He nodded indifferently, with closed eyes.
"Will you be surprised when I tell you that Tara is not our daughter?"
"No," slowly opening his eyes, "more surprised if she was!"
"She is no more related to us than you are, and that's the solemn truth!"
"But how—why? Where did she come from?"
Mrs. Beamish made a hasty sign with her hand.
"Now I'm going to tell you, what's only known to three people; if it came to Tara's ears she'd break her heart, she is so proud—so awfully proud. The Beamish's are a very good old family, and she sets great store by that."
"Go on, please," he urged with unexpected animation.
Mrs. Beamish rose and went over and carefully shut a lofty double door, then looked out into the verandah, finally sat down satisfied,—and began.
"It's over nineteen years and more, since the General being uncommonly hale and busy, I took a holiday to see my sister Susan, who was in bad health at Bangalore. Her husband was a missionary; they lived a bit out of the way, up towards the Arab lines, where rents were cheap. Well, I was nursing her through a bad go of fever, and one evening I heard a carriage rumble under the porch. I thought it might be someone for James; for he was a good kind man, and well known.—People often coming to him about charity, or to consult him when in trouble; so I thought nothing whatever of it, till I saw the ayah walking into the room with a very young baby in her arms! She was a queer flighty sort of creature, but honest and kind-hearted. She told me that a gharry with two horses had driven up, and the boy being busy in the cook-house she went out. There was only one person in the carriage, a stern-looking lady with diamonds in her ears, greyish hair, and proud eyes. She had an infant on her lap.