The Heathcotes had prolonged their stay at Marlia a full month beyond their first intention. It was now November, and yet they felt most unwilling to leave it. To be sure, it was the November of Italy in one of its most favored spots. The trees had scarcely began to shed their leaves, and were only in that stage of golden and purple transition that showed the approach of winter. The grass was as green, and the dog-roses as abundant, as in May; indeed, it was May itself, only wanting the fireflies and the violets. One must have felt the languor of an Italian summer, with its closed-shutter existence, its long days of reclusion, without exercise, without prospect, almost without light, to feel the intense delight a bright month of November can bring, with its pathways dry, its rivulets clear, its skies cloudless and blue,—to be able to be about again, to take a fast canter or a brisk walk, is enjoyment great as the first glow of convalescence after sickness. Never are the olive-trees more silvery; never does the leafy fig, or the dark foliage of the orange, contrast so richly with its golden fruit. To enjoy all these was reason enough why the Heathcotes should linger there; at least, they said that was their reason, and they believed it. Layton, with his pupil, had established himself in the little city of Lucca, a sort of deserted, God-forgotten old place, with tumble-down palaces, with strange iron “grilles” and quaint old armorial shields over them; he said they had gone there to study, and he believed it.

Mr. O'Shea was still a denizen of the Panini Hotel at the Bagni,—from choice, he said, but he did not believe it; the Morgans had gone back to Wales; Mr. Mosely to Bond Street; and Quackinboss was off to “do” his Etruscan cities, the “pottery, and the rest of it;” and so were they all scattered, Mrs. Penthony Morris and Clara being, however, still at the villa, only waiting for letters to set out for Egypt. Her visit had been prolonged by only the very greatest persuasions. “She knew well—too bitterly did she know—what a blank would life become to her when she had quitted the dear villa.” “What a dreary awaking was in store for them.” “What a sad reverse to poor Clara's bright picture of existence.” “The dear child used to fancy it could be all like this!” “Better meet the misery at once than wait till they could not find strength to tear themselves away.” Such-like were the sentiments uttered, sometimes tearfully, sometimes in a sort of playful sadness, always very gracefully, by the softest of voices, accompanied by the most downcast of long-fringed eyelids.

“I am sure I don't know how May will manage to live without her,” said Charles, who, be it confessed, was thinking far more of his own sorrows than his cousin's; while he added, in a tone of well-assumed indifference, “We shall all miss her!”

“Miss her,” broke in Sir William; “by George! her departure would create a blank in the society of a city, not to speak of a narrow circle in a remote country-house.” As for May herself, she was almost heart-broken at the thought of separation. It was not alone the winning graces of her manner, and the numberless captivations she possessed, but that she had really such a “knowledge of the heart,” she had given her such an insight into her own nature, that, but for her, she had never acquired; and poor May would shudder at the thought of the ignorance with which she had been about to commence the voyage of life, until she had fortunately chanced upon this skilful pilot. But for Mrs. Morris it was possible, nay, it was almost certain, she should one day or other have married Charles Heathcote,—united herself to one in every way unsuited to her, “a good-tempered, easy-natured, indolent creature, with no high ambitions,—a man to shoot and fish, and play billiards, and read French novels, but not the soaring intellect, not the high intelligence, the noble ascendancy of mind, that should win such a heart as yours, May.” How strange it was that she should never before have recognized in Charles all the blemishes and shortcomings she now detected in his character! How singular that she had never remarked how selfish he was, how utterly absorbed in his own pursuits, how little deference he had for the ways or wishes of others, and then, how abrupt, almost to rudeness, his manners! To be sure, part of this careless and easy indifference might be ascribed to a certain sense of security; “he knows you are betrothed to him, dearest; he is sure you must one day be his wife, or, very probably, he would be very different,—more of an ardent suitor, more eager and anxious in his addresses. Ah, there it is! men are ever so, and yet they expect that we poor creatures are to accept that half fealty as a full homage, and be content with that small measure of affection they deign to accord us! That absurd Will has done it all, dear child. It is one of those contracts men make on parchment, quite forgetting that there are such things as human affections. You must marry him, and there's an end of it!”

Now, Charles, on his side, was very fond of his cousin. If he was n't in love with her, it was because he did n't very well understand what being in love meant; he had a notion, indeed, that it implied giving up hunting and coursing, having no dogs, not caring for the Derby, or even opening “Punch” or smoking a cigar. Well, he could, he believed, submit to much, perhaps all, of these, but he could n't, at least he did n't fancy he could, be “spooney.” He came to Mrs. Morris with confessions of this kind, and she undertook to consider his case.

Lastly, there was Sir William to consult her about his son and his ward. He saw several nice and difficult points in their so-called engagement which would require the delicate hand of a clever woman; and where could he find one more to the purpose than Mrs. Penthony Morris?

With a skill all her own, she contrived to have confidential intercourse almost every day with each of the family. If she wished to see Sir William, it was only to pretend to write a letter, or look for some volume in the library, and she was sure to meet him. May was always in her own drawing-room, or the flower-garden adjoining it; and Charles passed his day rambling listlessly about the stables and the farm-yard, or watching the peasants at their work beneath the olive-trees. To aid her plans, besides, Clara could always be despatched to occupy and engage the attention of some other. Not indeed, that Clara was as she used to be. Far from it. The merry, light-hearted, capricious child, with all her strange and wayward ways, was changed into a thoughtful, pensive girl, loving to be alone and unnoticed. So far from exhibiting her former dislike to study, she was now intensely eager for it, passing whole days and great part of the night at her books. There was about her that purpose-like intentness that showed a firm resolve to learn. Nor was it alone in this desire for acquirement that she was changed, but her whole temper and disposition seemed altered. She had grown more gentle and more obedient. If her love of praise was not less, she accepted it with more graceful modesty, and appeared to feel it rather as a kindness than an acknowledged debt. The whole character of her looks, too, had altered. In place of the elfin sprightliness of her ever-laughing eyes, their expression was soft even to sadness; her voice, that once had the clear ringing of a melodious bell, had grown low, and with a tender sweetness that gave to each word a peculiar grace.

“What is the matter with Clara?” said Sir William, as he found himself, one morning, alone with Mrs. Morris in the library. “She never sings now, and she does not seem the same happy creature she used to be.”

“Can you not detect the cause of this, Sir William?” said her mother, with a strange sparkle in her eyes.

“I protest I cannot. It is not, surely, that she is unhappy here?”

“No, no, very far from that.”

“It cannot be ill health, for she is the very picture of the contrary.”

“No, no,” said her mother again.

“What can it be?”

“Say, rather, who?” broke in Mrs. Morris, “and I 'll tell you.”

“Who, then? Tell me by all means.”

“Mr. Layton. Yes, Sir William, this is his doing. I have remarked it many a day back. You are aware, of course, how sedulously he endeavors to make himself acceptable in another quarter?”

“What do you mean? What quarter? Surely you do not allude to my ward?”

“You certainly do not intend me to believe that you have not seen this, Sir William?”

“I declare not only that I have never seen, but never so much as suspected it. And have you seen it, Mrs. Morris?”

“Ah! Sir William, this is our woman's privilege, though really in the present case it did not put the faculty to any severe test.”

For a moment or two he made no reply, and then said, “And Charles—has Charles remarked it?”

“I really cannot tell you. His manner is usually so easy and indifferent about everything, that, whether it comes of not seeing or never caring, I cannot pretend to guess.”

“I asked the young man here, because he was with Lord Agincourt,” began Sir William, who was most eager to offer some apologies to himself for any supposed indiscretion. “Agincourt's guardian, Lord Sommerville, and myself have had some unpleasant passages in life, and I wished to show the boy that towards him I bore no memory of the ills I received from his uncle. In fact, I was doubly civil and attentive on that account; but as for Mr. Layton,—isn't that his name?”

“Yes; Alfred Layton.”

“Layton came as the lad's tutor,—nothing more. He appeared a pleasing, inoffensive, well-bred young fellow. But surely, Mrs. Morris, my ward has given him no encouragement?”

“Encouragement is a strong word, Sir William,” said she, smiling archly; “I believe it is only widows who give encouragement?”

“Well, well,” said he, hurriedly, and not caring to smile, for he was in no jesting mood, “has she appeared to understand his attentions?”

“Even young ladies make no mistakes on that score,” said she, in the same bantering tone.

“And I never to see it!” exclaimed he, as he walked hurriedly to and fro. “But I ought to have seen it, eh, Mrs. Morris?—I ought to have seen it. I ought, at least, to have suspected that these fellows are always on the lookout for such a chance as this. Now I suppose you 'll laugh at me for the confession, but my attention was entirely engaged by watching our Irish friend.”

“The great O'Shea!” exclaimed Mrs. Morris, laughing.

“And to tell you the truth, I never could exactly satisfy myself whether he came here to ogle my ward, or win Charley's half-crowns at billiards.”

“I imagine, if you asked him, he 'd say he was in for the 'double event,'” said she, with a laugh.

“And, then, Mrs. Morris,” added he, with a sly smile, “if I must be candid, I fancied, or thought I fancied, his attentions had another object.”

“Towards me!” said she, calmly, but in an accent as honest, as frank, and as free from all concern as though speaking of a third person. “Oh, that is quite true. Mr. Layton also made his little quiet love to me as college men do it, and I accepted the homage of both, feeling that I was a sort of lightning-conductor that might rescue the rest of the building.”

Sir William laughed as much at the arch quietness of her manner as her words. “How blind I have been all this time!” burst he in, angrily, as he reverted to the subject of his chagrin. “I suppose there's not another man living would not have seen this but myself.”

“No, no,” said she, gently; “men are never nice observers in these matters.”

“Well, better late than never, eh, Mrs. Morris? Better to know it even now. Forewarned,—as the adage says,—eh?”

In these little broken sentences he sought to comfort himself, while he angled for some consolation from his companion; but she gave him none,—not a word, nor a look, nor a gesture.

“Of course I shall forbid him the house.”

“And make a hero of him from that moment, and a martyr of her,” quietly replied she. “By such a measure as this you would at once convert what may be possibly a passing flirtation into a case of love.”

“So that I am to leave the course free, and give him every opportunity to prosecute his suit?”

“Not exactly. But do not erect barriers just high enough to be surmounted. Let him come here just as usual, and I will try if I cannot entangle him in a little serious flirtation with myself, which certainly, if it succeed, will wound May's pride, and cure her of any weakness for him.”

Sir William made no reply, but he stared at the speaker with a sort of humorous astonishment, and somehow her cheek flushed under the look.

“These are womanish artifices, which you men hold cheaply, of course; but little weapons suit little wars, Sir William, and such are our campaigns. At all events, count upon my aid till Monday next.”

“And why not after?”

“Because the Peninsular and Oriental packet touches at Malta on Saturday, and Clara and I must be there in time to catch it.”

“Oh no; we cannot spare you. In fact, we are decided on detaining you. May would break up house here and follow you to the Pyramids,—the Upper Cataracts,—anywhere, in short. But leave us you must not.”

She covered her face with her handkerchief, and never spoke, but a slight motion of her shoulders showed that she was sobbing. “I have been so uncandid with you all this time,” said she, in broken accents. “I should have told you all,—everything. I ought to have confided to you the whole sad story of my terrible bereavement and its consequences; but I could not. No, Sir William, I could not endure the thought of darkening the sunshine of all the happiness I saw here by the cloud of my sorrows. When I only saw faces of joy around me, I said to my heart, 'What right have I, in my selfishness, to obtrude here?' And then, again, I bethought me, 'Would they admit me thus freely to their hearth and home if they knew the sad, sad story?' In a word,” said she, throwing down the handkerchief, and turning towards him with soft and tearful eyes, “I could not risk the chance of losing your affection, for you might have censured, you might have thought me too unforgiving,—too relentless!”

Here she again bent down her head, and was lost in an access of fresh afflictions.

Never was an elderly gentleman more puzzled than Sir William. He felt that he ought to offer consolation, but of what nature or for what calamity he could n't even guess. It was an awkward case altogether, and he never fancied awkward cases at any time. Then he had that unchivalric sentiment that elderly gentlemen occasionally will have,—a sort of half distrust of “injured women.” This was joined to a sense of shame that it was usually supposed by the world men of his time of life were always the ready victims of such sympathies. In fact, he disliked the situation immensely, and could only muster a few commonplace remarks to extricate himself from it.

“You'll let me tell you everything; I know you will,” said she, looking bewitchingly soft and tender through her tears.

“Of coarse I will, my dear Mrs. Morris, but not now,—not to-day. You really are not equal to it at this moment.”

“True, I am not!” said she, drying her eyes; “but it is a promise, and you 'll not forget it.”

“You only do me honor in the confidence,” said he, kissing her hand.

“A thousand pardons!” cried a rich brogue. And at the same moment the library door was closed, and the sound of retreating steps was heard along the corridor.

“That insufferable O'Shea!” exclaimed she. “What will he not say of us?”