Mr. Selwyn bent his head slightly.
"It was a fancy of Mr. Dalrymple's—I can hardly give a more weighty name to his reason—an old man's fancy. I have used influence to bring about an immediate settlement, but without result. He always insisted that there was no need for haste, that a few months more or less could not signify; and he appeared to live in a constant expectation of your coming. In a man of his good sense and good business habits, this procrastination has been the more singular."
"And Hermione has nothing of her own?" Mr. Fitzalan observed.
"Not much. About one hundred and twenty pounds per annum, the amount which was settled upon her mother. Unfortunately, the remainder of Hermione Dalrymple's marriage portion lay at her husband's discretion—and William Rivers made short work with that, as with everything else that he possessed."
"Miss Dalrymple was averse to any larger settlement on herself," said Mr. Fitzalan.
"Yes—woman-like, trusting one who was not worthy of her trust. Mr. Dalrymple yielded to her wishes—weakly, I have always thought. Her child is the loser now, though not according to her wish or intention."
"I only wish I had come home sooner," Harvey almost said, but somehow he changed the sentence into— "I wish Hermione had been present. How can one tell her?"
Mr. Fitzalan wondered silently— "Will not Harvey feel bound to carry out his uncle's intentions?" The same thought was in Mr. Selwyn's mind, less hopefully couched. The lawyer had perhaps seen even more than the clergyman of the money-loving side of human nature, and he knew from experience how gold-greed is apt to grow with gold-possession. Moreover, both were well acquainted with the mental indolence which made Harvey slow in arriving at any practical decision.
Mr. Selwyn drew a letter from his pocket, and handed it to Harvey— an opened envelope, addressed to himself. "I think you ought to see this," he said. "I received it by the morning post on Monday."
The sheet within was written upon as follows, in a tremulous hand:—