The Mountain Girl Part 52

"We have had a visit from Lady Clara Temple," she said.

David lay upon a divan with his hands clasped beneath his head, and the light from a reading lamp streamed upon his sunny hair, which always looked as if some playful breeze had just lifted it. His whole frame had the sinewy appearance of energy and power. His mother's heart swelled with love and pride as she looked at his smiling, thoughtful face, and down upon his lean, strong body that in its la.s.situde expressed the vigor of a splendid animal at rest.

Still more would she have given thanks for the restoration of this beloved son could she have been able to contrast his present state with his condition when, ill and discouraged, he had gone to the lonely log cabin in a wilderness, struggling to build up both body and spirit, far from the sympathy and fellows.h.i.+p of his own.

Now she thrilled with the thought of what he might achieve if only he would, but her heart misgave her that he still held some strange notions of life. She thought the surest way to control his quixotic impulses was to provide him with a good, practical wife,--one who would see the world as it is and accept conditions that are stable, not trying to move mountains, yet with sufficient ambition for both her husband and herself. With a wife and children a man could not afford to be erratic.

"What were you saying, mother?"

"What were you thinking, David, that you did not hear me? I am telling you we have just had a very delightful visit from Lady Clara Temple, and Lady Temple and her son have called."

David made no reply. He seemed to think the remark called for none.

"Well, David?"

"Well, mother?" and then: "I think I will go to bed. I am rarely tired, and bed is the place for me." He kissed his mother, then took hold of her chin and lifted her face to look in his eyes. "What is it, little mother, what is it?" he asked gayly and obtusely.

"Aren't you a bit stupid, David, not to see? I wish--I do wish you could care for Lady Clara. She really is charming."

"I do care for her--as Lady Clara Temple. She is charming, and, as you say of me, a bit stupid. What has Laura been doing these two months?"

"Preparing for her coming out after her own fas.h.i.+on. We've been a good deal in town, but she has a reckless way of doing anything she pleases, quite regardless."

"She is a big-hearted fine la.s.s, mother. Don't let her ways trouble you."

"She needs the right influence, and Lady Clara seems to exert it over her--at least I think she will in time."

"Ah, very good, let her. I won't interfere. Good night, little mother; sleep well. If I am late in the morning, don't be annoyed. I've had three wakeful nights. The sea was very rough."

"David!" Lady Thryng placed her hands on his shoulders and held him, looking in his eyes. "Marry Lady Clara. You are worthy of a princess, my son. You can afford to be ambitious. The day may come when you can entertain the king."

"Now really, mother; I'll entertain the king with pleasure. He's a fine old chap. A little gay, you know, but quite the right sort. But Lady Clara is a step too high. She'd rub it into me some day that I'd married above my station, you know. Good night. Dream of the king, mother, but not of Lady Clara."

He sought his bed, and was soon soundly sleeping, content with the thought that next week he would sail for America and have Laura's coming out postponed. The family festivity was following too closely on the year of mourning, at any rate. The announcement that he already had a penniless American wife would naturally be a blow to them, all the more so if his mother was seriously cheris.h.i.+ng such hopes as she had expressed; but he couldn't be a cad. His conscience smote him that his conduct already bordered closely on the caddish, but to be an out and out cad,--no, no.

When he awoke,--late, as he had said, but refreshed and jubilant,--the revelation he must make seemed to him less formidable, and he was minded to make it with no more delay as he tossed over his mail, while breakfasting in his room.

"Ah, what is this?" A letter in his wife's hand, bearing the Liverpool postmark! Was she on her way to him, then? "Good G.o.d!" He tore off the cover hastily, but sat a moment with bowed head, his hand over his eyes, before reading it.

"MY DEAR DAVID,--My husband, forgive me. I have done wrong, but I meant to do right. They said words of you,--on our mountain, David,--words I hated; and I lied to them and came to you. I told them you had sent for me. I did it to prove to them that what they were saying was not true. I took the money you gave me and came to England, and now G.o.d has punished me, and I am going back. I know you will be surprised when I tell you how wrong I have been. I would not write you I had borne you a little son, because I did not want you to come back to America for his sake, but for mine. My heart was that proud. Oh! David, forgive me."

David's face grew pale, and the paper trembled in his hand, but he read eagerly on.

"My heart cries to you all the time. He is yours, David; forgive me. He is very beautiful. He is like you. Your sister held him in her arms, and I kissed her for love of you, but she did not know why. She did not guess the beautiful baby was yours--your very own. Your mother saw him, but she did not guess he was hers--her little grandson. I took him away quickly. They might have kept him if they knew. You will let me have him a little longer, won't you, David? When he is older, you will have to take him home and educate him, but now--now--he is all I have of you.

Soon the terrible ocean will be between us again.

"It will be just the same in your home now as if I had never come. I did not say I was your wife--for you had not--and I would not tell them. I want you to know this, so nothing will be changed by me. In London, before I knew, when I thought you were there, when I did not understand, I wrote my name in the hotel book, but in Queensderry something in my heart stopped me and I only wrote my old name, Ca.s.sandra Merlin. I must have been beginning to understand."

David paused and dashed the tears from his eyes. "Poor little heart!

Poor little heart!" he cried. He paced the room, then tried to read again. The letters, blurred by his tears, seemed to dance about and run together.

"Now I see it all clearly, David, and, after a little, G.o.d will help me to live on the happiness you brought me in our sweet year together.

There was happiness for a lifetime in that year. Comfort your heart with that thought when you think of me, and do not be too sad.

"Oh, David! I did not know that to save me from marrying Frale and living a life worse than death you sacrificed yourself. But you did not need to do it. After knowing you and after doing what he did to you, I never could have married him. I only knew you came to me and saved me from the terrible life I might have led, and I took you as from G.o.d. I have seen the beautiful lady you should have married, and I don't know what to do, nor how to give you back to yourself. I suppose there may be a way, but we have made our vows to each other before G.o.d, and we must do no sin. My heart is heavy. I would give you all, all, but I can't take back the love I gave you. I could die to set you free again, for in that way I could keep the blessed love which is part of my soul, in heaven with me, only for our little son. My life is his now, too, and I have no right to die, not yet, even to set you free.

"Oh, David, David! This must be the shadow I saw clouding our long path of light. In some terrible way it has been laid on me to do you a wrong in the eyes of your family and all your world. Your mother told me you had work to do for your country, great and glorious work. I believe it, and you must do it and not let an ignorant mountain girl stand in your way.

"Oh! I can't think it out to-night. When I try to see a way, I can't.

The visions are lost to my eyes, and they may never come again. The windows of my soul are clouded, and the clear seeing is gone, because, David, I know it is myself that comes between. I can only cry to you now to forgive me. Don't let me mar your great, good life. Don't try to come back to me. Stay on and live your life and do your work, and I will keep your little son safe for you, and teach him to love you and call you father, and he shall be called David. He has no name yet; I was waiting for you. It will only be a little while before he will need you, then you may take him. Your mother and sister will love him. He will be a great boy full of laughter and light, like you, David, and then your mountain girl wife will be gone and your sacrifice at an end, and your reward will come at last.

"I will go back and stay quietly where I belong. Don't send me any more money. I have enough to take me home, and I can earn all we need after that. Earning will help me by giving me something to do for our baby and so for you. Sometimes I will send you word that all is well with him, but do not write to me any more. It will be easier for you so, and don't let your heart be too much troubled for me, David. It will interfere with your power and usefulness in your own world. Grieving is like fire set to a great tree. It burns the heart out of it first, and leaves the rest. A man must not be like that. With a woman it is different. Be glad that you did save me and brought me all these months of sweet, sweet happiness. I will live on the remembrance.

"People have to bear the separation of death, and we will call the ocean that divides us Death, for our two worlds are divided by it. I sail to-morrow. You took me into your heart to save me, and now, David my love, I go out of your heart to save you, and give you back to your own life. Some day the cords that bind us to each other, the cords our vows have made, will part and set you free. Good-by, good-by, David my heart, David my love, David, David, good-by.

"Ca.s.sANDRA MERLIN."

For a long instant David sat with the letter crushed in his hand, then suddenly awoke to energetic action.

"To-day? When does the boat leave? Good G.o.d! there may be time." He rang for a servant and began tossing his clothing together. "Curses on me for a cad--a boor--a lout--. Why did I leave my mail until this morning and then oversleep! Clark," he said, as the man appeared, "tell Hicks to bring the machine around immediately, then come for my bag."

"Beg pardon, but the machine's out of order, my lord, and her ladys.h.i.+p's just going out in the carriage."

"Why is it out of order? Hicks is a fool. Ask Lady Thryng to wait. No, pack my bag and send my boxes on after me as they are. I'll speak to her myself."

He threw off his jacket, thrust his cap in his pocket, and dashed away, pulling on his coat as he went, holding the crushed pages of the letter in his hand. He overtook his mother as she was walking down the terrace.

"Mother, wait," he cried, "I'm going with you. Where's Laura?"

"She was coming. I can't think what is delaying her."

David hurried on to the carriage. "Get in, mother, I'll take her place.

Get in, get in. We must be off."

"David, are you out of your head?"

"Yes, mother. Drive on, drive on. I must catch the first train for Liverpool--I may catch it. Put the horses through, John. Make them sweat," he said, leaning out of the carriage window.

"Explain yourself, David. Are you in trouble?"

"Yes, mother. Wait a little."

She looked at her son and saw his mouth set, his eyes stern and anguished, and she placed her hand gently on his as they were being whirled away. "Your bags are not in, David, if you are going a journey."

"Clark will follow with them, and I can wait in Liverpool, if I can only catch this boat."

"David, explain. If you can't, then let me read this," she pleaded, touching the letter in his hand; but he clutched it the tighter.

"No one may read this, not even you." He pressed the crumpled sheets to his lips, then folded them carefully away. "It's just that I've been a cad--a fiendish cad and an idiot in one. I thought myself a man of high ideals-- My G.o.d, I am a cad!"