“Jack—­Jack—­you have been as good as an angel to me, indeed you have.  It was you also who prevented my poor James from killing his mother—­it is you that have been the means of his making his peace with Heaven.  Bless you, Jack, bless you!”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

     In which Mrs. St. Felix refuses a splendid Offer, which I am duly
     empowered to make to her.

I left old Nanny as soon as she was more composed, for I was so anxious to have some conversation with old Anderson.  I did not call on my father, as it was not a case on which he was likely to offer any opinion, and I thought it better that the secret which I possessed should be known but to one other person.  I refer to the knowledge which I had obtained relative to the husband of Mrs. St. Felix, who, it appeared, was not hanged, as supposed by her.  The information received from Spicer accounted for Mrs. St. Felix’s conduct when any reference was made to her husband, and I was now aware how much pain she must have suffered when his name was mentioned.  I found Anderson alone in his office, and I immediately made him acquainted with what I had learned, and asked him his opinion as to the propriety of communicating it to Mrs. St. Felix.  Anderson rested his head upon his hand for some time in silence; at last he looked up at me.

“Why, Tom, that she suffers much from the supposed ignominious fate of her husband is certain, but it is only occasionally; her spirits are good, and she is cheerful, except when reminded of it by any casual observation.  That it would prove a great consolation to her to know that her husband did not forfeit his life on the scaffold is true; but what then? he is said to have entered the King’s service under another name, and, of course, there is every probability of his being alive and well at this moment.  Now she is comparatively tranquil and composed; but consider what anxiety, what suspense, what doubts, must ever fill her mind, must oppress her waking hours, must haunt her in her dreams, after she is made acquainted with his possible existence.  Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; and her existence would be one of continued tumult, of constant anticipation, and I may say of misery.  He may be dead, and then will her new-born hopes be crushed when she has ascertained the fact; he may never appear again, and she may linger out a life of continual fretting.  I think, Tom, that were she my daughter, and I in possession of similar facts, I would not tell her—­at least, not at present.  We may be able to make inquiries without her knowledge.  We know his name; an advertisement might come to his eyes or ears; and, moreover, you have the telescope, which may be of use if it is constantly seen in your hands.  Let us at present do all we can without her knowledge, and leave the result in the hands of Providence, who, if it thinks fit, will work by its own means.  Are you of my opinion, Tom?”