"Your memory needs refreshing," she interrupted. "If you will consult Robert Gwyn's will you will discover that he leaves half of his estate, et cetera, to 'my beloved and faithful companion and helpmate, Rachel, who, with me, has assumed the name of Gwyn for the rest of her life in view of certain circumstances which render the change in the spelling of my name advisable, notwithstanding the fact that in signing this, my last will and testament, I recognize the necessity of affixing my true and legal name.' You and I know the sentence by heart, Andrew. No one can or will dispute my claim to the property. I have thought this all out, you may be sure,—just as he thought it all out when he drew up the paper. I imagine he must have spent a great deal of time and thought over that sentence, and I doubt if you or any other lawyer could have worded it better."
"Of course, if the will reads as you say,—er,—ahem! Yes, yes,—I remember now that it was a—er—somewhat ambiguous. Ahem! But it has just occurred to me, Mrs. Gwyn, that you are going a little farther than is really necessary in the matter. May I suggest that you are not—er—obliged to reveal the fact that you were never married to him? That, it seems to me, is quite unnecessary. If, as you say, your object is merely to set matters straight so that your daughter and Mr. Gwynne may be free to marry, being in no sense related either by blood or by law,—such as would have been the case if you had married Kenneth's father,—why, it seems to me you can avoid a great deal of unpleasant notoriety by—er—leaving out that particular admission."
"No," she said firmly. "Thank you for your kind advice,—but, if you will reflect, it is out of the question. You forget what you have just said. For a lawyer, my dear friend, you are surprisingly simple to-day."
"I see,—I see," mumbled the lawyer, mopping his brow. "Of course,—er,—you are quite right. You are a very level-headed woman. Quite so. I would have thought of it in another moment or two. You can't leave out that part of it without—er—nullifying the whole object and intent of your—er—ahem!—I was about to say confession, but that is a nasty word. In other words, unless you acknowledge that you and Robert were never lawfully married, the—er—"
"Exactly," she broke in crisply. "That is the gist of the matter. Society does not countenance marriage between step-brother and -sister. So we will tell the whole truth,—or nothing at all. Besides, Robert Gwyn put the whole story in writing himself, as I have told you. The hiding-place of that piece of paper is still a mystery, but it will be found some day. I am trying to take the curse off of it, Andrew."
As she was leaving the office, he said to her, with deep feeling: "I suppose you realize the consequences, Mrs. Gwyn? It means ostracism for you. You will not have a friend in this town,—not a person who will speak to you, aside from the storekeepers who value your custom and"—he bowed deeply—"your humble servant."
"I fully appreciate what it means," she responded wearily. "It means that if I continue to hold my head up or dare to look my neighbour in the face I shall be called brazen as well as corrupt," she went on after a moment, a sardonic little twist at the corner of her mouth. "Well, so be it. I have thought of all that. Have no fear for me, my friend. I have never been afraid of the dark,—so why should I fear the light?"
"You're a mighty fine woman, Rachel Gwyn," cried the lawyer warmly.
She frowned as she held out her hand. "None of that, if you please," she remarked tersely. "Will you have the paper ready for me to sign this afternoon?"
"I will submit it to you right after dinner."