“Well, if you like it, I will agree with you; not one half so bad. It was untrue in all its details, unmanly in spirit. But, let me add, that such philippics have no lasting effect,—they are like unskilful mines, that in their explosion only damage the contrivers. O'Reilly, who was the real deviser of this same attack, whose heart suggested, whose head invented, and whose coffers paid for it, will reap all the obloquy he hoped to heap upon another. Take myself, for instance, an old time-worn man of the world, who has lived long enough never to be sudden in my friendships or my resentments, who thinks that liking and disliking are slow processes,—well, even I was shocked, outraged at this affair; and although having no more intimacy with Darcy than the ordinary intercourse of social life, confess I could not avoid acting promptly and decisively on the subject. It was a question, perhaps, more of feeling than actual judgment,—a case in which the first impulse may generally be deemed the right one.” Here Heffernan paused, and drew himself up with an air that seemed to say, “If I am confessing to a weakness in my character, it is at least one that leans to virtue's side.”
Forester awaited with impatience for the explanation, and, not perceiving it to come, said, “Well, what did you do in the affair?”
“My part was a very simple one,” said Heffernan; “I was Mr. O'Reilly's guest, one of a large party, asked to meet the judges and the Attorney-General. I came in, with many others, to hear O'Halloran; but if I did, I took the liberty of not returning again. I told Mr. O'Reilly frankly that, in point of fact, the thing was false, and, as policy, it was a mistake. Party contests are all very well, they are necessary, because without them there is no banner to fight under; and the man of mock liberality to either side would take precedence of those more honest but less cautious than himself; but these things are great evils when they enlist libellous attacks on character in their train. If the courtesies of life are left at the door of our popular assemblies, they ought at least to be resumed when passing out again into the world.”
“And so you actually refused to go back to his house?” said Forester, who felt far more interested in this simple fact than in all the abstract speculation that accompanied it.
“I did so: I even begged of him to send my servant and my carriage after me; and, had it not been for your business, before this time I had been some miles on my way towards Dublin.”
Forester never spoke, but he grasped Heffernan's hand, and shook it with earnest cordiality.
“Yes, yes,” said Heffernan, as he returned the pressure; “men can be strong partisans, anxious and eager for their own side, but there is something higher and nobler than party.” He arose as he spoke, and walked towards the window, and then, suddenly turning round, and with an apparent desire to change the theme, asked, “But how came you here? What good or evil fortune prompted you to be present at this scene?”
“I fear you must allow me to keep that a secret,” said Forester, in some confusion.
“Scarcely fair, that, my young friend,” said Heffernan, laughing, “after hearing my confession in full.”
Forester seemed to feel the force of the observation, but, uncertain how to act, he maintained a silence for several minutes.