“That is as it should be; for I want to talk to you of a man who, in all our friendship, you have never mentioned to me, but whose name I know will open an old wound,—Ormsby Conyers.”
Barrington laid down the glass he was lifting to his lips, and covered his face with both his hands, nor for some moments did he speak a word. “Withering,” said he, and his voice trembled as he spoke, “even your friendship has scarcely the right to go this far. The injury the man you speak of did me meets me every morning as I open my eyes, and my first prayer each day is that I may forgive him, for every now and then, as my lone lot in life comes strongly before me, I have need to pray for this; but I have succeeded at last,—I have forgiven him from my heart; but, dear friend, let us not talk of what tears open wounds that bleed afresh at a touch. I beseech you, let all that be a bygone.”
“That is more than I can do, Barrington; for it is not to me you must acknowledge you have forgiven this man,—you must tell it to himself.”
“That is not needed, Tom. Thousands of long miles separate us, and will in all likelihood separate us to the last. What does he want with my forgiveness, which is less a question between him and me than between me and my own heart?”
“And yet it is what he most desires on earth; he told me so within an hour!”
“Told you so,—and within an hour?”
“Yes, Barrington, he is here. Not in the house,” added he, hastily, for the suddenness of the announcement had startled the old man, and agitated him greatly. “Be calm, my dear friend,” said Withering, laying a hand on the other's shoulder. “He who is now come to claim your forgiveness has never injured you to the extent you believe. He asks it as the last tribute to one he loved only less than you loved him. He has told me everything; never sparing himself, nor seeking by any subtlety to excuse a particle of his conduct. Let me tell you that story as I heard it. It will be some solace to you to know that your noble-hearted son inspired a friendship which, after the long lapse of years, extracts such an atonement as one act of disloyalty to it could demand. This was Ormsby Conyers's one and only treason to the love that bound them. Listen to it!”
Barrington tried to speak, but could not; so he nodded an assent, and Withering continued. His story was that which the reader has already heard from the lips of Conyers himself, and the old lawyer told it well. If he did not attempt to extenuate the offence and wrong of Conyers, he showed the power and strength of an affection which could make one of the haughtiest of men come forward to accuse himself, and at every cost of humiliation vindicate the noble nature of his friend.
“And why not have avowed all this before?—why not have spared himself years of self-accusing, and me years of aggravated misery?” cried Barrington.
“He did make the attempt. He came to England about eighteen years ago, and his first care was to write to you. He asked to be allowed to see you, and sent you at the same time an admission that he had injured you, and was come to seek your forgiveness.”