“I don’t know—I should like to know,” said Foker.
“How can I tell until I see it?” asked Blanche.
“Has Mrs. Bonner not told you?” he said, with a shaking voice;—“there’s some secret. You give her the letter, Lady Clavering.”
Lady Clavering, wondering, took the letter from poor Foker’s shaking hand, and looked at the superscription. As she looked at it, she too began to shake in every limb, and with a scared face she dropped the letter, and running up to Frank, clutched the boy to her, and burst out with a sob—“Take that away—it’s impossible, it’s impossible.”
“What is the matter?” cried Blanche, with rather a ghastly smile; “the letter is only from—from a poor pensioner and relative of ours.”
“It’s not true, it’s not true,” screamed Lady Clavering. “No, my Frank—is it, Clavering?”
Blanche had taken up the letter, and was moving with it towards the fire, but Foker ran to her and clutched her arm—“I must see that letter,” he said; “give it me. You shan’t burn it.”
“You—you shall not treat Miss Amory so in my house,” cried the Baronet; “give back the letter, by Jove!”
“Read it—and look at her,” Blanche cried, pointing to her mother; “it—it was for her I kept the secret! Read it, cruel man!”
And Foker opened and read the letter:—