The Mountain Girl Part 40

"Ah, yes. I had really forgotten. But speaking of t.i.tles--I must give this young man his correctly. Lord Thryng--allow me to congratulate you, my lord."

"I fear you mistake me for my cousin, sir," said David, smiling. "I hope you have no ill news from my good uncle; but I am not the David who inherits. I think he is in South Africa--or was by the latest home letters."

Mr. Stretton did not reply directly, but continued smiling, as his manner was, and turned toward David's companion.

"Shall we go to my hotel? I have a great deal to talk over--business which concerns--ahem--ahem--your lordship, on behalf of your mother, having come expressly--" he turned again to David. "Ah, now don't be at all alarmed, I beg of you. I see I have disturbed you. She is quite well, or was a week or more ago. Doctor Hoyle, you'll accompany us? At my request. Undoubtedly you are interested in your young friend."

Mechanically David walked with the two older men, filled with a strange sinking of the heart, and at the same time with a vague elation. Was he called home by his mother to help her sustain a new calamity? Had the impossible happened? Mr. Stretton's manner continued to be mysteriously deferential toward him, and something in his air reminded David of England and the atmosphere of his uncle's stately home. Had he ever seen the man before? He really did not know.

They reached the hotel shortly and were conducted to Mr. Stretton's private apartment, where wine was ordered, and promptly served. For years thereafter, David never heard the clinking of gla.s.ses and bottles borne on a tray without an instant's sickening sinking of the heart, and the foreboding that seemed to drench him with dismay as the gla.s.ses were placed on the stand at Mr. Stretton's elbow. When that gentleman, after seeing the waiter disappear, and placing certain papers before him, began speaking, David sat dazedly listening.

What was it all--what was it? The gla.s.ses seemed to quiver and shake, throwing dancing flecks of light; and the wine in them--why did it make him think of blood? Were they dead then--all three--his two cousins and his brother--dead? Shot! Killed in a b.l.o.o.d.y and useless war! He was confounded, and bowing his head in his hands sat thus--his elbows on his knees--waiting, hearing, but not comprehending.

He could think only of his mother. He saw her face, aged and grief-stricken. He knew how she loved the boy she had lost, above all, and now she must turn to himself. He sat thus while the lawyer read a lengthy doc.u.ment, and at the end personally addressed him. Then he lifted his head.

"What is this? My uncle? My uncle gone, too? Do you mean dead? My uncle dead, and I--I his heir?"

The lawyer replied formally, "You are now the head of a most ancient and honorable house. You will have the dignity of the old name to maintain, and are called upon to return to your fatherland and occupy the home of your ancestors." He took up one of the papers and adjusted his monocle.

For a time David did not speak. At last he rose and, with head erect, extended his hand to the lawyer. "I thank you, sir, for your trouble,--but now, Doctor, shall we return to your house? I must take a little time to adjust my mind to these terrible events. It is like being overtaken with an avalanche at the moment when all is most smiling and perfect."

The lawyer began a few congratulatory remarks, but David stopped him, with uplifted hand.

"It is calamitous. It is too terrible," he said sadly. "And what it brings may be far more of a burden than a joy."

"But the name, my lord,--the ancient and honorable lineage!"

"That last was already mine, and for the t.i.tle--I have never coveted it, far less all that it entails. I must think it over."

"But, my lord, it is yours! You can't help yourself, you know; a--the--the position is yours, and you will a--fill it with dignity, and--a--let me hope will follow the conservative policy of your honored uncle."

"And I say I must think it over. May I not have a day--a single day--in which to mourn the loss of my splendid brother? Would G.o.d he had lived to fill this place!" he said desperately.

The lawyer bowed deferentially, and Doctor Hoyle took David's arm and led him away as if he were his son. Not a word was spoken by either of them until they were again in the doctor's office. There lay the new silk hat, as he had tossed it one side. He took it up and turned it about in his hand.

"You see, David, an old hat is like an old friend, and it takes some time to get wonted to a new one." He gravely laid the old one within easy reach of his arm and restored the new one to its box. Then he sat himself near David and placed his hand kindly on his knee. "You--you have your work laid out for you, my young friend. It's the way in Old England. The stability of our society--our national life demands it."

"I know."

"You must go to your mother."

"Yes, I must go to her."

"Of course, of course, and without delay. Well, I'll take care of the little chap."

"I know you will, better than I could." David lifted his eyes to his old friend's, then turned them away. "I feel him to be a sacred trust."

Again he paused. "It--would take a--long time to go to her first?"

"To--her?" For the instant the old man had forgotten Ca.s.sandra. Not so David.

"My wife. It will be desperately hard--for her."

"Yes, yes. But your uncle, you know, died of grief, and your m--mother--"

"I know--so the lawyer said. Now at last we'll read mother's letter. He wondered, I suppose, that I didn't look at it when he gave it to me, but I felt conscience-stricken. I've been so filled with my life down there--the peace, the blessed peace and happiness--that I have neglected her--my own mother. I couldn't open and read it with that man's eyes on me. No, no. Stay here, I beg of you, stay. You are different. I want you."

He opened his mother's letter and slowly read it, then pa.s.sed it to his friend and, rising, walked to the window and stood gazing down into the square. Autumn leaves were being tossed and swirled in dancing flights, like flocks of brown and yellow birds along the street. The sky was overcast, with thin hurrying clouds, and the feeling of autumn was in the air, but David's eyes were blurred, and he saw nothing before him.

The doctor's voice broke the silence with sudden impulse.

"In this she speaks as if she knew nothing about your marriage."

"I told you I had neglected her," cried David, contritely.

"But, m--man alive! why--why in the name of all the G.o.ds--"

"All England is filled with fools," cried the younger man, desperately.

"I could never in the world make them understand me or my motives. I gave it up long ago. I've not told my mother, to save her from a needless sorrow that would be inflicted on her by her friends. They would all flock to her and pester her with their outcry of 'How very extraordinary!' I can hear them and see them now. I tell you, if a man steps out of the beaten track over there--if he attempts to order his own life, marry to please himself, or cut his coat after any pattern other than the ordinary conventional lines,--even the boys on the street will fling stones at him. Her patronizing friends would, at the very least, politely raise their eyebrows. She is proud and sensitive, and any fling at her sons is a blow to her."

"But what--"

"I say I couldn't tell her. I tell you I have been drinking from the cup of happiness. I have drained it to the last drop. My wife is mine. She does not belong to those people over there, to be talked over, and dined over, and all her beauty and fineness overlooked through their monocles--brutes! My mountain flower in her homespun dress--only poets could understand and appreciate her."

"B--but what were you going to do about it?"

"Do about it? I meant to keep her to myself until the right time came.

Perhaps in another year bring her here and begin life in a modest way, and let my mother visit us and see for herself. I was planning it out, slowly--but this-- You see, Doctor, their ideas are all warped over there. They accept all that custom decrees and have but the one point of view. The true values of life are lost sight of. They have no hilltops like Ca.s.sandra's. Only the poets have."

A quizzical smile played about the old man's mouth. He came and laid his arm across David's shoulders, and the act softened the slight sting of his words. "And--you call yourself a poet?"

"Not that," said the young man, humbly, "but I have been learning. I would have scorned to be called a poet until I learned of this girl and her father. I thought I had ideals, and felt my superiority in consequence, until I came down to the beginnings of things with them."

"Her--her father? Why--he's dead--he--"

"And yet through her I have learned of him. I believe he was a man who walked with G.o.d, and at Ca.s.sandra's side I have trod in his secret places."

"That's right. I'm satisfied now, about her. You're all right, but--but--your mother."

David turned and walked to the table and sat with his head bowed on his arms. Had he been alone, he would have wept. As it was, he spoke brokenly of his old home, and the responsibilities now so ruthlessly thrust upon him. Of his mother's grief and his own, and of this inheritance that he had never dreamed would be his, and therefore had never desired, now given him by so cruel a blow. He would not shrink from whatever duty or obligation might rest upon him, but how could he adjust his changed circ.u.mstances to the conditions he had made for himself by his sudden marriage. At last it was decided that he should sail for England without delay, taking the pa.s.sage already provisionally engaged for him by Mr. Stretton.

"I can write to Ca.s.sandra. She will understand more easily than my mother. She sees into the heart of things. Her thoughts go to the truth like arrows of light. She will see that I must go, but she must never know--I must save her from it if I have to do so at the expense of my own soul--that the reason I cannot take her with me now is that our great friends over there are too small to understand her nature and might despise her. I must go to my mother first and feel my way--see what can be done. Neither of them must be made to suffer."

"That's right, perfectly--but don't wait too long. Just have it out with your mother--all of them; the sooner the simpler, the sooner the simpler."

CHAPTER XXV