"I deceived you, I caused you years of suffering!" cried Niall, in a voice of overmastering agony. "But, oh, it was my love for you, for her, for the old place, that urged me to it!"
"Such faults are easily pardoned," said Roderick, believing that the old man was laboring under some delusion.
"Wait till you hear!" said Niall, almost sternly. "A judge must hear the offence before he can pardon. 'Twas I who wrote to you that Winifred was dead."
"You?" exclaimed Roderick, the most unbounded amazement depicted on his face, and for a moment something of Niall's own sternness clouding its good-humor. "Why should you have done that to me?"
"Listen!" said Niall, extending one hand as if in supplication. "I heard you had remarried in America, and that was a sad blow to my hopes and dreams. You would never come back. Even if my plans succeeded, you would never dwell in the old place. And then came the agonizing thought that you would take Winifred away, and that with me our very name would pass from Wicklow. I deliberately deceived you. I withheld from Granny Meehan the letter you had written her."
Granny made an exclamation of "God forgive you!" For she, too, had suffered from that wrong.
"I caused your letters to the priest to miscarry; I did everything, in short, to cut you off from communication with this place. And by hints which I threw out, and vague messages which I sent through Winifred to Mrs. Meehan, I filled her mind with a fear and distrust of America and people coming from there. Oh, I remember what anguish I endured when this lady first came into this region! I could have killed her where she stood. I believed her to be the second wife herself or some emissary from you come to spy upon us and discover our secret."
Roderick stood all this time, his arms crossed upon his breast, a proud look upon his face.