“Uncle Giles!” She drew her hand from him and dropped back into her chair. For a moment she did not speak. “But I am not surprised,” she said. “I looked for it: how could he go on living with nobody—not one of his own?”
“He might have had you. Poor old man! it is not the time to blame him.”
“Me?” said Margaret. “I was not his child; nothing, and nobody, can make up for the loss of what is your very own.”
“Even when it is—Gervase Piercey?”
“Poor Gervase!” said Margaret. “Oh, Gerald Piercey, you are a man with whom things have always gone well. What does it matter what our children are? they are our children all the same. And if it were nothing but to think that it was Gervase—and what poor Gervase was.”
Though she was perhaps a little incoherent, Gerald did not object. He said: “At all events, I am very sorry for my poor old uncle. Mrs. Gervase wrote to me to say that he was sinking fast, should I like to come? and that she was writing to you in the same sense. I had only just arrived when I got her letter, and I thought that the best thing was to come to you at once, in case you were going to see him.”
“Of course, I should wish to go and see him; but I have had no letter. I must see him if she will let me. Dear old Uncle Giles, he was always good and fatherly to me.”
“And yet he let you leave your home—for this.”
“Cousin Gerald,” said Margaret, “don’t let us begin to quarrel again. This is very well—it suits me perfectly—and I am very happy here. It is my own. My dear old uncle was not strong enough to struggle in my favour, but he was always kind. I must go to see him, whether she wishes it or not.”
“I have a carriage ready. I thought that would be your decision. We shall get there before dark.”