Horace started from his happy reverie, set his teeth and wrote:
"Dear Addie: I suppose Lottie has told you everything. It was a reckless thing to do, no doubt: perhaps you will say it was wrong and underhand. Some people will, I dare say, but I hope you won't, for I should like to start with your good wishes. May I call myself
"Your brother, H.T.?"
In due time came the answer:
"Dear Horace: I will not pass judgment on you and your doings: I am not clever in arguing such matters. I will only say (which is more to the point, isn't it?) that you and Lottie have my best wishes for the safe-keeping of your secret, and anything I can do to help you I will. We are having very cold damp weather, so I am glad you are safe in a warmer climate, and hope you are the better for it.
"Your affectionate sister,
"Adelaide Blake."
Horace showed this to Lottie, and then thrust it away and forgot it all as quickly as he could. Addie had read this little scrap in her own room, had stood for a moment staring at it, had kissed it suddenly, then torn it into a dozen pieces and stamped upon it. Then she gathered up the fragments, sighed over them, burnt them, and vowed she would think no more of it or him. But as she went about the house there floated continually before her eyes, "Your brother, H.T.;" and the word which had been so sweet to her, which had always meant her dear old Noll, and which she had uttered so triumphantly to Percival in Langley Wood when she said "I have a brother," became her torment.
Horace felt like a hero again when he forgot Addie, and only remembered how he was risking his grandfather's displeasure for his love's sake. He fully thought, as he had said, that he was Esau, and that smooth Jacob would win a large share of the inheritance; but when he stood with his back to the fireplace at Brackenhill, and knew that he was master of all, Percival's parting sneer awoke his old doubts as to his heroism once more. He had succeeded too well, and the risk which had ennobled his conduct in his own eyes would never be realized by others. Percival's attempt to supplant him had been foiled, and Horace was triumphant, yet he regretted the glaring contrast in their positions which rendered comparisons of their respective merits inevitable. But he could do nothing. Percival had said, "Don't let him offer me money." Horace, keener-sighted than Aunt Harriet, had not the slightest intention of doing so. He knew how such overtures would be received; and, after all, Brackenhill was his by right! And had not Percival plenty to live on?
And as for himself, let who would turn their backs on him—even Aunt Harriet, if it must be so—he had Lottie, and could defy the world.