“But in some other way?” Maimie asked with quickness.
“It is not a thing we talk about much,” I said, after a pause. “But there is no harm in your knowing the fact. Mrs. Briscoe is very comfortably off, and my husband has always been looked upon as her probable heir.”
“I see,” Maimie said, a change passing over her face,—a look coming of sudden comprehension and fear.
“Mr. Briscoe used to speak openly of his intention to leave everything to your uncle. It would be only just. There is no nearer relative, and my husband is older than your stepfather, so he has the first right. It used to be an understood thing. But Mr. Briscoe died very suddenly, leaving everything in his wife’s hands. If he had had longer warning, I feel sure he would have arranged somehow so as to secure the money to Robert! Since his death, Aunt Briscoe has taken care to make us feel that she is at liberty to dispose of her property as she likes. And, of course, she really is free,—except that she would naturally be bound by her husband’s wishes. I have always felt that she would in the end do the right and just thing, unless we should be so unfortunate as to offend her. She has not a very happy temper.”
It seemed a relief to me to say all this, with Maimie’s earnest eyes looking into mine.
“And now you think she is offended?”
“I don’t know how else to explain the way in which she is holding off from us. But it is mysterious, for certainly there is no real cause.”
A flush rose in Maimie’s face, crimsoning the fair skin up to the roots of her hair.
“It is not mysterious,” she said in a low voice. “Father is there.”
We were both silent for a minute. Maimie turned her face away, but I could see how the flush died away, and returned with double force.