It contained these words:—­

’I name my oppressed and unhappy brother, Silas Ruthyn, residing at my house of Bartram-Haugh, as guardian of the person of my beloved child, to convince the world if possible, and failing that, to satisfy at least all future generations of our family, that his brother, who knew him best, had implicit confidence in him, and that he deserved it.  A cowardly and preposterous slander, originating in political malice, and which never have been whispered had he not been poor and imprudent, is best silenced by this ordeal of purification.  All I possess goes to him if my child dies under age; and the custody of her person I commit meanwhile to him alone, knowing that she is as safe in his as she could have been under my own care.  I rely upon your remembrance of our early friendship to make this known wherever an opportunity occurs, and also to say what your sense of justice may warrant.’

The other letters were in the same spirit.  My heart sank like lead as I read them.  I quaked with fear.  What had I done?  My father’s wise and noble vindication of our dishonoured name I had presumed to frustrate.  I had, like a coward, receded from my easy share in the task; and, merciful Heaven, I had broken my faith with the dead!

With these letters in my hand, white with fear, I flew like a shadow to the drawing-room where Cousin Monica was, and told her to read them.  I saw by her countenance how much alarmed she was by my looks, but she said nothing, only read the letters hurriedly, and then exclaimed—­

’Is this all, my dear child?  I really fancied you had found a second will, and had lost everything.  Why, my dearest Maud, we knew all this before.  We quite understood poor dear Austin’s motive.  Why are you so easily disturbed?’

’Oh, Cousin Monica, I think he was right; it all seems quite reasonable now; and I—­oh, what a crime!—­it must be stopped.’

’My dear Maud, listen to reason.  Doctor Bryerly has seen your uncle at Bartram at least two hours ago.  You can’t stop it, and why on earth should you if you could?  Don’t you think your uncle should be consulted?’ said she.

’But he has decided.  I have his letter speaking of it as settled; and Doctor Bryerly—­oh, Cousin Monica, he’s gone to tempt him.’

’Nonsense, girl!  Doctor Bryerly is a good and just man, I do believe, and has, beside, no imaginable motive to pervert either his conscience or his judgment.  He’s not gone to tempt him—­stuff!—­but to unfold the facts and invite his consideration; and I say, considering how thoughtlessly such duties are often undertaken, and how long Silas has been living in lazy solitude, shut out from the world, and unused to discuss anything, I do think it only conscientious and honourable that he should have a fair and distinct view of the matter in all its bearings submitted to him before he indolently incurs what may prove the worst danger he was ever involved in.’