There was a pause, in which the darkness itself seemed full of speech. The lantern cast its light only on an open cart-shed in the lane.
"If your mother is the Grace Ormerod who married Robert Lowther and had a son by him, then Paul was that son—the heir to Lowther's conscience-money."
"Bonnithorne," said Hugh Ritson—his voice trembled and broke—"if it is so, then it is so, and we need do nothing. Remember, he is my father. It is not within belief that he wants to disinherit his own son for the son of another man."
Mr. Bonnithorne broke into a half-smothered laugh, and stepped close into the cobble-hedge, keeping the lantern down.
"Your father—yes. But you have seen to-day what that may come to. He has always held you under his hand. Paul has been the old man's favorite."
"No doubt of that." Hugh crept close to the lawyer. He was wrestling in the coil of a tragic temptation.
"If he recovers consciousness, he may be tempted to recognize as his own his wife's illegitimate son. That"—the low tone was one of withering irony—"will keep her from dishonor, and you from the estates."
"At least he is my brother—my mother's son. If my father wishes to provide for him, God forbid that we should prevent."
Once more the half-smothered laugh came through the darkness.
"You have missed your vocation, Mr. Ritson. Believe me, the Gospel has lost a fervent advocate. Perhaps you would like to pray for this good brother; perhaps you would consider it safe to drop on your knee and say, 'My good brother that should be, who has ever loved me, whom I have ever loved, take here my fortune, and leave me until death a penniless dependent on the lands that are mine by right of birth.'"