The Mountain Girl

by Payne Erskine

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?"