Part 39 (1/2)

”Daniel Mortimer.”

Valentine had opened the letter with a preconceived notion as to its contents, and this, together with excessive surprise, made him fail for the moment to perceive one main point that it might have told him.

When Brandon just as he finished reading came back, he found Valentine seated before the letter amazed and pale.

”What does it mean?” he exclaimed, when the two had looked searchingly at one another. ”What on earth can it mean?”

”I have no idea,” said Giles.

”But you have had it for years,” continued Valentine, very much agitated. ”Surely you have tried to find out what it means. Have you made no inquiries?”

”Yes. I have been to Melcombe. I could discover nothing at all. No,” in answer to another look, ”neither then, or at any other time.”

”But you are older than I am, so much older, had you never any suspicion of anything at all? Did nothing ever occur before I was old enough to notice things which roused in you any suspicions?”

”Suspicions of what?”

”Of disgrace, I suppose. Of crime perhaps I mean; but I don't know what I mean. Do you think John knows of this?”

”No. I am sure he does not. But don't agitate yourself,” he went on, observing that Valentine's hand trembled. ”Remember, that whatever this secret was that your father kept buried in his breast, it has never been found out, that is evident, and therefore it is most unlikely now that it ever should be. In my opinion, and it is the only one I have fully formed about the matter, this crime or this disgrace--I quote your own words--must have taken place between sixty and seventy years ago, and your father expressly declares that he had nothing to do with it.”

”But if the old woman had,” began Valentine vehemently, and paused.

”How can that be?” answered Giles. ”He says, 'I know not in her case what I could have done,' and that he has never judged her.”

Valentine heaved up a mighty sigh, excitement made his pulses beat and his hands tremble.

”What made you think,” he said, ”that it was so long ago? I am so surprised that I cannot think coherently.”

”To tell you why I think so, is to tell you something more that I believe you don't know.”

”Well,” said the poor fellow, sighing restlessly, ”out with it, Giles.”

”Your father began life by running away from home.”

”Oh, I know that.”

”You do?”

”Yes, my dear father told it to me some weeks before he died, but I did not like it, I wished to dismiss it from my thoughts.”

”Indeed! but will you try to remember now, how he told it to you and what he said.”

”It was very simple. Though now I come to think of it, with this new light thrown upon it--Yes; he did put it very oddly, very strangely, so that I did not like the affair, or to think of it. He said that as there was now some intercourse between us and Melcombe, a place that he had not gone near for so very many years, it was almost certain, that, sooner or later, I should hear something concerning himself that would surprise me. It was singular that I had not heard it already. I did not like to hear him talk in his usual pious way of such an occurrence; for though of course we know that all things _are_ overruled for good to those who love G.o.d----”

”Well?” said Brandon, when he paused to ponder.

”Well,” repeated Valentine, ”for all that, and though he referred to that very text, I did not like to hear him say that he blessed G.o.d he had been led to do it; and that, if ever I heard of it, I was to remember that he thought of it with grat.i.tude.”

Saying this, he turned over the pages again. ”But there is nothing of that here,” he said, ”how did you discover it?”