One day--it was on the afternoon preceding the examination--she gave
hurried, half-laughing utterance to some of these misgivings of hers.
They were walking down the Lime-walk of Trinity Gardens: beneath their
feet a yellow fresh-strewn carpet of leaves, brown interlacing
branches overhead, and a red misty sun shining through the trunks.
Robert understood his mother perfectly, and the way she had of hiding
a storm of feeling under these tremulous comedy airs. So that,
instead of laughing too, he took her hand and, there being no
spectators anywhere to be seen in the damp November garden, he raised
it to his lips with a few broken words of affection and gratitude
which very nearly overcame the self-command of both of them. She
crashed wildly into another subject, and then suddenly it occurred to
her impulsive mind that the moment had come to make him acquainted
with those dying intentions of his great-uncle which we have already
described. The diversion was a welcome one, and the duty seemed
clear. So, accordingly, she made him give her all his attention while
she told him the story and the terms of Sir Mowbray's letter, forcing
herself the while to keep her own opinions and predilections as much
as possible out of sight.

Robert listened with interest and astonishment, the sense of a
new-found manhood waxing once more strong within him, as his mind
admitted the strange picture of himself occupying the place which
had been his fathers; master of the house and the parish he had
wandered over with childish steps, clinging to the finger or the
coat of the tall, stooping figure which occupied the dim background
of his recollections. 'Poor mother,' he said, thoughtfully, when
she paused, 'it would be hard upon _you_ to go back to Murewell!'