It was a message from Mr. Clifford requiring that the Confessor should attend him instantly. Father Daniels rose.
“Stop,” he said, “till I hear what the old man wants.” And, so saying, he left the apartment.
He was not absent long; and when he entered the chamber, he held an open letter in his hand. Carefully closing the door, he thus addressed his confederate:
“Said I not right—Our position is all but desperate? What think ye was the old man’s business?—To desire the son of his repudiated daughter to return to-morrow; and to give directions, that I should write and order it to be so. Were that to happen, need I name the result?—all—all lost! Well, I obeyed, and wrote this letter”———
“As he dictated?—are you mad, holy father?” inquired the steward. “Not exactly.‘Tis thus worded:—
“‘Rash Boy!
“‘Your mother’s misconduct wrung my heart, and your unwarrantable intrusion has nearly brought me to the grave. As you dread the malediction of an old man—desist!—and for ever avoid the presence of one who can never look but with abhorrence on the offspring of a guilty daughter.’
“‘Tis signed—ay, and in his own handwriting too—
“‘John Clifford.’”
“Excellent! This will prevent another visit,” said the steward.