He handed the miniature to Sir Geoffrey, who gazed at it long and searchingly.
“A beautiful creature, Ben, and a good.”
“Yes. She gave to the man she loved everything; she asked nothing. This letter,” he took another from his pocket, “was written to me by Lady Alicia. I read it first, standing by her grave.”
“I want no more proof, Ben.”
“Please read it.”
Sir Geoffrey did so. This was the letter:
“My Dear Boy,
“I have never had the courage to speak to you of your father, although, before he died, he made me promise to tell you the whole truth. I prefer to write it, so that it may serve, if necessary, as evidence. Your father was my eldest son, Rupert. It is needless to tell you anything about your mother, because I have often spoken to you about her. You will understand her better still when you read the letters which my executor will give to you after my death and look at the miniature which was painted of her for your father. He wished to marry her. She was devoted to me, and devoted to your father. She refused to marry him steadfastly, but she might have done so had I not exacted a sort of pledge from her. And then, they ran away together and lived for a year in a queer little village called Fishpingle, where you were born, and where your mother died. I promised her to look after you and to educate you. That was her great wish—that you should rise above her level. I sign myself for the first and last time
“Your loving Grandmother,
“Alicia Pomfret.”