, 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.