“Never mind Emily’s ankles,” said Caroline, keen on a scandal hunt. “Go on about the Burnleys.”
“Well, there was a cousin of hers—Leo Mitchell from Shrewsbury. You remember the Mitchells, don’t you, Caroline? This Leo was a handsome fellow—a sea-captain. He had been in love with Beatrice, so gossip ran. Some said Beatrice wanted him but that her people made her marry Allan Burnley because he was the better match. Who knows? Gossip lies nine times and tells a half truth the tenth. She pretended to be in love with Allan anyhow, and he believed it. When Leo came home from a voyage and found Beatrice married he took it coolly enough. But he was always over at Blair Water. Beatrice had plenty of excuses. Leo was her cousin—they had been brought up together—they were like brother and sister—she was so lonesome in Blair Water after living in a town—he had no home except with a brother. Allan took it all down—he was so infatuated with her she could have made him believe anything. She and Leo were always together there when Allan was away seeing his patients. Then came the night Leo’s vessel—The Lady of Winds—was to sail from Blair Harbour for South America. He went—and my lady Beatrice went with him.”
A queer little strangled sound came from Emily’s corner. If Aunt Nancy or Caroline had looked at her they would have seen that the child was white as the dead, with wide, horror-filled eyes. But they did not look. They knitted and gossiped on, enjoying themselves hugely.
“How did the doctor take it?” asked Caroline.
“Take it—take it—nobody knows. Everybody knows what kind of a man he’s been ever since, though. He came home that night at dusk. The baby was asleep in its crib and the servant girl was watching it. She told Allan that Mrs. Burnley had gone to the harbour with her cousin for a goodbye walk and would be back at ten. Allan waited for her easily enough—he never doubted her—but she didn’t come back. She had never intended to come back. In the morning The Lady of Winds was gone—had sailed out of the harbour at dark the night before. Beatrice had gone on board with him—that was all anybody knew. Allan Burnley said nothing, beyond forbidding her name ever to be mentioned in his hearing again. But The Lady of Winds was lost with all on board off Hatteras and that was the end of that elopement, and the end of Beatrice with her beauty and her laughter and her Ace of Hearts.”
“But not the end of the shame and wretchedness she brought to her home,” said Caroline shrewishly. “I’d tar and feather such a woman.”
“Nonsense—if a man can’t look after his wife—if he blinds his own eyes—Mercy on us, child, what is the matter?”
For Emily was standing up, holding out her hands as if pushing some loathly thing from her.
“I don’t believe it,” she cried, in a high, unnatural voice. “I don’t believe Ilse’s mother did that. She didn’t—she couldn’t have—not Ilse’s mother.”
“Catch her, Caroline!” cried Aunt Nancy.
But Emily, though the back parlour had whirled about her for a second, had recovered herself.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried passionately. “Don’t touch me! You—you—you liked hearing that story!”
She rushed out of the room. Aunt Nancy looked ashamed for a moment. For the first time it occurred to her that her scandal-loving old tongue had done a black thing. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
“She can’t go through life in cotton wool. Might as well learn spades are spades now as ever. I would have thought she’d have heard it all long ago if Blair Water gossip is what it used to be. If she goes home and tells this I’ll have the indignant virgins of New Moon coming down on me in holy horror as a corrupter of youth. Caroline, don’t you ask me to tell you any more family horrors before my niece, you scandalous old woman. At your age! I’m surprised at you!”
Aunt Nancy and Caroline returned to their knitting and their spicy reminiscences, and upstairs in the Pink Room Emily lay face downwards on her bed and cried for hours. It was so horrible—Ilse’s mother had run away and left her little baby. To Emily that was the awful thing—the strange, cruel, heartless thing that Ilse’s mother had done. She could not bring herself to believe it—there was some mistake somewhere—there was.
“Perhaps she was kidnapped,” said Emily, trying desperately to explain it. “She just went on board to look around—and he weighed anchor and carried her off. She couldn’t have gone away of her own accord and left her dear little baby.”
The story haunted Emily in good earnest. She could think of nothing else for days. It took possession of her and worried and gnawed at her with an almost physical pain. She dreaded going back to New Moon and meeting Ilse with this consciousness of a dark secret which she must hide from her. Ilse knew nothing. She had asked Ilse once where her mother was buried and Ilse had said, “Oh, I don’t know. At Shrewsbury, I guess—that’s where all the
