 29 In which Cassandra visits David Thuring's ancestors. It was a pleasant morning in London, with as clear a sky as is ever permitted to that great city. Cassandra had placed her little son in the middle of a huge bed which nearly filled the small room she had been given in a hotel recommended to her by Betty Towers as one where nice ladies travelling alone could stop. The child was dressed in a fresh white coat, and Cassandra had much adieu to keep him clean. She heaped him about with pillows and bed clothing to make a nest for him, and gave him a spoon and a drinking cup for entertainment while she arranged her own toilet before a cloudy mirror by a slant ray of daylight that managed to sift through the heavy draperies and lace curtains that obscured the one high narrow window of her room. She had tried to put them one side that she might look out when she awoke, but she could see only chimney pots and grimy irregularly tiled roofs. A narrow opening at the top of the window led in a little air. Still she felt smothered, and tried to raise the lower sash, but could not move it. She thought of the books she had read about great cities and how some people had to live in places like this always, and her heart filled with the large pity for them. Here only a small triangle of blue sky could be seen, not a tree, not a bit of earth, and in the small room all those heavy furnishings closed around her, dark red, stuffy, and greasy with London smoke. She could not touch them without blackening her hands nor let her baby sit on the floor, for the dirt he wiped up on his clothing as he rolled and kicked about. The room seemed to sway and tip as the ship had done, and there was a continuous sound as of thunder, a strange undercurrent that seemed to her strange nerves like the moaning of the lost souls of all the ages who had lived and toiled and smothered in this monstrous and terrible city. Ah! She must get out of it. She must hurry, hurry, and find David. He would be glad to see his little son. He would take them in his arms. He would hold them both to his heart. She would see him smile again and look in his eyes, and all this foreboding would cease, and the woeful sounds die out of the air and become only the natural roar of the activities and traffic of a great city. She must get used to all this, and not expect to find all the world like her own sunny mountains. The bishop's careful little wife had tried to explain to her how to meet her new experiences. She was to go nowhere alone, without taking a cab and never start out on foot, carrying her baby in her arms as she might do at home. She had given her written instructions how to conduct herself under all ordinary circumstances at her hotel or on the street, how to ring first servant, order her meals, or call a cab. Now standing before her mirror, Cassandra essayed to arrange her hair, as she had seen other young women wear theirs, but she thought the new way looked a-tidy, and she took it all down and rearranged it as she was used to wearing it. She would not mind if she did not do her hair as others said. He would be so glad to see her in his little sun, of the comfort of his little sun. She leaned over the bed, half-dressed as she was, and murmured pretty cooing phrases, kissing and cuddling him to contented laughter. Betty-towers had procured clothing for her, a moda-supply, using her own good taste, and not disguising Cassandra's natural grace and dignity by a too close adherence to the prevailing mode. There were a blue traveling gown and jacket, and a toke of the same color with a white twing, a soft clinging black silk, made with girlish simplicity which admirably became her, and a wide, flexible, brimmed hat with the single heavy plume taken from Betty's own hat of the last winter. Cassandra stood a long moment before the two gowns. She desired to don the silk, but Betty had told her always to wear the blue in the morning, so at last she obeyed her kind advisor. While waiting with her baby in her arms for the hotel boy to call her cab, she observed another lady, young and graceful, enter a cab, and a maid following her wearing a pretty cap and carrying a child. Eager for David's sake to draw no adverse comment upon herself, she took note of everything. Did she then to arrive attended by a maid, carrying her baby? But David would know she did not need one, bringing him his little son in her own arms. What would he care for anything more? So they addressed was given the cabman, and they were rattled away over the rough, paving along a lonely ride through the wonderful city, so many miles of houses and splendid buildings of gardens and monuments. Strangely, the people of Vanity Fair leapt out of the book she had read, and walked the streets or dashed by her in cabs all bent in modern dress. The soldiers, the guardsmen, the livery lackeys, the errand boys, all were there, and the ladies in fine carriages. There were the nursemaids, the babies, the beggars, the ragged urchins, and the vendors of the street, with the raucous cries rending the air. Her brain whirled, and a new feeling to which she had hitherto been blessedly a stranger crept over her, a feeling, a fear. As the great two-story coaches and trams thundered by, she clasped her baby closer until he looked up in her face with round-eyed wonder, and put up his lip in pitiful protest. She soothed and comforted him until her panic passed, and when at last they stopped before a great house built in on either side by other houses, with wide steps of stone descending directly upon the street, she had regained a measure of composure. She was assured by the cabman, leaning respectfully down to her with this cabman's hand, that this was the house, ma'am, and shitty wait. Oh, yes, wait, cried Cassandra. What if David were not there? And of course he might be out. Then they were swallowed up in the dark interior. She was admitted to a hall that seemed to her empty and vast by a little old man in livery. For a moment bewildered she could hardly understand what he was saying to her. A lady ships at a country home, and the house closed. Although dazed and baffled, Cassandra betrayed no sign of the tumult within, and the little old man stood before her, hesitating, his curiosity peaked into a determination to discover her business and identity. Her gravity and silence gave her a poise and dignity that elayed suspicion. But he, and his old wife-like diversion, and a spice of gossip lightened the monotony of their lives. So he waited, then coughed behind his hand. Yes, ladyship, and Lady Laura are at their country home now, ma'am. Maybe you can come to see the house, ma'am. No, it was not the house. It was—again she waited, not knowing how to introduce her husband's name. A mystery, a visitor at this hour, and seemingly a lady, yet with a baby in her arms and alone, and not to see the house. Then he coughed behind his hand. Many do come to see the house, ma'am, with a permit from his lordship, ma'am. He's not here now, but strangers are always welcome to the gallery, ma'am. Yes, I'm a stranger. She caught at the word, seized by an inward terror of the small eyes fixed curiously on her. She intuitively shrank from betraying her identity, and the old servant had told her what she needed to know. Of course her husband was his lordship over here. I'm from America, and I would like to see the gallery. She must do so to give a pretext for having come to visit an empty house. David must not be compromised before the old servant, but a great lump filled her throat and tears were burning unshed beneath her eyes. For all the warm August sun shining without, a chill struck to her bones as they passed through the vast closed rooms. She held her now sleeping baby close to her breast as she followed the old man about from picture to picture. Yes, many do come here, especially artists, to see this gallery. They say as I was lordship, wouldn't take a thousand pounds for this one, ma'am. We'll let in a little more light. A van dyke, and worth its weight in gold. Cassandra watched him cross the floor. His short bow legs reflected grotesquely in a shining surface as he walked, then turned and gazed again at the life-size, half-length portrait of a young man with sunny hair like David's and warm brown eyes. There, you see, it's more than a van dyke to the family, ma'am, for it's a ancestor, and my wife says it's like—it's as like as two peas to his young lordship, who has just come into the title, ma'am. And that's strange, isn't it? For him to look so like, being as he belonged to the younger branch, who haven't held the title for four generations, but come to dress him in velvet and gold lace and the likeness would be nice perfect as if he had stood for it. Cassandra Glee is so long silently at this picture that again the little man coughed, his deprecatory cough and essay to lead her on. But she was seeing visions that did not heed him. And at last she turned, her gray eyes had deepened, and a clearly defined spot to delicate red-burned on one pale cheek. She drew a deep breath and looked down the length of the long gallery. Everything was being oppressed upon her mind as upon sensitized paper. She followed slowly in the old man's wake, never opening her lips until they had made the circuit and were again standing before the portrait of the fair-haired youth. Then Rao suddenly by direct question she responded. The old servant was saying, You haven't happened to meet a Samuel Cutter in America, have you? He's our son. England was too slow for him. Young men aren't like old ones. They want adventure, and they get it. That's how so many of them joins the army and gets killed like his lordship's two sons, and young Lord Dring's brother, as would have been his lordship if he had lived. You haven't happened to know a Samuel Cutter over there. He went to Canada. No, I never met anyone by that name. I lived a long way from Canada. About how far do you think, ma'am? Cassandra had no idea of the distance, but she knew how long David and Hoyle were journeying there, so she answered as best she could. It takes three or four days to get there from my home. The old man's eyes opened wide, and his jaw dropped. It's a big country America is. England may be a small place, but she is tremendous big possessions. He felt it all belong to England, and spoke with swelling pride as his short legs carried him toward the door. There again he paused. He had learned nothing of this young woman to tell his old wife, except that she came from America, and had never met Samuel Cutter. The mystery was still unsolved. Yes, his young lordship do look amazing like that picture. If you'd ever seen him, you'd think he'd dressed up in velvet lace and stood for it. He's lived in America five years, but if you never went Canada and never met our Sammy, it's more likely you never saw him either. Is he at their country home also? Cassandra asked. She had seated herself in the hall, for her heart the robbed chockingly, and the lump was heavy in her throat. It was as she had dreamed sometimes, when her feet seemed to cling to the earth, and would not lift her weight up some steep hill. Is lordship is still in Africa, ma'am? You've been a great traveller, but he can't stay much longer now for Lady Laura's to have a grant coming out, and is lordship is to be married? Her lordship sought to sit on it, and on is marrying I, too. That's gossip, you know. Cassandra Rosen stood suddenly poised for flight. She must get out of that house in here no more. She had a silver shilling in her hand, for Betty Towers had told her all servants expected a tip, and this was intended for the cab men. Had she followed her impulse, she would have darted by with her fingers in her ears. Then she dropped the shilling in the old man's hand, and quietly turned toward the door. Thank you. His fingers closed over the shilling. Her pallor struck him then, even as the red spot on her cheek deepened, and he held out his arms for the child. Let me carry him for you, ma'am. Is it to boy? But her arms closed tighter about her baby. He is my little son. It was almost a cry, she said it, but again she forced herself to calm this, and walking slowly out, added with a quiet smile. I always keep him myself. We do in America. In a moment she was gone. The warm sunlight burst in on them and flooded the cold hall as the old man stood in the doorway, looking after the retreating cab, and down at the silver shilling. Darker, dingier, stuffier, seemed at the box of a room as she walked into it, and laid her still sleeping babe on the bed. She felt herself moving in an unreal world. David, her David, she had not come to him after all. She had come to an empty place. She knelt and threw her arms about her little son and circling his head in his feet. She neither wept nor prayed, and the red spot burned against the creamy whiteness of her skin. She was not thinking, only looking, seeing into the past and down the long vista of her future. Pictures came to her. Pictures of her girlhood, her dim aspirations, her melancholy-eyed father, his hilltop, and beloved sunlit mountains. In the radiance of the spring she saw them, and in the glory of the autumn. She breathed the fragrance of the pines in winter, and heard the soft patter of summer rains on wide-spreading leaves. She saw David walking at her side, and heard his laugh, sun-bright and glorious he seemed, her feebus Apollo, the father of her little son. She saw the terrible sea which she had crossed to come to him. The white-crested waves, with turquoise lights and indigo depths, shifting and sliding unceasingly where all the world seemed swallowed in space, and the huge steamship so small a thing in the vast and perilous deep, and now, now she was here. What was she? What was life? She had tried to find him, her David, and had been shown the dead and the glory of the dead, all past and gone. Her David's glory, shown that long, empty gallery resounding with those aged footsteps, and the pictures, pictures, pictures of men and women who had once been babes like her little son and David's, now dead and gone, not one soul among them all to greet her. Proud lords and dames and frames of gold, young men and maidens and costly silks and velvets of marvelous dyes, red cheeks, red lips, and soullessly silent, and she, alone and undefended in their midst, holding in her arms their last descendant. All those painted fingers seemed lifted to point at her, the silent red lips parted to cry out at her, look at this stranger claiming to be one of us, send her away. And David, her David, was one of these, what they had felt, what they had thought and striven for? Was it all intensified and concentrated in him? Oh, if her soul could only reach to him wherever he was, and penetrate this impalpable veil that stretched between them, if her hands could only touch him, her eyes look into his and see what lay in their depths for her. Then her babe stirred and tossed up his pretty hands, waking her from her sad, vision-seeing trance. He opened his large, clear eyes, and suddenly it seemed that her wish was granted, that the veil was rent, and she was looking into David's eyes and seeing his soul free, no longer chained by invisible links to those dead and gone beings and their traditions. This had been all a dream, a dream. She gathered the child in her arms and held him with his sweet, warm lips, pressed to her breast, and his soft little hand thrust in her bosom. David's little son, David's little son, surely all was good and well with the world, did not the old man say it was only gossip, had not evil things been said of David even on her own mountain? It was the trail of the serpent of ill report. He had not confided his sacred secret to these people, and they had thought what they pleased. Surely he had told his mother about his wife. She would go to his mother and wait for her's return, and there she would bring her precious gift, David's little son. Quickly she packed her few belongings and rang for a messenger, and as she stood an instant waiting for an answer to her ring, the white-capped nurse she had noticed in the morning passed by with the baby in her arms. Yes, surely women of David's state did not travel about alone, had she not read in Vanity Fair how Becky Sharp always had her made, and now she was in Vanity Fair, and must be wise and not go to David's mother and attended. Then, too, if only she had someone with her to whom she could speak now and then, it would be better. Therefore, without further consideration, she walked swiftly down the corridor after the tidy nurse. Will you tell me, please, have you a sister? She said. The young woman stood still in astonishment, or any friend like yourself. I'm a stranger from America. The look of surprise changed to one of curiosity, and it is right hard to go about alone with my baby, so I thought I would ask you if you have a sister. Is it to the country you wish to go, ma'am? The baby in her arms stirred, and the nurse swayed gently back and forth to hush it. Yes, I couldn't go with you myself, ma'am, but— Oh, no, I didn't mean you. I only thought if you had a sister or a friend, maybe, who could help me for a little while. I saw you this morning, ma'am, as you went out. I'll see what I can do. What number is your room, and what name? I mustn't talk here. Mrs. Darling is very particular. Oh, never, ma'am, then. Cassandra turned away in sudden shame, as she had not done the right thing. The nurse watched her return to her room as swiftly as she had left it, and took note of the number. How very old, said the young woman to herself. Cassandra felt more abashed under the round-eyed gaze of the maid than if she had encountered the queen. Her ring for a messenger had not been answered, and she did not know how to find her husband's country seat. She felt faint and weary, but did not think of hunger, nor that it was long past the dinner hour, and that she had eaten nothing since her early breakfast. She only thought that she must be brave and try, try to think how to reach David's people. Resolutely she closed her door and dressed her baby carefully. Then she arrayed herself in the soft silk gown and the wide hat with heavy plume. And then, could David have seen her with her courageous eyes and lifted head, and the faint color from excitement in her cheeks, he would no longer have feared take her by the hand and lead her to his mother and say, She is my wife and the loveliest lady in the land. People looked at her as she passed and turned to look again. Down wide carpeted stairs she went, until she came to a broad landing with recessed windows, where their round polished tables and people seated, sipping tea and eating thin bread and butter and muffins. Then Cassandra knew that she was hungry and sat herself in one of the windows apart before a table. Presently a young man came and bent down to her as if listening. She looked up at him and will bewilderment, but at the same instant seeing another young man similarly dressed bearing a tray of muffins and tea to a lady and gentleman nearby, she said, I would like tea, please. What kind, mom? She did not care what kind nor know what to ask, only to have something soon, so she said, I will take what they have. Yes, mom, muffins, mom. Yes. She replied warily and turned to gaze out the window. Cabs and carriages were rushing up and down the street below them. She placed her little son on the seat beside her and held him with a sheltering arm while he watched the moving vehicles and looked from them to his mother's face. What a perfectly lovely child! said a pleasant voice. Is it a boy? How old is he? Cassandra looked up to see a rosy cheeked girl, a little too stout and floored with a great mop of dark hair tied with a wide black ribbon. A gray-haired lady followed and paused beside her. Yes, said Cassandra faintly. He's almost six months old. The girl reached over and patted his cheek. How perfectly dear, seein' mama, isn't he, though? Babies are always dear, said the mother, with a smile. Come, Laura, we can't wait, you know. And they passed on. As Cassandra looked up in the mother's face, something stirred vaguely in her heart. Had she seen her before? Possibly so many had paused to speak to her in this casual way since she left home. Then her tea and crisp hot muffins were brought. The young girl's pleasant words had warmed her heart, and the refreshment gave her more courage. She made her way to the office and inquired how she might find Lord Dwing's country home. The clerk wrote the address promptly on a card, but the keen look of interest with which she handed it to her caused her to shrink inwardly. Why, what was it to him what place she asked for? She lifted her head proudly. She must not falter. I wish to go there. Will you tell me how, please? But the surprise of the clerk was quite natural, as she had signed the hotel register the evening before with her whole name, giving no thought to it. And now he wondered what relations she might be to the family so lately come into the title, since she bore the name, yet seem to know so little about them. He explained to her courteously, almost differentially, will you go to Dine's head castle itself, ma'am, or stop in Queen's Dairy? As she had no idea what the question involved, she replied at hazard, I will stop in Queen's Dairy. And her bags were brought down, and she was dispatched to the right station without more delay. Chapter 30 Of the Mountain Girl This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Natalie Myers The Mountain Girl by Payne Erskine Chapter 30 In which Cassandra goes to Queen's Dairy and takes a drive in a pony carriage. Glad to be born away from the city and out through fresh green fields and past pretty church-spired villages alone in the compartment, Cassandra comforted herself with her baby, playing with him until he dropped to sleep when she made a bed for him on the car seat with rugs and taking out her purse began to count her remaining resources. Her bill at the hotel had appalled her so much to pay to stay only a night. What would David say? But he had told her to use the money as she liked, and now she was here. There was nothing else to do. Laboriously she computed the amount in English money and reckoned thus her dollars and cents seemed to shrink and vanish. Still more than half remained of what she had brought with her, and she viewed the matter calmly. The shadows fell long over the smooth greensward as she arrived in the village of Queen's Dairy and was driven to a small inn, the only house of entertainment in the place. She was given a pleasant room overlooking fields and orchards and bright gardens, and the sight rested her eyes and still further calmed her troubled heart. She would rest tonight, and tomorrow all would be well. Never had food tasted better to her than the supper served in her pretty room, toast in a silver rack and fresh butter, such as David loved, and curds in whey and gingerbread and a small jar of marmalade. She ate seated in the window, looking out over the sweet English landscape in the warm twilight, the breeze stirring the white curtains, her little sun in her lap gurgling and smiling up at her and her heart with David wherever he might be. Slowly the dusk failed all, and one star glimmered above the slender church spire. A pretty maid brought candles and a book in which she was asked to write her name. She was the landlady's daughter and looked wholesome and bright. Cassandra glanced in her face as she set the candles down and took up the pen mechanically. Mother says, will you sign here, please? Yes. Cassandra turned the leaves slowly and read other names and addresses, many of them. She wrote, Cassandra, Merlin, and paused, then making a long dash added simply, America, and handing back the book and pen turned again to the window. Thank you, is that tall? said the maid lingering. Yes, said Cassandra again. Then she laid her baby on the bed and began taking his night clothing from her bag. How pretty he is! Shanta help you unpack, ma'am. Cassandra paused, looking dreamily before her as a scarcely comprehending. Then she said, Not tonight, thank you, perhaps tomorrow. The maid deftly piled the supper dishes and taking them in the book with her departed with a pleasant good night, ma'am. In spite of her calmness, Cassandra lay wakeful and patient, and when at last she did sleep, it seemed to her she stood with her husband on her father's path, looking out under overarching bows, upon blue distances of heaped up mountaintops, and David's flute notes, silvery sweet, were raining down upon her. She woke to discover day was breaking, and a peeling of bells from some distant church tower was announcing the fact. She gathered her babe to her throbbing heart and thought, today she was to go out and meet her husband's people. How should she go? How should she conduct herself? Should she go at once, or wait until the afternoon? Why had she not written her name fully in the traveller's book? What mysterious foreboding had caught her fingers and stayed them at her maiden name? Was she afraid? When she arose, she found herself trembling from head to foot, and called for her breakfast before bathing and dressing her little son. The same pretty maid brought it, and came again, while Cassandra bathed and nursed her baby to set the room to rights. Shantay, unpack your box, for you now, mam. And without waiting for a reply, she took out Cassandra's clothing, pausing now and then to admire and pet the lovely boy. Her simple friendliness pleased Cassandra, who was minded to ask some of the questions which were burdening her. When do people make visits here in the morning or afternoon? That depends, mam. How do you mean? I'm a stranger in England, you know. Yes, mam. If they make polite visits, they go about tea time, mam. But if it's parish visits, or on business, or on people they know very well, they may go in the morning, mam. And when is tea time here? Why, mam, everybody has their tea in the afternoon along four or thereabouts and sees their friends. Can I get a carriage here, do you know? I can get a pony carriage, mam. We hide it when we need it. Only we must speak for it early, or it may be taken. Oh! Then will you please speak for it soon? I would like to have it. Yes, mam. Will you drive yourself, mam? Or shall I ask for a boy? Oh! I don't know. I can drive, but they are gentle ponies, mam. Any one can drive them. Yes, but I don't know the way. Yes, mam. Where would you like to go, mam? To Dane's Head Castle. The bright-cheeked mead opened her round eyes wider and looked at Cassandra with new interest. But, mam, that is quite far. Though the ponies are smart, too. How far is it? It's quite a bit away from here, mam. You'd have to start at two or thereabouts. I could take you myself if mother would let me and tell you all the interesting places, but the girl looked at her shrewdly, a quickly withdrawn glance. That depends on how well acquainted you are there, mam. Maybe you'd like better to have a man-drive and just let me go along to mind the baby for you? Yes, I would, said Cassandra gladly. Thank you! I'll run for the ponies now, mam. Cassandra heard her boots clatter rapidly down the wooden stairs at the back of the house and presently saw her dashing across the inn yard bare-headed and with her bare arms rolled in her apron. The girl's manner of receiving the statement that she wished to drive to the castle was not lost on Cassandra's sensitive spirit. She sat a moment thoughtful and sad, then rose and set herself to prepare carefully for the visit. In the afternoon, then she might wear the silk gown and lovely hat. Once more she tried to arrange her hair as she saw other young women wear theirs and again swept its heavy masses back loosely from her brow and coiled it low as her custom was. The landlady's daughter chattered happily as they drove. She held the baby on her knee and he played with the blue bead she wore about her neck while Cassandra sat with hands dropped passively in her lap, her body leaning a little forward straight and poised as if to move more rapidly along, her red lips parted as if listening and waiting and her eyes courteously turning toward the places and objects pointed out to her, yet neither seeing nor hearing except vaguely. Presently becoming aware that the chatter was about the family at Dane's Head Castle, her interest suddenly awoke about the old lord how vast his possessions, how ancient the family, how neglected the castle had been ever since Lady Thring's death, everything allowed to run down, even though they were so vastly rich, how different everything was now the personmonious old lord was dead and the new lord had come in and there were once more ladies in the family. What a time since there had been a Lady Thring at Dane's Head, how much Lady Laura was like her cousin Leon, how reckless she would be if her mother did not hold her with a firm hand and so the chatter ran on. The girl enjoyed the distinction of knowing all about the great family and enlightening this stranger from America whose silent attention and occasional mono-syllablic replies were sufficient to inspire her friendly efforts to entertain. Moreover, her curiosity concerning Cassandra and her errand, where she was evidently neither expected nor known, was peaked and lively, and she threw out many tentative remarks to probe, if possible, the stranger ladies' thoughts. Have you ever seen Lord Thring, the new lord, I mean, Mum? Yes, said Cassandra, simply a chill striking to her heart to hear him mentioned thus. He's been out here directing the repairs himself and getting the place ready for his mother and Lady Laura, but I never saw him. They say he's perfectly stunning. Quite the lord! Is he so very handsome, do you think? Yes, Cassandra looked away from the girl's searching eyes. They say he never has married, and that too is fortunate too, for he has lived so long in America and never expecting to come into the title, he might have married somebody his own set over here never could have received, and that would have been bad, wouldn't it? Cassandra turned and looked gravely at the girl. She wished to stop her, but could not think how to do it. She could not bear to hear her husband talked over in this way. They are tremendous swells. Lady Thring looks high for him, and while she may, for mother says he's worthy of a princess. He's that rich and hybrid too, for all that he was only a doctor over in America. Mother says it's very fortunate he never married some common sort over there. They say Lady Thring wants him to marry Lady Geraldine Temple's daughter. She is a great beauty and has a pretty fortune in her own right, too. They'll be rich enough to entertain the king, and they may do it too some day. Cassandra sat still and called. She could not stop the girl now. Lady Laura's coming out is to be next week, so his lordship must be home soon. They say it will be a very grand affair, and I am to see it all. For mother says she will have a maid, and I may go out there to serve, and I shall see all the decorations and the fine dresses. That will be fine, won't it, baby? She untied the blue beads and dingled them before the baby's eyes, and he cotted them and gurgled in baby glee. Cassandra sat silent, rigid and cold, unheeding the child or the girl, only vaguely hearing the chatter. And that will be grand, won't it, baby? But he is a love this boy. There is Dane's headcastle now, ma'am. You see it through the trees, but the grounds are so large we have to drive a good bit before we are there. The driver turned to Pony's heads, and they scampered through a high stone gateway and along a smooth road which wound through a dense wood with green open spaces interspersed where deer were browsing. All was very beautiful and quiet and sweet, but Cassandra, sitting with wide open eyes, gravely beautiful, did not see it. To the girl everything was delightful. She had not the slightest doubt that the American lady was very rich, that she traveled so simply and alone was nothing. They all did queer things, the Americans. She was obtusely unconscious that she had been speaking slidingly of them to one of themselves, and she talked on after the romantic manner of girls the world over, giving the gossip of the in-parlers as she listened to it evening after evening, where the affairs of the nobility were freely discussed and enlarged and commented upon with eager interest. What was spoken in her ladies' ships chamber and Lady Laura's boudoir, their half-formed plans and aspirations, carelessly dropped words and unfinished sentences, quickly traveled to the housekeeper's parlor, to the servant's table, to the haunts of grooms and stable-boys, to the farmer's daughters, and to the public rooms of the Queen's Zerry Inn. Thus it was Cassandra heard tales of the brother and sister and mother of her David, and of him also. How it was said that once he was engaged to a rich tradesman's daughter, but had broken it off and gone to America against the wishes of all his family, and had become a common practitioner there to the disgust of all his relatives, and again Cassandra felt that she had left a sweet and lovely world behind her to step into vanity fare. She tried to hold fast her faith in goodness and high purpose. She was sure, sure David had been moved by noble motives. Why should she not trust him now? Did this girl know him better than she, his wife? Yet in spite of her valiant spirit, two facts fell like leaden weights upon her heart. David had not told his people that he had a wife, and they would be offended that he had tied himself to a common sort over there. This David, whom she loved, was so high above her in the eyes of all his relatives, and perhaps even in his own. What, what could she do? Might she still hold him in her heart? She could not walk in upon them now and betray him. Never, never! Her lips grew pale, and her head swam, but she sat still, leaning a little forward in the moving fainting. Her hands tightly clasped in her lap, and her babe unheeded at her side, until the red return to her lips, and again burned in a clearly defined spot against the pallor of her cheek. She did not know that a strange, unearthly beauty was hers. A carriage met them, filled with gay people. She did not notice them, but they gazed at her, and turned to look again as they passed. I say you know! said one of the men as they whirled by. There! that was Lady Geraldine Temple in that carriage, and the young man who stared so hard as her son. They've been paying a visit, or maybe they've brought Lady Clara to stay a bit. They say both families are keen for the match. And why shouldn't they be? Oh, they'll entertain the king here some day, and then they'll be high times at Dane's head. An automobile flashed by them, and then another. There must be a party here today, or likely its visitors dropping in now it's getting towards tea time. It's all right, Mum," she added, as Cassandra stirred, and easily. It must be only visitors, or I would have heard of it. They're keeping open house now, though they don't go anywhere themselves yet. You see, it's a year since the deaths, so they could mourn them all at once, and not spin it along. They had to wait a year before Lady Laura's coming out, rightly. Let the ponies walk now, driver. I beg pardon, Mum." The girl had so taken possession of Cassandra, the baby, and the whole expedition, that she gave the order unthinkingly. Yes, let them walk, said Cassandra, and drew a long breath. She heard gay laughter, and caught sight through the trees of light dresses, and wide-plumed hats. Someone sat on the terrace at a table wherein was shining silver. There, I said so. That's Lady Clara pouring tea. I say, but she's a beauty, isn't she? No, no, go to the front, driver. American ladies don't call at the side. There's an automobile there, Mum." Then wait a moment, don't be a stupid. Thus aided by the innkeeper's clever daughter, Cassandra at last made her entrance properly, and was guided to the presence of David's mother, who had not joined her guests, having but just closed an interview with Mr. Stratton. As she saw Cassandra standing in the drawing room waiting her, Lady Thring came graciously forward. The lovely August weather had tempted everyone out of doors, and the great room was left empty, save for these two, David's mother, and his wife. The beauty of other worldliness which had infused Cassandra's whole being as she fought her silent battle during the long drive still enveloped her. If she could have followed her impulses, she would have held out both hands and cried, Take me and love me, I'm 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, and its innocent prattle, other 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 Thring'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 Dr. Thring. 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 practice medicine, but unless men who are wise and are nobly born in bread 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 Thring 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 Dr. Thring 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 come 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'm afraid so. It won't last. Wait, then. You must take a little wine. You need it. Rouse's sympathy, Lady Thring 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 gaily chatting and laughing. I can't go out there. I am a stranger. It was a low melancholy wail, as she said it, and long afterward Lady Thring remembered that moaning cry. I am a stranger. No, no. You are an American and 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's 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 guiles, and he was crying so and such a darling. I just took him away the love, cried Laura. Why, we saw you yesterday, 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, everyone 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, and never did before with strangers. She tried to bid Lady Thring goodbye, 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 Thring goodbye, and moved away. Laura walked by her side to the carriage. I hope you'll come again sometime and let me know you. You're right kind to say that. I shall never forget. Then, leaning down from the carriage seat, and looking steadily in Laura's warm, dark eye, she added, No, I shall never forget. May I kiss you? You sweet thing! said the girl, impulsively, and reaching up, they kissed. Cassandra sat 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 side 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 side 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 Thring'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 mamas 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. End of Chapter 30. Red and Recorded by Natalie Myers Chapter 31 of The Mountain Girl This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Natalie Myers. The Mountain Girl by Payne Erskine Chapter 31 In Which David and His Mother Do Not Agree The day after Cassandra's flight from Queenstery, 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. Stratton 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 Dane said 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 Thring again broached to her son the subject of his marriage. We have had to 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 which she had 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 the 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'm 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 there a mark called for none. Well, David? Well, mother? And then? I think I will go to bed. I'm rarely tired, and bed is a 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 Gailey, and obtusely. Aren't you a bit stupid, David, not to see? I wish. I do wish you could care for Lady Clara Temple. 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-last mother. Don't let her waste 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 letter. 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 Thring placed her hands on his shoulders, and held him looking in his eyes. Merry Lady Clara. You are worthy of a princess, my son. You could 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 had already had a penniless American wife would naturally be a blow to them, although 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've 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'm going back. I know you will be surprised when I tell you how wrong I've been. I would not write to 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 the 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 him 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 Queen's Dairy 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, polled it to hot, polled it to hot, 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 frail 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 know 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, but 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, and 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 tonight. 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 clearest 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, 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 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 tomorrow. 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. Someday the cords that bind us to each other, the cords our vows have made, will part and set you free. Goodbye, goodbye, David, my heart, David, my love, David, David, goodbye, Cassandra Merlin. For a long instant David sat with the letter crushing his hand, then suddenly awoke to energetic action. Today, when to the boat leave, good God, there may be time. He rang for a servant, and began tossing his clothes together. Curses on me for a cat, a ball, a lout. Why did I leave my mail until this morning, and then oversleep? Glock! He said, as the man appeared, tell Hicks to bring the machine around immediately, then come for my bag. Big pardon, but the machine's out of order, my lord, and the ladyship's just going out in the carriage. Why is it out of order? Hicks is a fool! Ask Lady Drink 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 rolled away. Your bags are not seen, 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've thought myself a man of high ideals, my God, I'm a cad. David, you've 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 cad's of us all. I am your mother, David, said Lady Thring, 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 son with his own hand, and 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 have been very hard press of late, but I have 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 stranger, 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 instance 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 have 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 fast 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 horses has picked up a stone. If you lord him, I'll dig it out, now for a minute, my lord. David sprang out and took the reins. Where's the footman? he asked testily. You left him behind, my lord. He was up in Lady Laura, caught 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 in 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, did 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. In 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 everywhere received. Her father is a rich brewer. Her brother has turned out his millions from business of pork packing. This dent from his establishment pollutes miles of country but does not reach England. Why? Because of the disinfected process of transmuting their greasy American dollars into golden English sovereigns. There's justice. Be reasonable, David. Their estates were enforced 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 undergrads. It goes to show the value of birth, what is more, and how those Americans, who made a pretence long ago of scorning birth in 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 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 stentures of brewing and butchering, to step into the moral stench which depleted the stone-break estates. You are not like my son, David. You are violent. Your son must be 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 and 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 head rose 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 of a public life, unless you mean to shirk responsibility. Has your country no claim on you? I have no thoughts of shirking my duty, and am prepared to think and act. Also, you wish it to be effective? Has it ever occurred to you how your avenues we 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? Damn, 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-dring 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 sophisticated undiluted, a woman of the present day who stands where you do, can out-greek the ancients. How is it we see so undifferently? 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 am sorry, mother, never mind. We are 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 has ended, and in no form shall it be continued, social or otherwise. I hold to the right of my manhood. I will bring to England whom I please as my wife, and my world shall recognise her, and you will receive her, because I bring her, and because she will stand head and soul above anyone 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 leapt 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. Leverpool 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 32 In which Cassandra brings the air of Dane's head castle back to her hilltop, and the shadow lifts. Cassandra, Merlin, where did you drape from? cried the widow far well, 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. Where'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 is 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, frail's colt, and her own filly, and how some all-hound-dog had got into the sheep hen and killed the mother's sheep, and Marthay 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, before 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 breezed and supplanted with fleeting roses returned, and she moved about looking as if only her wrath 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 they're in to find joy. Joy, the need of the world, won in a cornet, won 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 springhouse skimming cream, while cotton was doddling in the corn patch, whistling and pulling the ripened ears from the stalks. A cool breeze had dispelled the heat at the September afternoon, and the hills were already beginning to dawn their gorgeous apparel after the summer's drought. 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 his clasp 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 pain shot through his heart. Still he stood, holding her and marveling 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 turned 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 comforting her baby, soothing her and drying her eyes with his own handkerchief. Yours isn't lodged enough for such a flood, is it, sweet? No. I can't find mine. She sobbed. I left it tucked under my 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 father had awoken him, and laughed with joy as he held the warm little body to his heart, where 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 stands 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 subtle 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 has 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. Boyantly, jubilantly, he tramped the hills and visited the homes where he had been want to bring help and often comforts, and found himself therein lauded and idolized as few of his station ever are. Again he was Dr. Thring, 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 out 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 Hedy Giles, the landlady's daughter, are wiser than I. I came to see at every instant the difference between you and me, between our two worlds. David, how did you ever dare marry me? He only left happily and kissed her. Tell it all, he said tenderly. I felt at first when I went to the townhouse. It was hard to find the address. I only had, Mr. Shrenton's. David set his teeth grimly in anger at himself at giving her only his lawyer's address, and 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 the 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'd come for, when I found you were not there. So, when he said artists often come to see the gallery, I said I'd 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 did 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 Thring, and it made me cold to hear it. So cold that after I'd 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 dare 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 little 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 Frail tried to kill you with? Oh, David, David, and yet your mother's right, dear, that little wrecked bit of silver helps to interpret you, indicates your ancestors, how you came 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't tell 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 Queen's Dairy. 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 Danes of 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 it 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 in that night. The world seemed all like vanity 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 disgrace to be a Lord, as if everyone who had a title or education must be mean and low, and all 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 himself. He took her hands in his, and drew her to him in penitent tenderness. I am no great lord with wide distances between me and your mountain world here, Cassandra. Never think it! I am 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 Phraels say or do to you, so trouble you, and send you off? She stirred in his arms, and waited. Then murmured, he pasted me. Explain, did he come often? Oh, no! 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 hit 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 mountainside 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 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 how living should dare think wrong of you. Seems like I would have done it if I had to crawl on my knees and swim the ocean. My fingers tingled 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, the die 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, 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 his 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 harbouring 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. 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's the difference, you know. Think of your mother and then of mine. David, I must not. Oh, David, you must be unhappened, 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're 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 visions, too, now, as you have taught me. I will lead you through those holes 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 jeweled 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. Or will be yours, whatever you see and touch in those stately homes, for you will be the Lady Thring, and, being the Lady Thring, 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 in 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 long 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. End of Chapter 32 Add the Conclusion of The Mountain Girl by Payne Erskine Recorded by Natalie Myers