"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.