Page:The Green Bag (1889–1914), Volume 13.pdf/172

 Leaves from an English Solicitor s. Note Book. As early as possible, I called at Bernard Street to learn that the archdeacon and Connie had divided the night watches be tween them, that George was still tossing on his bed unconscious, anct that the only hope for him was to fall into a long restful sleep. I returned to Wood's to get my breakfast and to read the few letters which I expected from my clerk; and now occurred something like the evolution of a "Comedy of Errors.'' First and foremost amongst my letters was one forwarded on to me from Georgetown by the last mail of the previous evening, and judging from the many postmarks which it bore, it had been delayed several days on its way through being insufficiently addressed; as there are several Georgetowns in Eng land, and the letter had been sent to two of them before it reached my office. The letter was from Connie herself. "Dear Mr. Borrct:—I sit down to fulfil my promise of writing to you, but you must not let any one know what I am writing to you. I am married, and living in London, but I am under a solemn promise to my husband not to let any one know whom I have married, and he says you last of all. We have loved each other secretly for some time, and at the last he overcame all my scruples, and I came up to London and was married to him pri vately in St. Paneras Church near here some weeks since. I find that he made a mistake when he applied for the license, for he said I was of full age, but he really did not know that I was not, and there was no time to come back and ask the question. I hope it does not make any difference, because I shall be of full age in four months from now; but please let me know, for, of course, it makes me feel anxious. I am sorry to say he is unwell to-day, with a little attack of feverish cold, but I hope it will soon pass off. "You can address your letter to me here as Mrs. G. H., and I shall be sure to get it. Yours very respectfully, CONNIE H., (formerly Connie Morgan".)

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There was now no need to commit perjury, or tell white lies—the deed had been done, and no court of law in England would set the marriage aside. Hut how was I to en lighten the archdeacon, and get him to sus pend the stern reproof which I felt sure he would feel himself bound to administer to poor Connie. I hurried back to Bernard Street, and arrived just at the time that George was regaining consciousness on waking up from his sleep of fever. I over heard the feeble voice of the patient calling from his sick bed, "What! my dear old dad! You here! Is it a dream; in mercy let me sleep on;" and then I heard a tender voice, "God bless you, my boy; I am here, go to sleep again;" then after a little while a faint sound of suppressed sobbing, and, looking into the room, I saw the old archdeacon on his knees beside the bed, and George wrapped unconscious in calm sleep. My task was easy in getting the former to overlook George's only fault, his want of filial duty in not confiding more in his father. The doctor, too, spoke warmly in praise of Connie's devoted nursing, which he said had undoubtedly gone far to save George's life. In a few years' time it was Connie's privilege to share with Miss Harrison the loving task of nursing the old archdeacon in his last illness, and of smoothing his dying pillow. But I hear my reader asking. What about that anonymous letter? who sent it after all? We none of us know the depths to which a disappointed woman will descend. The let ter was sent by one whose love for George, if love it could be called, was not recipro cated by him, and this was her act of re venge. It is no part of my duty to moralize for the enlightenment of readers of THE GREEN BAG, but those who have followed my story will readily see that George's careless ness of the old precept. "Avoid all appear ance of evil," very nearly brought a respect able lawyer to connive at willful perjury, and fa more serious matter) nearly brought hon ored gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.