“Sincere, did you say? Ormiston sincere! You don’t know the man as I do. Inquired here, did he? What right has he to intrude his”----
“Hush, my dear Russell,” I interposed, really almost alarmed at his violence. “Pray, don’t excite yourself--I think you do him great injustice; but we will drop the subject, if you please.”
“I tell you, Hawthorne, if you knew all, you would despise him as much as I do.”
It is foolish to argue with an invalid--but really even my friendship for Russell would not allow me to bear in silence an attack so unjustifiable, as it seemed to me, on the character of a man who had every claim to my gratitude and respect. I replied therefore, somewhat incautiously, that perhaps I did know a little more than Russell suspected.
He stared at me with a look of bewilderment. “What do you know?” he asked quickly.
It was too late to hesitate or retract. I had started an unfortunate subject; but I knew Russell too well to endeavour now to mislead him. “I have no right perhaps to say I know any thing; but I have gathered from Ormiston’s manner, that he has very strong reasons for the anxiety he has shown on your account. I will not say more.”
“And how do you know this? Has Mr Ormiston dared ”----
“No, no, Russell,” said I, earnestly; “see how unjust you are, in this instance.” I wished to say something to calm him, and it would have been worse than useless to say any thing but the truth. I saw he guessed to what I alluded; and I gave him briefly my reasons for what I thought, not concealing the interview with his sister, at which I had unintentionally been present.
It was a very painful scene. When he first understood that Ormiston had sought the meeting, his temper, usually calm, but perhaps now tried by such long hours of pain and heaviness, broke out with bitter expressions against both. I told him, shortly and warmly, that such remarks towards his sister were unmanly and unkind; and then he cried, like a chidden and penitent child, till his remorse was as painful to look upon as his passion. “Mary! my own Mary! even you, Hawthorne, know and feel her value better than I do! I for whom she has borne so much.”
“I am much mistaken,” said I, “if Ormiston has not learned to appreciate her even yet more truly. And why not?”