So this was Barry Lapelle. This was the wild rake who might yet become his brother-in-law, and whose sprightly enterprise had been frustrated by a woman who had, herself, stolen away in the dark of a far-off night.
As they rode slowly along, side by side, into the thick of the forest, Kenneth found himself studying the lover's face. He looked for the signs of the reckless dissipated life he was supposed to have led,—and found them not. Lapelle's eyes were bright and clear, his skin unblemished, his hand steady, his infrequent smile distinctly engaging. The slight, disdainful twist never left the corner of his mouth, however. It lurked there as a constant reminder to all the world that he, Barry Lapelle, was a devil of a fellow and was proud of it. While he was affable, there was no disguising the fact that he was also condescending. Unquestionably he was arrogant, domineering, even pompous at times, absolutely sure of himself.
He spoke with a slight drawl, in a mellow, agreeable voice, and with meticulous regard for the King's English,—an educated youth who had enjoyed advantages and associations uncommon to young men of the frontier. His untanned face testified to a life of ease and comfort, spent in sheltered places and not in the staining open, where sun and wind laid bronze upon the skin. A lordly fellow, decided Kenneth, and forthwith took a keen dislike for him. Nevertheless, it was not difficult to account for Viola's interest in him; nor, to a certain extent, the folly which led her to undertake the exploit of the night before. Barry Lapelle would have his way with women.
"You come from Kentucky, Mr. Gwynne," Lapelle was saying. "I am from Louisiana. My father came up to St. Louis a few years ago after establishing a line of steamboats between Terre Haute and the gulf. Two of our company's boats come as far north as Lafayette, so I spend considerable of my time there at this season of the year. You will find, sir, a number of Kentucky and Virginia people in this part of the state. Splendid stock, some of them. I understand you have spent several years in the East, at college and in pursuit of your study of the law."
"Principally in New York and Philadelphia," responded the other, subduing a smile. "My fame seems to have preceded me, Mr. Lapelle. Even in remote parts of the country I find my arrival anticipated. The farmer with whom I spent the night was thoroughly familiar with my affairs."
"You are an object of interest to every one in this section," said Lapelle, indifferently. "Where did you spend the night?"
"At the farm of a man named Striker,—Phineas Striker."
Lapelle started. His body appeared to stiffen in the saddle.
"Phineas Striker?" he exclaimed, with a swift, searching look into the speaker's eyes. Suddenly a flush mantled his cheek. "You were at Phineas Striker's last night?"
"Yes. We had lost our way and came to his place just before the storm," said Kenneth, watching his companion narrowly. Lapelle's face was a study. Doubt, indecision, even dismay, were expressed in swift succession.
"Then you must have met,—but no, it isn't likely," he said, in some confusion.
Kenneth hesitated a moment, enjoying the other's discomfiture. Then he said: "I met no one there except my sister, who also happened to be spending the night with the Strikers."
The colour faded from Lapelle's face, leaving it a sickly white. "Were you in any way responsible for—well, for her departure, Mr. Gwynne?" he demanded, his eyes flaming with swift, sudden anger.
"I was not aware of her departure until I arose this morning, Mr. Lapelle. Striker informed me that she went away before sunrise."
For a moment Lapelle glared at him suspiciously, and then gave vent to a short, contemptuous laugh.
"A thousand apologies," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I might have known you would not be consulted."
"I never laid eyes on my half-sister until last night," said Kenneth, determined to hold his temper. "It is not likely that she would have asked the advice of a total stranger, is it? Especially in so simple a matter as going home when she felt like it."
Lapelle shrugged his shoulders again. "I quite forgot that you are a lawyer, Mr. Gwynne," he said, drily. "Is it your purpose to hang out your shingle in the town of Lafayette?"
"My plans are indefinite."
"You could do worse, I assure you. The town is bound to grow. It will be an important town in a very few years." And so the subject uppermost in the minds of both was summarily dismissed.
They came at last to the point where a road branched off to the right. The stillness was intense. There was no sign of either human or animal life in the depths of this wide, primeval forest.
"Follow this road," said Lapelle, pointing straight ahead. "It will take you into the town. You will find the bridge over Durkee's Run somewhat shaky after the rain, but it is safe. I must leave you here. I shall no doubt see you at Johnson's Inn, in case you intend to stop there. Good morning, sir."
He lifted his hat and, touching the spirited mare with the gad, rode swiftly away. A few hundred feet ahead he overtook his mud-spattered friend and the two of them were soon lost to sight among the trees.
Kenneth fell into profound cogitation. Evidently Lapelle had waited at the edge of the forest for a report of some description from the farmhouse belonging to Rachel Carter. In all probability Viola was still at the farm with her mother, and either she had sent a message to her lover or had received one from him. Or, it was possible, Lapelle had despatched his man to the farmhouse to ascertain whether the girl was there, or had been hurried on into the town by her mother. In any case, the disgruntled lover was not content to acknowledge himself thwarted or even discouraged by the miscarriage of his plans of the night just ended. Kenneth found himself wondering if the incomprehensible Viola would prove herself to be equally determined. If so, they would triumph over opposition and be married, whether or no. He was conscious of an astounding, almost unbelievable desire to stand with Rachel Carter in her hour of trouble.
His thoughts went back, as they had done more than once that morning, to Viola's artful account of his own father. He had felt sorry for her during and after the recital and now, with the truth revealed to him, he was even more concerned than before,—for he saw unhappiness ahead of her if she married this fellow Lapelle. He went even farther back and recalled his own caustic opinions of certain young rakes he had known in the East, wherein he had invariably asseverated that if he "had a sister he would sooner see her dead than married to that rascal." Well,—here he was with a sister,—and what was he to do about it?
Zachariah, observing the dark frown upon his master's face, and receiving no answer to a thrice repeated question, fell silent except for the almost inaudible hymn with which he invited consolation.
From afar in the thick wood now came the occasional report of a gun, proof that hunters were abroad. Many times Kenneth was roused from his reverie by the boom and whiz of pheasants, or the ring of a woodman's axe, or the lively scurrying of ground squirrels across his path. They forded three creeks before emerging upon a boggy, open space, covered with a mass of flattened, wind-broken reeds and swamp grass, in the centre of which lay a wide, still bayou partially fringed by willows with the first sickly signs of spring upon them in the shape of timid mole-ear leaves. Beyond the bridge over the canal-like stream which fed the bayou was a ridge of hills along whose base the road wound with tortuous indecision.
The first log cabin they had seen since entering the wood nestled among the scrub oaks of the hill hard by. The front wall of the hut was literally covered with the pegged-up skins of foxes, raccoons and what were described to Kenneth as the hides of "linxes," but which, in reality, were from the catamount. A tall, bewhiskered man, smoking a corncob pipe, leaned upon the rail fence, regarding the strangers with lazy interest.
Kenneth drew rein and inquired how far it was to Lafayette.
"'Bout two mile an' a half," replied the man. "My name is Stain, Isaac Stain. I reckon you must be Mister Kenneth Gwynne. I heerd you'd be along this way some time this mornin'."
"I suppose Mr. Lapelle informed you that I was coming along behind," said Kenneth, smiling.
"'Twuzn't Barry Lapelle as told me. I hain't seen him to-day."
"Didn't he pass here within the hour?"
"Nope," was the laconic response.
"I met him back along the road. He was coming this way."
"Must 'a' changed his mind."
"He probably took another road."
"There hain't no other road. I reckon he turned off into the wood an' 'lowed you to pass," said Mr. Stain slowly.
"But he was in great haste to reach town. He may have passed when you were not—"
"He didn't pass this place unless he was astraddle of an eagle er somethin' like that," declared the other, grinning. "An' even then he'd have to be flyin' purty doggone high ef I couldn't see him. Nope. I guess he took to the woods, Mr. Gwynne, for one reason er 'nother,—an' it must ha' been a mighty good reason, 'cause from what I know about Barry Lapelle he allus knows which way he's goin' to leap long before he leaps. He's sorter like a painter in that way."
Kenneth, knowing that he meant panther when he said painter, was properly impressed.
"It is very strange," he said, frowning. It was suddenly revealed to him that if Lapelle had tricked him it was because the messenger had brought word from Viola, at the farmhouse, and that the baffled lovers might even now be laying fresh plans to outwit the girl's mother. This fear was instantly dissipated by the next remark of Isaac Stain.
"Nope. It wuzn't him that told me about you, pardner. It wuz Violy Gwyn. She went by here with her ma, jes' as I wuz startin' off to look at my traps,—'long about seven o'clock, I reckon,—headed for town. She sez to me, sez she: 'Ike, there'll be a young man an' a darkey boy come ridin' this way some time this forenoon an' I want you to give him a message for me.' 'With pleasure,' sez I; 'anything you ask,' sez I. 'Well,' sez she, 'it's this. Fust you ask him ef his name is Kenneth Gwynne, an 'ef he sez it is, then you look an' see ef he is a tall feller an' very good-lookin', without a beard, an' wearin' a blue cape, an' when you see that he answers that description, why, you tell him to come an' see me as soon as he gits to town. Tell him it's very important.' 'All right,' sez I, 'I'll tell him.'"
"Where was her mother all this time?"
"Settin' right there in the buggy beside her, holdin' the reins. Where else would she be?"
"Did she say anything about my coming to see her daughter?"
"Nope. She never said anythin' 'cept 'Good mornin', Ike,' an' I sez 'Good mornin', Mrs. Gwyn.' She don't talk much, she don't. You see, she's in mournin' fer her husband. I guess he wuz your pa, wuzn't he?"
"Yes," said Kenneth briefly. "Was there anything else?"
"Nothin' to amount to anything. Violy sez, 'When did you get the linx skins, Ike?' an' I sez, 'Last Friday, Miss Violy,' an' she sez, 'Ain't they beautiful?' an' I sez—"
"She wants me to come to her house?" broke in Kenneth, his brow darkening.
"I reckon so."
"Well, I thank you, Mr. Stain. You are very kind to have waited so long for me to arrive. I—"
"Oh, I'd do a whole lot more'n that fer her," said the hunter quickly. "You see, I've knowed her ever since she wuz knee-high to a duck. She wuzn't more'n five or six when I brung her an' her folks up the Wabash in my perogue, all the way from Vincennes, an' it wuz me that took her down to St. Louis when she went off to school—her an' some friends of her pa's. Skinny, gangling sort of a young 'un she wuz, but let me tell you, as purty as a picter. I allus said she'd be the purtiest woman in all creation when she got her growth an' filled out, an', by hokey, I wuz right. Yes, sir, I used to run a boat on the river down below, but I give it up quite awhile ago an' come up here to live like a gentleman." He waved his hand proudly over his acre and a half estate. "I wuz talkin' to Bill Digby not long ago an' he sez this is a wonderful location for a town, right here at the fork of two o' the best fishin' cricks in the state. An' Bill he'd ort to know, 'cause he's laid out more towns than anybody I know of. The only trouble with Bill is that as soon as he lays 'em out somebody comes along an' offers him a hundred dollars er so fer 'em, er a team of hosses, er a good coon dog, an' he up an' sells. Now, with me, I—Got to be movin' along, have you? Well, good-bye, an' be a little keerful when you come to Durkee's Run bridge. It's kinder wobbly."
They were fording a creek some distance beyond Stain's cabin when Kenneth broke the silence that had followed the conversation with the hunter by exploding violently:
"Under no circumstances,—and that's all there is to it."
Zachariah, ever ready to seize an opportunity to raise his voice, either in expostulation or agreement, took this as a generous opening. He exclaimed with commendable feeling:
"Yas, suh! Undeh no suckemstances! No, suh!"
"It is not even to be thought of," declared his master, frowning heavily.
"No, suh! We can't even think about it, Marse Kenneth," said Zachariah, a trifle less decisively.
"So that is the end of it,—absolutely the end."
"Dat's what Ah say,—yas, suh, dat's what Ah say all along, suh!"
His master suddenly turned upon him. "I cannot go to that woman's house. It is unthinkable, Zachariah."
Zachariah began to see light. "Yo' all got to be mighty car'ful 'bout dese yere strange women, Marse Kenneth. Don' you forget what done happen in 'at ole Garden of Eden. Dis yere old Eve, she—"
"Still I am greatly relieved to know that she is in town and not out on the farm. It is a relief, isn't it, Zachariah?"
"Yas, suh,—hit sho'ly am."
They progressed slowly up a long hill and came to an extensive clearing, over which perhaps half a dozen farmhouses were scattered. Beyond this open space they entered a narrow strip of wood and, upon emerging, had their first glimpse of the Wabash River.
Stopping at the brow of the hill, they looked long and curiously over the valley into which they were about to descend. The panorama was magnificent. To the left flowed the swollen, turgid river, high among the willows and sycamores that guarded the low-lying bank. Far to the north it could be seen, a clayish, ugly monster, crawling down through the heart of the bowl-like depression. Mile after mile of sparsely wooded country lay revealed to the gaze of the travellers, sunken between densely covered ridges, one on either side of the river. Half a mile beyond where they stood feathery blue plumes of smoke rose out of the tree tops and, dispersing, floated away on the breeze,—and there lay the town of Lafayette, completely hidden from view.
The road wound down the hill and across a clumsily constructed bridge spanning the Run and thence along the flat shelf that rimmed the bottom-land, through a maze of wild plum and hazel brush squatting, as it were, at the feet of the towering forest giants that covered the hills.
Presently the travellers came upon widely separated cabins and gardens, and then, after passing through a lofty grove, found themselves entering the town itself. Signs of life and enterprise greeted them from all sides. Here, there and everywhere houses were in process of erection,—log-cabins, frame structures, and even an occasional brick dwelling-place. Turning into what appeared to be a well-travelled road,—(he afterwards found it to be Wabash Street), Kenneth came in the course of a few minutes to the centre of the town. Here was the little brick courthouse and the jail, standing in the middle of a square which still contained the stumps of many of the trees that originally had flourished there. At the southwest corner of the square was the tavern, a long story and a half log house,—and it was a welcome sight to Gwynne and his servant, both of whom were ravenously hungry by this time.
The former observed, with considerable satisfaction, that there were quite a number of substantial looking buildings about the square, mostly stores, all of them with hitching-racks along the edge of the dirt sidewalks. As far as the eye could reach, in every direction, the muddy streets were lined with trees.
Half a dozen men were standing in front of the tavern when the newcomers rode up. Kenneth dismounted and threw the reins to his servant. Landlord Johnson hurried out to greet him.
"We've been expecting you, Mr. Gwynne," he said in his most genial manner. "Step right in. Dinner'll soon be ready, and I reckon you must be hungry. Take the hosses around to the stable, nigger, and put 'em up. I allowed you'd be delayed some by the bad roads, but I guess you must have got a late start this mornin' from Phin Striker's. Mrs.—er—ahem! I mean your step-mother sent word that you were on the way and to have accommodations ready for you. Say, I'd like to make you acquainted with—"
"My step-mother sent word to you?" demanded Kenneth, incredulously.
"She did. What would you expect her to do, long as she knew you were headed this way? I admit she isn't specially given to worryin' about other people's comforts, but, when you get right down to it, I guess she considers you a sort of connection of hers, spite of everything, and so she lays herself out a little. But I want to tell you one thing, Mr. Gwynne, you're not going to find her particularly cordial, as the sayin' is. She's about as stand-offish and unneighbourly as a Kickapoo Indian. But, as I was sayin', I'd like to make you acquainted with some of our leadin' citizens. This is Daniel Bugher, the recorder, and Doctor Davis, Matt Scudder, Tom Benbridge and John McCormick. It was moved and seconded, soon as you heaved in sight, that we repair at once to Sol Hamer's grocery for a little—"
"Excuse me," broke in Kenneth, laughing; "I have heard of that grocery, and I think it would be wise for me to become a little better acquainted with my surroundings before I begin trading there."
The landlord rubbed his chin and the other gentlemen laughed uproariously.
"Well," said the former, "I can see one thing mighty plain. You're going to be popular with my wife and all the other women in town. They'll point to you and say to practically nine-tenths of the married men in Lafayette: 'There's a man that don't drink, and goodness knows HE isn't a preacher!'"
"I am hardly what you would call a teetotaler, gentlemen," said Gwynne, still smiling.
"Wait till you get down with a spell of the Wabash shakes," said Mr. McCormick. "That'll make a new man of him, won't it, Doc?"
"Depends somewhat on his constitution and the way he was brought up," said the doctor, with a professional frown which slowly relaxed into an unprofessional smile.
"I was brought up by my grandmother," explained Kenneth, vastly amused.
"That settles it," groaned Mr. Johnson. "You're not long for this world. Before we go in I wish you'd take a look at the new courthouse. We're mighty proud of that building. There isn't a finer courthouse in the state of Indiana,—or maybe I'd better say there won't be if it's ever finished." "I noticed it as I came by," said the newcomer, dismissing the structure with a glance. "If you will conduct me to my room, Mr. Johnson, I—"
"Just a second," broke in the landlord, his gaze fixed on a horseman who had turned into the street some distance below. "Here comes Barry Lapelle,—down there by that clump of sugar trees. He's the most elegant fellow we've got in town, and you'll want to know him. Makes Lafayette his headquarters most of the—"
"I have met Mr. Lapelle," interrupted Kenneth. "This morning, out in the country."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Johnson. The citizens exchanged a general look of surprise.
"Thought you said he went down the river on yesterday's boat," said Scudder.
"That's just what he did," said Johnson, puzzled. "Packed some of his things and said he'd be gone a week or so. He must have got off at Attica,—but, no, he couldn't have got here this soon by road. By glory, I hope the boat didn't strike a snag or a rock, or run ashore somewhere. Looks kind of serious, boys."
"Couldn't he have landed almost anywhere in a skiff?" inquired Gwynne, his eyes on the approaching horseman.
"Certainly he could,—but why? He had business down at Covington, he said."
"He told me this morning he had very important business here. That is why he could not ride in with me," said Kenneth, affecting indifference. "By the way, is he riding his own horse?"
"Yes," said Benbridge. "That's his mare Fancy,—thoroughbred filly by King Philip out of Shawnee Belle. He sent her down to Joe Fell's to stud yesterday and—Say, that accounts for him being on her now. You made a good guess, Mr. Gwynne. He must have landed at La Grange, rowed across the river, and hoofed it up to Fell's farm. But what do you suppose made him change his mind so suddenly?"
"He'll probably tell you to go to thunder if you ask him," said the landlord.
"I'm not going to ask him anything," retorted Benbridge.
"He's working tooth and nail against the Wabash and Erie Canal that's projected to run from Lake Erie to the mouth of the Tippecanoe, Mr. Gwynne," said one of the citizens. "But it's coming through in spite of him and all the rest of the river hogs."
"I see," said the young man, a grim smile playing about his lips.
He knew that the mare Fancy had been in waiting for her master when he clambered ashore on the river bank opposite La Grange, and he also suspected that the little steamboat had remained tied up at the landing all night long and well into the morning, expecting two passengers who failed to come aboard. He could not suppress a chuckle of satisfaction.
Lapelle rode up at this instant and, throwing the bridle rein to a boy who had come running up from the stable, dismounted quickly. He came straight to Gwynne, smiling cordially.
"I see you beat me in. After we parted I decided to cut through the woods to have a look at Jack Moxley's keel boat, stuck in the mud on this side of the river. You'd think the blame fool would have sense enough to keep well out in mid stream at a time like this. Happy to have you here with us, and I hope you will like us well enough to stay."
"Thank you. I shall like you all better after I have had something to eat," said Kenneth.
"And drink," added Lapelle. It was then that Kenneth noticed that his eyes were slightly blurred and his voice a trifle thick. He had been drinking.
"What turned you back, Barry?" inquired McCormick. "Thought you were to be gone a week or—"
"Changed my mind," said Lapelle curtly, and then, apparently on second thought, added: "I got off the boat at La Grange and crossed over to spend the night at Martin Hawk's, the man you saw with me this morning, Mr. Gwynne. He is a hunter down Middleton way. I fish and hunt with him a good deal. Well, I reckon I'd better go in and get out of these muddy boots and pants."
Without another word, he strode up the steps, across the porch and into the tavern, his head high, his gait noticeably unsteady.
"Martin Hawk!" growled the landlord. "The orneriest cuss this side of hell. Plain no-good scalawag. Barry'll find it out some day, and then maybe he'll wish he had paid some attention to what I've been tellin' him."
"Wouldn't surprise me a bit if Mart knows a whole lot more about what became of some mighty good yearlin' colts that used to belong to honest men down on the Wea," said one of the group, darkly.
"I wouldn't trust Mart Hawk as far as I could throw a thousand pound rock," observed Mr. Johnson, compressing his lips. "Well, come on in, Mr. Gwynne, and slick up a bit. The dinner bell will be ringin' in a few minutes, and I want you to meet the cook before you risk eatin' any of her victuals. My wife's the cook, so you needn't look scared. Governor Noble almost died of over-feedin' the last time he was here,—but that wasn't her fault. And my daughters, big and little, seem anxious to get acquainted with the celebrated Kenneth Gwynne. People have been talkin' so much about you for the last six months that nearly everybody calls you by your first name, and Jim Crouch's wife is so taken with it that she has made up her mind to call her baby Kenneth,—that is, providing nature does the right thing. Next week some time, ain't it, Doc?"
"That's what most everybody in town says, Bob," replied the doctor solemnly, "so I guess it must be true."
"We begin counting the inhabitants of the town as far as a month ahead sometimes," explained Mr. McCormick drily. "I don't know as we've been out of the way more than a day or a day-and-a-half on any baby that's been born here in the last two years. Hope to see you in my store down there, Mr. Gwynne—any time you're passing that way. You can't miss it. It's just across the street from that white frame building with the green stripes running criss-cross on the front door,—Joe Hanna's store."
"Robert Gwyn's son is always welcome at my store and my home," said another cordially. "We didn't know till last fall that he had a son, and—well, I hope you don't mind my saying we couldn't believe it at first."
"You spell the name different from the way he spelled it," answered Bugher, the recorder. "I noticed it in your letters, and it struck me as queer."
"My father appears to have reverted to the original way of spelling the name," said Kenneth, from the upper step. "My forebears were Welsh, you see. The manner of spelling it was changed when they came to America, over a hundred years ago."
His bedroom was in the small wing off the dining-room. Its one window looked out upon the courthouse, the view being somewhat restricted by the presence of a pair of low-branched oak trees in the side-yard, almost within arm's length of the wall,—they were so close, in fact, that their limbs stretched out over the rough shingle roof, producing in the wind an everlasting sound of scratching and scraping. There was a huge four-poster feather bed of mountainous proportions, leaving the occupant scant space in which to move about the room.
"Last people to occupy this room," said Mr. Johnson, standing in the doorway, "were George Ripley and Edna Cole, three weeks ago last night. They came in from the Grand Prairie and only stayed the one night. Had to get back to the farm next day on account of it bein' wash-day. I guess I forgot to say they were on their weddin'-trip. Generally speaking, it takes about three years for people to get over callin' a girl by her maiden name,—so you needn't think there was anything wrong about George and Edna stayin' here. I wish you could have been here to drive out to the infare at her pa's house two nights after the weddin'. It was the biggest ever held on that side of the river,—and as for the shiveree,—my Lord, it WAS something to talk about. Tin cans, cowbells, shot-guns, tenor-drums,—but I'm keeping you, Mr. Gwynne. You'll find water in that jug over there, and a towel by the lookin' glass. Come out when you're ready."
When Kenneth returned to the dining-room, he found Johnson waiting there with his wife and two of his comely daughters. They were presented to the new guest with due informality, and then the landlord went out upon the front porch to ring the dinner-bell.
"I guess you won't be stayin' here long, Mr. Gwynne," said Mrs. Johnson. "Your mother,—I should say, your step-mother,—has got your house all ready for you to move right in. Job Turner moved out last week, and she took some of the furniture and things over so's you could be sort of at home right away." Observing his start, and the sudden tightening of his lips, she went on complacently: "'Twasn't much trouble for her. Your house isn't more than fifty yards from hers,—just across lots, you might say. She—"
Kenneth, forgetting himself in his agitation, interrupted her with the startling question:
"Where does Rachel Carter live?"
"Rachel who?"
He collected his wits, stammering:
"I believe that was her name before she—before she married my father."
"Oh, I see. Her name is Rachel, of course. Well, her house is up Columbia street,—that's the one on the other side of the square,—almost to the hill where Isaac Edwards has his brickyard, just this side of the swamp."
After dinner, which was eaten at a long table in company with eight or ten "customers," to whom he was introduced by the genial host, he repaired to the office of Recorder Bugher.
"Everything's in good shape," announced Bugher. "There ain't a claim against the property, now that Mrs. Gwyn has given up her idea of contesting the will. The property is in your name now, Mr. Gwynne,—and that reminds me that your father, in his will, spells your name with a double n and an e, while he spells hers with only one n. He took into consideration the fact that you spelled your name in the new-fangled way, as you say he used to spell it in Kentucky. And that also accounts for his signing the will 'Robert Gwyn, formerly known as Robert Gwynne.' It's legal, all right, properly witnessed and attested by two reliable men of this county."
"I have seen a copy of the will."
"Another queer thing about it is that he bequeathed certain property to you as 'my son, Kenneth Gwynne,'—while he fails to mention his daughter Viola at all, except to say that he bequeaths so-and-so to 'Rachel Gwyn, to give, bequeath and devise as she sees fit.' Of course, Viola, by law, is entitled to a share of the estate and it should have been so designated. Judge Wylie says she can contest the will if she so desires, on the ground that she is entitled to as much as you, Mr. Gwynne. But she has decided to let it stand as it is, and I guess she's sensible. All that her mother now has will go to her when said Rachel dies, and as it will be a full half of the estate instead of what might have been only a third, I guess she's had pretty good advice from some one."
"The fact that my half-sister was not mentioned in the will naturally led me to conclude that no such person existed. I did not know till this morning, Mr. Bugher, that I had a half-sister."
"Well," began the recorder, pursing his lips, "for that matter she didn't know she had a half-brother till the will was read, so she was almost as ignorant as you."
"It's all very strange,—exceedingly strange."
"When did your own mother die, if it's a fair question?"
"In the year 1812. My father was away when she died."
"Off to the war, I suppose."
"Yes," said the young man steadily. "Off to the war," he lied, still staring out of the window. "I was left with my grandparents when he went off to make his fortune in this new country. It was not until I was fairly well grown that we heard that he was married to a woman named Rachel Carter."
"Well, I guess it's something you don't like to talk about," said Mr. Bugher, and turned his attention to the records they were consulting.
Later the young man called at the office of Mr. Cornell, the lawyer who had charge of his affairs. He had come to Lafayette prepared to denounce Rachel Carter, to drive her in shame and disgrace from the town, if necessary. Now he found himself confronted by a condition that distressed and perplexed him; his bitter resolve was rudely shaken and he was in a dire state of uncertainty. He was faced by a most unexpected and staggering situation.
To denounce Rachel Carter would be to deliberately strike a cruel, devastating blow at the happiness and peace of an innocent person,—Viola Gwyn, his own half-sister. A word from him, and that lovely girl, serene in her beliefs, would be crushed for life. The whole scheme of life had been changed for him in the twinkling of an eye, as it were. He could not wreak vengeance upon Rachel Carter without destroying Viola Gwyn,—and the mere thought of that caused him to turn cold with repugnance. How could he publish Rachel Carter's infamy to the world with that innocent girl standing beside her to receive and sustain the worst of the shock? Impossible! Viola must be spared,—and so with her, Rachel Carter!
Then there was the strange message he had received from Viola, through the hunter, Stain. What was back of the earnest request for him to come and see her at her mother's house? Was she in trouble? Was she in need of his help? Was she depending upon him, her blood relation, for counsel in an hour of duress? He was sadly beset by conflicting emotions.
In the course of his interview with the lawyer, from whom he had decided to withhold much that he had meant to divulge, he took occasion to inquire into the present attitude of Rachel Carter,—or Gwyn, as he reluctantly spoke of her,—toward him, an open and admitted antagonist.
"Well," said Cornell, shaking his head, "I don't believe you will catch her asking any favours of you. She has laid down her arms, so to speak, but that doesn't mean she intends to be friendly. As a matter of fact, she simply accepts the situation,—with very bad grace, of course,—but she'll never be able to alter her nature or her feelings. She considers herself cheated, and that's all there is to it. I doubt very much whether she will even speak to you, Mr. Gwynne. She is a strange woman, and a hard one to understand. She fought desperately against your coming here at all. One of her propositions was that she should be allowed to buy your share of the estate, if such a transaction could be arranged, you will remember. You declined to consider it. This was after she withdrew her proposed contest of the will. Then she got certain Crawfordsville men interested in the purchase of your land, and they made you a bona fide offer,—I think they offered more than the property is worth, by the way. I think, back of everything, she could not bear the thought of you, the son of a former wife, living next door to her. Jealousy, I suppose,—but not unnatural, after all, in a second wife, is it? They're usually pretty cantankerous when it comes to the first wife's children. As regards her present attitude, I think she'll let you alone if you let her alone."
"My sister has asked me to come up to the house to see her this afternoon," said Kenneth.
The lawyer looked surprised. "Is that so? Well," with a puzzled frown, "I don't quite understand how she came to do that. I was under the impression that she felt about as bitterly toward you as her mother does. In fact, she has said some rather nasty things about you. Boasted to more than one of her friends that she would slap your face if you ever tried to speak to her."
Kenneth smiled, a reminiscent light in his eyes. "She has done so, figuratively speaking, Mr. Cornell. I am confident she hates me,—but if that's the case, why should she leave word for me to come and see her?"
"Experience has taught me that women have a very definite object in view when they let on as if they had changed their minds," was the judicial opinion of Mr. Cornell. "Maybe they don't realize it, but they are as wily as the devil when they think, and you think, and everybody else thinks, they're behaving like an angel. It's not for me to say whether you should go to see her or not, but I believe I would if I were in your place. Maybe she has made up her mind to be friendly, on the surface at least, and as you are bound to meet each other at people's houses, parties, and all such, perhaps it would be better to bury the hatchet. I think you will be quite safe in going up there to-day, so far as Mrs. Gwyn is concerned. She will not appear on the scene, I am confident. You will not come in contact with her. You say that she has put some of her furniture at your disposal, but she doubtless did so on the advice of her lawyer. You must not forget that your father, in his will, left half of his personal effects to you. She is just smart enough to select in advance the part that she is willing for you to have, feeling that you will not be captious about it."
"I have no desire to exact anything of—"
"Quite so, quite so," broke in the lawyer. "But she could not be expected to know that. She is a long-headed woman, Mr. Gwynne. I suspect she is considerably worried about Viola. Your half-sister is being rather assiduously courted by a young man named Lapelle. Mrs. Gwyn does not approve of him. She is strait-laced and—er—puritanical."
"Puritanical, eh?" said Kenneth, with a short laugh that Mr. Cornell totally misinterpreted.
"Barry isn't exactly what you would call sanctimonious," admitted the lawyer, with a dry smile. "The worst of it is, I'm afraid Viola is in love with him."
His client was silent for a moment, reflecting. Then he arose abruptly and announced:
"I agree with you, Mr. Cornell. I will go up to see her this afternoon. I bear her no grudge,—and after all, she is my sister. Good day, sir. I shall give myself the pleasure of calling in to see you to-morrow."
Kenneth strolled about the town for awhile before returning to the tavern to shave, change his boots, and "smarten" himself up a bit in preparation for the ceremonious call he had dreaded to make. On all sides he encountered the friendliest interest and civility from the townspeople. The news of his arrival had spread over the place with incredible swiftness. Scores of absolute strangers turned to him and tendered to him the welcome to be found in a broad and friendly smile.
Shortly after three o'clock he set forth upon his new adventure. Assailed by a strange and unaccustomed timidity,—he would have called it bashfulness had Viola been other than his sister—he approached the young lady's home by the longest and most round-about way, a course which caused him to make the complete circuit of the three-acre pond situated a short distance above the public square—a shallow body of water dignified during the wet season of the year by the high-sounding title of "Lake Stansbury," but spoken of scornfully as the "slough" after the summer's sun had reduced its surface to a few scattered wallows, foul and green with scum. It was now full of water and presented quite an imposing appearance to the new citizen as he skirted its brush-covered banks; in his ignorance he was counting the probability of one day building a handsome home on the edge of this tiny lake.
A man working in a garden pointed out to him Mrs. Gwyn's house half-hidden among the trees at the foot of a small slope.
"That other house, a couple of hundred foot further on,—you can just see it from here,—well, that belonged to Robert Gwyn. I understand his long-lost son is comin' to live in it one of these days. They say this boy when he was a baby was stolen by the Injins and never heard of ag'in until a few months ago. Lived with the Injins right up to the time he was found and couldn't speak a word of English. I have heard that he—what are ye laughin' at, mister?"
"I was laughing at the thought of how surprised you are going to be some day, my friend. Thank you. The house with the green window blinds, you say?"
He proceeded first to the house that was to be his home. It was a good stone's throw from the pretentious two-story frame structure in which Rachel Carter and her daughter lived, but nearer the centre of the town when approached by a more direct route than he had followed. This smaller house, an insignificant, weather-beaten story and a half frame, snuggling among the underbrush, was where his father had lived when he first came to Lafayette. Later on he had erected the larger house and moved into it with his family, renting the older place to a man named Turner.
It was faced by a crudely constructed picket fence, once white but now mottled with scales of dirty sun-blistered paint, and inside the fence rank weeds, burdocks and wild grass flourished without hindrance. He strode up the narrow path to the low front door. Finding it unlocked, he opened it and stepped into the low, roughly plastered sitting-room. The window blinds were open, permitting light and air to enter, and while the room was comparatively bare, there was ample evidence that it had been made ready for occupancy by a hand which, though niggardly, was well trained in the art of making a little go a long way. The bedroom and the kitchen were in order. There were rag carpets on the floors, and the place was immaculately clean. A narrow, enclosed stairway ran from the end of the sitting-room to the attic, where he discovered a bed for his servant. Out at the back was the stable and a wagonshed. These he did not inspect. A high rail fence stretched between the two yards.
As he walked up the path to the front door of the new house, he was wondering how Viola Gwyn would look in her garb of black,—the hated black she had cast aside for one night only. He was oppressed by a dull, cold fear, assuaged to some extent by the thrill of excitement which attended the adventure. What was he to do or say if the door was opened by Rachel Carter? His jaw was set, the palms of his hands were moist, and there was a strange, tight feeling about his chest, as if his lungs were full and could not be emptied. After a moment's hesitation, he rapped firmly on the door with his bare knuckles.
The door was opened by a young coloured woman who wore a blue sunbonnet and carried a red shawl over her arm.
"Is Miss Viola at home?" he inquired.
"Is dis Mistah Gwynne, suh?"
"Yes."
"Come right in, suh, an' set down."
He entered a small box of a hallway, opening upon a steep set of stairs.
"Right in heah, suh," said the girl, throwing open a door at his left.
As he walked into this room, he heard the servant shuffling up the staircase. He deposited his hat and gloves on a small marble-top table in the centre of the room and then sent a swift look of investigation about him. Logs were smouldering in the deep, wide fireplace at the far end of the room, giving out little spurts of flame occasionally from their charred, ash-grey skeletons. The floor was covered with a bright, new rag carpet, and there was a horse-hair sofa in the corner, and two or three stiff, round-backed little chairs, the seats also covered with black horse-hair. A thick, gilt-decorated Holy Bible lay in the centre of the marble-top table, shamed now by contact with the crown of his unsaintly hat. On the mantel stood a large, flat mahogany clock with floral decorations and a broad, white face with vivid black numerals and long black hands. The walls were covered with a gaudy but expensive paper, in which huge, indescribable red flowers mingled regularly with glaring green leaves. Two "mottoes," worked in red and blue worsted and framed with narrow cross-pieces of oak, hung suspended in the corners beside the fireplace. One of them read "God Bless Our Home," the other a sombre line done in black: "Faith, Hope and Charity."
Three black oval oak frames, laden with stiff leaves that glistened under a coat of varnish, contained faded, unlovely portraits,—one of a bewhiskered man wearing a tall beaver hat and a stiff black stock: another of a sloping-shouldered woman with a bonnet, from which a face, vague and indistinct, sought vainly to emerge. The third contained a mass of dry, brown leaves, some wisps of straw, and a few colourless pressed blossoms. On a table in front of one of the two windows stood a spindling Dutch lamp of white and delft blue, with a long, narrow chimney. There were two candlesticks on the mantel.
All these features of the room he took in while he stood beside the centre table, awaiting the entrance of Viola Gwyn. He heard a door open softly and close upstairs, and then some one descending the steps; a few words spoken in the subdued voice of a woman and the less gentle response of the darky servant, who mumbled "Yas'm," and an instant later went out by the front door. Through the window he saw her go down the walk, the red shawl drawn tightly about her shoulders.
He smiled. The clever Viola getting rid of the servant so that she could be alone with him, he thought, as he turned toward the door.
A tall woman in black appeared in the doorway, paused there for a second or two, and then advanced slowly into the room. He felt the blood rush to his head, almost blinding him. His hand went out for the support of the table, his body stiffened and suddenly turned cold. The smile with which he intended to greet Viola froze on his lips.
"God Al—" started to ooze from his stiff lips, but the words broke off sharply as the woman stopped a few steps away and regarded him steadily, silently, unsmilingly. He stood there like a statue staring into the dark, brilliant eyes, sunken deep under the straight black eyebrows. Even in the uncertain light from the curtained windows he could see that her face was absolutely colourless,—the pallor of death seemed to have been laid upon it. Swiftly she lifted a hand to her throat, her eyes closed for a second and then flew wide open again, now filled with an expression of utter bewilderment.
"Is it—is it you, Robert? Is it really you, or am I—" she murmured, scarcely above a whisper. Once more she closed her eyes, tightly; as if to shut out the vision of a ghost,—an unreal thing that would not be there when she looked again.
The sound of her voice released him from the brief spell of stupefaction.
"I know you. I remember you. You are Rachel Carter," he said hoarsely.
She was staring at him as if fascinated. Her lips moved, but no sound issued from them.
He hesitated for an instant and then turned to pick up his hat and gloves. "I came to see your daughter, madame,—as well you know. Permit me to take my departure."
"You are so like your—" she began with an effort, her voice deep and low with emotion. "So like him I—I was frightened. I thought he had—" She broke off abruptly, lowered her head in an attempt to hide from him the trembling lips and chin, and to regain, if possible, the composure that had been so desperately shaken. "Wait!" she cried, stridently. "Wait! Do not go away. Give me time to—to—"
"There is no need for us to prolong—" he began in a harsh voice.
"I will not keep you long," she interrupted, every trace of emotion vanishing like a shadow that has passed. She was facing him now, her head erect, her voice steady. Her dark, cavernous eyes were upon him; he experienced an odd, indescribable sensation,—as of shrinking,—and without being fully aware of what he was doing, replaced his hat upon the table, an act which signified involuntary surrender on his part.
"Where is Viola?" he demanded sternly. "She left word for me to come here. Where is she?"
"She is not here," said the woman.
He started. "You don't mean she has—has gone away with—"
"No. She has gone over to spend the afternoon with Effie Wardlow. I will be frank with you. This is not the time for misunderstanding. She asked Isaac Stain to give you that message at my request,—or command, if you want the truth. I sent her away because what I have to say to you must be said in private. There is no one in the house besides ourselves. Will you do me the favour to be seated? Very well; we will stand."
She turned away to close the hall door. Then she walked to one of the windows and, drawing the curtain aside, swept the yard and adjacent roadway with a long, searching look.
The strong light fell full upon her face; its warmth seemed suddenly to paint the glow of life upon her pallid skin. He gazed at her intently. Out of the past there came to him with startling vividness the face of the Rachel Carter he had known. Despite the fact that she was now an old woman,—he knew that she must be at least forty-six or -seven,—she was still remarkably handsome. She was very tall, deep-chested, and as straight as an arrow. Her smoothly brushed hair was as black as the raven's wing. Time and the toil of long, hard hours had brought deep furrows to her cheeks, like lines chiselled in a face of marble, but they had not broken the magnificent body of the Rachel Carter who used to toss him joyously into the air with her strong young arms and sure hands. But there was left no sign of the broad, rollicking smile that always attended those gay rompings. Her lips were firm-set, straight and unyielding,—a hard mouth flanked by what seemed to be absolutely immovable lines. Her chin was square; her nose firm and noticeably "hawk-like" in shape; her eyes clear, brilliant and keenly penetrating.
She faced him, standing with her back to the light.
"Sooner or later we would have had to meet," she said. "It is best for both of us to have it over with at the very start."
"I suppose you are right," said he stiffly. "You know how I feel toward you, Rachel Carter. There is nothing either of us can say that will make the situation easier or harder, for that matter."
"Yes,—I understand," said she calmly. "You hate me. You have been brought up to hate me. I do not question the verdict of those who condemned me, but you may as well understand at once that I do not regret what I did twenty years ago. I have not repented. I shall never repent. We need not discuss that side of the question any farther. You know my history, Kenneth Gwynne. You are the only person in this part of the world who does know it. When the controversy first came up over the settlement of your father's estate, I feared that you would reveal the story of my—"
He held up his hand, interrupting her. "Permit me to observe, Rachel Carter, that for many months after being notified of my father's death and the fact that he had left me a portion of his estate, I was without positive proof as to the identity of the woman mentioned in the correspondence as his widow. It was not until a copy of the will was forwarded to me that I was sure. By that time I had made up my mind to keep my own counsel. I can say to you now, Rachel Carter, that I do not intend to rake up that ugly story. I do not make war on helpless women."
Her lips writhed slightly, and her eyes narrowed as if with pain. It was but a fleeting exposition of vulnerability, however, for in another instant she had recovered.
"You could not have struck harder than that if you had been warring against a strong man," she said gently.
A hot flush stained his cheek. "It is the way I feel, nevertheless, Rachel Carter," he said deliberately.
"You can think of me only as Rachel Carter," she said. "My name is Rachel Gwyn. Still it doesn't matter. I am past the point where I can be hurt. You may tell the story if it suits your purpose. I shall deny nothing. It may even give you some satisfaction to see me wrap my soiled robes about me and steal away, leaving the field to you. I can sell my lands to-morrow and disappear. It will matter little whether I am forgotten or not. The world is large and I am not without fortitude. I wanted you to come here to-day, to see me alone, to hear what I have to say,—not about myself,—but about another. I am a woman of quick decisions. When I learned early this morning that you would be in Lafayette to-day, I made up my mind to take a certain step,—and I have not changed it."
"If you are referring to your daughter—to my half-sister, if you will—I have only to remind you that my mind is already made up. You need have no fear that I shall do or say anything to hurt that innocent girl. I am assuming, of course, that she knows nothing of—well, of what happened back there in Kentucky."
"She knows nothing," said the woman, in a voice strangely low and tense. "If she ever knew, she has forgotten."
"Forgotten?" he cried. "Good God, how could she have forgotten a thing so—"
She moved a step nearer, her burning eyes fixed on his.
"You remember Rachel Carter well enough. Have you no recollection of the little girl you used to play with? Minda? The babe who could scarcely toddle when you—"
"Of course I remember her," he cried impatiently. "I remember everything. You took her away with you and—why did you not leave her behind as my father left me? Why could you not have been as fair to your child as he was to his?"
She was silent for a moment, pondering her answer. "I do not suppose it has ever occurred to you that I might have loved my child too deeply to abandon her," she said, a strange softness in her voice.
"My father loved me," he cried out, "and yet he left me behind."
"He loved you,—yes,—but he would not take you. He left you with some one who also loved you. Don't ever forget that, Kenneth Gwynne. I would not go without Minda. No more would your mother have gone without you. Stop! I did not mean to offend. So you DO remember little Minda?"
"Yes, I remember her. But she is dead. Why do you mention her—"
"Minda is not dead," said she slowly.
"Not—why, she was drowned in the—"
"No. Minda is alive. You saw her last night,—at Phineas Striker's house."
He started violently. "The girl I saw last night was—Minda?" he cried. "Why, Striker told me she was—"
"I know,—I know," she interrupted impatiently. "Striker told you what he believed to be true. He told you she was Robert Gwyn's daughter and your half-sister. But I tell you now that she is Minda Carter. There is not a drop of Gwyn blood in her body."
"Then, she is not my half-sister?" he exclaimed, utterly dazed, but aware of the exquisite sensation of relief that was taking hold of him.
"She is no blood relation of yours."
"But she is,—yes, now I understand,—she is my step-sister," he said, with a swift fall of spirits.
"I suppose that is what you might call her," said Rachel Gwyn, indifferently. "I have not given it much thought."
"Does she know that she is not my father's daughter?"
"No. She believes herself to be his own flesh and blood,—his own daughter," said she with the deliberateness of one weighing her words, that they might fall with full force upon her listener.
"Why are you telling me all this?" he demanded abruptly. "What is your object? If she does not know the truth, why should I? Good God, woman, you—you do not expect ME to tell her, do you? Was that your purpose in getting me here? You want me to tell her that—"
"No!" she cried out sharply. "I do not want you or any one else to do that. Listen to me. I sha'n't beat about the bush,—I will not waste words. So far as Viola and the world are concerned, she is Robert Gwyn's daughter. That is clear to you, is it not? She was less than two years old when we came away,—too young to remember anything. We were in the wilderness for two or three years, and she saw but one or two small children, so that it was a very simple matter to deceive her about her age. She is nearly twenty-two now, although she believes she is but nineteen. She does not remember any other father than Robert Gwyn. She has no recollection of her own father, nor does she remember you. She—"
"Last night she described her father to me," he interrupted. "Her supposed father, I mean. She made it quite plain that he did not love her as a father should love his own child."
"It was not that," she said. "He was afraid of her,—mortally afraid of her. He lived in dread of the day when she would learn the truth and turn upon him. He always meant to tell her himself, and yet he could not find the courage. Toward the end he could not bear to have her near him. It would not be honest in me to say that he loved her. I do not believe he would have loved a child if one had come to him and me,—no child of mine could take the place you had in his heart." She spoke with calm bitterness. "You say she told you about him last night. I am not surprised that she should have spoken of him as she did. It was not possible for her to love him as a father. Nature took good care of that. There was a barrier between them. She was not his child. The tie of blood was lacking. Nature cannot be deceived. She has never told me what her true feelings toward him were, but I have sensed them. I could understand. I think she is and always has been bewildered. It is possible that away back in her brain there is something too tiny to ever become a thought, and yet it binds her to a man she does not even remember. But we are wasting time. You are wondering why I have told you the truth about Viola. The secret was safe, so why should I reveal it to you,—my enemy,—isn't that what you are thinking?"
"Yes. I don't quite grasp your motive in telling me, especially as I am still to look upon Viola as my half-sister. I have already stated that under no circumstances will I hurt her by raking up that old, infamous story. I find myself in a most difficult position. She believes herself to be my sister while I know that she is not. It must strike even you, Rachel Carter, as the ghastliest joke that fate ever played on a man,—or a woman, either."
"I have told you the truth, because I am as certain as I am that I stand here now that you would have found it all out some day,—some day soon, perhaps. In the first place your father did not mention her in his will. That alone is enough to cause you to wonder. You are not the only one who is puzzled by his failure to provide for her as well as for you. Before long you would have begun to doubt, then to speculate, and finally you would have made it your business to find out why she was ignored. In time you could have unearthed the truth. The truth will always out, as the saying goes. I preferred to tell it to you at once. You understand I cannot exact any promises from you. You will do as you see fit in the matter. There is one thing that you must realize, however. Viola has not robbed you of anything—not even a father's love. She does not profit by his death. He did not leave her a farthing, not even a spadeful of land. I am entitled to my share by law. The law would have given it to me if he had left no will. I am safe. That is clear to you, of course. I earned my share,—I worked as hard as he did to build up a fortune. When I die my lands and my money will go to my daughter. You need not hope to have any part of them. I do not ask you to keep silent on my account. I only ask you to spare her. If I have sinned,—and in the sight of man, I suppose I have,—I alone should be punished. But she has not sinned. I have thought it all out carefully. I have lain awake till all hours of the night, debating what was the best thing to do. To tell you or not to tell you, that was the question I had to settle. This morning I decided and this is the result. You know everything. There is no need for you to speculate. There is nothing for you to unravel. You know who Viola is, you know why she was left out of your father's will. The point is this, when all is said,—she must never know. She must always,—do you hear me?—she must always look upon you as her brother. She must never know the truth about me. I put her happiness, her pride, her faith, in your hands, Kenneth Gwynne."
He had listened with rigid attention, marvelling at the calm, dispassionate, unflinching manner in which she stated her case and Viola's,—indeed, she had stated his own case for him. Apparently she had not even speculated on the outcome of her revelations; she was sure of her ground before she took the first step.
"There is no other course open to me," he said, taking up his hat. He was very pale. "There is nothing more to say,—now or hereafter. We have had, I trust, our last conversation. I hate you. I could wish you all the unhappiness that life can give, but I am not such a beast as to tell your daughter what kind of a woman you are. So there's the end. Good-day, Rachel Carter."
He turned away, his hand was on the door-latch, before she spoke again.
"There is something more," she said, without moving from the spot where she had stood throughout the recital. The same calm, cold voice,—the same compelling manner. "It was my pleading, back in those other days, that finally persuaded Robert Gwyn to let me bring Minda up as his daughter. He was bitterly opposed to it at first. He never quite reconciled himself to the deception. He did not consider it being honest with her. He was as firm as a rock on one point, however. He would bring her up as his daughter, but he would not give her his name. It was after he agreed to my plan that he changed the spelling of his own name. She was not to have his name,—the name he had given his own child. That was his real reason for changing his name, and not, as you may suspect, to avoid being traced to this strange land."
"A belated attempt to be fair to me, I suppose," he said, ironically.
"As you like," she said, without resentment. "In the beginning, as I have told you, he believed it to be his duty to tell her the truth about herself. He was sincere in that. But he did not have the heart to tell her after years had passed. Now let me tell you what he did a few weeks before he passed away,—and you will know what a strange man he was. He came home one day and said to me: 'I have put Viola's case in the hands of Providence. You may call it luck or chance if you like, but I call it Providence. I cannot go to her face to face and tell her the truth by word of mouth, but I have told her the whole story in writing.' I was shocked, and cried out to know if he had written to her in St. Louis. He smiled and shook his head. 'No, I have not done that. I have written it all out and I have hidden the paper in a place where she is not likely to ever find it,—where I am sure she will never look. I will not even tell you where it is hidden,—for I do not trust you,—no, not even you. You would seek it out and destroy it.' How well he knew me! Then he went on to say, and I shall never forget the solemn way in which he spoke: 'I leave it all with Providence. It is out of my hands. If she ever comes across the paper it will be a miracle,—and miracles are not the work of man. So it will be God Himself who reveals the truth to her.' Now you can see, Kenneth, that the secret is not entirely in our keeping. There is always the chance that she may stumble upon that paper. I live in great dread. My hope now is that you will find it some day and destroy it. I have searched in every place that I can think of. I confess to that. It is hidden on land that some day will belong to Viola,—that much he confided to me. It is not on the land belonging to you,—nor in your house over there."
"You are right," he said, deeply impressed. "There is always the chance that it will come to light. There is no telling how many times a day she may be within arm's length of that paper,—perhaps within inches of it. It is uncanny."
He cast a swift, searching look about the room, as if in the hope that his eyes might unexpectedly alight upon the secret hiding place.
"He could not have hidden it in this house without my knowing it," she said, divining his thought.
He was silent for a moment, frowning reflectively. "Are you sure that no one else knows that she is not his daughter?"
"I am sure of it," she replied with decision.
"And there is nothing more you have to tell me?"
"Nothing. You may go now."
Without another word he left her. He was not surprised by her failure to mention the early morning episode at Striker's cabin. His concluding question had opened the way; it was clear that she had no intention of discussing with him the personal affairs of her daughter. Nevertheless he was decidedly irritated. What right had she to ask him to accept Viola as a sister unless she was also willing to grant him the privileges and interests of a brother? Certainly if Viola was to be his sister he ought to have something to say about the way she conducted herself,—for the honour of the family if for no other reason.