Part 13 (1/2)

”Hullo, Molly mine! Got back, then?” he said, smiling. ”Have you made your peace with Miss Tennant, you scatterbrained young woman?”

”It's a hereditary taint, Dad--don't blame _me_!” retorted Molly with lazy impudence, pulling his head down and kissing him on the top of his ruffled hair.

Selwyn grinned.

”I pa.s.s,” he submitted. ”And who is it that's been crossed in love?”

”The Hermit of Far End.”

”Oh”--turning to Sara--”so you have been discussing our local enigma?”

”Yes. I fancy I must have travelled down with him from Oldhampton. He seemed rather a boorish individual.”

”He would be. He doesn't like women.”

”Monk's Cliff would appear to be an appropriate habitation for him, then,” commented Sara tartly.

They all laughed, and presently Selwyn suggested that his daughter should run up and see her mother.

”She'll be hurt if you don't go up, kiddy,” he said. ”And try and be very nice to her--she's a little tired and upset to-day.”

When she had left the room he turned to Sara, a curious blending of proud reluctance and regret in his eyes.

”I'm so sorry, Miss Tennant,” he said simply, ”that you should have seen our worst side so soon after your arrival. You--you must try and pardon it--”

”Oh, please, please don't apologize,” broke in Sara hastily. ”I'm so sorry I happened to be there just then. It was horrible for you.”

He smiled at her wistfully.

”It's very kind of you to take it like that,” he said. ”After all”--frankly--”you could not have remained with us very long without finding out our particular skeleton in the cupboard. My wife's state of health--or, rather, what she believes to be her state of health--is a great grief to me. I've tried in every way to convince her that she is not really so delicate as she imagines, but I've failed utterly.”

Now that the ice was broken, he seemed to find relief in pouring out the pitiful little tragedy of his home life.

”She is comparatively young, you know, Miss Tennant--only thirty-seven, and she willfully leads the life of a confirmed invalid. It has grown upon her gradually, this absorption in her health, and now, practically speaking, Molly has no mother and I no wife.”

”Oh, Doctor d.i.c.k”--the little nickname, that had its origin in his slum patients' simple affection for the man who tended them, came instinctively from her lips. It seemed, somehow, to fit itself to the big, kindly man with the sternly rugged face and eyes of a saint. ”Oh, Doctor d.i.c.k, I'm so sorry--so very sorry!”

Perhaps something in the dainty, well-groomed air of the woman beside him helped to accentuate the neglected appearance of the room, for he looked round in an irritated kind of way, as though all at once conscious of its deficiencies.

”And this--this, too,” he muttered. ”There's no one at the helm. . . .

The truth is, I ought never to have let you come here.”

Sara shook her head.

”I've very glad I came,” she said simply. ”I think I'm going to be very happy here.”

”You've got grit,” he replied quietly. ”You'd make a success of your life anywhere. I wish”--thoughtfully--”Molly had a little of that same quality. Sometimes”--a worried frown gathered on his face--”I get afraid for Molly. She's such a child . . . and no mother to hold the reins.”

”Doctor d.i.c.k, would you consider it impertinent if--if I laid my hands on the reins--just now and then?”