The Hermit of Far End | Page 6

quietly, very tenderly, he drew her into his arms. There was no
passion in the caress--for was it not eventide, and the lengthening
shadows of night already fallen across her path?--but there was infinite
love, and forgiveness, and understanding. . . .
"And now, may I see her--the little daughter?"
The twilight had gathered about them during that quiet hour of reunion,
wherein old hurts had been healed, old sins forgiven, and now at last
they had come back together out of the past to the recognition of all
that yet remained to do.
There came a sound of running footsteps on the stairs outside--light,
eager steps, buoyant with youth, that evidently found no hardship in the
long ascent from the street level.
"Hark!" The woman paused, her head a little turned to listen. "Here she
comes. No one else on this floor"--with a whimsical smile--"could take
the last flight of those awful stairs at a run."
The door flew open, and the man received an impressionist picture of
which the salient features were a mop of black hair, a scarlet jersey, and

a pair of abnormally long black legs.
Then the door closed with a bang, and the blur of black and scarlet
resolved itself into a thin, eager-faced child of eight, who paused
irresolutely upon perceiving a stranger in the room.
"Come here, kiddy," the woman held out her hand. "This"--and her
eyes sought those of the man as though beseeching confirmation--"is
your uncle."
The child advanced and shook hands politely, then stood still, staring at
this unexpectedly acquired relative.
Her sharp-pointed face was so thin and small that her eyes, beneath
their straight, dark brows, seemed to be enormous--black, sombre eyes,
having no kinship with the intense, opaque brown so frequently
miscalled black, but suggestive of the vibrating darkness of night itself.
Instinctively the man's glance wandered to the face of the child's
mother.
"You think her like me?" she hazarded.
"She is very like you," he assented gravely.
A wry smile wrung her mouth.
"Let us hope that the likeness is only skin-deep, then!" she said bitterly.
"I don't want her life to be--as mine has been."
"If," he said gently, "if you will trust her to me, Pauline, I swear to you
that I will do all in my power to save her from--what you've suffered."
The woman shrugged her shoulders.
"It's all a matter of character," she said nonchalantly.
"Yes," he agreed simply. Then he turned to the child, who was standing
a little distance away from him, eyeing him distrustfully. "What do you
say, child! You wouldn't be afraid to come and live with me, would
you?"
"I am never afraid of people," she answered promptly. "Except the man
who comes for the rent; he is fat, and red, and a beast. But I'd rather go
on living with Mumsy, thank you--Uncle." The designation came after
a brief hesitation. "You see," she added politely, as though fearful that
she might have hurt his feelings, "we've always lived together." She
flung a glance of almost passionate adoration at her mother, who turned
towards the man, smiling a little wistfully.
"You see how it is with her?" she said. "She lives by her affections--
conversely from her mother, her heart rules her head. You will be

gentle with her, won't you, when the wrench comes?"
"My dear," he said, taking her hand in his and speaking with the quiet
solemnity of a man who vows himself before some holy altar, "I shall
never forget that she is your child--the child of the woman I love."

CHAPTER I
A MORNING ADVENTURE
The dewy softness of early morning still hung about the woods, veiling
their autumn tints in broken, drifting swathes of pearly mist, while
towards the east, where the rising sun pushed long, dim fingers of light
into the murky greyness of the sky, a tremulous golden haze grew and
deepened.
Little, delicate twitterings vibrated on the air--the sleepy chirrup of
awakening birds, the rustle of a fallen leaf beneath the pad of some
belated cat stealing back to the domestic hearth, the stir of a rabbit in its
burrow.
Presently these sank into insignificance beside a more definite sound
--the crackle of dry leaves and the snapping of twigs beneath a heavier
footfall than that of any marauding Tom, and through a clearing in the
woods slouched the figure of a man, gun on shoulder, the secret of his
bulging side-pockets betrayed by the protruding tail feathers of a
cock-pheasant.
He was not an attractive specimen of mankind. Beneath the peaked cap,
crammed well down on to his head, gleamed a pair of surly, watchful
eyes, and, beneath these again, the unshaven, brutal, out-thrust jaw
offered little promise of better things.
Nor did his appearance in