Then in sheer despair he seized the pen, and wrote in a trembling hand:
“My Dearest:—Since you left me, circumstances have occurred which have changed the current of both our lives. I dare not tell you more, but I pray, I beseech, you not to misjudge me. If you knew the position in which I am placed, you would understand why I am acting thus, and instead of condemning, pity me. Una, from this moment our lives are separate. Heaven send you happiness, and—as I know your true, loving heart—forgetfulness. I cannot tell you more—would to Heaven that I could. From the first I have been unworthy of you; I am more unworthy now than ever. I dare not ask of you to remember me; forget me, Una, forget that such a person as I ever crossed your path. Would to Heaven that we had never met! Don’t think hardly of me, my darling, whatever you may hear. What I am doing is as much for your good as for mine. Good-bye. I shall never cease to remember and love you, whatever happens. Good-bye!
“Jack.”
Blotted and smeared, he enclosed it in an envelope, and dropped it before Gideon Rolfe; then he looked round for his hat.
“A glass of wine, Jack?” murmured Stephen.
But Jack took no more notice than if he had been deaf, and seizing his hat staggered from the room.
Stephen drew a long breath.
“Well, Mr. Rolfe,” he said, “we have conquered. As for this note, I will see that it is delivered at a proper opportunity.”
“Good,” said Gideon Rolfe; then he paused, and frowned sternly. “I am sorry for the young man.”
Stephen smiled, and waved his hand.