The Shield of Silence. Harriet T. Comstock

      "Yes."

      "How old is it?"

      "It was born the night before Meredith's child. It survived against grave dangers—it had no care, really, for twenty-four hours."

      "You—you think it will live?"

      "Yes."

      "Do you think—the grandmother will ever reclaim it?"

      "No, my dear. She is very old. I do not know how old, but certainly she cannot last much longer. She is a strange creature, but I am confident she realizes all that she said."

      "And she is right—it is the only way." Doris was now speaking more to herself than to Angela. It was as if she were arguing, seeking to convince her conservative self before she stepped out upon a new and perilous path.

      "No one knowing! Then the start could be new. It is the knowing, expecting, and suggesting that do the harm. We may call it inheritance, but it may be that we evolve from our knowledge and fears the very thing we would avert if we were left free."

      Sister Angela bent forward. She whispered as if she felt the necessity of secrecy.

      "What do you mean?"

      "Sister, can you not see? Suppose it were possible for me to take Merry's child without the knowledge of its inheritance from the father. Suppose this little mountain child were given its chance among people who did not know."

      "The children would reveal themselves, my dear." Angela was defending, she knew not what, but all her nature was up in arms. "It is God's way."

      "Or our bungling and lack of faith, Sister, which?"

      All the weariness and hopelessness passed from Doris's face; she was eager, her eyes shone. Presently she stood up, her back to the fire, her glance on that far window that opened to the starry night and the narrow, flower-hidden bed on the hill.

      "Sister Angela," the words were spoken solemnly as a vow might be taken before God, "I am going to take—both children. But on one condition—I am not to know which is Meredith's."

      A log rolling from the irons startled the women—their nerves were strained to the breaking point.

      "Impossible!" gasped Angela.

      "Why?"

      "Your own has claims upon you!"

      "None that I am not willing to give—but this is the only way. If, as you say, it is God's way that they reveal themselves, then I lose; if God is with me, I win."

      "Dare—you?"

      Doris stretched her arms as if pushing aside every obstacle.

      "I do," she said. "I am not a daring woman: I am a weak and fearful one—this, though, I dare!"

      "But the father——" Angela whispered.

      "The—father——" Doris's eyes flamed.

      "But he may, as you say, claim the child." Angela hastened breathlessly as one running.

      "How could he, if I did not know which child was his?"

      The blinding light began to point the way clearer, now, to the older woman.

      "It's—unheard of," she murmured, "and yet——"

      "I will write to Thornton, offer to take his child," Doris was pleading, rather than explaining. "I think at the first he will agree to the proposal—what else can he do? The shock—remember, he does not even know that a child is expected! Dare we refuse Meredith's child this only and desperate chance—knowing what we do?"

      Angela made no reply. She was letting go one after another of her rigid beliefs. Again Doris spoke, again she pleaded:

      "I will abide by your decision, Sister, but only after you have gone to the chapel—and seen the way. I will wait here."

      Angela rose stiffly, holding to her cross as if it were a physical support. With bowed head she passed from the room and Doris sat down thinking; demanding justice.

      A half hour passed before steps were heard in the hall. Doris stood up, her eyes fixed on the door.

      Sister Angela entered, and in her arms, wrapped in the same blanket, were two sleeping babies wearing the plain clothing that Ridge House kept in store for emergencies. Doris ran forward; she bent over the small creatures.

      "Which?" Nature leaped forth in that one palpitating word—it was the last claim of blood.

      "I—forgot—when I brought them to you. We have all—forgot. It is the only way—the chance."

      Doris took both children in her arms.

      "I shall name them Joan and Nancy," she whispered, "for my mother and grandmother. Joan and Nancy—Thornton!"

      Then she kissed them, and it was given to her at that moment to forget her bitter hatred.

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      "Just as much of doubt as bade us plant a surer foot upon the sun-road."

      Doris Fletcher had no turning-back in her nature. She never reached a goal but by patient effort to understand, and she was able to close her eyes to by-paths.

      Having adopted the children, having foregone her prejudices—good and evil—having set her feet upon the way, she meant to go unfalteringly on, and because doubts would assail her at times, she held the surer to her task.

      She remained a month at Ridge House. She wrote to Thornton and in due time his reply came.

      Apparently he had written while bewildered and shocked. The old arrogant tone was gone. He accepted what Doris offered and set aside a generous sum of money for his child's expenses.

      It was Sister Angela's suggestion that Mary should become the nurse for the children.

      "How much does she know, Sister?"

      "Nothing—but what we have permitted her to know. The girl, since knowing of the children, has astonished me by her interest in them. Nothing before has so brought her out of her native reserve. I never suspected it—but the girl has maternal instincts that should not be starved."

      But Sister Angela was mistaken. Mary knew more than she had been permitted to know.

      A closed door to Mary meant seeking access through other channels. Sister Constance had not screened the windows of the west chamber which opened on the roof of the porch and were next to the window of Mary's small chamber. She had forgotten to ward against the startling sound of a baby's cry. But Mary, the night that Becky had left her burden to the care of Sister Angela, had heard that cry and it reached to the hidden depth of the girl's nature. It chilled her, then set her blood racing hotly. She got up and went to the window—it was moonlight in The Gap and the night was full of a rising wind that rattled the vines and set the leaves swirling.

      Covering herself with a dark shawl, she crept from her window and, clinging close to the house, reached the west chamber.

      Inside, by the light of a candle, Sister Constance sat, hushing to sleep a little child! The sight was burned upon Mary's consciousness as if Fate pressed every detail there so it might not be forgotten. Mary saw the small, puckered face. It was individual and distinct.

      She almost slipped from her place on the roof; her breath came so hard that she feared Sister Constance might hear, and she groped her way back.

      All next day Mary worked silently but with such haste that Sister Janice took her sharply to task.

      "'Tis the ungodly as leaves the dust under the mats, child," she cautioned.

      "Yes, Sister." Mary attacked the mats!