“Wait; stay where you are!” said Heathcote, abruptly, and yet not lifting his eyes from the lines before him. “What a story!—what a terrible story!” muttered he to himself. Then beckoning to Agincourt to come near, he caught him by the arm, and in a low whisper said, “Who do you think she turns out to be? The widow of Godfrey Hawke!”
“I never so much as heard of Godfrey Hawke.”
“Oh, I forgot; you were an infant at the time. But surely you must have heard or read of that murder at Jersey?—a well-known gambler, named Hawke, poisoned by his associates, while on a visit at his house.”
“And who is she?”
“Mrs. Penthony Morris. Here's the whole story. But begin at the beginning.”
Seated side by side, they now proceeded to read the letter over together, nor did either speak a word till it was finished.
“And to be so jolly with all that on her mind!” exclaimed Agincourt. “Why, she most have the courage of half a dozen men.”
“I now begin to read the meaning of many things I never could make out her love of retirement,—she, a woman essentially of the world and society, estranging herself from every one; her strange relations with Clara, a thing which used to puzzle me beyond measure; and lastly, her remarkable injunction to me when we parted, her prayer to be forgotten, or, at least, never mentioned.”
“You did not tell me of that.”
“Nor was it my intention to have done so now; it escaped me involuntarily.”