The Heart of a Mystery

by T. W. Speight

"When I was much younger than I am now," she replied, "I often used to try to piece together what, even then, seemed like the broken fragments of a number of dreams all jumbled up together, but I never could make anything of them. Nowadays, my mind seldom travels back so far. Why, indeed, should it? I suppose everything has been told me which it is good for me to know, and assuming that to be so, why should I trouble further?"

"Nothing has been told you yet," said John, gently.

A startled look came into her eyes. "Then something remains to be told," she said with a little break in her voice--"something about the parents of whom I remember nothing--nothing!"

"My dear, neither my sister nor I have any more knowledge of your parents than you yourself have."

Her cheek paled suddenly, "Oh!--Can that be true? And yet you are my uncle and aunt! How, then?" She stared helplessly from one to the other.

John drew his chair closer to Hermy's, and taking one of her hands in both his, pressed it tenderly. "Ah," he said, with an infinite pathos in his voice, "therein lies the secret--the secret which has been kept from you for so many years, but which must be told you at last." Here he pressed her hand a little harder. "My darling child--for so I may surely call you--it seems a cruel thing to be compelled to say, but we are not your uncle and aunt--I and my sister. In point of fact, we are no relatives at all."

Hermia's eyes were not bent on John, but on the fire, but just then they saw no more of what they seemed to be gazing at, than if they had been struck with blindness. Twice her lips shaped themselves as if to speak, but no sound came from them. A large tear gathered in the corner of each eye, lingered there for a moment, and then fell. John himself was unable to continue for a little while.

"And now," he went on, "having told you so much, I must, of course, tell you the rest, for my sister agrees with me that the time has come when you should be made aware of as much of your history as it is in our power to impart to you. After all, there is not much to tell, as you will be able presently to judge for yourself." He paused for a few moments as if to gather his thoughts, and then resumed.

"Seventeen years ago, at which time we were living in the suburbs of London, my sister drew my attention to an advertisement in one of the daily papers, which specified that the advertiser was desirous of entering into communication with some thoroughly respectable and trustworthy people, who were willing to adopt a little girl about three years of age, and bring her up as if she were a child of their own. My sister and I having made tip our minds years before that we should never marry, had long been desirous of brightening our lives by the adoption of a child, who should grow up with us, and be in everything as though she were really our own, and here seemed the opportunity we were seeking, ready to our hand. Accordingly, I at once answered the advertisement, and a couple of days later was called upon by a Mr. Hodgson, who, from the first time of seeing him, I set down in my mind as a lawyer. The result was that a few days later, you, my dear Hermia, were handed over to our care, and have lived with us ever since.

"Once every year Mr. Hodgson visits us at the Cottage, when he always dines with us, and you will doubtless remember having seen him here on several occasions. The object of his annual visit is to see you, probably in order that he may be able to report to those who employ him that you are alive and well. We were told, when you first came to us, that your name was Hermia Rivers, but beyond that we were told nothing. No hint whatever with regard to your parentage or family history has ever escaped Mr. Hodgson's lips, and it was understood between us all along that I was to ask no questions, and none has ever been asked. Two inferences, however, may be drawn which would seem to make it pretty clear that your relatives, whatever else they may be, must be people of some means. The first inference is, that were they not such, they would hardly be in a position to engage the services of a man of the stamp of Mr. Hodgson. The second is, that although we were quite willing to take and adopt you without any payment whatever--and, indeed, to have made our doing so a question of gain would have been altogether counter to our feelings in the matter--Mr. Hodgson insisted that the sum of sixty-five pounds a year should be paid for you till you should come of age; after which, he said, in all probability some fresh arrangement might become desirable. Accordingly, the sixty-five pounds has been paid punctually ever since, but not one farthing of it has been touched by us. Year by year it has been allowed to accumulate in your own name in Umpleby's Bank at Dulminster, where at the present moment, there stands to your credit a sum of over twelve hundred pounds."