“Told her nothing—nothing,” said the General; “that’s your business.”
Strangely, their words aroused little or no curiosity in her mind. What was it she had been told or not told, she did not know. Somehow she did not care. She saw a pair of pleading eyes, she saw the colour rise in a man’s cheeks. She saw an outstretched hand, held pleadingly to her, and she had repulsed that hand in disdain.
But Mr. Rankin was talking.
“Your uncle, on his way back to this country, died on board ship. His only son was killed, poor fellow, in the War. There was no one else, the will leaves everything to you unconditionally. Through myself he had purchased the old place, Starden Hall, only a few months before his death, and it was his intention to live there. So the house and the money become yours, Miss Meredyth. There is Starden, and the income of roughly fifteen thousand a year, all unconditionally yours.”
And listening, dazed for the moment, there came into her mind an unworthy thought—a thought that brought a sense of shame to her, yet the thought had come.
Did that man—last night—know of this, of this fortune when he had told her that he loved her?
A few days had passed, days that had found Joan fully occupied with the many matters connected with her inheritance.
To-day she and the old General were talking in the drawing-room of the General’s house.
“Of course, if you prefer it and wish it, my dear.”
“I do!” said Joan. “I see no reason why Lady Linden should be in any way interested in me and my affairs. I prefer that you should tell her nothing at all. I was very fond of Marjorie, she is a dear little thing, and Lady Linden was very kind to me once, that is why I wrote to her. But now I would sooner forget it all. I shall go down to Starden and live.”