Next day, however, by accident further light was thrown to him on this question. The principal post came in at noon, and it was the habit of the house that the letters which came by it should be ranged upon one of the tables in the hall, in little heaps, where their respective owners found them. Coming in to get his share of the budget, Heathcote found that Mr. Mountford was there before him. He had his letters in his left hand, but with his right had taken up another which lay on Anne’s heap. He was balancing it in his fingers half-contemptuous, half-angry, when Heathcote, with the involuntary indiscretion which so often belongs to the innocent, knowing no reason why anything should be done in secret, paused behind him, and saw at a glance what he was about. It was not anything tragical: Mr. Mountford had no intention of tampering with Anne’s letter: but he held it up, and turned it over, and looked at it all round with a look of disgust on his countenance. By this time Heathcote had been awakened to the sense that he was prying into a domestic mystery, he who had no right to do so, and he hastened to gather his own letters from the table. Mrs. Mountford by this time had come in, on the same errand. Her husband held the letter up to her with an indignant ‘humph!’ ‘Do you see? She is keeping it up in spite of all I have said.’
‘I don’t want to see it,’ said the stepmother, nervously; ‘put it down. I have nothing to do with Anne’s letters, papa!’
And then a sort of sensation spread through the room, he could not tell what, and Heathcote became aware that Anne herself had come in. She walked straight to the table where her father stood, still with her letter in his hand. She recognised it in his hand with a sudden flush of consciousness, and stood facing him, saying nothing, pale now, but with courage, not fear.
‘This is for you apparently, Anne; you are keeping up the correspondence whatever I may say.’
‘Yes, papa, I am keeping it up.’ She put out her hand and took the letter. She made no explanation or excuse; but went away with it, slowly, with a sort of formal dignity. It was a strange little scene. The observer seemed to see the story rising like a picture before him—as Anne had thought she saw his story—but more distinctly as being more near. He was more interested than he could say. He had no right to inquire into what was so distinctly a family secret. If she only would have confided in him, told him how it was!—but that he had no right to expect. It made a visible commotion in the house for the rest of the day. Little signs of agitation were visible, signs which without this elucidation would only have puzzled, would have conveyed no enlightenment to his mind. Anne did not appear at lunch. She had gone, it was said, to the village, and no doubt had stopped to luncheon with the Woodheads. And Mr. Mountford was gloomy and absent, yet at the same time more alert than usual. ‘I am going to ride over to Hunston this afternoon,’ he announced. ‘Perhaps you would like to go with me, Heathcote, and see the place?’
‘What are you going to do at Hunston, papa? Let me come with you too: let us all go together,’ said Rose.
‘I am going to see Mr. Loseby,’ her father said; and this, though it had no effect upon Rose, made her mother start slightly, and cast an anxious look towards the head of the table.
‘Do you think, St. John, it is a good day to go to Hunston? It is very damp, and I am sure you will make your cold worse.’
Mrs. Mountford was not the soul of generosity: but she was far from being unjust or cruel. She was afraid of what her husband might be going to do, even should it be for the advantage of Rose.
‘I think I can manage to take care of my cold,’ he said.