One Of Them

“No,” said he, bluntly; “he has grown thin and careworn. Older by ten years than I expected to find him.”

“He has been much fretted of late; independently of being separated from you, he has had many anxieties.”

“I have heard something of this; more, indeed, than I like to believe true. Is it possible, May, that he intends to marry?”

She nodded twice slowly, without speaking.

“And his wife is to be this Mrs. Morris, – this widow that I remember at Marlia, long ago?”

“And who is now here domesticated with us.”

“What do you know of her? What does any one know of her?” asked he, impatiently.

“Absolutely nothing, – that is, of her history, her family, or her belongings. Of herself I can only say that she is supreme in this house; her orders alone are obeyed. I have reason to believe that papa confides the gravest interests to her charge, and for myself, I obey her by a sort of instinct.”

“But you like her, May?”

“I am too much afraid of her to like her. I was at first greatly attracted by fascinations perfectly new to me, and by a number of graceful accomplishments, which certainly lent a great charm to her society. But after a while I detected, or I fancied that I detected, that all these attractions were thrown out as lures to amuse and occupy us, while she was engaged in studying our dispositions and examining our natures. Added to this, I became aware of the harshness she secretly bestowed upon poor Clara, whose private lectures were little else than tortures. This latter completely estranged me from her, and, indeed, was the first thing which set me at work to consider her character. From the day when Clara left this – ”

“Left this, and for where?” cried he.

“I cannot tell you; we have never heard of her since. She was taken away by a guardian, a certain Mr. Stocmar, whom papa seemed to know, or at least thought he had met somewhere, many years ago. It was shortly after the tidings of Captain Morris’s death this gentleman arrived here to claim her.”

“And her mother, – was she willing to part with her?”

“She affected great sorrow – fainted, I think – when she read the letter that apprised her of the necessity; but from Clara herself I gathered that the separation was most grateful to her, and that for some secret cause I did not dare to ask – even had she known to tell – they were not to meet again for many, many years.”

“But all that you tell me is unnatural, May. Is there not some terrible mystery in this affair? Is there not some shameful scandal beneath it all?”

A heavy sigh seemed to concur with what he said.

“And can my father mean to marry a woman of whose past life he knows nothing? Is it with all these circumstances of suspicion around her that he is willing to share name and fortune with her?”

“As to that, such is her ascendancy over him, that were she to assure him of the most improbable or impossible of events he ‘d not discredit her. Some secret dread of what you would say or think has delayed the marriage hitherto; but once you have taken your leave and are fairly off, – not to return for years, – the event will no longer be deferred.”

“Oh, May, how you grieve me! I cannot tell you the misery you have put into my heart.”

“It is out of my own sorrow I have given you to drink,” said she, bitterly. “You are a man, and have a man’s career before you, with all its changeful chances of good or evil; I, as a woman, must trust my hazard of happiness to a home, and very soon I shall have none.”

He tried to speak, but a sense of choking stopped him, and thus, without a word on either side, they walked along several minutes.

“May,” said he, at last, “do you remember the line of the poet, —

“‘Death and absence differ but in name’?”

“I never heard it before; but why do you ask me?”

“I was just thinking that in parting moments like this, as on a death-bed, one dares to speak of things which from some sense of shame one had never dared to touch on before. Now, I want to carry away with me over the seas the thought that your lot in life is assured, and your happiness, so far as any one’s can be, provided for. To know this, I must force a confidence which you may not wish to accord me; but bethink you, dear May, that you will never see me more. Will you tell me if I ask about him?”

“About whom?” asked she, in unfeigned astonishment, for never were her thoughts less directed to Alfred Layton.

“May,” said he, almost angrily, “refuse me if you will, but let there be no deceit between us. I spoke of Layton.”

“Ask what you please, and I will answer you,” said she, boldly.

“He is your lover, is he not? You have engaged yourself to him?”

“No.”

“It is the same thing. You are to be his wife, when this, that, or t’other happens?”

“No.”

“In a word, if there be no compact, there is an understanding between you?”

“Once more, no!” said she, in the same firm voice.

“Will you deny that you have received letters from him, and have written to him again?”

An angry flush covered the girl’s cheek, and her lip trembled. For an instant it seemed as if an indignant answer would break from her; but she repressed the impulse, and coolly said, “There is no need to deny it. I have done both.”

“I knew it, – I knew it!” cried he, in a bitter exultation. “You might have dealt more frankly with me, or might have said, ‘I am in no wise accountable to you, I recognize no right in you to question me.’ Had you done this, May, it would have been a warning to me; but to say, ‘Ask me freely, I will tell you everything,’ – was this fair, was this honest, was it true-hearted?”

“And yet I meant it for such,” said she, sorrowfully. “I may have felt a passing sense of displeasure that you should have heard from any other than myself of this correspondence; but even that is passed away, and I care not to learn from whom you heard it. I have written as many as three letters to Mr. Layton. This is his last to me.” She took at the same moment a letter from her pocket, and handed it towards him.

“I have no presumption to read your correspondence, May Leslie,” said he, red with shame and anger together. “Your asking me to do so implies a rebuke in having dared to speak on the subject, but it is for the last time.”

“And is it because we are about to part, Charles, that it must be in anger?” said she; and her voice faltered and her lip trembled. “Of all your faults, Charles, selfishness was not one, long ago.”

“No matter what I was long ago; we have both lived to see great changes in ourselves.”

“Come, let us be friends,” said she, taking his hand cordially. “I know not how it is with you, but never in my life did I need a friend so much.”

“Oh, May, how can I serve you?”

“First read that letter, Charles. Sit down there and read it through, and I ‘ll come back to you by the time you ‘ve finished it.”

With a sort of dogged determination to sacrifice himself, no matter at what cost, Charles Heathcote took the letter from her, and turned away into another alley of the garden.

CHAPTER L. THREE MET AGAIN

When, on the following morning, Charles Heathcote repaired to the hotel where he had left his friend Lord Agincourt, he was surprised to hear the sound of voices and laughter as he drew nigh the room; nor less astonished was he, on entering, to discover O’Shea seated at the breakfast-table, and manifestly in the process of enjoying himself. Had there been time to retire undetected, Heathcote would have done so, for his head was far too full of matters of deep interest to himself to desire the presence of a stranger, not to say that he had a communication to make to his friend both delicate and difficult. O’Shea’s quick glance had, however, caught him at once, and he cried out, “Here’s the very man we wanted to make us complete, – the jolliest party of three that ever sat down together.”

“I scarcely thought to see you in these parts,” said Heathcote, with more of sulk than cordiality in the tone.

“Your delight ought to be all the greater, though, maybe, it is n’t! You look as glum as the morning I won your trap and the two nags.”

“By the way, what became of them?” asked Heathcote.