"She said truly," muttered Layton to himself; "our impulses are but the shadows our vices or virtues throw before them." Then laying his arm on the boy's shoulder, he led him away, to plan and plot out a future course of study, and repair all past negligence and idleness.

Ere we leave this scene, let us follow Mrs. Morris, who, having quitted the house, quickly went in search of Charles Heathcote. There was that in the vexed and angry look of the young man, as he left the room, that showed her how easy it would be in such a moment to become his confidante. Through the traits of his resentment she could read an impatience that could soon become indiscretion. "Let me only be the repository of any secret of his mind," muttered she,--"I care not what,--and I ask nothing more. If there be one door of a house open,--be it the smallest,--it is enough to enter by."

She had not to go far in her search. There was a small raised terrace at the end of the garden,--a favorite spot with him,--and thither she had often herself repaired to enjoy the secret luxury of a cigar; for Mrs.

Morris smoked whenever opportunity permitted that indulgence without the hazard of forfeiting the good opinion of such as might have held the practice in disfavor. Now, Charles Heathcote was the only confidant of this weakness, and the mystery, small as it was, had served to establish a sort of bond between them.

"I knew I should find you here," said she, stealing noiselessly to his side, as, leaning over the terrace, he stood deep in thought. "Give me a cigar."

He took the case slowly from his pocket, and held it towards her in silence.

"How vastly polite! Choose one for me, sir," said she, pettishly.

"They 're all alike," said he, carelessly, as he drew one from the number and offered it.

"And now a light," said she, "for I see yours has gone out, without your knowing it. Pray do mind what you 're doing; you've let the match fall on my foot. Look there!"

And he did look, and saw the prettiest foot and roundest ankle that ever Parisian coquetry had done its uttermost to grace; but he only smiled half languidly, and said, "There's no mischief done--to either of us!"

the last words being muttered to himself. Her sharp ears, however, had caught them; and had he looked at her then, he would have seen her face a deep crimson. "Is the play over? Have they left the billiard-room?"

asked he.

"Of course it is over," said she, mockingly. "Sportsmen rarely linger in the preserves where there is no game."

"What do you think of that same Mr. O'Shea? You rarely mistake people.

Tell me frankly your opinion of him," said he, abruptly.

"He plays billiards far better than _you_," said she, dryly.

"I 'm not talking of his play, I 'm asking what you think of him."

"He's your master at whist, ecarte, and piquet. I _think_ he's a better pistol shot; and he says he rides better."

"I defy him. He's a boastful, conceited fellow. Take his own account, and you 'll not find his equal anywhere. But still, all this is no answer to my question."

"Yes, but it is, though. When a man possesses a very wide range of small accomplishments in a high degree of perfection, I always take it for granted that he lives by them."

"Just what I thought,--exactly what I suspected," broke he in, angrily.

"I don't know how we ever came to admit him here, as we have. That passion May has for opening the doors to every one has done it all."

"If people will have a menagerie, they must make up their mind to meet troublesome animals now and then," said she, dryly.

"And then," resumed he, "the absurdity is, if I say one word, the reply is, 'Oh, you are so jealous!'"

"Naturally enough!" was the cool remark.

"Naturally enough! And why naturally enough? Is it of such fellows as Layton or O'Shea I should think of being jealous?"

"I think you might," said she, gravely. "They are, each of them, very eager to succeed in that about which you show yourself sufficiently indifferent; and although May is certainly bound by the terms of her father's will, there are conditions by which she can purchase her freedom."

"Purchase her freedom! And is that the way she regards her position?"

cried he, trembling with agitation.

"Can you doubt it? Need you do more than ask yourself, How do you look on your own case? And yet you are not going to bestow a great fortune. I 'm certain that, do what you will, your heart tells you it is a slave's bargain."

"Did May tell you so?" said he, in a voice thick with passion.

"No."

"Did she ever hint as much?"

"No."

"Do you believe that any one ever dared to say it?"

"As to that, I can't say; the world is very daring, and says a great many naughty things without much troubling itself about their correctness."

"It may spare its censure on the present occasion, then."

"Is it that you will not exact her compliance?"

"I will not."

"How well I read you," cried she, catching up his cold and still reluctant hand between both her own; "how truly I understood your noble, generous nature! It was but yesterday I was writing about you to a very dear friend, who had asked me when the marriage was to take place, and I said: 'If I have any skill in deciphering character, I should say, Never. Charles Heathcote is not the man to live a pensioner on a wife's rental; he is far more likely to take service again as a soldier, and win a glorious name amongst those who are now reconquering India. His daring spirit chafes against the inglorious idleness of his present life, and I 'd not wonder any morning to see his place vacant at the breakfast-table, and to hear he had sailed for Alexandria.'"

"You do me a fuller justice than many who have known me longer," said he, pensively.

"Because I read you more carefully,--because I considered you without any disturbing element of self-interest; and if I was now and then angry at the lethargic indolence of your daily life, I used to correct myself and say, 'Be patient; his time is coming; and when the hour has once struck for him, he 'll dally no longer!'"

"And my poor father--"

"Say, rather, your proud father, for he is the man to appreciate your noble resolution, and feel proud of his son."

"But to leave him--to desert him--"

"It is no eternal separation. In a year or two you will rejoin him, never to part again. Take my word for it, the consciousness that his son is accomplishing a high duty will be a strong fund of consolation for absence. It is to mistake him to suppose that he could look on your present life without deep regret."

"Ah! is that so?" cried he, with an expression of pain.

"He has never owned as much to me; but I have read it in him, just as I have read in _you_ that you are not the man to stoop to an ignominious position to purchase a life of ease and luxury."

"You were right there!" said he, warmly.

"Of course I was. I could not be mistaken."

"You shall not be, at all events," said he, hurriedly. "How cold your hand is! Let us return to the house." And they walked back in silence to the door.

CHAPTER XV. MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE