STEPHEN BRAND EXPLAINS
They were interrupted. Elsie, with her golden hair and big blue eyes,
pink cheeks and parted lips, appeared on the stairs. All that was
visible was her head. She looked like one of Murillo's angels.
"Please, can Mamie 'n' me see the man?" she asked, a trifle awed. She
did not expect to encounter a stern-faced official in uniform.
"What man, dearie?" he said, and instantly the child gained confidence,
with that prompt abandonment to a favorable first impression which marks
the exceeding wisdom of children and dogs.
She directed an encouraging _sotto voce_ down the stairs:
"Come right 'long, Mamie."
Then she answered, clasping the hand Pyne extended to her, but eying
Brand the while:
"The man who brought the milk."
She wondered why they laughed, but the lighthouse-keeper caught her up
in his arms.
"He has gone away, sweetheart," he said, "but when he comes in the
morning I shall send for you and you will see him. You are the little
girl who was injured, eh? Are you getting better?"
Elsie, having seen Mamie safely extracted from the stair-way, became
voluble.
"My elbow is stiff, but it doesn't hurt. I was feelin' pretty bad 'fore
the milk came, but Mamie 'n' me had a lovely lot, an' some beautiful
jelly. Fine, wasn't it, Mamie?"
"'Squizzit!" agreed Mamie.
"I think I'd like being here if there was more room," said the child.
"An' why isn't there any washin'? Mamie 'n' me is always bein' washed
'cept when we're here."
"Surely you have not kept your face as clean as it is now ever since you
left the ship?"
"Oh, no," put in Mamie. "We've just been rubbed with a hanky."
"And sent out to pay a call?"
"Not 'zactly," said truthful Mamie. "Mr. Pyne told us to wait near the
door--"
"That's an old story now," intervened Pyne quickly. "Climb up on my
shoulder and have a look at the sea. Perhaps there may be a ship, too."
"What did Mr. Pyne tell you?" whispered Brand, pretending to make a
secret of it with Elsie.
"There didn't seem to be 'nuff to eat," she explained, seriously, "so
Mr. Pyne kep' a bit of biscuit in his pocket, an' Mamie 'n' me had a
chew every time we saw him."
"H'm," murmured the man, glancing up at his young friend as he walked
around the trimming-stage with the delighted Mamie. "I suppose he asked
you not to tell anybody?"
"We wasn't to tell Miss Constance or Miss Enid. An' they tole us we
wasn't to tell him about the sweet stuff they put in our tea. That is
all. Funny, isn't it?"
Brand knew that these little ones were motherless. His eyes dimmed
somewhat. Like all self-contained men, he detested any exhibition of
sentiment.
"I say," he cried huskily to Pyne, "you must escort your friends back to
their quarters. No more idling, please."
"An' you will really send for us tomorrow to see the milkman?" said
Elsie. Notwithstanding his sudden gruffness, she was not afraid of him.
She looked longingly at the great lamp and the twinkling diamonds of the
dioptric lens.
"Yes. I will not forget. Good-by, now, dearie."
The visit of the children had given him a timely reminder. As these two
were now so had his own loved ones been in years that might not be
recalled.
The nest would soon be empty, the young birds flown. He realized that he
would not be many days ashore before the young American to whom he had
taken such a liking would come to him and put forward a more enduring
claim to Constance than Mr. Traill made with regard to Enid. Well, he
must resign himself to these things, though no man ever lost two
daughters under stranger conditions.
When Pyne returned, Brand was ready for him. The struggle was sharp, but
it had ended.
"I would like you to read your uncle's letter," he said. "I am clear in
my own mind as to the right course to adopt. If Mr. Traill wishes to win
Enid's affections he will not take her by surprise. Indeed, he himself
recognizes this element in the situation. You will not rush away from
Penzance at once, I take it?"
"No, sir," said Pyne, with a delightful certainty of negation that
caused a smile to brighten his hearer's face.
"I may not get clear of the rock for several days. There is much to
place in order here. When the relief comes, I must help the men to make
things ship-shape. Meanwhile, Stanhope--or Constance, whom you can take
into your confidence--will smooth the way--"
"No, sir," interrupted Pyne, even more emphatically. "When you come to
know my uncle you will find that he plays the game all the time. If Enid
is to be given a new parent the old one will make the gift. And that's a
fact."
Brand waived the point.
"The girls have plenty to endure here without having this surprise
sprung on them," he said. "I will write to Mr. Traill, and leave events
ashore in his hands."
So, for a night and the better part of a day, the pillar locked in its
recesses some new doubts and cogitations. As between the two men a
stronger bond of sympathy was created. Pyne, in those restless hours,
was admirably tactful. He talked a great deal of his uncle. Soon, not
only Brand, but the two girls, seemed to be well acquainted with a man
they had never met.
With the morning tide the anarchy of the waves ceased. The children were
brought to the lantern to witness a more majestic sight than the arrival
of the "milkman." With the dawn the sun appeared, and the sea seemed to
sink into long-deferred slumber under his potency.
The flood tide of the afternoon brought the unfailing tug, towing the
Penzance life-boat. The crane was swung out and Jack Stanhope, as was
his right, was first to be hoisted to the entrance and to exchange a
hearty hand grip with Brand.
Behind the lighthouse-keeper were ranged many faces, but not that which
the sailor sought.
"Where is Enid?" he asked, after the first words of congratulation were
spoken. "Have you told her?"
"No. Here is Mr. Pyne. He will take you to the girls and tell you what
we have decided."
The two young men looked at each other with frank friendliness.
"When we have a minute to spare you must take me to the gallery and
explain just how you worked that trick," said Stanhope. "Brand's
semaphore was to the point, but it omitted details."
"That is where I have the pull of you," responded Pyne with equal
cordiality. "I don't require any telling about your work yesterday."
"Oh, people make such a fuss. What is there remarkable in guiding a boat
through a rough sea?"
"I may be wrong, but it looks a heap harder than swarming up a pole."
In such wise did young Britain and young America pooh-pooh the idea that
they had done aught heroic.
Indeed, their brief talk dealt next with Enid, and Lieutenant Stanhope,
R. N., did not think he was outraging conventionality when he found Enid
in the kitchen, and took her in his arms and kissed her.
Constance and Pyne discovered that the tug as seen through the window
was a very interesting object.
"You don't feel at all lonesome?" he murmured to her.
"Not in the least."
"It must do a fellow a heap of good to meet his best girl under such
circumstances."
"Mr. Stanhope and my sister have been the greatest of friends for
years."
"Is it possible to catch up? The last few days on the rock ought to
figure high in averages."
"Jack," cried Constance, finding this direct attack somewhat
disconcerting, "did my father say that any arrangements were to be made
for landing?"
"Yes, miss," interposed a sailor at the door. "The skipper's orders are:
'Women an' children to muster on the lower deck.'"
Then began a joyous yet strangely pathetic procession, headed by Elsie
and Mamie, who were carried downstairs by the newly arrived
lighthouse-men. The children cried and refused to be comforted until
Pyne descended with them to the life-boat. The women followed, in
terrible plight, notwithstanding the wraps sent them on the previous
day. Each, as they passed Stephen Brand, bade him farewell and tearfully
asked the Lord to bless him and his.
Among them came Mrs. Vansittart. Her features were veiled more closely
than ever. Whilst she stood behind the others in the entrance, her
glance was fixed immovably on Brand's face. No Sybilline prophetess
could have striven more eagerly to wrest the secrets of his soul from
its lineaments. Nevertheless, when he turned to her with his pleasant
smile and parting words of comfort, she averted her eyes, uttered an
incoherent phrase of thanks for his kindness, and seemed to be unduly
terrified by the idea that she must be swung into the life-boat by the
crane.
She held out her hand. It was cold and trembling.
"Don't be afraid," he said gently, patting her on the shoulder as one
might reassure a timid child. "Sit down and hold the rope. The basket
cannot possibly be overturned."
Pyne, helping to unload the tremulous passengers beneath, noted the
lady's attitude, and added a fresh memorandum to the stock he had
already accumulated.
"Who is that?" asked Brand from the purser, who stood beside him.
"Mrs. Vansittart."
Brand experienced a momentary surprise.
"She seemed to avoid me," he thought, but the incident did not linger in
his mind.
The life-boat, rising and falling on the strong and partly broken
swell, required the most expert management if the weary people on the
rock were to be taken off in safety.
When Constance and Enid, followed by Stanhope, reached the boat after
giving Brand a farewell hug, there was no more room. The crew pulled off
towards the waiting vessel, and here a specially prepared gangway
rendered the work of transhipment easy.
Mr. Traill was leaning over the bulwark as the life-boat ranged
alongside. He singled out Pyne at once, and gave him a cheery cry of
recognition. At first he could not distinguish Mrs. Vansittart, and,
indeed, it must be confessed that he was striving most earnestly to
descry one face which had come back to him out of the distant years.
When his glance fell on Enid, his nephew, who was thinking how best to
act under the circumstances, was assured that the father saw in the girl
the living embodiment of her mother.
He thought it would be so. His own recollection of his aunt's portraits
had already helped him to this conclusion, and how much more startling
must a flesh and blood creation be than the effort of an artist to place
on canvas the fugitive expression which constitutes the greatest charm
of a mobile countenance.
Enid, having heard so much about Mr. Pyne's uncle, was innocently
curious to meet him. At first she was vaguely bewildered. The sunken
eyes were fixed on hers with an intensity that gave her a momentary
sense of embarrassment. Luckily the exigencies of the hour offered
slight scope to emotion. All things were unreal, out of drawing with
previous experiences of her well-ordered life. The irregular swaying of
the boat and the tug seemed to typify the new phase.
Pyne swung himself to the steamer's deck before the gangway was made
fast, thereby provoking a loud outcry from the deserted children.
Grasping his uncle's hand he said:
"Wait until you read Brand's letter. No one else knows."
So, Mr. Traill, with fine self-control, greeted Mrs. Vansittart
affectionately, and handed her over to a stewardess, who took her to a
cabin specially prepared for her. Her low-spoken words were not quite
what he expected.
"Don't kiss me," she murmured, "and please don't look at me. In my
present condition I cannot bear it."
Relatives of the shipwrecked passengers and crew, many of whom were
waiting in Penzance, were not allowed on board. This arrangement was
made by Mr. Traill after consulting a local committee organized to help
the unfortunates who needed help so greatly. The unanimous opinion was
expressed that a few lady members of the committee, supplied with an
abundance of clothing, etc., would afford prompt relief to the
sufferers, whilst the painful scenes which must follow the meeting of
survivors with their friends would cause confusion and delay on the
vessel.
Pyne, watching all things, saw that Mrs. Vansittart did not meet his
uncle with the eagerness of a woman restored to the arms of the man she
was about to marry.
She was distraught, aloof in her manner, apparently interested only in
his eager assurance that she would find an assortment of new garments in
the cabin.
The millionaire himself was too flustered to draw nice distinctions
between the few words she spoke and what he expected her to say. When
she quitted him he walked towards the group of young people. They were
laughingly exchanging news and banter as if all that had gone before
were the events of a lively picnic. At last, he met Enid.
Pyne introduced his uncle, and it was a trying experience for this man
to stand face to face with his daughter. In each quick flash of her
delighted eyes, in every tone of her sweet voice, in every winsome smile
and graceful gesture, he caught and vivified long-dormant memories of
his greatly loved wife of nineteen years ago.
Somehow he was glad Mrs. Vansittart had not lingered by his side. The
discovery of Enid's identity involved considerations so complex and
utterly unforeseen that he needed time and anxious thought to arrange
his plans for the future.
The animated bustle on deck prevented anything in the nature of
sustained conversation. Luckily, Mr. Traill himself, whose open-handed
generosity had made matters easy for the reception committee, was in
constant demand.
Mrs. Sheppard had sent a portmanteau for Constance and Enid, so they,
too, soon scurried below with the others.
The life-boat returned to the rock, where the four lighthouse men sent
to relieve Brand were now helping the sailors to carry the injured men
downstairs and assisting the sick to reach the entrance.
As soon as this second batch was transferred to the tug, the vessel
started for Penzance; the Trinity tender would land the others.
There was a scene of intense enthusiasm when the steamer reached the
dock. The vociferous cheering of the townspeople smothered the deep
agony of some who waited there, knowing all too well they would search
in vain for their loved ones among these whom death had spared.
The two girls modestly escaped at the earliest moment from the shed used
as a reception-room. All the inhabitants knew them personally or by
sight; they attracted such attention that they gladly relinquished to
other hands any further charge of the shipwrecked people. So, after a
few words of farewell for the hour, Stanhope piloted them to a waiting
carriage and drove away with them.
Mrs. Vansittart did not emerge from her cabin until the deck was
deserted. She found Mr. Traill looking for her. In a neat black dress
and feather hat she was rehabilitated.
"Why didn't you show up earlier?" he asked in good-humored surprise.
"The breeze on deck was first-rate. It brought the color into many a
pale cheek. And the way in which the crowd let itself go was splendid.
Look at these waiting thousands--quivering yet with excitement!"
"I am worn out," she said quietly; "take me to your hotel. You have
engaged rooms there I suppose?"
"Of course."
"When do you purpose leaving Penzance?"
"Well--er--that is part of the explanation I promised you."
"We can talk matters over in the hotel. Where is your nephew?"
For the first time he marked her air of constraint.
"Believe me, Etta," he said hurriedly, "that what I have to tell you
will come as a great surprise, but it should be a very pleasant one."
"Anything that gratifies you will be welcomed by me," she said simply.
"You have not said where Charlie is."
"Hiding in that shed. He refused Mr. Stanhope's offer of a rig-out on
board. In his present disguise he passes as a stoker, and everybody
wants to see the man who saved all of you."
"Have you a closed carriage here?"
"Yes."
"Let us go. Charlie can come with us."
Again he was conscious of a barrier between them, but he attributed her
mood to the strain she had undergone.
In the shed they found Pyne; with him were the orphaned children; there
was none to meet them. Kind offers were made to care for them until
their relations should be forthcoming, but the man to whom they clung
would not listen to any such proposal.
"I guess they're happy with me," he said. "I will see them through their
present trouble."
Childlike, they had eyes and ears only for the prevalent excitement. At
last Elsie asked him:
"Where's mamma? You said she was sick. But the men haven't carried her
off the ship, an' she wasn't in the boat."
"Don't you worry, Elsie," he said. "I'm going to take you to a big house
where you will find everything fixed just right."
His uncle and Mrs. Vansittart approached. The lady's face was no longer
hidden.
"What are you going to do with those children?" she inquired.
"There's none here to claim them," he said. "I can't let them leave me
in that haphazard way."
"Let me help you. It is a woman's privilege."
She stooped towards the tiny mites.
"You dear little babes," she said softly, "I can take mother's place for
a time."
They knew her quite well, of course, and she seemed to be so much kinder
and nicer now in her smart clothes than she was in the crowded disorder
of the bedroom.
Mamie looked at Elsie, and the self-reliant Elsie said valiantly:
"Mamie 'n' me'll be glad, if Mr. Pyne comes too."
Mr. Traill, who had never before seen tears in Mrs. Vansittart's eyes,
found a ready excuse for her womanly sympathy.
"It seems to me," he said genially, "we are all of one mind. Come this
way, Etta. And mind you stick close to us, Charlie, or the hall porter
will throw you out if you attempt to enter the hotel in that costume."
He rattled on cheerfully, telling them how clothiers and milliners, and
all the store-keepers in the town if they were needed, would wait on
them at the hotel.
"In a couple of hours," he said, "you both can obtain sufficient things
to render you presentable for a day or two. Don't forget we dine at
eight. We ought to be a jolly party. I have asked Stanhope and his
mother and those two girls to join us."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Vansittart faintly, "you must excuse me. I--"
"Now, Etta, my dear, you will not desert us tonight. Why, it seemed to
me to be the only way in which we could all come together at once. I am
only too sorry that Mr. Brand cannot be present. Surely he might have
been spared from further duty at the lighthouse after what he has
endured."
"They offered to relieve him at once, but he declined," said Pyne.
He looked out of the window of the carriage in which they were driving
to the hotel. Constance had told him of the dinner arrangement, but he
wished to ascertain if the definite absence of the lighthouse-keeper
would tend to reassure Mrs. Vansittart.
He was not mistaken. She did not reply at once. When she spoke it was
with a sigh of relief.
"I will not be very entertaining, I fear, but the young people will have
plenty to tell you."
"For goodness sake, Etta, don't class yourself among the old fogies,"
cried Mr. Traill. "Look at me, fifty-five and lively as a grasshopper."
"Please, is Mamie 'n' me 'vited, too?" whispered Elsie to Pyne.
"You two chicks will be curled up among the feathers at eight o'clock,"
he told her. "Don't you go and worry 'bout any dinner-parties. The
sooner you go to sleep, the quicker you'll wake up in the morning, and
then we're going out to hunt--for what, do you think?"
"Candies," said Mamie.
"Toys," cried Elsie, going one better.
"We're just going to find two of the loveliest and frilliest and
pinkiest-cheeked dolls you ever saw. They'll have blue eyes as big as
yours, Elsie, and their lips will be as red and round as yours, Mamie.
They'll talk and say--and say all sorts of things when you pinch their
little waists. So you two hurry up after you've had your supper, say
your prayers and close your eyes, and when you open them you'll be able
to yell for me to find that doll-store mighty sharp."
"Say, Charlie," cried his uncle, "I never heard you reel off a screw
like that before. Now, if I didn't know you were a confirmed young
bachelor, I would begin to have suspicions. Anyhow, here's the hotel."
Two hours later, when uncle and nephew met in the private sitting-room
where busy waiters were making preparations for dinner, Traill drew the
younger man to the privacy of a window recess.
"Charlie," he confided, "affairs are in a tangle. Do you realize that my
marriage was fixed for today?"
"That's so," was the laconic answer.
"Of course the wedding was postponed by fate, and, to add to my
perplexities, there is a new attitude on Mrs. Vansittart's part. It
puzzles me. We have been friends for some years, as you know. It seemed
to be a perfectly natural outcome of our mutual liking for each other
that we should agree to pass our declining years together. She is a very
beautiful and accomplished woman, but she makes no secret of her age,
and the match was a suitable one in every respect."
"You can see as far through a stone wall as most people."
Pyne knew that his uncle's sharp eyes were regarding him steadily, but
he continued to gaze into the street.
There was a moment's hesitation before Mr. Traill growled:
"You young dog, you have seen it too. Mrs. Vansittart avoids me.
Something has happened. She has changed her mind. Do you think she has
heard about Edith?"
"Edith! Oh, of course--Enid must be christened afresh. No; that isn't
it. It would not be fair to you to say that I think you are mistaken.
But, from what I know of the lady, I feel sure she will meet you fairly
when the time comes."
"Ah, you agree with me, then?"
"In admitting a doubt--in advising the delay you have already
suggested--yes."
"She told you what I had written?"
"More than that, she asked me if I was aware of its explanation."
"And you said?"
"Exactly what I said to you. You are both sensible people. I can hardly
imagine that any misunderstanding can exist after an hour's talk."
Mr. Traill looked at his watch. A carriage stopped at the hotel.
"Here's Stanhope, and his mother," cried Pyne; so his uncle hurried off
to receive his guests.
Lady Margaret was a well-preserved woman of aristocratic pose. But her
serenity was disturbed. Although the land was ringing with the fame of
her son's exploit, and her mother's heart was throbbing with pride,
there had been tearful hours of vigil for her. Not without a struggle
had she abandoned her hope that he would make a well-endowed match.
When Constance and Enid arrived she was very stately and dignified,
scrutinizing, with all a mother's incredulity, the girl who had caused
her to capitulate.
But Enid scored a prompt success. She swept aside the almost unconscious
reserve with which Jack's mother greeted her.
"You knew," she murmured wistfully. "We did not. They would not tell
us. How you must have suffered until the news came that he had escaped."
Lady Margaret drew the timid girl nearer and kissed her.
"My dear," she whispered, "I am beginning to understand why Jack loves
you. He is my only son, but you are worthy of him."
Mrs. Vansittart's appearance created a timely diversion. She had
obtained a black lace dress. It accentuated the settled pallor of her
face, but she was perfectly self-possessed, and uttered a nice womanly
compliment to the two girls, who wore white demi-toilette costumes.
"You look delightful," she said. "When all is said and done, we women
should never despise our wardrobe. That marvelous lighthouse had one
grave defect in my eyes. It was dreadfully callous to feminine
requirements."
Here was a woman rejuvenated, restored to her natural surroundings. They
accounted for the subtle change in her by the fact that they had seen
her hitherto under unfavorable conditions. Even Pyne, not wholly pleased
with her in the past, found his critical judgment yielding when she
apologized sweetly to Lady Margaret for her tardiness.
"There were two children saved from the wreck. Poor little mites, how
they revelled in a hot bath! I could not leave them until they were
asleep."
"I needed two hot baths," said Pyne. "No. 1 dug me out of the shell,
and No. 2 helped me to recognize myself."
During dinner there was much to tell and to hear. Mrs. Vansittart said
little, save to interpose a word now and then when Constance or Enid
would have skimmed too lightly the record of their own services.
They did not hurry over the meal. All were in the best possible spirits,
and the miseries of the Gulf Rock might never have existed for this
lively company were it not that four among them bore clear tokens of the
deprivations they had endured.
A waiter interrupted their joyous chatter at its highest. He bent over
Mr. Traill and discreetly conveyed some communication.
"I am delighted," cried the millionaire heartily. "Show him in at once."
He rose from his chair to do honor to an unexpected guest.
"You will all be pleased to hear," he explained, "that Mr. Brand is
ashore, and has come to see us."
Mrs. Vansittart stifled the cry on her lips. The slight color which had
crept into her pale cheeks yielded to a deathly hue. It chanced that the
others were looking expectantly towards the door and did not notice her.
Brand entered. In acknowledging Mr. Traill's cordial welcome he
smilingly explained his presence.
"My superiors sent me emphatic orders to clear out," he said, "so I had
no option but to obey. I conveyed Mr. Emmett to suitable quarters and
hastened home, but found that the girls were playing truant. My
housekeeper insisted that I should eat, else she would not be satisfied
that I still lived, but I came here as quickly as possible."
At that instant his glance, traveling from one to another of those
present, fell on Mrs. Vansittart.
He stood as one petrified. The kindly words of his host, the outspoken
glee of the girls at his appearance, died away in his ears in hollow
echoes. His eyes, frowning beneath wrinkled brows, seemed to ask if he
were not the victim of some unnerving hallucination. They were fixed on
Mrs. Vansittart's face with an all-absorbing intensity, and his set lips
and clenched hands showed how utterly irresistible was the knowledge
that, indeed, he was not deceived--that he was gazing at a living,
breathing personality, and not at some phantom product of a surcharged
brain.
She, too, yielding before the suddenness of an ordeal she had striven to
avoid, betrayed by her laboring bosom that she was under the spell of
some excitement of overwhelming power.
She managed to gain her feet. The consciousness that Constance, Enid,
Lady Margaret even, were looking at her and at Brand with amazed
anxiety, served to strengthen her for a supreme effort.
"Mr. Stephen Brand--and I--are old acquaintances," she gasped. "He may
misunderstand--my presence here--tonight. Indeed--in this instance--I am
not to blame. I could not--help myself. I am always--trying to
explain--but somehow--I never succeed. Oh!"
With an agonized sigh she swayed listlessly and would have fallen had
not Pyne caught her.
But she was desperately determined not to faint--there. This was her
world, the world of society. She would not yield in its presence.
Her eyes wandered vaguely, helplessly, from the face of the man towards
the others. Constance had hastened to her assistance, and the knowledge
that this was so seemed to stimulate her to a higher degree. With fine
courage she grasped the back of a chair and summoned a wan smile to her
aid.
"You will forgive me--if I leave you," she murmured. "I am so tired--so
very tired."
She walked resolutely towards the door. Brand drew aside that she might
pass. He looked at her no more. His wondering daughter saw that big
drops of perspiration stood on his forehead.
Mr. Traill, no less astonished than the rest, offered to conduct Mrs.
Vansittart to her room.
"No," she said, "I will go alone. I am used to it now, after so many
years."
There was a ring of heartfelt bitterness in her voice which appealed to
more than one of the silent listeners.
As the door closed behind her, Brand seemed to recover his senses.
"I must ask your pardon, Mr. Traill," he said quietly. "I assume that
the lady who has just left us did not expect to see me here tonight. It
would be idle to deny that the meeting was a shock to both of us. It
revived painful memories."
Mr. Traill, scarce knowing what he said, so taken aback was he,
exclaimed hastily:
"Mrs. Vansittart claimed you as an old acquaintance. The odd thing is
that you, at any rate, did not discover that fact earlier."
The lighthouse-keeper looked round the table. He saw pain in many eyes,
but in Pyne's steady gaze there was encouragement.
"Mrs. Vansittart!" he said slowly. "Is that her name? I did not know.
How should I, the recluse, hear of her? And in your first message to the
rock you called her Etta. When _I_ knew her her name was Nanette, for
the lady who calls herself Mrs. Vansittart was my wife, is yet for aught
I know to the contrary."
"Father!" Constance clung to him in utmost agitation. "Do you mean that
she is my mother?"
"Yes, dear one, she is. But let us go now. I fear my home-coming has
brought misery in its train. I am sorry indeed. It was wholly
unexpected. Poor Nanette! She ever deceived herself. I suppose she hoped
to avoid me, as if fate forgot the tears in the comedy of life."
"Can I not go to her?" asked Constance, white-faced and trembling.
"No, my child, you cannot. Has she claimed you? She cast you off once. I
might have forgiven her many things--never that. Come, Enid! What need
for your tears? We faced worse troubles together three days ago, and
you, at any rate, can look foward to happiness. Good-by, Lady Margaret,
and you, too, Mr. Traill. I will see you tomorrow, I hope. Forgive me
for my unconscious share in this night's suffering."