But the letter had to be read. It covered two sheets, and the writing was not peculiarly legible. For a while Miss Dalton appeared to have nothing particular to say. There was a good deal of chit-chat about her own doings, about the Parish and about the neighbourhood, and there was a certain amount of sympathetic gush about Hermione and Hermione's trials. Miss Dalton was past girlhood, but not past girlish gush. She seemed to be eagerly expectant of Hermione's visit, when "the rest of them," as she tersely expressed it, should be gone to East Bourne.
So far the letter was only commonplace and wearisome. On the second page of the second sheet, however, Hermione came upon something unexpected.
"I've only just come back from a week in London, and only think— one evening I met at dinner a very old friend of your dear grandfather's. His name is Ogilvie—Mr. Ogilvie—and I believe he is some sort of relation of the Mrs. Ogilvie at Brierly Cottage; not that I know Mrs. Ogilvie, for I never even met her, but just now, of course, her name has come up in connection with all of you. Mr. Ogilvie said something about a 'niece by marriage' living near Westford. But we did not talk of her; we talked about you. He seems a very frank kind old gentleman, and he said you were the prettiest and sweetest child he had ever seen, about six or seven years ago."
"Then he said how he regretted hearing of the death of his dear old friend, Mr. Dalrymple, and how he hoped you had been left properly provided for. I hope you will not think it very interfering of me to say all this, but really I think you ought to know exactly what passed. I said I was afraid things were not at all as they ought to be; and he said he was afraid they were not either; for the fact was, he had received a letter from old Mr. Dalrymple, written just before his death, speaking of what he meant to do for you. Mr. Ogilvie was almost sure from the date of the letter, and the date of Mr. Dalrymple's death given in the papers, that very little could have been done."
"I said that I thought he really ought to make Mr. Dalrymple's letter known for your sake, and he said he would be very willing to do what was right. He had kept the letter, as being the last written by his old friend. Of course he had not got it with him that evening, but he quoted it from memory. He said it was written in a scrawled weak way, not like Mr. Dalrymple's usual hand, and it spoke of the writer feeling very unwell. Then the letter went on something like this, 'You will remember my sweet grandchild, Hermione Rivers. She is lovelier than ever. I can feel no real fear about her future—so attractive as she is, so sure to make friends wherever she goes. But I have to provide for her future. The Westford estate is entailed. I have this morning resolved to leave ten thousand pounds to her!'"
"Now, my dear Miss Rivers, you see!! You see what ought to be yours. The letter was written on the Saturday, only two days before Mr. Dalrymple's death, so, of course, nothing was or could be done. And you are actually defrauded of this ten thousand pounds! Whatever you have of your own, this ten thousand pounds ought to be yours also. My father and my mother and myself feel most strongly on the subject, I assure you. We feel that it ought to be made known. We feel that if Mr. Dalrymple is made acquainted with his uncle's intention, and if pressure is brought to bear upon him, he surely cannot—as a man of honourable sentiments—he surely could not refuse to carry out what his uncle would have done had he lived long enough."
Hermione read so far, and neglected the effusive wind-up. She sat long, still as an image, lost in thought. The room grew darker, but she did not notice it. Her whole mind was bent upon this information which had so strangely come.
Ten thousand pounds! That would mean complete independence! It would mean being able to go where she would, to live with whom she chose. It would mean freedom from control, from Harvey, from Mrs. Trevor!
Mr. Dalrymple had fully intended this sum to be hers. He had that morning resolved it—only that last morning! Extraordinary! Why had he come to no such resolution earlier?
Hermione could not solve the puzzle. It was only another form of the old perplexity—why he had let all those years go by, and had made no provision in them for his darling?