I left Mainstairs to Melrose; the
responsibility was his, not mine. I went on with what I was doing. He and
the police--thank heaven!--cleared the place."
"And in the clearing, Mr. Melrose, they say, never lifted a finger to
help--did not even give money," said Lydia in the same low, restrained
voice, as she looked away from her guest into the fire. "And one sits
thinking--of all the _dead_--that might have been saved!"
His frowning distress was evident.
"Do I not feel it as much as any one?" he said, with emotion. "I was
helpless!"
There was silence. Then Lydia turned sharply toward him.
"Mr. Faversham! Is it true that Mr. Melrose has made you his heir?"
His face changed.
"Yes--it is true."
"And he has refused to make any provision for his wife and daughter?"
"He has. And more than that"--he looked at her with a defiant
candour--"he has tried to bind me in his will to do nothing for them."
"And you have allowed it?"
"I shall soon get round that," he said, scornfully. "There are a thousand
ways. Such restrictions are not worth the paper they are written on."
"And meanwhile they are living on charity? And Mr. Melrose, as you say,
may last some years. I saw Mrs. Melrose pass this morning in a carriage.
She looked like a dying woman."
"I have done my best," he said doggedly. "I have argued--and entreated.
To no avail!"
"But you are taking the money"--the quiet intensity of the tone affected
him strangely--"the money, that should be theirs--the money which has
been wrung--partly--from this wretched estate.
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