It was due to her that the family should now recognise her claims. She had, according to James’ story, been living at Dinan, and there the Canon went to fetch her, leaving the other poor young widow in a strange state of silent stunned grief. As soon as might be he returned, bringing Mrs James Kingsworth and her baby with him. She was a pretty young woman, and her reception of him before she knew the sad news he had come to tell had impressed him favourably; but now she was in a state of anger and half-realised grief, speaking of James as if he had been in all respects perfection in her eyes, and only now and then rousing herself from her distress, to remember that her child was disinherited. Canon Kingsworth was very glad to see her safely in her room and under charge of the housekeeper, and as he turned into the library to consider the situation, his other niece stood before him, with a letter in her hand.
“Uncle, I have found it. Here is James’ letter. I found it in the writing-case George always used. Now there is but one thing to be done. My baby shall not profit by this injustice. Let James’ child take it all. It is not Katharine’s.”
“Hush, you do not know what you are saying. Let me look at the letter.”
He glanced it over, and said gravely, “Yes, it concurs in all respects with what James told me. Mary, it is impossible now to judge. The past must be laid to rest. The will is valid, and secures this property to your child. Nothing that you can do can alter it. Some provision it is no doubt necessary should be made for James’ daughter out of the estate, and I need not ask you to show kindness to one as bitterly afflicted as yourself.”
“It is a burden that I cannot bear,” she said, passionately. “How can Katharine prosper under it! At least there must be full confession.”
“Stop, Mary, what is it that you want to confess? Remember you know nothing.”
“I know that Mr Kingsworth did not get that letter. I know that my child has her cousin’s right. If he—if George had no time to do justice, I must do it for him.”
“Recognise and receive her kindly, that is the first thing to do.”
That was a strange interview between the two young widows, widowed so suddenly and so recently, that neither bore any token in her dress of her condition—both suffering under the same loss; both with the same comfort left to them.
Mary approached with reverence for her sister-in-law’s grief, with a sense, keen in her soul, of standing in her place—but the other was shy and hard; till the mention of her husband’s name broke down her reserve, and she sobbed out her misery at his loss, in such evident ignorance of his character and himself, that any attempt to explain the state of the case, any apology offered, only seemed an additional injury. Mary made her statement, notwithstanding all the tears with which it was met.