A day or two after the departure of Rutherford, Miss Gladden, having learned from Lyle at what hour Jack usually completed his day’s work, set forth upon her visit to the cabin. She felt that her errand might prove embarrassing both to Jack and herself; she wished to obtain some clue regarding Lyle’s parentage; at least, to learn what his suspicions, or possible knowledge might be concerning the matter, and taking into consideration the contingency that she might be his own child, whose existence he had kept secret for reasons of his own, it was a subject which would require very delicate handling.
She found Jack at the cabin, and alone, and his courteous greeting, containing less formality and more cordiality and friendliness than on the former occasion, made her task seem far less difficult. He ushered her into the pleasant little sitting-room, and she noted even more particularly than on her former visit, the exquisite taste betrayed, not only in the furnishings of the room, but in their very arrangement.
After chatting a few moments regarding the little circle of friends at the house, in whom he seemed to take more interest than she would have expected from a man of his secluded life, the conversation naturally turned to Lyle, and Miss Gladden said:
“I have wished to see you regarding her because you seem to be the only one among those living here who appreciates her ability, or cares for her welfare; and you have known her and her surroundings so long, I believed you could give me some suggestions and advice regarding what is best to be done for her, even now, while she remains here.”
“I have taken a great interest in the child ever since I have known her,” Jack replied, “and I am only too glad that she has found another friend, and that friend a lady; and if I can assist, by suggestion or otherwise, I shall be most happy to do so.”
“I asked your opinion the other evening,” continued Miss Gladden, “as to taking her east with me, but there were other matters pertaining to her welfare, on which I wished your opinion and advice, but I could not so well speak of them before her, so I asked for this interview.”
Miss Gladden hesitated a moment, almost hoping that Jack might make some remark which would give her a cue as to the best method for her to pursue in seeking the information she desired, but his attitude was that of respectful attention, and he was evidently waiting for her to proceed.
“I have felt attracted toward Lyle from the first,” she began slowly, “not alone by her wondrous beauty and grace of manner, but even more by her intelligence and intellectual ability, her natural refinement and delicacy, which, considering her surroundings, seemed to me simply inexplicable. From the very first, she has been to me a mystery, and as I become better acquainted with her, the mystery, instead of being lessened, is only deepened.”
She paused, but he offered no comment, only bowed gravely for her to continue.
“I could not, and I cannot yet, understand how one like her could ever have been born, or could exist in such surroundings as hers; and the fact that she has existed here, her beautiful nature untainted, unsullied by the coarseness, the vulgarity and the immorality about her, to me seemed an indication that she was of an altogether different type, born in another and far higher sphere. I saw she was unhappy, and I determined to win her confidence, and in so doing, from a vague suspicion I have gradually arrived at a firm conviction that Lyle is not the child of those whom she calls her parents.”
Jack manifested no surprise, neither was there anything in his manner to indicate that this was a subject upon which he had any knowledge. He simply asked very calmly,––almost indifferently it seemed to Miss Gladden,––
“Have you discovered any direct evidence in support of this conviction that she is not their child?”
“No tangible evidence,” replied Miss Gladden, “nothing, of course, that could be called proof, but there are what I consider very strong indications.”
“Are the indications on Lyle’s part, or on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Maverick?” inquired Jack.
“On both sides,” replied Miss Gladden, “I have very little to say regarding Mrs. Maverick; she is a kind-hearted woman, and seems to treat Lyle with consideration and some degree of affection; there is very little of the latter, but perhaps it is all of which she is capable, for I should think life with that brute would quickly crush out all the affection, if not all the intelligence, in a woman’s nature; but the neglect and ill treatment of Maverick himself towards Lyle surely indicate that she is no child of his.”
“Your remark regarding Mrs. Maverick might be still more applicable to him, that he is incapable of anything like affection or kindness.”
“Of course he is,” replied Miss Gladden quickly, “but I can not conceive of a man being quite so low as to be without even animal instincts; I cannot believe that a father would insult and degrade his own daughter as he has Lyle, and as he would continue to do, if he were not restrained through fear of his wife.”
For the first time, Jack started. “Fear of his wife, did you say, Miss Gladden? Pardon me, but I think that brute fears neither God, man nor devil, and how you can assert that he is in fear of his wife, whom he has always abused mercilessly, I cannot imagine.”
“It is a fact, nevertheless; for one morning after he had been exceedingly abusive and insulting in his language toward Lyle, Mrs. Maverick told her that he was, in some way, in her power, and that it should never occur again; and it never has.”
Jack rose, and began to pace the room.
“Did you hear her say that, Miss Gladden?”
“No, Lyle told me of it.”
“Had Lyle any idea of what she meant by it?”
“She did not seem to have; nothing was ever said regarding that phase of the subject; she only seemed relieved that Mrs. Maverick promised to prevent a repetition of her father’s abuse of her.”
Jack seated himself. “You spoke of some reasons on Lyle’s part for your conclusions; what were they?”
Miss Gladden then told him of Lyle’s strange impressions and of her dream, but made no allusion to the photograph, wishing to reserve that until later.
Jack looked thoughtful. “I wonder that she has never spoken to me regarding this dream,” he said at length.
“She told me she had not had the dream so often since having been occupied with her studies and reading, probably that accounts for her not speaking of it; lately she says it has returned.”
Both were silent for a while, then Miss Gladden asked:
“Do you not think these dreams and impressions are indications of an early life, far different from this?”
“I do,” he replied gravely.
“That was my opinion,” then, determined to get some expression from him, she continued:
“I am so attached to her, so desirous, if possible, to rescue her from this wretched life, that I am anxious to get some clue as to her true parentage; that is why I have come to you, her friend. I thought possibly you might be able to aid me in getting some evidence, or some information regarding her early history.”
Miss Gladden was watching Jack keenly, to note if her words produced any effect on that immobile face. She was not disappointed: he started, almost imperceptibly, and as he fixed his dark eyes upon her own, she noticed, as never before, how keen and piercing, and how eloquently beautiful they were. Miss Gladden’s eyes did not drop before his searching gaze; she was determined that he should read only sincerity and candor in their depths, and make his answer accordingly. When he spoke, his voice was unlike its usual smooth, even tone; it was tender and deep, full of some strange emotion, and reminded her wonderfully of her lover.
“Miss Gladden, may I ask,––for I believe you will answer me truthfully and candidly,––what ever led you to suppose that I could give you any information regarding Lyle’s early history?”
“I will answer you candidly, as you wish,” she replied; “the thought first occurred to me of coming to you for advice regarding Lyle, simply because I regarded you as her best friend, in fact, until I came, her only friend. Then a remark accidently dropped by Lyle, as to what you had once said of her singing, that it reminded you of but one voice which you had heard, but that you did not like to hear her, led me to think that perhaps she was in some way connected with some one you had known, and that possibly that was the reason for the special interest you took in her welfare.
“Then there was something more, in connection with her dream,” and she told him how Lyle had at last identified the pictured face which seemed so familiar to her, as the dream-face of her childhood, and how immediately after the dream had returned.
“After she told me this,” continued Miss Gladden, “you will see that I naturally concluded that the face was that of her mother; that her mother, her parents, and probably her early life were known to you; and I will frankly admit, that except that it seemed incredible that you would allow her to remain in these surroundings, if my hypothesis were correct, I would have believed that you were her father, and that grief from bereavement or separation, had caused you to choose this life for yourself and her.”
Jack had again risen and was slowly pacing the room. Miss Gladden could read no sign of displeasure in his face, though she detected indications of some powerful emotion, and of acute suffering. He seemed battling with old-time memories, and when at last he seated himself and began speaking, there was a strange pathos vibrating through the forced calmness of his voice, and the piercing eyes, now looking so kindly into her own, had in their depths such hopeless sadness, that Miss Gladden’s heart was stirred by a pity deeper than she had ever known, for she instinctively felt that she was in the presence of some great, despairing sorrow.
With a smile of rare sweetness and beauty, he said: “Your candor and frankness deserve confidence in return, and I will give it so far as it is within my power to do so, and yet I fear that you will be disappointed. Your surmises are incorrect in many respects, and yet contain a great deal of truth, and I will try, so far as possible, to be as frank with you as you have been with me. In the first place, I must say to you, that regarding Lyle’s true parentage, whether or not she is the child of the Mavericks, I know, positively, nothing more than do you, yourself.”
He smiled as he noted Miss Gladden’s look of astonishment, and continued:
“Like you, I have my suspicions that she is not their child, and have had them since first seeing her, years ago. As in your case, my suspicions long ago changed to conviction, and my convictions are probably even deeper than yours, for the reason, that in form, in feature, in voice and manner, in every expression and gesture,” his voice trembled for an instant, but he controlled it, “she is the exact counterpart of another; some one whom I knew in a life as remote, as far from this as it is possible to conceive. But I have no direct proof, not a shadow of tangible evidence with which I could confront Maverick and denounce him with having stolen the child, and, knowing him as I do, I know that for Lyle’s sake, until I have some such proof, it were better to remain silent.”
“Pardon me for interrupting you,” Miss Gladden exclaimed, “but that is a contingency that never entered my mind, that Lyle had been stolen from her parents! That is far worse than anything I had dreamed of.”
“Nevertheless, if she is not their child, she was stolen, and just in proportion as the former is improbable, the latter is probable, almost certain. You will now see wherein your supposition that my interest in her was due to her connection in my mind with some one I had formerly known, was correct. I took a special interest in her for this reason; it was a pleasure to teach her, to note her mind expanding so rapidly, to watch her as she developed physically and mentally; every day growing more and more like the one I had known. I enjoyed tracing the resemblance day by day, though it often caused me almost as much pain as pleasure,––but when I heard her sing, that was too much,––it was more than I could bear,––it was like compelling some lost soul in purgatory to listen to the songs of paradise.”
There was a tremor in Jack’s voice, and he paused, touched even more deeply by the sympathetic tears glistening in the beautiful eyes full of such tender pity, than by the bitter memories passing before his own mind.
“What has perplexed me most,” he continued, “is the fact that Lyle has seemed unable to recall anything relating to her early childhood. I have tried in every way to arouse her memory, and that was my chief object in allowing her to see the photograph of which she told you; but, as she often says, the first few years of her life seem to be only blank. I cannot account for that.”
“Still,” said Miss Gladden, “these dreams of hers show that there are memories there, and something may yet recall them to her mind.”
“That has been my hope,” he replied, “that is what I have been waiting for all these years, for her mind to recall some incident, or some individual, that would furnish the needed proof as to her parentage.”
“Do you think,” asked Miss Gladden, after a pause, “that it would be wise to give Lyle a hint of our suspicions?”
“I have thought it might be well, if possible, to arouse her own suspicions by some process of reasoning on her part, not by any suggestions of ours.”
“May I inquire whether those whom you consider her true parents are still living?”
“They both died many years ago.”
“Then, if her identity could be proven beyond a doubt, would there be any one to give her such a home as she ought to have?”
“Yes, there are those who would be only too glad to give her such a home as very few have the good fortune to possess.”
“And have they never made any inquiry for her?” Miss Gladden asked in surprise.
“They have no idea that she is living; her parents died under peculiar circumstances, and she was supposed to have died at the same time.”
“Then ought we not,” said Miss Gladden thoughtfully, “both for her sake and theirs, to let them know that she is living, and help them to find her?”
“Unless they could see her for themselves,” he replied, “they would probably be rather skeptical, and require very positive proof regarding her claims, they have believed her dead for so many years. But even though I may have known Lyle’s mother, I am not in communication with her friends, and would not be the proper person to present her claims to them.”
For a few moments, Miss Gladden sat silently watching the play of the light and shade on the mountain side across the ravine, opposite the cabin, as the shadows cast by the light, floating clouds, followed each other in rapid succession.
Jack seemed to be thinking deeply, and when he at last spoke, it was with great deliberation:
“For a long time, as I have become more and more convinced of Lyle’s identity, I have been anxious to have her taken away from these surroundings, and placed in the home to which I believe she has a right; but without tangible evidence with which to establish her claims, and also to prove Maverick’s guilt, I could think of no feasible plan, nothing that did not seem likely to result in failure, and leave Lyle possibly in a worse condition than at present. I will now say to you, Miss Gladden, in confidence, that I think before very long, the way will be opened for Lyle to find the home and friends that I consider are really hers. Through information given me in confidence, I have learned that some of those whom I believe to be most closely related to her and who would be most interested in her, did they know of her existence, will in all probability be out here on business this summer; if they do not recognize Lyle, I shall be greatly disappointed.”
Miss Gladden’s face expressed the delight she felt. “Is it possible?” she exclaimed, “Why, I cannot conceive of anything lovelier! If she has been stolen all these years, and her people unconscious of her very existence, to have them appear on the scene, and recognize and claim her, will seem like a beautiful bit of fiction interwoven in our prosaic, every-day life, or like the closing scene in some drama, where the wrongs at last are all made right. To think what happiness it will bring to them, to her and to us!”
Jack’s face grew strangely serious. “I shall be glad for her sake;” he replied, then added: “Sometimes, Miss Gladden, wrongs are righted only at a terrible cost, and what seems to you like the closing of a peaceful drama, may prove a tragedy to those who are concerned in it.”
Then, before she could reply, he said, in a different tone, as though to change the conversation:
“It will not be best to mention what I have told you to any one; there is no knowing what course Maverick might pursue if he had a hint of it, for he is a desperate man; but if there is any way in which Lyle’s mind could be carried back and made to recall something of her past life, I wish it might be done.”
Miss Gladden had risen, preparatory to taking leave. Having given a searching glance around the room, she turned toward Jack, saying wistfully:
“Am I asking too much? Could I see the photograph which you allowed Lyle to see?”
For an instant Jack hesitated; then he replied, “I am willing you should see it, but you must not expect me to say anything concerning that picture or myself. I have spoken to you in confidence regarding Lyle, but I can go no further.”
“I will not ask it,” she replied.
Without a word, he went to a small trunk, concealed by a fine bear-skin, and taking therefrom the picture, silently handed it to Miss Gladden.
She uttered a low cry of surprise, and then stood for some time intently studying the lovely face in every detail. When she returned the picture to Jack’s hands, there were tears in her eyes, as she exclaimed, “How beautiful! and how like Lyle!”
“I hoped she would see the resemblance,” he replied.
“It seems almost incredible that she did not,” answered Miss Gladden, “except for the fact that she has the least self-consciousness of any one I ever saw; it is doubtful if she would recognize her own picture.”
For a long time Jack stood watching Miss Gladden, as, having thanked him for the interview, she walked slowly up the winding road. His eyes grew strangely wistful and tender, very unlike their ordinary expression, and a smile, sad but sweet, played about the usually stern lips.
“He has chosen well,” he murmured at length, “they are well suited to each other; Heaven grant nothing may ever mar their happiness!” and with a heavy sigh, he turned and entered the cabin.