Agnes’s eyes were fixed on the speaker. She scanned his countenance slowly, and detected a slight resemblance to her mother about the eyes and brow, though she was reluctant to admit it even to herself. “Show me your proofs,” she whispered. “I will believe when I see them.”
The man left the room, and the girl stood with bowed head and hands tightly clasped, her whole attitude one of rigid self-control. She remained thus till the man returned and handed her two papers. One was a certificate of marriage between Humphrey Muirhead and Ellen Doyle; the other was a letter in her grandfather’s own handwriting and bearing his signature. This letter asked his young wife to return to him with the child.
“Then it wasn’t grandfather’s fault,” exclaimed Agnes.
“That’s neither here nor there,” the man said, frowning. “I’m who I say I am.”
“I see that, but even if you are, the half of this place is my mother’s, isn’t it? I claim our share of the property.” Two bright spots were burning in the girl’s cheeks. She was herself again, ready for defiance, for action.
“Your share!” The words broke forth in an angry growl. “Haven’t you been living in comfort all these years? Haven’t you had my father’s money spent on you all? This place is mine. You have had your share, and I will fight for my own.”
“So will I,” replied the girl. “I shall have to stay here awhile, I suppose, but to-morrow I will go back to my father and my friends, and if there is any justice in the land, I will have it.”
“I’m a right pleasant neighbor at times, I am told,” returned Humphrey Muirhead, sarcastically. “You’ll enjoy having an uncle near at hand. Uncles can be pretty worrisome, you’ll find out before you get through.”
Agnes made no reply, but thoughts of the tales she had heard of wicked uncles flashed into her mind. She remembered the Babes in the Woods and the little princes in the Tower. It was plain that she had gained nothing by defiance, and she half wished that she had been more conciliatory. After all, it was hard that her grandfather’s own son must be her enemy. She looked up half wistfully, but Humphrey Muirhead bent a hard, steely glance upon her. “I mean fight,” he said.
Agnes drew herself up haughtily, regretting her softer feeling. “Then we will not talk about it,” she made answer. “I shall have to wait here till I am sent for, but I can wait outside.”