Mr. Charles raised himself with eager interest. This was entirely in his way, and moved his curiosity to the utmost.
“Another kind of mistress? There was your stepmother, of course—a nice kind of creature; but she did not live. A wife that does not live is a misfortunate thing in a family; it deranges the records, and takes away the unity; but is it of her you are thinking? What other mistress, May, if it were not yourself?”
“This is what I found in Tom’s desk,” said Marjory, turning pale and then red with emotion and excitement. She had not meant to show it—and yet it was so hard to keep from showing it—to shut up the secret in her own breast. She drew out her letter-case slowly, and took from it the uneven paper, with its uncouth writing, so unlike Matilda’s smooth and ladylike letter. Some accidental sound in the room, some creaking of the furniture, or rustling of the papers which the wind from the open window rustled on the table, almost arrested her, and made her look up with startled awe-stricken eyes, as if some unseen messenger had come to stop her. At length she put it into her uncle’s hand. He had followed all her movements with surprise, and now he had to fumble for his spectacles, to put them on, to uncross his legs, and draw his chair close to the table. All these little preliminaries had to be gone through, for to Mr. Charles a letter was a document; it was valuable material to be put away for after-use. He read a few lines, and then he gave a startled look at Marjory. “My dear,” he said, with indignation, folding it up again; “such a thing as this should never have fallen into your hands; it’s disgraceful! it’s——. My dear, your father goes too far—putting the charge of Tom’s things on you. He was not a reprobate, but he was not an example. Forget it, May, forget it; such a thing should never have been shown to you.”
“But Uncle Charles! you see what she says—‘I’ll make a good wife.’”
“Nonsense, nonsense, my dear,” said the old man, with a flush on his face; “the sort of thing that lads say to beguile these silly fools. I am not defending men, nor is it a subject to be named between you and me; but if you but knew how these silly idiots court their destruction! not another word more. My dear May, my bonny May! to think that the like of this should have been seen by you!”
“Uncle, it is not a fool’s letter; it is not a wicked letter—”
“Whisht, whisht, my bonnie woman! as if the like of you could judge; not another word. I will burn it for poor Tom’s sake. He has answered his account with his Maker, and why should we keep evidence against him for those that come after us—”
“Give it me back again,” said Marjory, feeling her property invaded; “I cannot have it burned, uncle. Perhaps this was the something he wanted to tell me; give it me back. Oh,” she said, suddenly forced by the opposition to a great effort of nature; “it is very different from this other letter; very different! She would not have written of my Charlie as his wife does. Give it me, Uncle; I must keep it. It is Tom’s legacy to me.”
“May, May! trouble and suspense are turning your head.”
“My head is not turned,” she said; “give me back my letter, Uncle; I thought you would help me. Whatever she was, wherever she is, she was not like that.”