“Mr. Denver, I beg I may not intrude any longer on your valuable time. This gentleman, I find, can give me some account of an old acquaintance of mine. The inquiries may not be interesting to you. Make my best compliments to Mrs. Denver.”
Mr. Denver was so much in the habit of being dismissed at short notice from his audiences with Mr. Martindale, that he did not think any thing of this kind of language; but he was sadly disappointed at being sent away just at the moment that some important discovery seemed about to be made; for it was very obvious from the manner in which Mr. Martindale had interrogated the foreigner, and from the very great emotion which he had manifested, that the old gentleman had something more to inquire about than merely an old acquaintance. Mr. Denver, indeed, had little doubt, whatever might be the object of the disclosure about to be made, that he should ultimately come into possession of a knowledge of the fact; but it was painful to be put off to a future period, it was a suffering to have his curiosity strongly excited and not immediately gratified. In order, however, to insure as early a relief as possible, he had no sooner taken his leave of Mr. Martindale, than he dropped a hint to Colonel Rivolta, that he should be happy to see him again at the parsonage as soon as possible.
When this good man was withdrawn, Mr. Martindale requested the stranger to be seated; and unmindful of the guests whom he had left to amuse themselves and each other, he commenced very deliberately to examine the foreigner concerning those matters which had so strongly excited his feelings.
“You tell me,” said Mr. Martindale, “that the old woman Bianchi has been dead nearly twenty years. Now, my good friend, can you inform me how long you were acquainted with this old woman before her death.”
“I knew her,” replied the Colonel, “only for about four years before she died.”
“And had you much intimacy with her, so as to hear her talk about former days.”
“Very often, indeed,” replied the foreigner, “did she talk about the past; for as her age was very great, and her memory was very good, it was great interest to hear her tell of ancient things; and she was a woman of most excellent understanding, and very benevolent in her disposition. Indeed, I can say that I loved the old woman much, very much indeed. I was sorry at her death.”
“But tell me,” said Mr. Martindale impatiently, “did you ever hear her say any thing of an infant—an orphan that was committed to her care nearly forty years ago?”
At this question, the eyes of the stranger brightened, and his face was overspread with a smile of delight, when he replied: “Oh yes, much indeed, much indeed! that orphan is my wife.”
This rapidity of explanation was almost too much for the old gentleman’s feelings. His limbs had been trembling with the agitation arising from thus reverting to days and events long passed; and he had entertained some hope from the language of the foreigner, that he might gain some intelligence concerning one that had been forgotten, but whose image was again revived in his memory. He had thought but lightly in the days of his youth of that which he then called folly, but more seriously in the days of his age of that same conduct which then he called vice. It would have been happiness to his soul, could an opportunity have been afforded him of making something like amends to the representatives of the injured, even though the injured had been long asleep in the grave. When all at once, therefore, the intelligence burst upon him, that one was living in whom he possessed an interest, and over whose destiny he should have watched, but whom he had neglected and forgotten, he felt his soul melt within him; and well it was for him that he found relief in tears. Surprised beyond measure was Colonel Rivolta, when he observed the effect produced on Mr. Martindale, and heard the old gentleman say with trembling voice: