He clung now to the thought of her idealism and magnanimity; they had never been very convincing qualities to him before, but he found himself insisting upon them now; they would surely shield him from too much scorn; she would understand and forgive. But what was she to understand?
The hour with Geoffrey was like a poultice on his wound—so mild and unemphatic was it. He left it with his prostrate fortunes set upon their feet, and the assurance of a very small but secure income irradiating the future. He suspected that Geoffrey’s future, in consequence, had become uncertain, but under the circumstances submission only was open to him; besides, the Government was securely seated in the saddle; there was no danger of Geoffrey’s losing office.
When Maurice was on the point of leaving—he had been slightly ill at ease during the interview, and Geoffrey’s calm perhaps a little forced—the latter said, detaining him with a hand on his arm, “I wrote to her last night. I wanted to make things easy for all of us. Here is the copy.”
Maurice, flushing deeply, read—
“My dear Miss Merrick,—
“I have seen Maurice. His affairs have suddenly taken the happiest turn, and your days of misfortune are over. I told him of my interview with you, as reticence on the subject might have been awkward for all of us; we are all to be the best of friends, you know. Everything, now, is all right.
“Yours devotedly,
“G. Daunt.”
“I’ll go at once,” Maurice murmured, tears in his eyes. “My dear old Geoff.”
“You mustn’t make me ridiculous by your gratitude,” said Geoffrey. “And, my dear Maurice, I’m not altogether selfish. Your happiness does make me happy.” He looked at him as he spoke with the boyish, older-brother look of affection that Maurice knew so well.
But before he could go he must write to Angela. Yes, there was the wound opening again as he drove away from Geoffrey’s, and on reaching his rooms he found himself confronted by an envelope, a familiar, small, pale grey envelope, addressed in a familiar hand—Angela’s oddly large and demonstrative hand, that seemed to flourish banners of welcome or appeal. Maurice looked at it as though it had been a viper coiled on his mantelpiece. Its contents must, however, point out some decisive attitude for him; he must bear the venom. He tore it open and read, while a faint fragrance, like a sigh, rose from the delicate sheet—