Dr. Nash's idea was to give facts gradually, and let them work their own

way. "Perhaps she knew Mr. Muggeridge herself," said he. "When did he

die?"

"Mercy me, doctor, where's the use of asking _me_? Before _you_ were

born, anyhow! That's him, a man of forty, with the horses and me a child

under ten! Seventy years ago, and a little to spare!"

"_That_ cock won't fight, then. As I make out, old Mrs. Prichard didn't

come from Van Diemen's Land above five-and-twenty years ago."

"_Where_ did Mrs. Prichard come from?"

"From Van Diemen's Land. In Australia. Where the convicts go."

"There now! Only to think of that! Why--I see it all!" Granny Marrable

seemed pleased.

"What do you see, Mrs. Marrable?" The doctor was puzzled. He had quite

expected that at this point suspicion of the facts _must_ dawn, however

dimly.

"Because that is where my dear sister was, that died. Oh, so many long

years ago!" Whenever old Phoebe mentioned Maisie, the same note of

pathos came in her voice. The doctor felt he was operating for the

patient's sake; but it would be the knife, without an anaesthetic. He had

not indefinite time to spare for this operation.

"I am going to ask what will seem a very absurd question," said he, in

the dry, professional manner in which he was wont to intrude upon his

patients' private internal affairs. "But you must remember I am an

outsider--quite in the dark."

A slight puzzled look on the strong old face before him, with--yes--a

faint suspicion of alarm! But oh, how faint! Perhaps he was mistaken,

though. For Granny Marrable let no sign of alarm come in her voice, if

she felt any. "What were ye wishing to be told, doctor?" she cheerfully

said. "If it's a secret, I won't tell it ye. You may take my word for

that."

He fixed his eyes attentively on her face. "You are absolutely certain,"

said he, "that the news of your sister's death was ..." He was going to

say "authentic," but was arrested by an ebullition of unparalleled fury

in the baby, who became fairly crumpled up with indignation, presumably

at being unable to hold more than a definite amount of milk. It was a

case that called for the promptest and humblest apologies from the human

race, represented by his great-grandmother. She had assuaged the natural

exasperation of two previous generations, and had the trick of it. He

subsided, accepting as his birthright a heavenly sleep, with dreams of

further milk.

Then Granny Marrable, released, looked the doctor in the face,

saying:--"'That the news of my sister's death was?...'" and stopped for

him to finish the sentence.

"Authentic," said he. He did not know whether her look meant that she

did not understand the word, and added:--"Trustworthy."

"I know what you mean," she said. "Go on and say why?"

The doctor was fairly frightened at his own temerity. Probably the

difficulties of his task had never fully dawned upon him. Would it not

be safer to back out of it now, leaving what he had suggested to

fructify? He would have fulfilled his promise to Lady Gwendolen, and

made it easier for her to word the actual disclosure of the facts. "I

was merely trying to think what anyone would say who wanted to make out

that this old Mrs. Prichard was not under a delusion."

"The poor old soul! What would they say, indeed?" This was no help.

Commiseration of Mrs. Prichard was not the doctor's object. But the

position was improved when she added:--"But there's ne'er a one _wants_

to make it out."

He thought of saying:--"But suppose there were!" and gave it up, knowing

that his hearer, though fairly educated, would regard hypotheses as

intense intellectual luxuries, prized academically, but without a place

in the sane world without. He decided on saying:--"Of course, you would

have documentary evidence." Then he felt that his tone had been

ill-chosen--a curfew of the day's discussions, a last will and testament

of the one in hand.

So it was, for the moment. Granny Marrable wanted the subject to drop.

On whatever pretext it was revived, the story of her sister's life and

death was still painful to her. But "documentary evidence" was too

sesquipedalian to submit to without a protest. "I should have her

husband's letter," said she, "telling of her death."

"Yes, you would have his letters."

"There was but two." Her intense truthfulness could not let that plural

pass. "He was a strange man--and a bad one, doctor, if ye want to

know--and he never wrote to me again, not after answering my letter I

wrote to tell him of my father's death. But I've a long letter from him,

saying how Maisie died, and her message to me, giving me--like you might

say--her girl for my own. That is my Ruth, you know, at Strides Cottage,

this little man's own granny. But I've never heard his name since ...

not till ... not till ..."

"What's the matter? Anything wrong?" For Granny Marrable had stopped

with a jerk, and her look was one of the greatest bewilderment. The

memory of the name the madman who said he was Mrs. Prichard's son had

given her as his own had come upon her with a sudden shock,

having--strangely enough--been dormant throughout this interview. She

was confronted with a host of perplexities, which--mark you!--had no

possible solution except the one her mind could not receive, and which

therefore never presented itself at all.

"Indeed, doctor, I think I be bewitched outright," said she. "I never

was so put to it, all the days of my life.... No, don't ye ask me no

questions! I haven't the liberty to tell above half of it, and maybe

better say nothing at all."

"I see--matter of confidence! Well--I mustn't ask questions." This was

really because he was certain the answer would come without asking.

Granny Marrable would never let the matter drop, with that look on her

face.

So it turned out. In a moment she looked up from the baby, whom she had

been redistributing, to his advantage. "I'll tell ye this much, doctor,"

she said. "There was a crazy man in yonder field near by, when I was

coming back from Jane Naunton's--just a few days since...."

"I've heard of him."

"What do they say of him?"

"I only heard the police were after him. Go on."

"Well--the name he called himself by was my sister's husband's, and he

said he came from Australia."

"That might be, and no witchcraft. When did your sister die?"

"Five-and-forty--six-and-forty--years ago!"

"Any children left? Boys?"

"Boys?--Lord, no! At least, yes--two boys! What I mean is, not by this

name."

"What were the boys' names?"

"One, I call to mind, was Isaac. For Maisie wrote me what work she had

to persuade her husband to the name...." She had meant to say more,

giving reasons why, but changed her speech abruptly. "The youngest boy's

name I let slip. But I know it was never this name that man gave me."

"You remember it near enough for that?"

Granny Marrable's intense truthfulness would not allow margins.

"No--it's clean slipped my memory, and I could not make oath I never

knew it. It was all out of reach, beyond the seas."

"That seems reasonable. Five-and-forty years! Now, can I remember

anything as long back as that?... However, I was two, so that doesn't

count."

"Maisie's son never bore this name. That's out of doubt!"

"Why?"

"Because her first was christened by it, and died at Darenth Mill, after

... after his father went away."

"Roger Trufitt's son is Roger. But both his brothers who died before he

was born were named Roger. There's no law against it. You know old

Trufitt, the landlord at the Five Bells? He says that if this son died,

he would marry again to have another and call him Roger. He's a very

obstinate man, old Trufitt."

Granny Marrable sat silent while the doctor chatted, watching her

changes of countenance. Her conscience was vacillating. Could she

interpret her oath of silence as leaving her free to speak of the

convict's claim to Mrs. Prichard as a parent? The extenuation of bad

faith would lie in the purely exceptional nature of the depository of

her secret. Could a disclosure to a professional ear, which secrets

entered every day, be accounted "splitting"? She thought she saw her way

to a limited revelation, which would meet the case without breach of

confidence.

"Maybe!" said she, putting old Trufitt out of court. "But I can tell ye

another reason why he's no son of my sister's. Though he might be, mind

you, a son of her husband. My brother-in-law, most like, married again.

How should I know?"

"What's the other reason?"

"He told me his mother's name. But I am not free to tell it, by reason I

promised not to."

This struck the doctor as odd. "How came you to be talking to a stray

tramp about his mother, Granny Marrable?" he asked shrewdly.

"Because he took me for his mother, and would have it I should know

him." This was no doubt included in what she had promised not to tell,

but the question had taken her by surprise.

A light broke on Dr. Nash. All through the interview he had been

wondering at himself for never having before observed the likeness

between the two old women, which he now saw plainly by the light of the

information Gwen had given him. He might have seen it before, had he

heard of the gipsy's mistake, but Ruth Thrale had never mentioned this.

He remembered, too, in Gwen's story, some slight reference to a son of

Mrs. Prichard who was a _mauvais sujet_. He determined on a daring

_coup_. "Are you sure Mrs. Prichard is not the mother he was looking

for?" said he.

Granny Marrable was struck with his cleverness. "Now, how _ever_ did you

come to find _that_ out, doctor?" said she.

"We're a clever lot, us doctors! We've got to be clever.... Let's see,

now--where are we? Mrs. Prichard has a son who is called by your

brother-in-law's name, but who is _not_ your sister's son. Because if he

were, Mrs. Prichard would be your sister. Which is impossible. But Mrs.

Prichard has got muddled about her own identity, and thinks she is. What

can we do to cure such a delusion? I've seen a great deal of this sort

of thing--I've had charge of lunatics--and the only thing I know of for

the case is to stimulate memory of the patient's actual past life. But

we know nothing about Mrs. Prichard. Who the dickens _is_ Mrs.

Prichard?"

Granny Marrable had looked really pleased at the _reductio ad

absurdum_--always exhilarating when one knows what's impossible--but

looked perplexed over Mrs. Prichard's real identity. "No, indeed, poor

dear soul!" she said. "'Tisn't as if there was any would tell us about

her."

"I have found, and so has your daughter, that she goes back and back in

these dreams of her own childhood, which no doubt are made up of ...

which no doubt may have been told her by ..." He stopped intentionally.

He wanted to stagger her immobility by making her recite the nonsense

about Mrs. Prichard's informants.

She was quite amenable. "By little Davy," said she contentedly.

"And what she had from your sister in Australia, years ago," said the

doctor, and saw her content waver. He had his clue, and resolved to act

on it. "For instance, Mr. Muggeridge's gallivantings. You're sure you

never told the child?"

"Sure?... Merciful gracious me! _That_ baby?"

"And how you and she measured the mill-model? That _must_ have come from

your sister."

She started. "What was that?" she said. "You never told me."

He did not look at her--only at his watch. He really had to be off, he

said, but would tell her about the measurements. Thought she knew it

before. He went on to narrate the incident referred to, which is already

familiar to the story. Then he got up from his chair as though to take

leave. If this did not land the suspicion of the truth in her

unreceptive mind, it could only be done by a sort of point-blank

directness that he shrank from employing, and that he had made it

difficult to adopt by his implied pretence of unconcern. He would

sooner, if that was to be the way of it, come to her at the outset as

the herald of something serious, and ask her to prepare herself for a

great shock. His manner had not pointed to an open operation, and such a

variation of it would be the sudden production of the knife. Perhaps the

dentist is sometimes right who brings his pliers from behind his back

when the patient fancies he is only scouting; but he runs a risk,

always. Dr. Nash was not at all confident in this case.

But he could venture a little farther with mere suggestion. "Certainly,"

said he, "it is a very curious phase of delusion, that this old lady

should go back on a statement of your sister's, made a lifetime ago, to

no apparent end. But the whole subject of the action of the brain is a

mystery." He looked up at his hearer's face.

She was sitting motionless, with a sort of fixed look. Had he injured

her--struck at the heart of her understanding? Well, it had got to come,

for better, for worse. Moreover, the look implied self-command. No, he

need not be frightened.

"What strikes me about this arm-measurement," said he, "is the strength

of her conviction. If she had only _spoken_ of it, well! But to get up,

at six in the morning, the day after she saw it!"

The old lady's eyes met his. "Why arm-measurement?" she asked, speaking

quite steadily and clearly.

"Because that was the way it was done. I don't know if I described it

right. Look here--it was like this...." He took her right wrist, as he

stood facing her, with his left hand. "You stretch out your fingers

straight," said he, and brought the tip of the middle finger of his own

right hand to meet hers. "Now, what Mrs. Prichard fancies she

remembers--what your sister told her in Australia, you know--is that you

and she, being girls, tried the length of your two arms together on the

top of the mill-case, from the elbow down. Just like ours now." He

determined to make the most of this incident, for his impression was

that her mind was already in revolt against the gross improbability of

her sister having dwelt on it to a new acquaintance in the Colony. He

had made Mrs. Prichard linger over the telling of it; it was such a

strange phase of delusion. In fact, he had said to himself that it must

be a genuine memory, ascribed to the wrong persons. He went on to a

cold-blooded use of her minutest details, still keeping the hand he held

in his. "You see, Mrs. Prichard's point was this--don't take your hand

away; I haven't quite done with it--her point was that your arm and your

sister's were exactly of a size...."

"We were twins."

"Precisely. And your two little paws, being young kids, or youngish...."

"We were just children. I mind it well. 'Twas a sort of game, to see how

our hands grew. But...."

"Let me finish. This old woman, when she went touring about to have a

look at the model that had given her such a turn overnight, found that

her own arm was well two-thirds the length of it, and something over.

She was cocksure the two small arms only just covered it, because unless

one cheated and pushed her elbow over the edge, your middle fingers

wouldn't jam and go cleck--like this.... That's why I wanted your hand

for--that'll do!... There was such a funny name she called it by--the

finger-tips jamming, I mean...."

Granny Marrable was pressing the released hand on her eyes and forehead.

"You fairly make my head spin, doctor, digging up of old-time memories.

But whatever was the funny name? Can't ye recollect?"

"It was sheer gibberish, you know...."

"Can't ye call the gibberish to mind?" This was asked earnestly, and

made Dr. Nash feel he was on the right tack.

"One can't speak positively to gibberish. The nearest I can go to the

word Mrs. Prichard used is"--the doctor paused under the weight of his

responsibility for accuracy--"the, nearest, I, can, go is ...

_spud-clicket_." He waited, really anxiously. If, rather than admit a

suspicion of the truth, she could believe that such a piece of infant

jargon could dwell correctly for decades in the mind of a chance hearer,

she could believe anything.

He was utterly taken aback when equable and easy speech, with a sound of

relief in every word, came from lips which he thought must at least be

tremulous. "Well--there now! Doesn't that show? Only Maisie _could_ have

told her that word. It's all right. But I'm none so sure, mind you, that

I could have remembered it right, myself."

It seemed perfectly hopeless. So said the doctor to himself. Surely, in

this long interview, he had tried all that suggestion could do to get a

fulcrum to raise the dead weight of conviction that years of an accepted

error had built up undisturbed. How easy it would have been had the tale

of Daverill's audacious fraud been a few months old; or a few years, for

that matter! It was that appalling lapse of time.

What could the doctor do to carry out his rash promise to Lady

Gwendolen, more than what he had done? He was already overdue at the

house of another patient, three miles off. The alternatives before him

were:--To rush the position, saying, "Look here, Granny Marrable,

neither you nor your sister are dead, but you were each told of the

other's death by the worst scoundrel God ever made." To do this or to

throw up the sponge and hurry off to his waiting patient! He chose the

latter. After all, he had striven hard to fulfil his promise to her

young ladyship, and only been repulsed from an impregnable fortress. But

he would have a parting shot.

"You must be very curious to see this queer old Mrs. Prichard, Mrs.

Marrable?" said he.

The old lady did not warm up to this at all. "Indeed, doctor, if I tell

the truth, I could not say I am. For to hear the poor old soul fancy

herself my sister, dead now five-and-forty years and more! Not for the

pain to myself, but for the great pity for a poor demented soul, and no

blessed Saviour near to bid the evil spirit begone. No, indeed--I will

hope she may be well on her way home before ever I return to Strides.

But my daughter says she'll be loath to part with her, so I'm not bound

to hurry back."

"Well--I rather hope she'll stop on long enough for you to get a sight

of her. You would be interested.... There's the postman." For they were

standing at the farm-gate by this time, leading into the lane.

"Yes, it be John Barlow on his new mail-cart. He's brought something for

the farm, or he wouldn't come this way.... Good-evening to you, John

Barlow!... What--three letters! And one of them for the old 'oman.... So

'tis!--'tis a letter from my little man Davy, bless his heart!"

"One fower th' ma'aster," said Mr. Barlow's strong rustic accent. "One

fower th' mistress. And one fower the granny. It be directed Strides,

but Widow Thrale she says, 'Ta'ak it along, to moother at Costrell's.'

And now ye've gotten it, Granny Marrable."

"There's no denying that, Master John. I'll say good-bye, doctor." But

what the letter-carrier was saying caught her ear, and she paused before

re-entering the house, holding the letters in her hand.

"There was anoother letter for th' Cottage, the vairy fetch of yowern,

Granny, all but th' neam. Th' neam on't was Mrs. Picture, and on yowern

Mrs. Marrowbone, and if th' neam had been sa'am on both, 'twould have

ta'aken Loondon Town to tell 'em apart."

"And you left one at the Cottage, and brought the other on here? Was

that it? Sharp man!" The doctor was pulling on his thick driving-gloves,

to depart. Granny Marrable was opening her letter already. "Bless the

boy," said she, "he's writing to both his Grannies with the same pen, so

they may not be jealous!"

"You may call me a sha'arp ma'an for soomat else, doctor," said Mr.

Barlow, locking his undelivered letters into the inner core of the new

mail-cart. "This time I be no cleverer than my letters. 'Twas Joe

Kerridge's wife, next dower the cottage, said, 'Ta'ak it on to the

Granny at Dessington.' And says I to her, 'They'm gotten the sa'am yoong

ma'an to write 'em love-letters,' I says. 'You couldn't tell they two

letters apart, but for the neams on 'em.' And then Mrs. Lisbeth she says

to me, 'Some do say they have to keep their eyes open to tell the old

la'adies apart,' she says. 'But I'm anoother way o' thinking mysen,' she

says, 'by reason of this Mrs. Prichard's white head o' hair.' And then I

handed all the letters to Lisbeth for Strides, as well as her own,

seeing ne'er one came out at door for knocking, and brought yowern on

with Farmer Costrell's." Mr. Barlow had been spoken of in the village

more than once as a woundy chatterbox.

The doctor glanced at Granny Marrable to see how she had taken the

reference to her resemblance to Mrs. Prichard, but was just too late to

see her face. She had turned to go into the house, and the only evidence

he had that it had perturbed her at all was that she said good-night to

no one. He felt that he had more than fulfilled his promise to Lady

Gwendolen, having done everything short of forcing the pace. His other

patient was no doubt already execrating him for not coming to time, so

he drove off briskly; at least, so his pony flattered himself. Ideas of

speed differ.

The horse whose quick step the doctor heard overhauling him, about a

mile on his road, had another ideal, evidently. It did not concern him;

so he ignored it until, as its nearer approach caused him to edge close

to the margin of the narrow road, the voice of its driver shouted to

him, and he pulled up to see why. Perhaps Mr. Barlow, the shouter, had

lighted on an overlooked letter for him, and had preferred this method

of delivery.

"They're asking for ye ba'ack at t' hoose--ba'ack to Costrell's Varm....

Noa, noa, doctor--'tis the old Granny, not the yoong wench. She's gone

off in a sowart of fayunt."

Dr. Nash turned his pony's head without a word, nodded and started. Mr.

Barlow called out, as Parthian information, as many particulars as he

thought would be audible, and sped on his course, to stand and deliver

at every cottage on the route susceptible to correspondence.

"She was looking queer," said the doctor to himself, stimulating his

pony's concept of a maximum velocity. "But I never thought of this. The

Devil fly away with the Australian twin! Why couldn't she wait six

weeks?"

He was immensely relieved to find the old lady sitting up, with her

granddaughter applying vinegar to her forehead. She was discountenancing

this remedy, or any remedy, as needless, in an unconvincingly weak

voice. She would come round if left to herself. She rallied her forces

at sight of the doctor, rather resenting him as superfluous. However,

his knowledge of the cause of her upset made him an ally, a fact she

probably became aware of. He suggested, after exhibiting two or three

drops of hartshorn in a wineglass of water, that she should be taken at

her word.

While she came round, left to herself in the big armchair, with her eyes

shut and a pillow to lean back on, Maisie the granddaughter told her

tale--the occurrence as she had seen it. Hearing the doctor's sounds of

departure, she had discontinued a fiction of repose--not admitted as

fiction, however--to come down and see what on earth Granny and he had

been talking their tongues off for. Granny was reading her letter from

Dave Wardle, and just the moment she saw her, gave a cry and fell back

in her chair; whereon Maisie, running out, told Mr. Barlow to catch the

doctor and send him back, then returned to her grandmother. She herself

did not seem seriously upset, though much puzzled and surprised.

The doctor saw something. "Where's the letter?" said he.

"Here on the baby," said Mrs. Maisie. And there on the baby, enjoying,

in a holy sleep, deep draughts of imaginary milk, was Dave's large

round-hand epistle.

The doctor glanced at it, and had the presence of mind to

say:--"Ho!--letter from a kid!" and suppress it. "Your Granny wants

something," said he, diverting Mrs. Costrell's attention from it. The

old lady was rallying visibly. She was, in fact, making an heroic

struggle against a sudden overwhelming shock.

* * * * *

Recent theories of a double consciousness--an inner self--that have been

worked hard of late years to account for everything Psychology is at a

loss about, might be appealed to to throw light on the changes in Granny

Marrable's state of mind in this past hour. Although to all appearance

the whole of Dr. Nash's efforts to put it on the track had been thrown

away, some of the forces his suggestions had set in motion had told

upon it; and, just as a swift, mysterious impatience in the few clouds

of a blue sky, and a muttered omen from Heaven-knows-what horizon,

precedes the thunder-clap that makes us run for shelter, so this

underself of hers may have vibrated in response to the strange hints he

had thrown out, and become susceptible to an impression from Mr.

Barlow's reference to her likeness to Mrs. Prichard, which otherwise

would have slipped off it like water off a duck's back. We have to

consider how in those happy years of her youth this almost

indistinguishable twinship of the sisters had been a daily topic with

all their near surroundings. To hear herself spoken of as a duplicate

again, after fifty years, carried with it an inexplicable thrill. Oh,

how the hours came trooping back from those long-forgotten days of old,

each with its appeal to that underself alone; which she, the old Phoebe

of this living world, suspected only to disallow! How she might have let

the memories of the old mill and the ever-running wheels; of the still

backwater where she failed to see the heron she could even now hear her

sister's sweet voice calling to her to come--come quickly to!--or she

would miss it; of that dear vanished sister's sweet beauty she could

dwell upon, forgetful that it also was her own,--how she might have let

these memories run riot in her heart, and break it, but that the very

thing that provoked them was also their profanation--Mrs. Prichard at

Strides Cottage! Who or what was Mrs. Prichard? A poor old crazypate, a

victim of delusions....

Yes, but _what_ delusions? That was the question her inner self could

not ignore, however much her living mind might cancel it. She could run

for shelter from it, but the storm would come. She flinched from hearing

another word of Mr. Barlow's woundy chatter, and fled into the house,

actually bearing in her hand the lightning-flash whose thunder-clap was

in a moment to shake the foundations of her soul.

It came with a terrible suddenness when she read Dave's large, roundhand

script. "MY DEAR GRANEY MAROBONE--Me and Dolly are so Glad because Gweng

has been here To say Mrs. Picture is reely Your Cistern." This is as

written first. Old Phoebe deciphered the corrections without

illumination; sheltered, perhaps, by some bias of her inner soul to an

idea that Mrs. Prichard was a second wife of her convict

brother-in-law--a sort of washed-out sister-in-law. The child might have

cooked it up out of that. It would explain many things.

Then came the thunderclap. "Gweng says Bad people told you bofe Lies

heaps longer ago than dolly's birfday, so you bofe thort you was dead

and buried." Straight to the heart of the subject, as perhaps none but a

child could have phrased it. Granny Marrable's sight grew dim as she

read:--"Gweng says you will be glad, not sory." Then she felt quite

sick, and heard her granddaughter coming downstairs. How to tell her

nothing of all this, how to pretend nothing was happening--that was what

had to be done! But the world vanished as she fell back in her chair

beside the cradle.

* * * * *

"Yes, Granny dear, what is it?... The letter?--oh, the doctor's got the

letter. Does it matter?... Never mind the letter! You sit still! I must

get you something. What shall I get for her, doctor?"

"Get me nothing, Maisie. I shall be all right directly...." And it

really seemed as if she would. Indeed, her revival was amazingly sudden.

"I tell you what I should _like_," said she, quite firmly. "I should

like a little air. Is not John come in?" John was Mr. Costrell, her

grandson-in-law--the farmer.

"I think I just heard him, outside." Maisie had heard him drive up to

the door, a familiar sound.

"Then let him drive me over to the Cottage."

"_Yes_," said the doctor, with emphasis. "Good idea!" And Maisie left

the room to speak to her husband.

Then old Phoebe, on her feet now, and speaking clearly, with a strange

ring of determination in her voice, said to him:--"Have you the young

child's letter?" He drew it from his pocket. "If what that letter says

is true, this is my sister Maisie, risen from the grave."

He marvelled at her strength. There was no need for reserve; he could

speak plainly now. "The letter is all true, Mrs. Marrable," said he.

"Mrs. Prichard is your sister Maisie, but she is not risen from the

grave. She is ill, and probably knows by now what you know, but for all

the shock she has had, she may have years of life before her. You cannot

do better than go to her at once. And remember that she will need all

your strength to help her. For she is not strong, like you."

The old face relaxed from its tension, and a gleam of happiness was in

the life of it. But she only said:--"Maisie": said it twice, as for the

pleasure in the name. Then she held out her hand, to take the letter

from the doctor.

He handed it to her. "I have been telling fibs, Mrs. Marrable," said he,

"or using them, which is the same thing, in trying to tell you this.

You will forgive that, I know?" She nodded assent. "Shall I tell you the

facts, as far as they are known to me?"

"Please!" She seemed well able to understand.

"Her husband was a damnable scoundrel...."

"He was."

"... And for some motive we can throw no light on, wrote two letters,

one a forgery with your father's signature--a letter to his wife--saying

that you, with your own husband and her child were drowned at sea. The

other to yourself, telling you that she was dead in Australia."

The blank horror on old Phoebe's face remained in the doctor's memory,

long after that. She just found voice to say:--"God help us all!" But

there was no sign of another collapse, though he was watching for it.

He continued:--"He must have had some means of suppressing your letters

to one another, to be safe in this deception...."

"He was the postmaster."

"Oh--was that it? Mrs. Costrell is coming back, and I shall have to

stop.... But I must just tell you this. The whole story has come out

through Lady Gwendolen Rivers, who is keenly interested in your sister."

Old Phoebe gave a visible start at this first mention of Mrs. Prichard's

relationship as a certainty. It was like the bather's gasp when the cold

water comes level with his heart. "Lady Gwendolen seems to have taken

charge of the old lady's writing-desk in London, and his lordship, her

father, it appears, opened and read them, having his suspicions...."

"Oh, but his lordship had the right...."

"Surely! No one would question his lordship's actions.... Here comes

your granddaughter back. I must stop. But that is really the whole."

Mrs. Costrell came back to say that John was mending a buckle in the

harness, but would be ready to drive Granny in a few minutes. How much

better Granny was looking! What was it, doctor? It wasn't like Granny.

"Stomach, probably," said the doctor, resorting to a time-honoured

subterfuge. "I'll send her something to take directly after meals."

"No, Maisie," said the old lady, somewhat to the doctor's surprise. "You

shall not be told any stories, with my consent. I've had a piece of

news--a blessed piece of news as ever came to an old woman!--and it gave

me a jump. But I shan't tell ye a word of it yet a while. Ye may just be

busy over guessing what it is till I come back." The doctor was obliged

to confess to himself that this was a wonderful stroke of policy on the

old lady's part, and resolved to back it up through thick and thin.

But although the young wife's good-humoured face showed every sign of

rebellion against her arbitrary exclusion from the enjoyment of this

mystery, her protest had to stand over. For baby waked up suddenly in a

storm of rage, and called Heaven and Earth to witness the grievous

injury and neglect of his family in not being ready with a prompt

bottle. The doctor hurried away to that patient, and what sort of

reception he got the story can only imagine. It hopes the case was not

urgent.

The last he saw that day of Granny Marrable was her back, almost as

upright at eighty as the young farmer's beside her at thirty, just

starting on the short journey that was to end in such an amazing

interview. His thought for a moment was how he would like to be there to

see it! Reconsideration made him say to himself:--"Well, now, should I?"

CHAPTER XVII

HOW LADY ANCESTER CALLED ON LADY TORRENS, WHO WAS KEEPING HER ROOM.

BUT SHE SAW THE BART. A QUEER AND TICKLISH INTERVIEW. MAURICE AND

KATHLEEN TYRAWLEY. NO NEED FOR HUMBUG BETWEEN _US_! THE COUNTESS'S

GROUNDS FOR OPPOSING THE MARRIAGE. HOW ADRIAN, WITH EYES IN HIS

HEAD, WOULD HAVE BEEN MOST ACCEPTABLE. BUT HOW ABOUT JEPHTHA'S

DAUGHTER? OUGHT WE, THOUGH, TO MEDDLE BETWEEN YOUNG LOVERS? AN

AWKWARD TOPIC. HOW ROMEO _DIDN'T_ FEEL, ABOUT _HIS_ EX-JULIET! HOW

COUNTY PARIS MIGHT HAVE WASHED, AND ROSALINE MIGHT HAVE MARRIED A

POPULAR PREACHER. THE SAME LIPS. THE COUNTESS'S COURAGE. A GOOD

SHAKE AND NO FLINCHING. CHRISTIAN-NAMING UNDER TUTELAGE. HOW SIR

HAMILTON INDULGED IN A FIRESIDE REVERIE OVER HIS PAST, AND HIS SON

AND DAUGHTER CAME BACK. HOW MISS SCATCHERD HAD BEEN SEEN BY BOTH. A

FLASH OF EYESIGHT, AND HOPE. HOW THE SQUIRE TOOK THE NEXT

OPPORTUNITY THAT EVENING. CUPID's NAME NOT DANIEL. WHAT AN IMAGE OF

THE COUNTESS SAID TO ADRIAN

Sir Hamilton Torrens is at home, because when a messenger rode from the

Towers in the morning with a note from the Countess to say that her

ladyship was driving over to Poynders in the afternoon, and could manage

a previous visit at Pensham by coming an hour earlier, his wife

instructed him that it would never do for him to be absent, seeing that

there was no knowing how indisposed she herself might be. There never

is, with nerve cases, and she was a nerve case. So Sir Hamilton really

must arrange to stay at home just this one afternoon, that Lady

Ancester's visit should not be absolutely sterile. If the nerve case's

plight and Sir Hamilton's isolation were communicated to her on her

arrival, she could choose for herself whether to come in or go on to

Poynders. She chose to come in and interview Sir Hamilton. So consider

that the lady of the house is indisposed, and is keeping her room, and

that the blind man and his sister, and Achilles, have gone to visit a

neighbour.

The Countess was acting on her resolution made in the train to be a free

lance. She had been scheming an interview with Adrian's father before

the next meeting of the lovers, if possible; and now she had caught at

the opportunity afforded by her daughter's absence at Chorlton. Hers was

a resolution that deserved the name, in view of its special object--the

organizing and conduct of what might be a most embarrassing negotiation,

or effort of diplomacy.

These two, three decades back, had behaved when they met like lovers on

the stage who are carried away by their parts and forget the audience.

Unless indeed _they_ had an audience, in which case they had to wait,

and did it with a parade of indifference which deceived no one.

And now! Here was the gentleman making believe that the lady was

bitterly disappointed at not seeing his amiable wife, who was, after

all, only the Miss Abercrombie he married at about the same time that

she herself became a Countess. And here was she adding to an insincere

acceptance of the position of chief mourner a groundless pretext that

the two or three decades were four or five--or anything you please

outside King Memory's Statutes of Limitations!--and those endearments

too long ago to count. And that the nerve case upstairs, if you please,

had no existence for her ladyship as the Miss Abercrombie she heard

Hamilton was engaged to marry, and felt rather curious about at the

time, but was a most interesting individuality, saturated with public

spirit, whose enthusiasm about the Abolition of Slavery had stirred her

sympathetic soul to the quick.

Endless speculation is possible over the feelings of a man and woman so

related, coming together under such changed circumstances, without the

lubricant to easy intercourse of the presence of others. The Countess

would not have faced the possible embarrassments, but would have driven

on to her cousin's house, Poynders, if she had not had a specific

purpose. As it was, it was the very thing she wanted, and she welcomed

it. She had the stronger position, and was prepared for all

contingencies.

Sir Hamilton had very few demeanours open to him. The most obvious one

was that of the courteous host, flattered to receive such a visitor on

any terms, especially proud and cordial in view of the prospect of a

connection between the families. He maintained a penitential attitude

under the depressing shadow of the absence of his better half, which

certainly was made the most of by both; somewhat artificially, a

perceptive visitor might have said, if one had been there to see. The

jeremiads over this unfortunate misadventure must have lasted fully ten

minutes before a lull came; for the gentleman could catch no other wind

in his sails, and had to let out every reef to move at all.

Lady Ancester was not inclined to lose time. "I am particularly sorry

not to see Lady Torrens," she said, "because I really wanted to have a

serious talk with her.... Yes, about the boy and girl--your boy and my

girl." A curious consciousness almost made her wince. Think how easily

either of the young lovers might have been a joint possession! If one,

then both, surely, minus their identities and the _status quo_? It was

like sudden unexpected lemon in a made dish.

The worst of it was--not that each thought the same thing at the same

moment; that was inevitable--but that each knew the other's thought. The

Baronet fell back on mere self-subordination. Automatically

non-existent, he would be safe. "Same thing--same thing--Lady Torrens

and myself! Comes to the same thing whether you say it to me or to her.

Repeat every word!... Of course--easier to talk to her! But comes to the

same thing." He abated himself to a go-between, and was entrenched.

The Countess affected an easy languor to say:--"I really don't feel able

to say what I want straight off. You know I never used to be able"--she

laughed a deprecatory laugh--"in the old Clarges Street days. Besides,

your man is coming in and out with tea and things. When he's done, I'll

go on."

The sudden reference to the time-when of that old passionate

relation contained an implication that it was not unspeakable _per

se_--although its threat had been that it would do its worst as a

cupboard-skeleton--but only owing to the childish silliness of a mere

calf-love, a reciprocal misapprehension soon forgotten. Treated with

contempt, its pretensions to skeletonhood fell through. Moreover, that

pending tea had helped to a pause; showing the speaker to be quite

collected, and mistress of the situation.

The little episode had put the Baronet more at his ease. He thought he

might endeavour to contribute to general lubrication on the same lines.

By-the-by, he had met Maurice Tyrawley last week in London--just back

from India--been away much longer than our men usually--Lady Ancester

would remember Maurice Tyrawley--man with a slight stammer--sister ran

away with her father's groom? Her ladyship remembered Maurice very well.

And was that really true about Kathleen Tyrawley? Well--that was

interesting! Was she alive? Oh dear yes--living in Tavistock

Square--fellah made money, somehow. That was _very_ interesting. If the

Countess had Kathleen's address, she would try to call on her, some

time. What was her name? Hopkins. Oh--Hopkins! She felt discouraged, and

not at all sure she should call on her, any time. But she did not say

so. An entry of Mrs. Hopkins's address and full name followed, on some

painfully minute ivory tablets. The Countess was sure to find the place,

owing to her coachman's phenomenal bump of locality. Was Colonel

Tyrawley married?... Oh--Major Tyrawley! Yes, he was married, and had

some rumpus with his wife. Etcetera, etcetera.

This sort of thing served its turn, as did the tea. But both became

things of the past, and left the course clear. Provided always that the

servant did not recrudesce! "Is he gone?" said the Countess. "If he

isn't, I can wait."

"He won't come back now."

"Very well. Then I can go on. I want to talk about our girl and boy....

I don't think there need be any nonsense between Us, Sir Hamilton?"

"About our boy and girl? Why should there?" Best not to add:--"Or

anything else," on the whole!

"I am speaking of his eyesight only. Please understand that I should not

oppose my daughter's wishes on any other ground."

"But I am to understand that you _do_ oppose them?"

The Countess held back her answer a few seconds, to take a last look at

it before sending it to press. Then she said decisively:--"Yes." She

made no softening reservation. She had already said why.

He considered it his duty to soften it for her. "On the ground of his

eyesight.... This is a sad business.... I gather that you empower me to

repeat to my wife that you are--quite naturally, I admit--are

unreconciled.... Or, at least, only partly reconciled to----"

"Unreconciled. I won't make any pretences, Sir Hamilton. I do _not_

think there need be any nonsense between us. I am the girl's mother, and

it is my duty to speak plain, for her sake."

"My wife will entirely agree with you."

"I hope so. But I am not sorry that I should have an opportunity of

speaking freely to you. This is the first I have had. I wish you to know

without disguise exactly how this marriage of Gwen and your Adrian--if

it ever comes off--will present itself to me, as the girl's mother."

Sir Hamilton inclined his head slightly, which may have meant:--"I am

prepared to listen to you as the boy's father, and his mother's proxy."

"As the girl's mother," repeated the lady. "I shall continue to think,

as I think now, that there is an _unreal_ element in my daughter's ... a

... regard for your son."

"An unreal element! Very often is, in young ladies' predilections for

young gentlemen."

The Countess rushed on to avoid a complex abstract subject, with

pitfalls galore. "Which may very well endanger her future.... Well!--may

endanger the happiness of both.... I don't mean that she isn't in love

with him--whatever the word means, and sometimes one hardly knows. I

mean now that she is under an influence which may last, or may not, but

which might never have existed but for ... but for the accident."

"My wife has said the same thing, more than once." Her ladyship could

have dispensed with this constant reference to the late Miss

Abercrombie. She felt that it put her at a disadvantage.

"And the Earl entirely agrees with me," said she. For why should her

ladyship not play a card of the same suit? "There is something I want to

say, and I don't know how to say it. But _he_ said it the other day, and

I felt exactly as he did. He said, as near as I recollect:--'If I had

twenty daughters to give away, I would not grudge one to poor Adrian, if

I thought it would do something to make up for the wrong I have done

him....'"

Sir Hamilton interrupted warmly. "No, Lady Ancester, no! I cannot allow

that to be said! We have never thought of it that way. We do not think

of it that way. We never shall think of it that way. It was an accident,

pure and simple. It might have happened to _his_ son, on my bit of

preserved land. All the owners about shoot stray dogs."

"But if it had, and you had had a mad daughter--because Gwen is a mad

girl, if ever there was one--who got a Quixotic idea like this in her

head, you would have felt exactly as my husband does."

"Should I? Well--I suppose I should. No, I don't think I should....

Well--at least...!"

"At least, what?"

"At least, if I had supposed that ... that Irene, for instance"--Sir

Hamilton's mind required a tangible reality to rest upon--"that Irene

was head over ears in love with some man...." He did not seem to have

his conclusion ready.

"And you _are_ convinced that my daughter is head over ears, in love

with your son? Is that it?" The Countess spoke rather coldly, and Sir

Hamilton felt uncomfortable. "It seems to me that the whole thing turns

on that. Are you certain that you have not _allowed_ yourself to be

convinced?"

"Allowed myself--I'm not sure I understand."

"With less proof, I mean, than her parents have a right to ask for--less

than you would have asked yourself in the reverse case?"

Sir Hamilton felt more uncomfortable. He ought to have answered that he

was very far from certain. But an Englishman is nothing if not a

prevaricator; he calls it being scrupulously truthful. "I have no right

to catechize Lady Gwendolen," said he.

"And her parents have, of course. I see. But if her parents, _are_

convinced--as I certainly am in this case, and I think my husband is,

almost--that there is an unreal element on Gwen's side, it ought to ...

to carry weight with you."

"It would carry weight. It does carry weight. But ... However, I must

talk to Lady Torrens about this." He appeared very uncomfortable indeed,

and was visibly flushed. But that may have been the red glow of a dying

fire in the half-light, or half-darkness, striking his face as he rested

his elbow on the chimney-piece, while its hand wandered from his brow to

his chin, expressing irresolute perplexity. Until, as she sat silent, as

though satisfied that he could have now no doubt about her wishes, he

spoke again, abruptly. "I wish you would tell me exactly what you

suppose to be the case."

She addressed herself to explicit statement. "I believe Gwen is acting

under an unselfish impulse, and I do not believe in unselfish impulses.

If a girl is to run counter to the wishes of her parents, and to obvious

common sense, at least let her impulse be a selfish one. Let her act

entirely for her own sake. Gwen made your son's acquaintance under

peculiar circumstances--romantic circumstances--and, as I know,

instantly saw that his eyesight might be destroyed and that the blame

would rest with her family...."

"No, L-Lady Ancester"--he stumbled somehow over the name, for no

apparent reason--"I deny that. I protest against it...."

"We need not settle that point. Your feeling is a generous one. But do

let us keep to Gwen and Adrian." Her ladyship went on to develop her

view of the case, not at all illogically. Her objection to the marriage

turned entirely on Adrian's blindness--had not a particle of personal

feeling in it. On the contrary, she and her husband saw every reason to

believe that the young man, with eyes in his head, would have met with a

most affectionate welcome as a son-in-law. This applied especially to

the Earl, who, of course, had seen more of Adrian than herself. He had,

in fact, conceived an extraordinary _entichement_ for him; so much so

that he would sooner, for his own sake purely, that the marriage should

come off, as the blindness would affect him very little. But his duty to

his daughter remained exactly the same. If there was the slightest

reason to suppose that Gwen was immolating herself as a

sacrifice--something was implied of an analogy in the case of Jephtha's

daughter, but not pressed home owing to obvious weak points--he had no

choice, and she had no choice, but to protect the victim from herself.

If they did not do so, what was there to prevent an irrevocable step

being taken which might easily lead to disastrous consequences for both?

"You must see," said Gwen's mother very earnestly, "that if my daughter

is acting, as my husband and I suppose, from a Quixotic desire to make

up to your son for the terrible injury we have done him ... No protests,

please!... it is our business to protect her from the consequences of

her own rashness--to stand between her and a possible lifelong

unhappiness!"

"But what," said the perplexed Baronet, "can _I_ do?" A reasonable

question!

"If you can do nothing, no one can. The Earl and myself are so

handicapped by our sense of the fearful injury that we have--however

unintentionally--inflicted on your son, that we are really tied hand and

foot. But you can at least place the case before Adrian as I have placed

it before you, and I appeal to you to do so. I am sure you will see that

it is impossible for my husband or myself to say the same thing to him."

"But to what end? What do you suppose will come of it? What ... a ...

what difference will it make?"

"It _will_ make a difference. It _must_ make a difference, if your son

is made fully aware--he is not, now--of the motives that may be

influencing Gwen." The Countess was not at all confident of her case, in

respect of any definite change it would produce in the bearing of Adrian

towards his _fiancee_, and still less of any effect such change would

produce upon that headstrong young lady, if once she suspected its

cause. But she had confidence in her memories of the rather stupid

middle-aged gentleman of whom, as a young dragoon, she had had such very

intimate experience. He was still sensitively honourable, as in those

old days--she was sure of that. Unless, indeed, he had changed very much

morally, as he had certainly done physically. He would shrink from the

idea of his son profiting by an heroic self-devotion of the daughter of

a man who was no more to blame for his son's mishap than he himself

would have been in the counter-case he had supposed. And he would

impress her view of the position on his son. It would have no visible

and immediate result now, but how about the six months at Vienna? Might

it not be utilised to undermine that position during those six months of

fascinating change? She pictured to herself an abatement of what her

mind thought of as "the heroics" in the first six weeks.

At least, she could see, at this moment, that she had gained her

immediate end. The uneasiness of the Baronet was visible in all that can

show uneasiness in a not very expressive exterior--restlessness of hand

and lips, and the fixed brow of perplexity. "Very good--very good!" he

was saying, "I will talk to my wife about it. You may depend on me to do

what I can. Only--if you are mistaken...."

"About Gwen? If I am, things must take their own course. But I think it

will turn out that I am right.... That is all, is it not? I am truly

sorry not to have seen Lady Torrens. I hope she will be better.... Oh

yes--it's all right about the time. They know I am coming, at Poynders.

And I should have time to dress for dinner, anyhow. Good-bye!" Her

ladyship held out a decisive hand, that said:--"Curtain."

But Sir Hamilton did not seem so sure the performance was over. "Half a

minute more, L-Lady Ancester," said he; and he again half-stumbled over

her name. "I am rather slow in expressing myself, but I have something I

want to say."

"I am not in a hurry."

"I can only do exactly what you have asked me to do--place the case

before my son as you have placed it before me."

"I have not asked for anything else."

"Well, then, I can do that, after I have talked over it with his mother.

But I can't ... I can't undertake to _influence_ him."

"Is he so intractable?... However, young men _are_."

"I did not mean that. I ... I don't exactly know how to say it...."

"Why should you hesitate to say what you were going to say?... Do you

suppose I don't know what it was?" For he had begun to anticipate it

with some weakening reservation. "I could tell you exactly. You were

going to say, was it right to influence young people's futures and so

on, and wasn't it taking a great responsibility, and so on? Now, were

you not?"

"I had some such thought."

"Exactly. You mean you thought what I said you thought."

"And you think me mistaken?"

"Not always. In the present case, yes--if you consider that it would be

influencing. I don't. It would only be refraining from keeping silence

about--about something it may never occur to your son to think

possible." It may have struck her hearer that to call shouting a fact on

the house-tops "refraining from keeping silence" about it was straining

phraseology; but it was not easy to formulate the idea, offhand. It was

easier to hold his tongue. The Countess might have done better to hold

hers, at this point. But she must needs be discriminating, to show how

clear-sighted she was. "Of course, it is quite a different thing to try

to bring about a marriage. That is certainly taking a grave

responsibility." She stopped with a jerk, for she caught herself

denouncing the very course of action which well-meaning friends had

adopted successfully in the case of herself and her husband. If it had

not been for the jerk, Sir Hamilton would not have known the comparison

that was passing in her mind. She recovered herself to continue:--"Of

course, trying to bring about a marriage is a grave responsibility, but

mere testing of the strength of links that bind may be no more than bare

prudence. A breaking strain on lovers' vows may be acknowledged by them

as an untold blessing in after-years." Here she began to feel she was

not improving matters, and continued, with misgivings:--"I am scarcely

asking you to do even that. I am only appealing to you to suggest to

your son a fact that is obvious to myself and my husband, because it is

almost impossible for us, under the circumstances, to make such an

appeal to him ourselves."

"Are you so confident of the grounds of your suspicions ... about ...

about the motives that are influencing your daughter?"

"They are not suspicions. They are certainties. At least, I am

convinced--and I am her mother--that her chief motive in accepting your

son was vitiated--yes, vitiated!--by a mistaken zeal for--suppose we

call it poetical justice. I am not going to say the girl does not fancy

herself in love." She laughed a maternal sort of laugh--the laugh that

seniority, undeceived by life's realities, laughs at the crazy dawn of

passion in infatuated children. "Of course she does. But knowing what I

do, am I not right to make an attempt at least to protect her from

herself?" She lowered her voice to an increase of earnestness, as though

she had found a way to go nearer to the heart of her subject. "Does any

woman know--_can_ any woman know--better than I do, the value of a

girl's first love?"

It was a daring recognition of their old relation, and the veil of the

thin pretence that it could be successfully ignored had fallen from

between them.

The Baronet was a Man of the World. "Women do not take these things to

heart as men do." And then, the moment after, was in a cold perspiration

to think in what a delicate position it would have landed him. Just

think!--with the Miss Abercrombie he had married cherishing her nervous

system upstairs, and the pending reappearance of a son and daughter who

were very liable to amusement with a parent whom they scarcely took

seriously--for _him_ to be hinting at the remains of an undying passion

for this lady! He could only accept her estimate of girls by

stammering:--"P-possibly! Young people--yes!"

But his embarrassment and hesitation were so visible that the Countess

had little choice between flinching or charging bravely up to the guns.

She chose the courageous course, influenced perhaps by the thought that

if the marriage came off, there would be a long perspective of

reciprocal consciousnesses in the future for herself and this man, who

had an unfortunate knack of transparency. Could not she nip the first in

the bud, and sterilise the rest? It was worth the attempt.

"Listen to me, Hamilton," said she; and she was perfectly cool and

collected. "Did I not say to you that there need be no nonsense between

_us_?... How funny men are! Why should you jump because I called you by

name? Do you know that twice since we have been talking here you have

all but called me the name you used to me as a girl?... Yes--you began

saying 'Lip,' and made it Lady Ancester. Please say it all another time.

I shall not bite you.... Look here!--I want you to help me to laugh at

the mistake we made when we were young folks; not to look solemn at it.

We were ridiculous.... You were going to say, 'Why?' Well--I don't

exactly know. Young folks always _are_." The fact is, the Countess was

beginning to feel comfortably detached, and could treat the subject in a

free and easy manner.

The Baronet could not bring himself to allow that he had ever been

ridiculous, without protest. The Man within him rose in rebellion

against such an admission. He felt a little indignant at her

unceremonious pooh-poohing of their early infatuation. He would have

accorded it respectful obsequies at least. But what protest could he

enter that would not lay him open to suspicions of that undying passion?

It appeared to him absolutely impossible to say anything, either way. So

he looked as dignified as he could, consistently with being glad the

room was half dark, because he knew he was red.

His uncomfortable silence, instead of the response in kind her ladyship

had hoped for, interfered a little with the development of her

detachment. She judged it better to wind up the interview, and did it

with spirit. "There, now, Hamilton, _don't talk_--because I know exactly

what you are going to say. Shake hands upon it--a good shake, you

know!--don't throw it away!"

How very different are those two ways of offering a hand, the tender one

and the graspy one. The Countess's stopped out of its glove to emphasize

the latter, and did it so frankly and effectually that it cleared the

air, in which the smell of fire had been perceptible, as in a room where

a match has gone out.

He had, as she said, twice very nearly called her by her old familiar

name of the Romeo and Juliet days. Nevertheless, when he gave her his

hand, saying:--"Perfectly right--perfectly right, Lip! That's the way to

look at it," he threw in the name stiffly. It was under tutelage, not

spontaneously uttered. Letting it come before would have given him a

better position. But then, how if she had disallowed it? There was no

end to the ticklishness of their relation.

A _modus vivendi_ was, however, established. She could recapitulate

without endangering it. "You _will_ try to make Adrian see Gwen's

motives as I see them. It is quite possible that it will make no

difference in the end. If so, we must bow to the decrees of Providence,

I suppose. But I am sure you agree with me that he ought not to remain

in the dark. As I dare say you know, I am taking Gwen to Vienna for a

time. If they are both of a mind at the end of that time--well, I

suppose it can't be helped! But you must not be--I see you are

not--surprised at my view of the case."

Sir Hamilton assented to everything, promised everything, saw the lady

into her carriage, and returned, uncomfortable, to review his position

before the drawing-room fire in solitude. He did not go upstairs to the

nerve case. He would let his visitor die down before he discharged that

liability. He broke a large coal, and made a flare, and rang the bell

for lights, to show how little the late interview had thrown him out of

gear. But it _had_ done so. In spite of the fact that Lady Ancester was

well over five-and-forty, and that he himself was four or five years

older, and that she had all but hinted that the sight of him would have

disillusioned her if the Earl had not--for that was what he read between

her lines--she had left something indefinable behind, which he was

pleased to condemn as sentimental nonsense. No doubt it was, but it was

_there_, for all that.

Just one little tender squeeze of that beautiful hand, instead of that

candid, overwhelming wrestler's grip and double-knock handshake, would

have been so delightful.

He caught himself thinking more of his handsome visitor and her easy

self-mastery, compared with his own awkwardness and embarrassment, than

of her errand and the troublesome task she had devolved on him of

illuminating his son's mind about the possible self-sacrificial motives

of her daughter. His thoughts _would_ wander back to their Romeo and

Juliet period, and make comparisons between this _now_ of worldly-wise

maturities and the days when he would have been the glove upon that

hand, that he might touch that cheek. He recalled his first meeting with

the fascinating young beauty in her first season, at a moonlight dance

on a lawn dangerously flanked with lonely sheltered avenues and

whispering trees; and the soft rose-laden air of a dawn that broke on

tired musicians and unexhausted dissipation, and his headlong reckless

surrender to her irresistible intoxication; and, to say the truth, the

Juliet-like acknowledgment it met with. He would have been better

pleased, with the world as it was now, if less of that Juliet had been

recognisable in this mature dame. The thought made him bite his lip. He

exclaimed against his recognition perforce, and compelled himself to

think of the question before the house.

Yes--he could quite understand why the girl's parents should find it

difficult to say to his son:--"We know that Gwen is giving her love to

make amends for a wrong, as she thinks, done by ourselves; and whatever

personal sacrifice we should be glad to make as compensation for it, we

have no right to allow our daughter to imperil her happiness." But he

had a hazy recollection of Adrian's telling him something of the Earl

himself having mooted this view of the subject at the outset of the

engagement; and, hearing no more of it, had supposed the point to be

disposed of. Why did Lady Ancester wish to impress it on him now?

Then it gradually became clearer, as he thought it out, that it would

have been impossible to form conclusions at once. The Earl had no doubt

expressed a suspicion at first. But his daughter would never have

confessed her motives to _him_. What more likely than that her mother

should gradually command her confidence, and see that Adrian could not

arrive at a full appreciation of them without an ungracious persistence

on the part of herself and her husband, unless it were impressed on him

by some member of the young man's family? His father, naturally.

He felt perceptibly gratified that Gwen's mother should take it for

granted that he would feel as she did about the injustice to her

daughter of allowing her to sacrifice herself to make amends for a fault

of her parents. It was a question of sensitive honour, and she had

credited him rightly with possessing it. At least, he hoped so. And

though he was certainly not a clever man, the Squire of Pensham was the

very soul of fair play. His division of the County knew both facts. Now,

it seemed to him that it would be fairer play on his part to throw his

influence into the scale on the side of the Countess, and protest

against the marriage unless some guarantee could be found that there was

no heroic taint in the bride's motives. In this he was consciously

influenced by the thought that _his_ side would suffer by his own

action, so his own motives were tainted. A chivalric instinct,

unbalanced by reasoning power, is so very apt to decide--on

principle--against its owner's interests. Behind this there may have

been a saving clause, to the effect that the young people might be

relied on to pay no attention to their seniors' wishes, or anything

else. Gwen was on her way to twenty-one, and then parental authority

would expire. Meanwhile a little delay would do no harm. For the

present, he could only rub the facts into his son, and leave them to do

their worst. He would speak to him at the next opportunity.

* * * * *

Home came Adrian and Irene, and filled the silence of the house with

voices. Something was afoot, clearly; something not unpleasant, to judge

by the laugh of the latter. The room-door, whose hasp never bit

properly--causing Adrian to perpetrate an atrocious joke about a

disappointed Cleopatra--swung wide with an unseen cause, which was

revealed by a soft nose, a dog's, in contact with Sir Hamilton's hand.

He acknowledged Achilles, who trotted away satisfied, to complete an

examination of all the other inmates of the house, his invariable custom

after an outing. He would ratify or sanction them, and drop asleep with

a clear conscience.

"Hay? What's all that? What's all the rumpus?" says the Baronet, outside

at the stair-top. The sounds of the voices are pleasant and welcome to

him, and he courts their banishment of the past his old _fiancee_ had

dragged from its sepulchre. Bury it again and forget it! "What's all the

noise about? What's all the chatterboxing?" For the good gentleman

always imputes to his offspring a volubility and a plethora of language

far in excess of any meaning it conveys. His own attitude, he implies,

is one of weighty consideration and temperate but forcible judgment.

"What's the chatterboxing?" says the beautiful daughter, who kisses him

on both sides--and she and her skirts and her voice fill the discreet

country-house to the brim, and make its owner insignificant. "What's the

chatterboxing, indeed? Why,--it's good news for a silly old daddy!

That's what it is. Now come in and I'll sit on his knee and tell him."

And by the time Adrian has felt his way to the drawing-room, the good

news has been sprung upon his father by a Moenad who has dragged off her

head-gear--so as not to scratch--and flung it on the sofa. And a tide of

released black hair has burst loose about him. And--oh dear!--_how_ that

garden of auld lang syne has vanished!

It behoves a Baronet and a J.P., however, to bring all this excitement

down to the level of mature consideration. "Well--well--well--well!"

says he. "Now let's have it all over again. Begin _at_ the beginning.

You and your brother were walking up Pratchet's Lane. What were you

doing in Pratchet's Lane?"

"Walking up it. You _can_ only walk up it or down it. Very well. We were

just by the big holly-tree ..."

"Which big holly-tree? One--thing--at--a time!"

"Don't interrupt! There is only one big holly-tree. Now you know! Well!

Ply ran on in front because he caught sight of Miss Scatcherd ..."

"Easy--easy--easy! Where was Miss Scatcherd?"

"In front, of course! Ply dotes on Miss Scatcherd, although she's

forty-seven."

"I don't know about the 'of course,'" says Adrian, leaning on his

father's arm-chair. "Because I _don't_ dote on Miss Scatcherd. Miss

Scatcherd might have been coming up behind. In which case, if I had been

Ply, I should have run on in front."

"Don't be spiteful! However, I know she's bony. Well--am I to get on

with my story, or not?... Very good! Where did I leave off? Oh--at Miss

Scatcherd! Now, papa dear, be good, and don't be solemn."

"Well--fire away!"

"Indeed, it really happened just as I told you: as we were going to the

Rectory, Ply ran on in front, and I went on to rescue Miss Scatcherd,

because she doesn't like being knocked down by a dog, however

affectionate. And it was just then that I heard Adrian speak...."

"Did I speak?"

"Perhaps I ought to say gasp. I heard Adrian gasp. And when I turned

round to see why, he was rubbing his eyes. Because he had _seen_ Miss

Scatcherd."

"How did you know?" The interest of this has made Sir Hamilton lapse his

disciplines for the moment. He takes advantage of a pause, due to his

son and daughter beginning to answer both at once, and each stopping for

the other, to say:--"This would be the second time--the second time!

Something might come of this."

"You go on!" says Irene, nodding to her brother. "Say what you said."

Adrian accepts the prolocutorship. "To the best of my recollection I

said:--'Stop Ply knocking Miss Scatcherd down again!' Because he did it

before, you know.... Oh yes, entirely from love, no doubt! Then I heard

you say:--'How do you know it's Miss Scatcherd?' And I told you."

"Yes--yes--yes--yes! But how _did_ you?... How much did you see?" The

Baronet is excited and roused.

"Quite as much as I wished. I think I mentioned that I did _not_ dote on

Miss Scatcherd." For, the moment a piece of perversity is possible, this

young man jumps at it.

"Oh, Adrian dear, don't be paradoxical and capricious when papa's so

anxious. Do say what you saw!" Thus urged by his sister, the blind man

describes the occurrence from his point of view, carefully and

conscientiously. The care and conscience are chiefly needed to limit and

circumscribe a sudden image of a lady of irreproachable demeanour

besieged by an unexpected dog. So sudden that it merely appeared as a

fact in space, without a background or a foothold. It came and went in a

flash, Adrian said, leaving him far more puzzled to account for its

disappearance than its sudden reasonless intrusion on his darkness.

As soon as the narrative ended, perversity set in. It was gratifying,

said Adrian, to listen while Hope told flattering tales, but was it not

as well to be on our guard against rash conclusions? Even a partial

restoration of eyesight was a thing to look forward to, but would not

the extent of the benefits it conferred vary according to the nature of

its own limitations? For instance, it might enable him to see everything

in a mist, without outlines; or, for that matter, upside down. That,

however, would not signify, so long as everything else was upside down.

Indeed, who could say for certain that anything ever was, or ever had

been, right side up? It all turned on which side "up" was, and on

whether there was a wrong side at all.

"All nonsense!" said Irene.

"Shut up, 'Re," said Adrian. "These things want thinking out. A limited

vision might be restricted in other ways than by mere stupid opaque fog,

and bald, insipid position in Space. Consider how much more aggravating

it would be--from the point of view of Providence--to limit the vision

to the selection of peculiar objects which would give offence to the

Taste or Religious Convictions of its owner! Suppose that Miss

Scatcherd's eyes, for instance, could only distinguish gentlemen of

Unsound opinions, and couldn't see a Curate if it was ever so! And, _per

contra_, suppose that it should only prove possible to me to receive an

image of Miss Scatcherd, or her congeners ..."

"Is that eels?" said Irene, who wasn't listening, but getting out

writing-materials. "You may go on talking, but don't expect me to

answer, because I shan't. I'm going to write to Gwen all about it."

Her brother started, and became suddenly serious. "No, 'Re!" he

exclaimed. "At least, not yet. I don't want Gwen to know anything about

it. Don't let's have any more false hopes than we can help. Ten to one

it's only a flash in the pan!... Don't cry about it, ducky darling! If

it was real, it won't stop there, and we shall have something worth

telling."

So Irene did not write her letter.

* * * * *

That evening the Squire was very silent, saying nothing about the long

conversation he had had with Gwen's mother. His good lady did not come

down to dinner, and if she asked him any questions about it, it was when

he went up to dress; not in the hearing of his son or daughter. They

only knew that their mother had not seen Lady Ancester when she called,

and curiosity about the visitor had merged in the absorbing interest of

Miss Scatcherd's sudden visibility.

But no sooner had Irene--who was the ladies, this time--departed to

alleviate the lot of her excellent mamma, who may have been very ill,

for anything the story knows, than Sir Hamilton told the pervading

attendant-in-chief to look alive with the coffee, and get that door

shut, and keep it shut, conveying his desire for undisturbed seclusion.

Then he was observed by his son to be humming and hawing, somewhat in

the manner of ourselves when asked to say a few words at a public

dinner. This was Adrian's report to Irene later.

"Had a visitor to-day--s'pose they told you--Lady Ancester. Sorry your

mother wasn't up to seeing her."

"I know. We passed her coming away. Said how-d'ye-do in a hurry. What

had her ladyship got to say for herself?" Thus far was mere recognition

of a self-assertion of the Baronet's, as against female triviality. He

always treated any topic mooted in the presence of womankind as mere

froth, and resumed it as a male interest, as though it had never been

mentioned, as soon as the opposite sex had died down.

"We had some talk. Did you know she was coming?"

"Well--yes--after a fashion. Gwen's last letter said we might expect a

descent from her mamma. But I had no idea she was going to be so

prompt."

"She sent over to tell us, this morning. They took the letter up to your

mother. I had gone over to the Hanger, to prevent Akers cutting down a

tree. Man's a fool! I rather got let in for seeing her ladyship. Your

mother arranged it."

"I didn't hear of it. I should have stopped. So would 'Re."

"Yes--it rather let me in for a ... _tete-a-tete_." Why did Sir Hamilton

feel that this expression was an edged tool, that might cut his fingers?

He did.

"I should have been in the way."

Another time this might have procured a rebuke for levity. Sir Hamilton

perceived in it a stepping-stone to his text. "Perhaps you might," he

said. But he wavered, lest that stone should not bear; adding,

indecisively:--"Well--we had some talk!"

"About?" said his son. But he knew perfectly well what about.

"About Gwen and yourself. That conversation of yours with the Earl. You

remember it? You told me."

"I remember it, certainly. He was perfectly right--the Earl. He's the

sort of man that is right. I was horribly ashamed of myself. But Gwen

set me up in my own conceit again."

His father persevered. "I understood his view to be that Gwen was under

the influence of ... was influenced by ... a distorted view ... a

mistaken imagination...."

"Not a doubt of it, I should think. My _amour propre_ keeps on

suggesting to me that Gwen may be of sound mind. My strong common sense

replies that my _amour propre_ may be blowed!"

"Adrian, I wish to talk to you seriously. What did you suppose I was

referring to?"

"To Gwen's distorted view of your humble servant--a clear case of

mistaken imagination. That, however, is a condition precedent of the

position. Dan Cupid would be hard up, otherwise."

"Dan Who?"

"The little God of Love ... not Daniel Anybody! Wasn't that what the

Earl meant?"

"Not at all! I was referring to his view of ... a ... his daughter's

view ... of the accident ... some idea of her making up to you for ..."

No wonder he hesitated. It _was_ difficult to talk to his son about it.

Adrian cleared the air with a ringing laugh. "I know! What Gwen calls

the Self-Denying Ordinance!--her daddy's expression, I believe." He

settled down to a more restrained and serious tone. "The subject has not

been mentioned, since Lord Ancester's first conversation with me--in the

consulship of Mrs. Bailey, at the Towers--not mentioned by anyone. And

though the thought of it won't accept any suggestions towards its

extinction, from myself, I don't see my way to ... to making it a

subject of general conversation. In fact, I cannot do anything but hold

my tongue. I am sure you would not wish me to say to Gwen:--'Hence!

Begone! I forbid you to sacrifice yourself at My Shrine.' Now, would

you?"

The Squire was at liberty to ignore poetry. He took no notice of the

question, but proceeded to his second head. "Lady Ancester has a strong

opinion on the subject." He never said much at a time, and this being

difficult conversation, his part of it came in short lengths.

"To the effect that her daughter is throwing herself away. Quite right!

It is so. She _is_ throwing herself away."

"Lady Ancester expressed no opinion to that effect. She considers that

Gwen is not acting under the influence of ... under the usual motives.

That's all she said. Spoke very well of you, my boy!--I must say that."

"But...?"

"But thought Gwen ought to act only for her own sake."

"Of course she ought. Of course she ought. I see the whole turn out. Her

mother considers, quite rightly, that Jephtha, Judge of Israel, ought to

have been jolly well ashamed of himself. Perhaps he was. But that's

neither here nor there. What does Gwen's mammy think I ought to

do--ought to say--ought to pretend? That's what it comes to. Am I to

refuse to accompany Gwen to the altar till she can give sureties that

she is really in love, and plead the highest Spartan principles to

justify my conduct? Am I to make believe that I cannot, cannot love a

woman unless she produces certificates of affection based solely on the

desirability of my inestimable self? I should never make anyone believe

_that_. Why--if I thought Gwen hated me worse than poison, but was

marrying me on high moral grounds to square accounts, I don't think I

could humbug successfully, to that extent."

"Well, my dear boy, I am bound to confess that I do not see what you can

_do_. I can only repeat to you her ladyship's conviction, and tell you

that I believe it to be--what she says it is. I mean that she speaks

because she is certain Gwen is under the influence of this--of this

Quixotic motive. I can only tell you so, at her wish, and--and leave it

to you. I tell you frankly that if I were in her place, I should oppose

the marriage, under the circumstances."

"Why doesn't she tackle me about it herself?"

"H'm--well--h'm! I think if you look at it from her point of view ...

from her point of view, you'll see there would be many difficulties ...

many difficulties. Done your cigar? I suppose we ought to go and pay

your mother a visit."

Yes--Adrian saw the difficulties! On his way upstairs a vivid scene

passed through his head, in which an image of the Countess addressed

him thus:--"My dear Mr. Torrens, Gwen does not really love you. She

is only pretending, because she considers her family are responsible

for your blindness. All her assurances of affection for you are

untrustworthy--just her fibs! She could not play her part without them.

I appeal to you as an honourable man to disbelieve every word she says,

and to respect the true instinct of a maternal parent. No one grieves

more sincerely than I do for your great misfortune, or is more contrite

than my husband and myself because it was our keeper that shot you, but

there are limits! We must draw the line at our daughter marrying a

scribbler with his eyes out, on high principles." At this point the

image may be said to have got the bit in its teeth, for it added:--"If

Gwen squinted and had a wooden leg, nothing would please us better.

But...!"

How did the growing hope of a revival of sight bear on the question?

Well--both ways! May not Gwen's pity for his calamity have had

_something_ to do with her feelings towards him, without any motive that

the most stodgy prose could call Quixotic?

CHAPTER XVIII

A DABBLER IN IMMORTALITY. _ALL_ THEIR LIVES! WILL PHOEBE KNOW ME?

STAY TO TELL HER THIS IS ME. THAT POOR OLD PERSON. HOW GWEN MET

GRANNY MARRABLE ON HER WAY HOME. HER DREAD OF MORE DISCLOSINGS, AND

A GREAT RELIEF. _MACTE VIRTUTE_, DR. NASH! GRANNY MARRABLE'S

FORTITUDE. HOW GWEN NOTICED THE LIKENESS TOO, FOR THE FIRST TIME! A

SHORT CHAT THE COUNTESS HAD HAD WITH SIR HAMILTON. HOW SHE WAS

UNFEELING ABOUT THE OLD TWINS. WHY NOT SETTLE DOWN AND TALK IT

OVER? NO AUTHENTICATED GHOST APPEARS TO A PERFECT STRANGER. A

DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT. SIR SPENCER DERRICK AND THE OPENSHAWS.

GWEN'S LETTER TO HER FATHER. HOW SHE DID NOT GO TO PENSHAM, BUT

BACK TO STRIDES COTTAGE

When Gwen's task came to an end, she had to think of herself. The day

had been more trying even than her worst anticipations of it. But now at

last she had stormed that citadel of Impossible Belief in the mind of

both mother and daughter, and nothing she could do could bring them,

strained and distracted by the incredible revelation, nearer to a haven

of repose. She had spoken the word: the rest lay with the powers of

Nature. Probably she felt what far different circumstances have caused

many of us to feel, on whom the unwelcome task has devolved of bringing

the news of a death. How consciously helpless we were--was it not

so?--when the tale was told, and we had to leave the heart of our hearer

to its lonely struggle in the dark!

This that Gwen had told was not news of death, but news of life;

nevertheless, it might kill. She had little fear for the daughter or the

sister; much for this new-found object of her affection who had survived

so many troubles. For Gwen had to acknowledge that "old Mrs. Picture"

had acquired a mysteriously strong hold upon her--its strangeness lying

in its sudden development. She could, however, do nothing now to help

the old tempest-tossed bark into smooth water, that would not be done as

well or better by her equally storm-beaten consort, whose rigging and

spars had been in such much better trim than hers when the gale struck

both alike. Gwen felt, too, a great faith that the daughter's love would

be, as it were, the beacon of the mother's salvation; the pilot to a

sheltered haven where the seas would be at rest. She herself could do no

more.

After the old lady's consciousness returned, it was long before she

spoke, and Gwen had felt half afraid her speech might be gone. But

then--could she herself speak? Scarcely! And Ruth Thrale, the daughter,

seemed in like plight, sitting beside her mother on the bed, her usually

rosy cheeks gone ashy white, her eyes fixed on the old face before her

with a look that seemed to Gwen one of wonder even more than love. The

stress of the hour, surely! For all the tenderness of her heart was in

the hand that wandered caressingly about the mass of silver hair on the

pillow, and smoothed it away from the eyes that turned from the one to

the other half questioningly, but content without reply. The mother

seemed physically overwhelmed by the shock, and ready to accept absolute

collapse, if not indeed incapable of movement. She made no attempt to

speak till later.

During the hour or half-hour that followed, Gwen and Ruth Thrale spoke

but once or twice, beneath their breath. Neither could have said why.

Who can say why the dwellers in a house where Death is pending speak in

undertones? Not from fear of disturbance to the dying man, whose sight

and hearing are waning fast. This was a silence of a like sort, though

it was rather resurrection than death that imposed it.

The great clock in the kitchen, which had struck twelve when Gwen was

showing the forged letter to Widow Thrale, had followed on to one and

two, unnoticed. And now, when it struck three, she doubted it, and

looked at her watch. "Yes," said she, bewildered. "It's right! It's

actually three o'clock. I must go. I wish I could stay." She stooped

over the old face on the pillow, and kissed it lovingly. "You know,

dear, what has happened. Phoebe is coming--your sister Phoebe." She had

a strange feeling, as she said this, of dabbling in immortality--of

tampering with the grave.

Then old Maisie spoke for the first time; slowly, but clearly enough,

though softly. "I think--I know--what has happened.... _All_ our

lives?... But Phoebe will come. My Ruth will fetch her. Will you not,

dear?"

"Mother will come, very soon."

"That is it. She is mother--my Ruth's mother!... But I am your mother,

too, dear!"

"Indeed yes--my mother--my mother--my mother!"

"I kissed you in your crib, asleep, and was not ashamed to go and leave

you. I went away in the moonlight, with the little red bag that was _my_

mother's--Phoebe's and mine! I was not ashamed to go, for the love of

your father, on the cruel sea! Fifty years agone, my darling!" Gwen saw

that she was speaking of her husband, and her heart stirred with anger

that such undying love should still be his, the miscreant's, the cause

of all. She afterwards thought that old Maisie's mind had somehow

refused to receive the story of the forgery. Could she, else, have

spoken thus, and gone on, as she did, to say to Gwen:--"Come here, my

dear! God bless you!"? She held her hand, pressing it close to her. "I

want to say to you what it is that is fretting me. Will Phoebe know me,

for the girl that went away? Oh, see how I am changed!"

The last thing Gwen had expected was that the old woman should master

the facts. It made her hesitate to accept this seeming ability to look

them in the face as genuine. It would break down, she was convinced, and

the coming of a working recognition of them would be a slow affair. But

she could not say so. She could only make believe. "Why should she not

know you?" she said. "She has changed, herself."

"When will she come?" said old Maisie restlessly. "She will come when

you are gone. Oh, how I wish you could stay, to tell her that this is

me!"

"Do you think she will doubt it? She will not, when she hears you talk

of the--of your old time. I am sorry I must go, but I must." And indeed

she thought so, for she did not know that her own mother had gone away

from the Towers, and fancied that that good lady would resent her

desertion. This affair had lasted longer than her anticipation of it.

Then old Maisie showed how partial the illumination of her mind had

been. "Oh yes, my dear," she said, "I know. You have to go, of course,

because of that poor old person. The old person you told me of--whom you

have to tell--to tell of her sister she thought dead--what was it?" She

had recovered consciousness so far as to know that Phoebe was somehow to

reappear risen from the dead; and that this Ruth whom she had taken so

much to heart was somehow entitled to call her mother; but what that

_how_ was, and why, was becoming a mystery as her vigour fell away and

an inevitable reaction began to tell upon her.

Gwen heard it in the dazed sound of her voice; and, to her thought,

assent was best to whatever the dumfoundered mind dwelt upon most

readily. "Yes," said she, "I must go and tell her. She must know." Then

she beckoned Widow Thrale away from the bedside. "It was her own sister

I told her of," said she in an undertone. "I thought she would see

quickest that way.... Do you quite understand?" A quick nod showed that

her hearer had quite understood. Gwen thanked Heaven that at least she

had no lack of faculties to deal with there. "Listen!" said she. "You

must get her food now. You must _make_ her eat, whether she likes it or

no." She saw that for Ruth herself the kindest thing was the immediate

imposition of duties, and was glad to find her so alive to the needs of

the case.

Two voices of women in the kitchen without. One, Elizabeth-next-door;

the other, surely, Keziah Solmes from the Towers. So much the better! "I

may tell it them, my lady?" said Widow Thrale. Gwen had to think a

moment, before saying:--"_Yes_--but they must not talk of it in the

village--not yet! Go out and tell them. I will remain with your mother."

It was the first time Ruth Thrale had had the fact she had succeeded in

knowing in theory forced roughly upon her in practice. She started, but

recovered herself to do her ladyship's bidding.

The utter amazement of Keziah and Elizabeth-next-door, as Gwen heard it,

was a thing to be remembered. But she paid little attention to it. She

was bidding farewell to old Mrs. Picture. The last speech she heard from

her seemed to be:--"Tell my little boy and Dolly. Say I will come back

to them." Then she appeared to fall asleep.

"You must get some food down her throat, somehow, Mrs. Thrale, or we

shall have her sinking from exhaustion. You will stop to help, Keziah?

Stop till to-morrow. I will look in at the Lodge to tell your husband. I

must go now. Is Tom Kettering there?" Gwen felt she would like an

affectionate farewell of Ruth Thrale, but a slight recrudescence of the

Norman Conquest came in the way, due to the presence of Keziah and

Elizabeth-next-door; so she had to give it up.

Tom Kettering was not there, but was reproducible at pleasure by

whistles, evolved from some agent close at hand and willing to assist.

Tom and the mare appeared unchanged by their long vigil, and showed

neither joy nor sorrow at its coming to an end. A violent shake the

latter indulged in was a mere report of progress, and Tom only touched

his hat as a convention from time immemorial. There was not a trace of

irony in his "Home, my lady?" though a sarcastic Jehu might have seemed

to be expressing a doubt whether her ladyship meant ever to go home at

all.

The road to Costrell's turned off Gwen's line of route, the main road to

the Towers. A cart was just coming in sight, at the corner. Farmer

Costrell's cart, driven by himself. An old woman, by his side--Granny

Marrable, surely?

Gwen was simply frightened. She felt absolutely unfit for another

high-tension interview. Her head might give way and she might do

something foolish. But it was impossible to turn and run. It was,

however, easy enough to go quickly by, with ordinary salutations. Still,

it was repugnant to her to do so. But, then, what else could she do? It

was settled for her.

Said Granny Marrable to her grandson-in-law:--"'Tis Gwen o' th' Towers,

John, in Tom Kettering's gig. Bide here till they come up, that I may

get speech of her ladyship."

"Will she stand still on th' high roo-ad, to talk to we?"

"She'll never pass me by if she sees me wishful to speak with her. Her

ladyship has too good a heart."

"Vairy well, Gra-anny." John Costrell reined in his horse, and the cart

and gig came abreast.

Granny Marrable spoke at once. Her voice was firm, but her face was pale

and hard set. "I have been told strange news, my lady, but it _must_ be

true. It cannot be else."

"It _is_ true. Dr. Nash told you."

"That is so. Our Dr. Nash."

"But how much? Has he told you all?"

"I will tell your ladyship." The old woman's firmness and strength were

marvellous to Gwen. "He has told me that my sister that was dead is

risen from the grave...."

"God's my life, Granny, what will ye be for saying next to her

ladyship?" John Costrell had heard none of the story.

"It's all quite right, Mr. Costrell," said Gwen. "Granny Marrable

doesn't mean really dead. She _thought_ her dead--her sister.... Go on,

Granny! That is quite right. And has Dr. Nash told you where your sister

is now?"

"At my own home at Chorlton, my lady. And I am on my way there now, and

will see her once more, God willing, before we die."

"Go to her--go to her! The sooner the better!... I must tell you one

thing, though. She is not strong--not like you and your daughter Ruth.

But you will see." The old lady began with something about her gratitude

to Gwen and to her father, but Gwen cut her short. What did that matter,

now? Then she assured her that old Maisie had been told everything, and

was only uneasy lest her sister should not know her again, and would

even doubt her identity. "But that is impossible," said Gwen. "Because

she _is_ your sister, and remembers all your childhood together."

After they had parted company, and Gwen was on her way again, relieved

beyond measure to find that Dr. Nash had contrived to carry out his

mission so well--though how he had done it was a mystery to her as

yet--she had a misgiving that she ought to have produced the forged

letter to show to Granny Marrable. Perhaps, however, she had done no

harm by keeping it; as if the conviction of the two sisters of each

other's identity was to turn on what is called "evidence," what would be

its value to either? They would either know each other, or not; and if

they did _not_, enough "evidence" to hang a dozen men would not stand

against the deep-rooted belief in each other's death through those long

years.

Besides, like Dr. Nash, she had just been quite taken aback to see--now

that she came to look for it, mind you!--the amazing likeness between

the old twin sisters. How came it that she had not seen it before?--for

instance, when they were face to face in her presence at the door of

Strides Cottage, but two or three weeks since. She dismissed the forged

letter, to dwell on the enormous relief of not having another disclosure

problem before her; and also on the satisfaction she would have in

telling her father what a successful outcome had followed his venial

transgression of opening and reading it. Altogether, her feelings were

those of triumph, trampling underfoot the recollection that she had had

nothing to eat since breakfast, and making a good stand against

brain-whirl caused by the almost unbearable strangeness of the story.

On arriving at the Towers, she was disconcerted to find that all her

solicitude about her mother's loneliness in her absence had been thrown

away. She whispered to herself that it served her right for fidgeting

about other people. Adrian had been perfectly justified when he said

that interest in one's relations was the worst investment possible for

opulent Altruism.

Well--she was better off now than she had been in the early morning,

when there was all that terrible disclosure ahead. It was _done_--ended;

for better, for worse! She might indulge now in a cowardice that shrank

from seeing the two old sisters again until they were familiarised with

the position. If only she might find them, on her next visit, habituated

to a new _modus vivendi_, with the possibility of peaceful years

together, to live down the long separation into nothingness! If only

that might be! But was it possible? Was it conceivable even?

Anyhow, she deserved a well-earned rest from tension. And presently she

would tell the whole strange story to Adrian, and show him that clever

forgery.... No!--thought stopped with a cruel jerk, and her heart

said:--"Shall I ever _show_ him anything! Never! Never!"

* * * * *

"You went to Pensham, mamma?" said Gwen to her mother, the next day, as

soon as an opportunity came for quiet talk.

"On my way to Poynders," said the Countess yawnfully. "But it was

unlucky. Lady Torrens was keeping her room. Some sort of nervous attack.

I didn't get any particulars."

Gwen suspected reticence. "You didn't see her, then?"

"Oh dear no! How should I? She was in bed, I believe."

"You saw _somebody_?"

"Only Sir Hamilton, for a few minutes. He doesn't seem uneasy. I don't

suppose it's anything serious."

"Did you see 'Re?"

"Miss Torrens and her brother were out. Didn't come back." Her ladyship

here perceived that reticence, overdone, would excite suspicion, and

provoke exhaustive inquiry. "I had a short chat with Sir Hamilton. Who

gave me a very good cup of tea." The excellence of the tea was, so to

speak, a red herring.

Gwen refused to be thrown off the scent. "He's an old friend of yours,

isn't he?" said she suggestively.

"Oh dear yes! Ages ago. He told me about some people I haven't heard of

for years. I must try and call on that Mrs. What's-her-name. Do you know

where Tavistock Square is?"

"Of course I do. Everybody does. Who is it lives there?"

The Countess had consulted the undersized tablets, and was repocketing

them. "Mrs. Enniscorthy Hopkins," said she, in the most collateral way

possible to humanity. "_You_ wouldn't know anything about her."

"This tea has been standing," said Gwen. She refused to rise to Mrs.

Enniscorthy Hopkins, whom she suspected of red-herringhood.

The Countess was compelled to be less collateral. "She was Kathleen

Tyrawley," said she. "But I quite lost sight of her. One does."

"Was she interesting?"

"Ye-es.... N-no ... not very. Pretty--of that sort!"

"What sort?"

"Well--very fond of horses."

"So am I--the darlings!"

"Yes--but a girl may be very fond of horses, and yet not marry a ...

Don't put milk in--only cream...."

"Marry a what?"

"Marry her riding-master." Her ladyship softened down Miss Tyrawley's

groom to presentability. "But it was before you were born, child.

However, no doubt it is the same, in principle."

"Hope so! Is that tea right?"

"The tea? Oh yes, the tea ... will do. No, I only saw Sir Hamilton. The

son and daughter were away."

"Now, mamma, that is being unkind, and you know it. 'The son and

daughter!' As if they were people!"

"Well--and what are they?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

As the Countess did, she averted discussion. "We won't rake the subject

up, my dear Gwendolen," she said, in a manner which embodied moderation,

while asserting dignity. "You know my feelings on the matter, which

would, I am sure, be those of any parent--of any _mother_, certainly.

And I may mention to you--only, _please_ no discussion!--that Sir

Hamilton _entirely shares_ my views. He expressed himself quite clearly

on the subject yesterday."

"You must have seen him for more than a few minutes to get as far as

_that_." This was a shell in the enemy's powder-magazine.

The Countess had to adopt retrocessive strategy. "I think, my dear," she

said, with dignity at a maximum, "that I have made it sufficiently clear

that I do not wish to rediscuss your engagement, as your father persists

in calling it. We must retain our opinions. If at the end of six

months--_if_--it turns out that I am entirely mistaken, why, then you

and your father must just settle it your own way. Now let us talk no

more about it."

This conversation took place in the late afternoon of the day following

Gwen's visit to Strides Cottage, and the Countess's to Pensham. All

through the morning of that day her young ladyship had been feeling the

effects of the strain of the previous one, followed by a night of

despairing sleeplessness due to excitement. An afternoon nap, a most

unusual thing with her, had rallied her to the point of sending a

special invitation to her mother to join her at tea in her own private

apartment; which was reasonable, as all the guests were away killing

innocent birds, or hares. The Countess was aware of her daughter's

fatigue and upset, but persisted in regarding its cause as

over-estimated--a great deal too much made of a very simple matter.

"Then that is satisfactorily settled, and there need be no further

fuss." These were her words of comment on her daughter's detailed

account of her day's adventures, which made themselves of use to keep

hostilities in abeyance.

"I think you are unfeeling, mamma; that's flat!" was Gwen's

unceremonious rejoinder.

The Countess repeated the last word impassively. It was rather as though

she said to Space:--"Here is an expression. If you are by way of

containing any Intelligences capable of supplying an explanation, I will

hear them impartially." Receiving no reply from any Point of the

Compass, she continued:--"I really cannot see what these two old ...

persons have to complain of. They have every reason to be thankful that

they have been spared so long. The death of either would have made all

your exertions on their behalf useless. Why they cannot settle down on

each side of that big fireplace at Strides Cottage, and talk it all

over, I cannot imagine. It has been engraved in the _Illustrated London

News_." This was marginal, not in the text. "They will have plenty to

tell each other after such a long time."

"Mamma dear, you are hopeless!"

"Well, my dear, ask any sensible person. They have had the narrowest

escape of finding it all out after each other's death, and then I

suppose we should never have heard the end of it.... Yes, perhaps the

way I put it _was_ a little confused. But really the subject is so

complex." Gwen complicated it still more by introducing its relations to

Immortality; to which her mother took exception:--"If they were both

ghosts, we should probably know nothing of them. No ghost appears to a

perfect stranger--no authenticated ghost! Besides, one hopes they would

be at peace in their graves."

"Oh, ah, yes, by-the-by!" said Gwen, "there wasn't to be anything till

the Day of Judgment."

"I wish you wouldn't drag in Religion," said her mother. "You pick up

these dreadful Freethinking ways of speech from ..."

"From Adrian? Of course I do. But _you_ began it, by talking about Death

and Ghosts."

"My dear, neither Death nor Ghosts are Religion, but the Day of Judgment

is. Ask anybody!"

"Very well, then! Cut the Day of Judgment out, and go on with Death and

Ghosts."

"We will talk," said the Countess coldly, "of something else. I do not

like the tone of the conversation. What are your plans for to-morrow?"

"I don't think I shall go to Chorlton to-morrow. I shall leave the old

ladies alone for a while. I think it's the best way. Don't you?"

"I don't think it can matter much, either way." The Countess was not

going to come down from Olympus, for trifles. "But what _are_ you going

to do to-morrow? Go to church, I _suppose_?"

"Is it necessary to settle?"

"By no means. Perhaps I was wrong in taking it for granted. No doubt I

should have done well--in your case--to ask for information. _Are_ you

going to church?"

"Possibly. I can settle when the time comes." Her mother made no reply,

but she made it so ostentatiously that to skip off to another subject

would have been to accept a wager of battle. Gwen was prepared to be

conciliatory. "Is anything coming off?" she asked irreverently. "Any

Bishop or anything?"

Her mother replied, with a Pacific Ocean of endurance in her

voice:--"Dr. Tuxford Somers is preaching at the Abbey. If you come, pray

do not be late. The carriage will be ready at a quarter to ten."

"Well--I shall have to go once or twice, so I suppose now will do for

once. There's Christmas Day, of course--I don't mind that. I shall go to

Chorlton, and look at the two old ladies in church. I hope Mrs. Picture

will be well enough by then."

"I am sure I hope so. A whole week!" The Countess's _parti pris_, that

the experience of the old twins was nothing to make such a fuss over,

showed itself plainly in this. She passed on to a more important

subject. "I understand," said she, "that you intend to go to Pensham on

Monday--and stay!"

"I do," said Gwen uncompromisingly. But her mother's expression became

so stony that Gwen anticipated her spoken protest, saying:--"Now, mamma

dear, you know I've agreed, and we are to go abroad for six whole

months. So don't look like a martyr!"

"When will you be back?" said the martyr. The fact is, she was well

aware that this was a case of _quid pro quo_; and that Gwen was

entitled, by treaty, to a perfect Saturnalia of sweet-hearting till

after Christmas, in exchange for the six months of penal servitude to

follow. But she preferred to indicate that the terms of the treaty had

disappointed her.

"Quite uncertain," said Gwen. "I shall stop till Thursday, anyhow. And

Adrian and Irene are to come here on Christmas Eve. I suppose they'll

have to share the paternal plum-pudding on Christmas Day. That can't be

helped. And I shall have to be here. _That_ can't be helped either. _I_

think it a pity the whole clan-jamfray shouldn't come here for

Christmas."

"That is out of the question. Sir Hamilton has his own social

obligations. Besides, it would look as if you and Mr. Torrens were

definitely engaged. Which you are not."

"Suppose we talk of something else."

"Suppose we do." Her ladyship could only assent; for had she not,

Shylockwise, taught her daughter that word?

The agreement that another topic should be resorted to was sufficiently

complied with by a short pause before resuming the antecedent one. Gwen

did this by saying:--"You will be all right without me for a few days,

because Sir Spencer Derrick and his wife are due to-night, and the

Openshaws, and the Pellews will be here on Monday."

"Gwendolen!" In a shocked tone of voice.

"Well--Aunt C. and Cousin Percy, then. If they are not the Pellews, they

very soon will be. They are coming on Monday, anyhow."

"But not by the same train!"

"_I_ should come by the same train, if I were they. And in the same

carriage. And tip the guard to keep everybody else out. Much better do

it candidly than pretend they've met by accident. _I_ should."

The Countess thought she really _had_ better change to another subject.

She dropped this one as far off as possible. "When do you expect to see

your two old interesting twins again?" said she conciliatorily. For she

felt that reasoning with her beautiful but irregular daughter was

hopeless. The young lady explained that her next visit to Chorlton would

be by way of an expedition from Pensham. Adrian and Irene would drive

her over. It was not morally much farther from Pensham than from the

Towers, although some arithmetical appearances were against it. And she

particularly wanted Adrian to see old Mrs. Picture. And then, like a

sudden sad cadence in music, came the thought:--"But he cannot see old

Mrs. Picture."

* * * * *

Keziah Solmes did not come back till quite late in the evening. Her

report of the state of things at Strides Cottage was manifestly vitiated

by an unrestrained optimism. If she was to be believed, the sudden

revelation to each other of the old twin sisters had had no specially

perturbing effect on either. Gwen spent much of the evening writing a

long letter to her father at Bath, giving a full account of her day's

work, and ending:--"I do hope the dear old soul will bear it. Mrs.

Solmes has just given me a most promising report of her. I cannot

suppose her constant references to the Benevolence of Providence to be

altogether euphemisms in the interest of the Almighty. I am borrowing

Adrian's language--you will see that. I think Keziah is convinced that

Mrs. Prichard will rally, and that the twins may live to be

nonagenarians together. I must confess to being very anxious about her

myself. She looked to me as if a breath of air might blow her away. I

shall not see her again for a day or two, but I know they will send for

me if I am wanted. Dr. Nash is to see to that. What a serviceable man he

is!" She went on to say, after a few more particulars of Keziah's

report, that she was going to Pensham on Monday, and should not come

back before the Earl's own return to the Towers. Mamma would do

perfectly well without her, and it was only fair, considering her own

concessions.

But Gwen did not go to church next day.

Dr. Nash had been sent for to Strides Cottage at a very early hour,

having been prevented from fulfilling a promise to go overnight. He must

have seen some new cause for uneasiness, although he disclaimed any

grounds of alarm. For he wrote off at once to her young ladyship, after

a careful examination of his patient:--"Mrs. Prichard certainly is very

feeble. I think it only right that you should know this at once. But you

need not be frightened. Probably it is no more than was to be expected."

That was the wording of his letter, received by Gwen as she sat at

breakfast with some new arrivals and the Colonel, and the dregs of the

shooting-party. She was not at all sorry to get a complete change of

ideas and associations, although the subjects of conversation were

painful enough, turning on the reports of mixed disaster and success in

the Crimea that were making the close of '54 lurid and memorable for

future history. Gwen glanced at Dr. Nash's letter, gave hurried

directions to the servant to tell Tom Kettering to be in readiness to

drive her at once to Chorlton, and made short work of breakfast and her

_adieux_ to the assembled company.

* * * * *

If events would only pay attention to the convenience of storytellers,

they would never happen at the same time. It would make consecutive

narrative much more practicable. It would have been better--some may

say--for this story to follow Granny Marrable to Strides Cottage, and to

leave Gwen to come to Dr. Nash's summons next day. It might then have

harked back to the foregoing chat between her and her mother, or omitted

it altogether. Its author prefers the course it has taken.

CHAPTER XIX

WHAT DID GRANNY MARRABLE THINK ON THE ROAD? HER ARRIVAL, AND HOW

KEZIAH TOLD JOHN COSTRELL, WHO WHISTLED. THE MEETING, WHICH NONE

SAW. HOW COULD THIS BE MAISIE? GRANNY MARRABLE'S SHAKEN FAITH,

RUTH'S MIXED FILIALITIES. HOW OLD MAISIE AWOKE AND FELT CHILLY. HOW

SHE SLEPT TEN SECONDS MORE AND DREAMED FOR HOURS. HOW OLD PHOEBE

HAD DRAWN A VERY SMALL TOOTH OF MAISIE'S, OVER SIXTY YEARS AGO

Keziah Solmes was literal, not imaginative. She was able to describe any

outward seeming of old Phoebe, or of Ruth. But what could she know, or

guess, of the stunned bewilderment of their minds? When asked by Gwen

what each of the old twins had said at sight of the other--for she had

been present, if not at their meeting, a few moments later--she seemed

at a loss for a report of definite speech. But, oh yes!--in reply to a

suggestion from Gwen--they had called each other by name, that for sure

they did! "But 'twas a wonderment to me, my lady, that neither one

should cry out loud, for the sorrow of all that long time ago." So said

old Keziah, sounding a true note in this reference to the sadness

inherent in mere lapse of years. Gwen could and did endorse Keziah, on

that score; but there was no wonderment in _her_ mind at their silence.

Rather, she was at a loss to conceive or invent a single phrase that

either could or would have spoken.

Least of all could independent thought imagine the anticipations of old

Phoebe during that strange ride through the falling twilight of the

short winter's day. Did she articulate to herself that each minute on

the road was bringing her nearer to a strange mystery that was in

truth--that _must_ be--the very selfsame sister that her eyes last saw

now fifty years ago, even the very same that had called her, a mere

baby, to see the heron that flew away? Yes--the same Maisie as much as

she herself was the same Phoebe! Did her brain reel to think of the days

when she took her own image in an unexpected mirror for her

sister--kissed the cold glass with a shudder of horror before she found

her mistake? Did she wonder now if this Mrs. Prichard could seem to her

another self, as Maisie had wondered would _she_ seem to _her_? Would

all be changed and chill, and the old music of their past be silence, or

at best the jangle of a broken chord? Would this latter end of Life, for

both, be nothing but a joint anticipation of the grave? Gwen tried to

sound the plummet of thought in an inconceivable surrounding, to guess

at something she herself might think were she impossibly conditioned

thus, and failed.

The story, too, must be content to fail. All it can guarantee is facts;

and speculation recoils from the attempt to see into old Phoebe's soul

as she dismounts from the farmer's cart, at the door beyond which was

the thing to baffle all belief; to stultify all those bygone years, and

stamp them as delusions.

Whatever she thought, her words were clear and free from trepidation,

and John Costrell repeated them after her, making them the equivalent of

printed instructions. "If yow are ba-adly wanted, Granny, I'm to coom

for ye with ne'er a minute's loss o' time. That wull I. And for what I

be to tell the missus, I bean't to say owt."

No--that would not do! The early return of the cart, without the Granny,

had to be somehow accounted for. Nothing had been said to Maisie junior,

by her, of not returning to supper. "Bide there a minute till I tell ye,

John," said she, and went towards the door.

Keziah Solmes was coming out, having heard the cart. She started, with

the exclamation:--"Why, God-a-mercy, 'tis the Granny herself!" and made

as though to beat a retreat into the house, no doubt thinking to warn

Widow Thrale within. Old Phoebe stopped her, saying, quite firmly:--"_I_

know, Cousin Keziah. Tell me, how is Mrs. Prichard?"

Keziah, taken aback, lost presence of mind. "What can ye know o' Mrs.

Prichard, Granny?" said she sillily. She said this because she could not

see how the information had travelled.

"How is she?" old Phoebe repeated. And something in her voice

said:--"Answer straight!" At least, so Keziah thought, and

replied:--"The worser by the bad shake she's had, I lay." Neither made

any reference to Mrs. Prichard's newly discovered identity. For though,

as we have seen, Keziah knew all about it, she felt that the time had

not yet come for free speech. Granny Marrable turned to John Costrell,

saying in the same clear, unhesitating way:--"You may say to Maisie that

her mother wants a helping hand with old Mrs. Prichard, but I'll come in

the morning. You'll say no further than that, John;"--and passed on into

the house.

John replied:--"I'll see to it, Granny," and grasped the situation,

evidently. Keziah remained, and as soon as the old lady was out of

hearing, said to him:--"This be a stra-ange stary coom to light, Master

Costrell. Only to think of it! The Gra-anny's twin, thought dead now,

fowerty years agone!"

"Thou'lt be knowing mower o' the stary than I, belike, Mrs. Solmes,"

said John. "I'm only the better by a bare word or so, so far, from

speech o' the Gra-anny with her yoong la-adyship o' the Towers, but now,

on the roo-ad. The Gra-anny she was main silent, coom'n' along."

"There's nowt to wonder at in that, Master Costrell. For there's th'

stary, as I tell it ye. Fowerty years agone and more, she was dead by

all accounts, out in the Colonies, and counted her sister dead as well.

And twenty years past she's been living in London town, and ne'er a one

known it. And now she's come by a chance to this very house!"

"She'd never coom anigh to this place?"

"Sakes alive, no! 'Twas all afower Gra-anny Marrable come here to marry

Farmer Marrable--he was her second, ye know. I was a bit of a chit then.

And Ruth Thrale was fower or five years yoonger. She was all one as if

she was the Gra-anny's own child. But she was noa such a thing."

Then it became clear that the word or so had been very bare indeed. "She

was an orphan, I ta-ak it," said John indifferently.

"There, now!" said Keziah. "I was ma-akin' a'most sure you didn't see

the right of it, Master Costrell. And I wasn't far wrong, that once!"

"Maybe I'm out, but I do-an't see rightly where. A girl's an orphan,

with ne'er a fa-ather nor a moother. Maybe one o' them was living? Will

that square it?"

"One o' them's living still. And none so vairy far from where we stand.

Can ye ma-ak nowt o' that, Master Costrell?"

John _was_ a little slow; it was his bucolic mind. "None so vairy far

from where we stand?" he repeated, in the dark.

"Hearken to me tell ye, man alive! She's in yander cottage, in the

bedroom out across th' pa-assage. And the two o' them they've met by

now. Are ye any nearer, Master Costrell?"

For a moment no idea fructified. Then astonishment caught and held him.

"Not unless," he exclaimed, "not unless you are meaning that this old

la-ady is Widow Thrale's mother!"

"You've gotten hold of it now, Master Costrell."

"But 'tis impossible--'tis _impossible_! If she were she would be my

wife's grandmother!--her grandmother that died in Australia.... Well,

Keziah Solmes, ye may nod and look wise--but ..."

"But that is th' vairy thing she is, safe and sure, John Costrell. I

told ye--Australia. Australia be the Colonies."

John gave the longest whistle a single breath would support. Why he was

ready to accept the relation of old Phoebe and Maisie, and revolt

against his wife's inevitable granddaughtership, Heaven only knows! "But

I'm not to say a word of it to the mistress," said he, meaning his wife.

"The Gra-anny said so, and she'll be right.... Was that her voice?..." A

sound had come from the cottage. Keziah might be wanted. She wished the

farmer good-night; and he drove off, no longer mystified, but

dumfoundered with what had removed his mystification.

* * * * *

Old Phoebe had passed on into the house. She was satisfied that her

message would account quite reasonably for the vacant seat in the

returning cart. Besides, medical sanction--Dr. Nash's--had been given

for her absence.

Now that the moment was close, a great terror came upon her, and she

trembled. She knew that Ruth, her daughter for so long, was beyond that

closed door across the passage, with ... With whom? With what?

Who can say except he be a twin that has lost a twin, what more of

soul-stress had to be borne by these two than would have been his lot,

or ours, in their place? And the severance of Death itself could not

have been more complete than theirs for forty-odd years past; nor the

reunion beyond the grave, that Gwen had likened theirs to, be stranger.

Indeed, one is tempted to imagine that inconceivable palliations may

attend conditions of which our ignorance can form no image. On this side

one only knows that such a meeting is all the sadder for the shadow of

Decay.

She could hardly believe herself the same as when, so few days since,

she quitted this old room, that still remained unchanged; so intensely

the same as when she, and her memories in it were left alone with a Past

that seemed unchangeable, but for the ever-growing cloud of Time. There

was the old clock, ticking by the dresser, not missing its record of the

short life of every second that would never come again. There on the

hearth was the log that might seem cold, but always treasured a spark to

be rekindled; and the indomitable bellows, time-defying, that never

failed to find it out and make it grow to flame. There was the old iron

kettle, all blackness without and crystal purity within, singing the

same song that it began a long lifetime since, and showing the same

impatience under neglect. There on the dresser was the same

dinner-service that had survived till breakage and neglect of its

brethren had made it a rarity; and on the wall that persevering naval

battle her husband's great-grandmother's needle had immortalised a

century and a half ago. The only change she saw was the beadwork

tablecloth wrapped over the mill-model, in its place above the hearth.

Otherwise there was no change.