“I was afraid you would find it so.”
“But wouldn't you like to see it?”
“No thank you. I suppose my father will be here directly.”
“But I wish you would read it through,” said Tom, producing a copy.
“Well, if you wish it, I suppose I must; but I don't see how I can do any good.”
Hardy took the letter, and sat down, and Tom drew a chair close to him, and watched his face while he read:—
“It is best for us both that I should not see you any more, at least at present. I feel that I have done you a great wrong. I dare not say much to you, for fear of making that wrong greater. I cannot, I need not tell you how I despise myself now—how I long to make you any amends in my power. If ever I can be of any service to you, I do hope that nothing which has passed will hinder you from applying to me. You will not believe how it pains me to write this; how should you? I don't deserve that you should believe anything I say. I must seem heartless to you; I have been, I am heartless. I hardly know what I am writing. I shall long all my life to hear good news of you. I don't ask you to pardon me, but if you can prevail on yourself not to send back the enclosed, and will keep it as a small remembrance of one who is deeply sorry for the wrong he has done you, but who cannot and will not say he is sorry he ever met you, you will be adding another to the many kindnesses which I have to thank you for, and which I shall never forget.”
Hardy read it over several times, as Tom watched impatiently, unable to make out anything from his face.
“What do you think? You don't think there's anything wrong in it, I hope?”
“No, indeed, my dear fellow. I really think it does you credit. I don't know what else you could have said very well, only—”