CHAPTER XII

Nell Learns her Family History

NELL jumped up in great consternation at this unexpected emotion on the part of her hostess.

“Oh, please, I am so sorry; but I think there is a mistake. My mother’s name couldn’t have been Gwynne, because her father’s name was Humphrey, Doss Umpey he always called himself.”

“Of course, of course, I knew I couldn’t be mistaken,” cried Mrs. Nichols, with a gurgling gasp which threatened to choke her. “But your mother’s name was Gwynne, my dear, though you might not have known it, and Doss Umpey was not her father at all, but only her mother’s second husband.”

“Are you sure, quite sure of that?” asked Nell, eagerly, going rather white, and standing with one hand clutching at the mantelpiece, as if she were afraid of falling.

“Quite sure, and I ought to know if any one did, seeing that I was your mother’s greatest friend until she married the preacher, and went away with him to her new home. She dropped her old friends a bit then—felt she didn’t want any one but her husband, I expect, which is natural, but not always wise.” And Mrs. Nichols heaved a heavy sigh.

“Tell me about my mother, please,” said Nell, her colour coming and going, while she tried to realize what it would mean to her not to have Doss Umpey for her grandfather.

“Your mother was a sweet, pretty creature, my dear, much prettier than you, for she was plumper, and had more colour; but you’ve got her eyes and her voice, and that brown hat and coat do suit you amazingly well. Doss Umpey drove the stage then between George Creek and Mutley town, and his wife—that was your grandmother—kept a store at Mutley with Nell to help her.”

“Was mother called Nell too? Father spoke of her always as Eleanor,” said Nell, doubtfully.

“I know he did, and I expect your husband, when you have one, will call you Eleanor too, for it is a fine, stately name, well suited for grown-up folks; but it isn’t fitted for children, so I suppose that is why they don’t get called by it.”

“Was granfer kind to my mother?” asked Nell.

“I don’t think he was unkind; but your mother couldn’t bear him, and it was when he tried to make her marry Dick Brunsen that she revolted openly, and wouldn’t stay at the store when Doss came home, but always used to come over and sleep at our house, where she met the preacher, your father.”

“Dick Brunsen?” said Nell, faintly. She was thinking of the man who came to the Lone House for succour the day that Pip got hurt, and who had said that his name was Dick Bronson.

“Yes; Dick Brunsen was a widower with one child, a boy of five or six, and he was called Dick too. Brunsen was very thick with Doss Umpey at the time; they two and Ned Logan were inseparables, until that scandal about robbing the stage, then, of course, Logan had to go to prison, and the other two quarrelled, though, if strict justice had been done, the three of them would have gone to penal servitude together.”

“Tell me about it,” murmured Nell; and there was a throb of pleasure at her heart because Doss Umpey had been only stepfather to her mother.

“It was believed, only it couldn’t be proved, that Brunsen planned the robberies, and paid Logan to carry them out, Doss Umpey being, of course, a consenting party. This is how it was done. Brunsen, who lived in a big house at Mutley, pretending to be a rich man, used to order all sorts of expensive goods from the city to be paid for on delivery; then they would be sent on from the depot at George Creek by the stage, and always on those occasions the stage was held up and robbed when crossing the iron plains, which was a desperately lonely bit of high ground between George Creek and Mutley.”

“But didn’t any one suspect?” asked Nell.

“Naturally they did after the first time or two, but it was difficult to get proof, for they could not catch the thieves, you see; but a watch was set, and Logan was caught in the act, tried, convicted, and sent to penal servitude. He died in prison, I believe, and did not give information as to where he had hidden a lot of the stuff he had stolen, and which Brunsen was, of course, anxious to get hold of, since he had paid Logan to steal it for him. Then Brunsen forced Doss to give up driving the stage. That was just about the time that your mother was married, and her mother died a few months after.”

Nell nodded. “Yes, I know; I’ve heard father talk about that, because it made mother so ill, and he used to do the cooking,” she said, with a little laugh.

“I dare say he did, for Parson Hamblyn was a good husband, and a good Christian, too. Ah, my dear, you have a lot to be thankful for in your father, even though he was cut off, as it were, in his prime, and I dare say you can’t remember much about him.”

“Oh, I remember a great deal; I was eleven when he died, and I was with him so much, you know. We boarded with Mrs. Chapman at Lewisville then, and he was ill so long.”

“I heard of his death, and that the child—that is, you—had been taken by relatives, but I knew nothing beyond the bare facts. Who were the relatives, child? Where have you been living since? And how did it come about that you are here, doing deputy for that nice Miss Lorimer?”

Nell’s head dropped a little. It hurt her pride a great deal to have to speak of those years she had spent at the Lone House on Blue Bird Ridge, in the home of Doss Umpey.

“I’ve lived with granfer ever since; that is, until last fall,” she said, in a low tone.

“With Doss Umpey? It isn’t possible, surely!” Mrs. Nichols held up her hands in very real amazement. “Why, he was a horrid, vulgar old man, and you are a lady, only your hands are so rough.”

Nell laughed. “I don’t think it matters whom you live with—if you can’t help it, that is. Father meant me to stay with Mrs. Chapman until I was old enough to earn my living, and he thought there would be enough money to do it; but when he died it was found there wasn’t any. Then granfer offered to take care of me, and so I had to go.”

“Where did you live?” asked Mrs. Nichols; but when Nell told her of the isolated house in the wide forest, she held up her hands in fresh dismay, declaring that such a life was too dreadful even to think about.

“I didn’t mind the loneliness so much, not after the first, for there were mostly horses and dogs for company, but it did worry me because I could not get to know things, and every year made it worse,” Nell said, with a sigh, remembering her limitations.

“Where is Doss Umpey now—dead?” demanded Mrs. Nichols, with a sharper note coming into her voice.

“He went away. I don’t know where he is now,” Nell replied briefly.

“Leaving you to shift for yourself?” cried the good woman, wrathfully.

“I have done very well, and learned a great many things—not book-learning, you know; I have had no time for that, but perhaps I shall have now. You have a fine lot of books here; would you mind if I read them in the evenings and on Sundays?” she asked, with a wistful look towards the shelf in the corner.

“You can take one with you to the office every day, to read in your waiting spells. I’m only afraid that they’re not educating sort of books, being mostly interesting reading. But here have I been talking, talking, talking, and you so tired that you look fit to drop. Come away to bed directly, child,” said Mrs. Nichols, getting up in a great hurry on discovering how late it was.

“Shall I clear supper for you first?” asked Nell, who was unaccustomed to be waited upon.

“Did any one ever hear the like? You are not my hired girl, remember, but a young lady boarder; and I’ve got to make you comfortable, or there’ll be ructions somewhere.” And Mrs. Nichols laughed at her own cheerful wit, as she piloted Nell into the bedroom prepared for her.

Such a cosy, cheerful little chamber it was, with wooden walls, wooden ceiling, and wooden floor; and there was a white curtain drawn over the window, and a red-and-white spread on the bed.

Nell fell asleep directly her head touched the pillow, for she was just worn out with the manifold excitements of the day, and she did not wake again until Mrs. Nichols called her at half-past six o’clock the next morning.

Snow had fallen during the night, and Nell had to wade ankle-deep through the soft whiteness on her way to the depot; but it was only a short distance, and she was vigorous from her long night of deep, untroubled slumber.

There was a new zest in her life this morning, which made all things look different. Her limitations in the matters of training and education were as apparent to her as ever; but a great burden had been taken from her shoulders by the revelations of her hostess last night. It was something to know that Doss Umpey was not her mother’s father, and that she owed him neither love nor duty on the score of kinship. Some gratitude might be due to him for those years in which he had given her the semblance of a home; but Nell had quite sufficient common sense to see that the old man would not have taken her if he had not seen that she would be no expense to him, and he had not hesitated to leave her at the mercy of the cold world when it suited his purpose to go into hiding.

“But the past is past, and I’ll get on now,” she said to herself, in a gleeful tone, as she raked out the ashes from the office stove and kindled the fire. “I’ll get some education too, as soon as I can afford to have lessons. Meanwhile I’ll just learn everything that comes my way, and every little helps.”

Her heart was singing the same blithe song all the morning, while she swept and dusted the office, which Miss Simpson had not troubled to leave tidy on quitting the post.

“Every little helps,” she murmured, as she responded to insistent calls from Lytton, from Camp’s Gulch, and Roseneath, sending back the proper replies, or calling them up when she had tidings to send through.

It was a busy morning over the wires. Sometimes she became confused, even a little uncertain of herself, in the strange newness of it all; but on the whole she managed very well, her natural quickness and adaptability standing her in good stead, while her determination to succeed was a great factor in her success. Noon had passed before there was a sufficient lull in the business of the day for her to find time even to open the book which she had taken at random from Mrs. Nichols’s bookshelf that morning.

But the rest of the day was comparatively easy. There were long spells of quiet time in which she read peacefully, sitting in luxurious comfort by the office fire.

The man in charge of the depot was elderly and taciturn, while the baggage-clerk, owing to the varied character of his duties, was rarely visible, save when the cars came in. But this state of things suited Nell perfectly; and if she had not missed the Lorimer children so badly, that first day at Bratley would have been marked in her memory as a red-letter day, ushering in, as it did, a new era for her.

Her book was interesting, too, being a record of the growth and greatness of the Dominion whose daughter she had become. So few new books had come her way in these last six years, and she had previously no knowledge of the big young land which, like some giant baby, was stretching its limbs and making its influence felt among the weary old nations of the world.

“I’d no idea books could be as interesting as that. It beats the dictionary,” she said to herself, with a little laugh. “But perhaps if I hadn’t been shut up to the dictionary first, I shouldn’t have been so well able to understand other books now,” she added, as a conviction came to her that perhaps those years at the Lone House had not been quite lost, after all.

“Fond of reading, are you, miss? Would you like to see a paper?” asked the conductor of the Roseneath cars, who had benefited by her kindly offices on the previous day.

He had looked in at the half-open door as he passed Nell’s business sanctum, and seeing her absorbed in a book, had sought, by the offer of a paper, to show his appreciation of her helpful kindness.

“Thank you; I should like to see it,” she answered.

But just then came a call from Lytton, and she had to take down a lot of instructions about the lading of some freight cars, which were to go right through to New Westminster.

By the time this was done there came other demands on her attention, and it was not until Mrs. Nichols had brought her tea and gone again that Nell remembered the paper left for her by the friendly conductor.

For a time she sat turning it over, amused by the advertisements, and wondering if the person offering boots and shoes at half their cost price were a philanthropist or a rogue, but inclining strongly to the latter view, even deciding in her own mind that he must have stolen the goods, since he could afford to sell them so much under their value.

Then her attention was caught and held by a paragraph in an obscure corner of the paper, and she sat staring at it for a long time with frightened eyes, only recalled to the present and its needs by the loud clicking call of the sounder.

Putting the paper aside with a quick movement of distaste, as if it were something to be afraid of, she went to the sounder, and began, half mechanically, to take down the message which was coming through.

It was a long message; but before it was half down on paper she had become quite painfully alert, waiting for the next word with every sense on the strain.

But for the paragraph in the paper it might have conveyed no meaning to her. As it was, the whole fitted together with the accuracy of a child’s puzzle, to which one has obtained the clue.

This was the paragraph—

“STRANGE FIND OF LONG-LOST PROPERTY.”

“A miscellaneous hoard of stolen goods has been unearthed at a lonely house on some high ground, known as Blue Bird Ridge, about forty miles from the frontier on the American side. The find comprises, among other things, valuable watches, chains, silver dishes, spoons, forks, and other articles for table use, invoiced from tradesmen in Victoria, Vancouver Island, and also from firms doing business in New Westminster. Apparently the things have lain hidden for years, and were only discovered by accident, the present occupier of the house, in excavating for a root cellar, having brought to light the chest in which the hoard was stored. It appears that the house was, until recently, occupied by an old man and a young girl, both of whom have mysteriously disappeared. The property was invoiced to a gentleman living at Mutley, and must have been stolen _en route_.”

So it was this find that Joe Gunnage was riding to acquaint the Canadian police with, on the day when he halted at Mrs. Munson’s farm, but refused to enter the house through fear of catching the fever. If he had crossed the threshold and had seen Nell, it is very probable that he would have reported her to the police also, when she might have found it an extremely difficult and unpleasant task to establish her complete innocence and ignorance of the whole business.

She felt quite sure that Doss Umpey knew nothing concerning the buried treasure, or he would most certainly have dug it up and disposed of it. Her thoughts went back to the story told by Mrs. Nichols, on the previous evening, of the stolen things hidden by the man Logan, which no one had been able to find, and she was wondering if this might not have been the very hoard, when the sounder bell aroused her, and she had to take down this message—

“Look out for stout, elderly man, dressed as miner, but has been gentleman, talks with lisp, heavily marked smallpox, may be accompanied by young man, his son, also gentleman, tall, fair, good-looking, and an old man, grey-haired, bent, but very active. The party are to be watched, and their movements reported to the nearest police centre.”

Perhaps, if she had not heard the story told by Mrs. Nichols so recently, and had not seen the newspaper paragraph just before taking down the long telegraphic message, Nell would not have been able to understand the whole situation so completely; even now there were blanks that her imagination could not fill, but in the main the matter shaped itself somehow after this fashion.

Brunsen, the elder, who had written the threatening letter to Doss Umpey, which she had found at the Lone House, must have somehow come to poverty or had to go into hiding. Perhaps this find at the Lone House had had something to do with his downfall; or it might have been, in betraying his old confederate to the police he had been implicated himself, and so had to fly. With him would go his son, who was the child of whom Mrs. Nichols had spoken.

Nell shivered as she thought of him. It was so dreadful that a pleasant and courteous gentleman like the stranger who had come exhausted to the Lone House, should be mixed up in trouble of this kind. Sometimes she thought there must be a mistake somewhere, in the identity of that exhausted stranger, and yet he fitted in to the story so completely that there seemed no possibility of his being other than the son of R. D. Brunsen.

The third man mentioned in the telegraphic message was, without doubt, Doss Umpey himself, although why he should be on friendly terms with a man who had systematically blackmailed him was a mystery that Nell’s imagination could not fathom.

A great shrinking and fear came upon her, as she thought of the old man coming into the neighbourhood and discovering where she was living. He had deserted her, going off and leaving her destitute to get on as best she could. But if he came back into her life now, it would be to drag her down to his own level again, from the little height of respectability to which she had so laboriously climbed.

What should she do? What could she do?

For a brief space, wild visions came to her of throwing up her work and going off somewhere out of reach of any chance encounter with Doss Umpey.

Then wiser thoughts prevailed. To begin with, she was in honour bound to remain at her post for Gertrude’s sake; while to turn coward and run away from duty could bring nothing but shame and trouble to her.

So she resolved to stay where she was, and not anticipate trouble. Only, to no one could she speak of her knowledge; that must be a secret buried in her own heart.

She showed the telegram to the people about the depot, as she was bound to do, then hung it up on a nail in the office, for further reference if required; but she hung another paper in front of it as if accidentally. Then, folding the newspaper carefully, she put that away also, wishing she could fold her knowledge away into forgetfulness likewise.