“Well, really the affairs looks serious,” replied she, “but it shall be so if you wish it.”
We took our tea before I opened the business, for I was thinking how I should commence: at last I put down my cup, and said, “Mrs St. Felix, I must first acquaint you with what is known to no one here but myself.” I then told her the history of old Nanny; then I went on to Spicer’s recognition of the spy-glass—his attempt to murder his mother, the consequences, and the disclosure on his death-bed.
Mrs St. Felix was much moved.
“But why tell me all this?” said she, at last: “it proves, certainly, that my husband was not hanged, which is some consolation, but now I shall be ever restless until I know what has become of him—perhaps he still lives.”
“Mrs St. Felix, you ask me why do I tell you all this? I beg you to reply to my question: having known this so long, why have I not told you before?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Then I will tell you: because I did feel that such knowledge as I had then would only make you, as you truly say, unhappy and restless. Nor would I have told you now, had it not been that I have gained further intelligence on board of a frigate which I this afternoon took into the Medway.”
Mrs St. Felix gasped for breath. “And what is that?” said she, faintly.
“The spy-glass was recognised by a person on board, who told me that your husband still lives.”
I ran out for a glass of water, for Mrs St. Felix fell back in her chair as pale as death.