While Agincourt and O'Shea thus sat and conversed together, there was another fireside which presented a far happier picture, and where old Sir William sat, with his son and May Leslie, overjoyed to think that they were brought together again, and to separate no more. Charles had told them that he had determined never to leave them, and all their thoughts had gone back to the long, long ago, when they were so united and so happy. There was, indeed, one theme which none dared to touch. It was ever and anon uppermost in the mind of each, and yet none had courage to adventure on it, even in allusion. It was in one of the awkward pauses which this thought produced that a servant came to say Mrs. Morris would be glad to see Charles in her room. He had more than once requested permission to visit her, but somehow now the invitation had come ill-timed, and he arose with a half impatience to obey it.

During the greater part of that morning Charles Heathcote had employed himself in imagining by what process of persuasion, what line of argument, or at what price he could induce the widow herself to break off the engagement with his father. The guarded silence Sir William had maintained on the subject since his son's arrival was to some extent an evidence that he knew his project could not meet approval. Nor was the old man a stranger to the fact that May Leslie's manner to the widow had long been marked by reserve and estrangement. This, too, increased Sir William's embarrassment, and left him more isolated and alone. “How shall I approach such a question and not offend her?” was Charles's puzzle, as he passed her door. So full was he of the bulletins of her indisposition, that he almost started as he saw her seated at a table, writing away rapidly, and looking, to his thinking, as well as he had ever seen her.

“This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise,” said he, as he came forward. “I was picturing to myself a sick-room and a sufferer, and I find you more beautiful than ever.”

“You surely could n't imagine I 'd have sent for you if I were not conscious that my paleness became me, and that my dressing-gown was very pretty. Sit down—no, here—at my side; I have much to say to you, and not very long to say it. If I had not been actually overwhelmed with business, real business too, I 'd have sent for you long ago. I could imagine with very little difficulty what was uppermost in your mind lately, and how, having determined to remain at home, your thoughts would never quit one distressing theme,—you know what I mean. Well, I repeat, I could well estimate all your troubles and difficulties on this head, and I longed for a few minutes alone with you, when we could speak freely and candidly to each other, no disguise, no deception on either side. Shall we be frank with each other?”

“By all means.”

“Well, then, you don't like this marriage. Come, speak out honestly your mind.”

“Why, when I think of the immense disproportion in age; when I see on one side—”

“Fiddle faddle! if I were seventy, it wouldn't make it better. I tell you I don't want fine speeches nor delicate evasions; therefore be the blunt, straightforward fellow you used to be, and say, 'I don't like it at all.'”

“Well, here goes, I do not like it at all.”

“Neither do I,” said she, lying back listlessly in her chair, and looking calmly at him. “I see what is passing in your mind, Charles. I read your thoughts in their ebb and flow, and they come to this: 'Why have you taken such consummate pains about an object you would regret to see accomplished? To what end all your little coquetries and graces, and so forth?' Well, the question is reasonable enough, and I 'll give you only one answer. It amused me, and it worried others. It kept poor May and yourself in a small fever, and I have never through life had self-command enough to deny myself the pleasure of terrifying people at small cost, making them fancy they were drowning in two feet of water.”

“I hope May is grateful; I am sure I am,” said Charles, stiffly.

“Well, if you have not been in the past, I intend you to be so for the future. I mean to relinquish the great prize I had so nearly won; to give up the distinguished honor of being your stepmother, with all the rights and privileges I could have grouped around that station. I mean to abdicate all my power; to leave the dear Heathcotes to the enjoyment of such happiness as their virtues and merits cannot fail to secure them, under the simple condition that they will forget me, or, if that be more than they can promise, that they will never make me the subject of their discussions, nor bring up my name, either in praise or blame. Now understand me aright, Charles,” said she, earnestly; “this is no request prompted by any pique of injured pride or wounded self-love. It is not uttered in the irritation of one who feels rejected by you. It is a grave demand, made as the price of an important concession. I exact that my name be not spoken, or, if uttered by others in your presence, that it be unacknowledged and unnoticed. It is no idle wish, believe me; for who are the victims of the world's calumnies so often as the friendless, whose names call forth no sponsor? They are the outlaws that any may wound, or even kill, and their sole sanctuary is oblivion.”

“I think you judge us harshly,” began Charles.

But she stopped him.

“No, far from it. I know you all by this time. You are far more generously minded than your neighbors, but there is one trait attaches to human nature everywhere. Every one exaggerates any peril he has passed through, and every man and woman is prone to blacken the character of those who have frightened them. Come, I 'll not discuss the matter further. I have all those things to pack up, and some notes to write before I go.”

“Go! Are you going away so soon?”

“To-morrow, at daybreak. I have got tidings of a sick relative, an old aunt, who was very fond of me long ago, and who wishes to have me near her. I should like to see May, and, indeed, Sir William, but I believe it will be better not: I mean that partings are gratuitous sorrows. You will say all that I wish. You will tell them how it happened that I left so hurriedly. I 'm not sure,” added she, smiling, “that your explanation will be very lucid or very coherent, but the chances are, none will care to question you too closely. Of course you will repeat all my gratitude for the kindness I have met here. I have had some of my happiest days with you,” added she, as if thinking aloud,—“days in which I half forgot the life of trouble that was to be resumed on the morrow. And, above all, say,” said she, with earnestness, “that; when they have received my debt of thanks they are to wipe out my name from the ledger, and remember me no more.”

Charles Heathcote was much moved by her words. The very calm she spoke in had all its effect, and he felt he knew not what of self-accusation as he thought of her lonely and friendless lot. He could not disabuse his mind of the thought that it was through offended pride she was relinquishing the station she had so long striven to attain, and now held within her very grasp. “She is not the selfish creature I had deemed her; she is far, far better than I believed. I have mistaken her, misjudged her. That she has gone through much sorrow is plain; that there may be in her story incidents which she would grieve to see a town talk, is also likely; but are not all these reasons the more for our sympathy and support, and how shall we answer to ourselves, hereafter, for any show of neglect or harshness towards her?”

While he thus reflected, she had turned to the table and was busy writing.

“I have just thought of sending a few farewell lines to May,” said she, talking away as her pen ran along the paper. “We all of us mistake each other in this world; we are valued for what we are not, and deemed deficient in what we have.” She stopped, and then crumpling up the half-written paper in her hand, said: “No, I'll not write,—at least, not now. You 'll tell her everything,—ay, Charles, everything!”

Here she fixed her eyes steadfastly on him, as though to look into his very thoughts. “You and May Leslie will be married, and one of your subjects of mysterious talk when you 're all alone will be that strange woman who called herself Mrs. Penthony Morris. What wise guesses and shrewd conjectures do I fancy you making; how cunningly you 'll put together fifty things that seem to illustrate her story, and yet have no bearing upon it; and how cleverly you 'll construct a narrative for her without one solitary atom of truth. Well, she 'll think of you, too, but in a different spirit, and she will be happier than I suspect if she do not often wish to live over again the long summer days and starry nights at Marlia.”

“May is certain to ask me about Clara, where she is, and if we are likely to see her again.”

“And you 'll tell her that as I did not speak of her, your own delicacy imposed such a reserve that you could not ask these questions. Good-bye. But that I want to be forgotten, I 'd give you a keepsake. Good-bye,—and forget me.”

She turned away at the last word, and passed into an inner room. Charles stood for an instant or two irresolute, and then walked slowly away.