Two days afterwards he told his wife that he was going to London. He had so sincere an attachment for Goldsmith, his wife knew very well that he felt that sudden departure of his very deeply, and that he would try and induce him to return.
But when Bunbury came back after the lapse of a couple of days, he came back alone. His wife met him in the chaise when the coach came up. His face was very grave.
“I saw the poor fellow,” he said. “I found him at his chambers in Brick Court. He is very ill indeed.”
“What, too ill to be moved?” she cried. He shook his head.
“Far too ill to be moved,” he said. “I never saw a man in worse condition. He declared, however, that he had often had as severe attacks before now, and that he has no doubt he will recover. He sent his love to you and to Mary. He hopes you will forgive him for his rudeness, he says.”
“His rudeness! his rudeness!” said Katherine, her eyes streaming with tears. “Oh, my poor friend—my poor friend!” She did not tell her sister all that her husband had said to her. Mary was, of course, very anxious to hear how Oliver was, but Katherine only said that Charles had seen him and found him very ill. The doctor who was in attendance on him had promised to write if he thought it advisable for him to have a change to the country.
The next morning the two sisters were sitting together when the postboy's horn sounded. They started up simultaneously, awaiting a letter from the doctor.
No letter arrived, only a narrow parcel, clumsily sealed, addressed to Miss Hor-neck in a strange handwriting.
When she had broken the seals she gave a cry, for the packet contained sheet after sheet in Goldsmith's hand—poems addressed to her—the love-songs which his heart had been singing to her through the long hopeless years.
She glanced at one, then at another, and another, with beating heart.