A Son of Hagar. Sir Hall Caine
have had hardly any data to help me in my search," Mr. Bonnithorne continued. He was walking on. "Only a medallion-portrait of the first wife." Mr. Bonnithorne dived into a breast-pocket.
"My brother Paul is living. What possible—"
"Here it is," said Mr. Bonnithorne, and he held out a small picture.
Hugh Ritson took it with little interest.
"This is the portrait of the nun," he said, as his eyes first fell on it, and recognized the coif and cape.
"A novice—that's what she was when Lowther met her," said Mr. Bonnithorne.
Then Hugh Ritson stopped. He regarded the portrait attentively; looked up at the lawyer and back at the medallion. For an instant the strong calm which he had hitherto shown seemed to desert him. The picture trembled in his hand. Mr. Bonnithorne did not appear to see his agitation.
"Is it a fancy? Surely it must be fancy!" he muttered.
Then he asked aloud what the nun's name had been.
"Ormerod."
There was a start of recovered consciousness.
"Ormerod—that's strange!"
The exclamation seemed to escape inadvertently.
"Why strange?"
Hugh Ritson did not answer immediately.
"Her Christian name?"
"Grace."
"Grace Ormerod? Why, you must know that Grace Ormerod happened to be my own mother's maiden name!"
"You seem to recognize the portrait."
Hugh Ritson had regained his self-possession. He assumed an air of indifference.
"Well, yes—no, of course not—no," he said, emphatically, at last.
In his heart there was another answer. He thought for the moment when he set eyes on the picture that it looked like—a little like—his own mother's face.
They walked on. Mr. Bonnithorne's constant smile parted his lips. Lifting his voice rather unnecessarily, he said:
"By the way, another odd coincidence! Would you like to know the name of Grace Ormerod's child by Robert Lowther?"
Hugh Ritson's heart leaped within him, but he preserved an outward show of indifference, and drawled:
"Well, what was it?"
"Paul."
The name went through him like an arrow, then he said, rather languidly:
"So the half-brother of Greta Lowther, wherever he is, is named—"
"Paul Lowther," said Mr. Bonnithorne. "But," he added, with a quick glance, "he may—I say he may—be passing by another name—Paul something else, for example."
"Assuredly—certainly—yes—yes," Hugh Ritson mumbled. His all but impenetrable calm was gone.
They reached the front of the house, and stood in a paved court-yard. It was the home of the Ritsons, known as the Ghyll, a long Cumbrian homestead of gray stone and green slate. A lazy curl of smoke was winding up from one chimney through the clear air. A gossamer net of the tangled boughs of a slim brier-rose hung over the face of a broad porch, and at that moment a butterfly flitted through it. The chattering of geese came from behind.
"Robert Lowther was the father of Grace Ormerod's child?" said Hugh Ritson, vacantly.
"The father of her son Paul."
"And Greta is his daughter? Is that how it goes?"
"That is so—and half-sister to Paul."
Hugh Ritson raised his eyes to Mr. Bonnithorne's face.
"And of what age would Paul Lowther be now?"
"Well, older than you, certainly. Perhaps as old as—yes, perhaps as old—fully as old as your brother."
Hugh Ritson's infirm foot trailed heavily on the stones. His lips quivered. For a moment he seemed to be rapt. Then he swung about and muttered:
"Tut! it isn't within belief. Thrusted home, it might betray a man, Heaven only knows how deeply."
Mr. Bonnithorne looked up inquiringly.
"Pardon me; I fail, as you say, to catch the relevance."
"Mr. Bonnithorne," said Hugh Ritson, holding out his hand, "you and I have been good friends, have we not?"
"Oh, the best of friends."
"At your leisure, when I have had time to think of this, let us discuss it further."
Mr. Bonnithorne smiled assent.
"And meantime," he said, softly, "let the unhappy little being we spoke of be sent away."
Hugh Ritson's eyes fell, and his voice deepened.
"Poor little soul—I'm sorry—very."
"As for Greta and her lover—well—"
Mr. Bonnithorne nodded his head significantly, and left his words unfinished.
"My father is crossing the stack-yard," said Hugh Ritson. "You shall see him in good time. Come this way."
The shadows were lengthening in the valley. A purple belt was stretching across the distant hills, and a dark-blue tint was nestling under the eaves. A solitary crow flew across the sky, and cawed out its guttural note. Its shadow fell, as it passed, on two elderly people who were coming into the court-yard.
CHAPTER IV.
"It's time for that laal Mr. Bonnithorne to be here," said Allan Ritson.
"Why did you send for him?" asked Mrs. Ritson, in the low tone that was natural to her.
"To get that matter about the will off my mind. It'll be one thing less to think about, and it has boddert me sair and lang."
Allan spoke with the shuffling reserve of a man to whose secret communings a painful idea had been too long familiar. In the effort to cast off the unwelcome and secret associate, there was a show of emancipation which, as an acute observer might see, was more assumed than real.
Mrs. Ritson made no terms with the affectation of indifference. Her grave face became yet more grave, and her soft voice grew softer as she said:
"And if when it is settled and done the cloud would break that has hung over our lives, then all would be well. But that can never be."
Allan tossed his head aside, and made pretense to smile; but no gleam of sunshine on his cornfields was ever chased so closely by the line of dark shadow as his smile by the frown that followed.
"Come, worrit thysel' na' mair about it! When I've made my will, and put Paul on the same footing with t'other lad, who knows owt mair nor we choose to tell?"
Mrs. Ritson glanced into his face with a look of sad reproach.
"Heaven knows, Allan," she said; "and the dark cloud still gathers for us there."
The old man took a step or two on the gravel path, and dropped his gray head. His voice deepened:
"Tha says reet, mother," he said, "tha says reet. Ey, it saddens my auld days—and thine forby!" He took a step or two more, and added: "And na lawyer can shak' it off now. Nay, nay, never now. Weel, mother, our sky has been lang owerkessen; but, mind ye," lifting his face and voice together, "we've had gude crops if we tholed some thistles."
"Yes, we've had happy days, too," said Mrs. Ritson.
At