Thornton flushed angrily, and his resentment of old flamed into speech.

"I've come to make your aunt--pay. When I saw you before--you and your supposed sister--your aunt had all the cards in her hands, but I told her then that murder would out--and by G.o.d! it has--and now it is pay day." The years had coa.r.s.ened Thornton.

Joan stared at the man across the table as if he had suddenly gone mad before her eyes. She was frightened; she heard distant voices--the cook speaking to Jed--she wanted to call out; meant to--but instead she asked dully:

"What do you mean by--my supposed sister?"

Thornton shifted his position and leaned forward over the table.

"So--eh? She didn't tell you all? I see. She confined the story to--me.

And--you've believed all your life--that--that the girl, Nancy, was your sister? Well--by heaven! Doris has taken a chance."

"You have got to tell me what you mean!"

Joan was no longer filled with personal fear--it was wider, deeper than that.

"And you must not lie," she added, fiercely--anger was giving her strength. Thornton regarded her through half-closed eyes.

"Lying isn't my big line," he said, roughly, "if it had seen, I might have escaped the infernal mess that I hatched by--telling the truth in the first place. Since your aunt has neglected her duty--I will tell you the truth!"

Thornton took small heed of the stricken girl near him. Hate and revenge for the moment swayed him, but not for an instant did Joan disbelieve what was burning into her consciousness. Truth rang in every word of the almost unbelievable story. And while she listened and shrank back she was conscious of inanimate things taking on human attributes that pleaded with her. The chair by the hearth where Doris had but recently sat smiling so happily because her ideals had been real to her! Nancy and she, Joan seemed to know, were the ideals--Nancy and she! For them Doris had done the one, big, daring thing in her life. The loom by the window suddenly cried out, too, as if Nancy were bending over it--working on her unfinished but perfect pattern.

"Oh!" The word escaped Joan and found its way to Thornton's sympathy at last. He paused as he watched the suffering his words were causing.

"It's a d.a.m.ned ugly thing she did to you," he said, "a d.a.m.ned ugly one.

I warned her about the time when you would have to know. I've travelled a long distance to set you straight. She'll pay--now!"

Joan tried to speak--failed--then tried again.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, huskily, at last.

Thornton regarded her with a dark frown.

"Do?" he repeated, "claim my own--and let her pay."

"What good--would that do--now?"

Thornton stared. Where had he heard words like those before? Why should they seem to defy him? defeat him?

"I'm going to have the truth known at last or----"

"Or--what?"

Shame held Thornton silent for a moment, but life had him at close grip--he was beaten unless help were given.

"You think they will enjoy--the Tweksbury crowd--I mean--to know the parentage or--lack of it--of--the girl just palmed off on them as a Thornton? I may not be all that could be desired, but such as I am--I'm the saving clause." Thornton's coa.r.s.eness was more and more evident.

"I wonder if you can justify this mess?" he asked, suddenly, with a new interest.

Joan was not trying to justify it--she was seeing it only as the beautiful thing Doris had accomplished by that power of hers to make real her ideal. It had been, still was, her one hold on life.

"It's too late to talk about that now," she answered, slowly, and thinking fast and far, far ahead.

"I imagine it will be expensive not to think of it; but she'll pay!"

Thornton was braced for definite action. The girl opposite confused him.

She looked so young; so agonized--so brave. She was so like---- At this Thornton turned away his eyes. Only by so doing could he hold to his course.

Slowly, like one dragging a heavy load, Joan was reaching a place of clear understanding. Flashed upon her aching brain were blinding pictures.

"One child was a forsaken waif of these hills----" Thornton had said.

"_Thunder Peak! The old woman! Mary's silent and secret mission!_" rang the echo. Joan's eyes widened; her breath caught in her throat while she compelled herself to weigh and consider--though she did it in the dark.

Then suddenly Mary became a tower of strength. Mary!

Then Nancy's loveliness and charm gave their convincing evidence against Joan's own characteristics. At this she shuddered.

"Doris said she never knew which child was mine," Thornton's words still echoed.

"But she must have known!" Joan bowed her head, and all the loneliness of her life gathered in this moment of supreme acceptance. She knew, now, why she was, as she was; she knew why they could all cling together. There was something that could hold them together; something stronger than Doris could command. There _was_ a pay day! It had come!

"I do not see," Joan spoke at last, and her voice was heavy and even, "why you should think you can harm Nancy. If what you have told is--I mean, _because_ what you have told is true--Nancy cannot be hurt--Nancy is--is yours! You would never doubt that if you saw her. I suppose you think"--here Joan's eyes flamed--"you can get more by attacking Nancy."

At this Thornton startled Joan by throwing his head back and laughing aloud, fearlessly, roughly.

She was alarmed. The servants--what would they think? Mary--suppose Mary should appear? But above all else Joan wanted to get this hideous thing over before Doris returned. Never for an instant did she falter there.

But the laugh continued, less noisy but more reckless.

"Well, by heaven, you are game!" Thornton managed to form the words, and in his eyes there was a glint of admiration. His old sporting spirit awakened--he knew the genuine ring of metal.

"Why, see here, my girl," he drew from his pocket a gold locket and an old daguerreotype; "you don't suppose I came without evidence, do you?"

Mechanically Joan reached across the table and took the articles--her fingers were stiff and cold, but she managed to unclasp the cases.

Thornton was watching her; he had stopped laughing.

In the locket were two miniatures--one of Meredith Fletcher, one of Thornton painted just after their marriage--Doris had the duplicate of Meredith's.

"That," Thornton spoke deliberately, as Joan turned to the other, "is my mother! She and I were very like."

Joan drew her breath in sharp.

Once, back in the Dondale days, she had sung some of her old English ballads in costume--a quaint picture of her had been taken at the time and, for an instant, she thought this was it--she vaguely wondered how Thornton had got it--she could not think clearly--her brain was growing cloudy. Then she turned the old case over in her hand and looked at it mutely.

"They discounted your resemblance to my side of the house." There was something almost pathetic underlying the sneer in Thornton's voice. "I did not know myself until I came in the door--but when I saw you, it was as if my mother stood here."

Joan could not speak, but, as a change of wind turned the mists in The Gap _to_ the east instead of _from_ the east, so her clouds were drifting; drifting, and a flood of light was blinding her. She looked up--her eyes were shining with tears that did not fall; her lips twitched nervously, but she was happy; happy. The sensation brought strength and purpose. She did not seem alone--she was close, close to them who, unseen, but vital, were pressing near; waiting for her decision--now that she understood! What had her unconscious preparation done for her?

Oh! she would not fail them. She was almost ready to prove herself. In a moment she could master her emotions and be worthy.

Then she looked at Thornton and throbbed with hate; but as she looked her mood again changed--she felt such pity as she had never known in her life before.