Very briefly Mark told as much of his story as he thought necessary, omitting ’Tina and the finding of Tom in Boston where he rescued him from the street. Everything was softened and the life at Ridgefield dwelt upon at length, while Inez listened as to an interesting romance. It did not seem quite real to her that her father was once in a position so different from that which he now occupied. The change of names troubled her and twice she repeated “Mark Hilton,—Jefferson Wilkes,” as if accustoming herself to the sound. Once when her father made an allusion to the present as if to explain, she said, “No, no. I can’t bear that, now or ever. There is no excuse. You are my father, and I must love you always,—and Tom, who is not Tom at all!”
Tom was on his feet and in the room in a moment, standing where she could not see him, as she went on very slowly, for her breathing was difficult.
“It seems odd, but I am glad you were once a gentleman like those at the hotel, and lived in a grand house like Fanny’s, but I like better to hear of the woods and river and meadows and ponds in—what was the place?—Where Tom gathered the lilies.”
“Ridgefield,” Mark replied, trying to stop her as he saw how exhausted she seemed.
“Let me talk while I can,” she said. “I can’t speak of the past when Fanny comes if she is not to know you are her father. No one need to know it or the change of names. You are Mr. Rayborne, and Tom is Tom. I cannot think of him as Jeff, or you as Mr. Hilton. You are father and he is Tom till I die.”
“She does care for me a little. Thank God for that,” Tom thought, as he crept back to his post on the stairs.
It was beginning to get light, and not long after sunrise a buggy driven by an employee from Clark’s stopped at the foot of the hill leading to the cottage. Mark saw Fanny as she ran up the path, and went to meet her. In her flushed, eager face there was a look which he had seen often in his own face when he was a boy, and this it was which made him call her “My child” as he led her into the house and told her how low Inez was and how necessary that she should be kept quiet and not excited in any way.
“Her mother died of heart trouble. Inez may go the same way if we are not careful,” he said.
“I will be very careful,” Fanny answered, as she followed him to Inez’s room.
The curtains were drawn over the windows, but it was light enough for Fanny to see the great change in Inez. Her eyes were sunken, but unnaturally bright. There was a drawn look about her mouth and her cheeks had lost much of their roundness, but were red with fever spots, which contrasted sharply with the pallor of her lips.