The Mountain Girl Part 54

He leaped from the carriage before it had time to halt, and ran, but alas! baffled and enraged at his ill success, he stood on the platform and watched the train pull out. It was only a slow local puffing away there.

"Liverpool express left five minutes ago, my lord," said the guard.

His mother leaned out, watching him with sad, yet eager eyes, satisfied that it should be so. He might return now, and there was by no means an end to her opposition.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

IN WHICH Ca.s.sANDRA BRINGS THE HEIR OF DANESHEAD CASTLE BACK TO HER HILLTOP, AND THE SHADOW LIFTS

"Ca.s.sandry Merlin, whar did you drap from?" cried the Widow Farwell, as she looked up from the supper she was preparing at the great fireplace, and saw her daughter in the doorway with her baby. Her old face radiated light and warmth and love as she took them both in her arms. "Whar's David?"

Ca.s.sandra smiled wearily, returning her mother's kiss and yielding her the baby. "You'll have to be satisfied with me and little son, mother.

David was still in Africa, so I came home again." She spoke as if a trip to England were a casual little matter, and this was all the explanation she gave that night. "I got the hotel carriage to bring me up from the station."

The mother, with quaint simplicity, accepted it, asking no troublesome questions. If David was not there, why should not her daughter return.

After their supper together, in the warm, starlit evening, each member of the family carrying something for the traveller's comfort, they all climbed up to Ca.s.sandra's cabin, and the old life began as if it had suffered no interruption. Ca.s.sandra so filled the pauses with questions of all that had happened during her absence that it was only after her mother was in bed and dropping off to sleep she remembered questions of her own that had been unasked, or left unanswered.

The next day Ca.s.sandra pleaded weariness and stayed in her cabin, sending Martha down for her necessary supplies, and quietly occupying herself with setting her simple home in its accustomed order. The day after, she spent overlooking the little farm with Cotton, and hearing from him all about the animals. The cows, two little calves, Frale's colt, and her own filly, and how "some ol' houn' dog" had got into the sheep-pen and killed the mother sheep, and "Marthy" had brought the twin lambs up by hand. And while Ca.s.sandra busied herself thus, the widow kept charge of the little grandson, warming her heart with his baby ways, petting him and solacing herself for his long absence.

Thus the first days were lived through, and no further explanation made, for something held Ca.s.sandra silent in a strange waiting suspense. It was not hope, for she felt that she had taken a stand which was conclusive, and there was nothing more for which to hope. What else could she do, and what could David do? The conditions were made for them; each must bide in his own world, and she had named the ocean which divided them, "Death."

At night she did not weep, for weeping made her ill, and she must conserve her strength for her little son, so she lay staring out at the stars. Sometimes she found herself holding her breath and listening,--half lifting her head from her pillow,--but listening for what? Then she would lean over her baby's cradle, and hear his soft breathing, trying to make herself think she was listening for that and not for David's step. Then she would lie back and try again to sleep, and her heart would cry to G.o.d to give her peace, and let her rest. So the long nights pa.s.sed, tearlessly and sleeplessly.

On the boat she had slept, lulled by its rocking and swaying, but here in her home--in her accustomed routine--sleep had fled, and old thoughts and dreams came like the dead to haunt her. The paleness which had come upon her in London, and which the sea breeze had supplanted with fleeting roses, returned, and she moved about looking as if only her wraith had come back to its old haunts.

On the third day after Ca.s.sandra's return, David found himself climbing the laurel path a far different man from the one who, two years before, had slowly and wearily toiled up to the little house of logs which was to be his shelter. With strong, free step and heart uplifted and glad, he now climbed that winding path. He had conquered the ills of his body, and his spirit had lived and loved, and he had learned to know happiness from its counterfeit. He had gone out and seen men chasing phantoms and shadows thinking therein to find joy--joy--the need of the world--one in a coronet, one in a crown, and the beggar in a golden sovereign--while he--he had found it in his own heart and in Ca.s.sandra's eyes.

David had pa.s.sed the Fall Place, seeing no one; for the widow had ridden over to spend the day with Sally Carew, her niece was in the spring-house skimming cream, while Cotton was dawdling in the corn patch whistling and pulling the ripened ears from the stalks. A cool breeze had dispelled the heat of the September afternoon, and the hills were already beginning to don their gorgeous apparel after the summer's drouth; their wonderful beauty struck him anew and steeped his senses with their charm.

If only all was well with his wife--his wife and his little son! His heart beat so madly as he neared the thicket of laurel where once he had stood to watch her moving about his cabin, that he was forced to pause; and again he saw her, standing in her homespun dress, strongly relieved against the whiteness of the canvas room beyond--but this time not alone-- Ah, not alone! Holding his little son in her arms, her body swaying with rhythmic motion, lulling him to drowsiness and sleep, she stooped to lay him in the rude little cradle box.

David trembled as he watched, and dashed the tears from his eyes, but could not move to break too soon this breathless, poignant spell of gladness. Suddenly he could wait no longer, but his feet clung to the earth when he would move, and his mouth went dry. Ah, could he never reach her? He stood holding out his arms, when, oh, wonder of wonders!

she raised herself and stood as if listening, then, moving swiftly, walked from the cabin and came to him as if she had heard him call, although he had made no sound--her arms outstretched to him as were his to her.

She did not cry out, but with parted lips and radiant, glowing face, fled to him and was clasped to his heart. She could feel its beating against her breast, and his silence spoke to her through his eyes, which saw not her face but her soul; his lips brought the roses to her cheeks as the sea breezes had done--roses that came and fled and came again--until at last it was Ca.s.sandra who spoke first.

"I want you to see him, David."

"Yes, yes, my wife," was all he said, his eyes on hers, but he did not move.

"I want you to see our little son, David." A strange pang shot through his heart. Still he stood, holding her and marvelling at himself. What!

Was it that this young usurper had stolen into his place?

"Love is selfish, dear. Let me recover from one joy before you overwhelm me with another. First, I must have my own, and know that it is all mine."

"I don't understand, David. I can't wait. Oh! David--David!"

"You turn my name to music with your tones lingering over it. I had forgotten how sweet it was."

"But I don't understand, David. Come and see him." And as she drew him forward, they moved as one being, not two.

"No, you don't understand, thank G.o.d. But I will teach you something you never knew. Love is not only blind, dearest; he is a greedy, selfish little G.o.d."

Then she laughed happily, holding him at arm's-length and looking in his eyes. "I know it. I know it. I found it out all by myself. Didn't I tell you in my letter? Oh, David, so was I!" She drew him to her again and nestled her face in his bosom. "I was jealous of our little son. I wanted you, David-- Oh! I wanted you." At last came the tears, the blessed human tears which she had held back so long. But now they did no harm except to drench her husband's gray tie, and they brought a lovely flush to her face. "I can't stop, David; I can't stop. I haven't cried for so long, and now I can't stop."

"Sweetheart, don't try to stop. Cry it all out. Wash the stains from me of the cruel old world where I have been; cleanse me so that I may see as clearly as you see; but you would have to cry forever to do that, wouldn't you, sweet? And soon you must laugh again."

He clasped and comforted her as she was used to comfort her baby, soothing her and drying her eyes with his own handkerchief. "Yours isn't large enough for such a flood, is it, sweet?"

"No, a--a--and I--I can-can't find mine," she sobbed "I--I--left it tucked under baby's chin--and now I've spoiled your pretty gray tie."

"Bless you! They are my tears, and it is my tie--"

"David! He is crying--hark!"

"Helping his mother, is he? Come then, his father will comfort him."

"Hear him. Isn't it a sweet little cry, David?" She smiled at him from under tear-wet lashes.

"Why, bless you again! Yours was a sweet little cry." They went in, and he bent over the odd little cradle and lifted the child tenderly from its soft nest. The wailing ceased, and the fatherhood awoke in him and laughed with joy as he held the warm little body to his heart, wherein now, he knew, lay the key of life--the complete and rounded love, G.o.d's gift to man, to be cherished when found, and fought for and held in the holy of holies of his own soul.

"He isn't afraid, you see, David. How he stares at you! Does he feel it in his own little heart that you are his father? I have whispered it to him a thousand, thousand times. Sit here with him, David, and I'll make you some tea." She busied herself with the tea things--the old life beginning anew--with a new interest.

"I always make it just as you taught me that first day when I came up here so choked with trouble I couldn't speak. You always brought me good, David."

He saw as he watched her that some new and subtile charm had been added to her personality. Was it motherhood that had given it to her, or the long year of patient waiting and trusting; or had she pa.s.sed through depths of which he as yet knew nothing, to cause this evanescent breath of pathos? He felt and knew it was all of these. What must she have endured as she wrote that letter!

David fell easily and happily into his life on the mountain again--not the English lord, but the vital, human being, the man in splendid possession of himself and his impulses, holding sacred his rights as a man, not to be coerced by custom or bound by any chains save those he himself had forged to bind his heart before G.o.d.

For a time he would not allow himself to think of the future, preferring to live thus with the world completely shut away. Buoyantly, jubilantly, he tramped the hills and visited the homes where he had been wont to bring help and often comforts, and found himself therein lauded and idolized as few of his station ever are.

Again he was "Doctah Thryng," and the love that accompanied the t.i.tle, in the hearts of those mountain people, was regal. He enjoyed his little farm, and the gathering of his first "c.r.a.p," counting his bundles of fodder and his bushels of corn. Sometimes he rode with Ca.s.sandra, visiting the old haunts; at such times David insisted that the boy be left with the grandmother or that Martha should come up to mind him, that he might have his wife free and quite to himself as in their first days.

But all this time, although silent about it, Ca.s.sandra kept in her heart the thought of David's real state. She felt he was playing a part to bring her joy, and was grateful, but she knew he must return to his own world and live his own life. Therefore she existed in a state of breathless suspense, to enjoy these moments to the fullest,--not to miss or mar an instant of the blessed time while it lasted.

The days were flying--flying--so rapidly she dared not think, and here was splendid October trailing her wonderful draperies over the hills like a lavish princess. When would David speak? But perhaps he was waiting for her to speak first? If so, how long ought she to remain silent? Often he caught the wistful look in her eyes, and half divined the meaning.

One day when they had wandered up her father's path, and the wind came in warm, soft gusts, sweeping over the miles of splendor from the sea, David drew her to him, determined to win from her a full expression.

"What is it, Ca.s.sandra? Open your heart. Don't shut anything away from me. What have you been dreaming lately?"

"You have never said a word of fault with me yet, David--for what I did, going away off there and not waiting quietly until you could come back, as you wrote me to do."