CHAPTER XVII
"I DON'T HEAR"
The afternoon passed without further developments. Mr. Harper, who hadhis own imperative engagements, left on the evening train for New York,promising to return the next day in case his presence seemedindispensable to his client.
That client's final word to him had been an injunction to keep an eye onGeorgian's so-called brother and to report how he had been affected bythe news from Sitford; and when, in the lull following the lawyer'sdeparture, Mr. Ransom sat down in his room to look his own positionresolutely in the face, this brother and his possible connection with theconfusing and unhappy incidents of this last fatal week regained thatprominent place in his thoughts which the doubts engendered by theunusual character of these incidents had for a while dispelled.
What had been the hold of this strange and uncongenial man on Georgian?And was his reappearance at the same time with that of a supposedly longdeceased sister simply a coincidence so startling as to appear unreal?
He had not seen Anitra again and did not propose to, unless the meetingcame about in a natural way and without any show of desire on his part.If any suspicion had been awakened in the house by his peculiar conductin the morning, he meant it to be speedily dissipated by the careful wayin which he now held to his role of despairing husband whose onlyinterest in the girl left on his hands was the dutiful one of a reluctantbrother-in-law, who doubts the kindly feelings of his strange andunwelcome charge.
The landlady, with a delicacy he highly appreciated, cared for the younggirl without making her conspicuous by any undue attention. No tidingshad come in of any discovery in the mill-stream or in the river intowhich it ran, and there being nothing with which to feed gossip, thetownsfolk who had gathered about the hotel porches gradually began todisperse, till only a few of the most persistent remained to keep upconversation till midnight.
Finally these too left and the house sank into quiet, a quiet whichremained unbroken all night; for everybody, even poor Mr. Ransom, slept.
He was up, however, with the first beam entering his room. How could hetell but that news of a definite and encouraging nature awaited him? Someone might have come in early from town or river. All search had not beenabandoned. There were certain persistent ones who had gone as far asBeardsley's. Some of these might have returned. He would hasten down andsee. But it was only to find the office empty, and though the householdpresently awoke and the great front door was thrown open to all comers,no eager straggler came rushing in with the tidings he equally longed anddreaded to receive.
At half-past ten the representative of the county police called on Mr.Ransom, but with small result. Shortly after his departure, the mailcame in and with it the New York papers. These he read with avidity. Butthey added nothing to his knowledge. Georgian's death was accepted asa fact, and the peculiarities of their history since their unfortunatewedding-day were laid bare with but little consideration for his feelingsor the good name of his bride. With a sorer heart than ever, he flung thepapers from him and went out to gather strength in the open air.
There was a corner of the veranda into which he had never ventured. Itwas likely to be a solitary one at this hour, and thither he now went.But a shock awaited him there. A lady was pacing its still damp boards.A lady who did not turn her head at his step, but whom he instantlyrecognized from her dress, and wilful but not ungraceful bearing, as herwhom he was determined to call, nay recognize, as Anitra Hazen.
His judgment counseled retreat, but the fascination of her presence heldhim, and in that moment of hesitation she turned towards him and flightbecame impossible.
It was the first opportunity he had had of observing her features inbroad daylight. The effect was a confused one. She was Georgian and shewas not Georgian. Her skin was decidedly darker, her eyes more lustrous,her bearing less polished and at the same time more impassioned. She wasnot so tall or quite so elegantly proportioned;--or was it her rudemethod of dressing her hair and the awkward cut of her clothes which madethe difference. He could not be sure. Resolved as he was to consider herAnitra, and excellent as his reasons were for doing so, the swelling ofhis heart as he met her eye roused again the old doubt and gave anunnatural tone to his voice as he advanced towards her with an impetuousutterance of her name:
"Anitra!"
She shrunk, not at the word but at his movement, which undoubtedly wasabrupt; but immediately recovered herself and, meeting him half-way,cried out in the unnaturally loud tones of the very deaf:
"They don't bring my sister back. She is drowned, drowned. But you stillhave Anitra," she exclaimed in child-like triumph. "Anitra will be goodto you. Don't forsake the poor girl. She will go where you go and be veryobedient and not get angry ever again."
He felt his hair rise. Something in her look, something in her manner ofmaking evident the indefinable barrier between them even while expressingher desire to accompany him, made such a disturbance in his brain thatfor the moment he no longer knew himself, nor her, nor the condition ofthings about him. If she saw the effect she produced, she gave noevidence of it. She had begun to smile and her smile transformed her. Thewild look which was never long out of her eyes softened into a mildergleam, and dimples he had been accustomed to see around lips he hadkissed and called the sweetest in the world flashed for a moment in theface before him with a story of love he dared not read, yet found itimpossible to forget or see unmoved.
"What trial is this into which my unhappy fate has plunged me!" thoughthe. "Can reason stand it? Can I see this woman daily, hourly, and not gomad between my doubts and my love?"
His face had turned so stern that even she noticed it, and in a trice theoffending dimples disappeared.
"You are angry," she pouted. "You don't want Anitra. Nod if it is so, nodand I will go away."
He did not nod; he could not. She seemed to gather courage at this, andthough she did not smile again, she gave him a happy look as she said:
"I have no home now, nor any friend since sister has gone. I don't wantany if I can stay with you and learn things. I want to be like sister.She was nice and wore pretty clothes. She gave me some, but I don't knowwhere they are. I don't like this dress. It's black and all bad round thebottom where I fell into the mud."
She looked down at her dress. It showed, in spite of Mrs. Deo's effort atcleaning it, signs of her tramp through the wet lane. He looked at ittoo, but it was mechanically. He was debating in his mind a formidablequestion. Should he grasp her hand, insist that she was Georgian anddemand her confidence and the truth? or should he follow the lawyer'sadvice and continue to accept appearances, meet her on her own ground andgive her the answer called for by her lonely and forsaken position? Hefound after a moment's thought that he had no choice; that he could notdo the first and must do the last.
"You shall come with me," said he quietly. "I will see that you haveevery suitable protection and care."
She surveyed him with the same unmoved inquiry burning in her eyes.
"I don't hear," said she.
He looked at her, his lips set, his eyes as inquiring as her own.
"I don't believe it," he muttered just above his breath.
The steady stare of her eyes never faltered.
"You loved sister, love me," she whispered.
He fell back from her. This was not Georgian. This was the untutored girlabout whom Georgian had written to him. Everything proved it, even herhands upon which his eyes now fell. Why had he not noticed them before?He had meant to look at them the first thing. Now that he did, he sawthat he might have spared himself some of the miserable uncertainties ofthe last few minutes. They were small and slight like Georgian's, butvery brown and only half cared for. That they were cared for at allastonished him. But she soon explained that. Seeing where his eyes werefixed, she cried out:
"Don't look at my hands. I know they are not real nice like sister's. ButI'm learning. She showed me how to rub them white and cut the nails. Awoman did it for me the first time and I've been doing
it ever since, butthey don't look like hers, for all the pretty rings she bought me. Was Ifoolish to want the rings? I always had rings when I was with thegipsies. They were not gold ones, but I liked them. And Mother Duda likedrings too and made me one once out of beads. It was on my finger when mysister took me home with her. That is why she brought me these. Shedidn't think the bead one was good enough. It wasn't much like hers."
Ransom recalled the diamonds and the rich sapphires he had beenaccustomed to see on his bride's hand.
But this did not engage him long. Some method of communication must befound with this girl, which could be both definite and unmistakable.Feeling in his pocket, he brought out pencil and a small pad. He wouldwrite what he had to say, and was hesitating over the words with which toopen this communication, when he saw her hand thrust itself between hiseyes and the pad, and heard these words uttered in a resolute tone, butnot without a hint of sadness:
"I cannot read. I have never been taught."
PART III
Money