The Mountain Girl

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.

"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 mothers and 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."

CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH DAVID AND HIS MOTHER DO NOT AGREE

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 punished me, 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, I never 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. It will 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, but you 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."