CHAPTER XXXII
IN WHICH CASSANDRA BRINGS THE HEIR OF DANESHEAD CASTLE BACK TO HER HILLTOP, AND THE SHADOW LIFTS
"Cassandry 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?"
Cassandra 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 Cassandra's cabin, and the old life began as if it had suffered no interruption. Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 God to give her peace, and let her rest. So the long nights passed, 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 Cassandra'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 Cassandra's eyes.
David had passed 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 Cassandra 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 God. But I will teach you something you never knew. Love is not only blind, dearest; he is a greedy, selfish little god."
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, God'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 passed 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 God.
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 title, in the hearts of those mountain people, was regal. He enjoyed his little farm, and the gathering of his first "crap," counting his bundles of fodder and his bushels of corn. Sometimes he rode with Cassandra, 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, Cassandra 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, Cassandra? 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."
"That was the bravest, finest thing you ever did – but one." He was thinking of her renunciation.
"You are so good to forgive me, David. In one way it was better that I went, because it made me understand as I never could have done otherwise. You would never have told me, but now I know."
"Unfold a little of this wisdom, so I may judge of its value."
"Can you, David? I'm afraid not. You have a way of bewildering me, so I can't see the rights and wrongs of things myself. But there! It is just part of the difference. Why, even the nursemaids over there, and Hetty Giles, the landlady's daughter, are wiser than I. I came to see it every instant, the difference between you and me – between our two worlds. David, how did you ever dare marry me?"
He only laughed happily and kissed her. "Tell it all," he said tenderly.
"I felt it first when I went to the town house. It was hard to find the address. I only had Mr. Stretton's." David set his teeth grimly in anger at himself at giving her only his lawyer's address, in stupid fear lest her letters betray him to his mother and sister.
"Now, do not hide one thing from me – not one," he said sternly, and she continued, with a conscientious fear of disobedience, to open her heart.
"I saw by the look in the old man's eyes that I had not done the right thing, coming in that way with a baby in my arms, like a beggar. I saw he was very curious, and I was that proud I didn't know what to tell him I had come for, when I found you were not there, so when he said artists often came to see the gallery, I said I had come to see the gallery; and David, I didn't even know what a gallery was. I thought it was a high piazza around a house, and I found it was a great room full of pictures. I was that ignorant.
"I felt like I was some wild creature that had got lost in that splendid palace and didn't know where to run to get away; and they all fixed their eyes on me as if they were saying: 'How does she dare come here? She isn't one of us!' and one was a boy who looked like you. The old man kept saying how like it was to the new Lord Thryng, and it made me cold to hear it, – so cold that after I had escaped from there and was out in the sun, my teeth chattered."
David sat silent and humbled; at last he said: "Go on, Cassandra. Don't cover up anything."
"When I got back to the hotel, everything seemed so splendid and stuffy and horrid – and every way I turned it seemed as if those dead ancestors of yours were there staring at me still; and I thought what right had they over the living that they dared stand between you and me; and I was angry." She stirred in his arms, and pressed closer to him. "David – forgive me – I can't tell it over – it hurts me."
"Go on," he said hoarsely.
"The old man told me what was expected of you because of them – how your mother wished you to marry a great lady – and I knew they could never have heard of me – and I forgot to eat my dinner and stayed in my room and fought and fought with myself – I'm sorry I felt that way, David. Don't mind. I understand now." She put up her hand and touched his cheek, and he took it in his and kissed it. Then she laughed a sad little laugh.
"Remember that funny little old silver teapot. Mother brought it to me before I left, and I took it with me! She is so proud of our family, although she has only that poor little pot to show for it, with its nose all melted off to make silver bullets sure to kill. Did you know it was one of those bullets Frale tried to kill you with? Oh, David, David!"
"And yet your mother is right, dear. That little wrecked bit of silver helps to interpret you – indicates your ancestors – how you come to be you – just as you are. How could I ever have loved you, if you had been different from what you are?"
For a long moment she lay still – scarcely breathing – then she lifted her head and looked in his eyes. One of her silences was on her, and while her lips trembled as if to speak, she said no word. He tried to draw her to him again, but she held him off.
"Then tell me what it is," he said gently. But she only shook her head and rose to walk away from him. He did not try to call her back to him, respecting her silence, and she moved on up the path with long, swift steps.
When she returned, he held out his arms to her, but she stood before him looking down into his eyes, "I couldn't tell you sitting there with your arms around me, David, and what I have to say must be said now; I may never be strong enough to say it another time, and it must be said."
Then she told him all that had occurred while she was in Queensderry, from the moment she came, going down into her heart and revealing the hidden thoughts never before expressed even to herself, while he gazed back into her eyes fascinated by her spiritual beauty which was her power.
She told of the chatter of Hetty Giles, and how she had pointed out the beautiful lady his mother wished him to marry – and how slowly everything had dawned upon her – the real differences. Of the guests she had seen on the Daneshead terrace and how they wore such lovely dresses and moved so easily and laughed and talked all at once, as if they were used to it all, and perhaps wore such charming things for every day – the wonderful colors and wide, beautiful hats with plumes – and how even the servants wore pretty clothes and went about as if they all knew how to do things, passing cups and plates.
Then she told of her talk with his mother and how carefully she had guarded her tongue lest a word escape her he would rather not have had her speak. "I had wronged you in not telling you you had a son, and I meant to leave him with your mother so he could be raised right." She paused, and put her hand to her throat, then went bravely on. "Your mother was kind – she gave me wine – she brought it to me herself. I knew what I ought to do, but I wasn't strong enough. It seemed as if something here in my breast was bleeding, and my baby would die if I did it. When I came out, he was in your sister's arms and had been crying, and it seemed as if all I had planned had happened, and I took him and carried him away quickly. I couldn't go fast enough, and I left the inn that night. The world seemed all like Vanity Fair."
David rose and stood before her looking down into her eyes. He could not control his voice in speaking, and she felt his hands quiver as they rested on her shoulders. "When did you read that book, Cassandra? Where did you find it?" he asked, in dismay.
"Among your books in the cabin. I felt at first that it must be a kind of a disgrace to be a lord – as if every one who had a title or education must be mean and low, and all the rest of the world over there must be fools; but because of you, David, I knew better than to believe that. Your mother is not like those women, either. She was kind and beautiful, and – I – loved her, but all the more I saw the difference. But now you have come to me and made me strong, I can do it. Everything has grown clear to me again, and I see how you gave yourself to me – to save me – when you did not dream of what was to be for you in the future; and out of your giving has come the – little son, and he is yours. Wait! Don't take me in your arms." She placed her hands on his breast and held him from her.
"So it was just now – when you spoke as if people would understand me better because of that little silver pot, showing I had somewhere in the past a name and a family like theirs over there – I thought of 'Vanity Fair,' and I hated it. I wish you had never seen it. There is, nor has been, nothing on earth to make me possible for you, now – your inheritance has come to you. I have a pride, too, David, a different kind of pride from theirs. You loved me first, I know, as I was – just me. It was a foolish love for you to have, David dear, – but I know it is true; you could not have given yourself to save me else, and I like to keep that thought of you in my heart, big and noble and true – that you did love just me." She faltered, but still held him from her. "Do you think I would not do all I can to keep from spoiling your life over there?"
"Stop, stop. It is enough," he cried. In spite of herself, he took her hands in his and drew her to him in penitent tenderness. "I'm no great lord with wide distances between me and your mountain world here, Cassandra; never think it. I'm tremendously near to the soul of things, and the man of the wilderness is strong in me. One thing you have not touched upon. Tell me, what did Frale say or do to you to so trouble you and send you off?"
She stirred in his arms and waited, then murmured, "He pestered me."
"Explain. Did he come often?"
"Oh, no. He – I – he came one evening up to our cabin, and – I sent him off and started next day."
"But explain, dearest. How did he act? What was it?"
She was silent, but drew her husband's head down and hid her face in his neck. "There! Never mind, love. You needn't tell me if you don't wish."
"He kissed me and held me in his arms like they were iron bands – and I hated it. He said you had gone away never to come back, and that the whole mountain side knew it; and that he had a right to come and claim my promise to him. Oh, David, David, this is the last. I have kept nothing back from you now, nothing. My heart cried out for you – like I heard you call – and I went – to – to prove to them all that word was a lie. I knew nothing they said here could touch you, but I couldn't bear that the meanest hound living should dare think wrong of you. Seems like I would have done it if I had had to crawl on my knees and swim the ocean."
"My fingers tingle to grasp the throat of that young man. I fought him for you once, and if it hadn't been for a rolling stone under my foot, it would have been death for one of us. As it was, I won – with you to save me – bless you."
"But now, David – "
"Ah, but now – what? Are you happy?"
"That isn't what I mean. You have your future – "
"I have my now. It is all we ever have. The past is gone, and lives only in our memories, and the future exists only in anticipation; but now – now is all we have or can have. Live in it and love in it and be happy."
"But we must be wise. We've got to face it sometime. Let – me help you – now while I have the strength," she pleaded earnestly.
But David only laughed out joyously, and looked at his wife until she turned her face away from him. "Look at me," he cried. "Dear, troubled eyes. Tears? Tears in them? Love, you have kept nothing back this time, and now it is my turn, but I shall keep something back from you. I'm not going to reprove your idolatry by turning iconoclast and throwing your miserable old idol down from his pedestal all at once. I tell you what it is, though, if I could feel that I was worthy of your smallest finger – that I deserved only one of those big tears – there – there – there! Listen, dearest, I'll come to the point.
"Who is it now, making so much of the estimates of the world? Somehow our viewpoints have got mixed. Sacrifice myself? Why, Cassandra, if I were to lose you out of my life, I should be a broken-hearted man. What did I sacrifice? Phantoms, vanities, and emptiness. Oh, Cassandra, Cassandra, my priestess of all that is good! Open your eyes, love, and see as I see – as you have taught me to see.
"Much that we strive for and reckon as gain is really worthless. Why, sweet, I would far, far rather have you at your loom for the mother of my son, than Lady Clara at her piano. Your heritage of the great nature – the far-seeing – the trusting spirit – harboring no evil and construing all things to righteousness – going out into the world and finding among all the dust and dross, even of centuries, only the pure gold – the eye that sees into a man's soul, searching out the true and lovely qualities there and transmuting all the rest into pure metal – my own soul's alchemist – your heritage is the secret of power."
"I don't believe I understand all you are saying, David. I only see that I have a very hard task before me, and now I know it is hard for you, too. Your mother made it clear to me that your true place is not living here as a doctor, even though you do so much good among us. I saw all at once that men are born each to fill a place in the world, and I think each man's measure should be the height of his own power and ability, nothing lower than that; and I see it – your power will be there, not here, where it must be limited by our limits and ignorance. That is your own country over there. It claims you – and I – I – there is the difference, you know. Think of your mother, and then of mine. David, I must not – Oh, David! You must be unhampered – free – what can I – what can we do?"
"We can just go down the mountain, sane beings, to our own little cabin, belonging to each other first of all." He took her hand and led her along the path, carpeted with pine needles and fallen leaves. "And then, when you are ready and willing – not before, love – we will go home – to my home – just like this, together."
She caught her breath. "Listen, for I am seeing visions too, now, as you have taught me. I will lead you through those halls and show you to all those dead ancestors, and I will dress you in a silken gown, the color of the evening star we used to watch together from our cabin door, and around your neck I will hang the yellow pearls that have been worn by all those great ladies who stared at you from out their frames of gold the day you came alone and unrecognized, bearing your priceless gift in your arms. You shall wear the rich old lace of the family on your bosom, and the jewelled coronet on your head; and no one will see the silk and the jewels and the lace, for looking at you and at the gift you bring.
"No, don't speak; it is my turn now to see the pictures. All will be yours, whatever you see and touch in those stately homes – for you will be the Lady Thryng, and, being the Lady Thryng, you will be no more wonderful or beautiful than you were when you climbed to me, following my flute notes, or when you bent between me and the fire preparing my supper, or when you were weaving at your loom, or when you came to me from our cabin door with your arms outstretched and the light of all the stars of heaven in your eyes."
Then they were silent, a long silence, until, seated together in their cabin before a bright log fire, as she held their baby to her breast, Cassandra broke the stillness.
"Now I see it better, David. As you came here and lived my life, and loved me just as I was – so to be truly one, I must go with you and live your life. I must not fail you there."
"You have been tried as by fire and have not failed – nor are you the kind of woman who ever fails."
Then she smiled up at him one of those rare and fleeting smiles that always touched David with poignant pleasure, and said: "I think I understand now. God meant us to feel this way, when he married us to each other."