The Pillar of Light Part 50

At last a part of the secret eked out. Enid went with her father to ask how Mr. Emmett, the sick chief officer, was getting on. They found him smoking in the front garden of the house in which Brand had lodged him.

He started when he saw them approaching, and his weather-beaten face wore the puzzled look with which he regarded Enid one night on the lighthouse stairs.

Traill noticed the sailor's covert glances at Enid, so he said:

"By the way, Mr. Emmett, you were on the _Britannic_ when my wife and I, her sister, and two children, came to England before the _Esmeralda_ was lost?"

"Yes, sir." He paused.

During many an Atlantic crossing he and Mr. Traill had talked of that last joyous journey, when he, a boy who had just joined the service, sat at their table, as was the custom of junior officers in those years.

Mr. Traill smiled. He knew what was in the other man's mind.

"Do you see a likeness in this young lady to anyone you have ever known?" he asked.

"Well, sir, I hope it will not hurt your feelings, and it's a good many years ago now, but I could have sworn--well, I must out with it. She is the living image of your wife."

"Indeed, that cannot hurt my feelings, as she is her daughter."

"Her daughter! Your daughter!" gasped Emmett.

A small serving-maid, with the ears of a rabbit, was listening spell-bound at the open window. Here, indeed, was a choice t.i.t-bit for the milkman, and the postman, and the butcher's and grocer's boys. From this lower current the stream of talk flowed upwards until it reached the august drawing-room of Mrs. Taylor-Smith.

She drove in frantic haste to Lady Margaret's villa, and fired questions broadside.

"Oh, yes," said Jack's mother, suavely. "It is quite true. Of course I have known it from the first. According to present arrangements the marriage will take place in the spring. Enid's marriage settlement will be nearly quarter of a million."

Like most women, she loved that word. A million, even in fractions, is so glib, yet so unattainable.

The only person who was slightly dissatisfied with the progress of events was Pyne. Constance never appeared. She shared with Mrs. Sheppard the care of her mother. Enid, blithe and guileless in the public eye, did the house-keeping and represented the household.

Brand, too, save for a couple of visits to the hotel, remained invisible. He did not mention Mrs. Vansittart's name. He was pale and worn, a man at war with himself. The young Philadelphian--for Pyne's family home was in the Quaker City, though his estate lay princ.i.p.ally in New York--was not pleased by the slight signs perceptible behind the screen of Brand's reserve.

"Constance takes after her father," he told himself. "There may be trouble about her mother. In the scurry I may get left. I must think this out."

At last came a day of warm sunshine, when Enid announced that the invalid, by the doctor's orders, was carried downstairs.

"Has Mr. Brand seen her yet?" asked Pyne.

"No," replied Enid, with a little cloud on her fair face. "He never mentions her. And how we wish he would. He is suffering, but keeps silent, and neither Constance nor I can make any suggestion."

"But what will be the outcome?"

"How can I tell? That night--after we left the hotel--he told us the story of his married life. It did not seem to be utterly impossible to straighten matters, but we knew nothing of her career during so many years. Was she married again? I have asked my father. He believes she was, but is not certain."

"Father" was Mr. Traill; Brand remained "dad." Thus did Enid solve the difficulty.

"Is she aware that Constance knows she is her mother?"

"We think so. Indeed, we are sure. She has been so ill, and is yet so fragile, that we dare not excite her in the least degree. So Constance has been very careful, but every look, every syllable, shows that her mother is in no doubt on that point."

"It's a pretty hard nut to crack," said Pyne. He blew cigar smoke into rings. Seemingly the operation aided reflection.

"Say, Enid," he went on. "If the weather is fine tomorrow, do you think Connie would come out for a drive?"

"I don't know. Certainly she needs some fresh air. What between her anxiety and her mother's illness, they are beginning to look like sisters."

"Just mention to Connie, in her father's presence, that if the sun shines at eleven, I will be along in a dogcart. Mrs. Vansittart will be downstairs by that time?"

"Yes."

"And if Connie comes out with me, you just find an errand in town. Rope Jack into the scheme, or any old dodge of that sort. Take care Mr. Brand knows of it. By the way, send Mrs. Sheppard out too."

"What in the world--"

"You're just too pretty to think hard, Enid. It causes wrinkles. Do as I ask, there's a good girl."

Enid was delighted to find that Brand strongly supported the suggestion that Constance should take the drive. Pyne, sharp on time, drew up a smart pony in front of the cottage, and did not twitch a muscle when Constance, veiled and gloved, ran down the pathway.

"Excuse me getting down," said Pyne. "I dispensed with a groom. I guess you know the roads round here."

She climbed to the seat beside him.

"It is very good of you to take this trouble," she said, and when he looked at her a slight color was visible through the veil.

"How is your mother?" he asked, abruptly.

He felt, rather than saw, her start of surprise.

She did not expect the relationship to be acknowledged with such sudden candor.

"She is much better," she a.s.sured him.

"That's all right," he announced, as if a load were off his mind. And then, somewhat to her mystification, he entertained her with the news.

Elsie and Mamie had quitted Penzance the previous evening, an aunt having traveled from Boston as soon as the first tidings of the wreck reached her.

"She was a young, nice-looking aunt, too," he said, cheerfully. "And I was powerful fond of those two kiddies."

"The a.s.sociation of ideas might prove helpful," she suggested, with a touch of her old manner.

"That is what struck Elsie," he admitted. "She said she didn't know why I couldn't marry Aunt Louisa right off, and then we could all live together sociably."

"Oh! And what did the lady say?"

"She thought it was a great joke, until I said that unfortunately I had made other arrangements. Then she guessed her nieces had got a bit out of hand."

"Have you seen the poor fellow whose arm was broken? Enid has not had a moment to give me details of events since we landed."