The Mountain Girl

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 pretence long 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.

CHAPTER XXXII

IN WHICH CASSANDRA BRINGS THE HEIR OF DANESHEAD CASTLE BACK TO HER HILLTOP, AND THE SHADOW LIFTS

"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 "some ol' 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 from its 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 fled and 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 the future, 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 it was 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.