CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH DAVID THRYNG HAS NEWS FROM ENGLAND
As they passed down the street, David shivered and buttoned his lightovercoat closer about him.
"Cold?" said the older man.
"Your air is a bit keen here already. I hope it will be the needed tonicfor that little chap."
"What were his s--secrets?" David told him.
"He's imaginative--yes--yes. I really would rather hurt myself. He maycome on--he may. I've known--I've known--curious,but--Why--Hello--hello! Why--where--" and Doctor Hoyle suddenly dartedforward and shook hands with another old gentleman, who was alertlystepping toward them, also thin and wiry, but with a face as impassiveas the doctor's was mobile and expressive. "Mr. Stretton, why--why!David--Mr. Stretton, David Thryng--"
"Ah, Mr. Thryng. I am most happy to find you here."
"Doctor Thryng--over here on this side, you know."
"Ah, yes. I had really forgotten. But speaking of titles--I must givethis 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 hopeyou have no ill news from my good uncle; but I am not the David whoinherits. I think he is in South Africa--or was by the latest homeletters."
Mr. Stretton did not reply directly, but continued smiling, as hismanner was, and turned toward David's companion.
"Shall we go to my hotel? I have a great deal to talk over--businesswhich concerns--ahem--ahem--your lordship, on behalf of your mother,having come expressly--" he turned again to David. "Ah, now don't be atall alarmed, I beg of you. I see I have disturbed you. She is quitewell, or was a week or more ago. Doctor Hoyle, you'll accompany us? Atmy request. Undoubtedly you are interested in your young friend."
Mechanically David walked with the two older men, filled with a strangesinking of the heart, and at the same time with a vague elation. Was hecalled home by his mother to help her sustain a new calamity? Had theimpossible happened? Mr. Stretton's manner continued to be mysteriouslydeferential toward him, and something in his air reminded David ofEngland and the atmosphere of his uncle's stately home. Had he ever seenthe man before? He really did not know.
They reached the hotel shortly and were conducted to Mr. Stretton'sprivate apartment, where wine was ordered, and promptly served. Foryears thereafter, David never heard the clinking of glasses and bottlesborne on a tray without an instant's sickening sinking of the heart, andthe foreboding that seemed to drench him with dismay as the glasses wereplaced on the stand at Mr. Stretton's elbow. When that gentleman, afterseeing the waiter disappear, and placing certain papers before him,began speaking, David sat dazedly listening.
What was it all--what was it? The glasses seemed to quiver and shake,throwing dancing flecks of light; and the wine in them--why did it makehim think of blood? Were they dead then--all three--his two cousins andhis brother--dead? Shot! Killed in a bloody and useless war! He wasconfounded, and bowing his head in his hands sat thus--his elbows on hisknees--waiting, hearing, but not comprehending.
He could think only of his mother. He saw her face, aged andgrief-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 alengthy document, and at the end personally addressed him. Then helifted his head.
"What is this? My uncle? My uncle gone, too? Do you mean dead? My uncledead, and I--I his heir?"
The lawyer replied formally, "You are now the head of a most ancient andhonorable 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 ofyour 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 yourtrouble,--but now, Doctor, shall we return to your house? I must take alittle time to adjust my mind to these terrible events. It is like beingovertaken with an avalanche at the moment when all is most smiling andperfect."
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 itbrings 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 title--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 honoreduncle."
"And I say I must think it over. May I not have a day--a single day--inwhich to mourn the loss of my splendid brother? Would God he had livedto fill this place!" he said desperately.
The lawyer bowed deferentially, and Doctor Hoyle took David's arm andled him away as if he were his son. Not a word was spoken by either ofthem until they were again in the doctor's office. There lay the newsilk hat, as he had tossed it one side. He took it up and turned itabout in his hand.
"You see, David, an old hat is like an old friend, and it takes sometime to get wonted to a new one." He gravely laid the old one withineasy reach of his arm and restored the new one to its box. Then he sathimself near David and placed his hand kindly on his knee. "You--youhave your work laid out for you, my young friend. It's the way in OldEngland. 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 thelittle chap."
"I know you will, better than I could." David lifted his eyes to his oldfriend'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 Cassandra. Not soDavid.
"My wife. It will be desperately hard--for her."
"Yes, yes. But your uncle, you know, died of grief, and yourm--mother--"
"I know--so the lawyer said. Now at last we'll read mother's letter. Hewondered, I suppose, that I didn't look at it when he gave it to me, butI felt conscience-stricken. I've been so filled with my life downthere--the peace, the blessed peace and happiness--that I have neglectedher--my own mother. I couldn't open and read it with that man's eyes onme. No, no. Stay here, I beg of you, stay. You are different. I wantyou."
He opened his mother's letter and slowly read it, then passed it to hisfriend and, rising, walked to the window and stood gazing down into thesquare. Autumn leaves were being tossed and swirled in dancing flights,like flocks of brown and yellow birds along the street. The sky wasovercast, with thin hurrying clouds, and the feeling of autumn was inthe 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 gods--"
"All England is filled with fools," cried the younger man, desperately."I could never in the world make them understand me or my motives. Igave it up long ago. I've not told my mother, to save her from aneedless sorrow that would be inflicted on her by her friends. Theywould all flock to her and pester her with their outcry of 'How veryextraordinary!' I can hear them and see them now. I tell you, if a mansteps out of the beaten track over there--if he attempts to order hisown life, marry to please himself, or cut his coat after any patternother than the ordinary conventional lines,--even the boys on the streetwill fling stones at him. Her patronizing friends would, at the veryleast, politely raise their eyebrows. She is proud and sensitive, andany 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 cupof ha
ppiness. I have drained it to the last drop. My wife is mine. Shedoes not belong to those people over there, to be talked over, and dinedover, and all her beauty and fineness overlooked through theirmonocles--brutes! My mountain flower in her homespun dress--only poetscould 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 overthere. They accept all that custom decrees and have but the one point ofview. The true values of life are lost sight of. They have no hilltopslike Cassandra's. Only the poets have."
A quizzical smile played about the old man's mouth. He came and laid hisarm across David's shoulders, and the act softened the slight sting ofhis words. "And--you call yourself a poet?"
"Not that," said the young man, humbly, "but I have been learning. Iwould have scorned to be called a poet until I learned of this girl andher father. I thought I had ideals, and felt my superiority inconsequence, 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 whowalked with God, and at Cassandra's side I have trod in his secretplaces."
"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 hisarms. Had he been alone, he would have wept. As it was, he spokebrokenly of his old home, and the responsibilities now so ruthlesslythrust upon him. Of his mother's grief and his own, and of thisinheritance that he had never dreamed would be his, and therefore hadnever desired, now given him by so cruel a blow. He would not shrinkfrom whatever duty or obligation might rest upon him, but how could headjust his changed circumstances to the conditions he had made forhimself by his sudden marriage. At last it was decided that he shouldsail for England without delay, taking the passage already provisionallyengaged for him by Mr. Stretton.
"I can write to Cassandra. She will understand more easily than mymother. She sees into the heart of things. Her thoughts go to the truthlike arrows of light. She will see that I must go, but she must neverknow--I must save her from it if I have to do so at the expense of myown soul--that the reason I cannot take her with me now is that ourgreat friends over there are too small to understand her nature andmight despise her. I must go to my mother first and feel my way--seewhat 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 withyour mother--all of them; the sooner the simpler, the sooner thesimpler."