"And who had a better right to it?" said Hugh, and he laughed again.
Paul waved his hand, and gulped down the wrath that was rising.
"You have led me the life of the damned. You know well what bitter cup you have made me drink. If I have stood to the world as my father's heir, you have eaten up the inheritance If my father's house was mine, I was no more than a cipher in it. I have had the shadow, and you the substance. You have undermined me inch by inch!"
"And, meantime, I have been as secret as the grave," said Hugh, and once more he laughed lightly.
"God knows your purpose—you do nothing without one," said Paul. "But it is not I alone that have suffered. Do you think that all this has been going on under our mother's eyes without her seeing it?"
Hugh Ritson dropped the bantering tone.
Paul's face grew to an awful solemnity.
"When our father died, it was to be her honor or mine to die with him. That was the legacy of his sin, Heaven forgive him. I did not hesitate. But since that hour she has wasted away."
"Is this my fault?" Hugh asked.
"Heaven knows, and Heaven will judge between you," said Paul. "She could bear it no longer." Paul's voice trembled as he added, "She's gone!"