Mrs. Hamlyn treated her husband to one of her worst looks, telling of contempt as well as of power; but she did not speak.
“Listen, Eliza. I cannot bear injustice, and I do not believe it ever prospers in the long run. Were your father to bequeath—my dear, I beg of you to listen to me!—to bequeath his estates to little Walter, to the exclusion of the true heir, rely upon it the bequest would never bring him good. In some way or other it would not serve him. Money diverted by injustice from its natural and just channel does not carry a blessing with it. I have noted this over and over again in going through life.”
“Anything more?” she contemptuously asked.
“And Walter will not need it,” he continued persuasively, passing her question as unheard. “As my son, he will be amply provided for.”
A very commonplace interruption occurred, and the subject was dropped. Nothing more than a servant bringing in a letter for his master, just come by hand.
“Why, it is from old Richard Pratt!” exclaimed Mr. Hamlyn, as he turned to the light.
“I thought Major Pratt never wrote letters,” she remarked. “I once heard you say he must have forgotten how to write.”
He did not answer. He was reading the note, which appeared to be a short one. She watched him. After reading it through he began it again, a puzzled look upon his face. Then she saw it flush all over, and he crushed the note into his pocket.
“What is it about, Philip?”