“Yes; and he’d been sponging on the woman’s mother, too, in the country. Were you with him?”
“No, William, I was not”—and, suddenly, a load was lifted from Aunt Anne’s heart. The mystery of Liphook appeared to be solved, and Alfred Wimple’s account of his debts to be verified. A world of tenderness rushed back into her heart and gave her strength and courage to fight her battle to the end. “No, I was not with him,” she repeated; and as she looked up a smile, a look of almost happiness, was on her face, that made her cousin more wonder-struck than ever. “He required country air to invigorate him, and our means would not admit of——”
“Boughton has been allowing you a hundred a year,” said Sir William; “and this Wimple has married you,” he went on, a light seeming to break upon him. “I am beginning to understand it. I presume he knows that you are my cousin?”
“Yes, I told him that you were—he spoke of you with admiration,” Aunt Anne added, always more anxious to say something gratifying to her listener than to be strictly veracious.
“I have no doubt he did. Pray, when did this fine love-making begin?” Sir William asked scornfully.
“Nearly a year ago,” she answered, in a faltering voice, for she was almost beaten, in spite of the relief that had been given her a minute or two ago.
“And when did Boughton begin to allow you this hundred a year?”
“About the time of my marriage.”
“I perfectly understand. I’ll tell you the reason of your marriage and of his love for you in a moment.” With an effort he stretched out his hand and touched the bell. “Charles,” he said, when the servant entered, “unlock my safe.”
The man pulled back a curtain that had been drawn across a recess to hide an iron door. “On the top of the shelf to the left you will see a blue envelope labelled ‘Last Will and Testament.’ Give it to me,” Sir William said.