"18th February, 1891.
"My dear Mr. Lawrence,—I know you too well to doubt that you have some good and sufficient motive in your own eyes for having entirely given up all communication with your friends, since this dark cloud has hung over you. That you should wilfully deprive yourself of the personal sympathy of those who would never for an instant believe you capable of a dishonorable action—no matter the amount of testimony brought against you—seems to me strange. I have waited, but waited in vain, all these months, for a line that should tell me that you trusted in my friendship; that you felt certain I could never doubt your rectitude and truth. I have been disappointed. But, since it has seemed good to you to be silent, I do not see that a corresponding silence is imposed upon me; and, after some misgiving, at the risk of appearing obtrusive, I write to assure you that you have friends who watch with intense interest, but without anxiety, your present fight with calumny and suspicion. They never doubt but that you will come triumphantly through this ordeal. My taking up my pen to say this may seem to you a very uncalled-for step on my part, but, as I think you know me well, I am not in the least afraid of your misinterpreting it. I cannot longer allow a friend, whom I value, to suffer as I know you must be suffering, without a word to tell him of my unwavering confidence and cordial sympathy.
"Sincerely yours,
"Grace Ballinger.
"P.S.—We are travelling in the United States, and shall not return to England before May."
She felt more tranquil after writing this than she had done for a long time. The endeavor to put the subject away from her had failed. In the watches of the night it had come back, and upbraided her, no matter by what specious arguments she had striven to persuade herself that it was unfitting she should write. She knew her heart and intellect did not subscribe to conventional laws, though in traffic with the world her habitual conduct did so. But this was an exceptional case. Her aunt, her brother, could never understand it, because they did not understand Ivor Lawrence's peculiar character. It was that character which, after his strange behavior, justified this action in her own eyes. Upon no other man could she have forced her sympathy. He had loved her—she felt sure of that, she could not be mistaken—and yet he had never spoken of his love. To most women this would have been a cause of misgiving, if not of offence and bitterness. It was not so to this strange girl. She felt that she could comprehend it all—the pride that kept him silent as long as he was a poor and briefless barrister, and that shrank still further from avowal when his name was branded with infamy. But the world had not comprehended; her own kith and kin had been indignant. To one and all the man's behavior had seemed disgraceful. He had paid Grace such marked attention for months as had kept other and better men aloof; then, on inheriting this vast fortune, had completely dropped her! And half this fortune must be his, it was said, even if the verdict in the approaching trial should be given against him, as an earlier will had been found, dividing Mr. Tracy's property equally between his two nephews. It was thus, as Grace knew, that her friends argued; and every effort to make them see the circumstances in a different light would be of no avail.
The next day, Sunday, Saul appeared soon after morning service. He looked as if he had not slept all night, and he coughed a great deal; but, by a resolute effort of will, he talked very much as usual. Grace should not be distressed during her last day, nor should "Little Mother," by his depression of spirits. After all, how was he worse off now than when Grace arrived here? He knew then—he had known all along—how utterly hopeless was his attachment. He had been surprised, like a fool, into an avowal of his feelings, and he bitterly regretted it. A thin screen of ice had formed itself, since then, between him and her. Nothing, now, could melt that; but, at least, the last hours of their intercourse under his father's roof should be as little constrained as possible, under the circumstances.
At parting, as he held her hand for an instant, he said, quite simply,
"If we never meet again, Miss Ballinger, pray remember that you brought happiness into at least one obscure New England home. We shall think of your visit here with gratitude, and often talk of it, my mother and I. Good-by."
Firm, self-contained to the end, his voice betrayed no emotion, as he raised her hand respectfully to his lips. She said nothing. What could she say? Then he turned; the white face, the shrunk, shadowy figure, vanished in the gloaming; and that was the last she saw of Saul Barham.