Heathcote read and re-read the paper for several minutes. “So, then, for once I have luck on my side. My resolve neither wounds a friend nor hurts my own self-esteem. Of course you 'll not go?”
“Certainly not. I 'll not go out to hunt the lame ducks that others have wounded.”
“You 'll let me take this and show it to my father,” said Heathcote. “He shall learn the real reason of my stay hereafter, but for the present this will serve to make him happy; and poor May, too, will be spared the pain of thinking that in yielding to her wish I have jeopardized a true friendship. I can scarcely believe all this happiness real, Agincourt. After so long a turn of gloom and despondency, I cannot trust myself to think that fortune means so kindly by me. Were it not for one unhappy thought,—one only,—I could say I have nothing left to wish for.”
“And what is that?—Is it anything in which I can be of service to you?”
“No, my dear fellow; if it were, I'd never have said it was a cause for sorrow. It is a case, however, equally removed from your help as from mine. I told you some time back that my father, yielding to a game of cleverly played intrigue, had determined to marry this widow, Mrs. Penthony Morris, whom you remember. So long as the question was merely mooted in gossip, I could not allude to it; but when he wrote himself to me on the subject, I remonstrated with him as temperately as I was able. I adverted to their disproportion of age, their dissimilarity of habits; and, lastly, I spoke out and told him that we knew nothing, any of us, of this lady, her family, friends, or connections; that though I had inquired widely, I never met the man who could give me any information about her, or had ever heard of her husband. I wrote all this, and much more of the same kind, in the strain of frank confidence a son might employ towards his father, particularly when they had long lived together in relations of the dearest and closest affection. I waited eagerly for his answer. Some weeks went over, and then there came a letter, not from him, but from her. The whole mischief was out: he had given her my letter, and said, 'Answer it.' I will show you her epistle one of these days. It is really clever. There wasn't a word of reproach,—not an angry syllable in the whole of it She was pained, fretted, deeply fretted by what I had written, but she acknowledged that I had, if I liked to indulge them, reasonable grounds for all my distrusts, though, perhaps, it might have been more generous to oppose them. At first, she said, she had resolved to satisfy all my doubts by the names and circumstances of her connections, with every detail of family history and fortune; but, on second thoughts, her pride revolted against a step so offensive to personal dignity, and she had made up her mind to confine these revelations to my father, and then leave his roof forever. 'Writing,' continued she, 'as I now do, without his knowledge of what I say,—for, with a generous confidence in me that I regret is not felt in other quarters, he has refused to read my letter,—I may tell you that I shall place my change of purpose on such grounds as can never possibly endanger your future relations with your father. He shall never suspect, in fact, from anything in my conduct, that my departure was influenced in the slightest degree by what has fallen from you. The reasons I will give him for my step will refer solely to circumstances that refer to myself. Go back, therefore, in all confidence and love, and give your whole affection to one who needs and who deserves it!
“There was, perhaps, a slight tendency to dilate upon what ought to constitute my duties and regards; but, on the whole, the letter was well written and wonderfully dispassionate. I was sorely puzzled how to answer it, or what course to take, and might have been more so, when my mind was relieved by a most angry epistle from my father, accusing me roundly, not only of having wilfully forsaken him, but having heartlessly insulted the very few who compassionated his lonely lot, and were even ready to share it.
“This ended our correspondence, and I never wrote again till I mentioned my approaching departure for India, and offered, if he wished it, to take Italy on my way and see him once more before I went. To this there came the kindest answer, entreating me to come and pass as many days as I could with him. It was all affection, but evidently written in great depression of mind and spirits. There were three lines of a postscript, signed 'Louisa,' assuring me that none more anxiously looked forward to my visit than herself; that she had a pardon to crave of me, and would far rather sue for it in person than on paper. 'As you are coming,' said she, 'I will say no more, for when you do come you will both pity and forgive me.'”
As Heathcote had just finished the last word, the door of the room was quietly opened, and O'Shea peeped in. “Are you at the letter? for, if you are, you might as well say, 'Mr. Gorman O'Shea was never violent in his politics, but one of those who always relied upon the good faith and good will of England towards his countrymen.' That's a sentence the Whigs delight in, and I remark it's the sure sign of a good berth.”
“Yes, yes, I 'll book it; don't be afraid,” said Agincourt, laughing; and the late member for Inch retired, fully satisfied. “Go on, Charley; tell me the remainder.”
“There is no more to tell; you have heard all. Since I arrived I have not seen her. She has been for two days confined to bed with a feverish cold, and, apprehending something contagious, she will not let May visit her. I believe, however, it is a mere passing illness, and I suppose that to-morrow or next day we shall meet.”