"Or—what?"
Shame held Thornton silent for a moment, but life had him at close grip—he was beaten unless help were given.
"You think they will enjoy—the Tweksbury crowd—I mean—to know the parentage or—lack of it—of—the girl just palmed off on them as a Thornton? I may not be all that could be desired, but such as I am—I'm the saving clause." Thornton's coarseness was more and more evident. "I wonder if you can justify this mess?" he asked, suddenly, with a new interest.
Joan was not trying to justify it—she was seeing it only as the beautiful thing Doris had accomplished by that power of hers to make real her ideal. It had been, still was, her one hold on life.
"It's too late to talk about that now," she answered, slowly, and thinking fast and far, far ahead.
"I imagine it will be expensive not to think of it; but she'll pay!" Thornton was braced for definite action. The girl opposite confused him. She looked so young; so agonized—so brave. She was so like—— At this Thornton turned away his eyes. Only by so doing could he hold to his course.
Slowly, like one dragging a heavy load, Joan was reaching a place of clear understanding. Flashed upon her aching brain were blinding pictures.
"One child was a forsaken waif of these hills——" Thornton had said. "Thunder Peak! The old woman! Mary's silent and secret mission!" rang the echo. Joan's eyes widened; her breath caught in her throat while she compelled herself to weigh and consider—though she did it in the dark. Then suddenly Mary became a tower of strength. Mary!
Then Nancy's loveliness and charm gave their convincing evidence against Joan's own characteristics. At this she shuddered.
"Doris said she never knew which child was mine," Thornton's words still echoed.