Soon after his return, while his heart was yet sore and disturbed, he had received a note from Mary. She wrote:
"We suffer greatly on your account. Poor papa was bound down by circumstances with which you are familiar, though he would gone to you at any cost had it been necessary. In addition his health is very delicate and he has been facing a heavy sorrow—now realized at last! Poor little mamma's eyesight is gone—forever, probably. We are in deep distress, as you may imagine, for, unused as yet to her misfortune, she is quite helpless and needs our constant care, and it is pitiful to see her efforts to bear up and be cheerful.
"I need not tell you how I have sorrowed over the insult and wrongs inflicted upon you by a cowardly connection of our family, nor how anxious I was until the welcome news of your safety reached us. We owe you much, and more now since you were made the innocent victim of a plot aimed to destroy papa's chances.
"It is unbearable to think of your having to stand up and be shot at in our behalf; but oh, how glad I am that you had the old general with you. Is he not noble and good? He is quite carried away with you and never tires of talking of your coolness and courage. He says everything has ended beautifully but the election, and he could remedy that if papa would consent, but nothing in the world could take papa away from us now, and if he had been elected his resignation would have speedily followed.
"I know you are yet weary and bitter, and do not even care to see your friends, but that will pass and none will give you a more earnest welcome when you do come than
"Mary."
He read this many times, and each time found in it a new charm. Its simplicity and earnestness impressed him at one reading and its personal interest at another; its quick discerning sympathy in another.
It grew upon him, that letter. It was the only letter ever penned by a woman to him. Notes he had had by the score; rich young men in the great capitals of Europe do not escape nor seek to escape these, but this was straight from the heart of an earnest, self-reliant, sympathetic woman; one of those who have made the South a fame as far as her sons have traveled. It was a new experience and destined to be a lasting one.
Its effect was in the end striking and happy. Gradually he roused himself from the cynical lethargy into which he was sinking and began to look about him. After all he had much to live for, and with peace came new manhood. He would fight for the woman who had faith in him—such a fight as man never dared before. He looked up to find Virdow smiling on him through his tears.
He stood up. "I am going to make a statement now that will surprise and shock you, but the reason will be sufficient. First I ask that you promise me, as though we stood before our Creator, a witness, that never in this life nor the next, if consciousness of this goes with you, will you betray by word or deed anything of what you hear from my lips to-night. I do not feel any uneasiness, but promise."
"I promise," said Virdow, simply, "but if it distresses you, if you feel bound to me—"
"On the contrary, the reason is selfish entirely. I tell you because the possession of this matter is destroying my ability to judge fairly; because I want help and believe you are the only being in the world who can give it." He spoke earnestly and pathetically. "Without it, I shall become—a wreck." Then Virdow seized the speaker's hand.
"Go on, Edward. All the help that Virdow can give is yours in advance."
Edward related to him the causes that led up to the duel—the political campaign, the publication of Royson's card, and the history of the challenge.