“You may congratulate me, Clarke. My good fortune is complete.”
And this is what he uttered in response, greatly to my surprise and possibly to his own:
“I thought it would all come right, sir.”
But it was not till he was on the point of leaving me for the night that I learned his full mind.
His hand was on the knob of the door and he was about to turn it, when he suddenly loosened his hold and came back.
“Excuse me, sir, but I shan’t feel quite right till I tell you all the truth about myself. Did you, when things looked a little dark after the terrible news the doctors gave us, get a queer looking sort of note hidden in your box of cigars?”
“Yes, I did, Clarke; and I don’t know yet who took that much compassion on me?”
“It was I, Mr. Bartholomew.” (Never had he called me that before. I wonder if it came with a long dreaded effort.) “But it was not from compassion for you, sir—more’s the pity; but because I knew my young lady’s heart and felt willing to help her that much in her great trouble.”
“You knew—”
“Not by any words, sir; but by a look I saw on her face one day as she stood in the window watching you motor away. You were to be gone a week and she could not stand the thought of it. I hope you will pardon me for speaking so plainly. I have always felt the highest regard for Miss Bartholomew.”