“Laurence! Laurence! I pity you. I fear you have done a very wicked thing. I would lead you back to honour by the gentle means of mercy. Repent now, while there is time to do it, without public shame, or by-and-bye Justice may seize you with a rough hand. Give me, instantly, the letter that you have just concealed.” Laurence, pale and trembling, produced the letter. It was addressed to Jill M’Carthy.
“I have no doubt,” said the priest, clutching the letter, “that you have several others addressed to her in your possession. Give them all up!”
Laurence unlocked a little drawer of his own in a corner of the office, and, with downcast eyes, put into the old Father’s hands five or six letters addressed to Jill. The seals had not in any instance been broken.
“Oh, Laurence! Laurence!” said the old Father, with emotion, “is it needful for me to say, how mean and paltry, how malicious, how unkind, how cruel is such conduct towards any one? But towards such a girl as Jill!—Oh, Laurence! Come! Come! I see the tears of shame and sorrow in your eyes. You do feel it.”
Yes! Laurence did feel it. He buried his face in his hands and wept. Foolish habits and evil companionship had done him much harm, but they had not destroyed all good. Here and there, in his neglected nature, were some spots where the beautiful still grew, like patches of verdure in a desert of sand. Now, the good within him awoke and stirred—the evil sank into silence and slumbered. Shame and sorrow fell upon his spirit, as summer rain upon withering flowers, and the true and the beautiful revived.
Father M’Callagh promised the distressed father and the repentant son that he would not speak of this discovery to any one in the world but Jill. Now that a gracious repentance had begun its work, they need not fear anything harsh or indelicate from those who knew the circumstances. Then, with a few words of solace and encouragement, the good old Priest shook hands with both father and son, and went away.
In a few minutes he arrived at the widow’s cottage. He asked to speak with Jill alone, and then he told her of the discovery he had just made; he spoke, too, of the sincere penitence of Laurence, and asked her to forgive him. Then, putting all the letters into her hands, he bade her adieu, and left her to go up into her little bed-chamber, and read over their happy and loving contents, with beating heart and tearful eyes.
One day, about a month after this incident, Jill was sitting at the window working, when Laurence opened the garden-gate, and came forward with a letter in his hand. It had just arrived, and he had requested his father to let him be the bearer of it. It was the first time he had ventured to shew himself to Jill since the affair of his dishonour towards her. She came forward into the garden to meet him, and took the letter from his hand. He blushed, and trembled a little as he delivered it to her; with a faltering voice, he asked if Father M’Callagh had told her how very sorry he was that—
“Yes—yes, Laurence! he told me all about it!” said Jill, interrupting him. “I know you are sorry, and that you would never do so again to any one.”
“Never! never!” said Laurence, with great emphasis. “Believe me—never!”