It was a pleasant morning in London, with as clear a sky as is ever permitted to that great city. Ca.s.sandra had placed her little son in the middle of a huge bed which nearly filled the small room she had been given in a hotel, recommended to her by Betty Towers as one where "nice ladies travelling alone" could stop.

The child was dressed in a fresh white coat, and Ca.s.sandra had much ado to keep him clean. She heaped him about with pillows and bedclothing to make a nest for him, and gave him a spoon and a drinking cup for entertainment, while she arranged her own toilet before a cloudy mirror by a slant ray of daylight that managed to sift through the heavy draperies and lace curtains that obscured the one high, narrow window of her room.

She had tried to put them one side that she might look out when she awoke, but she could see only chimney-pots and grimy, irregularly tiled roofs. A narrow opening at the top of the window let in a little air; still she felt smothered, and tried to raise the lower sash, but could not move it. She thought of the books she had read about great cities, and how some people had to live in places like this always; and her heart filled with a large pity for them. Here only a small triangle of blue sky could be seen--not a tree, not a bit of earth--and in the small room all those heavy furnishings closed around her, dark red, stuffy, and greasy with London smoke. She could not touch them without blackening her hands, nor let her baby sit on the floor for the dirt he wiped up on his clothing as he rolled and kicked about.

The room seemed to sway and tip as the ship had done, and there was a continuous sound as of thunder, a strange undercurrent that seemed to her strained nerves like the moaning of the lost souls of all the ages, who had lived and toiled and smothered in this monstrous and terrible city.

Ah, she must get out of it. She must hurry--hurry and find David. He would be glad to see his little son. He would take him in his arms. He would hold them both to his heart. She would see him smile again and look in his eyes, and all this foreboding would cease, and the woful sounds die out of the air and become only the natural roar of the activities and traffic of a great city. She must get used to all this, and not expect to find all the world like her own sunny mountains.

The bishop's careful little wife had tried to explain to her how to meet her new experiences. She was to go nowhere alone, without taking a cab, and never start out on foot, carrying her baby in her arms, as she might do at home. She had given her written instructions how to conduct herself under all ordinary circ.u.mstances, at her hotel or on the street--how to ring for a servant, order her meals, or call a cab.

Now, standing before her mirror, Ca.s.sandra essayed to arrange her hair as she had seen other young women wear theirs, but she thought the new way looked untidy, and she took it all down and rearranged it as she was used to wear it. David would not mind if she did not do her hair as others did, he would be so glad to see her and his little son. Ah, the comfort of that little son! She leaned over the bed, half dressed as she was, and murmured pretty cooing phrases, kissing and cuddling him to contented laughter.

Betty Towers had procured clothing for her--a modest supply--using her own good taste, and not disguising Ca.s.sandra's natural grace and dignity by a too-close adherence to the prevailing mode. There were a blue travelling gown and jacket, and a toque of the same color with a white wing; a soft clinging black silk, made with girlish simplicity which admirably became her, and a wide, flexible brimmed hat with a single heavy plume taken from Betty's own hat of the last winter. Ca.s.sandra stood a long moment before the two gowns. She desired to don the silk, but Betty had told her always to wear the blue in the morning, so at last she obeyed her kind adviser.

While waiting with her baby in her arms for the hotel boy to call her cab, she observed another lady, young and graceful, enter a cab, and a maid following her wearing a pretty cap, and carrying a child. Eager, for David's sake, to draw no adverse comment upon herself, she took note of everything. Ought she then to arrive attended by a maid, carrying her baby? But David would know she did not need one; bringing him his little son in her own arms, what would he care for anything more? So the address was given the cabman, and they were rattled away over the rough paving, a long, lonely ride through the wonderful city--so many miles of houses and splendid buildings, of gardens and monuments.

Strangely, the people of _Vanity Fair_ leaped out of the book she had read, and walked the streets or dashed by her in cabs--albeit in modern dress. The soldiers--the guardsmen--the liveried lackeys--the errand boys--all were there, and the ladies in fine carriages. There were the nursemaids--the babies--the beggars--the ragged urchins and the venders of the street, with their raucous cries rending the air. Her brain whirled, and a new feeling to which she had hitherto been blessedly a stranger crept over her, a feeling of fear.

As the great two-story coaches and trams thundered by, she clasped her baby closer, until he looked up in her face with round-eyed wonder and put up his lip in pitiful protest. She soothed and comforted him until her panic pa.s.sed, and when, at last, they stopped before a great house built in on either side by other houses, with wide steps of stone descending directly upon the street, she had regained a measure of composure. She was a.s.sured by the cabman, leaning respectfully down to her with his cap in his hand, that this was "the 'ouse, ma'm," and should he wait?

"Oh, yes. Wait," cried Ca.s.sandra. What if David were not there! And of course, he might be out. Then they were swallowed up in the dark interior. She was admitted to a hall that seemed to her empty and vast, by a little old man in livery. For a moment, bewildered, she could hardly understand what he was saying to her. "'Er ladyship's at 'er country 'ome and the 'ouse closed."

Although dazed and baffled, Ca.s.sandra betrayed no sign of the tumult within, and the little old man stood before her hesitating, his curiosity piqued into a determination to discover her business and ident.i.ty. Her gravity and silence gave her a poise and dignity that allayed suspicion, but he and his old wife liked diversion, and a spice of gossip lightened the monotony of their lives, so he waited, then coughed behind his hand.

"Yes, 'er ladyship and Lady Laura are at their country 'ome now, ma'm.

Maybe you came to see the 'ouse, ma'm?"

"No, it was not the house--it was--" Again she waited, not knowing how to introduce her husband's name.

A mystery! A visitor at this hour, and seemingly a lady, yet with a baby in her arms, and alone, and not to see the house. Again he coughed behind his hand.

"A many do come to see the 'ouse, ma'm, with a permit from 'is lordship, ma'm. 'E's not 'ere now, but strangers are halways welcome--to the gallery, ma'm."

"Yes, I'm a stranger." She caught at the word. Seized by an inward terror of the small eyes fixed curiously on her, she intuitively shrank from betraying her ident.i.ty, and the old servant had told her what she needed to know. Of course her husband was "his lordship," over here. "I am from America, and I would like to see the gallery." She must do so to give a pretext for having come to visit an empty house. David must not be compromised before the old servant, but a great lump filled her throat, and tears were burning unshed beneath her eyes.

For all of the warm August sun shining without, a chill struck to her bones as they pa.s.sed through the vast, closed rooms. She held her now sleeping baby close to her breast as she followed the old man about from picture to picture.

"Yes, a many do come 'ere--especially hartists--to see this gallery.

They say as 'ow 'is lordship wouldn't take a thousand pounds for this one, ma'm. We'll let in a little more light. A Vand.y.k.e--and worth it's weight in gold."

Ca.s.sandra watched him cross the floor, his short bow legs reflected grotesquely in its shining surface as he walked, then turned and gazed again at the life-size, half-length portrait of a young man with sunny hair like David's and warm brown eyes.

"There, you see, it's more than a Vand.y.k.e to the family, ma'm, for it's a hancestor, and my wife says it's as like as two peas to 'is young lordship, who has just come into the t.i.tle, ma'm. And that's strange, isn't it, for 'im to look so like, being as 'e belonged to the younger branch who 'aven't 'eld the t.i.tle for four generations; but come to dress 'im in velvet and gold lace, and the likeness would be nigh as perfect as if 'e 'ad stood for it."

Ca.s.sandra gazed so long silently at this picture that again the little man coughed his deprecatory cough and essayed to lead her on; but she was seeing visions and did not heed him. When at last she turned, her gray eyes had deepened, and a clearly defined spot of delicate red burned on one pale cheek. She drew a deep breath and looked down the length of the long gallery. Everything was being impressed upon her mind as upon sensitized paper.

She followed slowly in the old man's wake, never opening her lips until they had made the circuit and were again standing before the portrait of the fair-haired youth. Then, roused suddenly by a direct question, she responded.

The old servant was saying: "You 'aven't 'appened to meet a Samuel Cutter in America, 'ave you? 'E's our son. England was too slow for 'im.

Young men aren't like old ones; they wants hadventure, and they gets it.

That's 'ow so many of 'em joins the harmy and gets killed like 'is lordship's two sons, and young Lord Thryng's brother as would 'ave been 'is lordship, if 'e' ad lived. You 'aven't 'appened to know a Samuel Cutter over there? 'E went to Canada."

"No, I never met any one by that name. I live a long way from Canada."

"About 'ow far do you think, ma'm?"

Ca.s.sandra had no idea of the distance, but she knew how long David and Hoyle were journeying there, so she answered as best she could. "It takes three or four days to get there from my home."

The old man's eyes opened wide, and his jaw dropped. "It's a big country--America is. England may be a small place, but she 'as tremendous big possessions." He felt it all belonged to England, and spoke with swelling pride as his short legs carried him toward the door.

There again he paused. He had learned nothing of this young woman to tell his old wife, except that she came from America, and had never met Samuel Cutter. The mystery was still unsolved.

"Yes, 'is young lordship do look amazing like that picture. If you'd ever seen 'im, you'd think 'e'd dressed up in velvet and lace and stood for it. 'E's lived in America five years, but if you never were in Canada and never met our Sammy, it's more likely you never saw 'im either."

"Is he at their country home also?" Ca.s.sandra asked. She had seated herself in the hall, for her heart throbbed chokingly, and the lump was heavy in her throat. It was as she had dreamed sometimes, when her feet seemed to cling to the earth, and would not lift her weight up some steep hill.

"'Is lordship is still in Hafrica, mam. 'E 'ave been a great traveller, but 'e can't stay much longer now, for Lady Laura is to 'ave a grand coming out, and 'is lordship is to be married. Her ladyship's 'eart is set on it, and on 'is marrying 'igh, too. That's gossip, you know."

Ca.s.sandra rose and stood suddenly poised for flight. She must get out of that house and hear no more. She had a silver shilling in her hand, for Betty Towers had told her all servants expected a tip, and this was intended for the cabman. Had she followed her impulse, she would have darted by with her fingers in her ears, but instead, she dropped the shilling in the old man's hand, and quietly turned toward the door.

"Thank you," his fingers closed over the shilling. Her pallor struck him then, even as the red spot on her cheek deepened, and he held out his arms for the child.

"Let me carry 'im for you, ma'm. Is it a boy?"

But her arms closed tighter about her baby. "He is my little son." It was almost a cry, as she said it, but again she forced herself to calmness, and, walking slowly out, added, with a quiet smile: "I always keep him myself. We do in America."

In a moment she was gone. The warm sunlight burst in on them and flooded the cold hall as the old man stood in the doorway looking after the retreating cab, and down at the silver shilling.

Darker, dingier, stuffier, seemed the box of a room, as she walked into it and laid her still sleeping babe on the bed. She felt herself moving in an unreal world. David--her David--she had not come to him after all; she had come to an empty place. She knelt and threw her arms about her little son, encircling his head and his feet. She neither wept nor prayed; and the red spot burned against the creamy whiteness of her skin. She was not thinking, only looking, seeing into the past and down the long vista of her future.

Pictures came to her--pictures of her girlhood--her dim aspirations--her melancholy-eyed father--his hilltop--and beloved, sunlit mountains. In the radiance of the spring, she saw them, and in the glory of the autumn; she breathed the fragrance of the pines in winter and heard the soft patter of summer rains on widespreading leaves. She saw David walking at her side, and heard his laugh, sun-bright and glorious he seemed, her Phoebus Apollo--the father of her little son.

She saw the terrible sea which she had crossed to come to him--the white-crested waves, with turquoise lights and indigo depths, shifting and sliding unceasingly where all the world seemed swallowed in s.p.a.ce, and the huge steamship so small a thing in the vast and perilous deep; and now--now she was here. What was she? What was life?

She had tried to find him, her David, and had been shown the dead, and the glory of the dead--all past and gone--her David's glory. Shown that long, empty gallery resounding with those aged footsteps, and the pictures--pictures--pictures--of men and women who had once been babes like her little son and David's, now dead and gone--not one soul among them all to greet her. Proud lords and dames in frames of gold; young men and maidens in costly silks and velvets of marvellous dyes, red-cheeked, red-lipped, and soullessly silent; and she, alone and undefended in their midst, holding in her arms their last descendant.

All those painted fingers seemed lifted to point at her; those silent red lips parted to cry out at her, "Look at this stranger claiming to be one of us; send her away."

And David--her David--was one of these! What they had felt--what they had thought and striven for--was it all intensified and concentrated in him? Oh, if her soul could only reach to him, wherever he was, and penetrate this impalpable veil that stretched between them! If her hands could only touch him, her eyes look into his and see what lay in their depths for her!

Then her babe stirred and tossed up his pretty hands, waking her from her sad, vision-seeing trance. He opened his large, clear eyes, and suddenly it seemed that her wish was granted,--that the veil was rent and she was looking into David's eyes and seeing his soul free, no longer chained by invisible links to those dead and gone beings, and their traditions. This had been all a dream--a dream.

She gathered the child in her arms and held him with his sweet, warm lips pressed to her breast and his soft little hand thrust in her bosom.

David's little son--David's little son! Surely all was good and well with the world! Did not the old man say it was only gossip? Had not evil things been said of David even on her own mountain? It was the trail of the serpent of ill report. He had not confided his sacred secret to these people, and they had thought what they pleased. Surely he had told his mother about his wife. She would go to his mother and wait for his return, and there she would bring her precious gift--David's little son.

Quickly she packed her few belongings and rang for a messenger, and as she stood an instant waiting for an answer to her ring, the white-capped nurse she had noticed in the morning pa.s.sed by with the baby in her arms. Yes, surely women of David's state did not travel about alone. Had she not read in _Vanity Fair_ how Becky Sharp always had her maid? And now she was in "Vanity Fair," and must be wise and not go to David's mother unattended. Then, too, if only she had some one with her to whom she could speak now and then, it would be better. Therefore, without further consideration, she walked swiftly down the corridor after the tidy nurse.

"Will you tell me, please, have you a sister?" she said. The young woman stood still in astonishment. "Or--any friend like yourself? I--I am a stranger from America." The look of surprise changed to one of curiosity. "And it is right hard to go about alone with my baby, so I thought I would ask you if you have a sister."