 CHAPTER XXIV As they passed down the street, David shivered and buttoned his light overcoat closer about him. "'Cold?' said the older man. "'Your air is a bit keen here already. I hope it will be the knitted tonic for that little chap.' "'What were his secrets?' David told him. "'He's an imaginative. Yes, yes, I really would rather hurt myself. He may come on. He may. I've known. I've known. Curious. But—' "'Why? Hello! Hello! Why? Where?' And Dr. Hoyle suddenly darted forward and shook hands with another old gentleman, who was alertly stepping toward them, also thin and wiry, but with a face as impassive as the doctor's was mobile and expressive. "'Mr. Stratton? Why? Why? David! Mr. Stratton! David Thring!' "'Ah, Mr. Thring! I am most happy to find you here.' "'Dr. Thring! Over here on this side, you know.' "'Ah, yes, I had really forgotten. But speaking of titles, I must give this young man his correctly. Lord Thring, allow me to congratulate you, my lord.' "'I fear you mistake me for my cousin, sir,' said David, smiling. I hope you have no ill news from my good uncle. But I am not the David who inherits. I think he is in South Africa, or was, by his latest letter's home.' Mr. Stratton did not reply directly, but continued smiling, as his manner was, and turned toward David's companion. "'Shall we go to my hotel? I have a great deal to talk over, business which concerns, ahem, ahem, your lordship, on behalf of your mother, having come expressly,' he turned again to David. "'Ah, now, don't be at all alarmed, I beg of you. I see I have disturbed you. She is quite well, or was, a week or more ago.' "'Dr. Hoyle, you'll accompany us.' At my request. Undoubtedly you are interested in your young friend.' Mechanically, David walked with the two older men, filled with a strange sinking of the heart, and at the same time with a vague elation. Was he called home by his mother, to help her sustain a new calamity? Had the impossible happened? Mr. Stratton's manner continued to be mysteriously differential toward him, and something in his air, remental David of England, and the atmosphere of his uncle's stately home. Had he ever seen the man before? He really did not know. They reached the hotel shortly, and were conducted to Mr. Stratton's private apartment, where wine was ordered, and promptly served. For years thereafter David never heard the clinking of glasses and bottles borne on a tray, without an instant sickening sinking of the heart, and the foreboding that seemed to drench him with dismay, as the glasses were placed on the stands at Mr. Stratton's elbow. When that gentleman, after seeing the waiter disappear, and placing certain papers before him, began speaking, David sat daisily listening. What was it all? What was it? The glasses seemed to quiver and shake, throwing dancing flecks of light, and the wine in them. Why did it make him think of blood? Were they dead then? All three? His two cousins and his brother? Dead? Shot? Killed in a bloody and useless war? He was confounded, and bowing his head in his hands sat thus, his elbows on his knees, waiting, hearing, but not comprehending. He could think only of his mother. He saw her face, aged and grief-stricken. He knew how she loved the boy she had lost, above all, and now she must turn to himself. He sat thus while the lawyer read a lengthy document, and at the end personally addressed him. Then he lifted his head. What is this? My uncle? My uncle gone too? Do you mean dead? My uncle dead and I? I his heir? The lawyer replied formally, You are now the head of a most ancient and honourable house. You will have the dignity of the old name to maintain, and are called upon to return to your fatherland, and occupy the home of your ancestors. He took up one of the papers, and adjusted his monocle. For a time David did not speak. At last he rose, and with head erect, extended his hand to the lawyer. I thank you, sir, for your trouble. But now, doctor, shall we return to your house? I must take a little time to adjust my mind to these terrible events. It is like being overtaken with an avalanche at the moment when all is most smiling and perfect. The lawyer began a few congratulatory remarks, but David stopped him with uplifted hand. It is calamitous. It is too terrible, he said sadly, and what it brings may be far more of a burden than a joy. But the name, my lord, the ancient and honourable lineage. That last was already mine, and for the title I have never coveted it, far less all that it entails. I must think it over. But my lord, it is yours. You can't help yourself, you know. The position is yours, and you will fill it with dignity, and the, let me hope, will follow the conservative policy of your honored uncle. And I say I must think it over. May I not have a day, a single day, in which to mourn the loss of my splendid brother? Would God he had lived to fill this place? He said desperately. The lawyer bowed deferentially, and Dr. Hoyle took David's arm and led him away as if he were his son. Not a word was spoken by either of them until they were again in the doctor's office. There lay the new silk hat, as he had tossed it one side. He took it up and turned it about in his hand. You see, David, an old hat is like an old friend, and it takes some time to get wanted to a new one. He greatly laid the old one within easy reach of his arm, and restored the new one to its box. Then he sat himself near David, and placed his hand kindly on his knee. You, you have your work laid out for you, my young friend. It's the way in old England the stability of our society, our national life demands it. I know. You must go to your mother. Yes, I must go to her. Of course, of course, and without delay. Well, I'll take care of the little chap. I know you will. Better than I could. David lifted his eyes to his old friends, then turned them away. I feel him to be a sacred trust. Again he paused. It would take a long time to go to her first. To her? For the instant the old man had forgotten Cassandra. Not so, David. My wife. It will be desperately hard for her. Yes, yes, but your uncle, you know, died of grief, and your mother, I know, so the lawyer said. Now at last we'll read mother's letter. He wondered, I suppose, that I didn't look at it when he gave it to me, but I felt conscious stricken. I've been so filled with my life down there, the peace, the blessed peace and happiness, that I have neglected her, my own mother. I couldn't open and read it with that man's eyes on me. No. No, stay here. I beg of you. Stay. You are different. I want you. He opened his mother's letter, and slowly read it, then passed it to his friend, and, rising, walked to the window and stood gazing down into the square. Autumn leaves were being tossed and swirled into dancing flights, like flocks of brown and yellow birds along the street. The sky was overcast with thin, hurrying clouds, and the feeling of autumn was in the air, but David's eyes were blurred, and he saw nothing before him. The doctor's voice broke the silence with sudden impulse. In this she speaks as if she knew nothing about your marriage. I told you I had neglected her, cried David, contritely. But men alive! Why? Why in the name of all the gods? All England is filled with fools, cried the younger man desperately. I could never in the world make them understand me or my motives. I gave it up long ago. I've not told my mother to save her from a needless sorrow that would be inflicted on her by her friends. They would all flock to her and pester her with their outcry of how very extraordinary! I can hear them and see them now. I tell you, if a man steps out of the beaten track over there, if he attempts to order his own life, marry to please himself, or cut his coat after any pattern other than the ordinary conventional lines, even the boys on the street will fling stones at him. Her patronizing friends would, at the very least, politely raise their eyebrows. She is proud and sensitive, and any fling at her sons is a blow to her. But what? I say I couldn't tell her. I tell you I have been drinking from the cup of happiness. I have drained it to the last drop. My wife is mine. She does not belong to those people over there to be talked over and dined over, and all her beauty and fineness overlooked through their modicles. Brutes! My mountain flower in her homespun dress only poets could understand and appreciate her. But what were you going to do about it? Do about it? I meant to keep her to myself until the right time came. Perhaps in another year bring her here and begin life in a modest way, and let my mother visit us and see for herself. I was planning it out, slowly, but this—you see, doctor, their ideas are all warped over there. They accept all that custom decrees, and have but the one point of view. The true values of life are lost sight of. They have no hilltops like Cassandra's. Only the poets have. A quizzical smile played about the old man's mouth. He came in late his arm across David's shoulders, and the act softened the slight sting of his words. And you call yourself a poet. Not that, said the young man humbly, but I have been learning. I would have scorned to be called a poet until I learned of this girl and her father. I thought I had ideals, and felt my superiority and consequence, because I came down to the beginnings of things with them. Her—her father—why, he's dead, he—and yet through her I have learned of him. I believe he was a man who walked with God, and at Cassandra's side I have trod in his secret places. That's right. I'm satisfied now about her. You're all right, but—but—your mother. David turned and walked to the table, and sat with his head bowed on his arms. Had he been alone, he would have wept. As it was, he spoke brokenly of his old home, and the responsibilities now so ruthlessly thrust upon him. Of his mother's grief and his own, and of the inheritance that he had never dreamed would be his, and therefore had never desired, now given him by so cruel a blow. He would not shrink from whatever duty or obligation might rest upon him. But how could he adjust his changed circumstances to the conditions he had made for himself by his sudden marriage? At last it was decided that he should sail for England without delay, taking the passage already provisionally engaged for him by Mr. Stretton. I can write to Cassandra. She will understand more easily than my mother. She sees into the heart of things. Her thoughts go to the truth like arrows of light. She will see that I must go, but she must never know. I must save her from it if I have to do so at the expense of my own soul. That the reason I cannot take her with me now is that our great friends over there are too small to understand her nature and might despise her. I must go to my mother first, and feel my way, see what can be done. Another of them must be made to suffer. That's right, perfectly. But don't wait too long. Just have it out with your mother, all of them. The sooner the simpler, the sooner the simpler. End of Chapter 24. Chapter 25 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 Leanne Howlett. The Mountain Girl. By Payne Erskine. Chapter 25. In Which David Thring Visits His Mother. How wise was the advice of the old doctor to make short work of the confession to his mother and to face the matter of his marriage bravely with his august friends and connections, David little knew. If his marriage had been rash in its haste, nothing in the future should be done rashly. Possibly he might be obliged to return to America before he made a full revelation that a wife awaited him in that far and but dimly appreciated land. In his mind the matter resolved itself into a question of time and careful adjustment. Slowly as the boat plowed through the never-resting waters, slowly as the western land with its dreams and realities drifted farther into the vapors that blended the line of the land and the sea, so slowly the future unveiled itself and drew him on into its new dreams, revealing, with the inevitable progression of the hours, a life here to fore shrouded and only vaguely imagined as a glowing reality filled with opportunity and power. He felt his whole nature expand and become imbued with intoxicating ambitions, as if hereafter he would be swept onward to ride through life triumphant, even as the boat was riding the sea, surmounting its mysterious depths and taking its unerring way in spite of buffeting of winds and beating of waves. Still young, with renewed vitality, his hopes turned to the future, recognizing the tremendous scope for his energies which his own particular prospects presented. Often he stood alone in the prow, among the coils of rope, and watched the distance unroll before him, while the salt breeze played with his clustering hair and filled his lungs. He loved the long sweep of the prow, as it divided the water and cast it foaming on either side, in opaline and turquoise tents, shifting and falling into the indigo depths of the vastness around. In thought he spanned the wide spaces and leaps still toward the future, before him the gray-haired mother who trembled to hold him once more in her arms, behind him the young wife waiting for his return, enclosing him serenely and adoringly in her heart. Each day while on shipboard David wrote to Cassandra, voluminously, he found that a pleasant way of passing the hours. He described his surroundings and unfolded such of his anticipations as he felt she could best understand, and with which she could sympathize, trying to explain to her what the years to come might hold for them both, and telling her always to wait with patience for his return. This could not be known definitely until he had looked into the state of his uncle's affairs, which would hereafter be his own. Sometimes his letter contained only a review of some of the happiest hours they had spent together, as if he were placing his thoughts of those blessed days on paper that they might be for their mutual communing. Sometimes he discoursed of the calamity he had suffered, the uselessness of his brother's death, and the cruelty and wastefulness of war. At such times he was minded to write her of the opportunity now given him to serve his country, and the power he might someday attain to promote peace and avert rash legislation. Never once did he allow an inadvertent word to slip from his pen, whereby she could suspect that she, as his wife, might be a cause of embarrassment to him, or a clog in the wheel of the chariot which from now on was to bear him triumphantly among his social friends or political enemies. Never would he disturb the sweet serenity that encompassed her. Yet well he knew what an incongruity she would appear should he present her now, as she had stood by her loom or in the plowed field at his side, to the company he would find in his mother's home. Simple and direct as she was she would walk over their conventions and proprieties and never know it. How strange many of those customs of theirs would appear to her, and how unnecessary. He feared for her most in her utter ignorance of everything pertaining to the daily existence of the over-civilized circle to which the changed conditions of his life would bring her. Much he knew would pass unseen by her, but soon she would begin to understand and to wince under their exclamations of how extraordinary. The mask-like expression with steel over her face. Her pride would encase her spirit in the deep reserve he himself had found so hard to penetrate, and he could see her withdrawing more and more from all, until at last—ah, it must not be. He must manage very carefully lest Dr. Hoyle's prophecy indeed be fulfilled. At last the lifting of the veil to the eastward revealed the bold promontory of land's end, and soon beyond the fair green slopes of his own beautiful old England. For all of the captious criticism he had fallen in the way of bestowing upon her how he loved her, he felt his as if he must throw up his arms and shout for joy. Suddenly she had become his, with a sense of possession new to him and sweet to feel. The orderliness and stereotyped lines of her social system against which he had rebelled, and the iron bars of her customs which his soul had abhorred in the past, against which his spirit had bruised and beaten itself, now lured him on as a security for things stable and fine. In subtle ways, as yet unrealized, he was being drawn back into the cage from which he had fled for freedom and life. How quickly he had become accustomed to the air of deference and Mr. Stratton's continual use of his newly acquired title, my Lord! Why not? It was his right. The same laws which had held him subservient before now gave him this, and he who a few months earlier had been proudly plowing his first furrows in his little leased farm on a mountain meadow, now walked with lifted head, to the manor borne along the platform, and entered the first-class compartment with Mr. Stratton, where a few rich Americans had already installed themselves. David noticed, with inward amusement, their surreptitious glances when the lawyer addressed him, how they plumed themselves, yet tried to appear nonchalant and indifferent to the fact that they were riding in the same compartment with the Lord. In time he would cease to notice even such incongruities as this tacit homage from a professedly tile-scorning people. David's mother had moved into the townhouse, whither his uncle had sent for her, when, stricken with grief, he had lain down for his last brief illness. The old servants had all been retained, and David was ushered to his mother's own sitting-room by the same household dignitary who was want to preside there when, as a lad, he had been allowed rare visits to his cousins in the city. How well he remembered his fine, punctilious old uncle, and the feeling of awe tempered by anticipation with which he used to enter those halls. He was overwhelmed with a sense of loss and disaster as he glanced up the great stairway where his cousins were want to come bounding down to him, handsome, hearty, romping lads. It had been a man's household, for his aunt had been dead many years. A man's household characterized by a man's sense of heavy order without the many touches of feminine occupation and arrangement which tend to soften a man's half-military reign. As he was being led through the halls he noticed a subtle change which warmed his quick senses. Was it the presence of his mother and Laura? His entrance interrupted an animated conversation which was being held between the two as the man's servant announced his name, and then another instant his mother was in his arms. Dear little mother, dear little mother, but she was not small. She was tall and dignified, and David had to stoop but little to bring his eyes level with hers. David, I'm here too. A hand was laid on his arm, and he released his mother to turn and look into two warm, brown eyes. And so the little sister is grown up, he said, embracing her than holding her off at arm's length. Five years. When I look at you, mother, they don't seem so long. But Laura here. You didn't expect me to stay a little girl all my life, did you, David? No, no. He took her by the shoulder and shook her a little and pinched her cheeks. What roses? Why, sis, I say, you know I'm proud of you. What have you been up to, anyway? He flung himself on the sofa and pulled her down beside him. Give an account of yourself. I've gone in for athletics. Right. And oh, lots of things, you give an account of yourself. David glanced at his mother. She was seated opposite them, regarding him with brimming eyes. No, he could not give an account of himself yet. He would wait until he and his mother were alone. He lifted Laura's heavy hair, which, confined only by a great bow of black ribbon, hung streaming down her back in a dark mass that gave her a tussled, unkempt look, and which, taken together with her dead black dress and her dark tan skin, roughened by exposure to wind and sun, greatly marred her beauty in spite of her roses and the warmth of her large dark eyes. As David surveyed his sister, he thought of Cassandra, and was minded then and there to describe her, to attempt to unveil the events of the past year and make them see and know, as far as possible, what his life had been. He held this thought a moment, poised ready for utterance, a moment of hesitation as to how it began, and then forever lost as his mother began speaking. Laura hasn't come out yet. As events have turned, it is just as well, for her chances naturally will be much better now than they would have been if we had had her coming out last year. I don't see how, Mama, with all this heavy black. I can't come out until I leave it off, and it will be so long to wait. Laura pouted a little, discontentedly, then flushed a disfiguring flush of shame under her dark skin as she caught the look in her brother's eyes. Not that what I shall keep on mourning for Bob as long as I live, he was such a tear. She added, her eyes filling with quick, impulsive tears. But how you make out my chances will be better now, Mama. I can't see, really. I look such a fright. Chances for what? Asked David dryly. For matrimony naturally, his sister flung out defiantly, half smiling through her tears. Don't you know that's all a girl of my age lives for, matrimony and a kennel? I mean to have one. Now we will have our own preserves. It will be ripping, you know. Certainly our own preserves, said David, still dryly, thinking how Cassandra would wonder what preserves were, and what she would say of told that in preserves wild, harmless animals were kept from being killed by the common people for food in order that those of his own class might chase them down and kill them for their amusement. Oh, David, I remember how you used to be always putting on a look like that and thinking a lot of nasty things under your breath. I hoped you would come home vastly improved. Was it what I said about matrimony? Mama knows it's true. Hardly as you put it, my child, there is much besides for a girl to think about. You said chances yourself, Mama. Certainly, but that is for me to consider. You must remember that it was you who refused to have your coming out last year. I didn't want my good times cut short then, Mama, and have to take up proprieties, or at least I would have had to be dreadfully proper for a while anyway, and now, why I have to be naturally, and here I am unable to come out for another year yet, and my hair streaming down my back all the time. I'm sure I can't see how my chances are in the least improved by it all, and by that time I shall be so old. Oh, you will be quite young enough, said David. You occupy a far different position now, child. To make your debut as Lady Laura will give you quite another place in the world. Your headstrong postponement, fortunately, will do no harm. It will make your introduction to the circle where you are eventually to move much simpler. Laura lifted her eyebrows and glanced from her mother to her brother. Very well, Mama, but one thing you might as well know now. I shan't drop some of my friends if being Lady Laura lifts me above them as high as the moon. I like them and I don't care. She whistled, and a beautiful silk-on-haired setter crept from under the sofa whereon she had been sitting, and wriggled about after the manner of guilty dogs. Laura, dear. Yes, Mama, I've been hiding him with my skirts by sitting there. He was bad and followed me in. We've been out riding together. She stroked his silk-on coat with her riding-crop. Mama won't allow him in here, and he jolly well knows it. Bad zip, bad sir. Look at him. Isn't he clever? I must go and dress for dinner. Mama wants you to herself, I know, and Mr. Stratton will be here soon. You can't thank David how glad I am we have you back. You couldn't think it from my way, but I am, rather. It's been awful here. It's been awful since the boys all left. Again her eyes filled with quick tears, and she dashed out with a dog bounding about her and leaping up to thrust his great tongue in her face. You are too big for the house, zip. Down, sir. In an instant she was back, putting her tussled head in at the door. David, when Mama is finished with you, come out and see my dogs. I have five already, and Nancy is going to litter soon. Friends is to take them into the country tomorrow, for they are just cooped up here. She withdrew, and David heard her heavy-soled shoes clatter down the long halls. He and his mother smiled as they listened, looking into each other's eyes. She is a dear child, but life means only a good time to her as yet. Well, let it. She has splendid stuff in her and is bound to make a splendid woman. She's right, David. It has been awful since your brother left. David sat beside her and placed his hand on hers. Again it was in his mind to tell her of Cassandra, and again he was stopped by the tenor of her next remark. You see how it is, my son. Laura can't understand, but you will. I'm not sure that I do. Open your heart to me, mother. Tell me what you mean. My dear son, I don't like to begin with worries. It is so sweet to have you back in the home. May you always stay with us. I don't mind the worries, mother, he said tenderly. I am here to help you. What is it? It is only that, although we have inherited the title and the states, we are not there. We will be received, of course, but at first only by those who have access to grind. There are so many such, and it is hard to protect oneself from them. For instance, there is Lady Willisbeck. Her own set have cut her completely for certain reasons. There is no need to retell unpleasant gossip. But she was one of the first to call. Her daughter, Lady Isabel, gave Laura that dog. But all the more because Laura and Lady Isabel were in school together, and were on the same hockey team. They will have that excuse for clinging to us like burrs. Lady Willisbeck would like very much now for her daughter's sake to win back her place in society, although she did not seem devaluate for herself. Long before her mother's life became common talk, because she was infatuated with your cousin, Lyon, Lady Isabel chose Laura for her chum, and the two have worked up a very romantic situation out of the affair. You see, I have caused for anxiety, David, since the title is only mine and Laura's by courtesy, we must not presume upon it. He still held her hand, looking kindly in her face. Is Lady Isabel the right sort? He asked. What do you mean by the right sort, David? She isn't like her mother, naturally, or I would have been more decided, but she is not the right sort for us. Lady Willisbeck is ostracized, and it is a grave matter. Her daughter will be ostracized with her, unless she can find a chaperone of quality to champion her to well. You understand that Laura can't afford to make her debut handicapped with such a friendship, not now. I fail to see until I know more of her friend. But David, we can't be visionary now. We must be practical and face the difficulties of our situation. We are honorably entitled to all that the inheritance implies, but it is another thing to avail ourselves of it. Your uncle led a most secluded life. He had no visitors and was known only among men, and politically as a close conservative. His seat in the house meant only that. So now we enter a circle in which we never moved before, and we are not of it. For the present our deep mourning is prohibitory, but it is also Laura's protection, although she does not know it. His mother paused. She was not regarding him. She seemed to be looking into the future, and a little line which had formed during the years of David's absence, deepened in her forehead. Be a little more explicit, mother, protection from what? From undesirable people, dear, we are very conspicuous. To be frank, we are new. My own family connections are all good, but they will not be the slightest help to Laura in maintaining her position. We have always lived in the country and know no one. You have refinement and good taste, mother. I know it. That and this inheritance and the title. Isn't that protection enough? I really fail to see—whatever would please you would be right. You may have what friendships you— Not at all, David. Everything is iron bound. They are simply watching lest we bring a lot of common people in our train. Things grow worse and worse in that way. There are so many rich tradespeople who are struggling to get in, clinging desperately to the skirts of the poorer nobility. Of course it all goes to show what a tremendous thing good birth is, and the iron laws of custom are, after all, a proper safeguard and should be respected. Nevertheless we, who are so new, must not allow ourselves to become stepping-stones. It is perfectly right. That is why I said this period of mourning is Laura's protection. She will have time to know what friendships are best and an opportunity to avoid undesirable ones. You have been away so long, David, where the class lines are not so rigidly drawn that you forget or never knew. It is my duty, without any foolish sentiment, to guard Laura and see to it that her coming out is what it should be. For one thing she is so very plain. If she were a beauty it would help, but her plainness must be compensated for in other ways. She will have a large settlement, Mr. Stretton thinks. If your uncle's interests are not too much jeopardized in South Africa by this terrible war, that is something you will have to look into before you take your seat in the house. Oh, mother, mother, I can't. My dear boy, your brother died for his country and you cannot give a little of your life for it? I can rely on you to be practically inclined, now that you are placed at the head of such a family. I'm glad now you never cared for Muriel Hunt. She could never have filled the position as her ladyship your uncle's wife did. She was Lady Thomasina Harcourt, Glendon of Wales. Beside her Muriel would appear silly. It is most fortunate you have no such entanglement now. Mother, mother, I am astounded. I never dreamed my dear beautiful mother could descend to such worldliness. You are changed, mother. There is something fundamentally wrong in all this. She looked up at him aghast at his vehemence. My son, my son, let us have only love between us, only love. I am not changed. I was content as I was, nor ever tried to enter a sphere above me. Now that this comes to me, forced on me by right of English law, I take it thankfully with all it brings. I will fill the place as it should be filled, and Laura shall do the same, and you also, my son. As for Muriel Hunt, I will make concessions if your happiness demands it. David groaned inwardly. No mother, no. It goes deeper than Muriel. It goes deeper. They had both risen. She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked lovely in his eyes, and her own lightened through tears held bravely back. It may well go deeper than Muriel and still not go very deep. And yet the time was when Muriel Hunt was thought quite deep enough. He said sadly, still looking in his mother's eyes, but she only continued. Never doubt for a moment, dear, that Laura's welfare and yours are dearer to me than life. You are very weary, I see it in your eyes. Have you been to your apartment? Clark will show you. She kissed his brow and departed. CHAPTER XXVI. In which David Thring adjusts his life to new conditions. David stood where his mother had left him, dazed, hurt, sad. He was desperately minded to leave all and flee back to the hills, back to the life he had left in Canada. He saw the clear true look of Cassandra's eyes meeting his. His heart called for her. His soul cried out within him. He felt like one launched on an irresistible current which was sweeping him ever nearer to a maelstrom wherein he was inevitably to be swallowed up. He perceived that to his mother the established order of things there in her little island was sacred, an arrangement to be still further upheld and solidified. She had suddenly become a part of a great system entrusted with a care for its maintenance and stability as one of its guardians. Before it had mattered little to her, for she was not of it. Now it was very different. Slowly David followed Clark to his own apartments. He had been given those of the old lord, his uncle. Everything about him was dark, massive and rich, but without grace. His bags and boxes had been unpacked, and his dinner-suit laid in readiness, and Clark stood stiffly awaiting orders. Will you have a shave, my lord? The man's manner jarred on him. It was obsequious, and he hated it. Yet it was only the custom. Clark was simple-hearted and kindly, filling his little place in the upholding of the system of which he was a part. Had his manner been different, a shade more familiar, David would have resented it and ordered him out. But of this David was not conscious. In spite of his scruples he was born and bred an aristocrat. No, I'll shave myself. Still the man waited, and taking up David's coat flicked a particle of dust from the collar. I don't want anything. You may go. Thank you," Clark melted quietly out of the apartment. Thanks me for being rude to him, thought David irritably. I shall take pleasure in being rude to him. My God, what a farce life is over here. The whole thing is a farce. He shaved himself and cut his chin, and when he appeared later with the patch of court plaster thereon, Clark commented to himself on his lordship's inability to do the shaving properly. As David thought over his mother's words, her outlook on life, his sister's idle aims, the companionship she must have and the kind of talk to which she must listen, he grew more and more annoyed. He contrasted it all with the past. His mother, who had been so noble and fine, seemed to have lost individuality to have become only a segment of a circle which was henceforth to be her highest care to keep intact. Laura must become a part of the same sacred ring, and he too must join hands with those who formed it and make it his duty to keep others out. There were also other circles guarded and protected by this one, circles within circles, each smaller and more exclusive than the last. The object of the huge game of life over here seemed to be to keep the great mass of those whom they regarded as commonality out of any one of the circles, while striving individually each to climb into the next one above and more contracted. The most maddening thing of all was to find his grave dignified mother drawn in and made a partaker in this meaningless strife. Still essentially an outsider, David could look with larger vision, the far-seeing vision of the western land, the hilltops and the dividing sea, and to him now the circles seemed verily concentric rings of the maelstrom into which events were hurrying him. Would he be able to rise from the swirling flotsam and ride free? The deeper philosophy underlying it all he has yet, but vaguely understood, that the highest good for all could only be maintained by stability in the commonwealth, as the tremendous rock foundations of the earth are a support for the growth thereon of all perfection, all grace and beauty. That the concentric rings, when rightly understood, should become a means of purification, of reward for true worth, of power for noblest service, and not for personal ambition and the unmolested gratification of vicious tastes. David did not as yet know that his clear-seeing wife could help him to the attainment of his greatest possibilities, right here where he feared to bring her, the wife of whom he dare not tell his mother. Blinded by the world's estimates, which he still had sense enough to despise, he did not know that the key to its deepest secrets lay in her heart, nor that of the two, her heritage of the large spirit and the inward-seeing eye direct to the creator's meanings, was the greater heritage. Meethring found it possible to have a few words with the lawyer before David appeared, and impressed upon him the necessity of interesting her son in this new field by showing him avenues for power and work. I don't quite understand the boy, she said. After seeing the world and going his own way, I really thought he would outgrow that sort of moody sentimentalism, but it seems to be returning. He is quixotic enough to turn away from everything here and go back to Canada, unless you can awaken his interest. I see, I see, said the lawyer. Mere personal ambition will not satisfy him, added his mother proudly. He must see opportunities for service. He must understand that he is needed. I see. I understand. He must be dealt with along the line of his nobler impulses. Ahem, ahem. And David appeared. His mother rose and took his arm to walk out to dinner, while Laura, who should have gone with Mr. Stretton, did not see his proffered arm, but provokingly indifferent strolled out by herself. David, absorbed in his own thoughts, did not notice his sister's careless mean, but the mother observed the independent and boyish swing of her daughter's shoulders and resented it with a slightly reproving glance after they were seated. Laura lifted her eyebrows and one shoulder, with an irritating half shrug. What is it, Mama? She asked. But Lady Thring allowed the question to go unheeded, and turned her attention to the two gentlemen during the rest of the meal. All through dinner David was haunted by Cassandra's talk with him. The night he dreamed she was being swept out of his arms forever by a swift cold current, which from a little purling stream high up on a mountaintop had become a dark, relentless flood, overwhelming them utterly. What was she doing now? Did she know she was in that terrible flood? Was she really being swept from him? Ah, never, never. He would not allow it if he must break all hearts but hers. The meal progressed somberly and heavily, with much ceremony, although they were so few. Was his mother practicing for the future that she kept such rigid state? He suspected as much, and that Laura was being trained to the right way of carrying herself, but that and the real sorrow of the family over their bereavement made a most oppressive atmosphere. Might this be the shadow Cassandra had seen lying across their future? Only a passing cloud, a vapor, it must be only that. Laura and her mother withdrew early, leaving David and the lawyer together, when Mr. Stratton immediately launched into talk of David's prospects and resources. In spite of himself, the gloom of the dinner hour slipped from him, and soon he was taking the liveliest interest in what might be possible for him here and now. Although not one to be easily turned from a chosen path by outside influence, David yet had that almost fatal gift of the imaginative mind of seeing things from many sides, until at times they took on a kaleidoscopic reversibility. Now this unlooked-for development of his life opened to him a vista, new, and yet old, old as England herself. While digging deep into the causes of his former discontent, he had come to strike his spade upon the rock foundations wherein all this complicated superstructure of English society and national life was building. He saw that every nobleman inherited with his title and his lands a responsibility for the welfare of the whole people, from the poorest laborer in the ditch or the coal mine, to the head wearing the crown. And that it was the blindness of individuals like himself or his uncle before him, their misuse or unscrupulous indifference to and abuse of power which had brought about those conditions under which the masses were writhing and against which they were crying out. He saw that it was only by the earnest efforts of the few who did understand, the few who were not indifferent, that the stability of English government was still her glory. At last he rose and lifted his arms high above his head, then dropped them to his side. I see. He held up his head and looked off as he had done when he stood on the prow of the steamship with the salt breeze tossing his hair. A little of this came to me as I crossed the ocean when I saw the green slopes of England again. I knew I loved her, and the old feeling of impotence that hounded me in the past when I could do nothing but rebel slipped from me. I felt what it might be to have power, to become effective instead of being obliged to chafe under the yoke of an imposed submission to things which are wrong, things which those who are in power might set right if they would. I believe, for a moment, Mr. Stratton, I felt it all. He paused and bowed his head. All at once, in the midst of his exaltation, he saw Cassandra, standing white and still, as he had seen her on the hilltop before their little cabin, looking after him when he bad her good-bye. And just as he then turned and went swiftly back to her, so now in his soul he turned to her yearningly and took her to his breast. Still penetrating the sweet white halo of this vision, he heard the voice of Mr. Stratton deferentially droning on. And with your resources, the wealth, which with a little care and thought just now at this crucial moment, will be yours. Still David stood with bowed head. It is as if you were predestined, my Lord, to step in at a crucial time of your country's need, with brains, education, conscience, and wealth, with every obstacle swept away. Still before him stood Cassandra, white and silent. He could see only her. Every obstacle swept away, repeated the lawyer. And Cassandra, God-helper and me, David slowly turned, lifted a glass of wine from the table and drank it. Well, so be it, so be it, he said aloud. We'll join Mother and Laura. At the door he paused. You spoke of education. The learning of a physician is but little in the line of statesmanship. How soon will I be expected to take my seat? If you ask my advice, my Lord, I would say better wait a year. It will be advisable for you to go yourself to South Africa and look into your uncle's investments there, as a private individual, of course, not as a public servant. Two-thirds of the receipts have fallen off since the war. Learn what may be saved from the wreckage, or, if there be a wreckage. I'm inclined to think not all, for the investments were varied. Your uncle may have been a silent member, but he was certainly a man of good business judgment. Mr. Stratton paused and coughed a little apologetically before adding, Not an inherited talent only. Cultivated. Cultivated, you know. Good business judgment is not a trait inherent in our peerage as a rule. David was amused and entered the drawing-room with a smile on his face. His mother was pleased and rose instantly, coming forward with both hands extended to take his. He understood it as a welcome back to the family circle, the quiet talks and the evening lamp, less formal than the oppressive dinner had been. He held her hands, thus offered, and kissed the little anxious line on her brow, then playfully smoothed it with his finger. We mustn't let it become permanent, you no mother. No, David. It will go now, you are home. He did not know that his mother and Laura had been having a lively discussion apropos of the silent tilt at the dinner-table. His sister pleading for a return to the old ways, and a release from such state and ceremony. At least while we are by ourselves, ma-ma. Anyway, I know David will just hate it, and I don't see what good a title is if we must become perfect slaves to it. David crossed the room and sat down before the piano. How strange this old place seems without the others. Bob, and the cousins, and Uncle himself. We weren't admitted often, but— Sh! Sh! said Laura, who had followed him and stood at his side. Don't remind ma. She remembers too much all the time. Play the king's hunting, jig, David. Remember how you used to play it for me every evening after dinner when I was a girl? Do I remember? Rather. I have done nothing with the piano since then, when you were a girl. I'll play it for you now, while you are a girl. But I really am grown up now, David. It's quite absurd for me to go about like this. It's only because ma-ma chooses to have it so. She even keeps a governess for me still. To her you are a child, and to me you are still a girl, and a mighty fine one. It's so good to have you back, David. You haven't forgotten the jig. Where's your flute? Get it, and I'll accompany you. I can drum a little now, after a fashion. We'll let them talk, so they amuse themselves for the rest of the evening with music. And Lady Thring's face lost the strained and harassed expression it had worn all during dinner, and took on a look of contentment. After this the days were spent by David in going over his uncle's large mass of papers and correspondence, with the aid of Mr. Stratton and a secretary. A colossal task it proved to be. No one, even his lawyer, who had his confidence more than anyone else, knew in what the old Lord Thring's wealth really consisted. Although Mr. Stratton surmised, much of his surplus income of late years had been placed in Africa. Since his papers had not been set in order or tabulated for years, every note, land loan, mortgage, and rental had to be unearthed slowly and laboriously from among a mass of written matter and figures more or less worthless. For the old Lord had a habit of saving every scrap of paper, the backs of notes and letters, for summing up accounts and jotting down memoranda and dates. Ten hours of each day David devoted to this labor, collecting his papers in a small room opening off from the lock chambers of Mr. Stratton, where for years his uncle had kept a private safe. Conscientiously he toiled at the monotonous task, until weeks, then months slipped by, hardly noticed, ignoring all social life. When his mother or Laura broached the subject he would say, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and this must be done first. He was not unmindful of his wife during this interval, but wrote frequently, and to guard against any danger of her being left without resources should something unforeseen befall him. He placed in Bishop Tower's hands the residue of money remaining to him in Canada, for Cassandra. He wrote her to use it as occasion required, and not to spare it, that it was hers without restriction. He sent her the names of books he wished she would read, that she should write the publishers for them. He begged her to do no more weaving for money, but only for her own amusement, and above all to trust and be happy, not to be sorrowful for this long delay which he would cut as short as he could. Much of his occupation he could not explain to her, and off-times it was hard to find matter for his letters. Then he would revert to reminiscence. These were the letters she loved best, and sometimes wept over, and these were the letters that often left him dreamy and sad, and sometimes made him distraught when his mother and Laura talked over their affairs, so utterly alien to his thoughts and longings. Those replies were for the most part short, but they were sent with unfailing regularity, and always they seemed to bring with them a breath from her own mountaintop. Naive, tender, absolutely trusting, often quaintly worded and telling of the simple, innocent things of her life. He could see that she held herself in reserve even as her nature was, a psychological something was held back. He could not dream what it might be, but reasoned with himself that it was only that she found it harder to unveil her thoughts by means of the pen than in speech. One day as he rode alone in the park he noticed that the leaf-bugs were swelling. What! was spring upon them? A white fog was lifting, and every twig and stem held its tiny pearl of wetness. All the earth glistened and was clean and looked as if greenness was returning. He regarded the artificial effects around him, the long lines of trees and set clumps of shrubbery, and was seized with a desire well-nigh irresistible for the wild roads and rugged steeps, the wandering streams and sound of falling waters. He saw it all again, the blossoming spring where Cassandra sat waiting for him, and he resolved to start without delay to go to her and bring her back with him. All this sordid calculation of the amount of his fortune his mothers and his sisters shares, the annuities of poor dependence, stocks to be bought, interests to be invested, the government and his future part therein—fah!—it must wait. He would have his own. His heritage should not be his curse. He returned in haste that day, only to learn that certain facts had been unearthed which necessitated a journey into Wales, where interest of the former Lady Threne's estates were concerned. His uncle had inherited all from her, with the exception of certain requests to relatives with which he had been entrusted. Some of the records had been lost, and whether the beneficiaries were dead or not, none new, but now and then letters came pleading for a continuance of former favors and recalling obligations. Mr. Stratton had been ill for a week, and now that the records were found David must go and go at once. The lawyer had many subjects for investigation to deliver to David. There was the death-bed request of an old nurse of his ounce who had an annuity that it be extended to her crippled granddaughter. She lived among the Cornish Hills. Would he hunt the family up and learn if they were worthy or imposters? His uncle had been endlessly plagued with such importunities, and so on, and so on. Yes, certainly David would go. He made a mental reservation that he would sail without returning to London and then make a clean breast of his affairs by letter to his mother. She had improved in health during the winter, and he thought his information would be received by her with more equanimity than it would have been earlier. Moreover, she had broached the subject of marriage to him more than once, but always in one of her most worldly moods. When he shrank from hearing Cassandra spoken of as he knew she would be, when he could not hear her disgust, no reply with calmness to such questions as he knew must ensue. David had little time to brood over his peculiar difficulty as his short journey was full of business interest and new experiences. Yet the Cornish Hills awoken him, a still greater eagerness for the mountains of his dreams, and after securing his passage he went to his hotel to prepare the letter to his mother. It is marvelous what trivial events alter destinies. In this instance it was the yapping of a small dog which changed David's plans and finally sent him to South Africa instead of America. While paying his bill at the hotel, a telegram was handed him which he tore open as the clerk was counting out his change. He still held in his hand the letter to his mother which he was on the point of dropping in the letter box at his elbow. Instead, he thrust it in his pocket along with the crushed telegram and, taking a cab, hastened to the steamship offices to cancel his date for sailing. The message read, Return with all speed to London. Mr. Stratton lying in the hospital with a fractured skull. Thus it was that Lady Treadwell's pet spaniel, old and vicious, yapping at the heels of Mr. Stratton's rusty horse while my lady's maid, who should have been leading him out for an airing, was absorbed in listening to the complaints of one of the park-guards, played so dire a part in the affairs of David Thring. CHAPTER 27 In which the old doctor and little holl come back to the mountains, Cassandra seated on the great hanging rock before her cabin watched the sunrise where David had so often stood and waited for the dawn during his winter there alone. This morning the mists obscured the valleys and the base of the mountains, while the sky and the whole earth glowed with warm rose color. Suddenly she rose and walked with lifted head into the cabin and prepared to light a fire on the hearth. In the canvas room the bed was made smoothly as she had made it the morning David left. No one had slept in it since, although Cassandra spent most of her days there. Everything he had used was carefully kept as he had left it. His microscope, covered with dust, stood with the last specimen still under the lens. A book they were reading together lay on the corner shelf with the mark still in the place where they had read last. After lighting the fire she sat near it, watching the flames steal up from the small pile of fat pine-chips underneath, sending up red tongues of fire until the great logs were wrapped in the hot embrace of the flames, trembling, quivering, and leaping high in their mad joy, transmuting all they touched. It's like love, she murmured and smiled, only it's quicker. It does in one hour what love takes a lifetime to do. Those logs might have lain on the ground and rotted if they'd been left alone, but now the fire just holds them and caresses them like, and they grow warm and glow, like the sun, and give all they can while they last, until they're almost too bright to look at. I reckon God has been right good to me, not to let me lie and rot my life away. He sent David to set my heart on fire, and I guess I can wait for him to come back to me in God's own time. She rose, and brought from the canvas room a basket of willow woven in openwork pattern. It was a gift from Azalea, who had learned from her mother the art of basket weaving. Some said Azalea's grandmother was half Indian, and that it was from her they had learned their quaint patterns and shapes, and that she, and her Indian mother before her, had been famous basket weavers. This pretty basket was filled with very delicate work of fine muslin, much finer than anything Cassandra had ever worked upon before. Her hands no longer showed signs of having been employed in rough coarse tasks. They were soft and white. She placed the basket of dainty sewing on the same table, which had served as an altar when she knelt beside David and was made his wife. It was serving as an altar still, bearing that basket of delicate work. She had become absorbed in a book not one of those David had suggested. It was doubtful had he been there, whether he would have really liked to see her reading this one, although it was written by Thackeray dear to all English hearts. It is more than probable that he would have thought his young wife hardly need being lightened upon just the sort of things with which vanity fair enriches the understanding. He at how it may, Cassandra was reading vanity fair, which she found in the box of books David had opened so long before. While she read she worked with her fingers incessantly at a piece of narrow lace with a shuttle and very fine thread. This she did so mechanically that she could easily read at the same time by propping the book open on the table before her. For a long time she sat thus, growing more and more interested until the fire burned low and she rose to replenish it. The logs were piled beside the door of the small kitchen David had built for her and where he had placed the cookstove. She had come up early this morning because she was sad over his last letter in which he had told her of his disappointment in having to cancel his passage to America. Hopeful and cheery though the letter was, it had struck dismay to her heart. It was her way, when sad and longing for her husband to go up to her little cabin, her own home, and think it all over alone and thus regain her equanimity. Here she read and thought things out by herself. What strange people they were over there. Or perhaps that was so long ago they might have changed by this time. Maybe they must have changed or David would have said something about it. He never would become a lord to be one of such people. Never, never. It was not at all like David. A figure appeared in the doorway. Cassandra, what are you doing in there all by yourself? It was Betty Towers. Cassandra ran joyfully forward and clasped the little woman in her arms, almost carrying her in. She sat her by the pleasant open fire. Then seeing Betty's eyes, regarding her questioningly, she suddenly dropped into her own chair by the table, leaned her head upon her arms, and began to weep silently. In an instant Betty was kneeling by her side, holding the lovely head to her breast. Searest, you shan't cry. You shan't cry like that. Tell me all about it. Why on earth doesn't Dr. Thring come home? Cassandra lifted her head and dried her tears. He was coming. The last letter but one said he was to sail next day. Then last night came another, saying the only man who could look after very important business for him had been thrown from his horse, and hurt so bad he may die. And David had to give up his passage and go back to London. He may have to go to Africa. He felt right bad, but goodness me, child, why he has no business now more important than you. What a chump! Cassandra stiffened proudly and drew away, taking up her shuttle and beginning her work calmly, as if nothing had happened to destroy her composure. I've not written, David, anything to disturb him or make him hurry home. Oh, Cassandra, Cassandra, you're not treating either him or yourself fairly. For him I can't help it, and for me I don't care. Other women have got along as best they could in these mountains, and I can bear what they have borne. But why on earth haven't you told him? Cassandra bent her head lower over her bit of lace in the silent. Betty drew her chair nearer and put her arms about the drooping girl. Can't you tell me all about it, dear? Not if you're going to blame David. I won't, you lovely thing. I can't, since he doesn't know. But why? At first I couldn't speak. I tried, but I couldn't. Then he had to take Hoyle north, and I thought he would see for himself when he came back. Or I could tell him by that time. Then came that dreadful news, you know, four, all dead. His brother and his two cousins all killed, and his uncle dying of grief. And he had to go to his mother as she might die, too. And then he found so much to do. Now you know he has to be a, she was going to say, a lord. But happening to glance down at her open book, the name of Lord Stein caught her eye. And it seemed to her a title of disgrace. She must talk with David before she allowed him to be known as a lord. So she ended hurriedly. He has to be a different kind of a man now. Not a doctor. He has a great many things to do and look after. If I told him, he would leave everything and come to me, even if he ought not. And if he couldn't come, he would be troubled and unhappy. Why should I make him unhappy? When he does come home, he'll be glad. Oh, so glad. Why need he know, when the knowing will do no good? And when he will come to me as soon as he can anyway? You strange girl, Cassandra, you brave old deer. But he must come. That's all. It is his right to know and to come. I can tell him. Let me. No. No. Please, Miss Towers, you must not. He will come back as soon as he can. And now, now he will be too late, since he did not sail when he meant to. Betty rose with a set look about the mouth. Unless we cable him, Cassandra, would there be time in that case? Come. You must tell me. No. No. Well, the girl. And now he must not know until he comes. It would be cruel. I will not let you write him or cable him, either. Then what will you do? Oh, I don't know. I'll think out of way. You'll help me think. But you must promise me not to write to David. I send him a letter every day, but I never tell him anything that would make him uneasy, because he has very important business there for his mother and sister, even more than for himself. You see how bad I would be to write troubling things to him when he couldn't help me or come to me. A light broke over Betty Tower's face. I can think out of way, dear. Of course I can. Just leave matters to me. Thus it was that Dr. Hoyle received a letter in Betty's own impassioned and impulsive style, begging him for love's sake to leave all and come back to the mountains and his own little cabin where Cassandra needed him. Never mind Dr. Thring or anything surprising about his being absent. Just come if you possibly can and hear what Cassandra has to say about it before you judge him. She is quaint and queer and wholly lovely. If you can bring little Hoyle with you, do so. Where I fear his mother is grieving to see him. She wrote me a most peculiar and pathetic letter, saying her daughter was so silent about her affairs that she herself were nigh about dead for worrying. And would I please come and see could I make Cass talk a little, so you may be sure there is need of you. The winter is glorious in the mountains this year. Your appearance will set everything right at the fall place, and Cassandra will be safe. Old time the unfailing who always marches apace bringing with him changes for good or evil brought the dear old doctor back to the fall place, brought the small Adam Hoyle with his queer little twisted neck and hunched back drawn by harness and plaster and to a much improved condition, although not straight yet, brought many letters from David filled with postponements and regrets therefore, and brought also a little son for Cassandra to hold to her bosom and dream and pray over. And the dreams and the prayers traveled far, far to the sunny-haired Englishman wrapped in the intricate affairs of a great estate. How much money would accrue? How should it be spent? What improvements should be made in their country home? When Laura's coming out should be. How many of her old companions might she retain? How many might she call friends? How many were to be here after thrust out as quite impossible? Should she be allowed a kennel, or should her sporting tendencies be discouraged? All these things were forced upon David's consideration. How then could he return to his young wife, especially when he could not yet bring himself to say to his world that he had a young wife? Impatiate he might be, nervous and even irritable, but still what could he do? While there in the faraway hills, Cassandra, loving him, brooding over him with serene and peaceful longing, holding his baby to her white breast, holding his baby's hand to her lips, full of courage, strong in her faith, patient in spirit, until as days and weeks passed she grew well and strong in body. Being sadly in need of rest, the old doctor lingered on in the mountains until spring was well advanced. Slight of body, but vigorous and wiry, and as full of scientific enthusiasm as when he was thirty years younger, he tramped the hills, taking long walks and climbs alone, or shorter ones with oil at his heels like a devoted dog, shrilling questions as he ran to keep up. These the good doctor answered according to his own code, or passed over as beyond possibility of reply with quizzical counter-questionings. They sat together one day eating their luncheon in the shelter of a great wall of rock, and below them lay a pool of clear water which trickled from a spring higher up. Now and then a bullfrog would sound his deep base note, and all the time the high piping of the peepers made shrill accompaniment to their voices as they conversed. The doctor had made an aquarium for oil, using a great glass jar which he obtained from a druggist in Farrington. They had come to-day on a quest for snails to eat the green growth which had so covered the sides of the jar, as to hide the interesting water world within from the boy's eyes. Many things had already occurred in that small world to set the boy thinking. Dr. Hoyle, you remember that there were a bunch of little sticks and stones you put in my aquarium first day you fixed it for me? Yes, yes. Well, there's a right queer thing with a big head come out in it, and he done eat up some of the little black bugs. I see him jump quicker and lighten at that littlest fish only so long, and try to bite a piece out in his fin. His lowest fin. What'd he do that for? Why, why, he was hungry. He made his dinner of the little black bugs, and he wanted the fin for his dessert. I don't like that kind of a beast. Once he was a worm in a kind of a hole-box, and then he turned into a little beast-gritter, and what'd he be next? Next. Why, next he'll be a fly, a beautiful fly with four wings all blue and gold and green. I seen them things flying around in the summer. It's queer, how things get themselves changed that away into something else. From a worm into that beast-gritter, and then into one of these here devil flies. You reckon it'll ever get changed into something different? Some kind of bird? A bird? No, no. When he becomes a fly, he's finished and done for. Perhaps there's some folks that away too. You reckon that's what ails me? You? Why, why what ails you? You reckon perhaps I might get changed some way other than this here queer back I got, so as I can hold my head like other folks. Just go to sleep and wake up straight like frail? The old doctor turned and looked down a moment on the child sitting hunched at his side. His mouth worked as he meditated a reply. What would you do if you could carry your head straight like frail? If you'd been like him, you would be running a still pretty soon. You never would've come to me to set you straight, and so you would never, never have seen all the pictures and the great cities. You're going to be a man before you know it, and I'll do a heap of things when I'm a man too. But I wished, I wished. These are snails we've been hunting. You reckon they're done grown to their shells so they can't get out? What did God make them that away for? It's all in the order of things. Everything has its place in the world and its work to do. They don't want to get out. They like to carry their bones on the outside of their bodies. They're made so. Yes, yes, all in the order of things. They like it. You reckon you can tell me how come God allowed me to have this here lump on my back? He ain't in no order of things for humans to be like I be. The skeptical old man looked down on the child quizzically, yet sadly. His flexible mouth twitched to reply, but he was silent. Hoyle looked back into the old doctor's eyes with grave direct gaze and turned away. You reckon why he done it? See here. Suppose. Just suppose you were given your choice this minute to change places with frail. Lord knows where he is now or what he's doing. Or be as you are and live your own life. Which would you be? Think it over. Think it out. If I had been straight, Brother David would never have took me up to you. No. No, no. You would have been a... You mean, if a magic man should come by here and just touch me so and change me into frail? Would I allow him to do it? That's what I mean. I don't guess frail. He'd like to be done that away. The loving little chap nestled closer to the doctor's side. I like you a heat, Dr. Hoyle. Frail. He fit Brother David and I about killed him. I reckon I'd rather be like I be and Biden I cast in the baby and have the aquarium and see more and go with you. You reckon I can go back with you? Go back? Of course go back. Be I a heap of trouble to you? You reckon God allowed me to have this here, huh? So that I could get to go and bite where you were at like a done? A suspicious moisture gathered in the doctor's eyes and he sprang up and went to examine earnestly a thorny shrub some paces away while the child continued to pipe his questions for the most part unanswerable. You reckon God just get my neck or twist so Brother David would take me to Canada to you? And so's Maud allowed me to do it? You reckon if I'm right good he'll allow me to make a picture of the ocean someday like the one we seed in that big house? You reckon if I tried right hard I could paint a picture of the mountain genre and the sea and and all all the ships? The doctor laughed heartily and merrily. Come, come we must go home now to Cassandra and the baby. Paint? Of course you could paint. You could paint pictures enough to fill a house. We don't want no magic man do we Dr. Hoyle? I cried a heap after I seen myself in the big looking glass down in Farrington where Brother David took me. I cried when it were dark and Ma were sleeping. Next time I reckon I better tell God much obliged for twisting my head around instead of crying and taking on like I've been doing. You reckon so Dr. Hoyle? Yes. Yes, yes I reckon so said the doctor meditatively as they descended the trail. From that day the child's strength increased. Sunny and buoyant he shook off the thought of his deformity and his beauty loving soul ceased introspective brooding and found delight in searching out beauty and in his creative faculty. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 of The Mountain Girl This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell. The Mountain Girl by Payne Erskine Chapter 28 In Which Frail Returns to the Mountains Dr. Hoyle lingered until the last of the laurel bloom was gone and the widow had become so absorbed in her grandchild as to make the parting much easier. Then he took the small atom and departed for the north. Never did the kind old man dream that his frail and twisted little namesake would one day be the pride of his life and the comfort of his declining years. Hoyle sure do look a heat better when Dr. David took him off that day. It did seem like I'd never see him again. Don't you guess at he's beginning to grow some? Seems like he do. The widow was seated on her little porch with the doctor the evening before they left and Cassandra who since the birth of the heir had been living again in her own little cabin had brought the baby down. He lay on his grandmother's lap quietly sleeping while his mother gathered Hoyle's treasures and packed his diminutive trunk. The boy followed her chattering happily as she worked. She also had noticed the change in him and suggested that perhaps as he had gained such a start toward health he need not return but would do quite well at home. He's a care to you doctor, although you're that kind and patient. I don't see how ever we can thank you enough for all you've done. Then Hoyle, to their utter astonishment, threw himself on the ground at the doctor's feet and burst into bitter weeping. Why, son, are you crying that away so you can get to go off and leave Ma here alone? But he continued to weep. And at last explained to them that the Lord done crooked him up that way so as he could get to go and learn to be a painter and make a house full of pictures and that the doctor had said he might. Dr. Hoyle lifted him to his knees with many assurances that he would keep his word, but for a long time the child sobbed hysterically, his face pressed against the old man's sleeve. What's that you say in child? Bounce the Lord twist in your neck? Better lay such as that to the devil more than likely. At the mention of that sinister individual, the babe wakened and stretched out his plump bare arms with little pink fists tightly closed. He yawned a prodigious yawn for so small accountants and gazed vacantly in his grandmother's face. Then a look of intelligence crept into his eyes and he smiled one of those sweet, evanescent smiles of infancy. Look at him now laughing at me that away. He'd be the prettiest I ever did see. Cass, she sure be mean not to tell his father that he have a son, she sure be. Cassandra came and tenderly took the babe in her arms and held him to her breast. There, there. Sleep, honey son, sleep again. She cooed, swaying her body to the rhythm of her speech. Sleep, honey son, sleep again. Don't you reckon she be mean to Dr. David, never to let on that he had a son and he are growing that fast? You are doing his father mean, Cassandra. Still Cassandra swayed and sang. Sleep, honey son, sleep again. He never will forgive you when he finds out how you have done him. I can't make out what all alge you know how. Hush, mother. I'm just leaving his heart in peace. He'll come when he can, and then he'll forgive me. As the doctor walked slowly at her side that evening, carrying the sleeping child back to her cabin, he also ventured a remonstrance but without a veil. It's hardly fair to his father such a fine little chap. You, you have a monopoly of him this way, you know? She flushed at the implication of selfishness but said nothing. How? How is that? Don't you think so? He persisted kindly. I reckon you can't feel what I feel, doctor. Why should I make his heart troubled when he must stay there? David knows I hate it to bide so long without him. He, he knows. If he could get to come back, don't you guess he'd come right quick anyway? Would he come any sooner for his son than for me? It was the doctor's turn for silence. She asked again this time with a tremor in her voice. You reckon he would, doctor? No. Of course not, he cried. Then what would be the use of telling him only to trouble him? He, he might like to think about him, you know. Might like it. He said he must go to Africa in May. So now he must have started. And our wedding was on May Day. Now it's the last of May. He must be there. He might be obliged to bide in that country a whole month, maybe two. It's so far away and his letters take so long to come. Doctor, are they fighting there now? Sometimes I wake in the night and think what if he should die a way off there in that far place? No. No, that's done. Not fighting, thank God. Rest your heart in peace. Now, after I'm gone, don't stay up here alone too much. I'm a physician and I know what's best for you. She took the now soundly sleeping child from the doctor's arms and laid him on the bed in the canvas room. The day had been warm and the fire was out in the great fireplace. The evening wind, light and cool, laden with sweet odors, swept through the cabin. They talked late that night of oil in his future, but never a word more of David. The old man thought he now understood her feeling and respected it. He certainly had a right to one small weakness, the strong, fair creature of the hills. Her husband must release himself from his absorbing cares and return simply for love of her, not at the call of his baby's wail. So the doctor, in his diminutive namesake, drove contentedly away next morning in the great covered wagon. And Cassandra, standing by her mother's door, smiled and lifted her baby for one last embrace from his loving little uncle. I'm going to grow a big man and I'll teach him to make pictures. Big ones! he called back. Yes, you'll do a heap. You better watch out to be right and pert. That's what you better do. David, not unmindful of affairs on the faraway mountainside, made it quite worth the while of the two cousins to stay on with the widow and run the small farm under Cassandra's directions. And she found herself fully occupied. She wrote, David, all the details, when and where things were planted, how the vines he had set on the hill-slope were growing, how the pink rose he had brought from hope-belues and planted by their threshold had grown to the top of the door and had three sweet blossoms. She had shaken the petals of one between the pages of her letter on May Day and sent it to remind him, she said. Nearly a month later than he had intended to sail, David left England, overwhelmed with many small matters, which seemed so great to his mother and sister, and burdened with duties imposed upon him by the realization that he had come into the possession of enormous wealth, more than he could comprehendingly estimate, and that he was now setting out to secure and prevent the loss of possible double what he already possessed. People gathered about him and presented him with worthy and unworthy opportunities for his disposal. They flocked to him in herds, with importunities and flatteries. The tower which he had built up with his ideals, and in which he had entrenched himself, was in danger of being undermined and toppled into ruins, burying his soul beneath the debris. When seated on the deck, the rose petals dropped into his hand as he tore open Cassandra's letter. Some, ere he could catch them, were caught up and blown away into the sea. He held them and inhaled their sweetness, and everything seemed to find its true value and proportion and to fall into its right place. Again on the mountaintop with Cassandra at his side, he viewed in a perspective of varying gradations his life, his aims, and his possessions. The personality of his young wife, of late a vague thing to him, distant and fair, and haloed about with sweet memories dimly discerned like a dream that is past, presented itself to him all at once vivid and clear, as if he held her in his arms with her head on his breast. He heard again her voice, with its quaint inflections and lingering tones. Their love for each other loomed large, and became for him at once the one truly vital thing in all his share of the universe. Had his body been endowed with the wings of his soul, he would have left all and gone to her. But alas for the restrictions of matter. He was gliding rapidly away and away, farther from the immediate attainment. Yet was his tower strengthened, wherein he had entrenched himself with his ideals. The withered rose petals had brought him exaltation of purpose. In the mountains, July came with unusually sultry heat, yet the rich pocket of soil, watered by its never-failing stream, suffered little from the drought. Weeds grew apace, and Cassandra had much adieu to hold her cousin Cotton Caswell, easy going and thriftless, to his task of keeping the small farm in order. For a long time now, Cassandra had avoided those moments of far-seeing and brooding. Had not David said he feared them for her? In these days of waiting, she dreaded, lest they show her something to which she would rather remain blind. In the evenings, looking over the hill-tops from her rock, visions came to her out of the clinging mists, but she put them from her and calmed her breast with the babe on her bosom, and solaced her longing by keeping all in readiness for David's return. Perhaps at any moment, with wind-lifted hair and buoyant smile, he might come up the laurel path. For this reason she preferred living in her own cabin-home, and that she might not be alone at night. Martha Caswell or her brother slept on a cot in the large cabin-room, but Cassandra cared little for their company. They might come or not as they chose. She was never afraid now that she was strong again, and the baby was well. One evening, sitting thus, her babe lying asleep on her knees and her heart over the sea, something caused her to start from her reverie and look away from the blue distance toward the cabin. There, a few paces away, regarding her intently, stalwart and dark, handsome and eager, stood frail. Much older, he seemed, more reckless he appeared, yet still a youth in his undisciplined impulse. She sat pale as death unable to move in breathless amazement. He smiled upon her out of the gathering dusk. For some minutes he had been regarding her, and the tumult within him had become riotous with long restraint. He came swiftly forward, and ere she could turn her head, his arms were about her, and his lips upon hers, and she felt herself pinioned in her chair. Nor, for guarding her baby unhurt by his vehemence, could she use her hands to hold him from her. Nor, for the suffocating beating of her heart, could she cry out. Neither would her cry have availed, for there were none near to hear her. Stop, frail! I am not yours. Stop, frail! she implored. Yes, you are mine, he said in his low drawl, lifting his head to gaze in her face. You give me your promise, that doctor man. He done gone and left you all alone, and he ain't never going to come back to these here mountains. She snatched her hands from the child on her knees, and with sudden movement pushed him violently, but he only held her closer, and it was as if she struggled against muscles of iron. No, you don't. I have you now, and I won't never leave you go again. He had not been drinking, yet he was like one drunken so long had he brooded and waited. Rapidly she tried to think how she might gain control over him. When wakened by the struggle, the babe wailed out, and he started to his feet, his hands clutching into his hair as if he were struck with sudden fear. He had not noticed, or given heed, to what lay upon her knees, and the cry penetrated his heart like a knife. A child. His child. That doctor's child. He hated the thought of it, and the old impulse to strike down anything or any creature that stood in his way seized him. The impulse that unchecked had made him a murderer. He could kill, kill. Cassandra gathered that little body to her heart, and standing still before him looked into his eyes. Instinctively she knew that only calmness and faith in his right action would give her the mastery now, and with a prayer in her heart she spoke quietly. How come you hear frail? You wrote mother you'd gone to Texas. His figure relaxed, and his arms drooped, but still he bent forward and gazed eagerly into her eyes. I come back when I hear'd he were gone. I come back right soon. Kate Irwin's wife written me that he were gone, and now she done told me he ain't never going to come back to these here mountains. Everybody on the mountains knows that. He just a-fooled you all that away, making out to marry you whilst he were in bed, like he couldn't stand on his feet, and then getting up and going off this away, and biding eye onto a year. We don't allow our women to be done that away like they were poor white trash. I come back for you like I promise, and you done give me your promise too. I reckon you won't go bad on that now. He stepped nearer, and she clasped the babe closer, but did not flinch. Yes, frail, you promised, and I, I promised to save you from yourself, to be a good man, but you broke yours. You didn't repent, and you went on drinking, and then you tried to kill an innocent man when he was alone and unarmed, like a coward you shot him. I called back my words from God. I gave them to the man I loved. Promise for promise, frail. Yes, and curse for curse. You cursed me, Cass. He made one more step forward, but she stood her ground, and lifted one hand above her head, the gesture he so well remembered. Keep back, frail. I did not curse you. I let you go free, and no one followed you. Go back, farther, farther, or I will do it now. Oh, God! he cowered, his arm before his eyes, and moved backward. Don't, Cass! he cried. For a moment she stood regally before him, her babe resting easily in the hollow of her arm. Then she slowly lowered her hand, and spoke again in quiet, distinct tones. Now for that lie they have told you, I am going to my husband. I start tomorrow. He has sent me money to come to him. You tell that word all up and down the mountainside, wherever their bides want to hear. She lifted her baby, pressing his little face to her cheek, and turning, walked slowly toward the cabin door. Cass, he called. She paused. Well, frail? Cass, you have cursed me. No, frail. It is the curse of Cain that rests on your soul. You brought it on by your own hand. If you live right and repent, Christ will take it off. Will you ask him for me, Cass? I sure have lost you now forever, Cass. Yes, frail. I'll ask him to cover up all this year out of your life. It has been full of mad badness. Be like you used to be, frail, and leave all thinking on me this way. It is sin. Go marry somebody who can love you and care for you like you need, and come back here and do for mother like you used to. Giles Teasley can't pester you. He's half-dead with his badness, drinking his own liquor. She came to him, and taking his hand led him toward the Laurel path. Go down to mother now, frail, and half-suffer, and sleep in your own bed like no evil had ever come into your heart, she pleaded. The good is in you, frail. God sees it, and I see it. Heed to me, frail. Good night. Slowly, with bent head, he walked away. Trembling, Cassandra laid her baby in the cradle hope-belue had made her, and kneeling beside the rude little bed, she bowed her head over it and wept scalding bitter tears. She felt herself shamed before the whole mountainside. Oh, why? Why need David have left her so long? So long! The first reproach against him entered her heart, and at the same time she reasoned with herself. He could not help it. Surely he could not. He was good and true, and they should all know it if she had to lie for it. When she had sobbed herself into a measure of calmness, she heard a step cross the cabin floor. Quickly drying her tears, she rose and stood in the doorway of the canvas room, with dilated eyes and in-drawn breath, peering into the dusk, barring the way. It was only her mother. Why, mother! she cried, relieved and overjoyed. Have you seen Frail? Yes, mother. He was here. Sit down and get your breath. You've climbed too fast. Her mother dropped into a chair and placed a small bundle on the table at her side. What all is this Frail say you've told him? Have David writ for you like Frail say? What all have Frail been up to now? He come down creeping like he a half-daid man, that soft and quiet. I'm going to David, mother. You know he sent me money to use any way I choose, and I'm going. She caught her breath and faltered. The mother rose and took her in her arms, and drawing her head down to her wrinkled cheek, patted her softly. There, honey, there! I reckon your old mawn knows a heap more than you think. You keep mighty still, but you can't fool her. Cassandra drew herself together. Why didn't Martha come up this evening? She were making ready in her trifling, slow way, and then Frail come down and said that word, and I knew right quick as there was something behind his way were that quare. So I told Martha to set him out of good supper, and I'd stop up here myself this night. She were right glad to do it. Fool she be. I could see how she went plum-silly over Frail all at once. Mother, you know right well what they're saying about David and me. Is it true, that word Frail said, that everyone says he never will come back? The mother was silent. That's all right, mother. We'll pack up tonight, and I'll go down to Farrington tomorrow. Miss Towers will help me to start right. She lighted candles, and began to lay out her baby's wardrobe. I haven't anything to put these in, but I can carry everything I need down there in baskets, and she will help me. They've always been that good to me all my life. Cass. Cass, don't go. Welled her mother. I'm afraid something will happen to you if you go that far away. If you could leave baby with me, Cass, give it up. Be a fear to Frail, honey? No, mother. The man doesn't live that I'm afraid of. She paused, holding the candle in her hand, lighting her face that shone whitely out of the darkness. Her eyes glowed, and she held her head high. Then she turned again to her work, gathering her few small treasures and placing them on one of the highest shelves of the chimney cupboard. As she worked, she tried to say comforting things to her mother. I'll write to you every day like David does me, mother. See, I've kept all his letters. They're in this box. I don't want to burn them because I love them, and I don't want anyone else to read them. And I don't want to carry them with me because I'll have him there. Will you lock them in your box, mother? And if anything happens to me, will you sure, sure burn them? She laid them on the table at her mother's elbow. You promise, mother? Yes, Cass, yes. What's in that bundle, mother? The trembling fingers. The widow opened her parcel and displayed the silver teapot, from which the spout had been melted to be molded into silver bullets. Thou'er, she said, holding it up by the handle. It's shorn. Far well. He'd done that one day whilst I were gone, and the last bullet were the one frail used when he nigh killed your man. No, I reckon you never did see it before, for I kept it he'd good. I know there was something to come out and hit one day. It do show your father come from some fine high family somewhere. I didn't show it to Dr. David. For I loud he might know was it worth anything, but he seemed to set more by them two little books. He hasn't books yet, I reckon. Yes, he has them. When frail told me you were going to David, I guessed that there was something that I ought to know, and I clump up here right quick, for if he were lying, I meant to find out the reason why. She looked keenly in her daughter's face, which remained passive under the scrutiny. Has frail been a pester in you? He did some at first, but I send him away. I reckon so. Now, Hark, you tell me straight. Did David send for ye, or didn't he? In silence Cassandra turned to her work, until it seemed as if the room were filled with the suspense of the unanswered question. Then she tried evasion. Why do you ask in that away, mother? Because if he sent for you, I'll help you all I can. But if you didn't, I'll hinder ye, and ye'll buy right where ye be. You won't do that, mother? I sure will. If David haven't sent for you, and ye go, ye'll have to walk over me to get there, hear? The mother's voice was raised to a higher pitch than was her won't, and the little silver pot shook in her hand. Cassandra took it and regarded it without interest, absorbed in other thoughts. Then throwing off her abstraction, she began questioning her mother about it, and why she had brought it to her now. The widow told all she knew, as she had told David, and pointed out the half obliterated coat of arms on the side. I have heard your pa say that there were more pieces in this once, but this had come straight to him from his grandpa, and now it's your own. If you have some for you, take it with you. It may be worth more than you think for now. I've been told they do think a heap of family over there, just like we do here in the mountains. Least ways, it's all we do have, some of us. My family were all good stock, capable and pert, and now hark to me, wherever you go, just you hold your head up. They ain't nothing more despisable than a body that goes meeching round like some old sheep-stealing hound-dog. Now, if you sure enough have some for you, go and I'll help you. But if you haven't, hide where you be. Cassandra drew in her breath sharply, no longer able to evade the question with her mother's keen eyes searching her face. All her reasons for going flashed through her mind in a moment's space of time. The book she had been reading. What were English people really like? In David. Her David. Her boy's father. What shameful things were they saying of him all over the mountain that Frail should dare come to her as he had done? She could not stay now. She would not. Her cheeks flamed, and she walked silently into the canvas room and stood by her baby's cradle. Her mother began wrapping up the silver pot. I guess I'll take this bag and lock it up again. You sure hate to go if you can't give me that word. Cassandra went quickly and took it from her mother's hand. No, mother. Give it to me. I told Frail David had sent for me, and I'm going. And he has some for you? Yes, mother. Her reply was low as she turned again to her work. Well, now, why couldn't you have given me that word first off? It's his right to have him, and I'll help you. You ought to go to him if he can't come to you. Instantly up an alert, putting bravely aside her own feelings at the thought of parting, the mother began helping her daughter. And after they were finished and settled for the night, she lay wakeful and dreading the coming day. Cassandra slept less and lay quietly thinking, sorrowful that she must leave her home, and not a little anxious over what might be her future and what might be her fate in that strange land. When at last she slept, she dreamed of the people she had met in Vanity Fair, with David strangely mixed up among them, and frail, ever alert and watchful, moving wherever she moved, silently lingering near and never taking his eyes from her face. In the morning mother and daughter were up at times, but no word was spoken between them to betoken hesitation or fear. Cassandra walked in a sort of dumb wonder at herself, and smoldering deep beneath the surface was a fierce resentment against those who, having known her from childhood and receiving many favors and kindnesses from her, should now presume to so speak against her husband as to make frail dare to approach her as he had. Oh, the burning shame of those kisses, the shame of the thought against David that pervaded her beloved mountains. For the sake of his good name, she would put away her pride and go to him.