To go to Billy and demand the sequel to the pitiful story of Mary Andrews's life was out of the question. Mr. Thorndyke was long since dead, and had left no papers nor books to help any of his clients in their affairs. While he lived, he had served them faithfully, according to his light; but he felt that in dying he cancelled all obligations. Suppose Mary Andrews had gone to Captain Billy with her secret buried from sight, who was he that he should deal the faithful man at the Station a blow that might end his life—surely, his trust and peace? But Janet! There was the awful doubt. Thorndyke had said there was a child, had he spoken true? If there were a child, was it that beautiful girl of the Station? Devant's blood ran hotly, as he thought upon his belief in heredity. Might it not be himself, instead of the poor mother, who was accountable for the Pimpernel?
"Good God!" he muttered; "what would I not do for her? Train that keen mind, so apt and greedy! Fit her for a high place and, in small measure, redeem the brutal past! Give her perhaps—to Thornly!"
This thought stayed him. It might be by that power he would prevail—if only he were sure!
He was standing before the mirror, tying his cravat, as these thoughts ran through his tortured mind. Suddenly his hands dropped at his sides and he strained his eyes at the reflection that met him. First it was the color of the eyes that held and amazed him; then an expression at once familiar and baffling. Was his own face, for the first time in his life, becoming known to him? Or was the face of that girl of the dunes crowding all other faces from his vision? Once, when first Janet's beauty had stirred him, he had noticed her perfect ears set close to her head. The ears were shell shaped and pink. The left ear, near the lobe, had a curious inward curve, unlike the right—a fascinating defect that added to, rather than detracted from, the beauty. It was like a challenge to attract attention. Devant now observed his own left ear. There, in coarser fashion, was the same mark! Through familiarity it had, before, passed unnoticed, now it forced itself upon his consciousness like a witness for the truth! Slight as these things were, they turned the strong man weak. He dropped into a chair and rang for Saxton.
"Bring me some coffee," he said; "make it yourself, and make it strong."
"Yes, sir. And if it ain't presuming, I would like to say that there is more than the coffee what is weak, sir. The cookin' here ain't what you're used to, sir. The club table, or that at the hotel, is more nourishing." Saxton had put in his suggestion, and went his way comforted.
The coffee braced the shaken nerves, and again Devant went to his mirror as to a friend. The color of the eyes had changed. Janet's eyes were never so pale and dull. The complexion was grayish white—the haunting likeness was gone—but the curious curve of the left ear stood in bold evidence and called for recognition in the final reckoning.
"A thousand might have the same!" thought the troubled man; but he had never noticed it but twice in all his long life!
After breakfast that day he went for a walk in the scrub oaks. He dared not go to the lighthouse, but he saw no reason why he should not walk upon the path leading to it. The damp sodden leaves sent up a pungent odor as his feet crushed them. A smell of wood smoke was mingled with the salt air from off sea; it was a perfect late autumn day, with a warning of winter in its touch.
Devant walked slowly with bowed head; he was pondering as to what he should do in the future. His life had never seemed more useless than it now appeared with the glaring doubt in his mind. Suddenly he was aware of some one approaching, and he raised his eyes hopefully. It was Janet, and the breeze, lifting her hair from her face, left the little ear exposed. It was that upon which the man's gaze rested!