"You know he, my brother, is in no way related to you, except by marriage?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"When your mother died—your father being long dead, poor child—there was nearly nothing——" Mrs. Dorriman hesitated. It seemed so hard to tell this girl what she had to tell her.
"Nothing! but we have an income, Grace and I?"
"You have a small income, because my brother gave up his wife's, your aunt's, little fortune, and added to the little, the very little, there was, and managing it skilfully—there is as you say a little income, but Grace, my dear child, do you suppose that such an income would enable you two to live in any comfort as you have been accustomed to live? There is little over one hundred a year."
"Is that all?" asked Grace, her face crimson; "we thought that was only an allowance out of our money, we never dreamt there was nothing else. You are quite sure?" she asked, her face paling again; she felt this a blow she could never recover from.
"My brother welcomes you to his house, he makes me give up my pretty and quiet home to come and be here so that all should go well. He has a rough and a hard manner, but to you, Grace, he has been good, to you and Margaret he has been very generous."
"Is this really the truth?" asked Grace; "do you mean to say that we have nothing, Margaret and I, and we are not his relations? Why, why has he done this? He does not care for us. What is his motive?"
"He cared for your mother's sister, Grace. He loved his wife with a passionate affection time has not changed. Her anxiety was about you, left to the world's mercy. Is it fair to him that his kindness should be met with scorn, and that, owing him what you do, you should take exception to his manner and defy him openly?"
Grace was silent, kept silent by surprise and by a passionate and impatient remonstrance against the position she was placed in. It was intolerable to her to have this weight of obligation with no affection to lighten it.