A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 9939, 10 December 1900, Page 6

A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

CHAPTER X

I recognised him in a moment, but at the same time I paw that he did not know me. Indeed, it was next to impossible that a ma,i should recognise in a woman of—never mind what—a child of six of whom he had never taken any particular notice. I sat looking up into his large hairy face, and it reminded me so strongly of the story of Beauty and the Beast that a wide smile came involuntarily over my face. He thought it was meant for him, and grinned in response ; then, suddenly remembering his manners, he pulled off the huge head-piece he wore— to call it a cap would be to do it an injustice—and passed on round the corner of tho house. | I saw that it was a critical moment. I I could not sit very long in the old woman's ! company, and I foresaw that as soon as she left m« she would communicate to; hereon and her daughter-in-law the discovery she supposed she had made. This would, of course, land me in a difficulty. I must either admit or deny that I was the person for whom she had taken me. If I denied it I lost a splendid chance of ■making further discoveries —that is, supposing that the girl old Mrs McPhail had in her mind was not known to the others by sight. But if I assumed the personality she was ready to present me with I ran great risks. Any chance word might betray me, and expose me as _ cheat and an impostor. But, on the other hand (I argued to myself), 1 should in reality be little worse off after such an exposure. ! My case was desperate. All this passed through my mind in less time than it has taken the reader's eyes to scan these lines; and then came this reflection—that I would never get such another opportunity of securing my position by learning fresh facts. At least if I allowed Mrs McPhail to talk with her son about me he would most probably come to have a little conversation with me, and in the course of that talk I wright show by my remarks that I was not the person I pretended to be. If ever 1 was to get a scrap of knowledge from the woman I had better be after it now. To-morrow it might, and probably would, be too late. I glanced down at the old dame—she was gazing at me with an expression half stupid, half curious, on her withered face. I put my elbow on my knee, and bent down so as to bring my face on a level with hers, and put my hand on her knee. * I don't remember my mother in the least,' I said. ' I wish you would tell me something about her. Did you know her well.?' | 'Ay, I kent her fine lang ere ever she gaed to Australia. Eh, she was a bonny lass ! An' a laird's dohter tae. We never thocht she would hae come doon to hae married a Bimple honest man like William Grant.' 'They were married in Australia I suppose ?' <OI course. What makes ye doobt that ?' * I don't doubt it for a moment. But Australia is a big country. Was it near Melbourne they stayed when they were married ?' * Melbourne ? I ken na sic name. No. They bided among the grazin' lands beyond ' * Sydney ?' I suggested. * Ay, that's just it. And af terhin they gaed to a place whar they were seekin' gold,- and bided there abune a year. And there they deed, first him an' syne her.' 'First my father died, and then my mother ?' ' What am I sayin' ?' said the old woman testily. ' And what became of me ?' * They brought ye hame—Maister Mitchell and my son Duncan ! He's a fine lad, Duncan, is he no' ? A fine -figure of a man !' ' Yes, he is, Mrs McFail. But tell me this—had I any brothers or sisters?' ' No ; nane that I ever heard tell o\" ' And what age would I be, do you suppose, when my mother died ?' *Ye wad be five, or maybe six. They took ye stracht awa' to Cumberland. I didna see ye, yell hae mind, for maybe four years after that.' These last words reminded me of what in my eagerness I was in danger of forgetting—that this was not my own history I was listening to, but the biography of that other Miss Grant for whom the old woman had mistaken me. Was it possible that after all we were the same? To set the matter at rest I put a question.: * Just tell me this—Did you ever hear that this—that I was sent to live in London ?' She shook her head. 'Or sent to school near London!'' * No. But surely you would mind that yersei'!' I hastened to ask another question before the surprise I saw in the wizened old face should change to suspicion. * And I am like my mother, you say ?' ' Very like.' But her tone was not so confident as it had been at first. *Ye hae her c'en, her bonny blue c'en, and lang, lang silken hair that shines as tho sun. But ye'ro a hantlo bigger, and mair wiselike. Sho was a fine bairn, and a bonny, an a true-hearted, but sho was gey feckless.' This told me little, especially as I did not clearly uruleretand what ' fecUoss ' meant. What I wanted to get at was the name of tho placo in Cumberland to which the girl 1 was now personating had been taken as a child. It was quite necessary that I should know something more about her, lest in speaking to McPhail and his wife I .should lot it be .seen that I did not know tho most ordinary facts of my own life! And I (lid not, ho much as know my own name ! I was still considerit-ig how I should frame a question by which 1 might in some indueet way arrive at this bit of information, when my landlady's Kfridont voice wan heard calling out, 'Mithor! Como to your dinner !' I wan too late. The next, moment. Mrs Mcl'lmil appeared, anil taking hor motluii'-in-law by tho arm led her away. But, there wan a look in tlin old woman's face that warned _io that, she was filled with the idea of po-iim.uug a «,:uret. Would nlie keep it, to luHNclfV Or would she immediately uliaro it, wiih her hoii ? 1 wan not, left long in ttuHpense. Ton minutiw had not gone, by, before a heavy tread Hounded ahnoiit at, my ear, and looking up 1 naw McPhail standing opposite me. 11 in unpiopoHsiiHHing faou wore a mcowl. 'Ho, you are Sidney (Irani,!' ho ex claimed. 1 neither itaid vim nor no. 'Won't, you Hit, down a, little?' 1 miiil, making loom on the bench hciiido me. Tho iieowl ehanuod to a perplexed frown. Ho sal, down, making the nub ul initial bench quiver from one end to tho oth.-r. ' When del you leave '-ioaHou I'Vl] '!' h" linked abruptly. I named the day I had left l-omlnil. ' Aiti\ what biings you heie.'' ■ I came to nee Ml Mitchell.' ' What for did ye no' gnng up tn Iho ('an! 10, t hen ?' ' HoeaiiMt i diil not know how he might r< reive mo,' I replied, looking him trunkly in tlin lace.

«I might ha' guessed it by the namebut it never struck me, 5 he muttered to himself. Then aloud—Yell hae to shift frae here.' ' You mean that I must go away ?' I said in affected surprise. ' Ay. That's just it. What for did ye no' say at the first wha you were ?' 'I shall not go,'l said, without answering his question. ' I have taken two . | rooms here, and you can't turn me till the end of the week at any rate.' At this he simply glared at me, a- d [_ ne could not believe t"hnt anyone cor"__ be so foolhardy as, to dare to dispute, h" s will, especially in his own house. ' We'll see about that!' r,e exclaimed. ' I shall not go till I, have seen Mr Mitchell,' 1 said firmly.. ' Yell not have lo_g to wait for that,' he retorted with a malicious grin, 4 for here he is, coming up the brae.' ' I looked, and saw the top of a silk hat some little way below vs —underneath it the figure of a man in dark grey cloth, wearing an old-fashioned stand-up collar, like those in which Punch used to depict Mr Gladstone, and a black silk tie. Mr Mitchell's hair was iron-grey— I guessed him to be about sixty. His face wore an air of surprise, as he caught sight of me, and he turned his small shifty eyes on McPhail, as if asking an explanation. The factor rose, and approaching his employer said something to him in a low gut'.ural tone. This gave me a few moments, and I tried to collect my wits for the struggle I saw was coming. There stood the man—the man I had for so many years longed to behold—the mau who knew the secret of my birth—the man who was responsible for hiding me away as if I had been an accursed tlung. How was Ito meet him ? How was Ito wring the secret from hia grasp ? Was Ito continue the imposture I had almost involuntarily begun. One thing I was assured ot by a glance at the ! laird's face —any appeal to him for pity, any appeal to his senee of honor or fair dealing, would be so many words wasted. Before I had made up my mind how to j act Mr Mitchell had left the factor (who presently slunk away), and turned to me. He held out his hand as though he meant that our meeting should be a friendly one, but there was no smile of welcome or of civility on his cold, hardbitten features. i • Well, Miss Grant, so you've come to see me after all. I must say you're a good bit changed from what you were when I saw you last. But that's a lorjg time ago. You were only a bit lassie then. So you've thought better of the letter you wrote —you want to take that back ?' ' Just so, but I'm not sure that I'll allow you to take it back. You said you did not wish to have anything more to do with me, and to that I was quite content to agree. But it takes two to aher an arrangement like that. You'll allow that, I suppose ?' * Yes, I can dispute that. But I think you might look over that letter, Mr Mitchell.' I said this with a smile which I suppose mollified him, for his face seemed to relax a little as he asked — ' Have you quarrelled with Mrs Leadbitter?' ' Whatever happens I shall never go back to Scarton Fell,' I said firmly. The man's face fell. ' And what is that to me?' he exclaimed irritably. ' What is it to me if you choose to quarrel with your bread aud butter ?' ' Nothing, perhaps. But as an old friend of my parents ' This was a guess, but I thought it was pretty certain that Mr Mitchell had known my father and mother —that is, the father and mother of the girl in Cumberland—so I risked it. But the shot was not a lucky one. Mr Mitchell gave a little suppressed start, and cried angrily, • If I did know your parents, what then ? Does that make it my duty to support you ? Didn't 1 explain to you before that even if your father and mother had been married, you would have no claim on me?' He spoke fiercely, his thin lips working in his excitement. But I did not heed his anger. The words that had fallen from him struck a chill to my heart —till I remembered that they had not beeu spoken of me, but of that other girl, whom he supposed to be standing before him. But even then they left a painful impression on my mind. I could not answer coherently, but mumbled, ' I suppose—that is, I have no doubt you are right.' 'Of course I am right!' he cried, triumphantly. ' And mind, whatever I have done, or may do, for you has net been on account of any right you had to claim either money or anything else from me, but simply because I cho.'e to give it from motives of humanity—you acknowledge that?' ' Why, Mr Mitchell, what else could it be ?' 1 exclaimed with my most innocent gaze. ' Why do you come to me, then, after all. that has parsed,' he asked sharply. ' Tell me anywhere else to go, and I will leave Inveroran at once,' I said. ' My father had friends in this country— so had my mother. If you will have nothing to do with me I must find them, and see what th< y will do for me.' Without moving a muscle of his sallow face tho laird shot at mo a queer, furtive glance out of the corners of his eyes. I had turned half round when I began to speak, and it was by the merest chance that I caught it. That careless glance told mo much. I fia w more of Mr Alexander Mitchell in that half second , than I might have seen in months or yearo. I had not had much scruple in dealing with him hitherto. After that I hud none. 'Can't you give me the names ami addresses of one'or two of my mother's relations? 5 1 sa id, following up my advantage. ' What do I know about your mother's folk ? ' wis tho clownish answer. But there wan an unt*i»ay look in the man's eyes which did not fneapo me. ' They're poor enough, from all 1 ever heard. And I don't suppose they would thank you for hanging on to them.' ' Well, my father must have had somo relation*. \ will try them.' ' You'd In* no better off ivith t hem— worm*, il anything. Rut if you like I'll try and find you another situation, though it won't, In* eauy, considering that you have quarrelled with your mistress. What wan thoquiucel about V Some tritlo, I'll he hound f * Mr Miioh-U, I Imvc said atresuly that lam not. going hunk to Scarton Foil. If you will do nothing farther for me, at least give me, the names of two or three ot my relations. Then, perhaps, 1 need never trouble you again.' He Htood pondering for a moment, moving the big stoium i„ the gravel back and forward with the point of his toe. ♦ You had better eomo up to the castle till wo see what'd \w»i to be done,' said Ihe laird after a long paimo. ft was evident that, the invitation came very unwillingly. My host l„ft mo under no delusion on that point. But 1 eared nothing whether it was given willingly or unwillingly, mo long as it. wu*. given, aud now it- had lunne ! Mut. I took eate not •„ betray anything of what I felt. I looked a trifle diseoneoitod, aud said I though I had better Hi aY whore 1 wan for I lie present. This iiiul Urn clfoetv un 1 intended it. tihould have of making Mr Mitehell issue his ouleui it ununited more like >\ oDiumaud that mi invitation that 1 should be ready ut live that, afternoon, and ho would