CHAPTER VII

In Which a Dream Becomes a Reality

I said nothing immediately. I could not. It was "Little Frank" who resumed the conversation. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Who--I beg your pardon? I am rather upset, I'm afraid. I didn't expect--that is, I expected.... Well, I didn't expect THIS! What was it you asked me?"

"I asked you who you were."

"My name is Knowles--Kent Knowles. I am Captain Cahoon's grand-nephew."

"His grand-nephew. Then--Did Captain Cahoon send you to me?"

"Send me! I beg your pardon once more. No.... No. Captain Cahoon is dead. He has been dead nearly ten years. No one sent me."

"Then why did you come? You have my letter; you said so."

"Yes; I--I have your letter. I received it about an hour ago. It was forwarded to me--to my cousin and me--here in London."

"Here in London! Then you did not come to London in answer to that letter?"

"No. My cousin and I--"

"What cousin? What is his name?"

"His name? It isn't a--That is, the cousin is a woman. She is Miss Hephzibah Cahoon, your--your mother's half-sister. She is--Why, she is your aunt!"

It was a fact; Hephzibah was this young lady's aunt. I don't know why that seemed so impossible and ridiculous, but it did. The young lady herself seemed to find it so.

"My aunt?" she repeated. "I didn't know--But--but, why is my--my aunt here with you?"

"We are on a pleasure trip. We--I beg your pardon. What have I been thinking of? Don't stand. Please sit down."

She accepted the invitation. As she walked toward the chair it seemed to me that she staggered a little. I noticed then for the first time, how very slender she was, almost emaciated. There were dark hollows beneath her eyes and her face was as white as the bed-linen--No, I am wrong; it was whiter than Mrs. Briggs' bed-linen.

"Are you ill?" I asked involuntarily.

She did not answer. She seated herself in the chair and fixed her dark eyes upon me. They were large eyes and very dark. Hephzy said, when she first saw them, that they looked like "burnt holes in a blanket."

Perhaps they did; that simile did not occur to me.

"You have read my letter?" she asked.

It was evident that I must have read the letter or I should not have learned where to find her, but I did not call attention to this. I said simply that I had read the letter.

"Then what do you propose?" she asked.

"Propose?"

"Yes," impatiently. "What proposition do you make me? If you have read the letter you must know what I mean. You must have come here for the purpose of saying something, of making some offer. What is it?"

I was speechless. I had come there to find an impudent young blackguard and tell him what I thought of him. That was as near a definite reason for my coming as any. If I had not acted upon impulse, if I had stopped to consider, it is quite likely that I should not have come at all. But the blackguard was--was--well, he was not and never had been. In his place was this white-faced, frail girl. I couldn't tell her what I thought of her. I didn't know what to think.

She waited for me to answer and, as I continued to play the dumb idiot, her impatience grew. Her brows--very dark brown they were, almost black against the pallor of her face--drew together and her foot began to pat the faded carpet. "I am waiting," she said.

I realized that I must say something, so I said the only thing which occurred to me. It was a question.

"Your father is dead?" I asked.

She nodded. "My letter told you that," she answered. "He died in Paris three years ago."

"And--and had he no relatives here in England?"

She hesitated before replying. "No near relatives whom he cared to recognize," she answered haughtily. "My father, Mr. Knowles was a gentleman and, having been most unjustly treated by his own family, as well as by OTHERS"--with a marked emphasis on the word--"he did not stoop, even in his illness and distress, to beg where he should have commanded."

"Oh! Oh, I see," I said, feebly.

"There is no reason why you should see. My father was the second son and--But this is quite irrelevant. You, an American, can scarcely be expected to understand English family customs. It is sufficient that, for reasons of his own, my father had for years been estranged from his own people."

The air with which this was delivered was quite overwhelming. If I had not known Strickland Morley, and a little of his history, I should have been crushed.

"Then you have been quite alone since his death?" I asked.

Again she hesitated. "For a time," she said, after a moment. "I lived with a married cousin of his in one of the London suburbs. Then I--But really, Mr. Knowles, I cannot see that my private affairs need interest you. As I understand it, this interview of ours is quite impersonal, in a sense. You understand, of course--you must understand--that in writing as I did I was not seeking the acquaintance of my mother's relatives. I do not desire their friendship. I am not asking them for anything. I am giving them the opportunity to do justice, to give me what is my own--my OWN. If you don't understand this I--I--Oh, you MUST understand it!"

She rose from the chair. Her eyes were flashing and she was trembling from head to foot. Again I realized how weak and frail she was.

"You must understand," she repeated. "You MUST!"

"Yes, yes," I said hastily. "I think I--I suppose I understand your feelings. But--"

"There are no buts. Don't pretend there are. Do you think for one instant that I am begging, asking you for HELP? YOU--of all the world!"

This seemed personal enough, in spite of her protestations.

"But you never met me before," I said, involuntarily.

"You never knew of my existence."

She stamped her foot. "I knew of my American relatives," she cried, scornfully. "I knew of them and their--Oh, I cannot say the word!"

"Your father told you--" I began. She burst out at me like a flame.

"My father," she declared, "was a brave, kind, noble man. Don't mention his name to me. I won't have you speak of him. If it were not for his forbearance and self-sacrifice you--all of you--would be--would be--Oh, don't speak of my father! Don't!"

To my amazement and utter discomfort she sank into the chair and burst into tears. I was completely demoralized.