“Come out and have something to eat,” was Michael Reid’s response. And now he took his father by the arm and drew him down stairs, and took him to a good restaurant not far off.
The old man was full of the most intense excitement. The young man was calm and looked collected and firm. That germ of true manliness was growing bigger. That little flickering flame of real nobility was beginning to warm his hitherto frozen heart.
After the meal was over, the Major again spoke on the subject of Florence.
“I understand exactly what you want me to do,” Michael replied. “Don’t say another word. Keep your own counsel till you hear from me,” and this was all the Major could get out of his son Michael.
But he himself felt that his hurried journey to town had not been thrown away. He was almost sure that Michael’s future was secure. He trembled with delight.
“If only it is never, never known that I rushed up to town to acquaint the lad, all will be well,” was his last thought as he lay down very late that night to sleep. “Mrs Fortescue won’t dare to tell; I’ll take precious good care that it is not worth her while. No one else has seen me: it will never be known.”
So, while the old man slept, dreaming wonderful dreams with regard to Michael, Michael Reid himself fought with temptation and, to his credit be it pronounced—conquered.
In the course of the next day two letters were received by two different people. They were both in the Lieutenant’s well-known handwriting. The Major trembled much when his reached him. He looked at it, almost fearing to open it, but by degrees he calmed down sufficiently to wrest the contents from the envelope, and read Michael’s few words. They ran as follows:—
“My dear Father,—
“Thank you for coming to see me, and for opening my eyes. They have been opened very wide. I have had a look at myself: I don’t like what I have seen, but there is always such a thing as turning over the proverbial new leaf. I have been a cad in the past; I will make a try for being a gentleman in the future. I can’t do what you suggest. Burn this, and try to forget our interview of to-night. I have got into a mess, and I will scramble on to my own legs somehow; but not in that way.
“Good-bye, dad. You will hear from me as soon as I have any news worth relating.
“Your affectionate son,—
“Michael.”
There is no use in describing the Major’s rage. It lasted for about an hour. At the end of that time, he burned his son’s letter and said to himself that he would try and forget him. But this was not at all easy: on the contrary, for the first time since his birth, the Major truly respected Michael, and in consequence could not get him out of his head.