the huge steamship so small a thing in the vast and perilous deep; and now—now she was here. What was she? What was life?
She had tried to find him, her David, and had been shown the dead, and the glory of the dead—all past and gone—her David's glory. Shown that long, empty gallery resounding with those aged footsteps, and the pictures—pictures—pictures—of men and women who had once been babes like her little son and David's, now dead and gone—not one soul among them all to greet her. Proud lords and dames in frames of gold; young men and maidens in costly silks and velvets of marvellous dyes, red-cheeked, red-lipped, and soullessly silent; and she, alone and undefended in their midst, holding in her arms their last descendant. All those painted fingers seemed lifted to point at her; those silent red lips parted to cry out at her, "Look at this stranger claiming to be one of us; send her away."
And David—her David—was one of these! What they had felt—what they had thought and striven for—was it all intensified and concentrated in him? Oh, ifher soul could only reach to him, wherever he was, and penetrate this impalpable veil that stretched between them! If her hands could only touch him, her eyes look into his and see what lay in their depths for her!
Then her babe stirred and tossed up his pretty hands, waking her from her sad, vision-seeing trance. He opened his large, clear eyes, and suddenly it seemed that her wish was granted,—that the veil was rent and she was looking into David's eyes and seeing his soul free, no longer chained by invisible links to those dead and gone beings, and their traditions. This had been all a dream—a dream.
She gathered the child in her arms and held him with his sweet, warm lips pressed to her breast and his soft little hand thrust in her bosom. David's little son—David's little son! Surely all was good and well with the world! Did not the old man say it was only gossip? Had not evil things been said of David even on her own mountain? It was the trail of the serpent of ill report. He had not confided his sacred secret to these people, and they had thought what they pleased. Surely he had told his mother about his wife. She would go to his mother and wait for his return, and there she would bring her precious gift—David's little son.
Quickly she packed her few belongings and rang for a messenger, and as she stood an instant waiting for an answer to her ring, the white-capped nurse she had noticed in the morning passed by with the baby in her arms. Yes, surely women of David's state did not travel about alone. Had she not read inVanity Fairhow Becky Sharp always had her maid? And now she was in "Vanity Fair," and must be wise and not go to David's mother unattended. Then, too, if only she had some one with her to whom she could speak now and then, it would be better. Therefore, without further consideration, she walked swiftly down the corridor after the tidy nurse.
"Will you tell me, please, have you a sister?" she said. The young woman stood still in astonishment. "Or—any friend like yourself? I—I am a stranger from America." The look of surprise changed to one of curiosity. "And it is right hard to go about alone with my baby, so I thought I would ask you if you have a sister."
"Is it to the country you wish to go, ma'm?" The baby in her arms stirred, and the nurse swayed gently back and forth to hush it.
"Yes."
"I couldn't go with you myself, ma'm—but—"
"Oh, no! I didn't mean you. I only thought if you had a sister—or a friend, maybe, who could help me for a little while."
"I saw you this morning, ma'm, as you went out. I'll see what I can do. What number is your room? and what name? I mustn't talk here. Mrs. Darling is very particular."
"Oh, never mind, then." Cassandra turned away in sudden shame lest she had not done the right thing. The nurse watched her return to her room as swiftly as she had left it, and took note of the number.
"How very odd!" said the young woman to herself.
Cassandra felt more abashed under the round-eyed gaze of the maid than if she had encountered the queen. Her ring for a messenger had not been answered, and she did not know how to find her husband's country-seat. She felt faint and weary, but did not think of hunger, nor that it was long past the dinner-hour, and that she had eaten nothing since her early breakfast. She only thought that she must be brave and try—try to think how to reach David's people.
Resolutely she closed her door, and dressed her baby carefully; then she arrayed herself in the soft silk gown, and the wide hat with the heavy plume, and then—could David have seen her with her courageous eyes and lifted head, and the faint color from excitement in her cheeks—he would no longer have feared to take her by the hand and lead her to his mother and say, "She is my wife, and the loveliest lady in the land."
People looked at her as she passed, and turned to look again. Down wide, carpeted stairs she went, until she came to a broad landing with recessed windows, where were round polished tables and people seated, sipping tea and eating thin bread and butter and muffins. Then Cassandra knew that she was hungry and sat herself in one of the windows apart, before a table. Presently a young man came and bent down to her as if listening. She looked upat him in bewilderment, but at the same instant, seeing another young man similarly dressed bearing a tray of muffins and tea to a lady and gentleman near by, she said:—
"I would like tea, please."
"W'ot kind, ma'm?" She did not care what kind, nor know for what to ask, only to have something soon, so she said:—
"I will take what they have."
"Yes, ma'm. Muffins, ma'm?"
"Yes," she replied wearily, and turned to gaze out of the window. Cabs and carriages were rushing up and down the street below them. She placed her little son on the seat beside her and held him with sheltering arm, while he watched the moving vehicles and looked from them to his mother's face.
"What a perfectly lovely child!" said a pleasant voice. "Is it a boy? How old is he?"
Cassandra looked up to see a rosy-cheeked girl, a little too stout and florid, with a great mop of dark hair tied with a wide black ribbon. A gray-haired lady followed, and paused beside her.
"Yes," said Cassandra, faintly. "He is almost six months old."
The girl reached over and patted his cheek. "How perfectly dear. See him, mamma. Isn't he, though?"
"Babies are always dear," said the mother, with a smile. "Come, Laura, we can't wait, you know," and they passed on. As Cassandra looked up in the mother's face, something stirred vaguely in her heart. Had she seen her before? Possibly, so many had paused to speak to her in this casual way since she left home.
Then her tea and crisp, hot muffins were brought. The young girl's pleasant words had warmed her heart, and the refreshment gave her more courage. She made her way to the office and inquired how she might find Lord Thryng's country home. The clerk wrote the address promptly on a card, but the keen look of interest with which he handed it to her caused her to shrink inwardly. Why, what was it to him what place she asked for? She lifted her head proudly. She must not falter.
"I wish to go there. Will you tell me how, please?"
But the surprise of the clerk was quite natural, as shehad signed the hotel register the evening before with her whole name, giving no thought to it; and now he wondered what relation she might be to the family so lately come into the title, since she bore the name, yet seemed to know so little about them. He explained to her courteously—almost deferentially.
"Will you go to Daneshead Castle itself, ma'm, or stop in Queensderry?" As she had no idea what the question involved, she replied at hazard.
"I will stop in Queensderry." And her bags were brought down, and she was despatched to the right station without more delay.
Glad to be borne away from the city and out through fresh green fields and past pretty church-spired villages, alone in the compartment, Cassandra comforted herself with her baby, playing with him until he dropped to sleep, when she made a bed for him on the car seat with rugs, and, taking out her purse, began to count her remaining resources. Her bill at the hotel had appalled her. So much to pay to stay only a night! What would David say? But he had told her to use the money as she liked, and now she was here, there was nothing else to do.
Laboriously she computed the amount in English money, and, reckoned thus, her dollars and cents seemed to shrink and vanish. Still, more than half remained of what she had brought with her, and she viewed the matter calmly.
The shadows fell long over the smooth greensward as she arrived in the village of Queensderry and was driven to a small inn, the only house of entertainment in the place. She was given a pleasant room overlooking fields and orchards and bright gardens, and the sight rested her eyes, and still further calmed her troubled heart. She would rest to-night, and to-morrow all would be well.
Never had food tasted better to her than the supper served in her pretty room,—toast in a silver rack, and fresh butter, such as David loved, and curds and whey, and gingerbread, and a small jar of marmalade. She ate, seated in the window, looking out over the sweet English landscape in the warm twilight—the breeze stirring the white curtains—her little son in her lap gurgling and smiling up at her—and her heart with David, wherever he might be.
Slowly the dusk veiled all, and one star glimmered above the slender church spire. A pretty maid brought candlesand a book in which she was asked to write her name. She was the landlady's daughter and looked wholesome and bright. Cassandra glanced in her face as she set the candles down, and took up the pen mechanically.
"Mother says will you sign here, please?"
"Yes." Cassandra turned the leaves slowly and read other names and addresses—many of them. She wrote "Cassandra Merlin—" and paused; then, making a long dash, added simply, "America," and, handing back the book and pen, turned again to the window.
"Thank you. Is that all?" said the maid, lingering.
"Yes," said Cassandra again; then she laid her baby on the bed and began taking his night clothing from her bag.
"How pretty he is! Shan't I help you unpack, ma'm?"
Cassandra paused, looking dreamily before her as if scarcely comprehending, then she said: "Not to-night, thank you. Perhaps to-morrow." The maid deftly piled the supper dishes and, taking them and the book with her, departed with a pleasant "Good night, ma'm."
In spite of her calmness, Cassandra lay wakeful and patient, and when at last she did sleep, it seemed to her she stood with her husband on her father's path, looking out under overarching boughs, upon blue distances of heaped-up mountain tops, and David's flute notes, silvery sweet, were raining down upon her. She awoke to discover day was breaking, and a pealing of bells from some distant church tower was announcing the fact.
She gathered her babe to her throbbing heart and thought, to-day she was to go out and meet her husband's people. How should she go? How should she conduct herself? Should she go at once, or wait until the afternoon? Why had she not written her name fully in the travellers' book? What mysterious foreboding had caught her fingers and stayed them at her maiden name? Was she afraid? When she arose, she found herself trembling from head to foot, and called for her breakfast, before bathing and dressing her little son.
The same pretty maid brought it, and came again, while Cassandra bathed and nursed her baby, to set the room to rights.
"Shan't I unpack your box for you now, ma'm?" And, without waiting for a reply, she took out Cassandra'sclothing, pausing now and then to admire and pet the lovely boy. Her simple friendliness pleased Cassandra, who was minded to ask some of the questions which were burdening her.
"When do people make visits here, in the morning or afternoon?"
"That depends, ma'm."
"How do you mean? I'm a stranger in England, you know."
"Yes, ma'm. If they make polite visits, they go about tea time, ma'm. But if it's parish visits, or on business, or on people they know very well, they may go in the morning, ma'm."
"And when is tea time here?"
"Why, ma'm, everybody has their tea in the afternoon along four or thereabouts, and sees their friends."
"Can I get a carriage here, do you know?"
"I can get a pony carriage, ma'm. We hires it when we need it, only we must speak for it early, or it may be taken."
"Oh! Then will you please speak for it soon? I would like to have it."
"Yes, ma'm. Will you drive yourself, ma'm, or shall I ask for a boy?"
"Oh! I don't know. I can drive—but—"
"They are gentle ponies, ma'm. Any one can drive them."
"Yes, but I don't know the way."
"Yes, ma'm. Where would you like to go, ma'm?"
"To Daneshead Castle."
The bright-cheeked maid opened her round eyes wider and looked at Cassandra with new interest. "But, ma'm,—that is quite far, though the ponies are smart, too."
"How far is it?"
"It's quite a bit away from here, ma'm; you'd have to start at two or thereabouts. I could take you myself if mother would let me, and tell you all the interesting places, but"—the girl looked at her shrewdly, a quickly withdrawn glance—"that depends on how well acquainted you are there, ma'm. Maybe you'd like better to have a man drive, and just let me go along to mind the baby for you."
"Yes, I would," said Cassandra, gladly.
"Thank you. I'll run for the ponies now, ma'm."
Cassandra heard her boots clatter rapidly down the wooden stairs at the back of the house, and presently saw her dashing across the inn yard, bareheaded and with her bare arms rolled in her apron.
The girl's manner of receiving the statement that she wished to drive to the castle was not lost on Cassandra's sensitive spirit. She sat a moment, thoughtful and sad, then rose and set herself to prepare carefully for the visit. In the afternoon! Then she might wear the silk gown and lovely hat. Once more she tried to arrange her hair as she saw other young women wear theirs, and again swept its heavy masses back loosely from her brow and coiled it low as her custom was.
The landlady's daughter chattered happily as they drove. She held the baby on her knee, and he played with the blue beads she wore about her neck, while Cassandra sat with hands dropped passively in her lap, her body leaning a little forward, straight and poised as if to move more rapidly along, her red lips parted as if listening and waiting, and her eyes courteously turning toward the places and objects pointed out to her, yet neither seeing nor hearing, except vaguely.
Presently becoming aware that the chatter was about the family at Daneshead Castle, her interest suddenly awoke. About the old lord—how vast his possessions—how ancient the family—how neglected the castle had been ever since Lady Thryng's death,—everything allowed to run down, even though they were so vastly rich—how different everything was now the parsimonious old lord was dead and the new lord had come in, and there were once more ladies in the family—what a time since there had been a Lady Thryng at Daneshead—how much Lady Laura was like her cousin Lyon—how reckless she would be if her mother did not hold her with a firm hand—and so the chatter ran on.
The girl enjoyed the distinction of knowing all about the great family and enlightening this stranger from America, whose silent attention and occasional monosyllabic replies were sufficient to inspire her friendly efforts to entertain. Moreover, her curiosity concerning Cassandra and her errand, where she was evidently neither expected nor known,was piqued and lively, and she threw out many tentative remarks to probe if possible the stranger lady's thoughts.
"Have you ever seen Lord Thryng—the new lord, I mean, ma'm?"
"Yes," said Cassandra, simply, a chill striking to her heart to hear him mentioned thus.
"He's been out here directing the repairs himself, and getting the place ready for his mother and Lady Laura; but I never saw him. They say he's perfectly stunning. Quite the lord. Is he so very handsome, do you think?"
"Yes." Cassandra looked away from the girl's searching eyes.
"They say he never has married, and that is fortunate too; for he has lived so long in America, and never expecting to come into the title, he might have married somebody his own set over here never could have received, and that would have been bad, wouldn't it?"
Cassandra turned and looked gravely at the girl. She wished to stop her, but could not think how to do it. She could not bear to hear her husband talked over in this way.
"They are tremendous swells. Lady Thryng looks high for him, and well she may, for mother says he's worthy of a princess, he's that rich and high bred, too, for all that he was only a doctor over in America. Mother says it's very fortunate he never married some common sort over there. They say Lady Thryng wants him to marry Lady Geraldine Temple's daughter. She is a great beauty, and has a pretty fortune in her own right, too. They'll be rich enough to entertain the king! And they may do it, too, some day."
Cassandra sat still and cold. She could not stop the girl now. "Lady Laura's coming out is to be next week, so his lordship must be home soon. They say it will be a very grand affair! And I am to see it all, for mother says she will have a maid, and I may go out there to serve, and I shall see all the decorations and the fine dresses. That will be fine, won't it, baby?"
She untied the blue beads and dangled them before the baby's eyes, and he caught at them and gurgled in baby glee. Cassandra sat silent, rigid, and cold, unheeding the child or the girl, only vaguely hearing the chatter.
"And that will be grand, won't it, baby? But he is alove, this boy! There is Daneshead Castle now, ma'm. You see it through the trees, but the grounds are so large we have to drive a good bit before we are there."
The driver turned the ponies' heads, and they scampered through a high stone gateway and along a smooth road which wound through a dense wood, with green open spaces interspersed, where deer were browsing. All was very beautiful and quiet and sweet, but Cassandra, sitting with wide-open eyes, gravely beautiful, did not see it.
To the girl everything was delightful. She had not the slightest doubt that the American lady was very rich. That she travelled so simply and alone was nothing. They all did queer things—the Americans. She was obtusely unconscious that she had been speaking slightingly of them to one of themselves, and she talked on after the romantic manner of girls the world over, giving the gossip of the inn parlors as she listened to it evening after evening, where the affairs of the nobility were freely discussed and enlarged and commented upon with eager interest.
What was spoken in her ladyship's chamber and Lady Laura's boudoir—their half-formed plans and aspirations—carelessly dropped words and unfinished sentences—quickly travelled to the housekeeper's parlor—to the servant's table—to the haunts of grooms and stable boys—to the farmer's daughters—and to the public rooms of the Queensderry Inn.
Thus it was Cassandra heard tales of the brother and sister and mother of her David, and of him also. How it was said that once he was engaged to a rich tradesman's daughter but had broken it off and gone to America against the wishes of all his family, and had become a common practitioner there to the disgust of all his relatives; and again Cassandra felt that she had left a sweet and lovely world behind her to step into "Vanity Fair."
She tried to hold fast her faith in goodness and high purpose. She was sure—sure—David had been moved by noble motives; why should she not trust him now? Did this girl know him better than she—his wife? Yet, in spite of her valiant spirit, two facts fell like leaden weights upon her heart. David had not told his people that he had a wife, and they would be offended that he had "tied himself to a common sort over there." This Davidwhom she loved was so high above her in the eyes of all his relatives and perhaps even in his own. What—ah, what could she do! Might she still hold him in her heart? She could not walk in upon them now and betray him—never—never.
Her lips grew pale, and her head swam, but she sat still, leaning a little forward in the moving phaeton, her hands tightly clasped in her lap and her babe unheeded at her side, until the red returned to her lips and again burned in a clearly defined spot against the pallor of her cheek. She did not know that a strange, unearthly beauty was hers. A carriage met them filled with gay people. She did not notice them, but they gazed at her and turned to look again as they passed.
"I say, you know!" said one of the men, as they whirled by.
"There, that was Lady Geraldine Temple in that carriage, and the young man who stared so hard is her son. They've been paying a visit, or maybe they've brought Lady Clara to stay a bit. They say both families are keen for the match—and why shouldn't they be? Oh, they'll entertain the king here some day, and then there'll be high times at Daneshead!"
An automobile flashed by them, and then another. "There must be a party here to-day, or likely it's visitors dropping in, now it's getting toward tea time. It's all right, ma'm," she added, as Cassandra stirred uneasily. "It must be only visitors, or I would have heard of it. They're keeping open house now, though they don't go anywhere themselves yet. You see it's a year since the deaths, so they could mourn them all at once, and not spin it along. They had to wait a year before Lady Laura's coming out—rightly. Let the ponies walk now, driver. I beg pardon, ma'm." The girl had so taken possession of Cassandra, the baby, and the whole expedition, that she gave the order unthinkingly.
"Yes, let them walk," said Cassandra, and drew a long breath. She heard gay laughter, and caught sight through the trees of light dresses and wide, plumed hats. Some one sat on the terrace at a table whereon was shining silver.
"There, I said so! That's Lady Clara pouring tea.I say, but she's a beauty! Isn't she? No, no. Go to the front, driver. American ladies don't call at the side."
"There's a hautomobile there, ma'm."
"Then wait a moment. Don't be a stupid."
Thus, aided by the innkeeper's clever daughter, Cassandra at last made her entrance properly and was guided to the presence of David's mother, who had not joined her guests, having but just closed an interview with Mr. Stretton. As she saw Cassandra standing in the drawing-room waiting her, Lady Thryng came graciously forward. The lovely August weather had tempted every one out of doors, and the great room was left empty save for these two, David's mother and his wife.
The beauty of other-worldliness which had infused Cassandra's whole being as she fought her silent battle during the long drive, still enveloped her. If she could have followed her impulses, she would have held out both hands and cried: "Take me and love me. I am David's wife." But she would not—she must not. Her heritage of faith in goodness—both of God and man—kept her heart open, and gave her power to think and act rightly in this her hour of terrible trial; even as a little child, being behind the veil which separates the soul from God, may, in its innocent prattle, utter words of superhuman wisdom.
"I am sorry if I have interrupted you when you have company," she said slowly. "I am a stranger—an American."
"Ah, you Americans are a happy lot and may go where you please. Take this seat by the window; it is very warm. My son has been in America, but he tells us so little, we are none the wiser for that, about your part of the world."
"I knew him in America. That is why I called."
"Yes?" The mother bent forward and regarded her curiously, attentively.
"He lived very near us. He did a great deal of good—among the poor." She put her hand to her slender white throat, then dropped it again in her lap. Then, looking in Lady Thryng's eyes, she said: "I have seen your picture. I should have known you from that, but you are more beautiful."
"Oh! That can hardly be, my dear! It was taken many years ago, you know."
"Yes, he said so—his lordship—only there we called him Doctah Thryng."
A shadow flitted over the mother's face. "He was a practitioner over there—never in England."
"That is a pity; it is such noble work. But perhaps he has other things to do here."
"He has—even more noble work than the practice of medicine."
"What does he do here?" asked Cassandra, in a low voice.
"He must take part in the affairs of government. Very ordinary men may study and practise medicine, but unless men who are wise, and are nobly born and bred, make it their business to care for the affairs of their country, the nation would soon be wrecked. That is what saves England and makes her great."
"I see." Cassandra sat silent then, and Lady Thryng waited expectantly for her errand to be declared, curious about this beautiful young creature who had stepped into her home unannounced from out of the unknown, yet graciously kindly and unhurried. "I think I know. With us men are too careless. They think it isn't necessary, I suppose." Again she paused with parted lips, as if she would speak on, but could not.
"With you, men are too busy making money, I am told. It is necessary to have a leisure class like ours."
"Oh!" Cassandra caught her breath and smiled. She was thinking of the silver pot her mother had enjoined her to take with her, and why. "But we do think a great deal of family; even the simplest of us care for that, although we have no leisure class—only the loafers. I'm afraid you think it very strange I should come to you in this way, but I—thought I would like to see Doctah Thryng again, and when I heard he was not in England, I thought I would come to you and bring the messages from those who loved him when he was with us. But I mustn't stop now and take your time. I'll write them instead, only that wouldn't be like seeing him. He stayed a whole year at our place."
"And you came from Canada?"
"Oh, no. A long way from there. My home is in North Carolina."
"Oh, indeed! How very interesting! That must have been when he was so ill." Then, noticing Cassandra's extreme pallor, she begged her most kindly to come out on the terrace and have tea; but she would not. She felt her fortitude giving way, and knew she must hasten. "But you must, you know. The heat and your long ride have made you faint."
"I—I'm afraid so. It—won't—last."
"Wait, then. You must take a little wine; you need it." Roused to sympathy, Lady Thryng left her a moment and returned immediately with a glass of wine, which she held to her lips with her own hand. "There, you will soon be better. Here is a fan. It really is very warm. Indeed, you must have tea before you go."
She took her passive hand and led her out on the terrace unresisting, and again Cassandra was minded to throw her arms about the lovely woman's neck, who was so sweet and kind, and sob on her bosom and tell her all—but David had his own reasons, and she would not.
"Do you stay long in England?"
"I am going to-morrow. Oh!" she exclaimed, as they stepped out, and she saw the number of elaborately dressed guests moving about and gayly chatting and laughing. "I can't go out there. I am a strangah." It was a low melancholy wail as she said it, and long afterward Lady Thryng remembered that moaning cry, "I am a strangah."
"No, no. You are an American and a very beautiful one. Come, they will be glad to meet you. Give me your name again."
"Thank you—but I must—must go back." Suddenly, with a cry, "My baby, he is mine," she swept forward with long, swinging steps toward a group who were bending over a rosy-cheeked girl, who was seated on the steps of the terrace with a child in her arms. She was comforting him and cuddling and petting him, and those around her were exclaiming as young girls will: "Isn't he a dear!"—"Oh, let me hold him a moment!"—"There, he is going to cry again. No wonder, poor little chap!"—"Oh, look at his curls—so cunning—give him to me."
Seeing his mother, he put up his arms to her and smiled, while two tears rolled down his round baby cheeks.
"I found him in the pony carriage with Hetty Giles, and he was crying so—and such a darling! I just took him away—the love!" cried Laura. "Why, we saw you yesterday at the Victoria. I could not pass him by, you remember?"
The baby, one beaming smile, nestled his face bashfully in his mother's neck and patted her cheek, glancing sidewise at his admirers through brimming tears, while Cassandra, her eyes large and pathetic, turned now on Laura, now on her mother, stood silent, quivering like one of her own mountain creatures brought to bay. But she was strengthened as she felt her baby again in her arms, and as she stood thus looking about her, every one became silent, and she was constrained to speak. She did not know that something in her manner and appearance had commanded silence—something tragic—despairing. It was but for an instant, then she turned to Lady Laura.