Knowing him, as she did, Mrs. Dering well understood the feelings attendant upon this confession, and her face softened wonderfully as she said:
"I most regret, Mr. Congreve, that Robert did not live to know that you repented the cruel words that so grieved him. You know how proud and sensitive he was, and what a struggle it must have been to ask help of you. Your kindness, though too late, we all appreciate sincerely."
"Too late? The time is not out."
"But I shall let the store go. I have no sons, and I cannot have the care of it on my mind."
"Humph! May I ask what you intend to do?"
"Certainly. I have some money, four thousand in the bank, which will only be taken out in great necessity. As soon as possible, myself and children will begin to work. I am quite sure that I can secure a situation in the seminary three miles out of town, perhaps one also for Beatrice, my oldest daughter, and I hope before long to find something for the others."
Mr. Congreve opened his lips to speak, but was amazed beyond all comprehension, to find that he had no voice, he tried it again, then again, then broke abruptly into a hurried walk up and down the room, and flourished his scarlet handkerchief furiously.
"It was very kind of you to undertake such a long tiresome journey for our sakes, Mr. Congreve," said Mrs. Dering, beginning to feel a strange sympathy for the old gentleman who could not hide how deeply he was moved.
"Not half what I ought to do," sputtered the inconsistent old man. "I always want to help where I see it is so worthy. I am proud indeed, to see,—where's my snuff-box—that Robert's wife and daughters are so worthy of him; I—I—will you allow me to settle four thousand per annum on you and your children?"
"Oh, no; thank you so gratefully; but I could not, so long as we are well; we can work and live quite comfortably, but if I am ever in trouble, if sickness drains our savings low, I will come to you gladly, and Robert will be so pleased."