‘Don’t say such things. We both know that, at the worst of times, he looked on you as a sincere friend.’
Philip groaned, and she thought it best to go on to something else. ‘I like this best,’ she said. ‘It will be nice to think of far away. I should like, too, for these Italians to see the stranger has the same creed as themselves.’
After a moment’s pause, during which he looked at the paper, he said, ‘Amy, I have one thing to ask of you. Will you write my name in the Prayer-book?’
‘That I will,’ said she, and Philip drew it from under the sofa cushion, and began putting together his pocket gold pen. While he was doing this, she said, ‘Will you write to me sometimes? I shall be so anxious to know how you get on.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said he; with a sigh, as if he would fain have said more.
She paused; then said, abruptly, ‘Do you know they never had your letter?’
‘Ha! Good heavens!’ cried he, starting up in consternation; ‘then they don’t know it!’
‘They do. Sit down, Philip, and hear. I wanted to tell you about it. They know it. Poor Laura was so unhappy when you were ill, that mamma made it out from her.’
He obeyed the hand that invited him back to his seat, and turned his face earnestly towards her. He must let her be his comforter, though a moment before his mind would have revolted at troubling the newly-made widow with his love affairs. Amabel told him, as fully and clearly as she could, how the truth had come out, how gently Laura had been dealt with, how Charles had been trying to soften his father, and papa had not said one angry word to her.
‘They forgive her. Oh, Amy, thanks indeed! You have taken away one of the heaviest burdens. I am glad, indeed, that she spoke first. For my own part, I see through all their kindness and consideration how they regard me.’