I could not be so frank with him as I was with Simon. This was a further indication of my feelings for the latter. I told myself that I could trust no one—not even Dr. Smith—for I knew that he was ready to believe that I was in an unbalanced state. But it wasn’t true that I trusted no one. I trusted Simon.

Christmas was three days away. The servants had decorated the hall with branches of holly and there was mistletoe too. I had heard some of the female servants giggling with the men as this was fixed up in the most appropriate places. I had seen the dignified William seize Mary-Jane and give her a resounding kiss under the pearly berries.

Mary-Jane responded good-humouredly; it was all part of the fun at Christmas.

Then I received the letter. I was in the garden when I saw the postman coming towards the house. I had been looking out for him because I did not believe my father would keep me long in suspense.

And I was right. There was his handwriting on the envelope.

With wildly beating heart I hurried to my bedroom, and took the precaution of locking the doors before I opened the letter.

My dear Catherine, I read, I was startled and shocked to receive your letter. I understand your feelings and, before you read any further, I want to assure you that the Catherine Corder who is now in Worstwhistle is not your mother, although she is my wife.

I had meant, of course, to tell you the truth on your marriage, but I did not tell I could do so without consulting my brother, who is deeply concerned in this.

My wife and I were devoted to each other, and two years after our marriage we had a child a daughter named Catherine. But this was not you. My wife adored our daughter and could scarcely bear the child out of her sight. She spent the greater part of her time in the nursery supervising everything concerned with her. We had a nurse, of course.

She came to us with good recommendations, and she was affectionate, fond of children and efficient when she was not under the influence of gin.

One day when my wife and I had been visiting friends, there was mist on the moor and we lost our way. We were two hours later than we had expected to be, and when we returned the damage had been done. The nurse, taking advantage of our absence, had become intoxicated; and while she was in this state she had decided to bath the baby. She put our child into a bath of scalding water. There was only one consolation death must have been Almost instantaneous.

My dear Catherine, you who are about to become a mother will understand the grief which overtook my wife. She blamed herself for leaving the child in the nurse’s care. I shared her grief, but hers did not grow less as time passed. She continued to mourn the child and I began to be alarmed when she gave way to accusations against herself. She would pace through the house wildly sobbing, wildly laughing. I did not know then what this tragedy had done to her.

I used to tell her that we would have more children. But I could see that the need to pacify her was urgent. And then your uncle Dick had this idea.

I know how fond you are of your Uncle Dick. He has always been so good to you. That is natural, Catherine, when the relationship between you is known. He is your father. Catherine.

It is difficult to explain this to you. I wish he were here so that he could do it himself. He was not a bachelor as he was thought to be.

His wife your mother was French. He met her when he was in port for a spell at Marseilles. She came from Provence and they were married within a few weeks of their first meeting. They were ideally suited and deeply regretted your father’s long absences.

I believe he had almost decided to give up the sea when you were about to be born. Strangely enough tragedy hit us both in the same year.

Your mother died when you were born ; and that was not more than two months after we had lost our child.

Your father brought you to us because he wanted a settled home for you, and he and I believed at the time that having a child to care for would help to comfort my wife. You even had the same name. We had called our child Catherine after my wife, and your father—because you were coming to us—had decided that you should be Catherine too. I stopped for a few seconds. I was seeing it all so clearly; events were fitting together neatly to make the picture.

I was exultant because that which I had feared was not true after all.

Then, projecting myself into the past, I seemed to remember her, the wild-eyed woman who held me tightly, so tightly that I cried out in protest. I thought of the man whom I had known as my father, living through those weary years, never forgetting the happiness he had shared with the woman in Worstwhistle, dreaming that he was back in those days of anguish, calling for her to return . not as she was now, but as she had been.

I was filled with pity for him, for her; and I wished that I had been more tolerant of that gloomy house with its drawn blinds and the sunlight shut out.

I picked up the letter.

Dick thought that you would feel more secure with us than you could be with him. It was no life for a child, he said, with a father who was constantly away from home, particularly one who had no mother. He could not leave the sea now that your mother was dead; he told me that he missed her more when he. was ashore, than when he was at sea, which was natural enough. So we let you believe that you were my daughter, although I often said to him that you would have been happier to know you were his. You know how devoted to your interests he always was.

He was determined that you should receive part of your education in your mother’s country and that was why you were sent to Dijon. But we wanted everyone to think of you as my child because I was sure in the beginning that your aunt would come to think of you as her own more readily that way.

If only it had worked! For a while we thought it would. But the shock had been too much for her to bear and it was necessary to send her away. When she had left we moved to Glen House. It seemed better to cut ourselves off from old associations, and there we were not far from her place of asylum . How I wished I had known! Perhaps then I should have been able to do something to comfort him.

But the past was over and I was happy on that December morning because I was delivered of my fears.

Now I would set to work to discover who in this house was my enemy; and I would go to it with such a will that I could not fail.

My baby would be born in the early spring and I would never for a minute be parted from my child. Uncle Dick—no, my father, but I should never be able to call him that; he would always be Uncle Dick to me—Uncle Dick would come home.

I would watch over my child, and Simon would be there, and our relationship would develop as such relationships should, gradually budding, flowering, bearing fruit.

Yes, I was happy on that day.

It seemed as though the Fates had determined to be kind to me, for another incident took place on the very next day which could not fail further to raise my spirits.

During the previous day I had hugged the news to myself. I had my meals in my own room because, although I wanted to flourish the letter under the noses of Ruth, Luke, Sir Matthew and Aunt Sarah, I had decided that for a while I was going to keep this news to myself.

Nothing could have strengthened me more. My fear had gone. I was certain that if I awakened to find the monk at the foot of my bed I should be quite calm. But I was determined to discover who the monk was, and I would do this because I was no longer hampered by terrible doubts.

Caution, I said to myself. For the time being no one must know.

Simon? I asked myself. Should I tell Simon and Hagar?

The wind was bitingly cold and I decided that if it snowed I might do myself some harm, so I stayed indoors. I did think’s of sending a letter to them. But how could I be sure, absolutely sure, that it would not be intercepted?

The news could wait. In the meantime I would plan what I was going to do next.

It was after luncheon when Mary-Jane came to me in a state of excitement.

” It’s our Etty, madam,” she said. ” Her time’s come…. Two days before Christmas. We hadn’t thought it would be till the New Year.”

” You want to go and see her, don’t you, Mary Jane

” Oh well, madam…. Me Dad’s just sent word. Me Mother’s gone over there.”

” Look, Mary-Jane, you go along and see how she’s getting on. You may be able to help.”

” Thank you, madam.”

“There’s a terrible wind blowing.”

” Oh, I won’t mind that, madam.” J ” Just a moment,” I said. And I went to my wardrobe and brought out my heaviest cloak. It was the blue one which had been hung across the parapet. I put it about Mary Jane and pulled the hood right over her head. ” This will keep out the wind.” I said. ” It buttons right up, you see … and the cold can’t penetrate.”

“That’s good of you, madam.”

” I don’t want you catching cold, Mary Jane

” Oh, madam … thank you.” Her gratitude was indeed sincere. She went on rather shyly: “I’m … so pleased, madam, because you’ve seemed so much better this last day or so.”

I laughed as I finished buttoning the cloak.

” I am better. So much better,” I told her. ” Go on now … and don’t worry about getting back. Stay for the night if you want to.”

It was about dusk when she returned. She came straight up to my room and I saw at once that she was deeply disturbed.

” Etty …” I began.

She shook her head.