A very troubled look crept into Monica’s dark, unfathomable eyes. Her face looked pained and strained.
“I think you ought to know, Monica,” said the earl, gently. “Perhaps you have thought that the estates would pass to you in due course of time.”
Monica pressed her hands closely together, but her voice was steady, her words were quietly spoken.
“I do not know if I have ever thought about it; but I suppose I have fancied you would leave all to Arthur or to me.”
“Exactly, you would naturally inherit all I have to leave; but Trevlyn is entailed in the male line, and goes with the title. At my death Mr. Randolph Trevlyn will be the next earl, and all will be his.”
Monica sat very still, feeling as if she had received some sudden stunning blow; but she could not take in all in a moment the gist of such intelligence. A woman in some matters, she was a child in others.
“But, father,” she said quietly, and without apparent emotion, “Arthur is surely much nearer to you than this Mr. Trevlyn, whom you have never seen?”
The earl smiled half-sadly, and shook his head.
“My dear, you do not understand these things; I feel towards Arthur as if he were my son, but he is not of my kindred. He is my wife’s son, not mine; he is not a Trevlyn at all.”