EDMUND CLARKE'S SUSPICION.
Roma Clarke gave her parents a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour
riding home that evening.
She threw pride to the winds, and raved in grief and anger at her
defeat in the contest for the beauty prize, charging it most bitterly
at the door of Jesse Devereaux.
Mr. Clarke learned for the first time now of the broken engagement,
and, on finding that it was Roma's fault, he could not help censuring
her severely for the folly by which she had lost her lover.
He thought bitterly in his heart: "Ah, how different my own sweet
daughter must have been from this ill-tempered, coarse-grained girl
who betrays her low origin in spite of the good bringing up and fine
education she has received! My poor wife! How disappointed she must
feel at heart, in spite of her brave show of affection and sympathy!
And, as for Jesse Devereaux, he is a splendid young fellow, and has had
a lucky escape from Roma's toils. I cannot feel that she will make any
man a lovable wife, though I shall be glad enough to have her married
off my hands!"
When Roma had gone, sobbing, to her room, he talked very earnestly to
her mother, somewhat blaming her for encouraging the girl's willful
temper.
"She is spoiled and selfish," he declared. "I for one am willing to own
that the prize was well given to Miss Lester. She is very lovely--far
lovelier than Roma!"
"How can you say so of our dear girl?" Mrs. Clarke cried reproachfully.
"Because, my dear wife, my eyes are not blinded, like yours, by love
and partiality, and thus I can do justice to others," he answered
firmly.
"You have never loved our daughter as you should. Therefore, I have
felt it my duty to love and cherish her the more!" she sobbed.
He took her tenderly in his arms, and kissed the beautiful, quivering
lips, exclaiming:
"Oh, my love, if our daughter were more like you, I could love her a
hundredfold better! But, alas, she is so different, both in beauty and
disposition, from my angel wife!"
"I have fancied she must be like your own relations, Edmund."
"Perhaps so," he replied evasively, continuing:
"This girl who took the prize this evening won my admiration, darling,
because she has a wonderful likeness to you in your young days, Elinor;
when we were first married."
"Oh, Edmund, I was never so exquisitely beautiful!" she cried, blushing
like a girl.
"Oh, yes, indeed; quite as beautiful as Liane Lester--and very lovely
still," he answered, gazing into her eyes with the admiration of a
lover, giving her all the tenderness he withheld from Roma, his unloved
daughter.
She nestled close to his breast, delighted at his praises, and
presently she said:
"It is rather a coincidence, your fancying that Miss Lester looks like
me, while I imagine that her grandmother--a dreadful old creature, by
the way--resembles Mrs. Jenks, the old woman who nursed me when Roma
was born."
Some startled questioning from her husband brought out the whole story
of her visit to granny.
"Of course I was mistaken in taking her for Mrs. Jenks, but the old
crone needn't have been so vexed over it," she said.
Edmund Clarke was startled, agitated, by what she had told him, but he
did not permit her to perceive it.
He thought:
"What if I have stumbled on the solution of a terrible mystery? The
likeness of Liane Lester to my wife is most startling, and, coupled
with other circumstances surrounding her, might almost point to her
being my lost daughter!"
He trembled like a leaf with sudden excitement.
"I must see this old woman--and to-night! I cannot bear the suspense
until to-morrow!" he thought, and said to his wife artfully:
"Perhaps I am selfish, keeping you from poor Roma in her distress."
"I will go to her at once, poor child," she said, lifting her fair head
from his breast.
"And I will take a walk while I smoke," he replied, leaving her with a
tender kiss.
He lighted a cigar, and started eagerly for the cottage of granny,
hoping to find her alone ere Liane returned from the hall.
His whole soul was shaken with eager emotion from what his wife had
told him about the old woman's identity.
In the cool, clean September moonlight he strode along the beach,
eager-hearted as a boy, in the trembling hope of finding his lost child
again.
What joy it would be to find her in the person of lovely Liane, who had
already touched his heart with a subtle tenderness by the wonderful
likeness that brought back so vividly his wife's lost youth in the days
when they had first loved with that holy love that crowned their lives
with lasting joy. Not one cloud had marred their happiness save the
loss of their infant daughter.
He had restored what happiness he could to Elinor by the substitution
of a spurious child, but for himself there must ever be an aching void
in his heart till the lost was found again.
He stepped along briskly in the moonlight, and to his surprise
and joy he found the old woman leaning over the front gate in a
dejected attitude, as if loneliness had driven her outdoors to seek
companionship with nature.
"Ah, Mrs. Jenks, good evening!" he exclaimed abruptly, pausing in front
of her and lifting his hat.
Granny started wildly, and snapped:
"I don't know you!"
"You have a poor memory," laughed Mr. Clarke. "Now, I knew you at once
as Mrs. Jenks, who nursed my wife when our daughter Roma was born. My
name is Edmund Clarke. We used to live in Brookline. I sold my property
there and moved away when Roma was an infant."
"I never heard of Brookline before, nor you, either!" snapped granny.
"Your memory is bad, as I said before, but you won't deny that your
name is Jenks?" Mr. Clarke returned.
As the whole town knew her by that name, she felt that denial was
useless, but she preserved a stubborn silence, and he continued:
"I came to ask you, granny, how you came by such a beautiful
granddaughter."
"Humph! The same way as other people come by grandchildren, I s'pose.
My daughter ran away to be an actress, and came back in a year without
a wedding ring, and left her baby on my hands, while she disappeared
again forever," returned granny, with an air of such apparent
truthfulness that he was staggered.
He was silent a moment, then returned to the charge.
"How old is Liane?"
"Only seventeen her next birthday."
"I should have taken her for quite eighteen."
"Then you would have made a mistake."
"Is her mother dead?"
"I don't know. I never heard of her after she ran away and left her
baby on my hands."
"Eighteen years ago?"
"No; not quite seventeen, I told you, sir."
"And you do not really remember Mrs. Clarke, whom you nursed at
Brookline eighteen years ago? Come, it ought to be fresh in your
memory. Do you not recall the distressing facts in the case? The infant
was stolen from my wife's breast, and she was dying of the shock when
a spurious daughter was imposed on her, and she recovered. You, Mrs.
Jenks, were sent to the foundling asylum for the child, and laid it
on Mrs. Clarke's breast, restoring her to hope again. You cannot have
forgotten!"
Granny Jenks looked at him angrily in the moonlight.
"You must be crazy! I don't know you, and I don't care anything about
your family history! Go away!" she exclaimed fiercely.
Mr. Clarke was baffled, but not convinced. He stood his ground, saying
firmly:
"You may bluster all you please, Granny Jenks, but you cannot shake my
conviction that you are the wretch that stole my daughter, and placed a
foundling in her place to deceive and make wretched my poor wife. This
girl, Liane Lester, is the image of my wife, and I am almost persuaded
she is my own daughter. If I have guessed the truth it will be wiser
for you to confess the fraud at once, for denial now will be useless. I
believe I am on the right track at last, and I will never stop till I
uncover the truth. And--the more trouble you give me, the greater will
be your punishment."
His dark eyes flashed menacingly, and the hardened old woman actually
shivered with fear for an instant. Then she shook off the feeling, and
turned from him angrily, reëntering her house, and snarling from the
doorway:
"I know nothing about your child, you crazy fool! Go away!"