In the evening Sir Robert Levett came to our lodging. He was heavily afflicted with the prospect of losing his only son, albeit not a son of whom a parent could be proud. Yet a child cannot be replaced, and the line of the Levetts would be extinguished.
“My dear,” he said, “I come to say a thing which has been greatly on my mind. My son was run through by Lord Chudleigh. Tell me, first, what there is between you and my lord? Doth he propose to marry you?”
“Dear sir,” I replied, “Lord Chudleigh has offered me his hand.”
“And you have taken it?”
“Unworthy as I am, dear sir, I have promised, should certain obstacles be removed, to marry him.”
“His sword has caused my Will’s death. Yet the act was done in defence of the woman he loved, the woman whom Will designed to ruin——”
“And in self-defence as well. Had he not drawn, Will would have beaten out his brains.”
“Tell him, from Will’s father, my dear, that I forgive him. Let not such a homicide dwell upon his conscience. Where is he?”
“He has gone away with Sir Miles Lackington to await the finding of an inquest, if——”
“Tell him that I will not sanction any proceedings, and if there is to be an inquest my evidence shall be, though it bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave, that my lord is innocent, and drew his sword to defend his own life.”