The Mountain Girl

"Finish your milk," said David. "We'll have some fun with the microscope." And once again the child essayed to eat and drink a little.

But the languor and pallor grew in spite of all David could do for him, and as the weeks passed his large eyes burned more brilliantly and his thin form grew more meagre. Cassandra got in the way of keeping him up at the cabin with her, and when she went down to weave, he went also and used to lie on the bundles of cotton, poring over the books which David procured for him from time to time.

"What he gets in that way won't hurt him. It's not like having set tasks to learn, and he's not burdened with any 'ought' or 'ought not' about it. Let him vegetate until cooler weather. Then, if he doesn't improve, we'll see what can be done. Something radical, I imagine."

The fall arrived in a splendor that was truly oriental in its gorgeousness. The changing colors of the foliage surpassed in brilliancy anything David had ever seen or imagined possible. The mantle of deepest green which had clothed the mountain sides all summer, became transmuted, until all the world was glorified and glowing as if the heat of the summer sun had been stored up during the drowsy days to burst forth thus in warmest reds and golds.

"The hills look as if they had clothed themselves in Turkish rugs, ancient and fine," said David one evening, as he sat on his rock, watching them burn in the afterglow of the setting sun.

"How much there is for me to learn and know," Cassandra replied in a low voice. "I never saw a Turkish rug. You often speak of things I know nothing about."

David laughed and turned upon her happy eyes. "Why so sad for that? Did you think I loved you and married you for your worldly knowledge?" She smiled back at him and was silent. Presently he continued. "Now, while Hoyle is not here, I wish to talk to you a little about him."

"Yes, David." Her heart fluttered with a nameless fear, but she betrayed no sign of emotion.

"You've seen, of course. It's not necessary to tell you."

"No, David – only – does it mean death?" She put her hand out to him, and he took it in his and stroked it.

"Not surely. We'll make a fight for him, won't we, dear?"

"Oh, David! What can we do?" she moaned.

"There's a thing to do that I've been reserving as a last resort. I think the time has come to try it. This curvature presses on some vital part, and the action of his heart is uncertain. He needs the tonic of the cold, – the ice and snow. Would you trust him to me, dear? I'll take him to Doctor Hoyle. You know very well everything kindness and skill can do will be done for him there."

"Yes, yes, David. You are so good to him always! Would – would you go – alone with him?" She drew closer to him, her head on his shoulder and her hand in his, but he could not see her face.

"You mean without you, dearest?"

"Yes."

"That may be as you say. Would you prefer to go with us?"

She drew a long breath, slowly, like an indrawn sigh, and something trembled to pass her heart, but suddenly the old habit of reserve sealed her lips and she remained silent.

"What do you say?" he urged.

"Tell me first – do you want me to go?"

He was silent, and they sat waiting for each other. Then he said, "I do want you to go – and yet I don't want you to go – yet. Sometime, of course, we must go where I may find wider scope for my activities." He felt her quiver of anxiety. "Not until you are quite ready yourself, dear, always remember that." Still she was silent, and he continued: "I can't say that I'm quite ready myself. I would prefer one more year here, but Hoyle must be removed without delay. We may have waited too long as it is. Will your mother consent? She must, if she cares to see him live."

"Oh, David! Go, go. Take him and go to-morrow. Leave me here and go – but – come back to me, David, soon – very soon. I – I shall need you, I – Can you leave Hoyle there and come back, David? Or must you bide there, too?" Suddenly she bowed her face in her hands. "Oh, I'm so wicked and selfish to think of leaving him there without you or me or mother – one. David, what can we do? He might die there, and you – you must come back for the winter; what would save him, might kill you. Oh, David! Take me with you, and leave me there with him, and you come back. Doctor Hoyle will take care of him – of us – once we are there."

"Now, now, now! hold your dear heart in peace. Why, I'm well. To stay another winter would only be to establish myself in a more rugged condition of body – not that I must do so. We'll talk with your mother to-morrow. It may be hard to persuade her."

But he found the mother most reasonable and practical. He even tried to abate her perfect trust in him and his ability to bring the child back to her quite well and strong.

"This isn't a trouble that is ever really cured, you know. When taken young enough, it may be helped, and I've known people who have lived long and useful lives in spite of it. That's all we may hope for."

"Waal, I 'low ye can't git him no younger'n he be now, an' he's that peart, I reckon he's worth hit – leastways to we-uns."

"Of course he's worth it."

"You are right good to keer fer him like you have. I'd do a heap fer you ef I could. All I have is jest this here farm, an' hit's fer you an' Cass. On'y ef ye'd 'low me an' leetle Hoyle to bide on here whilst we live – "

David was touched. "Do you realize I've found here the two greatest things in the world, love and health? All I want is for you to know and remember that if I can't succeed in doing all I would like for the boy, at least I tried my very best. I may not succeed, you know, but this is the only thing to do now – the only thing."

David parted from his young wife, leaving her standing in the door of their cabin, clad in her white homespun frock, smiling, yet tearful and pale. He was to walk down to the Fall Place, where Jerry Carew waited with the wagon in which he had arrived, and where his baggage had been brought the day before. When he came to the steepest part of the descent, he looked back and saw Cassandra still standing as if in a trance, gazing after him. He felt his heart lean towards her, and, turning sharply, walked swiftly to her and took her once more in his arms and looked down into those deep springs – her sweet gray eyes. Thus for a long moment he held her to his heart with never a word. Then she entered the little home, and he walked away, looking back no more.

CHAPTER XXIII

IN WHICH DOCTOR HOYLE SPEAKS HIS MIND

Doctor Hoyle sat in his office staring straight before him, not as if he were looking at David Thryng, who sat in range of his vision, but as if seeing beyond him into some other time and place. David had been speaking, but now they both were silent, and the young man wondered if his old friend had really been paying attention to his words or not.

"Well, Doctor," he said at last.

"Well, David."

"You don't seem satisfied. Is it with my condition?"

"Your condition? No, no, no! It's not your condition. Yes, yes – fine, fine. I never saw such a marvellous change in my life, never!"

David smiled over the old doctor's stammer of enthusiasm. It was as if his thoughts, fertile and vehement, and the feelings of his great, warm heart welled up within him, and, trying to burst forth all at once, tumbled over themselves, unable to secure words rapidly enough in which to give themselves utterance.

"Then why so silent and dubious?"

"Why – why – y – young man, I wasn't thinking anything about you just then." And again David laughed, while his wiry old friend jumped up and walked rapidly and restlessly about the small apartment and laughed in sympathy. "It's not – not – "

"I know." David grew instantly sober again. "Of course the little chap's case is serious – very – or I would not have brought him to you."

"Oh, no, no, I'm not thinking of Adam, bless you, no." The doctor always called his little namesake Adam. "I'm thinking of her – the little girl you left behind you. Yes – yes. Of her."

"She's not so little now, Doctor; she's tall – tall enough to be beautiful."

"I remember her, – slight – slight little creature, all eyes and hair, all soul and mind. Now what are you going to do with her, eh?"

"What is she going to do with me, rather! I'll go back to her as soon as I dare leave the boy."

"But, man alive! what – what are – you can't live down there all your days. It's to be life and work for you, sir, and what are you going to do with her, I say?"

"I'll bring her here with me. She'll come."

"Of course you'll bring her here with you, and you – you'll have plenty of friends. Maybe they'll appreciate her, and maybe they won't; maybe they won't, I say; Understand? And she'll c – come. Oh, yes, she'll come! she'll do whatever you say, and presently she'll break her heart and die for you. She'll never say a word, but that's what she'll do."

"Why, Doctor!" cried David, appalled. "I love her as my own life – my very soul."

"Of – of course. That goes without saying. We all do, we men, but we – damn it all! Do you suppose I've lived all these years and not seen? Why – we think of ourselves first every time. D – don't we, though? Rather!"

"But selfish as we are, we can love – a man can, if he sets himself to it honestly, – love a woman and make her happy, even without the appreciation of others, in spite of environment, – everything. It's the destiny of women to love us, thank God. She would have been doomed surely to die if she had married the one who wanted her first – or to live a life for her worse than death."

"Oh, Lord bless you, boy, yes. It's a woman's destiny. I'm an old fool. There – there's my own little girl, she's m – married and gone – gone to live in England. They will do it – the women will. Come, we'll go see Adam."

The doctor sprang up, brushed his hand across his eyes, and caught up a battered silk hat. He turned it about and looked at it ruefully, with a quizzical smile playing about the corners of his eyes. "Remember that hat?" he asked.

"Well do I remember it. You've driven many a mile in many a rainstorm by my side under that hat! When you're done with it, leave it to me in your will. I have a fancy for it. Will you?"

"Here, take it – take it. I'm done with it. Mary scolds me every day about it. No p – peace in life because of it. Here's a new one I bought the other day – good one – good enough."

He lifted a box which had fallen from his cluttered office table, and took from it a new hat which had evidently not been unpacked before. He tried it on his head, turned it about and about, took it off and gazed at it within and without, then hastily tossed it aside and, snatching his old one from David put it on his head, and they started off.

Hoyle had been placed in a small ward where were only two other little beds, both occupied, with one nurse to attend on the three patients. One of them had broken his leg and had to lie in a cast, and the other was convalescing from fever, but both were well enough to be companionable with the lonely little Southerner. Hoyle's face beamed upon David as he bent over him.

"I kin make pi'chers whilst I'm a-lyin' here," he cried ecstatically. "That thar lady, she 'lows me to make 'em. She 'lows mine're good uns." David glanced at the young woman indicated. She was pleasant-faced and rosy, and looked practical and good.

"He's such an odd little chap," she said.

"What be that – odd? Does hit mean this 'er lump on my back?" He pulled David down and whispered the question in his ear.

"No, no. She only means that you're a dear, queer little chap."

"What be I quare fer?"

"What are all these drawings? Tell us what they mean."

"This'n, hit's the ocean, an' that thar, hit's a steamship sailin' on th' ocean, like you done tol' me about. An' this'n, hit's our house an' here's whar ol' Pete bides at; an' this'n's ol' Pete kickin' out like he hated somethin' like he does when we give Frale's colt his corn first." The other small boys from their beds laughed out merrily and strained their necks to see. "These're theirn. I made this'n fer him an' this'n fer him."

He tossed the pictures feebly toward them, and they fluttered to the floor. David gathered them up and gave them to their respective owners. The old doctor stood beside the cot and looked down on the little artist. His lips twitched and his eyes twinkled.

"Which one is y – yours?" he asked.

"I keep this'n with the sea – an' – here, I made this'n fer you." He paused, and selected carefully among the pile of papers under his hand. "You reckon you kin tell what 'tis?"

The doctor took the paper and regarded it gravely a moment, then lifted his eyebrows and made grimaces of wonderment until the three patients in the three little beds were in gales of laughter. At last he said: —

"It's a pile of s – sausages."

"Hit hain't no sausages. Hit's jest a straight, cl'ar pi'cher of a house, an' hit's your house, too, whar brothah David lives at. See? Thar's the winder, an' the other winder hit's on t'othah side whar you can't see hit."

The doctor turned the paper over and regarded it a moment. "Show me the window. I – I see no window on the other side."

Again the three little invalids laughed uproariously at their visitor. David smilingly looked on. How often had he seen the delightful old man amuse himself thus with the children! He would contort his mobile face into all the varying expressions of wonder and dismay, of terror or stupefaction, and his entrance to the children's ward was always greeted with outcries of delight, when the little ones were well enough to allow of such freedom.

"Haven't you one to send to your sister?" asked David, stooping low to the child and speaking quietly. The boy's face lighted with a radiant smile that caused the old man to stand regarding him more intently.

"We'll sen' her this'n of the sea. You reckon hit looks like the ocean whar the ships go a-sailin' to t'othah side o' the world?" He held it in his slender fingers and eyed it critically.

"How did you come to try to make a picture of the sea when you never saw it?"

"Do' know. I feel like I done seed th' ocean when I'm settin' thar on the rock an' them white, big clouds go a-sailin' far – far, like they're goin' to anothah world an' hain't quite touchin' this'n."

"I wondered why you had your ship so high above the sea."

"I don't guess hit's a very good'n," said the child, ruefully, clinging to the scrap of paper with reluctant grasp. "You reckon she'd keer fer this'n?"

"I reckon she'd care for anything you made. Give it to me, and I'll send it to her."

"She tol' me the sea, hit war blue, an' I can't make hit right blue an' soft like she said. That thar blue pencil, hit's too slick. I can't make hit stay on the papah."

"What are these mounds here on either side of the sea?"

"Them's mountains."

"But why did you put mountains in the sea?" The boy looked with wide eyes dreamily past the two men so attentively regarding him.

"I – I reckon I jes' put 'em thar fer to look like the sea hit war on the world. I don't guess the'd be no ocean nor no world 'thout the' war mountains fer to hold everything whar hit belongs at."

"I shall bring you a box of paints to-morrow if the nurse will allow you to have them. I'll provide an oilcloth to spread around so he won't throw paint over your nice clean bed," he said to the pleasant-faced young woman.

"That's all right, Doctor," she said.

"Then you can make the blue stay on, and you can make the ocean with real water, and real blue for the sky and the sea."

The child's eyes glowed. He pulled David down and held him with his arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear, and what he said was: —

"When they're a-pullin' on me to git my hade straight an' my back right, I jes' think 'bout the far – far-away sea, with the ships a-sailin' an' how hit look, an' hit don't hurt so much. I kin b'ar hit a heap bettah. When you comin' back, brothah David?"

"Does it hurt you very much, Hoyle?"

"I reckon hit have to hurt," said the child, with fatalistic resignation. "I don't guess he'd hurt me 'thout he had to." He released David slowly, then pulled him down again. "Don't tell him I 'lowed hit hurted me. I reckon he'd ruthah hurt hisself if he could do me right that-a-way. You guess I – I'm goin' to git shet o' the misery some day?"

"That's what we're trying for, my brave little brother," and the two physicians bade the small patients good-by and walked out upon the street.

CHAPTER XXIV

IN WHICH DAVID THRYNG HAS NEWS FROM ENGLAND

As they passed down the street, David shivered and buttoned his light overcoat closer about him.

"Cold?" said the older man.

"Your air is a bit keen here already. I hope it will be the needed tonic for that little chap."

"What were his s – secrets?" David told him.

"He's imaginative – yes – yes. I really would rather hurt myself. He may come on – he may. I've known – I've known – curious, but – Why – Hello – hello! Why – where – " and Doctor Hoyle suddenly darted forward and shook hands with another old gentleman, who was alertly stepping toward them, also thin and wiry, but with a face as impassive as the doctor's was mobile and expressive. "Mr. Stretton, why – why! David – Mr. Stretton, David Thryng – "

"Ah, Mr. Thryng. I am most happy to find you here."

"Doctor Thryng – over here on this side, you know."

"Ah, yes. I had really forgotten. But speaking of titles – I must give this young man his correctly. Lord Thryng – allow me to congratulate you, my lord."

"I fear you mistake me for my cousin, sir," said David, smiling. "I hope you have no ill news from my good uncle; but I am not the David who inherits. I think he is in South Africa – or was by the latest home letters."

Mr. Stretton did not reply directly, but continued smiling, as his manner was, and turned toward David's companion.

"Shall we go to my hotel? I have a great deal to talk over – business which concerns – ahem – ahem – your lordship, on behalf of your mother, having come expressly – " he turned again to David. "Ah, now don't be at all alarmed, I beg of you. I see I have disturbed you. She is quite well, or was a week or more ago. Doctor Hoyle, you'll accompany us? At my request. Undoubtedly you are interested in your young friend."

Mechanically David walked with the two older men, filled with a strange sinking of the heart, and at the same time with a vague elation. Was he called home by his mother to help her sustain a new calamity? Had the impossible happened? Mr. Stretton's manner continued to be mysteriously deferential toward him, and something in his air reminded David of England and the atmosphere of his uncle's stately home. Had he ever seen the man before? He really did not know.

They reached the hotel shortly and were conducted to Mr. Stretton's private apartment, where wine was ordered, and promptly served. For years thereafter, David never heard the clinking of glasses and bottles borne on a tray without an instant's sickening sinking of the heart, and the foreboding that seemed to drench him with dismay as the glasses were placed on the stand at Mr. Stretton's elbow. When that gentleman, after seeing the waiter disappear, and placing certain papers before him, began speaking, David sat dazedly listening.

What was it all – what was it? The glasses seemed to quiver and shake, throwing dancing flecks of light; and the wine in them – why did it make him think of blood? Were they dead then – all three – his two cousins and his brother – dead? Shot! Killed in a bloody and useless war! He was confounded, and bowing his head in his hands sat thus – his elbows on his knees – waiting, hearing, but not comprehending.

He could think only of his mother. He saw her face, aged and grief-stricken. He knew how she loved the boy she had lost, above all, and now she must turn to himself. He sat thus while the lawyer read a lengthy document, and at the end personally addressed him. Then he lifted his head.

"What is this? My uncle? My uncle gone, too? Do you mean dead? My uncle dead, and I – I his heir?"

The lawyer replied formally, "You are now the head of a most ancient and honorable house. You will have the dignity of the old name to maintain, and are called upon to return to your fatherland and occupy the home of your ancestors." He took up one of the papers and adjusted his monocle.

For a time David did not speak. At last he rose and, with head erect, extended his hand to the lawyer. "I thank you, sir, for your trouble, – but now, Doctor, shall we return to your house? I must take a little time to adjust my mind to these terrible events. It is like being overtaken with an avalanche at the moment when all is most smiling and perfect."

The lawyer began a few congratulatory remarks, but David stopped him, with uplifted hand.

"It is calamitous. It is too terrible," he said sadly. "And what it brings may be far more of a burden than a joy."

"But the name, my lord, – the ancient and honorable lineage!"

"That last was already mine, and for the title – I have never coveted it, far less all that it entails. I must think it over."

"But, my lord, it is yours! You can't help yourself, you know; a – the – the position is yours, and you will a – fill it with dignity, and – a – let me hope will follow the conservative policy of your honored uncle."

"And I say I must think it over. May I not have a day – a single day – in which to mourn the loss of my splendid brother? Would God he had lived to fill this place!" he said desperately.

The lawyer bowed deferentially, and Doctor Hoyle took David's arm and led him away as if he were his son. Not a word was spoken by either of them until they were again in the doctor's office. There lay the new silk hat, as he had tossed it one side. He took it up and turned it about in his hand.

"You see, David, an old hat is like an old friend, and it takes some time to get wonted to a new one." He gravely laid the old one within easy reach of his arm and restored the new one to its box. Then he sat himself near David and placed his hand kindly on his knee. "You – you have your work laid out for you, my young friend. It's the way in Old England. The stability of our society – our national life demands it."

"I know."

"You must go to your mother."

"Yes, I must go to her."

"Of course, of course, and without delay. Well, I'll take care of the little chap."

"I know you will, better than I could." David lifted his eyes to his old friend's, then turned them away. "I feel him to be a sacred trust." Again he paused. "It – would take a – long time to go to her first?"

"To – her?" For the instant the old man had forgotten Cassandra. Not so David.

"My wife. It will be desperately hard – for her."

"Yes, yes. But your uncle, you know, died of grief, and your m – mother – "

"I know – so the lawyer said. Now at last we'll read mother's letter. He wondered, I suppose, that I didn't look at it when he gave it to me, but I felt conscience-stricken. I've been so filled with my life down there – the peace, the blessed peace and happiness – that I have neglected her – my own mother. I couldn't open and read it with that man's eyes on me. No, no. Stay here, I beg of you, stay. You are different. I want you."

He opened his mother's letter and slowly read it, then passed it to his friend and, rising, walked to the window and stood gazing down into the square. Autumn leaves were being tossed and swirled in dancing flights, like flocks of brown and yellow birds along the street. The sky was overcast, with thin hurrying clouds, and the feeling of autumn was in the air, but David's eyes were blurred, and he saw nothing before him. The doctor's voice broke the silence with sudden impulse.

"In this she speaks as if she knew nothing about your marriage."

"I told you I had neglected her," cried David, contritely.

"But, m – man alive! why – why in the name of all the gods – "

"All England is filled with fools," cried the younger man, desperately. "I could never in the world make them understand me or my motives. I gave it up long ago. I've not told my mother, to save her from a needless sorrow that would be inflicted on her by her friends. They would all flock to her and pester her with their outcry of 'How very extraordinary!' I can hear them and see them now. I tell you, if a man steps out of the beaten track over there – if he attempts to order his own life, marry to please himself, or cut his coat after any pattern other than the ordinary conventional lines, – even the boys on the street will fling stones at him. Her patronizing friends would, at the very least, politely raise their eyebrows. She is proud and sensitive, and any fling at her sons is a blow to her."