When he entered, Mary was standing half-way up the room, as though she had risen to meet him. Her face was troubled, and her eyes were almost wild. The emotion, the hopes, the fears of that morning had almost been too much for her. She had heard the murmuring of the voices in the room below, and had known that one of them was that of her lover. Whether that discussion was to be for her good or ill she did not know; but she felt that further suspense would almost kill her. "I could wait for years," she said to herself, "if I did but know. If I lost him, I suppose I should bear it, if I did but know."—Well; she was going to know.
Her uncle met her in the middle of the room. His face was serious, though not sad; too serious to confirm her hopes at that moment of doubt. "What is it, uncle?" she said, taking one of his hands between both of her own. "What is it? Tell me." And as she looked up into his face with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him.
"Mary," he said gravely, "you have heard much, I know, of Sir Roger Scatcherd's great fortune."
"Yes, yes, yes!"
"Now that poor Sir Louis is dead—"
"Well, uncle, well?"
"It has been left—"
"To Frank! to Mr Gresham, to the squire!" exclaimed Mary, who felt, with an agony of doubt, that this sudden accession of immense wealth might separate her still further from her lover.
"No, Mary, not to the Greshams; but to yourself."
"To me!" she cried, and putting both her hands to her forehead, she seemed to be holding her temples together. "To me!"