“The evidence of a photograph—which may be a good or a bad likeness—is a small thing to go upon, Mildred,” said her aunt. “I think you have been very foolish to make up your mind upon such evidence.”
“O, but there are other facts—coincidences! And nothing would make me doubt the identity of the original of that photograph with Fay Fausset. I recognised it at the first glance; and Bell, who saw it afterwards, knew the face immediately. There could be no error in that. The only question is about her parentage. I thought, if there were room for doubt in the face of my mother’s death-bed statement, you could help me. But it is all over. You were my last hope,” said Mildred despairingly.
She let her face sink forward upon her clasped hands. Only in this moment did she know how she had clung to the hope that her aunt would be able to assure her she was mistaken in her theory of Fay’s parentage.
“My dear Mildred,” began Miss Fausset, after a pause, “the words you have just used—‘death-bed statement’—seem to mean something very solemn, indisputable, irrevocable; but I must beg you to remember that your poor mother was a very weak woman and a very exacting wife. She was offended with my brother for his adoption of an orphan girl. I have heard her hold forth about her wrongs many a time, vaguely, not daring to accuse him before me; but still I could understand the drift of her thoughts. She may have nursed these vague suspicions of hers until they seemed to her like positive facts; and on her death-bed, her brain enfeebled by illness, she may have made direct assertions upon no other ground than those long-cherished suspicions and the silent jealousies of years. I do not think, Mildred, you ought to take any decisive step upon the evidence of your mother’s jealousy.”
“My mother spoke with conviction. She must have known something—she must have had some proof. But even if it were possible she could have spoken so positively without any other ground than jealous feeling, there are other facts that cry aloud to me, evidences to which I dare not shut my eyes. Fay must have belonged to some one, aunt,” pursued Mildred, with growing earnestness, clasping her hands upon Miss Fausset’s arm as they sat side by side in the gathering darkness. “There must have been some reason—and a strong one—for her presence in our house. My father was not a man to act upon caprice. I never remember any foolish or frivolous act of his in all the years of my girlhood. He was a man of thought and purpose; he did nothing without a motive. He would not have charged himself with the care of that poor girl unless he had considered it his duty to protect her.”
“Perhaps not.”
“I am sure not. Then comes the question, who was she if she was not my father’s daughter? He had no near relations, he had no bosom friend that I ever heard of—no friend so dear that he would deem it his duty to adopt that friend’s orphan child. There is no other clue to the mystery that I can imagine. Can you, aunt, suggest any other solution?”
“No, Mildred, I cannot.”
“If there were no other evidence within my knowledge, my father’s manner alone would have given me a clue to his secret. He so studiously evaded my inquiries about Fay—there was such a settled melancholy in his manner when he spoke of her.”
“Poor John! he had a heart of gold, Mildred. There never was a truer man than your father. Be sure of that, come what may.”