Another blow for Lettice.
“Our guardian!” exclaimed Nina in surprise.
“Yes. By your father’s will your mother and I were your guardians, and while she lived that part of it was merely nominal for me. But she had the power to appoint another in case of her death. And she did so. She appointed—”
“Him?” exclaimed Nina.
“Yes. Your uncle, or step-uncle, if you prefer to be quite exact—Mr Ingram Morison,” Godfrey replied simply.
Then, without waiting for further remarks, he went on to explain, as clearly as was possible to such inexperienced ears, a number of business details—summing up by giving them a clear idea of what money they were sure of; of some which still remained uncertain, and by making them most distinctly recognise that, but for their uncle’s “interference,” the post of trustee of their possessions would indeed, long before this, have been a sinecure.
“And now,” he said, “there remains only one more duty before we talk about less painful and overwhelming subjects. I have here your mother’s last letter to me, sending me her will, which she wished me to look over, as I did, and going on to express her last wishes. Shall I read it to you, or shall I leave it for you to read alone?”
“Read it now,” said Lettice, rather to her brother’s and sister’s surprise. For they did not hear the words which she whispered to herself: “Better drink the cup of bitterness to the dregs, and have it over.”
So Mr Auriol read the letter aloud.
It was a simply expressed but thoughtfully considered letter, with no word or allusion to distress or wound any of her children. She spoke of her intention to explain to them these facts which had so recently come to her knowledge, but that before doing so she would wish to know more—the whole, in fact—that her words might have the more weight in overcoming the prejudice which, to a certain extent, she blamed herself for having, if not encouraged, at least not opposed. “My husband,” she said, “resented his family’s behaviour for my sake. I have a right to do anything I choose towards breaking down the barrier, of which I fear I was in great measure the unwilling cause. And he, had he lived to know his brother as I now know him, would have felt with me in this. For, though he was hasty and impulsive, he was, when he would allow himself to see things clearly, essentially just. And how can any one blame Ingram Morison for events which took place when he was a mere child?” Then she went on to beg Godfrey to convey to her brother-in-law her deep sense of gratitude for what she already knew, and her hope that he would accept the guardianship, which no one else would be so fitted for. She spoke of her children altogether—of the old prejudice as shared by them all—in no way singling out Lettice as the least reasonable or persuadable, so that, as she listened, Lettice could not but feel in her heart that it was thanks to herself alone if she had come to appear so in Mr Auriol’s eyes, though it is to be feared that but small self-blame was the result of this consciousness. And then, with some general expression of confidence in Godfrey, and in his good judgment and good feeling, mingled with hopes that she might live long enough to understand all quite clearly and to make some arrangements for her children’s future, the letter closed.