“This is the truth, my husband, and I want you to believe it. I do not ask you to take me back. You are too proud for that, and I know it can never be, but I want you to think as kindly of me as you can, and when you feel that you have forgiven me, show this letter to Roger, if he is old enough to understand it. Tell him to forgive me, and give him this lock of his mother’s hair. Heaven bless and keep my little boy, and grant that he may be a comfort to you and grow up a good and noble man. Perhaps I may see him sometime. If not, my blessing be with him always.”
“This is all of mother’s letter, but there is a postscript from him. Shall I read that, too?” Roger asked, and Magdalen said yes; and then, as he held the letter near to her, she saw the bold, masculine handwriting of Arthur Grey, who had written:
“Squire Irving—Dear Sir—It becomes my painful duty to inform you that not long after the enclosed letter from your wife was finished, a fire broke out and spread so fast that all hope of escape except by the life-boats was cut off. Your wife felt from the first a presentiment that she should be drowned, and brought the letter to me, asking that if I escaped, and she did not, I would forward it at once to Millbank. I took the letter and I tried to save her, when the sea ingulfed us both, but a tremendous wave carried her beyond my reach, and I saw her golden hair rise once above the water and then go down forever. I, with a few others, was saved as by a miracle,—picked up by a vessel bound for New York, which place I reached yesterday. I have read Jessie’s letter. She told me to do so, and to add my testimony to the truth of what she had written. Even if it were not true, it would be wrong to refuse the request of one so lovely and dear to me as Jessie was, and I accordingly do as she bade me, and say to you that she has written you the truth.
“I have the honor, sir, to be
“Your obedient servant,
“Arthur Grey.”
Not a word of excuse for himself, or regret for the part he had had in effecting poor Jessie’s death. He could scarcely have written less than he did, and the cold, indifferent wording of his message struck Magdalen just as it did Roger. She had wept over poor Jessie’s story, and pitied the young, desolate creature who had been so cruelly wronged. And she had pitied Arthur Grey at first, and her heart had gone out after him with a strange, inexplicable feeling of sympathy. But when it came to Saratoga and Italy, and all the seductive arts he must have used to tempt Jessie from her husband and child, and when she heard the message he had sent to the outraged husband, her blood boiled with indignation, and she felt that if she were to see him then, she must curse him to his face. While Roger had been reading of him, her mind had, for some cause, gone back to that Saturday afternoon, in the graveyard, when she met the handsome stranger whose courteous manners had so fascinated her, and who had been so interested in everything pertaining to the Irving family. Suddenly it came to her that this was Arthur Grey, and, with a start, she exclaimed: “I have seen that man,—I know I have. I saw him at your father’s grave years and years ago.”
Roger looked inquiringly at her as she explained the circumstances of her interview with the stranger, telling of his questions with regard to Mrs. Irving and his apparent interest in her, and when she had finished her story, he said, “Is it your impression that he was ever in Belvidere before?”
“I know he never was,” Magdalen replied. “He told me so himself, and I should have known it without his telling, he seemed so much a stranger to everything and everybody.”
Roger knew that every word his sister had breathed against his mother was a lie, but Magdalen’s involuntary testimony helped to comfort and reassure him as nothing else had done. The clause which read “the boy known as Roger Lennox Irving” did not especially trouble him now, though he could not then forgive the father who had wronged him so, and when he thought of him there came back to his face the same sad, sorry look it had worn when Magdalen first came in, and which while talking to her had gradually passed away. She detected it at once, and connecting it with the will said to him again, “Oh, Mr. Irving, it would have been better if I had never come here. I have only brought sorrow and ruin to you.”