He lowered his hand from his
eyes; he stared at William Drew, and it seemed to him that it was John
Bard he looked upon. Their names differed, but long pain had touched
them with a common greyness. And it seemed to Anthony that it was only a
moment ago that the key turned in the lock of John Bard's secret room,
the hidden chamber which he kept like Bluebeard for himself, where he
went like Bluebeard to see his past; only an instant before he had
turned the key in that lock, the door opened, and this was the scene
which met his eyes--the grave, the blurred tombstone, and the stern
figure beyond.
"Joan," he repeated; "your wife--my mother?"
He heard a sob, not of pain, but of happiness, and knew that the blue
eyes of Sally Fortune looked out to him from the doorway of the house.
The low voice, hurried now, broke in on him.
"When I married Joan, John Bard fled from the range; he could not bear
to look on our happiness. You see, I had won her by chance, and he hated
me for it. If you had ever seen her, Anthony, you would understand. I
crossed the mountains and came here and built this house, for your
mother was like a wild bird, Anthony, and I did not dare to let men near
her; then a son was born, and she died giving him birth.
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