"I sincerely pity him," replied Dorcas; "it was a sad affair, and his father was much to blame, leaving him so long in ignorance of the truth; it was most painful."
"What's that, aunty?" asked Minnie.
"Well, dear! the manor-house belonged some eight years since to a Mr. Tremenhere, a cousin of the squire's, as they call him; this Tremenhere had an only son, a very fine, noble-hearted young man, beloved indeed by almost all, though very haughty to those he disliked. He attained his twenty-first year; the rejoicings were great at the manor-house; you were at school at the time; a month passed, and the father died; scarcely was he in his grave, when Marmaduke Burton arrived, a distant cousin of Miles's (the son), and disputed the property with him. After a tedious and painful investigation and suit, as no proof could be produced of Mr. Tremenhere's marriage with Miles's mother, whom he was said to have married at Gibraltar, Miles lost the fortune, manor, all, and quitted the country."
"Poor Mr. Tremenhere!" said Minnie, much affected; "what a dreadful thing for him! and where is he, aunt?"
"No one knows, I believe, except it may be one or two persons, tenants of his father's, who have boldly opposed Mr. Burton in every way for his treachery, and upheld Miles Tremenhere."
"Oh, that was nobly done!" cried the girl enthusiastically.
"What do you mean by treachery?" exclaimed Juvenal and Sylvia in a breath; both joined together in one common cause against Dorcas, who indeed was only kin by name.
"Well, I call it treacherous, mean, and wicked," she answered decidedly, "his having been Miles's companion and playfellow from youth, and indeed in the house but a few weeks before old Mr. Tremenhere's death; and scarcely was the breath out of his body, when he put forth a legal claim to the property as next heir, which claim had been prepared, as it was proved, months before the old man's death." Minnie sat thoughtfully listening, but her colour came and went, like the sun passing over a landscape on a showery day.
"It is very evident," said Sylvia sarcastically, "why you mention this now before the child—to disgust her with Marmaduke Burton; it is kind and sisterly towards your brother, who desires the match." Sylvia gained two things in this speech—she never spoke unadvisedly. She pointed out the squire's position more forcibly to her niece; and also, by a counter-stroke, enlisted her unseeing brother on her side.
"Exactly so," whined he; "but that's always the way with Dorcas; she's very cunning."