IN WHICH DAVID AND HIS MOTHER DO NOT AGREE
The day after Cassandra's flight from Queensderry David returned.
Although greatly prolonged, his African expedition had been successful,
and he was pleased. He had improved his opportunities to learn political
conditions and know what might best advance England's power in that
remote portion of her possessions.
Mr. Stretton had informed him that he might soon be called to a seat in
the House, and he was glad to be in a measure prepared to hold opinions
of his own on a few, at least, of the vital issues. Canada he already
knew well, and to be conversant also with the state of affairs in South
Africa gave him greater confidence.
The first afternoon of his return he spent in looking over the changes
which had been in progress at Daneshead during his absence. In spite of
his weariness, he seemed buoyant and gay, more so, his mother thought,
than at any time since his return from America. She said nothing about
the episode of Cassandra's call,--possibly for the time it was
forgotten,--but as they parted for the night, when they were alone
together, Lady Thryng again broached to her son the subject of his
marriage.
"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 lassitude 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 fellowship of his own.
Now she thrilled with the thought of what he might achieve if only he
would, but her heart misgave her that he still held some strange notions
of life. She thought the surest way to control his quixotic impulses was
to provide him with a good, practical wife,--one who would see the world
as it is and accept conditions that are stable, not trying to move
mountains, yet with sufficient ambition for both her husband and
herself. With 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 fashion. We've been a good
deal in town, but she has a reckless way of doing anything she pleases,
quite regardless."
"She is a big-hearted fine lass, 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 cherishing such hopes as she had
expressed; but he couldn't be a cad. His conscience smote him that his
conduct already bordered closely on the caddish, but to be an out and
out cad,--no, no.
When he awoke,--late, as he had said, but refreshed and jubilant,--the
revelation he must make seemed to him less formidable, and he was minded
to make it with no more delay as he tossed over his mail, while
breakfasting in his room.
"Ah, what is this?" A letter in his wife's hand, bearing the Liverpool
postmark! Was she on her way to him, then? "Good God!" He tore off the
cover hastily, but sat a moment with bowed head, his hand over his eyes,
before reading it.
"MY DEAR DAVID,--My husband, forgive me. I 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 God 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, Cassandra 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, God will help me
to live on the happiness you brought me in our sweet year together.
There was happiness for a lifetime in that year. Comfort your heart with
that thought when you think of me, and do not be too sad.
"Oh, David! I did not know that to save me from marrying 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 God. 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 God, and we must
do no sin. My heart is heavy. I would give you all, all, but I can't
take back the love I gave you. I could die to set you free again, for in
that way I could keep the blessed love which is part of my soul, in
heaven with me, only for our little son. My life is his now, too, and I
have no right to die, not yet, even to set you free.
"Oh, David, David! This must be the shadow I saw clouding our long path
of light. 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.
"CASSANDRA 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 God! 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 ladyship'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 God, I am a cad!"
"David, you sacrificed yourself to ideals, but you are still a boy and
have much to learn. When men try to set new laws for themselves and get
out of the ordinary, they are more than apt to make fools of themselves,
and may do positive harm. What is it now?"
"Can't you get over the ground any faster, John?" he cried, thrusting
his head again out of the window. "These horses are overfed and lazy,
like all the English people. Why was the machine out of order? Hicks is
a fool--I say!" He put his hand inside his collar and pulled and worked
it loose. "We are all hidebound here. Even our clothes choke us."
"David, tell me the truth."
"I am telling you the truth. I am a cad, I say. And you--you, too, are a
part of the system that makes cads of us all."
"I am your mother, David," said Lady Thryng, reprovingly.
"You have reason to be proud of your son! Oh! curse me! I won't be more
of a cad than I am now by laying the blame on you. I could have helped
it, but you couldn't. We are born and bred that way, over here. The
petty lines of distinction our ancestors drew for us,--we bow down and
worship them, and say God drew them. Over here a man hides the sun with
his own hand and then cries out, 'Where is it?'"
"I would comfort you if I could, but this sounds very much like ranting.
I thought you had outlived that sort of thing, my son."
"Thank God, no. I've been very hard pressed of late, but I've not
outlived it."
"You will tell me this trouble--now--before you leave me? You must, dear
boy." He took the hand she put out to him, and held it in silence; then,
incoherently, in a voice humbled and low,--almost lost in the rumbling
of the carriage,--he told her. It was a revelation of the soul, and as
the mother listened she too suffered and wept, but did not relent.
Cassandra's cry, "I am a strangah!" sounded in her ears, but her sorrow
was for her son. Yes, she was a stranger, and had wisely taken herself
back to her own place; what else could she do? Was it not in the nature
of a Providence that David had been delayed until after her departure?
The duty now devolved upon herself to comfort him without further
reproof, but nevertheless to make him see and do his duty in the
position he had been called to fill.
"Of course she has charm, David, and evidently good sense as well."
"How do you mean?"
"To perceive the inevitable and return without fuss or complaint to her
own station in life."
For an instant he sat stunned, and ere he could give utterance to his
rage, she resumed, "Naturally, marriage now, in your own class can't be;
you'll simply have to live as a bachelor." David groaned. "Why, my son,
many do, of their own choice, and you have managed to be happy during
this year."
He glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock,--can't--"
"There's no use urging the horses so; we can't make it."
"We may, mother, we may." He half rose as if he would leap from the
vehicle. "I could go faster on foot. There's a quarter of an hour yet
before the Liverpool express. John, can't we get on faster than this?"
"No, my lord. One of the 'orses has picked up a stone. If you'll 'old
'em I'll dig it out in 'alf a minute, my lord."
David sprang out and took the reins. "Where's the footman?" he asked
testily.
"You left 'im behind, my lord. He was 'elping Lady Laura cut roses."
"David, this is useless. The last train from London went through an hour
ago and we haven't ten minutes for the next. Order him to return and
we'll consider calmly."
David laughed bitterly, and only sprang into the coach and shut the door
with a crash. "Drive on, John," he shouted through the window, and again
they were off at a mad gallop.
His mother turned and looked at him astounded. "Let me read what she has
written you, my son," she implored, half frightened at his frenzy.
"It's of no use for you to read it. We can't talk now, not rationally."
"Then tell him not to drive so furiously, so we can hear each other."
"I would avoid useless discussion, mother, but you force it." An instant
he paused, and his teeth ground together and his jaw set rigidly, then
he continued with a savage force that appalled her, throwing out short
sentences like daggers. "Lord H---- brings home an American wife. His
family are well pleased. She is every where received. Her father is a
rich brewer. Her brother has turned out his millions from the business
of pork packing. The stench from his establishment pollutes miles of
country, but does not reach England--why? Because of the disinfectant
process of transmuting their greasy American dollars into golden English
sovereigns. There's justice."
"Be reasonable, David. Their estates were involved to the last degree
and those sovereigns saved the family. Without them they would have
passed out of their possession utterly, and been divided among our rich
tradespeople, and the family would have descended rapidly to the
undergrades. It goes to show the value of birth, what is more, and how
those Americans, who made a pretence long ago of scorning birth and
title and casting it all off, are glad enough now to buy their way back
again, if not for themselves, for their children. But, David, for a man
to voluntarily degrade his family by marrying beneath him, with no such
need as that of Lord H----, of ultimately by that very means lifting it
up is--is--inexpressible--why--! In the case of Lord H---- there was a
certain nobility in marrying beneath him."
"Beneath him! For me, I married above me, over all of us, when I took my
sweet, clean mountain girl. The nobility of Lord H---- is unique. Lady
H---- made a poor bargain when she left the mingled stenches of brewing
and butchering to step into the moral stench which depleted the
Stonebreck estates."
"You are not like my son, David. You are violent."
"Your son has been a cad. Now he is a man, and must either be violent or
weep." He looked away from her out at the flying hedgerows, then took up
the fruitless discussion again, striving with more patience to arouse in
his mother a sense of the utter worldliness of her stand. She met him at
every point with the obtuse and age-long arguments of her class. When at
last he cried out, "But what of my son, mother, my little son, and the
heir to all this grandeur which means so much to you?" Her eyelids
quivered and she looked down, merely saying, "His mother has offered you
a solution to that difficulty which seems to me the only wise one. You
say she proposes to keep him a year or two and then send him to us."
"Ah, you are like steel, mother." David spoke pleadingly, "You thought
him a beautiful child?"
"I did, and a wholesome one, which goes to show that you may safely
trust him with her for a time. Moreover, his mother has a right to him
and the comfort she may find in him for a few years. You see I would be
quite just to her. I do not accuse her of being designing in marrying
you. No doubt it was quite your own fault. It is a position you two
young people rushed into romantically and most foolishly, and you must
both suffer the consequences. It is sad, but it must be regarded in the
light of hard common sense, and my ungrateful task seems to be to place
it in that light for both your sakes."
Still David watched the hedgerows with averted face.
"You are listening, David?"
"Yes, mother, yes. Common sense you said."
"Can't you see, that to bring her here, where she does not belong--where
she never will be received as belonging, even though she is your
wife--will only cause suffering to you both? Eventually
misunderstandings will arise, then will come alienation and unhappiness.
Then again, yours must be in a measure a public life, unless you mean to
shirk responsibility. Has your country no claim on you?"
"I have no thought of shirking my duty, and am prepared to think and act
also--"
"You wish it to be effective? Has it never occurred to you how your
avenues will be cut off if you marry a wife beneath your class?"
"What in God's name will my wife have to do with England's African
policy? Damme--"
"David!"
"Mother--I beg your pardon--"
"She may have everything to do with it. No man can stand alone and foist
his ideas upon such a body of men, without backing. Instead of hampering
yourself with an ignorant mountain girl from America, you should have
allied yourself to a strong family of position here, if you would be a
power in England. What sort of a Lady Thryng will your present wife
make? What kind of a leader socially in your own class? You might better
try to place a girl from the bogs of Ireland at the head of your table."
Again David's rage surged through him in a hot wave, but he controlled
himself. "You admitted Cassandra has both beauty and charm?"
"Would my son have been attracted to her else? Nevertheless, what I say
stands. As a help to you--"
"You have done your duty, mother. I will say this for you--that for
sophistry undiluted, a woman of the present day who stands where you do,
can out-Greek the ancients. How is it we see so differently? Is it that
I am like my father? How did he see things?"
"Your father was as much a nobleman as your uncle. Only by the accident
of birth was he differently placed. Did I never tell you that but for
his death he would have been created bishop of his diocese? So you
see--"
"I see. By dying he just escaped a bishopric. Did it make a difference
in his reception up above--do you think?"
"Oh, David, David!"
"I'm sorry mother--never mind. We're nearly there and I have something I
must say to you before I leave you to end this discussion forever. There
are two kinds of men in this world,--one sort is made by his
circumstances, and the other makes his circumstances. You would respect
your son more if he belonged to the first variety, but I tell you no. I
will make my own conditions. Before all else, I am a man. My lordship
was thrust upon me. Don't interrupt, I beg. I know all you would say,
but you do not know all I would say-- My birth gave it to me certainly,
but a cruel and bloody war was the means by which it came to me. Very
well. I will take it and the responsibility which it entails; but the
cruelty that brought me my title is ended and in no form shall it be
continued, social or otherwise. I hold to the rights of my manhood. I
will bring to England whom I please as my wife, and my world shall
recognize her, and you will receive her because I bring her, and because
she will stand head and soul above any one you have here to propose for
me. Here we are, mother dear. One kiss? Thank you, thank you. Postpone
Laura's coming out until--I return--which will be--when--you know."
He leaped from the carriage before it had time to halt, and ran, but
alas! baffled and enraged at his ill success, he stood on the platform
and watched the train pull out. It was only a slow local puffing away
there.
"Liverpool express left five minutes ago, my lord," said the guard.
His mother leaned out, watching him with sad, yet eager eyes, satisfied
that it should be so. He might return now, and there was by no means an
end to her opposition.