The Girl Scouts of the Round Table 21

The Girl Scouts of the Round Table 21

“Perhaps I should, Tory, but there is no accounting for other people’s

wishes and tastes. I wanted a younger child than Kara, and Lucy

fascinated me. You are mistaken, however; if I was not interested by

Kara at that first meeting, afterwards I learned to admire and care

for her. If you will try and wait for the end of my story, perhaps you

may find that Kara had a better fortune in store for her than I could

bestow.”

 

“I have always known something wonderful would happen for Kara,” Tory

murmured, and then flushed and bit her lips.

 

“Do please be still and wait, can’t you, Tory?” Dorothy whispered with

an impatience she rarely showed.

 

“Don’t you think you are going too far, Hammond?” Dr. McClain

interposed. “You are giving Richard Fenton and Tory the impression that

we have actual information when neither of us is completely convinced.”

 

Having the same sanguine and ardent temperament that Tory Drew

possessed, Mr. Hammond appeared a little nonplussed.

 

“Yes? Well, perhaps you are right, Dr. McClain, although I might as

well confess right here that personally I am convinced. It is getting

on toward lunch time. Will you have lunch with me and allow me to end

my story afterwards?”

 

Not daring to speak again, Tory’s imploring gaze at her uncle would

have influenced his decision had he not been of the same mind.

 

“No, we are in no hurry for lunch and considerably impatient to

discover how Lance McClain’s new-found friend has any connection with

Katherine Moore. I recall the child was brought to the Gray House on

the Hill when she was little more than a baby, with nothing known of

her parentage or history save the name written on a slip of paper

pinned to her dress.”

 

“Why, this Mr. Owen Moore claims to be her--”

 

“Father?” Mr. Fenton finished.

 

Tory glanced at him in an amused fashion in spite of the intensity

of her excitement, so rarely did Mr. Fenton forget to be perfectly

courteous.

 

The other man shook his head.

 

“No, not so simple as that! The story is more involved and a good deal

more sentimental, romantic, whatever you wish to call it.”

 

“I don’t see any reason why one should _not_ believe what Mr. Moore

says,” Dorothy McClain declared, breaking into the conversation for

the first time. The color was coming and going swiftly in her clear

skin, her gray-blue eyes were calm and untroubled. “He is a gentleman

and has any number of friends willing to guarantee the truth of what he

says. Lance declares he is the kindest and sincerest human being he has

ever known.”

 

“Well, here is what Mr. Moore told me at our original interview! Later

we decided to send for Dr. McClain and Dorothy for two reasons; Mr.

Moore wished to have some one else judge of his statement. He also

wished some one else to verify the account _I_ gave of discovering a

baby, deserted in a cabin on the outskirts of Westhaven more than ten

years ago. Moreover, Mr. Moore had an added interest in seeing Dr.

McClain and Dorothy in that he wished to propose a plan concerning

Lance,” Mr. Hammond continued.

 

“Owen Moore is a quiet, eccentric man, I should say between thirty and

forty years old, who comes originally from Boston.

 

“Somewhere between ten and eleven years ago he was seriously ill when

he received a letter from an old friend asking him to come to her at

once. I believe she had been more than a friend when they were younger.

They had been engaged and the engagement broken off for a reason they

afterwards regretted. So, notwithstanding his illness, knowing that

the need was urgent, he went at once to the writer of the letter. He

found her in a tumble-down farmhouse between twenty and thirty miles

from Westhaven. She was deserted and alone save for the kindness of the

neighbors, the nearest living more than a mile away. The only human

being with her was a little girl of between two and three years of age.

 

“Very soon after his arrival he saw that his friend was dying. She and

a physician left no doubt of the matter in his mind.

 

“She asked him to take her little girl, to adopt her and give her the

name, Katherine Moore.”

 

Dorothy’s hand reached out and caught Tory’s, calming her excitement by

her quiet grasp.

 

“Mr. Moore gave her his promise. The child’s father had disappeared and

there was no one else. He agreed to return later and take the little

girl away, and in the meantime intended to arrange that the friend he

had once cared for should have every comfort.

 

“It was not necessary; she died before he could leave. After things

were over he started away on horseback with the child. There is nothing

so extraordinary in this; romantic of course, but life is full of

romance! Mr. Moore is perfectly able to prove this portion of his

story; people are still living in the neighborhood who remember the

circumstances. I took it upon myself to go to the place and inquire

soon after my original interview with Mr. Moore. Look here, Dr.

McClain, you take the story up here. I have not talked so continuously

in years. This is your province, that it has to do with illness.”

 

Dr. McClain nodded.

 

“I seem to be the doubting spirit in this matter. I know that Dorothy

and Lance and I realize now that Mr. Hammond is equally convinced. Of

course Mr. Moore has nothing to gain, and what he tells of taking place

afterwards _is_ perfectly plausible.

 

“Until after he rode away from the farmhouse with the little girl, he

scarcely had thought of his own state of health. He had been conscious

of exhaustion and headache, but too wholly absorbed by the sorrowful

parting to give any thought to himself.

 

“As he rode on, he became more and more aware that he was suffering

from dizziness and headache. He repented having brought the child with

him. He had thought of nothing else at the time but to get as far away

from the scene as possible. He intended taking a train for Boston at a

nearby station and sending the horse back to a neighboring farm by some

one at the station. He was not familiar with the country and lost his

way. He continued riding on, growing less and less responsible for what

he was doing. He seems very hazy upon these details, but believes he

dismounted and went into a house that he saw along the way to ask for

aid. He claims to have known nothing more of what took place for weeks.

He awakened in a hospital in Boston, where he had been desperately ill.

Not at once did he recall the experience through which he had lately

passed, and only by degrees did the knowledge return to him.”

 

“Well, why did he not come back and find Kara as soon as he

remembered?” Tory demanded, torn between anger and rapture.

 

This was a more thrilling story than her imagination had conceived in

days when she used to amuse the practical Kara with the wildest stories

of her unknown history.

 

“I don’t myself see why not, Tory,” Dr. McClain answered. “Mr. Moore

says that he did make careful inquiries, but had no idea of where

he had left the child, not even the name of any nearby town. He must

have ridden a good many miles before he reached the vicinity of the

evergreen cabin. He has always had some one employed to investigate

the matter and always expected eventually to find the child. Some

months ago he was told of the Gray House on the Hill in Westhaven, and

naturally reached the conclusion that the little girl may have been

brought up in an orphan asylum. He sent a lawyer to Westhaven to make

inquiries and inserted the advertisement that Mr. Hammond answered.

When he learned Lance came from Westhaven, naturally he proved another

source of information.”

 

“Well, has Mr. Moore seen Kara? What does _she_ say? How has she borne

the excitement? How amused and surprised Kara must be after always

insisting that she was the most prosaic of persons and never would

there be any possible interest connected with her history!” Tory

exclaimed.

 

Dr. McClain frowned.

 

“That is just it, Tory, and the reason we have sent for you. Kara has

not seen Mr. Moore, she has been told nothing. If his story is not

true, or if she should not be the child, I am worried concerning the

effect it might have upon her. She is improving slowly and I don’t wish

anything to interfere. What is your opinion?”

 

“Tell Kara at once,” Tory replied. “She has the right to hear. You need

not be afraid for Kara in a situation like this. She is one of the

sanest people in the world. If nothing comes of it she will be no less

happy. All she really cares for is to be well again so that she can

make her own future.”

 

“Then you girls will prepare her?” Dr. McClain asked.

 

There was nothing for Tory and Dorothy save to agree.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI

 

DOUBT

 

 

“I never heard a more unlikely story in my life, Tory darling; it

certainly can have nothing to do with me! I don’t see how you and

Dorothy can possibly regard it seriously. Oh, well, perhaps I can see

that _you_ would seize upon any straw and let your imagination do

the rest! You always have been so determined to find me a thrilling

background. But, Dorothy, _you_ are a much more matter-of-fact person

and don’t really believe this Mr. Moore has any connection with me.”

 

The three girls were driving along Riverside, not in a car, but

actually in an old-fashioned carriage, which Mr. Fenton had obtained

with great difficulty.

 

Kara was well enough to be in need of fresh air and a change of

environment. Her two friends thought she appeared frailer than when

they had last seen her during the Christmas holidays, but in a happier

state of mind. So they had chosen to confide their piece of news not

inside her small hospital room, but during a quiet drive along the

river.

 

At first it appeared a problem to divert Kara’s attention from the

beauty of the Palisades, smoke-gray and violet in the afternoon light,

from her interest in the cars passing and repassing, from the boats

moving slowly or swiftly up and down the broad expanse of water.

 

A faint color came into her cheeks, her eyes were growing more humorous

and less wistful. Neither of her companions wished to intrude a serious

subject of conversation upon her mood.

 

“Surely, you have been out driving before, haven’t you, Kara? You have

been well enough to be out of doors for several weeks. Can’t you pay

more attention to us and less to the scenery?” Tory demanded finally,

fearing the drive might be at an end and they forced to separate before

their story could be told.

 

Kara smiled with the wide gray eyes that were her chief beauty.