"A letter has come for you in Harry Desmond's handwriting."
John, unable to speak, stretched out his hand.
"Take it," said Warde, "to some quiet spot where you cannot be disturbed."
John nodded.
"I have seen how it was with you," Warde continued, with deep emotion, "and you have had my acute sympathy, the more acute, perhaps, because long ago a friend went out of my life without a sign." Warde paused. "Now, unless my whole experience is at fault, you hold in your hand what you want—and what you deserve."
Warde left the library; John put the letter into his pocket. Where should he go? One place beckoned him. Upon the tower, looking towards the Hill, he would read the last letter of his friend.
Within half an hour he was passing through the iron gates. He had not visited the garden since that forlorn winter's afternoon, when he came here, alone, after bidding Desmond good-bye. He could recall the desolation of the scene: bleak Winter dripping tears upon the tomb of Summer. With what disgust he had perceived the decaying masses of vegetation, the sodden turf, the soot upon the bare trunks of the trees. He had rushed away, fancying that he heard Desmond's voice, "There is a curse on the place."
Now, May had touched what had seemed dead and hideous, and, lo! a miracle. The hawthorns shone white against the brilliant green of the laurels; the horse-chestnuts had—to use a fanciful expression of Cæsar's—"lit their lamps." Out of the waving grass glimmered and sparkled a thousand wild flowers. John heard the glad Frühlingslied of bees and birds. Then, opening his lungs, he inhaled the life-renewing odours of earth renascent; opening his heart he felt a spiritual essence pervading every fibre of his being. Once more the chilled sap in his veins flowed generously. It was well with him and well with his friend. This conviction possessed him, remember, before he opened the letter.
He ascended the tower, and broke the seal.