Gwynneth had not thought of that before, and at the present moment she could scarcely believe she was no more. She made her admission with a sigh.
"Then for twenty-one years," pursued Sir Wilton, beaming, "or let us say for as many of them as you can remember, you have, I presume, looked upon yourself as an entirely penniless young lady? That has not been the case; at least it is the case no longer. I—I hope I am not giving you bad news?"
Gwynneth was trembling all over. She had lost every vestige of colour.
"My mother!" she gasped. "Why did she never know?"
"Because, under the terms of your grandfather's will, nobody but myself was to know anything at all about it until to-day."
"It was cruel," cried the girl, in a breaking voice; "it might have kept her here! It makes me not want to hear anything now . . . but of course I must . . . forgive me, please."
"My dear child," said Sir Wilton, kindly, "it is natural enough that you should feel that. I can only ask you to believe that I at least had no choice in the matter. And there were reasons; it is too painful to go into them; your father was my brother, and I had rather say no more. I, for my part, was obliged to fulfil the conditions. I have tried to do my duty. I would gladly have done more, but your dear mother was the most independent woman I ever met. I honoured her for it. But what could I do? I must beg of you, my dear, to look upon the bright side; and, believe me, this business has the very brightest side it is possible to imagine."
Gwynneth did her best. It was fine to be independent in her turn. But the thought of her mother made her ashamed to touch a penny. And it was a matter of several thousand pounds, invested all these years at compound interest, yet with that absolute safety which distinguished the financial operations of Sir Wilton Gleed.
Sir Wilton could not say off-hand what the present capital would yield if left where it was at simple interest, but he fancied it would work out at seven or eight hundred a year at the very least. And these figures, which sounded fabulous to poor Gwynneth, were obviously in themselves the bright side upon which her uncle had harped. Yet he continued to beam as though there was something more to come, and looked so knowing that Gwynneth was obliged to ask him what it was.
"Can't you see?" he said. "Can't you see?"