"Thank you; I am glad you credit me with good intentions," he said. "I am no more fond of interfering than you are of—shall I say, of telling lies? But there are circumstances—Mrs. Thorpe had no one else to speak for her. Family pride is a stronger influence than abstract justice, isn't it?" He walked to the door, then paused. Mr. Deane fancied that Mr. Sauls was going to make one last cutting remark; but he did not. After all, it was not for his own hand that he was fighting; and stinging speeches wouldn't help her much.
"I daresay I have 'interfered impertinently,'" he said; "but don't 'forget' again. I think if you had seen, as I have, how she looks when your name is mentioned, how she longs for any crumb of news of you, you might remember, and even let her in next time. Good-bye; I am sorry we don't part friends—I am very sorry." And he spoke the truth. Mr. Deane had befriended him years ago; and then he was Meg's father.
He was just leaving the room when Mr. Deane called him back.
"Sauls, come here!" he said. "I can't make you hear across the room; my voice isn't strong enough. Tell me, do you know where she is? Yes? Bring me paper and pencil, please." George handed him his own pocket-book, and took the pencil from his watch-chain. Mr. Deane's hand shook while he held it. His sister, who had stood still as a statue all through this interview, stepped forward now in genuine anxiety for him.
"You are not fit to write," she said. "Let me—or Mr. Sauls." But he shook his head. "No one else can do it. Meg will understand and come, when she gets this. Tell her, Sauls, that I will do my best to live till I have seen her, and give her my love."
He wrote one line in shaky characters; then folded the leaf in two, and put it in George's hand. "I can't trust it to the post. Will you take this to her, for the sake of—'abstract justice'? You understand that what happened before was my doing. I trust you with this."
"I understand, and you may trust me," said George. "Thank you." And there was a warm ring in the thanks that brought a smile to Mr. Deane's lips.
"You are very fond of abstract justice!" he murmured.
"Am I? the more fool I!" said George. "It's not a profitable taste, or likely to find much gratification. I will take your message safely. I am glad I reminded you, though you are very tired, I'm afraid." And their hands met for the last time.
"There will be time to rest when I have seen her," said Mr. Deane; "but tell her that she must make haste."