He was still deep in his musings, when one of the servants brought him a letter which had been sent on from his own house to Rosemount. He recognised the writing as soon as he saw the address, and his face brightened at once. The letter was from his nephew—the one being on earth for whom Sir Frederick entertained any real affection. He found a seat in the shade, where he sat down and broke the seal of his letter. But as he read, his face grew darker and darker, and when he had come to the end of it, a deep sigh burst involuntarily from him; the hand that held the letter dropped by his side, and his chin sank on his breast. He seemed all at once to have become five years older. ‘O Horace, Horace, this is indeed a shameful confession!’ he murmured. ‘How often is it the hand we love best that strikes us the cruellest blow! And Oscar Boyd, too! the man I dislike beyond all other men. That makes the blow still harder to bear. He must be paid the five hundred pounds, and at once. He has lost his fortune, and yet he never spoke of this. What an obligation to be under—and to him! He saved Horace’s honour—perhaps his life—but is that any reason why I should absolve Lady Dimsdale from her promise? No, no! This is a matter entirely separate from the other.—Why, here comes the man himself.’
As Sir Frederick spoke thus, Oscar Boyd issued from one of the many winding walks that intersected the grounds at Rosemount. He had been alone since he left Lady Dimsdale. He had vowed to her that if she would not reveal to him the key of the mystery, he would find it for himself; but in truth he seemed no nearer finding it now than he had been an hour before. From whatever point he regarded the puzzle, he was equally nonplused. Utterly unaccountable to him seemed the whole affair. He was now on his way back to the house in search of Laura. He would see her once more before she left; once more would he appeal to her. On one point he was fully determined: come what might, he would never give her up.
Sir Frederick put away his letter, rose from his seat, pulled himself together, and went slowly forward to meet Mr Boyd. ‘You are the person, Mr Boyd, whom I am just now most desirous of seeing,’ he said.
‘I am entirely at your service, Sir Frederick.’
The Baronet cleared his voice. He scarcely knew how to begin what he wanted to say. Very bitter to him was the confession he was about to make. ‘Am I wrong, Mr Boyd, in assuming that you are acquainted with a certain nephew of mine, Horace Calvert by name, who at the present time is residing at Rio?’
Oscar started slightly at the mention of the name. ‘I believe that I had the pleasure of meeting the young gentleman in question on one occasion.’
‘It is of that occasion I wish to speak. I have in my pocket a letter which I have just received from my nephew, in which he confesses everything. Hum, hum.’
‘Confesses—Sir Frederick?’
‘For him, a humiliating confession indeed. He tells me in his letter how you—a man whom he had never seen before—saved him from the consequences of his folly—from disgrace—nay, from suicide itself! He had lost at the gaming-table money which was not his to lose. He fled the place—despair, madness, I know not what, in his heart and brain. You followed him, and were just in time to take out of his hand the weapon that a minute later would have ended his wretched life. But you not only did that; you took the miserable boy to your hotel, and there provided him with the means to save his honour. It was a noble action, Mr Boyd, and I thank you from my heart.’
‘It was the action of a man who remembered that he had been young and foolish himself in years gone by.’