“They are all dead,” he said.
“Yes, they are all dead,” she agreed. “And their joys and failings, hopes and fears—all dead! It seems a pity that this should live to betray them.”
“Not a pity on your account.”
“No. You are glad, of course?”
“That you should have your rights?” he said manfully. “Of course I am.”
“And you congratulate me?” She rose and held out her hand. Her eyes were shining, there were tears in them, and her face was marvellously soft. “You will be the first, won’t you, to congratulate me? You who have done so much for me, you who have been my friend through all? You who have brought me this? You will wish me joy?”
He was deeply moved; how deeply he could not hide from her, and her last doubt faded. He took her hand—his own was cold—but he could not speak. At last, “May you be very happy! It is my one wish, Lady Audley!”
She let his hand fall. “Thank you,” she said gently. “I think that I shall be happy. And now—now,” in a firmer tone, “will you do something for me, Mr. Basset? It is not much. Will you deal with Toft for me? You told me in your letter that he held my uncle’s note for £800, to be paid in the event of the discovery of these papers? And that £300, already paid, might be set off against this?”
“That is so.”
“The money should be paid, of course.”