It was true, then, that the man knew nothing of the secret marriage of Ralph Davenant and Caroline Hatfield.
"A scoundrel and a villain!" repeated Gideon, leaning forward and clutching the table. "You say that he told you the story of his crime, glossed over and falsified. Hear it from me. Your uncle and I were schoolfellows and friends. I was the son of the schoolmaster at Hurst. Your uncle left school to go to college. I remained at Hurst in my father's house. I could have gone to college also, but I would not leave Hurst, for I was in love. I loved Caroline Hatfield. She was the daughter of the gamekeeper on the Hurst estate, and we were to be married. Two months before the day fixed for our marriage your uncle, my friend--my friend!--came home to spend the vacation. We were friends still, and I--cursed fool that I was--took him to the gamekeeper's lodge to introduce him to my sweetheart. Six weeks afterward he and she had fled."
Stephen watched him closely, his heart beating wildly.
"They had fled," continued Gideon, in a broken voice. "My life was ended on the day they brought me the news. I left Hurst Leigh and came here. A year later she came back to me--came back to me to die. She died and left me----. She left me her child. I--I loved her still and swore to protect that child, and I have done so. There is my story. What have you to say?"
"It is terrible, terrible!" he exclaimed.
"I have kept my vow. Her child has grown up ignorant of the shame which is her heritage. Here, buried in the heart of the forest, away from the world, I have kept and guarded her for her mother's sake. There is the story, told without gloss or falsehood. What have you to say?"
"You have discharged your self-appointed trust most nobly! But--but that trust has come to an end."
"I say so. You have done your duty--more than your duty--I must do mine. My uncle, on his deathbed, bequeathed his daughter to my charge."
"That I do not come without authority is proven by the mere fact of my presence here and by my knowledge of my uncle's secret. No one but yourself, your wife and I know of the real identity of this girl. It was my uncle's wish that the story of her birth should still remain a secret--that it should be buried, as it were, in his grave. Why should the poor girl ever learn the truth, when such knowledge can only bring her shame and mortification?"
