The phrases of the will danced before her eyes: Copeland’s intimations squared with the facts as she knew them to be; she had seen tangible proof of their accuracy.
“We have to admit that he’s been kind to you, but he hasn’t any right to bring you up as his daughter and then cut you off. You stand in law as his own child, and if he should die without making a will, you’d inherit everything.”
“Well, the law hasn’t made me his own child,” said Nan bitterly.
Seeing her resentment, and feeling that he was gaining ground, he proceeded cautiously.
“I suppose he’s likely to have a sudden call one of these days?”
“Yes; or he may live several years, so the doctor told me. But I don’t want to think of that. And I don’t like to think of what he may do or not do for me,” she added earnestly.
“Of course you don’t!” he assented. “But he hasn’t any right to stand between you and your happiness. If he had the right feeling about you, he’d want to see you married and settled before he dies. I suppose he’s never told you what he meant to do for you?”
“No. But he’s told me what he wouldn’t do if I married you; he laid that down in the plainest English!”
“I don’t doubt it; but no man has a right to do any such thing. Just why he hates me so I don’t understand. It oughtn’t to be a crime to love you, Nan.”
His hand touched hers, then clasped it tightly.