CHAPTER III"I brushed all obstructions from my doorsill and stepped into the road."
"I brushed all obstructions from my doorsill and stepped into the road."
It was just after sunset the following day when Jed turned from the Big Road into the River Road and thanked God that the next five miles could be made before early darkness set in.
Beside him sat Meredith Thornton, white lipped and wide-eyed, and her aristocratic bags rattled around in the space behind.
The smile with which Meredith had faced her past three years lingered still on the set mouth—the smile was for Jed.
"There seem to be more downs than ups on this road," the girl said, in order to cover a groan. "It will be awful after dark."
"Dark or light, ma'am," Jed returned, "it's all the same to me, ma'am. I know dese little ole humps like I know my fingers and toes, ma'am."
"Do—do you always hit the same humps?" Jed was hitting one now, squarely.
"Mostly, ma'am; but I'm studyin' to get there before dark, ma'am. If Washington now, ma'am"—Jed indicated the sleeker of the two horses—"had the ginger, so to speak, ma'am, as Lincoln has got—why, ma'am, the River Road would be flyin' out behind, ma'am, like it war a tail of a kite."
Meredith managed to give a weak laugh and, as the wagon hit another hump, she edged toward Jed. After a few moments he felt her head against his shoulder—from suffering and exhaustion she fell into a brief and troubled sleep.
Like one carved from rock, Jed held his position while a reverent expression grew upon his face.
The glow showed yellow through the western sky, The Gap was growing purplish and dim, and just then, across a foot bridge over the river, a hurrying, bent form appeared. It swayed perilously—Jed heard a muttered curse.
"Gawd A'mighty," he breathed, "it's ole Aunt Becky come back to add to trubble after us-all hopin' she was daid—or something."
Becky was coming toward the road, bending over the bundle she bore; she paused, looked down, and then darted ahead right in the path of the horses. They reared and something snapped.
Meredith awoke and sat up with a cry.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "An accident?"
"'Tain't nothin' so bad as an accident, ma'am," Jed reassured her, "but I don't take no chances with Lincoln's hind hoofs, ma'am, an' somethin' done cracked in dat quarter."
The pause gave Aunt Becky time to reach Ridge House and play her part in the scheme of things.
Panting and well nigh exhausted, the old woman staggered on and was thankful to see at her journey's end that but one light shone in the quiet house. The light was in the living room where Angela sat alone waiting for Meredith Thornton. She had quite forgotten, in her growingly anxious hours, all about poor Becky and her sorrows. So now, when the long window, opening on the west porch, swayed inward, she started up with outstretched arms—and confronted Becky.
"I've brung hit!" Becky staggered to a chair, uninvited, and sat down with her burden, wrapped in a dirty, old quilt, upon her knees.
Angela sat down also—she was speechless and frightened. She watched the old woman unfold the coverings, and she saw the form of a sleeping new-born baby exposed to the heat and light of the fire. She tried to say something, to get control of herself, but she only succeeded in bending nearer the apparition.
"Zalie she cum las' night like I told you she would. She's daid now—Zalie is. I don buried her at sun-up—an' I wantit tole—if it ever is tole—that the child was buried long o' Zalie. She done planned while she was a-dying.
"I told her what you-all promised an' she went real content-like after that."
There was sodden despair in Becky's voice.
"Who—is the father of this child?"
The commonplace question, under the strain, sounded trivial—but it was rung from Angela's dismay.
Becky gave a rough laugh.
"Not the agony o' death an' the fear o' hell could wring that out of Zalie," she said. Then: "Yo' ain't goin' back on yo' promise, are yo'?"
Sister Angela rallied. At any moment the wheels on the road might end her time for considering poor Becky.
"You mean," she whispered, "that you renounce—this child; give it to me, now? You mean—that I must find a home for it?"
"Yo' done promised—an' it eased Zalie at the end."
Angela reached for the child—she was calm and self-possessed at last. This was not the first child she had rescued.
"It is—a girl?" she asked, lifting the tiny form.
"Hit's a girl. Give hit a chance."
"I will." Then Angela wrapped the child in the old quilt and turned toward the door.
"Will you wait until I return?" she paused to ask, but Becky, her eyes on that picture of the Good Shepherd, replied:
"No—I don let go!"
With that she passed as noiselessly from the room as if she were but a shadow sinking into the darkness outside.
Angela went upstairs and knocked at Sister Constance's door. Sister Constance was alert at once. Every faculty of hers was trained to respond intelligently to taps on the door in the middle of the night.
"This is—a child—a mountain child," whispered Sister Angela. "It has been left here. Take it into the west wingand tell no one of its presence until we know whether it will be claimed!"
"Very well, Sister." Constance folded the child to her ample breast; the maternal in her gave the training she had received a divine quality. The baby stirred, stretched out its little limbs, and opened its vague, sleep-filled eyes as if at last something worthy of response had appealed to it.
Sister Angela stood in the cold, dark hall listening, and when the door of the west wing chamber closed, she felt, once more, secure. Sister Angela was never able to describe afterward the state of mind that made the happenings of the next few hours seem like flaming pillars against a dead blur of sensation.
There was the sound of wheels. That set every nerve tense.
Meredith was in her arms—clinging, sobbing, and repeating:
"He must never have my child, Sister. Promise, promise!"
"I promise, my darling. I promise." Angela heard herself saying the words as if they proceeded from the lips of a stranger.
"Has Doris come?"
"Not yet. She will be here soon."
"I can trust you and Doris. Doris knows. And now—I let go!"
Where had Sister Angela heard those words before? They went whirling through her brain as if on a mighty wheel.
"I have—let go!"
Then followed terrible hours in the guest chamber with Sister Constance repeating over and over: "It is a perfectly plain case. All is well."
Finally, there was quiet, and then that cry that has power to move the world's heart, a plaintive wail weighted with relinquishment and—acceptance. Meredith's little daughter was born just as the clock below chimed four.
"I will take it to the west wing," Constance said. "Call me if you need me."
But everything seemed settling into calm, and Meredithfell asleep looking as she used to look in the old days before she had been forced outside the gates. At daylight she opened her eyes.
"Is it morning?" she asked of Sister Angela who sat beside her.
"Yes, dear heart."
"Raise the shade, Sister." Then, as Angela raised it—"Why, how strange! What is that, Sister?"
Angela looked and saw The Ship! In that hour when vitality runs low and with the past horrors of the night still holding her, all the superstition of The Gap claimed her.
"I—I was afraid I would lose the ship." Meredith's mind wandered back to her hurried home-leaving; the dread that the ship that was to bear her from the Philippines might have gone. The mystic Ship upon The Rock was all that was needed to fix her fancy.
"But—I was in time. Iamin time. The Ship—is waiting. Everything is all right now!—quite all right, Sister?"
Angela went close to the bed.
"My dear one!" she whispered and slipped her arm under Meredith's head.
"It all seems so—plain in the morning, Sister. It is the night that makes us afraid. The night! I cannot remember—what it was—I dreamed."
"Never mind, little girl"—Angela's tears were dropping on the soft, smooth hair that was growing clammy; she felt the cold breath on her face—"never mind, little girl, the dream is past."
"Sister, it was a bad dream. I do not like bad dreams—tell Doris—what is it that I want you to tell Doris?"
"Try to sleep, beloved." Angela knelt.
Meredith slipped back to her childhood—she gave a short, hurting laugh. "Tell her—tell Doris—I did try to learn my lesson—but——"
It was the opening of the door that startled Angela into consciousness. Doris Fletcher stood within the room. Her eyes took in the scene, the pretty face against Sister Angela'sbosom; the sunlight lying full across the bed and picking out into a gleam the golden cross that hung to the floor.
"I'm too—late!"
Agony rang in the quiet words.
"And I've travelled day and night! Her letter was forwarded to me."
The letter burned against Doris's bosom like a tangible thing. She crossed the room and sank beside the bed.
They all slipped through the following days as people do who realize that troubles do not come to them, but are overtaken on the way. They seemed always to have been there; some people pass on the other side, but if one's path lies close, then one must go with what courage possible—look hard, feel and groan with the understanding, and pass on as best he can bearing the memory with him.
Father Noble came from many miles back in the hills. Riding his sturdy little horse, his loose black cloak floating like benignant wings bearing him on; his radiant old face shining even in the face of death.
He stayed until the wound in the hillside was covered over Meredith's little form; stayed to see the flowers hide the scar, murmuring again and again: "In the hope of joyful resurrection." His was the task to bridge life and death, and there was no doubt in his beautiful soul.
"And now," he said, after four days, "I must go to Cleaver's Clearing"—the Clearing was twenty hard miles away. "There are children there who never heard of God until I took some toys to them last Christmas. Then they thought that I was God. They are sick now, poor children—bad food; no care—ah! well, they will learn, they will learn."
And the old man rode away.
And still Doris had not seen Meredith's child.
"I cannot, Sister," she had pleaded. "I can think of it only as George Thornton's child."
The hate in Doris's heart was so new and appalling a sensation that it frightened her.
She tried to think of the unseen child with the love that she felt for all children—but that one! She struggled to overcomethe sickening aversion that grew, instead of lessened, while the days dragged on. But always the helpless child represented nothing but passion, brutality, suffering, and disgrace. It wasnota child, a piteous, pleading child—it was the essence of Wrong made visible.
Sister Angela was deeply concerned. The unnatural attitude called forth her old manner of authority. Sitting alone with Doris before the fire in the living room the evening of Meredith's funeral and Father Noble's departure she grew stern and commanding.
"This will never do, my dear," she said. "It cannot be that life has made of you a cruel, unjust woman."
Doris dropped her eyes—they were wonderful eyes, her real and only claim to beauty. Dusky eyes they were, with a light in them of amber.
"How much did Merry tell you?" she asked, faintly, for the older woman looked so frail and pure that it seemed impossible that she knew the worst.
"My dear, she told me—nothing. Her letter said that she wanted to tell me things—things that she could not tell to God"—Angela unconsciously touched her cross—"but there was no time. No time."
"There are things that women cannot tell to God, Sister. Things that they can only tell to some women!"
A bitterness that she could not control shook Doris's voice. She shrank from touching the exquisite detachment of Sister Angela by the truth, and yet she must have as much sympathy as possible and, certainly, coöperation.
"Sister, this child should never have been born!"
The words reached where former words had failed. A flush touched Angela's white face—it was like sunrise on snow. Then, after a pause:
"Did—Meredith—think that?" A growing sternness gave Doris hope that she might be saved the details that were like poison in her blood.
"Yes. Protected by—by what is law—George Thornton——"
But Angela raised her thin, transparent hand commandingly.It was as if she were staying the torrents of wrong and shame that threatened to deluge all that she had gained by her life of renunciation and repression—and yet in her clear eyes there gleamed the understanding of the depths.
"May God have mercy upon—the child!" was what she said, and by those words she took her stand between past wrong and hope of future justice. "You must take this child, Doris," she said. "All that you know and feel but make the course imperative and inevitable."
"Sister, how can I—feeling as I do?"
"Can you afford not to? Can you leave it—to such a man?"
"But, Sister, you do not know him. If I should conquer my aversion and take the child, if I succeeded in loving it—he would bide his time and claim it. The law that made this horrible thing possible covers his claim to the child."
Angela drooped back in her chair. She looked old and beaten.
"He must not have the child," she murmured. "It's the only chance for the salvation of Meredith's little girl. Heshallnot have it!"
Doris bent toward the fire holding her cold, clasped hands to the heat. Suddenly she turned.
"I am growing nervous," she said, "I thought I heard someone pressing against the window—I thought I saw—a shadow drift outside in the moonlight."
Angela started and sat upright. Every sense was alert—she was remembering her promise to old Becky!
"I wish," she said, haltingly, "I wish I had consulted Father Noble. I have undertaken too much."
"Consulted him about what, Sister?" Doris was touched by the quivering voice and strained eyes; she set her own trouble aside.
Again that pressing sound, and the wind swirling the dead leaves against the house.
"About a little deserted mountain child upstairs. I have promised to find a home for it, but I cannot manage such things any more—I am too old."
The words came plaintively, as if defending against implied neglect.
Doris's eyes grew deep and concerned.
"A deserted child?" she repeated. In the feverish haste and trouble of the past few days the ordinary life of Ridge House had held no part. It seemed to be claiming its rights now, pushing her aside.
Then Sister Angela, her tired face set toward the long window whence came that pressing sound and the swish of the wind, told Becky's story. She told it as she might if Becky were listening, ready at any lapse to correct her, but she carefully refrained from mentioning names.
It eased her mind to turn from Doris's trouble to poor Becky's, and she saw with relief that Doris was listening; was interested.
"It is strange," Sister Angela mused, when the bare telling of the story was over, "how the deep, cruel things in life are met by people in much the same way—the ignorant and the wise, when they touch the inscrutable they let go and turn to a higher power than their own. Meredith felt that her child's chance in life lay in a new and fresh start. The mountain woman's curse, as she termed it, could only be conquered, so she pleaded, by giving her grandchild to those who did not know. It amounts to the same thing.
"Meredith is—gone; the old woman of the hills cannot last long. I wonder, as to the children—I wonder!"
Doris's eyes were burning and her voice shook when she spoke. Her words and tone startled Angela.
"Where is the—the mountain child?" she asked.
"Upstairs, my dear. Why, Doris, you are shaking as if you had a chill. You are ill—let me call Sister Constance."
But Doris stayed her as she rose.
"No, no, Sister. I am only trembling because my feet are set on a possible way! I am—I am pushing things aside. Tell me, is this child a girl?"
"Yes."
"How old is it?"
"It was born the night before Meredith's child. Itsurvived against grave dangers—it had no care, really, for twenty-four hours."
"You—you think it will live?"
"Yes."
"Do you think—the grandmother will ever reclaim it?"
"No, my dear. She is very old. I do not know how old, but certainly she cannot last much longer. She is a strange creature, but I am confident she realizes all that she said."
"And she is right—it is the only way." Doris was now speaking more to herself than to Angela. It was as if she were arguing, seeking to convince her conservative self before she stepped out upon a new and perilous path.
"No one knowing! Then the start could be new. It is the knowing, expecting, and suggesting that do the harm. We may call it inheritance, but it may be that we evolve from our knowledge and fears the very thing we would avert if we were left free."
Sister Angela bent forward. She whispered as if she felt the necessity of secrecy.
"What do you mean?"
"Sister, can you not see? Suppose it were possible for me to take Merry's child without the knowledge of its inheritance from the father. Suppose this little mountain child were given its chance among people who did not know."
"The children would reveal themselves, my dear." Angela was defending, she knew not what, but all her nature was up in arms. "It is God's way."
"Or our bungling and lack of faith, Sister, which?"
All the weariness and hopelessness passed from Doris's face; she was eager, her eyes shone. Presently she stood up, her back to the fire, her glance on that far window that opened to the starry night and the narrow, flower-hidden bed on the hill.
"Sister Angela," the words were spoken solemnly as a vow might be taken before God, "I am going to take—both children. But on one condition—I am not to know which is Meredith's."
A log rolling from the irons startled the women—their nerves were strained to the breaking point.
"Impossible!" gasped Angela.
"Why?"
"Your own has claims upon you!"
"None that I am not willing to give—but this is the only way. If, as you say, it is God's way that they reveal themselves, then I lose; if God is with me, I win."
"Dare—you?"
Doris stretched her arms as if pushing aside every obstacle.
"I do," she said. "I am not a daring woman: I am a weak and fearful one—this, though, I dare!"
"But the father——" Angela whispered.
"The—father——" Doris's eyes flamed.
"But he may, as you say, claim the child." Angela hastened breathlessly as one running.
"How could he, if I did not know which child was his?"
The blinding light began to point the way clearer, now, to the older woman.
"It's—unheard of," she murmured, "and yet——"
"I will write to Thornton, offer to take his child," Doris was pleading, rather than explaining. "I think at the first he will agree to the proposal—what else can he do? The shock—remember, he does not even know that a child is expected! Dare we refuse Meredith's child this only and desperate chance—knowing what we do?"
Angela made no reply. She was letting go one after another of her rigid beliefs. Again Doris spoke, again she pleaded:
"I will abide by your decision, Sister, but only after you have gone to the chapel—and seen the way. I will wait here."
Angela rose stiffly, holding to her cross as if it were a physical support. With bowed head she passed from the room and Doris sat down thinking; demanding justice.
A half hour passed before steps were heard in the hall. Doris stood up, her eyes fixed on the door.
Sister Angela entered, and in her arms, wrapped in the sameblanket, were two sleeping babies wearing the plain clothing that Ridge House kept in store for emergencies. Doris ran forward; she bent over the small creatures.
"Which?" Nature leaped forth in that one palpitating word—it was the last claim of blood.
"I—forgot—when I brought them to you. We have all—forgot. Itisthe only way—the chance."
Doris took both children in her arms.
"I shall name them Joan and Nancy," she whispered, "for my mother and grandmother. Joan and Nancy—Thornton!"
Then she kissed them, and it was given to her at that moment to forget her bitter hatred.
CHAPTER IV"Just as much of doubt as bade us plant a surer foot upon the sun-road."
"Just as much of doubt as bade us plant a surer foot upon the sun-road."
Doris Fletcher had no turning-back in her nature. She never reached a goal but by patient effort to understand, and she was able to close her eyes to by-paths.
Having adopted the children, having foregone her prejudices—good and evil—having set her feet upon the way, she meant to go unfalteringly on, and because doubts would assail her at times, she held the surer to her task.
She remained a month at Ridge House. She wrote to Thornton and in due time his reply came.
Apparently he had written while bewildered and shocked. The old arrogant tone was gone. He accepted what Doris offered and set aside a generous sum of money for his child's expenses.
It was Sister Angela's suggestion that Mary should become the nurse for the children.
"How much does she know, Sister?"
"Nothing—but what we have permitted her to know. The girl, since knowing of the children, has astonished me by her interest in them. Nothing before has so brought her out of her native reserve. I never suspected it—but the girl has maternal instincts that should not be starved."
But Sister Angela was mistaken. Mary knew more than she had been permitted to know.
A closed door to Mary meant seeking access through other channels. Sister Constance had not screened the windows of the west chamber which opened on the roof of the porchand were next to the window of Mary's small chamber. She had forgotten to ward against the startling sound of a baby's cry. But Mary, the night that Becky had left her burden to the care of Sister Angela, had heard that cry and it reached to the hidden depth of the girl's nature. It chilled her, then set her blood racing hotly. She got up and went to the window—it was moonlight in The Gap and the night was full of a rising wind that rattled the vines and set the leaves swirling.
Covering herself with a dark shawl, she crept from her window and, clinging close to the house, reached the west chamber.
Inside, by the light of a candle, Sister Constance sat, hushing to sleep a little child! The sight was burned upon Mary's consciousness as if Fate pressed every detail there so it might not be forgotten. Mary saw the small, puckered face. It was individual and distinct.
She almost slipped from her place on the roof; her breath came so hard that she feared Sister Constance might hear, and she groped her way back.
All next day Mary worked silently but with such haste that Sister Janice took her sharply to task.
"'Tis the ungodly as leaves the dust under the mats, child," she cautioned.
"Yes, Sister." Mary attacked the mats!
"And a burnt loaf cries for forgiveness."
"Yes, Sister, but the burnt loaf I will myself eat to the last crust."
"Indeed and you shall—for the carelessness that you show."
Somehow Mary lived through the day with her ears strained and a mighty fear in her heart.
It was nearing morning of the following day—that darkest hour—when the girl arose from her sleepless bed and stole forth again.
It was just then that Sister Constance, her face distorted by grief and the play of candlelight upon it, entered the west chamber with a baby in her arms!
Mary gripped the shutters—she felt faint and weak. Suppose she should slip and fall?
And then she saw two children on the bed and Sister Constance—bent in prayer—her cross pressed to her lips.
All this Mary had seen, but when Sister Angela asked her if she would like to go with Miss Fletcher and care for the children, so great was her curiosity that she, mentally, tore her roots from her home hills; let go her clinging to the deserted cabin where she had been born, and almost eagerly replied: "I'd like it powerful."
So Mary took her place.
Doris Fletcher had her plans well laid.
"I must have myself well in hand," she said to Sister Angela, "before I go to New York. There's the little bungalow in California where father took mother before Merry's birth. It happens to be vacant. I will go there and work out my plans."
It seemed a simple solution. The children throve from the start in the sunshine and climate; the peace and detachment acted like charms, and Mary, stifling her soul's homesickness, grew stern as to face, but marvellously tender and capable in her duties. Doris grew accustomed to her silence and reserve after a time, but she never understood Mary, although she grew to depend upon her absolutely. To friends in New York, especially to Doctor David Martin, Doris wrote often. She was never quite sure how the impression was given that Meredith had left twins; certainly she had not said that, but she had spoken of "the children" without laying stress upon the statement, and while debating just what explanation she would make. After all, it was her own affair. Some day she would confide in David, but there were more important details to claim her attention.
The babies were adorable, but in neither could she trace an expression or suggestion of Meredith. Their childish characteristics gave no clue—they were simply healthy, normal creatures full of the charm that all childhood should have in common. And gradually, as time passed, Doris lost herself in their demanding individualities; she became absorbed.Joan was larger, stronger, seemed older. She had brown eyes of that sunny tint which suggest sunshine. Her hair was brown, almost from the first, with gold glints. She was fair, had little colour unless the warm glow that rose and fell so sweetly in her face could be called colour. Excitement brought the flush, disappointment or a chiding word banished it. At other times Joan had the warm, ivory-tinted skin of health, not delicacy. Nancy was, from the first, frankly blonde. She never changed from the lovely, fair promise of her first year. She was the most feminine creature one could imagine; a doll brought the light to her violet eyes.
"She takes that rather than her milk," Mary explained, then gravely: "She'll take her milk if I hold off the doll."
Nature was never quite sure what to do with Joan. She changed with the years in tint, colouring, and character, but Nancy was fair, fine, and delicately poised from her baby days.
Both children worshipped Doris—Auntie Dorrie, they were taught to call her—and it was amusing to watch their relations to her. To please her, to win her approval, were their highest hopes. Mary clearly preferred Nancy and, for that reason, gave more attention to Joan.
When the children were nearly two Doris wrote to David Martin:
"I am coming home. I am glad that I have always kept the house in commission; I feel that I can trust myself there now."
And so the little family travelled east. Mary in trim uniform (and how she silently hated it) of black, with immaculate cuffs, collars, and cap; the babies perfect in every way and Doris, herself, happier than she had ever been in her life—handsomer, too. Her life had developed normally around the children; she felt a wide and deep interest in everything, and always the sense of high adventure, a daring in her relations to the future.
The old Fletcher house set the standard for the others down the long row. It was brick, with heavy oak, brass-bounddoors. The marble steps and white trim were spotless and glistening and behind it lay a deep yard hidden by a tall brick wall. The house had reserved, as the family had, the right, once its civic duty was performed, to develop inwardly along its own lines.
The three generations, in turn, had set their marks upon it. The first Fletcher had been a genial soul given to entertaining, and the dining room, back of the drawing room, gave evidence of the old gentleman's taste. It was a stately and beautiful room and each article of furniture had been made to fit into the space and the need by an artist.
Doris's father was not indifferent to his father's tastes, but he was a student at heart and had a vision as to libraries. He encroached upon the ample space back of the house and had built an oval room through whose leaded panes the peach and plum trees could be seen like traceries on the clear glass. Around the walls of this room the book shelves ranged at just the right height, and above them hung pictures that inspired but did not obtrude. The high, carved chimney with its deep, generous hearth was a benediction.
When Doris had come home from St. Mary's she made known a family trait—she voiced what to her seemed an inspiration but which to the father, at first, seemed madness. Still, he complied and spent many happy hours before his death in what he called "Doris's Daring."
"I want the west wall of the library knocked out, Father," she had said, but Mr. Fletcher only stared.
"We can have the books and pictures in my room—my sunken room. There is enough garden to spare and we can save the roses. We'll drop down from the library by a shallow flight of steps; we'll have a little fountain and about a mile of nice low window seats rambling around the room. I don't want nymphs in the fountain but dear, adorable children tossing water at each other.
"We must have birds in cages, and plants and pictures—it must be a room where we can all take what is dearest to us—and live."
Of course it was an expensive and daring conception, but it was carried out by an inspired young architect, and it was Meredith who had posed for the figures in the fountain.
When Doris returned to New York with her children this room became the soul of the house.
The year after Doris's adoption of the children Sister Angela died suddenly. "She simply fell asleep," Sister Constance wrote.
After that the other Sisters could not feel happy and content in the atmosphere of antagonism that Sister Angela had partially overcome, but with which they had no sympathy. They returned to the Middle West and entered a Sisterhood where their duties and environment were more congenial. Ridge House reverted to the Fletcher estate and Uncle Jed was put in charge.
"I may use it later," Doris explained, "or I may turn it over to Father Noble if he ever needs it."
What this all meant to Mary no one ever knew—she saw, now, no return to her hills, and her longing for them grew as the years passed, and her curiosity flattened in the dull round of duties and commonplace routine. Only one emotion largely controlled her thought and that was a dumb gratitude for what she believed she was receiving. She could not agree that her devoted service gave ample return. She was under obligation, and the feeling was blighting to the girl's independence. Work, the necessity for work, was an accepted state of mind to poor Mary. The luxury and consideration that were hers in her present life took from labour, as far as she mentally considered it, all the essential qualities that gave her independence. She was accepting—so she reflected in that proud detached logic of the hills—from outsiders what no mere bodily labour could repay, certainly not such service as she was giving. Just loving and caring for two little children!
With cautious and suspicious watchfulness through the years Mary regarded Doris Fletcher still as "foreign." Foreign to all that was born and bred in the girl's inheritance of mountain aristocracy, but she had been touched by thejustice, the unerring kindness of the woman, who, to Mary's wrong ideals, gave and gave and constantly made it impossible for her to make return.
"Some day," the girl vowed, when her manner was most grim and repelling, "some day I'll do something to pay back!" And then she grew bewildered in the maze of wondering if the "quality" so precious to her understanding might not exist in all places? Might it not be?—but here Mary became lost.
When she recalled, as less and less she did, the unlawful spying of hers on the west chamber of Ridge House, she set her lips in a firm line. She had gone far enough on her upward way to detest the cringing, deceitful methods of her childhood and she sternly sought to right herself, with her burdening conscience, by putting away forever what possible significance lay in the strange coming of that first and second child to Ridge House.
"Were they twins? Were—they?" But Mary always was frightened when she got into her mental depths.
Three or four vital and significant events marked the years intervening between Doris's return to New York and the day when Joan and Nancy entered womanhood.
The first incident seemed slight in itself but proved the truth of the need for caution when one is on a blind trail. With all her good intentions and high hopes Doris was bewildered as to her steps. She who had been the soul of frankness and cheerful friendliness was now reticent and reserved.
"It is poor Meredith's business," friend after friend decided. Where little was known, much was suspected. "The Fletchers cannot easily brookthatsort of thing."
Just what that "sort" was depended upon the temperament and character of the person speaking.
Then among the first to call after Doris's return was Mrs. Tweksbury, an old and valued family friend, a woman who was worth one's while to gain as friend, for she could be a desperate foe. She had formed all her opinions of Meredith Thornton's tragedy upon what she knew and loved concerningthe girl, and what she knew nothing whatever about, concerning Thornton.
To Mrs. Tweksbury he was a black villain who had murdered—there was no other word for it—an innocent young creature who belonged to that class (Mrs. Tweksbury was frank and clear about "class") not supposed to be subject to the coarser dealings of life.
Mrs. Tweksbury relied absolutely upon what she termed her inherited intuition. This was quite outside feminine intuition. The Tweksbury male intellect had been judicial from the first, and "the constant necessity of knowing men and women," as Mrs. Tweksbury often explained, "had left its mark upon the family."
"We know!That is all there is to say. We know!"
So Mrs. Tweksbury "knew" all about everything when she folded Doris in her motherly arms.
"There is no need of a word, my dear," she said, "and you are dealing with the whole thing superbly. Let me see the children. How fortunate that they are twinsandgirls! Girls may inherit from the father, but thank God! nature saves them from the developing along his line. And beingtwinscertainly modifies what might otherwise be concentrated."
Doris felt her heart beat fast. She was not prepared to confide in Mrs. Tweksbury, certainly not at present. She loved the old woman for her good qualities, but she shrank from putting herself at the mercy of Mrs. Tweksbury's "inherited intuitions!"
So she said nothing, but sent for the children.
Hidden deep in the old woman's heart were all the denied and suppressed yearnings of a love that had escaped fulfilment—a love that had entered in after her marriage to a man utterly without sympathy with her, but which had been rigidly ignored because of the stern moral fibre that marked her. After the death of all those who had been concerned in her secret romance she had taken upon herself the more or less vicarious guardianship of the son of the man she had loved and foregone.
The boy lived with his mother's people, and Mrs. Tweksbury only visited him occasionally; but her proud, stern old heart knew only one undying passion now—her passion for children.
When Nancy and Joan stood before her, she regarded them with almost tragic, and, at the same time, comic expression. The children were frightened at her twitching, wrinkled face and glanced at Doris, who smiled them into calmness.
In Joan, Mrs. Tweksbury saw resemblance to no one she remembered, so she concluded she must be like the father, physically, whom they must all ignore absolutely. Try as she valiantly did, the old lady felt her quick-beating heart falter before Joan's earnest, searching gaze. It was a relief to turn to Nancy and permit her eyes to dim and soften.
"My dear, my dear," she said to Doris, "how like dear Merry the baby is! Just so, I recall—"
Doris's face grew strained and ashy. "Please," she implored, "please, Aunt Emily—don't!"
"Of course, of course, my child. Very indiscreet of me—but I was taken off my guard." Then—"My dears, will you kiss me?" This to the children keeping their courage up by clinging together.
"No," Joan replied in a tone entirely free from bad manners but weighted with simple truth; "Joan likes to kiss Auntie Dorrie." The inference stiffened Mrs. Tweksbury and caused Doris a qualm.
"And you?" The old lady's tone was pathetic in its appeal to Nancy—her "intuition" was at stake.
Nancy drew nearer. She was fascinated, afraid, but guided by a strange impulse. "Nancy will," she panted, "Nancy will kiss you—two times!"
Mrs. Tweksbury's breath caught in her throat—she strangled but controlled herself and bent as a queen might to the sweet uplifted face at her knee.
After that visit Doris would have had a difficult task in stemming a flood that Mrs. Tweksbury directed, having removed the dam. While she fairly grovelled, emotionally,before Nancy, the old lady defended Joan by stern insistence upon traits of nobility unsuspected by others in the child.
"The wretch of a father," she mentally vowed, "shall not have the child if suggestion can prevent."
Spiritually she fell in line with Doris, and where Mrs. Tweksbury led it were wiser and easier to follow than to blaze new trails.
The second event that marked a new epoch was the coming of George Thornton to claim his own.
CHAPTER V"And when it fails, fight as we will, we die."
"And when it fails, fight as we will, we die."
George Thornton was a man who believed, or thought he did, in two controlling things in life: Intellect, and the training of intellect, by education and stern attention, to the task at stake.
He had intellect and he had devoted himself to his task, that of worldly success, but he had never recognized nor admitted the necessity of the spiritual in his development, and so it had failed him—and, in a deep, tragic way, he was dying. Had been dying through the years since his devil took the reins, in a mad hour, and rode him.
There had been weeks and months after his leaving Meredith when his soul cried aloud to him but was smothered. He would not heed. He let business and coarse, pleasurable excitement gain power over him, and when they lagged he drank his conscience to sleep.
He knew the danger which lay in the last aid to deaden his pain, so he rarely sought it.
But something new had entered in—something that, in hours when he was obliged to face facts, frightened him, and after months abroad, months in which he nursed his resentment against Meredith and felt his defeat with her, he decided to do the only decent thing left for him to do—apologize and set her free.
And then he found her note. The bald, naked statement drove all power to act for the moment from him. Close upon that shock, which he smilingly covered, by explaining on very commonplace grounds, came Doris's letter. The purest elements and the most brutal in many natures lie close. They did in Thornton. Had Meredith been a wiser,a more human and loving woman, she might have helped Thornton to his full stature; but failing him by her helpless insufficiency, she drove him to his shoals.
Had she by the turn of Fortune been obliged, as many women are, to have borne her lot though her heart broke her child might have saved her and the man also—for Thornton had the paternal instincts, though they were unsuspected and wholly dormant.
Again Meredith had defeated him. What could he do with a helpless baby on his hands? What else was there to do but accept Doris's offer? And of course the child was dead to him except by the cold, legal tie that bound them together. That, Thornton grimly held to.
He would press it, too, in his good time!
But Thornton's next few years proved to be a succession of mis-steps with the inevitable results.
He married the woman who could, when she had no actual hold on him, soothe and comfort—not because of his need, but her own. Once, however, she was placed in a secure position, she cast any need of his aside and developed myriads of her own.
If Thornton could not force a social position for her, then he must pay for the luxury of her exile with him. Thornton paid and paid until every faculty he had was strained to the snapping point. Finally he resorted to the last and most dangerous aid he had at his disposal—he drank more than ever before; but even in his extremity he recognized his danger and always caught himself before the worst overcame him.
Business began to show the effect of private troubles, and then Thornton remembered the Fletcher fortune; his child, and the possibilities of making the child a link between money and a growing necessity.
Whatever natural tie there might have been in Thornton's relations with his child had perished. There was merely a legal one now.
And Thornton, having explained this at great length to his wife, and finally getting her to agree to assume a responsibilitythat he swore should never embarrass her, travelled to New York.
It was a bright, sunny June day when he rang the bell of the Fletcher home and was admitted, by a trim maid, to the small reception room that was a noncommittal link between the hall and the drawing room.
Sitting alone in the quiet place, Thornton was conscious of a silverydrip, dripof water. Sound, like smell, has a power to arouse memory and control it. Thornton's thoughts flew back to the week he had spent in this old house with his girl wife. He recalled the sunken room and the fountain with those wonderful figures modelled after Meredith.
Without taking into account the years and happenings that had made him more than a stranger to the family he got up and followed a haunting desire to see the room and the fountain again.
He passed through the drawing room and shrugged his shoulders. It was arrogant, self-assured—he hated that sort of thing. The dining room was better—a fine idea as to colour and furniture; the library, too—Thornton paused and took a comprehensive glance. He liked the library, and the fireplace was perfect. He made a mental note. Then he stepped down into the room with its memory-haunting fountain. He had never seen it in action before, and so clever was the conceit that he drew back, fearing that the tossing sprays would reach him. Then he sat down in a deep chair, crossed his legs, smiled, and looked about.
Here it was that Doris spent much of her time indoors. The window was open and a rose vine was clinging to the frame, rich in bloom. There was a work basket on the low, velvet-cushioned seat—a child's sock lay near it and several ridiculous toys, rigidly propped against the wall, as if on review. Birds sang outside in the plum and peach trees and birds inside, not realizing their bondage, answered merrily—the room was throbbing with life and joy and hope. Thornton smiled, not a pleasant smile, and felt more important than he had felt in many a day; more powerful, too.
"Doris must be over thirty," he mused, "and not of themarrying type. There must be a pretty big pile to back all this." He got quickly to his feet, for Doris appeared just then at the doorway leading to the library. She paused at the top of the stairs—there was a strip of green velvet carpet running down the middle of the marble steps; her white gown came just to her ankles, and the narrow white-shod feet sank lightly into the green carpet as if it were moss.
"I am glad to see that you have made yourself comfortable, George," she said, and smiled her very finest smile. There was no hint of reproof in the tone, but Thornton instantly wondered if it would not have been wiser to have kept to the reception room.
"I hope I have not intruded," he went to the steps and held out his hand, "itishome, you know, after all."
This was meant to be conciliatory, but the appeal went astray.
"Let us sit by the window," Doris remarked, "the air is delightful to-day."
And then came the pause during which the path leading to an understanding must be chosen. Doris left the choosing to Thornton. He took the wrong one.
"It brings so much back," he half whispered, "so much!" He was a fairly good actor, but Doris was not appreciative.
"So much that had better be left where it rests," she said. "I have learned that the present needs every energy—the past can take care of itself."
"You have had the real burden." Thornton meant to be magnanimous. "I shall always be grateful for your splendid help at a time when so much was at stake. Your goodness to my child——" For a moment Thornton could not think whether the child was a girl or a boy. He was confused and a bit alarmed.
Doris came to his assistance.
"Meredith's little girl was all that made the first bitter year possible for me. I have done my best, George, my happiest best—she is lovely; the most joyous thing you can imagine. Remembering how much Meredith and I needed each other, I adopted a child at the same time I undertook thecare of your baby—the two are inseparable and wonderfully congenial."
Thornton's brow clouded. He could not have described his sensations, but they were similar to those he had once experienced, standing alone in a dense Philippine thicket, and suddenly recalling that he was not popular with the natives. He sensed a menace somewhere.
"You're quite remarkable, Doris," he said, "but was it altogether wise—the adoption, I mean? I suppose you know everything about the—the child, but even so, the break now will be difficult for—for everybody."
Doris gave him a long, steady look.
"I know very little about the child I adopted," she said. "The poor waif was deserted, and as to the wrench now, why, life has taught me, also, George, to take what joy one can and be willing to pay for it. We cannot afford to let a great blessing slip because we may have to do without it bye and bye."
"But—inheritance, Doris! You, of all women, to undervalue that! It was a bit risky, but of course while children are so young——" Thornton paused and Doris broke in.
"Inheritance is such a tricky thing," she said, looking out into the flower-filled garden, "it is such a clever masquerader. Often it is like those insects that take upon themselves the colour of the leaf upon which they cling. It isn't what it seems, and when one really knows—why, one can hardly be just, because of the injustice of inheritance."
"Queer reasoning," muttered Thornton. "Why, that—kid's father might be—— well, anything!" Why he said "father" would be hard to tell.
"Exactly!" agreed Doris. "But when I did not know, I could be fair and unhampered. It has paid—the child is adorable."
"Shows no—no—evil tendencies?" Thornton grew more and more restive.
"On the contrary—only divine ones."
"We're all lucky." The man sighed, then spoke hurriedly: "I'd like to see my little girl. She is here—of course?"
"Oh! yes. I have never been separated from her. I suppose—you mean to——" Doris paused.
"I mean to relieve you, Doris, and assume my responsibility—now that I dare."
"Your wife—is she willing?" Doris longed to say "worthy" but she knew that the woman was not.
"More than willing." And now Thornton thought that the worst was over.
"I will bring your little girl," Doris said, and went quietly from the room.
Something of the sweetness and strength of the place seemed to go with her. Again Thornton became restless, and it came back to him that his first aversion to Doris Fletcher was connected with this power of hers to overturn, without effort, his peace of mind and self-esteem. But he had outwitted her in marrying her sister—she had antagonized him but he had won then and would win again now! The fountain irritated and annoyed him. He got up and walked about the room.
"A devilish freakish conception," he muttered, gazing at the fountain and kicking at a rare rug on the floor, "a kind of madness runs through the breed, I wager. Too much blood of one sort gets clogged in the human system." And then he listened.
There were childish voices nearing: sweet, piping voices with little gurgles of laughter rippling through. The laugh of happy, healthy childhood.
"She's bringing them both!" thought Thornton, and an ugly scowl came to his brow. He did not know much about children, knew nothing really, except that they were noisy and usually messy—some were better looking than others; gave promise, and he hoped his child would be handsome; it might help her along, and she would need all the help she could muster. Then he heard Doris instructing the children:
"See, Joan, dear, hold Nan by the hand like a big, strong sister, this is going to be another play. Now listen sharp! When we come to the steps you must stand close together andgive that pretty courtesy that Mary taught you yesterday. Now, darlings—don't forget!"
There are moments and incidents in life that seem out of all proportion to their apparent significance. Thornton waited for what was about to happen as he might have the verdict were he on trial for his life. He was frightened at he knew not what. Would his child look like Meredith? Would she have those eyes that could find his soul and burn it even while they smiled? Would she look like him; find in him some thing that would help him to forget? He looked up. Doris had planned dramatically. She left the babies alone on the top step and came down to Thornton.
"Aren't they wonderful?" she asked in so calm and ordinary a tone that it was startling.
They were wonderful—even a hard, indifferent man could see that. Slim, vigorous little creatures they were with sturdy brown legs showing above socks and broad-toed sandals. Their short white frocks fell in widening line from the shoulders, giving the effect of lightness, winginess. Both children had lovely hair, curly, bobbed to a comfortable length, and their wide, curious eyes fastened instantly upon Thornton—eyes of purple-blue and eyes of hazel-gold; strange eyes, frankly confronting him but disclosing nothing; eyes of utterly strange children; not a familiar feature or expression to guide him.
"I have called them Joan and Nancy," Doris was saying. "You expressed no preference, you know."
"Which is—is—mine?" Thornton whispered the question that somehow made him flush with shame.
"I do not know!" It was whisper meeting whisper.
"You—what?" Thornton turned blazing eyes upon the woman by his side. Her answer did not seem to shock him so much as it revealed what he had suspected—Doris was playing with him, making him absurd by that infernal power of hers that he had all but forgotten. He recalled, too, with keen resentment her ability to transform a tragic incident into one of humour—or the reverse.
"I do not know. I never have known," Doris was saying."You see, I was afraid of heredity if I had to deal with it. Without knowing it I could be just to both children; give them the only possible opportunity to overcome handicaps. I thought they might reveal themselves—but so far they have not. They are adorable."
"This is damnable! Someone shall be made to speak—to suffer—or by God!——"
The words were hardly above a whisper, but the tone frightened the children.
"Auntie Dorrie!" they pleaded, and stretched out entreating arms.
"Come, darlings. The play is over and you did it beautifully."
They ran to her, clambered into her lap, and turned doubting eyes upon Thornton.
"You—expect me to—to—take both?" he asked, still in that low, thick tone.
"Certainly not. One is mine. I shall demand my rights, be quite sure of that."
"This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!" Thornton was at bay; "the most immoral."
"I have often thought that it might be," Doris returned, her lips against Nancy's fair hair, "but the more you consider it the more you are convinced that it is not. It is simply—unusual." The tone defied understanding. "You must consider what I have done, George, step by step. I did not act rashly. And when we come to actual contact with all the truth confronting us, you and I will have to be very frank. May I send the children away? It is time for their nap." Already Doris's finger was pressing the electric button cunningly set in the coping of the fountain.
"Yes, do. There is much to say," Thornton muttered and, not having heard the bell, was startled at seeing the nurse appear at once. He looked up, and Mary looked at him. The girl felt the atmosphere. Thornton made a distinct impression upon her.
Left alone with Doris, Thornton drew his chair close to hers and waited for her to begin.
"Well," he said, "what have you to say? It would seem as if you might have a great deal, Doris."
"I have nothing to say."
"I suppose you did this to humiliate me—defeat me?" Thornton's lips twitched.
"On the contrary, after the first I gave you very little thought, George. I was concerned in making sure the future of Meredith's child."
"Did you forget that she was also mine?"
"I tried to. After a bit, I did—after the identities of the babies became blurred. If you stop to think and are just, you will understand that I took a desperate chance to accomplish the most good to Meredith's child. That is all that seemed to count. Suppose you could claim your child now, would its future be as secure as it would be with me? Have you really the child's interest at heart—you, who left its mother to——"
"The mother—left me! Don't overlook facts, Doris." Thornton's face flamed angrily.
"Yes. In self-defence she left you!" Doris held him with eyes heavy with misery. "I knew everything necessary to know, George, that enabled me to take this step."
"But not enough to make you pause and consider!" A bitterness rang in the words.
"There are some occasions when one cannot, dare not, consider," said Doris.
Thornton got up and paced the room. Suddenly he turned like a man at bay.
"But the inheritance?" he flung out.
"I told you, George, it was the inheritance that forced me to it."
"I mean—" here Thornton's eyes fell—"I mean the money," he stammered.
"I see!" Doris's voice trembled; then she hastened on: "The money you sent, George, has never been touched. I have waited for this hour."
"And your revenge!" muttered Thornton.
"I had not considered it in that light." A deep contemptthrobbed in the words. "When I remember I am not bitter, but I am filled, anew, with a desire to save Meredith's child!"
"At the risk of passing her off as the child of—whom?"
And then Doris smiled—a long, strange smile that burnt its way into Thornton's consciousness.
"It was that doubt that saved, gave hope," she said, and quickly added, "I will tell you all there is to know, and then I request that you spare me another interview until you have come to a decision regarding—your child."
There was pitifully little to tell. A deserted mountain child!
"Who deserted it?" Thornton broke in.
"I did not ask. Sister Angela promised to find a home for it where no one would know of its sad birth—there are people willing to risk that much for a little child. I am!"
"And this—this Sister Angela——" Thornton asked.
"She died the year after."
"And the others?"
"I doubt if they ever knew much, but if they did they forgot—they are like that; besides, I have not heard of them in years."
More and more Thornton realized the hopelessness of personal investigation, and he was not prepared to take outside counsel, certainly not yet.
"The Sisters did fairly well for the outcast in this instance," he sneered, "but we may all have to pay some day. Murder will out, you know!"
"Of course," Doris agreed, wearily; "we all understand that."
"Do you think the children will?" Thornton's eyes were gloomy and grave. "How about the hour when they—know?"
Doris felt the pain in her heart that this possibility always awakened. She raised her glance to the one full of hate and said quietly:
"Who can tell?"
There was a dull pause. Then:
"Well, I guess I have all I want for the present. I'm not out of the game, Doris, just count on me being in it at every deal of the cards. Good-bye—for now."
"Good-bye, George. I will not forget."