Which _would_ Gwen have liked, herself, in Mrs. Prichard's place? Aunt

M'riar was evidently looking to her for an answer.

"I'm afraid there's no help for it, Aunt Maria," said she. "She _must_

be told. But don't be afraid I shall leave the telling to you. I shall

go back and tell her myself in a day or two."

"Will she come back here?" This question raised a new doubt. Would

either of the two old twins care to leave the other, after that

formidable disclosure had been achieved? It was looking too far ahead.

Gwen felt that the evil of the hour was sufficient for the day, or

indeed the next three weeks for that matter, and evaded the question

with an answer to that effect.

Then, as no more was to be gained by talking, seeing that she could not

give all her proofs in detail, she suggested that she should go up to

Mrs. Prichard's room to say good-bye to Dave and Dolly. Promises could

not be ignored between honourable people. Uncle Mo and Aunt M'riar

quite concurred. "But," said they, almost in the same breath, "are the

children to know?"

Gwen had not considered the point. "No--yes--_no!_" she said, and then

revoked. "Really, though, I don't know, after all, why they shouldn't!

What harm _can_ it do?"

What harm indeed? Mo and M'riar looked the question at each other, and

neither looked a negative reply. Very good, then! Dave and Dolly were to

know, but who was to tell?

Gwen considered again. Then it flashed across her mind that the

disclosure of the relationship of his two Grannies could have no

distressing effect on Dave. Time and Change and Death are only names, to

a chick not eight years old, and nothing need be told of the means by

which the sisters' lives had been cut apart. As for Dolly, she would

either weep or laugh at a piece of news, according to the suggestions of

her informant. Passionless narrative would leave her unaffected either

way. Told as good news, this would be accepted as good, and it would be

a pleasure to tell it to those babies.

"I'll tell them myself," said she. "Don't you come up. Is Mrs. Burr

there?" No--Mrs. Burr was at Mrs. Ragstroar's, attending to a little job

for her. Gwen vanished up the stairs, and her welcome was audible below.

She did not mince matters, and the two young folks were soon crowing

with delight at her statement, made with equanimity, that she knew that

Granny Marrowbone was really old Mrs. Picture's sister. She saw no

reason for making the announcement thrilling. It was enough to say that

each of them had been told wicked lies about the other, and been

deceived by bad people, such as there was every reason to hope were not

to be found in Sapps Court, or the neighbourhood. "And each of them,"

she added, "thought the other was dead and buried, a long time ago!"

Inexplicably, she felt it easier to say dead and buried, than merely

dead.

Dolly, having been recently in collision with Time, saw her way to

profitable comparison. "A long, long, long time, like my birfday!" she

said, suggestively but unstructurally.

"Heaps longer," said Gwen. "Heaps and heaps!" Dolly was impressed,

almost cowed. She could not be even with these aeons and eras and epochs,

at her time of life.

Dave burst into a shout of unrestrained glee at the discovery that his

London and country Grannies were sisters. "Oy shall wroyte to say me and

Dolly are glad. Ever such long letters to bofe." A moment later his

face had clouded over. "Oy say!" said he, "will they be glad or sorry?"

"Glad," said Gwen venturesomely. "Why should they be sorry? You must

write them very, very long letters." The mine would be sprung, she

thought, before even a short letter was finished. But it was as well to

be on the safe side.

Dave was feeling the germination in his mind of hitherto unexperienced

thoughts about Death and Time, and he remained speechless. He shook his

head with closed lips and puzzled blue eyes fixed on his questioner. She

saw a little way into his mind as he looked up at her, and pinched his

cheek slightly, for sympathy, with the hand that was round his neck, but

said nothing. Children are so funny!

"I fink," said Dolly, "old Mrs. Spicture shall bring old Granny

Marrowbone back wiv her when she comes back and sets in her harm-chair

wiv scushions, and Mrs. Burr cuts the reel cake, wiv splums, in sloyces,

in big sloyces and little sloyces, and Mrs. Burr pawses milluck in my

little jug, and Mrs. Burr pawses tea in my little pot--ass, hot

tea!--and ven Doyvy shall cally round the scups and sources, but me to

paw it out"--this clause was merely to assert the supremacy of Woman in

household matters--"and ven all ve persons to help veirself to shoogy

..." etc., etc. Which might have run on musically for ever, but that a

difficulty arose about the names of the guests and their entertainer. It

was most unfortunate that the latter should have been rechristened

lately after one of the former. Her owner interpreted her to express

readiness to accept another name, and that of Gweng was selected, as a

compliment to the visitor.

Then it really became time for that young lady to depart. Think of that

doctor's pill-box waiting all this while round the corner! So she ended

what she did not suspect was her last look at old Mrs. Picture's

apartment, with the fire's last spasmodic flicker helping the gas-lamp

below in the Court to show Dolly, unable to tear herself away from the

glorious array of preparation on the floor. There it stood, just under

the empty chair with cushions, still waiting--waiting for its occupant

to come again; and meanwhile a Godsend to the cat, who resumed her place

the moment the intruder rose from it, with an implication that her

forbearance had been great indeed to endure exclusion for so long. There

was no more misgiving on the face of that little maid, putting the

fiftieth touch on the perfection of her tea-cup arrangements, that her

ideal entertainment would never compass realisation, than there was on

the faces of the Royal Pair in their robes and decorations, gazing

firmly across at Joan of Arc and St. George, in plaster, but done over

bronze so you couldn't tell; precious possessions of Mrs. Burr, who was

always inquiring what it would cost to repair Joan's sword--which had

disintegrated and laid bare the wire in its soul--and never getting an

estimate. Nor on the face of Mrs. Burr herself, coming upstairs from her

job out at Mrs. Ragstroar's, and beaming--prosaically, but still

beaming--on the young lady that had come to see her at the Hospital.

* * * * *

"Oh, I remember, by-the-by," said that young lady, three minutes later,

having really said adieu all round to the family; including Dolly, who

had suddenly awakened to the position, and overtaken her at the foot of

the stairs. "I remember there _was_ something else I wanted to ask you,

Aunt Maria. Did Mrs. Prichard ever talk to you about her son?"

Was it wonderful that Aunt M'riar should start and flinch from speech,

and that Uncle Mo should look preoccupied about everything outside the

conversation? Can you imagine the sort of feeling an intensely truthful

person like Aunt M'riar would have under such circumstances? How could

she, without feeling like duplicity itself, talk about this son as

though he were unknown to her, when his foul presence still hung about

the room he had quitted less than an hour since? That fact, and that she

had seen him, then and there, face to face with her beautiful

questioner, weighed heavier on her at that moment than her own terrible

relation to him, a discarded wife oppressed by an uncancelled marriage.

She had got to answer that question. "Mrs. Prichard _has_ a son," she

said. "But _he's_ no good." This came with a jerk--perhaps with a weak

hope that it might eject him from the conversation.

"She hasn't set eyes on him, didn't she say, for years past?" said old

Mo, seeing that M'riar wanted help. Also with a hope of eliminating the

convict. "Didn't even know whether he was living or dead, did she?"

The reply, after consideration, was:--"No-o! She said that."

And then Gwen looked from one to the other. "Oh-h!" said she. "Then

probably the man _was_ her son.... Look here! I must read you the

postscript I left out." She reopened Mrs. Thrale's letter, and read that

the writer's mother had been much upset by a man who laid claim to being

Mrs. Prichard's son. As her eyes were on the letter, she did not see the

glance of reciprocal intelligence that passed between her two listeners.

But she looked up after the last word of the postscript in time to see

the effect of the dog at Strides Cottage. Even as her father had been

influenced, so was Uncle Mo. He appeared to breathe freer for that dog.

It struck Gwen that Aunt M'riar seemed a little unenquiring and

uncommunicative about this son of Mrs. Prichard's, considering all the

circumstances.

When Gwen had departed, Aunt M'riar, seeing perhaps interrogation in

Mo's eyes, stopped it by saying:--"Don't you ask me no more questions,

not till these children are clear off to bed. I'll tell after supper."

And then, just that moment, Mr. Alibone looked in, and was greatly

impressed by Dave and Dolly's dramatic account of their visitor. "I've

seen her, don't you know?" he said. "When you was put about to get that

lock open t'other day. She's one among a million. If I was a blooming

young Marquish, I should just knock at her door till she had me moved

on. That's what, Mo. So might you, old man." To which Uncle Mo

replied:--"They've stood us over too long, Jerry. If they don't look

alive, they won't get a chance to make either of us a Marquish. I expect

they're just marking time." Which Dave listened to with silent,

large-eyed gravity. Some time after he expressed curiosity about the

prospects of these Marquisates, and made inquiry touching the relation

"marking time" had to them. Uncle Mo responded that it wouldn't be so

very long now, and described the ceremonies that would accompany

it--something like Lord Mayor's Show, with a flavour of Guy Fawkes Day.

However, Dave and Dolly went to bed this evening without even that

inaccurate enlightenment. And presently Mr. Alibone, detecting his

friend's meaning when he said he was deadly sleepy somehow to-night,

took his leave and went away to finish his last pipe at The Sun.

And then Mo and M'riar were left to resume the day, and make out its

meaning. "How long had the feller been here?" he asked, in order to

begin somewhere.

Aunt M'riar took the question too much to heart, and embarked on an

intensely accurate answer. "I couldn't say not to a minute," she said.

"But if you was to put it at ten minutes, I'd have felt it safer at

seven. The nearer seven the better, _I_ should say."

"Anyhow--not a twelvemonth!" said Mo. "And there he was skearing you out

of your wits, when the lady came in and di-verted of him off. Where was

the two young scaramouches all the while?"

"Them I'd sent upstairs when I see who it was outside. Dave he never see

him, not to look at!"

"He see him out of the top window, and knew him again. What had the

beggar got to say for hisself?" This was the gist of the matter, and

Uncle Mo settled down to hear it.

"He'd been to look after his mother in the country, at the place I told

him--and the more fool me for telling--and he thought he spotted her,

but it was some other old woman, and while he was talking to her, there

to be sure and if he didn't see a police-officer after him!"

"What did he do on that?"

"Oh, he run for it, and was all but took. But he got away to the

railway, and the officer followed him. And when he saw him coming up, he

jumped in the wrong train, that was just starting, and got carried to

Manchester. And he got back to London by the night train."

"And then he come on here, and found I was in the parlour--round at Joe

Jeffcoat's. He thought he see his way to another half-a-sovereign out of

you, M'riar, and that's what he come for. He thought I was safe for just

the du-ration of a pipe or two."

"What brought you back, Mo?"

"Well, ye see, I heard his ugly voice out in the front bar, askin' for

me. And I only thought he was a sporting c'rackter come to see what the

old scrapper looked like in his old age. Then I couldn't think for a

minute or two because of old Billy's clapper going, but when I did, his

face came back to me atop of his voice. More by token when he never

showed up! Ye see?" Aunt M'riar nodded an exact understanding of what

had happened. "And then I take it he come sneaking down here to see for

some cash, if he could get it. He'll come again, old girl, he'll come

again! And Simeon Rowe shall put on a man in plain clothes, to watch for

him when I'm away."

"Oh, Mo, don'tee say that! It was only his make-believe to frighten me.

Anyone could tell that only to see him flourishin' out his knife."

"Hay--what's that?--his knife? You never told me o' that."

"Why, Mo, don't ye see, I only took it for bounce."

"What was it about his knife?"

"Just this, Mo dear! Now, don't you be excited. He says to me

again:--'What are you good for, Polly Daverill?' And then I see he was

handling a big knife with a buckhorn handle." M'riar was tremulous and

tearful. "Oh, Mo!" she said. "Do consider! He wasn't that earnest, to be

took at a chance word. He ain't so bad as you think of him. He was only

showin' off like, to get the most he could."

"That's a queer way of showin' off--with a knife! P'r'aps it warn't

open, though?" But it _was_, by M'riar's silence. "Anyways," Mo

continued, "he won't come back so long as he thinks I'm here. To-morrow

morning first thing I shall just drop round to the Station, and tip 'em

a wink. Can't have this sort o' thing goin' on!"

M'riar's lighting of a candle seemed to hang fire. Said she:--"You'd

think it a queer thing to say, if I was to say it, Mo!" And then, in

reply to the natural question:--"Think what?" she continued:--"A woman's

husband ain't like any other man. She's never quite done with him, as if

he was nobody. It don't make any odds how bad he's been, nor yet how

long ago it was.... It makes one creep to think...." She stopped

abruptly, and shuddered.

"What he'll catch if he gets his deserts." Mo supplied an end for the

sentence, gravely.

"Ah!--he might be.... What _would_ it be, Mo, if he was tried and found

guilty?"

"Without a recommendation to mercy? It was a capital offence. I never

told it ye. Shall I tell it?"

"No--for God's sake!" Aunt M'riar stopped her ears tight as she had done

before. "Don't you tell me nothing, Mo, more than I know already. That's

plenty." Uncle Mo nodded, pointed to tightly closed lips to express

assent, and she resumed speech with hearing. "Capital offence means ...

means?..."

"Means he would go to the scragging-post, arter breakfast one morning.

There's no steering out o' _that_ fix, M'riar. He's just got to, one

day, and there's an end of it!"

"And how ever could I be off knowing it at the time? Oh, but it makes me

sick to think of! The night before--the night before, Mo! Supposin' I

wake in the night, and think of him, and hear the clocks strike! He'll

hear them too, Mo."

"Can't be off it, M'riar! But what of that? _He_ won't be a penny the

worse, and he'll know what o'clock it is." Remember that Uncle Mo had

some particulars of Daverill's career that Aunt M'riar had not. For all

she knew, the criminal's capital offence might have been an innocent

murder--a miscarriage in the redistribution of some property--a too

zealous garrotting of some fat old stockjobber. "I'm thinkin' a bit of

the other party, M'riar," said Mo. He might have said more, but he was

brought up short by his pledge to say nothing of the convict's last

atrocity. How could he speak the thought in his mind, of the mother of

the victim in a madhouse? For that had made part of the tale, as it had

reached him through the police-sergeant. So he ended his speech by

saying:--"What I do lies at my own door, M'riar. You're out of it. So I

shan't say another word of what I will do or won't do. Only I tell you

this, that if I could get a quiet half an hour with the gentleman, I'd

... _What_ would I do?... Well!--I'd save him from the gallows--I

_would_! Ah!--and old as I am, I'd let him keep a hold on his knife....

There--there, old lass! I do wrong to frighten ye, givin' way to bad

temper. Easy does it!"

For a double terror of the woman's position was bred of that mysterious,

inextinguishable love that never turns to hate, however hateful its

object may become; and her dread that if this good, unwieldy giant--that

was what Mo seemed--crossed his path, that jack-knife might add another

to her husband's many crimes. This dread and counter-dread had sent all

Aunt M'riar's blood to her heart, and she might have fallen, but that

Mo's strong hand caught her in time, and landed her in a chair. "I was

wrong--I was wrong!" said he gently. All the fires had died down before

the pallor of her face, and his only thought was how could _she_ be

spared if the destroyer of her life was brought to justice.

They said no more; what more was there to be said? Aunt M'riar came

round, refusing restoratives. Oh no, she would be all right! It was only

a turn she got--that common event! They adjourned, respectively, to

where Dolly and Dave were sleeping balmily, profoundly.

But Uncle Mo was discontented with the handiwork of Creation. Why should

a cruel, two-edged torture be invented for, and inflicted on, an

inoffensive person like M'riar? There didn't seem any sense in it. "If

only," said he to his inner soul, "they'd a-let _me_ be God A'mighty for

five minutes at the first go-off, I'd a-seen to it no such a thing

shouldn't happen." Less than five minutes would have been necessary, if

a full and unreserved concession of omnipotence had been made.

* * * * *

Dave was a man of his word, though a very young one. He seized the

earliest opportunity to indite two letters of congratulation to his

honorary grandmothers, including Dolly in his rejoicing at the discovery

of their relationship. He wrote as though such discoveries were an

everyday occurrence.

His mistakes in spelling were few, the principal one arising from an old

habit of thought connecting the words sister and cistern, which had

survived Aunt M'riar's frequent attempts at correction. When he

exhibited his Identical Notes to the Powers for their sanction and

approval, this was pointed out to him, and an allegation that he was

acting up to previous instructions disallowed _nem. con._ He endeavoured

to lay to heart that for the future _cistern_ was to be spelt _sister_,

except out on the leads. A holographic adjustment of the _c_, and

erasure of the _n_, was scarcely a great success, but the Powers

supposed it would do. Uncle Mo opposed Aunt M'riar's suggestion that the

two letters should go in one cover to Strides Cottage, for economy, as

mean-spirited and parsimonious, although he had quite understood that

the two Grannies were under one roof; otherwise Dave would have directed

to Mrs. Picture at the Towers. So to Strides Cottage they went, some

three days later.

CHAPTER XIV

HOW THE COUNTESS AND HER DAUGHTER WENT BACK TO THE TOWERS, AND GWEN

READ HER LETTERS IN THE TRAIN. THE TORPEYS, THE RECTOR, AND THE

BISHOP. HOW THE COUNTESS SHUT HER EYES, AND GWEN HARANGUED. WHO WAS

LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS? THE UP-EXPRESS, AND ITS VIRUS. HOW GWEN

RESOLVED TO RUSH THE POSITION. AT STRIDES COTTAGE. HOW GWEN BECAME

MORE AND MORE ALIVE TO HER DIFFICULTIES. HOW SHE WENT TO SEE DR.

NASH. HIS INCREDULITY. AND HIS CONVERSION. HOW HE WOULD SEE GRANNY

MARRABLE, BY ALL MEANS. BUT! HOWEVER, BY GOOD LUCK, MUGGERIDGE HAD

FORGOTTEN HIS MARRIAGE VOWS, HALF A CENTURY AGO AND MORE

It was written in the Book of Fate, and printed in the _Morning Post_,

that the Countess of Ancester was leaving for Rocestershire, and would

remain over Christmas. After which she would probably pay a visit to her

daughter, Lady Philippa Brandon, at Vienna. The Earl would join her at

the Towers after a short stay at Bath, according to his lordship's

annual custom. The _Post_ did not commit itself as to his lordship's

future movements, because Fate had not allowed the Editor to look in her

Book.

And the Countess herself seemed to know no more than the _Post_. For

when her daughter, in the railway-carriage on the way to the Towers,

looked up from a letter she was reading over and over again, to say:--"I

suppose it's no use trying to persuade papa to come to Vienna, after

all?" her mother's answer was:--"You can try, my dear. _You_ may have

some influence with him. _I_ have none. I suppose when we're gone,

he'll just get wrapped up in his fiddles and books and old gim-cracks,

as he always does the minute my eyes are off him." Gwen made no comment

upon inconsistencies, becoming reabsorbed in her letter. But surely a

Countess whose eyes prevent an Earl getting wrapped up in fiddles is not

absolutely without influence over him.

Gwen's absorbing letter was from Irene, incorporating dictation from

Adrian. The writer had found the accepted Official form:--"I am to say,"

convenient in practice. Thus, for instance, "I am to say that he is not

counting the hours till your return, as it seems to him that the total,

when reached, will be of no use to him or anyone else. He prefers to

accept our estimate of the interval as authentic, and to deduct each

hour as it passes. He is at eighty-six now, and expects to be at

sixty-two at this time to-morrow, assuming that he can trust the clock

while he's asleep." Gwen inferred that the amanuensis had protested, to

go on to a more interesting point, as the letter continued:--"Adrian and

I have been talking over what do you think, Gwen dear? Try and guess

before you turn over this page I'm just at the end of...." Dots ended

the page, and the next began:--"Give it up? Well--only, if I tell you,

you must throw this letter in the fire when you have read it--I'm more

than half convinced that there was once a _tendresse_, to put it mildly,

between our respective papa and mamma--that is, our respective papa and

your respective mamma--not the other way, that's ridiculous! And Adrian

is coming to my way of thinking, after what happened yesterday. It was

at dessert, and papa was quite loquacious, for him--in his best form,

saying:--'Niggers, niggers, niggers! What does that blessed Duchess of

Sutherland want to liberate niggers for? Much better wollop 'em!' The

Duchess was, he said, an hysterical female. Mamma was unmoved and

superior. Perhaps papa would call Lady Ancester hysterical, too. _She_

was at Stafford House, and was _most enthusiastic_. She had promised to

drive over as soon as she came back, to talk about Negro slavery, and

see if something could not be done in the neighbourhood. Mamma hoped she

would interest the Torpeys and the Rector and the Bishop. Only the point

was that the moment _our_ mamma mentioned _yours_, papa shut up with a

snap, and never said another word. It struck me exactly as it struck

Adrian. And when we came to talk it over we agreed that, if it were, it

would account for our having been such strangers till last year."

Gwen was roused from weighing the possibilities of the truth of this

surmise by the voice of one of its subjects. "How very engrossing our

letters seem to be this morning!" said the Countess, with a certain air

of courteous toleration, as of seniority on Olympus. "But perhaps I have

no right to inquire." This with _empressement_.

"Don't be so civil, mamma dear, please!" said Gwen. "I do hate

civility.... No, there's nothing of interest. Yes--there is. Lady

Torrens says she hopes you won't forget your promise to come and talk

about abolishing negroes. I didn't know you were going to."

The Countess skipped details. "Let me see the letter," said she,

forsaking her detached superiority. She began to polish a double

eyeglass prematurely.

"Can't show the letter," said Gwen equably, as one secure in her rights.

"That's all--what I've told you! Says you promised to drive over and

talk, and she hoped to interest you--oh no!--it's not you, it's the

Torpeys are to be interested."

"Oh--the Torpeys," said the Countess freezingly. Because it was

humiliating to have to put away those double eyeglasses. "Perhaps if

there is anything else of interest you will tell me. Do not trouble to

read the whole."

"But _did_ you promise to drive over to Pensham? Because, if you did, we

may just as well go together. With all those men at the Towers, I shall

have to bespeak Tom Kettering and the mare."

"I think something _was_ said about my going over. But I certainly made

no promise." Her ladyship reflected a moment, and then said:--"I think

we had better be free lances. I am most uncertain. It's a long drive. If

I do go, I shall lunch at the Parysforts, which is more than half-way,

and go on in the afternoon to your aunt at Poynders. Then I need not

come back till the day after. I could call at Pensham by the way."

"I won't go to old Goody Parysforts--so that settles the matter! When

shall I tell Adrian's mamma you are coming?"

"Are you going there at once?"

"Yes--to-morrow. I must see Adrian to talk to him about my old ladies,

before I talk to either of them." Thereupon the Countess became

prodigiously interested in the story of the twins, a subject about which

she had been languid hitherto, and her daughter was not sorry, because

she did not want to be asked again what Irene had said, which might have

involved her in reading that young lady's text aloud, with extemporised

emendations, possibly complex. She put that letter away, to re-read

another time, and took out another one. "I've had _this_," she said,

"from old Mrs. Prichard. But there's nothing in it!"

"Nothing in it?"

"Nothing about what Widow Thrale told us in hers. Nothing about Mrs.

Thrale thinking she had gone dotty."

The Countess, with a passing rebuke of her daughter's phraseology, asked

to be reminded of the story. Gwen, embarking on a _resume_, was

interrupted by a tunnel, and then had hardly begun again when the train

rushed into a second section of it, which had slipped or been blown

further along the line. However, Peace ensued, in a land where, to all

appearance, notice-boards were dictating slow speeds from interested

motives, as there was no reason in life against quick ones. Gwen took

advantage of it to read Mrs. Prichard's letter aloud, with comments.

This was the letter:--

"'MY DEAR LADY,

"'I am looking forward to your return, and longing for it, for I

have much to tell you. I cannot tell of it all now, but I can tell

you what is such a happiness to tell, of the sweet kindness of this

dear young woman who takes such care of me. A many have been very

very kind to me, and what return have I to make, since my dear

husband died?'...

"Her dear husband, don't you see, mamma, was the infamous monster that

wrote the forged letter that did it all.... Papa read it to you, didn't

he?"

"My dear, it's no use asking me what your father read or did not read to

me, for really the last few days have been such a whirl. It always is,

in London. However, go on! I know the letter you mean--what you were

telling me about. Only I can't say I made head or tail of it at the

time. Go on!" Her ladyship composed herself to listen with her eyes

shut, and Gwen read on:--

"'But never, no never, was such patient kindness to a tiresome old

woman, because that is what I am, and I know, my dear. I know, my

dear, that I owe this to you, and it is for your sake, but it ought

to be, and that is right. I do not say things always like I want

to. She says her own mother is no use to her, because she is so

strong and never ill, and I am good to nurse. But she is coming

back very soon, and I shall see her. She is my Davy's other Granny,

you know, and I am sure she must be good. I cannot write more, but

oh, how good you have been to me!

"'Your loving and dutiful

"'MAISIE PRICHARD.

"'I must say this to you, that she lets me call her her name Ruth.

That was my child's I left at our Dolly's age, who was drowned.'

"Now are you sure, mamma," said Gwen, not without severity, "that you

quite understand that it's _the same Ruth_? That this Widow Thrale _is_

the little girl that old Mrs. Prichard has gone on believing drowned,

all these years? Are you quite clear that old Granny Marrable actually

_is_ the twin sister she has not seen for fifty years? Are you

certain...?"

"My dear Gwen, I beg you won't harangue. Besides, I can't hear you

because the train's going quick again. It always does, just here....

No--I understand perfectly. These two old persons have not seen each

other for fifty years, and it's very interesting. Only I don't see what

they have to complain of. They have only got to be told, and made to

understand how the mistake came about. I think they _ought_ to be told,

you know."

"Oh dear, what funny things maternal parents are! Mamma dear, you are

just like Thothmes, who said:--'Better late than never'!"

"Who is 'Thothmes'?" Her ladyship knew perfectly well.

"Well--Lincoln's Inn Fields--if you prefer it! Mr. Hawtrey. He's like a

cork that won't come out. I cannot understand people like you and Mr.

Hawtrey. I suppose you will say that you and he are not in it, and I

am?"

"I shall say _nothing_, my dear. I never do." The Countess retired to

the Zenith, meekly. The train was picking up its spirits, audibly, but

cautiously. The flank fire of hints about speed had subsided, and it had

all the world before it, subject to keeping on the line and screeching

when called on to do so by the Company.

"I wonder," said Gwen, "whether you have realised that that dear old

soul is calling her own daughter Ruth 'Ruth,' without knowing who she

is."

"Oh dear yes--perfectly! But suppose she is--what does it matter?" The

conversation was cut short by the more than hysterical violence of the

up-express, which was probably the thing that passed, invisible owing to

its speed, before its victims could do more than quail and shiver. When

it had shrieked and rattled itself out of hearing, it was evident that

it had bitten Gwen's engine and poisoned its disposition, for madness

set in, and it dragged her train over oily lines and clicketty lines

alike at a speed that made conversation impossible.

Gwen was panting to start upon the bewildering task she had before her,

but only to put it to the proof, and end the tension. It was

_impossible_ to keep the two old twins in the dark, and it seemed to her

that delay might make matters worse. As for ingenious schemes to reveal

the strange story gradually, some did occur to her, but none bore

reconsideration. Probably disaster lay in ambush behind over-ingenuity.

Go gently but firmly to the point--that seemed to her a safe rule for

guidance. If she could only anchor her dear old fairy godmother in a

haven of calm knowledge of the facts, she was less distressingly

concerned about the sister and daughter. The former of these was the

more prickly thorn of anxiety. Still, she was a wonderfully strong old

lady--not like old Mrs. Picture, a semi-invalid. As for the latter, she

scarcely deserved to be thought a thorn at all. She might even be relied

on to put her feelings in her pocket and help.

Yes--that was an idea! How would it be to make Widow Thrale know the

truth first, and then simply tell her that help she _must_, and there an

end! Gwen acted on the impulse produced in her mind during the last

twenty minutes of her journey, in which conversation with her mother

continued a discomfort, owing to the strong effect which the poisoned

tooth or bad example of the down-train express had produced on her own

hitherto temperate and reasonable engine. On arriving at Grantley Thorpe

she changed her mind about seeing Adrian before visiting Strides

Cottage, and petitioned Mr. Sandys, the Station-master, for writing

materials, and asked him to send the letter she then and there wrote, by

bearer, to Widow Thrale at Chorlton; not because the distance of Strides

Cottage from the main road was a serious obstacle to its personal

delivery on the way home, but because she wished to avoid seeing any of

its occupants until a full interview was possible. Also, she wanted

Widow Thrale to be prepared for something unusual. Her letter was:--"I

am coming to you to-morrow. I want to talk about dear old Mrs. Prichard,

but do not show her this or say anything till I see you. And do not be

uneasy or alarmed." She half fancied when she had written it that the

last words were too soothing. But this was a mistake. Nothing rouses

alarm alike reassurance.

It was a relief to her, between this and an early start for Chorlton

next day, to be dragged forcibly away from her dominant anxiety. The

Colonel's shooting-party was still in possession at the Towers, though

its numbers were dwindling daily. It had never had its full complement,

as so many who might have gone to swell it were fighting in the ranks

before Sebastopol, or in hospital at Balaklava, cholera-stricken

perhaps; or, nominally, waiting till resurrection-time in the cemetery

there, or by the Alma, for the grass of a new year to cover them in; but

maybe actually--and likelier too--in some strange inconceivable Hades;

poor cold ghosts in the dark, marvelling at the crass stupidity of Cain,

and even throwing doubts on "glory."

The Colonel's party, belonging to the class that is ready to send all

its sons that can bag game or ride to hounds, to be food for powder

themselves in any dispute made and provided, was sadly denuded of the

young man element, and he himself was fretting with impatience at the

medical verdict that had disqualified him for rejoining his regiment

with a half-healed lung. But the middle-aged majority, and the civilian

juniors--including a shooting parson--could talk of nothing but the War.

Some of us who are old enough will recall easily their own consciousness

of the universal war-cloud at this time, when reminded that the details

of Inkerman were only lately to hand, and that Florence Nightingale had

not long begun to work in the hospital at Scutari. But the immediate

excitement of the moment, when the two ladies joined the dinner-party

that evening at the Towers, was the frightful storm of which Gwen had

already had the first news, which had strewn the coast of the Chersonese

with over thirty English wrecks, and sent stores and war material

costing millions to the bottom of the Black Sea. She was glad, however,

to hear that it was certain that the Agamemnon had been got off the

rocks at Balaklava, as she had understood that Granny Marrable had a

grandson on the ship.

* * * * *

The time was close at hand, within an hour, when Gwen would have to find

words to tell her strange impossible story, if not to that dear old

silver hair--to those grave peaceful eyes,--at least to one whose

measure of her whole life must perforce be changed by it. What would it

mean, to Widow Thrale, to have such a subversive fact suddenly sprung

upon her?

More than once in her ride to Chorlton it needed all her courage to

crush the impulse to tell Tom Kettering to turn the mare round and drive

back to the Towers. It would have been so easy to forge some excuse to

save her face, and postpone the embarrassing hour till to-morrow. But to

what end? It would be absolutely out of the question to leave the

sisters in ignorance of each other, even supposing the circumstances

made continued ignorance possible. The risks to the health or

brain-power of either would surely be greater if the _eclaircissement_

were left to haphazard, than if she were controlling it with a previous

knowledge of all the facts. Perhaps Gwen was not aware how much her

inborn temperament had to do with her conclusions. Had she been a

soldier, she would have volunteered to go on every forlorn hope, on

principle. No doubt an "hysterical" temperament, as it is so common

among women! But it is a form of hysteria that exists also among men.

Whether or no, here she was at the gate of Strides Cottage, and it was

now too late to think of going back. Tom Kettering was requesting the

mare, in stable language, not to kick _terra firma_, or otherwise object

to standing, till he had assisted the lady down. She was down without

assistance before the mare was convinced of sin, so Tom touched his hat

vaguely, but committed himself to nothing. He appeared to understand--as

he didn't say he didn't, when instructed--that he was to wait five

minutes; and then, if nothing appeared to the contrary, employ himself

and the mare in any way they could agree upon, for an hour; and then

return to pick her up.

The cat, the only inmate visible at Strides, rose from the threshold to

welcome the visitor, with explanations perfectly clear to Gwen--who

understood cats--that if it had been within her power to reach the

door-latch, she would have opened the door, entirely to accommodate her

ladyship. She had no mixture of motives, arising from having been shut

out. Gwen threw doubt on this; as, having rung the bell, she waited. She

might have rung again but for Elizabeth-next-door; who, coming out with

advisory powers, said that Mrs. Thrale was probably engaged with the old

lady, but that she herself would go straight in if she was her ladyship.

Not being able to reach the latch herself over the privet-hedge between

them, the good woman was coming round to open the door, but went back

when Gwen anticipated her, and entering the empty front-room, heard the

voices in the bedroom behind. How strange it seemed to her, to wait

there, overhearing them, and knowing that the old voice was that of a

mother speaking to her unknown daughter, and that each was unsuspicious

of the other.

The dog who trotted in from the passage between the rooms or beyond it,

was no doubt the one Gwen had heard of. He examined her slightly, seemed

satisfied, and disappeared as he had come. The cat chose the most

comfortable corner by the fire, and went to sleep in it without

hesitation. The fire crackled with new dry wood, and exploded a chance

wet billet into jets of steam, under a kettle whose lid was tremulous

from intermittent stress below.

Otherwise, nothing interfered with the two voices in the room beyond;

the mother's, weak with age, but cheerful enough, no unhappy sound about

it; the daughter's, cheerful, robust, and musical, rallying and

encouraging her as a child, perhaps about some dress obstacle or

mystery. The effect on Gwen of listening to them was painful. To hear

them, knowing the truth, made that knowledge almost unendurable. Could

she possess her soul in peace until what she supposed to be the old

lady's toilette was complete?

The question was decided by the dog, who was applying for admission at

the door beyond the passage, somewhat diffidently and cautiously. Gwen

could just see him, exploring along the door-crack with his nose.

Presently, remaining unnoticed from within, he made his voice

audible--barely audible, not to create alarm needlessly. It was only to

oblige; he had no misgivings about the visitor.

Then Gwen, conceiving that a change in the voices implied that his

application had been heard, helped the applicant, by a word or two to

identify herself; adding that she was in no hurry, and would wait. Then

followed more change in the voices; the mother's exclamation of

pleasure; the daughter's recognition of her visitor's dues of courtesy

and deference, and their claim for a prompt discharge. Then an opened

door, and Widow Thrale herself, not too much overpowered by her

obligations to leave the dog's explanations and apologies

unacknowledged. The utter unconsciousness this showed of the thing that

was to come almost made Gwen feel that the strain on her powers of

self-control might become greater than she could bear, and that she

might break out with some premature disclosure which would only seem

sheer madness to her unprepared hearer.

She could hold out a little yet, though.... Well!--she had got to manage

it, by hook or by crook. So--courage! Five minutes of normal

_causeries_, mere currencies of speech, and then the match to the train!

She evolved, with some difficulty, the manner which would be correct in

their relative positions; accepted the curtsey before stretching out a

hand, guaranteed Olympian, to the plains below. "My dear Mrs. Thrale,"

said she, choking back excitement to chat-point, "I really am more

grateful to you than I can say for taking charge of this dear old lady.

I was quite at my wits' end what to do with her. You see, I had to go up

to London, because of my cousin's illness--Sister Nora, you know--and it

was in the middle of the night, and I was afraid the dear old soul

would be uncomfortable at the Towers." She made some pretence of languid

indifference to conventional precisions, and of complete superiority to

scruples about confessing an error, by adding:--"Most likely I was

wrong. One is, usually. But it never seems to matter.... Let's see--what

was I saying? Oh--how very kind it was of you to solve the difficulty

for me.... Well--to help me out of the scrape!" For Mrs. Thrale had

looked the doubt in her mind--_could_ Gurth the Swineherd "solve a

difficulty" for Coeur de Lion? She could only do Anglo-Saxon things,

legitimately. The point was, however, covered by Gwen's amendment.

Mrs. Thrale had begun a smile of approbation at the phrase "dear old

lady," and had felt bound to suspend it for Sister Nora's illness. That

was a parenthesis, soon disposed of. The revival of the smile was easy,

on the words "dear old soul." She was that, there was no doubt of it,

said Mrs. Thrale, adding:--"'Tis for me to be grateful to your ladyship

for allowing me the charge of her. I hope your ladyship may not be

thinking of taking her away, just yet-a-while?"

"I think not, just at present.... We shall be able to talk of that....

Tell me--how has she been? Because of your letter."

"There now!--when I got your ladyship's note last night I felt a'most

ashamed of writing that I had been uneasy or alarmed." Gwen saw that her

yesterday's attempt at premonition had missed fire, and Mrs. Thrale

added:--"Because--_not a word!_"

"How do you mean? I don't quite understand."

"She's never said a word since. Not that sort of word! She's just never

spoke of the mill, nor Muggeridge, nor my grandfather. And I have said

nothing to her, by reason of Dr. Nash's advice. 'Never you talk to a

mental patient about their delusions!'--that's what Dr. Nash says. So I

never said one word."

Gwen felt sorry she had not made her note of alarm more definite. For

the absolute faith of the speaker in her own belief and Dr. Nash's

professional infallibility, that a dropped voice and confidential manner

seemed to erect as a barrier to enlightenment, made her feel more at a

loss than ever how to act. Would it not, after all, be easiest to risk

the whole, and speak at once to the old lady herself? She prefigured in

her mind the greater ease of telling her story when she could make her

own love a palliative to the shock of the revelation, could take on her

bosom the old head, stunned and dumfoundered; could soothe the weakness

of the poor old hand with the strength and youth of her own. But into

that image came a disturbing whim--call it so!--a question from without,

not bred of her own mind:--"Is not this the daughter's right?--the

prerogative of the flesh and blood that stands before you?" Perhaps Gwen

_was_ whimsical sometimes.

If Widow Thrale had said one word to pave the way--had spoken, for

instance, of the unaccountableness of the old lady's memories--Gwen

might have seen daylight through the wood. But this placid immovable

ascription of the whole of them to brain-disorder was an Ituri forest of

preconceptions, shutting out every gleam of suggested truth.

A sudden idea occurred to her. Her father had spoken well of Dr.

Nash--of his abilities, at least--and he seemed very much in Mrs.

Thrale's good books. Could she not get _him_ to help, or at least to

take his measure as a confidant in her difficulty before condemning him

as impossible?

So quickly did all this pass through her mind that the words "I think I

should like to see Dr. Nash" seemed to follow naturally. Mrs. Thrale

welcomed the idea.

"But he'll be gone," said she. "He goes to see his patient at Dessington

Manor at eleven. And if he was sent for it is very like he could not

come, even for your ladyship. Because his sick folk he sees at the

surgery they will have their money's worth. Indeed, I think the poor

man's worked off his legs."

"I see," said Gwen. "I shall go and see him myself, at once." She

breathed freer for the respite, and the prospect of help. "But there's

plenty of time if I look sharp. Would you tell Tom outside that he's not

to run away. I shall want him? May I go through to see her? Is she

getting up?"

She was up, apparently, in the accepted sense of the word; though she

had collapsed with the effort of becoming so; and was now down, in the

literal sense, lying on the bed under contract not to move till Mrs.

Thrale returned with a cup of supplementary arrowroot. She had had a

very poor breakfast. Certainly, her ladyship might go in.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, I am so glad you are come!" It was the voice of a

great relief that came from the figure on the bed; the voice of one who

had waited long, of a traveller who sees his haven, a castaway adrift

who spies a sail.

"Now, dear Mrs. Picture, you are not to get up, but lie still till I

come back. I'm going to try to catch Dr. Nash, and must hurry off. But I

_am_ coming back."

"Oh--all right!" There was disappointment in her tone, but it was

docility itself. She added, however, with the barest trace of

remonstrance:--"I'm quite _well_, you know. I don't _want_ the doctor."

Gwen laughed. "Oh no--it's not for you! I've ... I've a message for him.

I shall soon be back." An excusable fiction, she thought, under the

circumstances.

She was only just in time to catch Dr. Nash, whose gig was already in

possession of him at his garden-gate with a palpably medical lamp over

it, and a "surgery bell" whose polish seemed to guarantee its owner's

prescriptions. "Get down and talk to me in the house," said her young

ladyship. "Who is it you were going to? Anyone serious?"

"Only Sir Cropton Fuller."

"He can wait.... Can't he?"

"He'll have to. No hurry!" The doctor found time to add, between the

gate and the house:--"I go to see him every day to prevent his taking

medicine. He's extremely well. I don't get many cases of illness, among

my patients." He turned round to look at Gwen, on the doorstep. "Your

ladyship doesn't look very bad," said he.

Gwen shook her head. "It's nothing to do with me," she said. "Nor with

illness! It's old Mrs. Prichard at Strides Cottage."

The doctor stood a moment, latchkey in hand. "The old lady whose mind is

giving way?" said he. He had knitted his brows a little; and, having

spoken, he knitted his lips a little.

"We are speaking of the same person," said Gwen. She followed the doctor

into his parlour, and accepted the seat he offered. He stood facing her,

not relaxing his expression, which worked out as a sort of mild

grimness, tempered by a tune which his thumbs in the armpits of his

waistcoat enabled him to play on its top-pockets. It was a slow tune.

Gwen continued:--"But her mind is _not_ giving way."

The doctor let that expression subside into mere seriousness. He took a

chair, to say:--"Your ladyship has, perhaps, not heard all particulars

of the case."

"Every word."

"You surprise me. Are you aware that this poor old person is under a

delusion about her own parentage? She fancies herself the daughter of

Isaac Runciman, the father of old Mrs. Marrable, the mother of Widow

Thrale."

"She _is_ his daughter."

The doctor nearly sprang out of his chair with surprise, but an insecure

foothold made the chair jump instead.

"But it's impossible--it's _impossible_!" he cried. "How could Mrs.

Marrable have a sister alive and not know it?"

"That is what I am going to explain to you, Dr. Nash. And Sir Cropton

Fuller will have to wait, as you said."

"But the thing's impossible in _itself_. Only look at this!..."

"Please consider Sir Cropton Fuller. You won't think it so impossible

when you know it has happened." The doctor listened for the symptoms

with perceptibly less than his normal appearance of knowing it all

beforehand. Gwen proceeded, and told with creditable brevity and

clearness, the succession of events the story has given, for its own

reasons, by fits and starts.

It could not be accepted as it stood, consistently with male dignity.

The superior judicial powers of that estimable sex called for assertion.

First, suspension of opinion--no hasty judgments! "A most extraordinary

story! A _most_ extra_or_dinary story! But scarcely to be accepted....

You'll excuse my plain speech?..."

"Please don't use any other! The matter's too serious."

"Scarcely to be accepted without a close examination of the evidence."

"Unquestionably. Does any point occur to you?"

Now Dr. Nash had nothing ready. "Well," he said, dubiously, "in such a

very difficult matter it might be rash...." Then he thought of something

to say, suddenly. "Well--_yes!_ It certainly does occur to me that ...

No--perhaps not--perhaps not!..."

"What were you going to say?"

"That there is no direct proof that the forged letter was ever sent to

Australia." This sounded well, and appeared like a tribute to

correctness and caution. It meant nothing whatever.

"Only the Australian postmark," said Gwen. "I have got it here, but it's

rather alarming--the responsibility."

"If it was written, as you say, over an effaced original, it might have

been done just as easily in England." The doctor was reading the

direction, not opening the letter.

"Not by a forger at the Antipodes!" said Gwen.

"I meant afterwards--when--when Mrs. Prichard was in England?"

"She brought the letter with her when she came. It couldn't have been

forged afterwards."

The doctor gave it up. Masculine superiority would have to stand over.

But he couldn't see his way, on human grounds, profundity apart. "What

is so horribly staggering," said he, "is that after fifty years these

two should actually see each other and still be in the dark. And the way

it came about! The amazing coincidences!" The doctor spoke as if such

unblushing coincidences ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Gwen took this to be his meaning, apparently. "_I_ can't help it, Dr.

Nash," she said. "If they had told me they were going to happen, I might

have been able to do something. Besides, there was only one, if you come

to think of it--the little boy being sent to Widow Thrale's to

convalesce. It was my cousin, Miss Grahame, who did it.... Yes, thank

you!--she is going on very well, and Dr. Dalrymple hopes she will make a

very good recovery. He fussed a good deal about her lungs, but they seem

all right...." The conversation fluctuated to Typhus Fever for a moment,

but was soon recalled by the young lady, whose visit had a definite

purpose. "Now, Dr. Nash, I have a favour to ask of you, which is what I

came for. It occurred to me when I heard that you would be going to

Dessington Manor this morning." The doctor professed his readiness, or

eagerness, to do anything in his power to oblige Lady Gwendolen Rivers,

but evidently had no idea what it could possibly be. "You will be close

to Costrell's farm, where the other old lady is staying with her

granddaughter?"

"I shall. But what can I do?"

"You can, perhaps, help me in the very difficult job of making the truth

known to her and her sister. I say perhaps, because you may find you can

do nothing. I shall not blame you if you fail. But you can at least

try."

It would have been difficult to refuse anything to the animated beauty

of his petitioner, even if she had been the humblest of his village

patients. The doctor pledged himself to make the attempt, without

hesitation, saying to himself as he did so that this would be a

wonderful woman some day, with a little more experience and maturity.

"But," said he, "I never promised to do anything with a vaguer idea of

what I was to do, nor how I was to set about it."

Gwen's earnestness had no pause for a smile. "It is easier than you

think," she said, "if you only make up your mind to it. It is easy for

you, because your medical interest in old Mrs. Prichard's case makes it

possible for you to _entamer_ the conversation. You see what I mean?"

"Perfectly--I _think_. But I don't see how that will _entamer___ old

Mrs. Marrable. Won't the conversation end where it began?"

"I think not--not necessarily. I will forgive you if it does. Consider

that the apparent proof of delusion in my old lady's mind is that she

has told things about her childhood which are either _bona-fide_

recollections, or have been derived from the little boy...."

"Dave Wardle. So I understood from Widow Thrale. She has told me all the

things as they happened. In fact, I have been able to call in every day.

The case seemed very interesting as a case of delusion, because some of

the common characteristics were wanting. It loses that interest now,

certainly, but.... However, you were saying, when I interrupted?..."

"I was saying that unless these ideas could be traced to Dave Wardle,

they must have come out of Mrs. Prichard's own head. Is it not natural

that you should want to hear from Granny Marrable what she recollects

having said to the child?"

The doctor cogitated a moment, then gave a short staccato nod. "I see,"

said he, in a short staccato manner. "_Yes._ That might do something for

us. At any rate, I can try it.... I beg your pardon."

Gwen had just begun again, but paused as the doctor looked at his watch.

She continued:--"I cannot find anything that she might not have easily

said to a small boy. I wish I could. Her recollection of _not_ having

said anything won't be certainty. But even inquiring about what she

_doesn't_ recollect would give an opening. Did Mrs. Prichard say nothing

to you about her early life at the mill?"

"She said a good deal, because I encouraged her to talk, to convince

myself of her delusion.... Could I recollect some of it? I think so. Or

stay--I have my notes of the case." He produced a book. "Here we are.

'Mrs. Maisie Prichard, eighty-one. Has delusions. Thinks mill was her

father's. It was Widow Thrale's grandfather's. Knows horses Pitt and

Fox. Knows Muggeridge waggoner. Has names correct. Qy.:--from child

Wardle last year? M. was dismissed soon after. Asked try recollect what

for.' I am giving your ladyship the abbreviations as written."

"Quite right. Is there more?" For evidently there was. Gwen could see

the page.

"She remembered that he was dismissed for ... irregularity."

Gwen suspected suppression. "What sort? Did he drink? Let me see the

book. I won't read the other cases." And so all-powerful was beauty, or

the traces of Feudalism, that this middle-aged M.R.C.S. actually

surrendered his private notes of cases into these most unprofessional

hands. Gwen pointed to the unread sequel, triumphantly. "There!" she

exclaimed. "The very thing we want! You may be sure that neither Granny

Marrable nor her daughter ever told a chick of seven years old of

_that_ defect in Mr. Muggeridge's character." For what Gwen had _not_

read aloud was:--"_Mug. broke 7th: Comm:_"

The doctor was perhaps feeling that masculine profundity had not shone,

and that he ought to do something to redeem its credit. For his comment,

rather judicial in tone, was:--"Yes--but Widow Thrale was not able to

confirm this ... blemish on Mr. Muggeridge's reputation."

"Now, my dear Dr. Nash, why _should_ she be able to confirm a thing that

happened when her mother was ten years old?"

The doctor surrendered at discretion--perhaps resolved not to repeat the

attempt to reinstate the male intellect. "Of course not!" said he.

"Perfectly correct. Very good! I'll try, then, to make use of that. I

understand your object to be that old Granny Marrable shall come to know

that she and Mrs. Prichard are sisters, as gradually as possible. I may

not succeed, but I'll do my best. Ticklish job, rather! Now I suppose I

ought to look after Sir Cropton Fuller."

Five minutes after saying which the doctor's gig was doing its best to

arrive in time to prevent that valetudinarian swallowing five grains of

calomel, or something of the sort, on his own responsibility.

* * * * *

Gwen had felt a misgiving that her expedition to Dr. Nash had really

been a cowardly undertaking, because she had flinched from her task at

the critical moment. Well--suppose she had! It might turn out a

fortunate piece of poltroonery, if Dr. Nash contrived to break the ice

for her with the other old sister. But the cowardice was beginning

again, now that every stride of the mare was taking her nearer to her

formidable task. Desperation was taking the place of mere Resolve,

thrusting her aside as too weak for service in the field, useless

outside the ramparts. Oh, but if only some happy accident would pave the

way for speech, would enable her to say to herself:--"I have said the

first word! I cannot go back now, if I would!"

On the way to Strides Cottage again! Nearer and nearer now, that moment

that must come, and put an end to all this puling hesitation. She could

not help the thought that rose in her mind:--"This that I do--this

reuniting of two souls long parted by a living death--may it not be what

Death does every day for many a world-worn survivor of a half-forgotten

parting in a remote past?" For, indeed, it seemed to her that these two

had risen from the dead, and that for all she knew each might say of

the other:--"It is not she." For what is Death but the withdrawal from

sight and touch and hearing of the evidence of Some One Else? What less

had come to pass for old Maisie and Phoebe, fifty years ago? How is it

with us all in that mysterious Beyond, that for the want of a better

name we call a Hereafter, when ghost meets ghost, and either lacks the

means of recognition?

She knew the trick of that latch now, and went in.

The room was empty of all but the cat, who seemed self-absorbed; silent

but for a singing kettle and a chirping cricket. Probably Widow Thrale

was in the bedroom. Gwen crossed the passage, and gently opening the

door, looked in. Only the old lady herself was there, upon the bed, so

still that Gwen half feared at first she had died in her sleep. No--all

was well! She wondered a moment at the silver hair, the motionless

hands, alabaster but for the blue veins, the frailty of the whole, and

its long past of eighty years, those years of strange vicissitude. And

through them all no one thing so strange as what she was to know on

waking!

CHAPTER XV

HOW GWEN HEARD WIDOW THRALE'S REPORT AND HOW SHE ROSE TO THE

OCCASION. HOW WIDOW THRALE WAS IN FAVOUR OF SILENCE. HOW GWEN HAD

TO SHOW THE FORGED LETTER. THE LINSTOCK AT THE BREECH. BUT MY NAME

WAS RUTH DAVERILL! THE GUN GOES OFF. GWEN'S COOLNESS IN ACTION. BUT

WHY IN MRS. PRICHARD'S LETTER? A CRISIS AND AN AWAKENING. WHO WILL

TELL MOTHER? HOW GWEN GOT FIRST SPEECH OF MRS. PRICHARD. THE

DELUSION CASE'S REPORT OF ITSELF. ANOTHER IMPENETRABLE FORTRESS.

THE STAGE METHOD, AS A LAST RESOURCE. AN _IMPASSE_. "BAS AN AIR

EACHIN." HOW MRS. PRICHARD WANTED TO TELL MRS. MARRABLE ABOUT HER

DEAD SISTER, STILL ALIVE. GWEN'S FORCES SCATTERED, AND A RALLY.

ANOTHER CRISIS, AND SUCCESS. WHO FORGED THAT LETTER?

That had been a quick interview with Dr. Nash in spite of its

importance. For the church clock had been striking eleven when the mare,

four minutes after leaving Dr. Nash, reached Strides Cottage. A great

deal of talk may be got through in a very little time, as the playwright

knows to his cost.

Widow Thrale had been talking with Elizabeth-next-door when the mare

stopped, disappointed at the short run. She heard the arrival, and came

out to find that her ladyship had preceded her into the house. Tom

Kettering, having communicated this, stooped down from his elevation to

add in confidence:--"Her ladyship's not looking her best, this short

while past. You have an eye to her, mistress. Asking pardon!" It was a

concession to speech, on Tom's part, and he seemed determined it should

go no farther, for he made a whip-flick tell the mare to walk up and

down, and forget the grass rim she had noticed on the footpath. Mrs.

Thrale hurried into the house. She, too, had seen how white Gwen was

looking, before she started to go to Dr. Nash.

She met her coming from the bedroom, whiter still this time. Her

exclamation:--"Dearie me, my lady, how!..." was stopped by:--"It is not

illness, Mrs. Thrale. I am perfectly well," said with self-command,

though with a visible effort to achieve it. But it was clear that the

thing that was not illness was a serious thing.

"I was afraid for your ladyship," said Mrs. Thrale. And she remained

uneasy visibly.

"I see she is very sound asleep. Will she remain so for awhile?... Has

not been sleeping at night, did you say? That explains it.... No, I

won't take anything, thank you!... Yes, I will. I'll have some water. I

see it on the dresser. That's plenty--thanks!" Thus Gwen's part of what

followed. She moistened her lips, and speech was easier to her. They had

been so dry and hot. She continued, feeling that the moment had

come:--"I want your help, Mrs. Thrale. I have something I must tell you

about Mrs. Prichard."

The convict, nearly forgotten since last year, and of course never

revived for Widow Thrale, suddenly leaped into her mind out of the past,

and menaced evil to her ideal of Mrs. Prichard. She was on her defence

directly. "Nay, then--if it is bad, 'tis no fault of the dear old

soul's. That I be mortal sure of!"

"Fault of _hers_. No, indeed! It is something I have to tell her. And to

tell you." This was the first real attempt to hint at her hearer's

personal concern in the something. Would it reach her mind?

Scarcely. To judge by her puzzled eyes fixed on Gwen, and the grave

concern of her face, her heart was rich with ready sympathy for whoever

should suffer by this unknown thing, but without a clue to its near

connection with herself. "Will it be a great sorrow to her to be told

it?" said she uneasily. But all on her old guest's account--none on her

own.

Gwen felt that her first attempt to breach the fortress of

unconsciousness, had failed. She must lay a new sap, at another angle;

a slower approach, but a surer.

"Not a great sorrow so much as a great shock. You can help me to tell it

her so as to spare her." Gwen felt at this point the advantages of the

Feudal System. This good woman would never presume to hurry disclosure.

"You can help me, Mrs. Thrale, and I will tell you the whole. But I want

to know one or two things about what she said." Gwen produced Mrs.

Thrale's own letter from a dainty gilded wallet, and opened it. "I

understand that the very first appearance of these delusions--or

whatever they were--was when she saw the mill-model. Quite the very

first?"

"That was, like, the beginning of it," said Mrs. Thrale, recollecting.

"She asks me, was little Dave in the right about the wheel-sacks and the

water-cart, and I say to her the child is right, but should have said

wheat-sacks and water-mill. And then I get it down.... Yes, I get it

down and show it to her"--this slowly and reminiscently. "And then, my

lady, I look round, and there's the poor old soul, all of a twitter!"

This was accelerated, for dramatic force.

"You did not put it down to her seeing the mill?"

"No, my lady; I took it she was upset and tired, at her age. I've seen

the like before. Not my mother, but old Mrs. Dunage at the Rectory.

'Twas when the news came her mother was killed on the railway. She went

quite unconscious, and I helped to nurse her round. She was gone of

seventy-seven at the time."

"_That_ was a shock, then?" Gwen felt, although Widow Thrale did not

seem to have connected the two things together, that the mill had been

the agency that upset Mrs. Prichard.

But she had underestimated the strength of the fortress again. Mrs.

Thrale took it as a discrimination between the two cases. "Yes, my

lady," said she quietly. "That was a _shock_. But so you might say, this

was a shock, too. By reason of an idea, got on the mind. Dr. Nash said,

next day, certainly!"

"Very likely," said Gwen. "But what came next?"

"Well, now--how was it? I was seeing her to bed, unconscious like, and

she says to me, on the sudden:--'_Whose_ mill was it?' And then, of

course, I say grandfather's. For indeed, my lady, that is so! Mother has

had this model all her life, from when grandfather died, and it could be

no one else's mill." The irresistible amusement at the absurdity that

spread over Ruth's face, and the undercurrent of laughter in her voice,

were secret miseries to Gwen, so explicit were they in their tale of the

unconsciousness that allowed them. She was relieved when the speaker's

voice went back to its tone of serious concern. "And there, now--if the

dear old soul didn't say to me, 'How came this mill to be your

grandfather's mill?'!"

"And after that?"

"Oh--then I saw plain! But I thought--best say nothing! So I got her off

to bed, and she went nicely to sleep, and no more trouble. But next

morning early there she was out of bed, hunting for the mill, and

feeling round it on the mantelshelf."

"And you still thought it was a delusion?" Gwen said this believing that

it _must_ excite suspicion of her object. But again unconsciousness,

perfectly placid and immovable, had the best of it, where scepticism

would have been alert in its defence.

"Well, I did hope next day, talking it over with Dr. Nash, that it was

just some confusion of hers with another's mill, a bit like ours; and at

her age, no wonder! Because of what she said herself."

"Said herself?"

"Yes--touching the size of her mill being double. That is, the model.

But ah--dear me! It was all gone next day, and she talking quite wild

like!" A note of fresh distress in her voice ended in a sigh. Then came

a resurrection of hopefulness. "But she has not gone back to it now for

some while, and Dr. Nash is hopeful it may pass off."

Gwen began to fear for her own sanity if this was to go on long. To sit

there, facing this calm, sweet assurance of that dear old woman's flesh

and blood, her own daughter, thick-panoplied in impenetrable ignorance;

to hear her unfaltering condemnation of what she must soon inevitably

know to be true; to note above all the tender solicitude and affection

her every word was showing for this unknown mother--all this made Gwen's

brain reel. Unless some natural resolution of the discord came, Heaven

help her, and keep her from some sudden cruel open operation on the

heart of Truth, some unconvincing vivisection of a soul! For belief in

the incredible, however true, flies from forced nurture in the hothouse

of impatience.

Gwen felt for a new opportunity. "When you say that next day she began

to talk wildly.... What sort of wildly? Are you sure it was so wild?"

Mrs. Thrale lowered her voice to an intense assurance, a heartfelt

certainty. "Oh yes, my lady--yes, _indeed_! There was no doubt

_possible_. When she was looking at the mill model she had got sight of

two little figures--just dollies--that were meant for mother, and her

sister who died in Australia--my real mother, you know, only I was but

four years old--and the dear old soul went quite mazed about it, saying

that was herself and _her_ sister that died in England, and they were

twins the same as mother and _her_ sister. And it was not till she said

names Dr. Nash found out how it was all made up of what we told little

Davy last year...."

"And you made sure," said Gwen, interrupting, "that you remembered

telling little Davy all these things last year?" It took all Gwen's

self-command to say this. She was glad to reach the last word.

Widow Thrale looked hurt, almost indignant. "Why, my lady," said she,

"we _must_ have! Else how could she have known them?" Do not censure her

line of argument. Probably at this very hour it is being uttered by a

hundred mouths, even as--so says a claimant to knowledge--thirteen

earthquakes are always busy, somewhere in the world, at every moment of

the day.

Gwen could never give up the attempt, having got thus far. But she could

see that hints were useless. "I think I can tell you," said she. And

then she pitied the dawn of bewilderment on the unconscious face before

her, even while she tried to fortify herself with the thought that what

she had to tell was not bad in itself--only a revelation of a lost

past.... Well--why not let it go? Dust and ashes, dead and done with!...

But this vacillation was short-lived.

Mrs. Thrale's bewilderment found words. "You can ... _tell_ me!" she

said, not much above a whisper. How could she hint at calling her

ladyship's words in question, above her breath?

Gwen, very pale but collected, rose to the occasion. "I can tell you

what has come to my knowledge about Mrs. Prichard's history. I cannot

doubt its correctness." It crossed her mind then that the telling of it

would come easier if she ignored what knowledge she had of the other

twin sister. So far as Widow Thrale knew, there was nothing outside what

had come to light through this incident. She went steadily on, not

daring to look at her hearer. "Mrs. Prichard was one of two sisters,

whose father owned a flour-mill near London. She married, and her

husband committed forgery and was transported. He was sent to Van

Diemen's Land--the penal settlement." Gwen looked up furtively. No sign

on the unconscious face yet of anything beyond mere perplexity! She

resumed after the slightest pause:--"His young wife followed him out

there"--she wanted to say that a child of four was left behind, but her

courage failed her--"and lived with him. He was out of prison on what

is called ticket-of-leave."

She looked up again. Still no sign! But then--consider! Ruth Thrale had

always been kept in the dark about the convict. Gwen could not know

this, and was puzzled. Was there, after all, some other solution to the

problem? Anyhow, there was nothing for it now but to get on. "She lived

with him many years, and then, for some reason or other, we can't tell

what, he forged a letter from her father in England, saying that her

sister and her husband and her own child that she had left behind were

all drowned at sea."

At this point Gwen was quite taken aback by Mrs. Thrale saying:--"But

they were _not_ drowned?" It stirred up a wasps' nest of perplexities. A

moment later, she saw that it was a question, not a statement. She

herself had only said the letter was forged, not that it contained a

lie. How could she vouch for the falsehood of the letter without

claiming knowledge prematurely, and rushing into her disclosure too

quickly? An additional embarrassment was that, when again she looked up

at her hearer, she saw no sign of a clue caught--not even additional

bewilderment; rather the reverse.

She could, however, reply to a question:--"Mrs. Prichard believed that

they were, and continued to believe it. My father, whom I have told all

about it--all that I know--is of opinion that her husband managed to

prevent her receiving letters from her sister, and destroyed those that

came, which would have shown that she was still alive."

"Oh, God be good to us!" cried Widow Thrale. "That such wickedness

should be!"

"He was a monster--a human devil! And _why_ he did it Heaven only knows.

My father can think of nothing but that his wife wanted to return to her

family, and he wanted her to stay. Now, Widow Thrale, you will see why I

want you to help me. I think you will agree with me that it would be

right that the dear old lady should be undeceived."

Mrs. Thrale fidgeted uneasily. "Your ladyship knows best," she said.

"You think, perhaps," said Gwen, "that it would only give her needless

pain to know it now, when she has nothing to gain by it?"

"Yes--that is right." That was said as though Gwen's question had worded

a thought the speaker herself had found hard to express.

"_Has_ she nothing to gain by it? I do so want you to think over this

quietly.... I wish you would sit down...." Mrs. Thrale did so. "Thank

you!--that _is_ comfortabler. Now, just consider this! There is no

evidence at all that the young daughter whom she left behind with her

sister is not still living, though of course the chances are that the

sister herself is dead. This daughter may be.... What's that?"

"I thought I heard her waking up. Will your ladyship excuse me one

moment?..." She rose and went to the bedroom. But the old lady was, it

seemed, still sleeping soundly, and she came back and resumed her seat.

Of all the clues Gwen had thrown out to arouse suspicion of the truth,

and make full announcement possible, not one had entered the unreceptive

mind. Was this to go on until the sleeper really waked? Gwen felt,

during that one moment alone, how painfully this would add to the

embarrassment, and resolved on an act of desperation.

"I think," said she, speaking very slowly, and fighting hard to hide the

effort speech cost her. "I think I should like you to see this horrible

forged letter. I brought it on purpose.... Oh--here it is!... By-the-by,

I ought to have told you. Prichard is not her real name." A look like

disappointment came on Widow Thrale's face. An _alias_ is always an

uncomfortable thing. Gwen interpreted this look rightly. "It's no blame

to her, you know," she said hastily. "Remember that her proper

name--that on the direction there--belonged to a convict! You or I might

have done the same."

And then, as the eyes of the daughter turned unsuspicious to her

mother's name--forged by her father, to imitate the handwriting of her

grandfather--Gwen sat and waited as he who has fired a train that leads

to a mine awaits the crash of the rifted rock and its pillar of dust and

smoke against the heavens.

"But _my_ name was Daverill--Ruth Daverill!" Was the train ill-laid

then, that this woman should be able to sit quite still, content to fix

a puzzled look upon the wicked penmanship of fifty years ago?

"And your mother's, Ruth Daverill? What was hers?"

"Maisie Daverill." She answered mechanically, with an implication

of "And why not?" unspoken. She was still dwelling on the

direction, the first name in which was not over-legible, no doubt

owing to the accommodation due to the non-erasure of the first

syllable by the falsifier. Gwen saw this, and said, quietly but

distinctly:--"Thornton."

The end was gained, for better, for worse. Ruth Thrale gave a sudden

start and cry, uttering almost her mother's words at first sight of the

mill:--"What can this be? What can this be? Tell me, oh, tell me!"

Gwen, hard put to it during suspense, now cool and self-possessed at the

first gunshot, rose and stood by the panic-stricken woman. Nothing could

soften the shock of her amazement now. Pull her through!--that was the

only chance. And the sooner she knew the whole now, the better!

It might have been cruelty to a bad end that made such beauty so pale

and resolute as Gwen's, as she said without faltering:--"The name is

your mother's name--Mrs. Thornton Daverill. Your father's name was

Thornton. Now open the letter and read!"

"Oh--my lady--it makes me afraid!... What can it be?"

"Open the letter and read!" But Ruth Thrale _could_ not; her hand was

too tremulous; her heart was beating too fast. Gwen took the letter from

her, quietly, firmly; opened it before her eyes; stood by her, pointing

to the words. "Now read!"--she said.

And then Ruth Thrale read as a child reads a lesson:--"My ... dear ...

daughter ... Maisie ..." and a few words more, her voice shaking badly,

then suddenly stopped. "But my mother's name was Maisie," she said. She

had wavered on some false scent caused by the married name.

"Read on!" said Gwen remorselessly. Social relation said that her

ladyship _must_ be obeyed first; madness fought against after. Ruth

Thrale read on, for the moment quite mechanically. The story of the

shipwreck did not seem to assume its meaning. She read on, trembling,

clinging to the hand that Gwen had given her to hold.

Suddenly came an exclamation--a cry. "But what is this about Mrs.

Prichard? This is _not_ Mrs. Prichard. Why is mother's old name in this

letter?" She was pointing to the word Cropredy, Phoebe's first married

name; a name staggering in the force of its identity. She had not yet

seen the signature.

Gwen turned the page and pointed to it:--"Isaac Runciman," clear and

unmistakable. Incisiveness was a duty now. Said she, deliberately:--"Why

is this forged letter signed with your grandfather's name?" A pause,

with only a sort of puzzled moan in answer. "I will tell you, and you

will have to hear it. Because it was forged by your father, fifty years

ago." Again a pause; not so much as a moan to break the silence! Gwen

made her voice even clearer, even more deliberate, to say:--"Because he

forged it to deceive your mother, and it deceived her, and she believed

you dead. For years she believed you and her sister dead. And when she

returned to England...."

She was interrupted by a poor dumfoundered effort at speech, more seen

in the face she was intently watching than heard. She waited for it, and

it came at last, in gasps:--"But it is to Mrs. Prichard--the

letter--Mrs. Prichard's letter--oh, why?--oh, why?..." And Ruth Thrale

caught at her head with her hands, as though she felt it near to

bursting.

The surgeon's knife is most merciful when most resolutely used.

"Because old Mrs. Prichard _is_ your mother," said Gwen, all her heart

so given to the task before her that she quite forgot, in a sense, her

own existence. "Because she _is_ your mother, whom you have always

thought dead, and who has always thought you dead. Because she _is_ your

mother, who has been living here in England--oh, for so many years

past!--and never found you out!"

Ruth Thrale's hands fell helpless in her lap, and she sat on, dumb,

looking straight in front of her. Gwen would have been frightened at her

look, but she caught sight of a tear running down her face, and felt

that this was, for the moment, the best that might be. That tear

reassured her. She might safely leave the convulsion that had caused it

to subside. If only the sleeper in the next room would remain asleep a

little longer!

She did right to be silent and wait. Presently the two motionless hands

began moving uneasily; and, surely, those were sighs, long drawn out?

That had the sound of tension relieved. Then Ruth Thrale turned her eyes

full on the beautiful face that was watching hers so anxiously, and

spoke suddenly.

"I must go to her at once."

"But think!--is it well to do so? She knows nothing."

"My lady--is there need she should? Nor I cannot tell her now, for I

barely know, myself. But I _want_ her--oh, I want her! Oh, all these

cruel years! Poor Mrs. Prichard! But who will tell mother?" She was

stopped by a new bewilderment, perhaps a worse one.

"_I_ will tell mother." Gwen took the task upon herself, recklessly.

Well!--it had to be gone through with, by someone. And she would do

anything to spare this poor mother and daughter. _She_ would tell Granny

Marrable! She did, however, hope that Dr. Nash had broken the ice for

her.

A sound came from the other room. The old lady had awaked and was

moving. Mrs. Thrale said in a frightened whisper:--"She will come in

here. She always does. She likes to move about a little by herself. But

she is soon tired."

Said Gwen:--"Will she come in here? Let me see her alone! Do! It will

only be for a few minutes. Run in next door, and leave me to talk to

her. I have a reason for asking you." She heard the bedroom door open,

beyond the passage.

"When shall I come back, my lady?" This reluctance to go seemed passing

strange to Gwen. But it yielded to persuasion, or to feudal inheritance.

Gwen watched her vanish slowly into Elizabeth-next-door's; and then,

perceiving that the mare had sighted the transaction, and was bearing

down towards her, she delayed a moment to say:--"Not yet, Tom!

Wait!"--and returned into the house.

* * * * *

"My dear, God has been good to let you come. Oh, how I have prayed to

see your face again, and hear your dear voice!" Thus old Mrs. Picture,

crying with joy. She could not cling close enough to that beautiful

hand, nor kiss it quite to her heart's content.

Gwen left her in possession of it. "But, dear Mrs. Picture," she said,

"I thought your letter said you were so comfortable, and that Mrs.

Thrale was so kind?"

"What, my Ruth!--that is how I've got to call her--my Ruth is more than

kind. No daughter could be kinder to a mother. You know--I told you--my

child was Ruth. Long ago--long, long ago! She was asleep when I kissed

her. I can feel it still." Gwen fancied her speech sounded wandering, as

she sat down in Granny Marrable's vacant chair.

This story often feels that the pen that writes it must resent the

improbabilities it is called on to chronicle. That old Maisie should

call her own child by the name she gave her, and think her someone else!

"Tell me, dear, what it was--all about it!" Thus Gwen, getting the old

lady comfortably settled, and finding a footstool for herself, as in

Francis Quarles at the Towers. She had made up her mind to tell all if

she possibly could. But it had to be all or nothing. It would be better

not to speak till she saw her way. Let Mrs. Picture tell her own tale

first!

"I want to tell you." She possessed herself again of the precious

hand, surrendered to assist in resettling a strayed head-cushion.

"Only, tell me first--did you know...?"--She paused and dropped her

voice--" ... Did you know that they thought me...?"

"Thought you what?"

"Did you know that they thought me _mad_?"

"They were wrong if they did. But Mrs. Thrale does not think you mad

now. I know she does not."

"Oh, I am glad." Gwen's white and strained look then caught her

attention, and she paused for reassurance. It was nothing, Gwen was

tired. It was the jolting of a quick drive, and so on. Mrs. Prichard got

back to her topic. "They _did_ think me mad, though. Do you know, my

dear"--she dropped her voice almost to a whisper--"I went near to

thinking myself mad. It was so strange! It was the mill-model. I wish

she had let me see it again. That might have set it all to rights. But

thinking like she did, maybe she was in the right. For see what it is

when the head goes wrong! I was calling to mind, all next day, when I

found out what they thought...."

"But they did not tell you they thought you mad. How did you know?"

"It came out by little things--odd talk at times.... It got in the air,

and then I saw the word on their lips.... I never _heard_ it, you

know.... What was I saying?"

"You were calling something to mind, all next day, you said. What was

that?"

"A man my husband would talk about, in Macquarie Gaol, whose head would

be all right so long as no cat came anigh him. So the others would find

a cat to start him off. Only my Ruth thought to take away what upset

_me_. 'Tis the same thing, turned about like."

Gwen allowed the illustration. "But why _did_ Mrs. Thrale think you mad,

over the mill-model?"

"My dear, because to her I must have _seemed_ mad, to say that was my

father's mill, and not her grandfather's."

Gwen kept a lock on her tongue. How easy to have said:--"Your father

_was_ her grandfather!" She said nothing.

"And yet, you know, how could I be off the thought it was so, with it

there before me, seeming like it did? I do assure you, there it seemed

to be--the very mill! There was my father, only small, and not much to

know him by, smoking. And there was our man, Muggeridge, that saw to the

waggon. And there was Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox, our horses. And there was

the great wheel the water shot below, to turn it, and the still water

above where Phoebe saw the heron, and called me--but it was gone!"

Tears were filling the old eyes, as the old lips recalled that

long-forgotten past. Then, as she went on, her voice broke to a sob, and

failed of utterance. But it came. "And there--and there--were I and my

darling, my Phoebe, that died in the cruel sea! Oh, my dear--that I

might have seen her once again! But once again!..." She stopped to

recover calm speech; and did it, bravely. "It was all in the seeming of

it, my dear, but all the same hard for me to understand. Very like, my

dear Ruth here was right and wise to keep it away from me. It might have

set me off again. I'm not what I was, and things get on my mind....

There now--my dear. See how I've made you cry!"

Gwen felt that this could not go on much longer without producing some

premature outbreak of her overtaxed patience; but she could sit still

and say nothing; for a little time yet, certainly. "I'm not crying, dear

Mrs. Picture," said she. "It was riding against the cold wind. Go on and

tell me more." Then a thought occurred to her--a means to an end. "Tell

me about your father. You have never told me about him. When did he

die?"

"My father? That I could not tell you, my dear, for certain. For no

letter reached me when he died, nor yet any letter since his own, that

told me of Phoebe's death. Oh, but it is a place for letters to go

astray! Why, before they gave my husband charge over the posts, and made

him responsible, the carrier would leave letters for the farm on a

tree-stump two miles away, and we were bound to send for them there--no

other way! And there was none I knew to write to, for news, when Phoebe

was gone, and our little Ruth, and Uncle Nick. Such an odd name he had.

I never told it you. Nicholas Cropredy."

"I knew it," said Gwen heedlessly. Then, to recover her

foothold:--"Somehow or other! You _must_ have told it me. Else how could

I have known?"

"I _must_ have.... No, I never knew when my father died. But I should

have known. For I stood by his grave when I came back. Such a many years

ago now--even that! But I read it wrong. 'May, 1808....' How did I know

it was wrong, what I read? Because I looked at his own letter, telling

me of the wreck, and it was that very year--but June, not May. And my

son was with me then, and he looked at the letter, too, and said it must

have been 1818--eighteen, not eight."

Gwen saw the way of this. Phoebe's letter, effaced to make way for the

forgery, was to announce Isaac Runciman's death, and was probably

written during the first week of June, and posted even later. The

English postmark showed two figures for the date; indistinct, as a

postmark usually is. Could she utilise this date in any way to sow the

seeds of doubt of the authenticity of the letter? She saw no way open.

The letter was a thing familiar to Mrs. Prichard, but a sudden

thunderbolt to Ruth Thrale. Had Gwen been in possession of Daverill's

letter announcing Maisie's own death, she might have shown it to her.

But _could_ such old eyes have read it, or would she have understood it?

No--it was impossible to do anything but speak. The next opportunity

_must_ be seized, for talk seemed only to erect new obstacles to action.

The perplexities close at hand, there in Strides Cottage, were the

things to dwell on. Better go back to them! "But Mrs. Thrale did not

think you mad only because you thought that about the mill," Gwen said

this to coax the conversation back.

"No, my dear! I think, for all I found to say that night, she might have

thought it no more than a touch of fever. And little wonder, too, for

her to hear me doubt her grandfather's mill being his own. But what put

me past was to see how the bare truth I told of my father's name, and my

sister's, and the name of the mill my father would say was older than

the church-tower itself--just that and no more--to make her"--here the

old lady lowered her voice, and glanced round as though to be sure they

were alone--"to make her turn and run from me, quite in a maze, as

though I was a ghost to frighten her, that was what unsettled me!" She

fixed her eyes on Gwen, and her hands were restless with her distressing

eagerness to get some clue to a solution of her perplexity.

Gwen could say nothing, short of everything. She simply dared not try to

tell the whole truth, with a rush, to a hearer so frail and delicate. It

seemed that any shock must kill. The musical voice went on, its

appealing tone becoming harder and harder for her hearer to bear.

"Why--oh why--when I was telling just the truth, that my father's name

was Isaac Runciman, and my sister was Phoebe, and our mill was Darenth

Mill, why should she not have heard me through to the end, to make it

all clear? Indeed, my dear, she put me on thinking I was not saying the

words I thought, and I was all awake and clear the whole time. Was I

not?"

Gwen's response:--"I will ask her what it was," contained, as a

temporary palliative, as much falsehood as she dared to use; just to

soothe back the tears that were beginning to get the better of speech.

She felt vaguely about for a straw to catch at--something that might

soften the revelation that had to come. "Did you tell her your sister

was Phoebe?"

"I told her Phoebe--only Phoebe. I never said her married name."

"Did you tell her you and your sister were twins?"

"Oh yes--I told her that. And I think she understood. But she did not

say."

"I think, dear Mrs. Picture, I can tell you why she was astonished. It

was because _her_ mother had a twin sister."

The old lady's pathetic look of perplexity remained unchanged. "Was that

enough?" she said. The mere coincidence of the twinship did not seem to

her to have warranted the effect it produced.

"I am not sure that it was not. There are other things. Did she ever

tell you her mother's story? I suppose she told you she is only her

mother by adoption? You know what I mean?"

"Oh yes, perfectly! No--Ruth has not told me that. We have not talked

much of old Mrs. Marrable, but I shall see her before I go back to Sapps

Court. Shall I not? My Davy's other Granny in the country!" It did her

good to think and speak of Dave.

"You shall go back to Davy," said Gwen. "Or Davy shall come to you. You

may like to stay on longer with Mrs. Thrale."

"Oh, indeed I should ... if only ... if only ..."

"If only she hadn't thought you had delusions!--isn't that it?... Well,

let me go on and tell you some more about her mother--or aunt, really.

It is quite true that she was one of twin sisters, and the sister

married and went abroad."

Mrs. Prichard was immensely relieved--almost laughed. "There now!--if

she had told me _that_, instead of running away with ideas! We would

have found it all out, by now."

Gwen felt quite despairing. She had actually lost ground. Was it

conceivable that the whole tale should become known to Mrs. Prichard--or

to both sisters, for that matter--and be discredited on its merits, with

applause for its achievements in coincidence? It looked like it! Despair

bred an idea in her mind; a mad one, perhaps, a stagey one certainly.

How would it be to tell Maisie Phoebe's story, seen from Phoebe's point

of view?

Whenever an exciting time comes back to us in after-life, the incident

most vividly revived is usually one of its lesser ones. Years after,

when Gwen's thoughts went back to this trying hour at Strides Cottage,

this moment would outstep its importance by reminding her how, in spite

of the pressure and complexity of her embarrassment, an absurd memory

_would_ intrude itself of an operatic tenor singing to the soprano the

story of how she was changed at birth, and so forth, the _diva_

listening operatically the while. It went so far with her now, for all

this tension, as to make a comment waver about her innermost thought,

concerning the strange susceptibility of that soprano to conviction on

insufficient evidence. Then she felt a fear that her own power of

serious effort might be waning, and she concentrated again on her

problem. But no solution presented itself better than the stagey one. Is

the stage right, after all?

"The sister married and went abroad. Her husband was a bad man, whom she

had married against the consent of her family." Gwen looked to see if

these words had had any effect. But nothing came of them. She

continued:--"Poor girl! her head was turned, I suppose."

"My dear--'twas the like case with me! 'Tis not for me, at least, to sit

in judgment."

"No, dear Mrs. Picture, nor any of us. But if she had been as bad as the

worst, she could hardly have deserved what came about. I told you she

had married a bad man, and I am going to tell you how bad he was." It

was as well that Gwen should rouse her hearer's attention by a sure and

effective expedient, for it was flagging slightly. Dave's other Granny's

sister's misadventures seemed to have so little to do with the recent

mystery of the mill-model. But a genuine bad man enthrals us all.

"What did he do?" said his unconscious widow.

"He forged a letter to his own wife, saying that her sister was dead,

and she believed it."

"But did her sister never write, to say she was alive?"

"Old Mrs. Marrable? No--because she received a letter at the same time

saying that _her_ sister.... You see which I mean?..."

"Oh yes--the bad man's wife, who was abroad."

"... Was also dead. Do you think you see how it was? He told each sister

the other was dead."

"Oh, I see _that_! But did they both believe it?"

"Both believed it."

"Then did Mrs. Marrable's sister die without knowing?"

Gwen had it on her lips to say:--"She is not dead," before she had had

time to foresee the consequences. She had almost said it when an

apprehension struck across her speech and cut it short. How could she

account to Mrs. Prichard for this knowledge of Mrs. Marrable's sister

without narrowing the issue to the simple question:--"Who and where is

she?" And if those grave old eyes, at rest now that the topic had become

so impersonal to them, were fixed upon her waiting for the answer, how

could she find it in her heart to make the only answer possible, futile

fiction apart:--"It is _you_ I am speaking of--_you_ are Mrs. Marrable's

sister, and each has falsely thought the other dead for a lifetime"? All

her elaborate preparation had ended in an _impasse_, blocked by a dead

wall whose removal was only possible to the bluntest declaration of the

truth, almost more cruel now than it would have been before this

factitious abatement of the agitation in which Gwen had found her.

And then the long tension that had kept Gwen on the rack, more or less,

since the revelation of the letter, keenly in this last hour or so,

began to tell upon her, and her soul came through into her words. "Oh

no--oh no! Mrs. Marrable's sister did not die without knowing--at least,

I mean ... I mean she has not died.... She may ..." She was stopped by

the danger of inexplicable tears, in time as she thought.

But old Mrs. Prichard, always on the alert for her Guardian Angel,

caught the slight modulation of her voice, and was alive with ready

sympathy. "Why--oh why--why this?..." she began, wanting to say:--"Why

such concern on Mrs. Marrable's account?" and finding herself at fault

for words, came to a dead stop.

"You mean, why should _I_ fret because of Mrs. Marrable's sister? Is it

not that?"

"Ye-es. I think ... I think that is what I meant to say."

Gwen nerved herself for a great effort. She took both the old hands in

hers, and all her beauty was in the eyes that looked up at the old face,

as she said:--"I will tell you. It is because--_I_--have to tell _her_

to-day ... that she is ... that she is ... Mrs. Marrable's sister!" The

last words might have been a cry for pity.

Could old Maisie fail to catch a gleam of the truth? She did. She only

saw that her sweet Guardian Angel was in trouble, and thought to

herself:--"Can I not help her?" She immediately said, quite quietly and

clearly:--"My dear--my dear! But it will give you such pain. Why not let

_me_ tell her? I am old, and my time is at hand. It would be nothing to

me. For see what trouble I have had myself. And I could say to her ..."

"What could you say to her?" Desperation was in Gwen's voice. How could

this awful barrier be passed? Could it be past at all--ever?

"I could tell her of all the trouble of my own life, long ago. I do

think, if I told her and said, 'See--it might have been me,' that might

make it easy." The suggestion was based on a perfectly reasonable idea.

Gwen felt that her own task would have been more achievable had her own

record been one of sorrow and defeat. Old Maisie took her silence--which

was helplessness against new difficulties--for an encouragement to her

proposal, and continued:--"Why, my dear, look at it this way! If my dear

sister Phoebe had lived, anyone bad enough out there in the Colony,

might have written a lie that I was dead, and who would have known?...

But, my dear, you are ill? You are shaking."

It was a climax. The perfect serenity, the absolute unconsciousness, of

the speaker had told the tale of Gwen's failure more plainly than any

previous rebuff. And here was the old lady trying to get up from her

chair to summon Widow Thrale! Gwen detained her gently; as, having risen

from the stool at her feet, she kneeled beside her.

"No, no--I am not ill.... I will tell you directly."

Moments passed that, to Gwen's impatience for speech she could neither

frame nor utter, might have been hours. Old Maisie's growing wonderment

was bringing back the look she had had over that mill-model. But she

said nothing.

Gwen's voice came at last, audibly to herself, scarcely more. "I want

you--I want you to tell me something...."

"What, my dear?... Oh--to tell you something! Yes--what is it?"

Was the moment at hand, at last? Gwen managed to raise her voice. "I

want you to tell me this:--Has Mrs. Thrale ever told you her mother's

name--I mean her aunt's--Granny Marrable's?"

"Her christened name?--her own name?"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Shall I tell it you?"

"Why not?... Oh, I am frightened to see you so white. My dear!"

"Listen, dear Mrs. Picture, and try to understand. Mrs. Thrale's aunt's

name is Phoebe."

"_Is Phoebe!_"

"Is Phoebe." Gwen repeated it again, looking fixedly at the old face,

now rapidly resuming its former utter bewilderment.

"Is ... Phoebe!" Old Maisie sat on, after echoing back the word, and

Gwen left her to the mercy of its suggestion. She had done her best, and

could do no more.

She saw that some new thought was at work. But it had to plough its way

through stony ground. Give it time!

Watching her intently, she could see the critical moment when the new

light broke. A moment later the hand she held clutched at hers beyond

its strength, and its owner's voice was forcing its way through gasps.

"But ... but ... but ... Widow Thrale's name is _Ruth_!"

"Is Ruth." Yes--leave the fact there, and wait! That was Gwen's

decision.

A moment later what she waited for had come. Old Maisie started, crying

out aloud:--"Oh, what is this--what _is_ it?" as she had done when she

first saw the mill-model. Then on a sudden a paroxysm seized on the

frail body, so terrifying to Gwen that her heart fairly stood still to

see it.

It did not kill. It seemed to pass, and leave a chance for speech. But

not just yet. Only a long-drawn breath or two, ending always in a moan!

Then, with a sudden vehemence:--"Who was it--who was it--that forged the

letter that came--_that came to my husband and me_?" Her voice rose to a

shriek under the sting of that terrible new knowledge. But she had

missed a main point in Gwen's tale. Her mind had received the forgery,

but not its authorship.

Gwen saw nothing to wonder at in this. The thing was done, and that was

enough. "It was your husband himself," said she, and would have gone on

to ask forgiveness for her own half-distortion of the facts, and told

how she came to the knowledge. But the look on her hearer's face showed

her that this must be told later, if indeed it were ever told at all.

She was but just in time to prevent old Maisie falling forward from her

chair in a dead swoon. She could not leave her, and called aloud for

help.

She did not need to call twice. For Widow Thrale, unable to keep out of

hearing through an interview so much longer than her anticipation of it,

had come into the house from the back, and was already in the passage;

had, indeed, been waiting in feverish anxiety for leave to enter.

"Take her--take her!" cried Gwen. "No--never mind me!" And then she saw,

almost as in a dream, how the daughter's strong arms clasped her mother,

and raising the slight unconscious figure, that lay as if dead, bore it

away towards the door. "Yes," said she, "that is right! Lay her on the

bed!"

What followed she scarcely knew, except that she caught at a chair to

save herself from falling. For a reaction came upon her with the

knowledge that her task was done, and she felt dizzy and sick. Probably

she was, for a minute or more, practically unconscious; then recovered

herself; and, though feeling very insecure on her feet, followed those

two strange victims of a sin half a century old. Not quite without a

sense of self-reproach for weakness; for see how bravely the daughter

was bearing herself, and how immeasurably worse it was for her!

She could not but falter between the doors, still standing open. How

could she dare to enter the room where she might find the mother dead?

That was her fear. And a more skilful, a gentler revelation, might have

left her a few years with the other little twin of the mill-model, still

perhaps with a decade of life to come.

She heard the undertones of the daughter's voice, using the name of

mother. What was she saying?

"My mother--my mother--my mother!" And then, with a strange acceptance

of the name in another sense:--"But when will mother know?"

Gwen entered noiselessly, and stood by the bedside. She began to speak,

but shrank from her last word:--"She is not...?"

Widow Thrale looked up from the inanimate form she was clasping so

closely in her arms, to say, quite firmly:--"No, she is not dead." Then

back again, repeating the words:--"My mother!" as though they were to be

the first the unconscious ears should hear on their revival. Then once

more to Gwen, as in discharge of a duty omitted:--"God bless you, my

lady, for your goodness to us!"

Gwen's irresistible vice of anticlimax nearly made her say:--"Oh

bother!" It was stopped by a sound she thought she heard. "Is she not

speaking?" she said.

Both listened, and Widow Thrale heard, being the nearer, "Who called you

her mother?" she repeated. "_I_ did." And then Gwen said, clearly and

fearlessly:--"Your daughter Ruth!"

CHAPTER XVI

SIR CROPTON FULLER'S LUNCH. LAZARUS'S FAMILY. HOW HIS GREAT-GRANNY

CATECHIZED A TOOTHLESS HUMAN PUPPY THIRTEEN MONTHS OLD. HOW DR.

NASH DRAGGED MRS. PRICHARD IN. A VERY TAKING OLD PERSON, BUT QUITE

CRACKED. GOD'S MERCY IN LEAVING US OUR NATURAL FACULTIES. THAT WAS

A SEVERE CASE AMONG THE TOMBS. HOW DR. NASH HAD ALL THE MODEL STORY

OUT AGAIN, AND ABOUT MUGGERIDGE'S DON GIOVANITIES. MRS. PRICHARD

HAD KNOWN MAISIE, CLEARLY. EVERYTHING EXPLAINED. THE FUTILITY OF

HYPOTHESES. HOW A MEMORY OF HER MADMAN-CONVICT MADE OLD PHOEBE

FEEL BEWITCHED. OBSTINATE PATERNITY. THE MEASUREMENT OF THAT MODEL.

WHY ARM-MEASUREMENT? KID'S JARGON. MR. BARLOW. DAVE'S LETTER

DELIVERED. A SORT OF FAINT. VINEGAR. DR. NASH PURSUED AND BROUGHT

BACK. HOW OLD PHOEBE CAME TO KNOW THE TRUTH THROUGH A CHILD'S

DIRECT SPEECH. HER PRESENCE OF MIND. AND HOW SHE WENT STRAIGHT

HOME, TO LOOK BACK ON FIFTY LOST YEARS

The madman who had claimed as his mother the old woman at Strides

Cottage, whom Granny Marrable had not yet seen, had certainly no

statutory powers to impose an oath. But this did not stand in the way of

her keeping hers, religiously. That is to say, she kept her tongue

silent on every point that she could reasonably suppose to call for

secrecy, whether from his point of view or this old Mrs. Prichard's.

She felt at liberty to repeat what she remembered of his shocking

ravings about his prison life, and to dwell on the fact that he appeared

to have mistaken her for his mother. But this could be told without

connecting him with any person in or near the village. He was a returned

convict who had not seen his mother for twenty years, and meeting an old

woman who closely resembled her, or his idea of what she must have

become, had made a decisive mistake in identity.

As to the name he had written down for her, she simply shrank from it;

and destroyed it promptly, as soon as she collected her faculties after

the shock it gave her. She framed a satisfactory theory to account for

it, out of materials collected by foraging among her memories of fifty

years ago. It turned on these facts:--That the name Ralph Thornton

Daverill was the baptismal name of her sister's little boy that died in

England, and that Maisie had repeated to her what her husband had said

after the child's death, that the name would do over again if ever she

had another son; but had added that she herself would never consent to

its adoption. Granny Marrable was sure on both these points, but so

uncertain about what she had heard of the christenings of her nephews

born in Van Diemen's Land, that she had no scruple in deciding that her

sister had dissuaded her brother-in-law from his intention. For this

madman was clearly not Maisie's son, if Mrs. Prichard was his mother.

But what would be more natural and probable than that if Daverill

married again, he should make use of the name a second time? He might

have married again more than once, for anything Granny Marrable knew. So

might his widow--might have married a man named Prichard. Why not? Those

were considerations she need not weigh or speculate about.

Nevertheless, though she had destroyed the signed name, it was a cobweb

in her memory she would have gladly brushed away altogether. How she

would have liked to tell the whole to Ruth, when--as once or twice

happened--she walked over from Chorlton to get a report of progress,

leaving old Mrs. Prichard in charge of that loyal dog, supported by

Elizabeth-next-door, if need were. But she was sworn to silence on

matters she dared not provoke inquiry about. So her tale of her meeting

with the convict was minimised.

On the other hand, Ruth was scrupulously uncommunicative of everything

connected with Mrs. Prichard's supposed delusions. So was Dr. Nash, on

the one or two occasions when he looked in at Costrell's Farm,

prophylactically. Where was the use of upsetting Juno Lucina by telling

her that her daughter had taken a lunatic inmate? All the circumstances

considered, he would have much preferred that Mrs. Maisie's mother

should take charge of her. But this young woman liked to have her own

way.

The doctor was almost sorry, after Gwen drove away, that he had not

pointed out what an unpropitious moment it was for an upsetting

revelation, and suggested postponement. It was too late to do anything,

by the time he thought of it. He shrugged his shoulders about it, and

perceived that what was done couldn't be undone. Then he drove as fast

as he could to Sir Cropton Fuller, who asked him to stay to lunch. This

meant a long unemployed delay, but he compromised. He would see another

patient, and return to lunch, after which he would go to Costrell's

Farm. It was only a short drive from the Manor House, but if he had

gone there direct, he knew the mid-day meal at the Farm would cut across

what might prove a long conversation with Granny Marrable. Suppose

circumstances should favour a full communication of the extraordinary

disclosure he had it in his power to make to her, he would not feel any

hesitation about making it. In fact, he hoped that might prove the

natural order of events, although he was quite prepared to act on Lady

Gwendolen's suggestion that he should merely lay the train, not fire it,

if that should prove possible. But, said he to himself, that will be

neither fish nor flesh. Mysterious hints--so ran his reflections--will

only terrify the old body out of her seven senses and gain no end. Get

the job over!--that was the sacramental word. It took him all the period

of his drive to Sir Cropton's, and all the blank bars betwixt

prescription and prescription, to get--as it were--to this phrase in the

music.

But by the time Sir Cropton had given him lunch, it had become the

dominant theme of his reflections. Get the job done--if possible! More

especially because he did not want Juno Lucina's nerves to be upset at a

critical moment, and that was exactly what might happen if the

revelation were delayed too long. If she were told now, and disabled by

the shock, there would at least be time to make sure of a capable

substitute.

However, he must be guided by his prognosis on arriving at Costrell's.

It is just possible, too, that the doctor was alive to the interest of

the case on its own account, and not being himself personally involved,

felt a sort of scientific curiosity in the issue--What would the old

lady say or do, in face of such an extraordinary revelation? What were

the feelings of the family of Lazarus when he was raised from the tomb?

Or rather, what would they have been, had he been dead half a century?

The males at the farm would be away at this time of day; that was

satisfactory. He wanted to talk to Granny Marrable alone, if possible.

He could easily get his patient out of the way--that was a trifle. But

it would be a bore to have that young brother hanging round. In that

case he would have to negotiate a private conversation with Juno Lucina,

as such, and to use the opportunity professional mystery would give.

However, events smiled upon his purpose. Only Mrs. Maisie, a perfect

image of roseate health, was there alone with Granny; the two of them

appreciating last year's output, unconscious in his cradle, enjoying the

fourteenth month of his career in this world, having postponed teething

almost beyond precedent. His young mother derided her doctor's advice to

go and lie down and rest, but ultimately gave way to it, backed as it

was by public opinion.

"We seem to be going on very well, Mrs. Marrable," said the doctor, when

this end was achieved. The doctor shared a first person plural with each

of his patients. "_And_ yourself? You're not _looking_ amiss."

"No, thank God! And for all that I be eighty-one this Christmas, if I

live to see the New Year in, I might be twenty-eight." She then very

absurdly referred to the baby, who had waked up and made his presence

felt, as to whether this was, or was not, an exaggeration, suggesting

that he had roused himself to confirm it. Did he, she asked, want to say

his great-Granny was as young as the best, and was he a blessed little

cherub? She accommodated her pronunciation to the powers of

understanding she imputed to him, calling him, _e.g._, a bessed ickle

chezub. He seemed impatient of personalities; but accepted, as a pipe of

peace, an elastic tube that yielded milk. Whereupon Granny Marrable made

no more attempts to father opinions on him. "Indeed, doctor," said she,

speaking English again, "I wish every soul over fifty felt as young as I

do. We shouldn't hear such a many complaints."

"Very bad for the profession, Mrs. Marrable! This isn't a good part of

the world for my trade, as it is, and if everyone was like you, I should

have to put the shutters up. Well!--you see how it is? Look at Miss

Grahame--Sister Nora! Goes up to London the picture of health, and gets

fever! Old lady from some nasty unwholesome corner by Tottenham Court

Road comes down to Chorlton, and gets younger every day!"

"I was going to ask about Sister Nora, doctor--what the latest news was

saying."

"She'll make a good recovery, as things go. But that means she won't be

herself again for a twelvemonth, if then!" Granny Marrable looked so

unhappy over this, that the doctor took in a reef. "Less if we're

lucky--less if we're lucky!" said he. "She's being very well looked

after. Dalrymple's a good man."

"I'm glad you should know him to speak well of, for the lady's sake.

She's a good lady, and kind. It was through her the little boy Davy came

to the Cottage. My little Davy, I always call him."

"So does t'other old lady--she your daughter's got there now. You'll

scratch each other's eyes out over that young monkey when you come to

meet, Mrs. Marrable."

"There now, doctor, you will always have your joke. Ruth--my

daughter--is quite beside her judgment about the old soul. What like is

she, doctor, to your thinking?"

"Well--your daughter's right about her." He paused a moment, and then

added, meaningly:--"So far as being a very--very _taking_ sort of old

person goes."

Granny Marrable, rather absorbed in her descendant's relations with his

bottle, found in due course an opportunity to answer, looking up at the

doctor:--"A very taking old person? But what, then, is to seek in her?

Unless she be bad of heart or dishonest." Her old misgivings about

Dave's home influences, revived, had more share in the earnestness of

her tone than any misgivings about her daughter. And was not there the

awful background of the convict?

"Not a bit of it--not a bit of it! Right as a trivet, I should say, as

far as that goes! But ..." He stopped and touched his forehead,

portentously.

"Ah--the poor soul! Now is that true?"

"I think you may take it of me that is so." The doctor threw his

professional manner into this. After a moment he added, as a mere human

creature:--"Off her chump! Loose in the top story!" A moment after, for

professional reassurance:--"But quite harmless--quite harmless!"

Granny Marrable was grave and oppressed by this news. "The poor old

soul!--think of it!" said she. "Oh, but how many's the time I've thanked

God in His mercy for sparing me my senses! To think we might any of us

be no better off, but for Him, than the man our Lord found naked in the

tombs, in the country of the Gadarenes! But she is not bad like that,

this Mrs. Prichard?"

"Oh no!--that was a severe case, with complications. Not a legion of

devils, this time! One or two little ones. Just simple delusions. Might

have yielded to Treatment, taken younger. Too late, now, altogether.

Wastage of the brain, no doubt! She's quite happy, you know."

Although Dr. Nash had not shone as a reasoner forming square to resist

evidence, he had shrewd compartments in his mind, and in one of them a

clear idea that he would do ill to thrust forward the details of the

supposed simple delusions. This old lady must not be led to infer that

he was interested in _them_--mere scientific curiosities! She was sure

to ask for them in time; he knew that. And it was much better that he

should seem to attach no weight whatever to them.

Granny Marrable seemed to entertain doubts of the patient's happiness.

"I could never be happy," she said, "if I had been in a delusion."

"Not if you came to know it was a delusion. Very likely not!"

"But does not--does not--poor old Mrs. Prichard ever come to know she

has been in a delusion?"

"Not she! What she fancies she just goes on fancying. Sticks to it like

grim death."

"What sort of things now, doctor?"

This was a bite. But the doctor would play his fish. No hurry.

"_Perfectly_ crazy things! Oh--crack-brained! Has not your daughter told

you?... Oh, by-the-by!--yes!--I did tell her she had better not.... I

don't think it matters, though."

"But not if you would rather not, doctor!" This clearly meant the

reverse.

"Well now--there was the first thing that happened, about that little

model thing that stands on your mantelshelf at the cottage."

"What--my father's mill? Davy's mill, we call it now, because the child

took to it so, and would have me tell him again and again about

Muggeridge and the horses...."

"Ah--you told him about Muggeridge and the horses!"

"Yes, sure! And I lay, now, he'd told Mrs. Prichard all about _that_!"

"Trust him! Anyhow, he _did_. And she knew all about it before ever she

came to Chorlton. But her mind got a queer twist over it, and she forgot

it was all Master Dave's telling, and thought it had happened to

herself."

"Thought what had?"

"I mean, thought _she_ had been one of those two little kiddies in

violet frocks...."

"Ah, dear me--my dear sister that died out in Australia--my darling

Maisie!"

"Hay--what's that? Your darling what? What name did you say?"

"Maisie."

"There we have it--Maisie!" The doctor threw his forefinger to Granny

Marrable, in theory; it remained attached to his hand in practice.

"That's _her_ name. That's what it was all cooked up out of. Maisie!" He

was so satisfied with this little piece of shrewd detective insight that

he forgot for the moment how thoroughly he knew the contrary.

Granny Marrable seemed to demur a little, but was brought to order by

the drastic argument that it _must_ have been that, _because_ it could

not have been anything else. By this time the doctor had recollected

that he was not in a position to indulge in the luxury of incredulity.

"At least," said he, "I should have said so, only it doesn't do to be

rash. One has to look at a thing of this sort all round." He paused a

moment with his eyes on the ceiling, while his fingers played on the arm

of his chair the tune, possibly, of a Hymn to Circumspection. Then he

looked suddenly at the old lady. "You must have told the small boy a

great deal about the mill-model. _You_ told him about Muggeridge, didn't

you say, and the horses? Not your daughter, I mean?"

"Sure! Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox."

"Tell him anything else about Muggeridge?"

"Well, now--did I?... No--I should say not.... I was trying to think

what I would have remembered to tell. For you must bear in mind, doctor,

we were but young children when Muggeridge went away, and Axtell came,

after that.... No. I could _not_ speak to having said a word about

Muggeridge, beyond his bare name. That I could not."

The doctor did not interrupt his witness's browsings in the pastures of

memory; but when she deserted them, saying she had found nothing to

crop, said suddenly:--"Didn't tell him about Muggeridge and the other

lady, who wasn't Mrs. Muggeridge?"

"Now Lard a mercy, doctor, whatever do ye take me for? And all these

years you've known me! Only the _idea_ of it!--to tell a young child

that story! Why--what would the baby have thought I meant? Fie for shame

of yourself, that's what _I_ say!" A very small amount of indignation

leavened a good deal of hilarity in this. The old lady enjoyed the joke

immensely. That she, at eighty, should tell a child of seven a tale of

nuptial infidelity! She took her great-grandson into her confidence

about it, asking him:--"Did they say his great-grandmother told shocking

stories to innocent little boys?"--and so forth.

The doctor had to interpose upon this utter unconsciousness, and the

task was not altogether an easy one; indeed, its difficulties seemed to

him to grow. He let her have her laugh out, and then said quietly:--"But

where did Mrs. Prichard get the story?"

Granny Marrable had lost sight of this, and was disconcerted.

"What--why--yes--where _did_ she get it? Mrs. Prichard, of course! Now,

wherever could Mrs. Prichard have got it?..." It called for thought.