Cassandra stood silent, quivering like one of her own mountain creatures brought to bay. Page 286.
"Thank you for comforting him. I ought not to have left him. I nevah did before, with strangahs." She tried to bid Lady Thryng good-by, but Laura again besought her to stop and have tea.
"Please do. I fairly adore Americans. I want to talk to you; I mean, to hear you talk."
Cassandra had mastered herself at last, and replied quietly: "I don't guess I can stay, thank you. You have been so kind." Then she said to Lady Thryng, "Good-by," and moved away. Laura walked by her side to the carriage.
"I hope you'll come again sometime, and let me know you."
"You are right kind to say that. I shall nevah forget." Then, leaning down from the carriage seat, and looking steadily in Laura's warm, dark eyes, she added: "No, I shall nevah forget. May I kiss you?"
"You sweet thing!" said the girl, impulsively, and, reaching up, they kissed. Cassandra said in her heart, "For David," and was driven away.
Laura found her mother standing where they had left her. She had been deeply stirred by the sight of Cassandra with the child in her arms. Not that beautiful mothersand lovely children were rare in England; but that, except for the children of the poor, no little one like this had been in her own home or so near her in all the years of her widowhood. It was the sight of that strong mother love, overpowering and sweeping all before it, recognizing no lesser call—the secret and holy power that lies in the Christ-mother, for all periods and all peoples—she herself had felt it—and the cry that had burst from Cassandra's lips, "My baby—he is mine." Tears stood in Lady Thryng's eyes, and yet it was such a simple little thing. Mothers and babies? Why, they were everywhere.
"She moved like a tragic queen," said Lady Clara. "What was the matter?"
"Nothing, only her baby had been crying; but wasn't he a love?" said Lady Laura.
"I say! He was a perfect dear!" said one and another.
"I don't care much for babies," said Lady Clara. "They ought to be trained to stay with their nurses and not cry after their mammas like that. Fancy having to take such a child around with one everywhere, even in making a formal call, you know! Isn't it absurd? American women spoil their children dreadfully, I have heard."
The day after Cassandra's flight from Queensderry David returned. Although greatly prolonged, his African expedition had been successful, and he was pleased. He had improved his opportunities to learn political conditions and know what might best advance England's power in that remote portion of her possessions.
Mr. Stretton had informed him that he might soon be called to a seat in the House, and he was glad to be in a measure prepared to hold opinions of his own on a few, at least, of the vital issues. Canada he already knew well, and to be conversant also with the state of affairs in South Africa gave him greater confidence.
The first afternoon of his return he spent in looking over the changes which had been in progress at Daneshead during his absence. In spite of his weariness, he seemed buoyant and gay, more so, his mother thought, than at any time since his return from America. She said nothing about the episode of Cassandra's call,—possibly for the time it was forgotten,—but as they parted for the night, when they were alone together, Lady Thryng again broached to her son the subject of his marriage.
"We have had a visit from Lady Clara Temple," she said.
David lay upon a divan with his hands clasped beneath his head, and the light from a reading lamp streamed upon his sunny hair, which always looked as if some playful breeze had just lifted it. His whole frame had the sinewy appearance of energy and power. His mother's heart swelled with love and pride as she looked at his smiling, thoughtful face, and down upon his lean, strong body that in its lassitude expressed the vigor of a splendid animal at rest.
Still more would she have given thanks for the restoration of this beloved son could she have been able to contrast his present state with his condition when, ill and discouraged, he had gone to the lonely log cabin in a wilderness, struggling to build up both body and spirit, far from the sympathy and fellowship of his own.
Now she thrilled with the thought of what he might achieve if only he would, but her heart misgave her that he still held some strange notions of life. She thought the surest way to control his quixotic impulses was to provide him with a good, practical wife,—one who would see the world as it is and accept conditions that are stable, not trying to move mountains, yet with sufficient ambition for both her husband and herself. With a wife and children a man could not afford to be erratic.
"What were you saying, mother?"
"What were you thinking, David, that you did not hear me? I am telling you we have just had a very delightful visit from Lady Clara Temple, and Lady Temple and her son have called."
David made no reply. He seemed to think the remark called for none. "Well, David?"
"Well, mother?" and then: "I think I will go to bed. I am rarely tired, and bed is the place for me." He kissed his mother, then took hold of her chin and lifted her face to look in his eyes. "What is it, little mother, what is it?" he asked gayly and obtusely.
"Aren't you a bit stupid, David, not to see? I wish—I do wish you could care for Lady Clara. She really is charming."
"I do care for her—as Lady Clara Temple. She is charming, and, as you say of me, a bit stupid. What has Laura been doing these two months?"
"Preparing for her coming out after her own fashion. We've been a good deal in town, but she has a reckless way of doing anything she pleases, quite regardless."
"She is a big-hearted fine lass, mother. Don't let her ways trouble you."
"She needs the right influence, and Lady Clara seems to exert it over her—at least I think she will in time."
"Ah, very good, let her. I won't interfere. Good night, little mother; sleep well. If I am late in the morning,don't be annoyed. I've had three wakeful nights. The sea was very rough."
"David!" Lady Thryng placed her hands on his shoulders and held him, looking in his eyes. "Marry Lady Clara. You are worthy of a princess, my son. You can afford to be ambitious. The day may come when you can entertain the king."
"Now really, mother; I'll entertain the king with pleasure. He's a fine old chap. A little gay, you know, but quite the right sort. But Lady Clara is a step too high. She'd rub it into me some day that I'd married above my station, you know. Good night. Dream of the king, mother, but not of Lady Clara."
He sought his bed, and was soon soundly sleeping, content with the thought that next week he would sail for America and have Laura's coming out postponed. The family festivity was following too closely on the year of mourning, at any rate. The announcement that he already had a penniless American wife would naturally be a blow to them, all the more so if his mother was seriously cherishing such hopes as she had expressed; but he couldn't be a cad. His conscience smote him that his conduct already bordered closely on the caddish, but to be an out and out cad,—no, no.
When he awoke,—late, as he had said, but refreshed and jubilant,—the revelation he must make seemed to him less formidable, and he was minded to make it with no more delay as he tossed over his mail, while breakfasting in his room.
"Ah, what is this?" A letter in his wife's hand, bearing the Liverpool postmark! Was she on her way to him, then? "Good God!" He tore off the cover hastily, but sat a moment with bowed head, his hand over his eyes, before reading it.
"My dear David,—My husband, forgive me. I have done wrong, but I meant to do right. They said words of you,—on our mountain, David,—words I hated; and I lied to them and came to you. I told them you had sent for me. I did it to prove to them that what they were saying was not true. I took the money you gave me and came to England, and now God has punishedme, and I am going back. I know you will be surprised when I tell you how wrong I have been. I would not write you I had borne you a little son, because I did not want you to come back to America for his sake, but for mine. My heart was that proud. Oh! David, forgive me." David's face grew pale, and the paper trembled in his hand, but he read eagerly on.
"My heart cries to you all the time. He is yours, David; forgive me. He is very beautiful. He is like you. Your sister held him in her arms, and I kissed her for love of you, but she did not know why. She did not guess the beautiful baby was yours—your very own. Your mother saw him, but she did not guess he was hers—her little grandson. I took him away quickly. They might have kept him if they knew. You will let me have him a little longer, won't you, David? When he is older, you will have to take him home and educate him, but now—now—he is all I have of you. Soon the terrible ocean will be between us again.
"It will be just the same in your home now as if I had never come. I did not say I was your wife—for you had not—and I would not tell them. I want you to know this, so nothing will be changed by me. In London, before I knew, when I thought you were there, when I did not understand, I wrote my name in the hotel book, but in Queensderry something in my heart stopped me and I only wrote my old name, Cassandra Merlin. I must have been beginning to understand."
David paused and dashed the tears from his eyes. "Poor little heart! Poor little heart!" he cried. He paced the room, then tried to read again. The letters, blurred by his tears, seemed to dance about and run together.
"Now I see it all clearly, David, and, after a little, God will help me to live on the happiness you brought me in our sweet year together. There was happiness for a lifetime in that year. Comfort your heart with that thought when you think of me, and do not be too sad.
"Oh, David! I did not know that to save me from marrying Frale and living a life worse than death you sacrificed yourself. But you did not need to do it. After knowing you and after doing what he did to you, Inever could have married him. I only knew you came to me and saved me from the terrible life I might have led, and I took you as from God. I have seen the beautiful lady you should have married, and I don't know what to do, nor how to give you back to yourself. I suppose there may be a way, but we have made our vows to each other before God, and we must do no sin. My heart is heavy. I would give you all, all, but I can't take back the love I gave you. I could die to set you free again, for in that way I could keep the blessed love which is part of my soul, in heaven with me, only for our little son. My life is his now, too, and I have no right to die, not yet, even to set you free.
"Oh, David, David! This must be the shadow I saw clouding our long path of light. In some terrible way it has been laid on me to do you a wrong in the eyes of your family and all your world. Your mother told me you had work to do for your country, great and glorious work. I believe it, and you must do it and not let an ignorant mountain girl stand in your way.
"Oh! I can't think it out to-night. When I try to see a way, I can't. The visions are lost to my eyes, and they may never come again. The windows of my soul are clouded, and the clear seeing is gone, because, David, I know it is myself that comes between. I can only cry to you now to forgive me. Don't let me mar your great, good life. Don't try to come back to me. Stay on and live your life and do your work, and I will keep your little son safe for you, and teach him to love you and call you father, and he shall be called David. He has no name yet; I was waiting for you. It will only be a little while before he will need you, then you may take him. Your mother and sister will love him. He will be a great boy full of laughter and light, like you, David, and then your mountain girl wife will be gone and your sacrifice at an end, and your reward will come at last.
"I will go back and stay quietly where I belong. Don't send me any more money. I have enough to take me home, and I can earn all we need after that. Earning will help me by giving me something to do for our baby and so for you. Sometimes I will send you word that all is well with him, but do not write to me any more. Itwill be easier for you so, and don't let your heart be too much troubled for me, David. It will interfere with your power and usefulness in your own world. Grieving is like fire set to a great tree. It burns the heart out of it first, and leaves the rest. A man must not be like that. With a woman it is different. Be glad that you did save me and brought me all these months of sweet, sweet happiness. I will live on the remembrance.
"People have to bear the separation of death, and we will call the ocean that divides us Death, for our two worlds are divided by it. I sail to-morrow. You took me into your heart to save me, and now, David my love, I go out of your heart to save you, and give you back to your own life. Some day the cords that bind us to each other, the cords our vows have made, will part and set you free. Good-by, good-by, David my heart, David my love, David, David, good-by.
"Cassandra Merlin."
For a long instant David sat with the letter crushed in his hand, then suddenly awoke to energetic action.
"To-day? When does the boat leave? Good God! there may be time." He rang for a servant and began tossing his clothing together. "Curses on me for a cad—a boor—a lout—. Why did I leave my mail until this morning and then oversleep! Clark," he said, as the man appeared, "tell Hicks to bring the machine around immediately, then come for my bag."
"Beg pardon, but the machine's out of order, my lord, and her ladyship's just going out in the carriage."
"Why is it out of order? Hicks is a fool. Ask Lady Thryng to wait. No, pack my bag and send my boxes on after me as they are. I'll speak to her myself."
He threw off his jacket, thrust his cap in his pocket, and dashed away, pulling on his coat as he went, holding the crushed pages of the letter in his hand. He overtook his mother as she was walking down the terrace.
"Mother, wait," he cried, "I'm going with you. Where's Laura?"
"She was coming. I can't think what is delaying her."
David hurried on to the carriage. "Get in, mother, I'll take her place. Get in, get in. We must be off."
"David, are you out of your head?"
"Yes, mother. Drive on, drive on. I must catch the first train for Liverpool—I may catch it. Put the horses through, John. Make them sweat," he said, leaning out of the carriage window.
"Explain yourself, David. Are you in trouble?"
"Yes, mother. Wait a little."
She looked at her son and saw his mouth set, his eyes stern and anguished, and she placed her hand gently on his as they were being whirled away. "Your bags are not in, David, if you are going a journey."
"Clark will follow with them, and I can wait in Liverpool, if I can only catch this boat."
"David, explain. If you can't, then let me read this," she pleaded, touching the letter in his hand; but he clutched it the tighter.
"No one may read this, not even you." He pressed the crumpled sheets to his lips, then folded them carefully away. "It's just that I've been a cad—a fiendish cad and an idiot in one. I thought myself a man of high ideals— My God, I am a cad!"
"David, you sacrificed yourself to ideals, but you are still a boy and have much to learn. When men try to set new laws for themselves and get out of the ordinary, they are more than apt to make fools of themselves, and may do positive harm. What is it now?"
"Can't you get over the ground any faster, John?" he cried, thrusting his head again out of the window. "These horses are overfed and lazy, like all the English people. Why was the machine out of order? Hicks is a fool—I say!" He put his hand inside his collar and pulled and worked it loose. "We are all hidebound here. Even our clothes choke us."
"David, tell me the truth."
"I am telling you the truth. I am a cad, I say. And you—you, too, are a part of the system that makes cads of us all."
"I am your mother, David," said Lady Thryng, reprovingly.
"You have reason to be proud of your son! Oh! curse me! I won't be more of a cad than I am now by laying the blame on you. I could have helped it, butyou couldn't. We are born and bred that way, over here. The petty lines of distinction our ancestors drew for us,—we bow down and worship them, and say God drew them. Over here a man hides the sun with his own hand and then cries out, 'Where is it?'"
"I would comfort you if I could, but this sounds very much like ranting. I thought you had outlived that sort of thing, my son."
"Thank God, no. I've been very hard pressed of late, but I've not outlived it."
"You will tell me this trouble—now—before you leave me? You must, dear boy." He took the hand she put out to him, and held it in silence; then, incoherently, in a voice humbled and low,—almost lost in the rumbling of the carriage,—he told her. It was a revelation of the soul, and as the mother listened she too suffered and wept, but did not relent.
Cassandra's cry, "I am a strangah!" sounded in her ears, but her sorrow was for her son. Yes, she was a stranger, and had wisely taken herself back to her own place; what else could she do? Was it not in the nature of a Providence that David had been delayed until after her departure? The duty now devolved upon herself to comfort him without further reproof, but nevertheless to make him see and do his duty in the position he had been called to fill.
"Of course she has charm, David, and evidently good sense as well."
"How do you mean?"
"To perceive the inevitable and return without fuss or complaint to her own station in life."
For an instant he sat stunned, and ere he could give utterance to his rage, she resumed, "Naturally, marriage now, in your own class can't be; you'll simply have to live as a bachelor." David groaned. "Why, my son, many do, of their own choice, and you have managed to be happy during this year."
He glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock,—can't—"
"There's no use urging the horses so; we can't make it."
"We may, mother, we may." He half rose as if he would leap from the vehicle. "I could go faster on foot.There's a quarter of an hour yet before the Liverpool express. John, can't we get on faster than this?"
"No, my lord. One of the 'orses has picked up a stone. If you'll 'old 'em I'll dig it out in 'alf a minute, my lord."
David sprang out and took the reins. "Where's the footman?" he asked testily.
"You left 'im behind, my lord. He was 'elping Lady Laura cut roses."
"David, this is useless. The last train from London went through an hour ago and we haven't ten minutes for the next. Order him to return and we'll consider calmly."
David laughed bitterly, and only sprang into the coach and shut the door with a crash. "Drive on, John," he shouted through the window, and again they were off at a mad gallop.
His mother turned and looked at him astounded. "Let me read what she has written you, my son," she implored, half frightened at his frenzy.
"It's of no use for you to read it. We can't talk now, not rationally."
"Then tell him not to drive so furiously, so we can hear each other."
"I would avoid useless discussion, mother, but you force it." An instant he paused, and his teeth ground together and his jaw set rigidly, then he continued with a savage force that appalled her, throwing out short sentences like daggers. "Lord H—— brings home an American wife. His family are well pleased. She is every where received. Her father is a rich brewer. Her brother has turned out his millions from the business of pork packing. The stench from his establishment pollutes miles of country, but does not reach England—why? Because of the disinfectant process of transmuting their greasy American dollars into golden English sovereigns. There's justice."
"Be reasonable, David. Their estates were involved to the last degree and those sovereigns saved the family. Without them they would have passed out of their possession utterly, and been divided among our rich tradespeople, and the family would have descended rapidly to the undergrades. It goes to show the value of birth, what is more, and how those Americans, who made a pretencelong ago of scorning birth and title and casting it all off, are glad enough now to buy their way back again, if not for themselves, for their children. But, David, for a man to voluntarily degrade his family by marrying beneath him, with no such need as that of Lord H——, of ultimately by that very means lifting it up is—is—inexpressible—why—! In the case of Lord H—— there was a certain nobility in marrying beneath him."
"Beneath him! For me, I married above me, over all of us, when I took my sweet, clean mountain girl. The nobility of Lord H—— is unique. Lady H—— made a poor bargain when she left the mingled stenches of brewing and butchering to step into the moral stench which depleted the Stonebreck estates."
"You are not like my son, David. You are violent."
"Your son has been a cad. Now he is a man, and must either be violent or weep." He looked away from her out at the flying hedgerows, then took up the fruitless discussion again, striving with more patience to arouse in his mother a sense of the utter worldliness of her stand. She met him at every point with the obtuse and age-long arguments of her class. When at last he cried out, "But what of my son, mother, my little son, and the heir to all this grandeur which means so much to you?" Her eyelids quivered and she looked down, merely saying, "His mother has offered you a solution to that difficulty which seems to me the only wise one. You say she proposes to keep him a year or two and then send him to us."
"Ah, you are like steel, mother." David spoke pleadingly, "You thought him a beautiful child?"
"I did, and a wholesome one, which goes to show that you may safely trust him with her for a time. Moreover, his mother has a right to him and the comfort she may find in him for a few years. You see I would be quite just to her. I do not accuse her of being designing in marrying you. No doubt it was quite your own fault. It is a position you two young people rushed into romantically and most foolishly, and you must both suffer the consequences. It is sad, but it must be regarded in the light of hard common sense, and my ungrateful task seems to be to place it in that light for both your sakes."
Still David watched the hedgerows with averted face.
"You are listening, David?"
"Yes, mother, yes. Common sense you said."
"Can't you see, that to bring her here, where she does not belong—where she never will be received as belonging, even though she is your wife—will only cause suffering to you both? Eventually misunderstandings will arise, then will come alienation and unhappiness. Then again, yours must be in a measure a public life, unless you mean to shirk responsibility. Has your country no claim on you?"
"I have no thought of shirking my duty, and am prepared to think and act also—"
"You wish it to be effective? Has it never occurred to you how your avenues will be cut off if you marry a wife beneath your class?"
"What in God's name will my wife have to do with England's African policy? Damme—"
"David!"
"Mother—I beg your pardon—"
"She may have everything to do with it. No man can stand alone and foist his ideas upon such a body of men, without backing. Instead of hampering yourself with an ignorant mountain girl from America, you should have allied yourself to a strong family of position here, if you would be a power in England. What sort of a Lady Thryng will your present wife make? What kind of a leader socially in your own class? You might better try to place a girl from the bogs of Ireland at the head of your table."
Again David's rage surged through him in a hot wave, but he controlled himself. "You admitted Cassandra has both beauty and charm?"
"Would my son have been attracted to her else? Nevertheless, what I say stands. As a help to you—"
"You have done your duty, mother. I will say this for you—that for sophistry undiluted, a woman of the present day who stands where you do, can out-Greek the ancients. How is it we see so differently? Is it that I am like my father? How did he see things?"
"Your father was as much a nobleman as your uncle. Only by the accident of birth was he differently placed.Did I never tell you that but for his death he would have been created bishop of his diocese? So you see—"
"I see. By dying he just escaped a bishopric. Did it make a difference in his reception up above—do you think?"
"Oh, David, David!"
"I'm sorry mother—never mind. We're nearly there and I have something I must say to you before I leave you to end this discussion forever. There are two kinds of men in this world,—one sort is made by his circumstances, and the other makes his circumstances. You would respect your son more if he belonged to the first variety, but I tell you no. I will make my own conditions. Before all else, I am a man. My lordship was thrust upon me. Don't interrupt, I beg. I know all you would say, but you do not know all I would say— My birth gave it to me certainly, but a cruel and bloody war was the means by which it came to me. Very well. I will take it and the responsibility which it entails; but the cruelty that brought me my title is ended and in no form shall it be continued, social or otherwise. I hold to the rights of my manhood. I will bring to England whom I please as my wife, and my world shall recognize her, and you will receive her because I bring her, and because she will stand head and soul above any one you have here to propose for me. Here we are, mother dear. One kiss? Thank you, thank you. Postpone Laura's coming out until—I return—which will be—when—you know."
He leaped from the carriage before it had time to halt, and ran, but alas! baffled and enraged at his ill success, he stood on the platform and watched the train pull out. It was only a slow local puffing away there.
"Liverpool express left five minutes ago, my lord," said the guard.
His mother leaned out, watching him with sad, yet eager eyes, satisfied that it should be so. He might return now, and there was by no means an end to her opposition.
"Cassandry Merlin, whar did you drap from?" cried the Widow Farwell, as she looked up from the supper she was preparing at the great fireplace, and saw her daughter in the doorway with her baby. Her old face radiated light and warmth and love as she took them both in her arms. "Whar's David?"
Cassandra smiled wearily, returning her mother's kiss and yielding her the baby. "You'll have to be satisfied with me and little son, mother. David was still in Africa, so I came home again." She spoke as if a trip to England were a casual little matter, and this was all the explanation she gave that night. "I got the hotel carriage to bring me up from the station."
The mother, with quaint simplicity, accepted it, asking no troublesome questions. If David was not there, why should not her daughter return. After their supper together, in the warm, starlit evening, each member of the family carrying something for the traveller's comfort, they all climbed up to Cassandra's cabin, and the old life began as if it had suffered no interruption. Cassandra so filled the pauses with questions of all that had happened during her absence that it was only after her mother was in bed and dropping off to sleep she remembered questions of her own that had been unasked, or left unanswered.
The next day Cassandra pleaded weariness and stayed in her cabin, sending Martha down for her necessary supplies, and quietly occupying herself with setting her simple home in its accustomed order. The day after, she spent overlooking the little farm with Cotton, and hearing from him all about the animals. The cows, two little calves, Frale's colt, and her own filly, and how "someol' houn' dog" had got into the sheep-pen and killed the mother sheep, and "Marthy" had brought the twin lambs up by hand. And while Cassandra busied herself thus, the widow kept charge of the little grandson, warming her heart with his baby ways, petting him and solacing herself for his long absence.
Thus the first days were lived through, and no further explanation made, for something held Cassandra silent in a strange waiting suspense. It was not hope, for she felt that she had taken a stand which was conclusive, and there was nothing more for which to hope. What else could she do, and what could David do? The conditions were made for them; each must bide in his own world, and she had named the ocean which divided them, "Death."
At night she did not weep, for weeping made her ill, and she must conserve her strength for her little son, so she lay staring out at the stars. Sometimes she found herself holding her breath and listening,—half lifting her head from her pillow,—but listening for what? Then she would lean over her baby's cradle, and hear his soft breathing, trying to make herself think she was listening for that and not for David's step. Then she would lie back and try again to sleep, and her heart would cry to God to give her peace, and let her rest. So the long nights passed, tearlessly and sleeplessly.
On the boat she had slept, lulled by its rocking and swaying, but here in her home—in her accustomed routine—sleep had fled, and old thoughts and dreams came like the dead to haunt her. The paleness which had come upon her in London, and which the sea breeze had supplanted with fleeting roses, returned, and she moved about looking as if only her wraith had come back to its old haunts.
On the third day after Cassandra's return, David found himself climbing the laurel path a far different man from the one who, two years before, had slowly and wearily toiled up to the little house of logs which was to be his shelter. With strong, free step and heart uplifted and glad, he now climbed that winding path. He had conquered the ills of his body, and his spirit had lived and loved, and he had learned to know happiness fromits counterfeit. He had gone out and seen men chasing phantoms and shadows thinking therein to find joy—joy—the need of the world—one in a coronet, one in a crown, and the beggar in a golden sovereign—while he—he had found it in his own heart and in Cassandra's eyes.
David had passed the Fall Place, seeing no one; for the widow had ridden over to spend the day with Sally Carew, her niece was in the spring-house skimming cream, while Cotton was dawdling in the corn patch whistling and pulling the ripened ears from the stalks. A cool breeze had dispelled the heat of the September afternoon, and the hills were already beginning to don their gorgeous apparel after the summer's drouth; their wonderful beauty struck him anew and steeped his senses with their charm.
If only all was well with his wife—his wife and his little son! His heart beat so madly as he neared the thicket of laurel where once he had stood to watch her moving about his cabin, that he was forced to pause; and again he saw her, standing in her homespun dress, strongly relieved against the whiteness of the canvas room beyond—but this time not alone— Ah, not alone! Holding his little son in her arms, her body swaying with rhythmic motion, lulling him to drowsiness and sleep, she stooped to lay him in the rude little cradle box.
David trembled as he watched, and dashed the tears from his eyes, but could not move to break too soon this breathless, poignant spell of gladness. Suddenly he could wait no longer, but his feet clung to the earth when he would move, and his mouth went dry. Ah, could he never reach her? He stood holding out his arms, when, oh, wonder of wonders! she raised herself and stood as if listening, then, moving swiftly, walked from the cabin and came to him as if she had heard him call, although he had made no sound—her arms outstretched to him as were his to her.
She did not cry out, but with parted lips and radiant, glowing face, fled to him and was clasped to his heart. She could feel its beating against her breast, and his silence spoke to her through his eyes, which saw not her face but her soul; his lips brought the roses to her cheeks as the sea breezes had done—roses that came and fledand came again—until at last it was Cassandra who spoke first.
"I want you to see him, David."
"Yes, yes, my wife," was all he said, his eyes on hers, but he did not move.
"I want you to see our little son, David." A strange pang shot through his heart. Still he stood, holding her and marvelling at himself. What! Was it that this young usurper had stolen into his place?
"Love is selfish, dear. Let me recover from one joy before you overwhelm me with another. First, I must have my own, and know that it is all mine."
"I don't understand, David. I can't wait. Oh! David—David!"
"You turn my name to music with your tones lingering over it. I had forgotten how sweet it was."
"But I don't understand, David. Come and see him." And as she drew him forward, they moved as one being, not two.
"No, you don't understand, thank God. But I will teach you something you never knew. Love is not only blind, dearest; he is a greedy, selfish little god."
Then she laughed happily, holding him at arm's-length and looking in his eyes. "I know it. I know it. I found it out all by myself. Didn't I tell you in my letter? Oh, David, so was I!" She drew him to her again and nestled her face in his bosom. "I was jealous of our little son. I wanted you, David— Oh! I wanted you." At last came the tears, the blessed human tears which she had held back so long. But now they did no harm except to drench her husband's gray tie, and they brought a lovely flush to her face. "I can't stop, David; I can't stop. I haven't cried for so long, and now I can't stop."
"Sweetheart, don't try to stop. Cry it all out. Wash the stains from me of the cruel old world where I have been; cleanse me so that I may see as clearly as you see; but you would have to cry forever to do that, wouldn't you, sweet? And soon you must laugh again."
He clasped and comforted her as she was used to comfort her baby, soothing her and drying her eyes with his own handkerchief. "Yours isn't large enough for such a flood, is it, sweet?"
"No, a—a—and I—I can-can't find mine," she sobbed "I—I—left it tucked under baby's chin—and now I've spoiled your pretty gray tie."
"Bless you! They are my tears, and it is my tie—"
"David! He is crying—hark!"
"Helping his mother, is he? Come then, his father will comfort him."
"Hear him. Isn't it a sweet little cry, David?" She smiled at him from under tear-wet lashes.
"Why, bless you again! Yours was a sweet little cry." They went in, and he bent over the odd little cradle and lifted the child tenderly from its soft nest. The wailing ceased, and the fatherhood awoke in him and laughed with joy as he held the warm little body to his heart, wherein now, he knew, lay the key of life—the complete and rounded love, God's gift to man, to be cherished when found, and fought for and held in the holy of holies of his own soul.
"He isn't afraid, you see, David. How he stares at you! Does he feel it in his own little heart that you are his father? I have whispered it to him a thousand, thousand times. Sit here with him, David, and I'll make you some tea." She busied herself with the tea things—the old life beginning anew—with a new interest.
"I always make it just as you taught me that first day when I came up here so choked with trouble I couldn't speak. You always brought me good, David."
He saw as he watched her that some new and subtile charm had been added to her personality. Was it motherhood that had given it to her, or the long year of patient waiting and trusting; or had she passed through depths of which he as yet knew nothing, to cause this evanescent breath of pathos? He felt and knew it was all of these. What must she have endured as she wrote that letter!
David fell easily and happily into his life on the mountain again—not the English lord, but the vital, human being, the man in splendid possession of himself and his impulses, holding sacred his rights as a man, not to be coerced by custom or bound by any chains save those he himself had forged to bind his heart before God.
For a time he would not allow himself to think of thefuture, preferring to live thus with the world completely shut away. Buoyantly, jubilantly, he tramped the hills and visited the homes where he had been wont to bring help and often comforts, and found himself therein lauded and idolized as few of his station ever are.
Again he was "Doctah Thryng," and the love that accompanied the title, in the hearts of those mountain people, was regal. He enjoyed his little farm, and the gathering of his first "crap," counting his bundles of fodder and his bushels of corn. Sometimes he rode with Cassandra, visiting the old haunts; at such times David insisted that the boy be left with the grandmother or that Martha should come up to mind him, that he might have his wife free and quite to himself as in their first days.
But all this time, although silent about it, Cassandra kept in her heart the thought of David's real state. She felt he was playing a part to bring her joy, and was grateful, but she knew he must return to his own world and live his own life. Therefore she existed in a state of breathless suspense, to enjoy these moments to the fullest,—not to miss or mar an instant of the blessed time while it lasted.
The days were flying—flying—so rapidly she dared not think, and here was splendid October trailing her wonderful draperies over the hills like a lavish princess. When would David speak? But perhaps he was waiting for her to speak first? If so, how long ought she to remain silent? Often he caught the wistful look in her eyes, and half divined the meaning.
One day when they had wandered up her father's path, and the wind came in warm, soft gusts, sweeping over the miles of splendor from the sea, David drew her to him, determined to win from her a full expression.
"What is it, Cassandra? Open your heart. Don't shut anything away from me. What have you been dreaming lately?"
"You have never said a word of fault with me yet, David—for what I did, going away off there and not waiting quietly until you could come back, as you wrote me to do."
"That was the bravest, finest thing you ever did—but one." He was thinking of her renunciation.
"You are so good to forgive me, David. In one way itwas better that I went, because it made me understand as I never could have done otherwise. You would never have told me, but now I know."
"Unfold a little of this wisdom, so I may judge of its value."
"Can you, David? I'm afraid not. You have a way of bewildering me, so I can't see the rights and wrongs of things myself. But there! It is just part of the difference. Why, even the nursemaids over there, and Hetty Giles, the landlady's daughter, are wiser than I. I came to see it every instant, the difference between you and me—between our two worlds. David, how did you ever dare marry me?"
He only laughed happily and kissed her. "Tell it all," he said tenderly.
"I felt it first when I went to the town house. It was hard to find the address. I only had Mr. Stretton's." David set his teeth grimly in anger at himself at giving her only his lawyer's address, in stupid fear lest her letters betray him to his mother and sister.
"Now, do not hide one thing from me—not one," he said sternly, and she continued, with a conscientious fear of disobedience, to open her heart.
"I saw by the look in the old man's eyes that I had not done the right thing, coming in that way with a baby in my arms, like a beggar. I saw he was very curious, and I was that proud I didn't know what to tell him I had come for, when I found you were not there, so when he said artists often came to see the gallery, I said I had come to see the gallery; and David, I didn't even know what a gallery was. I thought it was a high piazza around a house, and I found it was a great room full of pictures. I was that ignorant.
"I felt like I was some wild creature that had got lost in that splendid palace and didn't know where to run to get away; and they all fixed their eyes on me as if they were saying: 'How does she dare come here? She isn't one of us!' and one was a boy who looked like you. The old man kept saying how like it was to the new Lord Thryng, and it made me cold to hear it,—so cold that after I had escaped from there and was out in the sun, my teeth chattered."
David sat silent and humbled; at last he said: "Go on, Cassandra. Don't cover up anything."
"When I got back to the hotel, everything seemed so splendid and stuffy and horrid—and every way I turned it seemed as if those dead ancestors of yours were there staring at me still; and I thought what right had they over the living that they dared stand between you and me; and I was angry." She stirred in his arms, and pressed closer to him. "David—forgive me—I can't tell it over—it hurts me."
"Go on," he said hoarsely.
"The old man told me what was expected of you because of them—how your mother wished you to marry a great lady—and I knew they could never have heard of me—and I forgot to eat my dinner and stayed in my room and fought and fought with myself—I'm sorry I felt that way, David. Don't mind. I understand now." She put up her hand and touched his cheek, and he took it in his and kissed it. Then she laughed a sad little laugh.
"Remember that funny little old silver teapot. Mother brought it to me before I left, and I took it with me! She is so proud of our family, although she has only that poor little pot to show for it, with its nose all melted off to make silver bullets sure to kill. Did you know it was one of those bullets Frale tried to kill you with? Oh, David, David!"
"And yet your mother is right, dear. That little wrecked bit of silver helps to interpret you—indicates your ancestors—how you come to be you—just as you are. How could I ever have loved you, if you had been different from what you are?"
For a long moment she lay still—scarcely breathing—then she lifted her head and looked in his eyes. One of her silences was on her, and while her lips trembled as if to speak, she said no word. He tried to draw her to him again, but she held him off.
"Then tell me what it is," he said gently. But she only shook her head and rose to walk away from him. He did not try to call her back to him, respecting her silence, and she moved on up the path with long, swift steps.
When she returned, he held out his arms to her, but she stood before him looking down into his eyes, "I couldn'ttell you sitting there with your arms around me, David, and what I have to say must be said now; I may never be strong enough to say it another time, and it must be said."
Then she told him all that had occurred while she was in Queensderry, from the moment she came, going down into her heart and revealing the hidden thoughts never before expressed even to herself, while he gazed back into her eyes fascinated by her spiritual beauty which was her power.
She told of the chatter of Hetty Giles, and how she had pointed out the beautiful lady his mother wished him to marry—and how slowly everything had dawned upon her—the real differences. Of the guests she had seen on the Daneshead terrace and how they wore such lovely dresses and moved so easily and laughed and talked all at once, as if they were used to it all, and perhaps wore such charming things for every day—the wonderful colors and wide, beautiful hats with plumes—and how even the servants wore pretty clothes and went about as if they all knew how to do things, passing cups and plates.
Then she told of her talk with his mother and how carefully she had guarded her tongue lest a word escape her he would rather not have had her speak. "I had wronged you in not telling you you had a son, and I meant to leave him with your mother so he could be raised right." She paused, and put her hand to her throat, then went bravely on. "Your mother was kind—she gave me wine—she brought it to me herself. I knew what I ought to do, but I wasn't strong enough. It seemed as if something here in my breast was bleeding, and my baby would die if I did it. When I came out, he was in your sister's arms and had been crying, and it seemed as if all I had planned had happened, and I took him and carried him away quickly. I couldn't go fast enough, and I left the inn that night. The world seemed all likeVanity Fair."
David rose and stood before her looking down into her eyes. He could not control his voice in speaking, and she felt his hands quiver as they rested on her shoulders. "When did you read that book, Cassandra? Where did you find it?" he asked, in dismay.
"Among your books in the cabin. I felt at first that it must be a kind of a disgrace to be a lord—as if every one who had a title or education must be mean and low, andall the rest of the world over there must be fools; but because of you, David, I knew better than to believe that. Your mother is not like those women, either. She was kind and beautiful, and—I—loved her, but all the more I saw the difference. But now you have come to me and made me strong, I can do it. Everything has grown clear to me again, and I see how you gave yourself to me—to save me—when you did not dream of what was to be for you in the future; and out of your giving has come the—little son, and he is yours. Wait! Don't take me in your arms." She placed her hands on his breast and held him from her.
"So it was just now—when you spoke as if people would understand me better because of that little silver pot, showing I had somewhere in the past a name and a family like theirs over there—I thought of 'Vanity Fair,' and I hated it. I wish you had never seen it. There is, nor has been, nothing on earth to make me possible for you, now—your inheritance has come to you. I have a pride, too, David, a different kind of pride from theirs. You loved me first, I know, as I was—just me. It was a foolish love for you to have, David dear,—but I know it is true; you could not have given yourself to save me else, and I like to keep that thought of you in my heart, big and noble and true—that you did love just me." She faltered, but still held him from her. "Do you think I would not do all I can to keep from spoiling your life over there?"
"Stop, stop. It is enough," he cried. In spite of herself, he took her hands in his and drew her to him in penitent tenderness. "I'm no great lord with wide distances between me and your mountain world here, Cassandra; never think it. I'm tremendously near to the soul of things, and the man of the wilderness is strong in me. One thing you have not touched upon. Tell me, what did Frale say or do to you to so trouble you and send you off?"
She stirred in his arms and waited, then murmured, "He pestered me."
"Explain. Did he come often?"
"Oh, no. He—I—he came one evening up to our cabin, and—I sent him off and started next day."
"But explain, dearest. How did he act? What was it?"
She was silent, but drew her husband's head down and hid her face in his neck. "There! Never mind, love. You needn't tell me if you don't wish."
"He kissed me and held me in his arms like they were iron bands—and I hated it. He said you had gone away never to come back, and that the whole mountain side knew it; and that he had a right to come and claim my promise to him. Oh, David, David, this is the last. I have kept nothing back from you now, nothing. My heart cried out for you—like I heard you call—and I went—to—to prove to them all that word was a lie. I knew nothing they said here could touch you, but I couldn't bear that the meanest hound living should dare think wrong of you. Seems like I would have done it if I had had to crawl on my knees and swim the ocean."
"My fingers tingle to grasp the throat of that young man. I fought him for you once, and if it hadn't been for a rolling stone under my foot, it would have been death for one of us. As it was, I won—with you to save me—bless you."
"But now, David—"
"Ah, but now—what? Are you happy?"
"That isn't what I mean. You have your future—"
"I have my now. It is all we ever have. The past is gone, and lives only in our memories, and the future exists only in anticipation; but now—now is all we have or can have. Live in it and love in it and be happy."
"But we must be wise. We've got to face it sometime. Let—me help you—now while I have the strength," she pleaded earnestly.
But David only laughed out joyously, and looked at his wife until she turned her face away from him. "Look at me," he cried. "Dear, troubled eyes. Tears? Tears in them? Love, you have kept nothing back this time, and now it is my turn, but I shall keep something back from you. I'm not going to reprove your idolatry by turning iconoclast and throwing your miserable old idol down from his pedestal all at once. I tell you what it is, though, if I could feel that I was worthy of your smallest finger—that I deserved only one of those big tears—there—there—there! Listen, dearest, I'll come to the point.
"Who is it now, making so much of the estimates of the world? Somehow our viewpoints have got mixed. Sacrifice myself? Why, Cassandra, if I were to lose you out of my life, I should be a broken-hearted man. What did I sacrifice? Phantoms, vanities, and emptiness. Oh, Cassandra, Cassandra, my priestess of all that is good! Open your eyes, love, and see as I see—as you have taught me to see.
"Much that we strive for and reckon as gain is really worthless. Why, sweet, I would far, far rather have you at your loom for the mother of my son, than Lady Clara at her piano. Your heritage of the great nature—the far-seeing—the trusting spirit—harboring no evil and construing all things to righteousness—going out into the world and finding among all the dust and dross, even of centuries, only the pure gold—the eye that sees into a man's soul, searching out the true and lovely qualities there and transmuting all the rest into pure metal—my own soul's alchemist—your heritage is the secret of power."
"I don't believe I understand all you are saying, David. I only see that I have a very hard task before me, and now I know it is hard for you, too. Your mother made it clear to me that your true place is not living here as a doctor, even though you do so much good among us. I saw all at once that men are born each to fill a place in the world, and I think each man's measure should be the height of his own power and ability, nothing lower than that; and I see it—your power will be there, not here, where it must be limited by our limits and ignorance. That is your own country over there. It claims you—and I—I—there is the difference, you know. Think of your mother, and then of mine. David, I must not— Oh, David! You must be unhampered—free—what can I—what can we do?"
"We can just go down the mountain, sane beings, to our own little cabin, belonging to each other first of all." He took her hand and led her along the path, carpeted with pine needles and fallen leaves. "And then, when you are ready and willing—not before, love—we will go home—to my home—just like this, together."
She caught her breath. "Listen, for I am seeing visionstoo, now, as you have taught me. I will lead you through those halls and show you to all those dead ancestors, and I will dress you in a silken gown, the color of the evening star we used to watch together from our cabin door, and around your neck I will hang the yellow pearls that have been worn by all those great ladies who stared at you from out their frames of gold the day you came alone and unrecognized, bearing your priceless gift in your arms. You shall wear the rich old lace of the family on your bosom, and the jewelled coronet on your head; and no one will see the silk and the jewels and the lace, for looking at you and at the gift you bring.
"No, don't speak; it is my turn now to see the pictures. All will be yours, whatever you see and touch in those stately homes—for you will be the Lady Thryng, and, being the Lady Thryng, you will be no more wonderful or beautiful than you were when you climbed to me, following my flute notes, or when you bent between me and the fire preparing my supper, or when you were weaving at your loom, or when you came to me from our cabin door with your arms outstretched and the light of all the stars of heaven in your eyes."
Then they were silent, a long silence, until, seated together in their cabin before a bright log fire, as she held their baby to her breast, Cassandra broke the stillness.
"Now I see it better, David. As you came here and lived my life, and loved me just as I was—so to be truly one, I must go with you and live your life. I must not fail you there."
"You have been tried as by fire and have not failed—nor are you the kind of woman who ever fails."
Then she smiled up at him one of those rare and fleeting smiles that always touched David with poignant pleasure, and said: "I think I understand now. God meant us to feel this way, when he married us to each other."