Erskine Payne
The Mountain Girl
"My dear boy, your brother died for his country, and can you not 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 Thomasia Harcourt Glendyne 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 – 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 levelly 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 THRYNG 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, intrusted 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 – a – 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 a 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 companionships 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 it 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 commonalty out of any one of the circles, while striving individually each to climb into the one next 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 the 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 as 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.
Lady Thryng 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 mien, 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, mamma?" she asked, but Lady Thryng 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 mountain top, 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 sombrely and heavily, with much ceremony, although they were so few. Was his mother practising 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. Stretton 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 whereon all this complicated superstructure of English society and national life was builded. 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. Stretton, 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 bade her good-by; 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. Stretton 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 critical 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 help her 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. Stretton paused and coughed a little apologetically before adding: "Not an inherited talent, only – ah – 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 know, mother."
"No, David. It will go now you are at 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, mamma. 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 ride. "Don't remind mamma. 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 mamma 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 amused themselves for the rest of the evening with music, and Lady Thryng'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. Stretton and a secretary. A colossal task it proved to be.
No one, even his lawyer, who had his confidence more than any one else, knew in what the old Lord Thryng's wealth really consisted, although Mr. Stretton surmised much of his surplus income of late years had been placed in Africa. As 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.
Certain hours of each day David devoted to this labor, collecting his papers in a small room opening off from the law chambers of Mr. Stretton, 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 Towers'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 ofttimes 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.
Cassandra's 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 mountain top – naïve – 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 psychologic 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 buds 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 mother's and sister's shares – the annuities of poor dependents – stocks to be bought – interest to be invested – the government, and his future part therein, pah! 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 interests of the former Lady Thryng's estates were concerned. His uncle had inherited all from her with the exception of certain bequests to relatives with which he had been intrusted. Some of the records had been lost, and whether the beneficiaries were dead or not, none knew, but now and then letters came pleading for a continuance of former favors, and recalling obligations.
Mr. Stretton 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 aunt, 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 impostors? 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 discussed, nor 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 awoke in 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 marvellous 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. Stretton lying in the hospital with a fractured skull." Thus it was that Lady Tredwell's pet spaniel, old and vicious, yapping at the heels of Mr. Stretton's restive horse, while my lady's maid – who should have been leading him out for an airing – was absorbed in listening to the compliments of one of the park guards, played so dire a part in the affairs of David Thryng.
