"May ought to go and meet her; she ought to bring her here, and of course she will do so. But, first of all, to show her this letter; or shall I merely tell her certain parts of it?"

"I 'd let her read every line of it, and I 'd give it to Sir William also."

Charles started at the counsel; but after a moment he said, "I believe you are right The sooner we clear away these mysteries, the sooner we shall deal frankly together."

"I have come to beg your pardon, May," said Charles, as he stood on the sill of her door. "I could scarcely hope you 'd grant it save from very pity for me, for I have gone through much this last day or two. But, besides your pardon, I want your advice. When you have read over that letter,--read it twice,--I 'll come back again."

May made him no answer, but, taking the letter, turned away. He closed the door noiselessly, and left her. Whatever may be the shock a man experiences on learning that the individual with whom for a space of time he has been associating on terms of easy intimacy should turn out to be one notorious in crime or infamous in character, to a woman the revulsion of feeling under like circumstances is tenfold more painful.

It is not alone that such casualties are so much more rare, but in the confidences between women there is so much more interchange of thought and feeling that the shock is proportionately greater. That a man should be arraigned before a tribunal is a stain, but to a woman it is a brand burned upon her forever.

There had been a time when May and Mrs. Morris lived together as sisters. May had felt all the influence of a character more formed than her own, and of one who, gifted and accomplished as she was, knew how to extend that influence with consummate craft. In those long-ago days May had confided to her every secret of her heart,--her early discontents with Charles Heathcote; her pettish misgivings about the easy confidence of his security; her half flirtation with young Layton, daily inclining towards something more serious still. She recalled to mind, too, how Mrs. Morris had encouraged her irritation against Charles, magnifying all his failings into faults, and exaggerating the natural indolence of his nature into the studied indifference of one "sure of his bond." And last of all she thought of her in her relations with Clara,--poor Clara, whose heart, overflowing with affection, had been repelled and schooled into a mere mockery of sentiment.

That her own fortune had been wasted and dissipated by this woman she well knew. Without hesitation or inquiry, May had signed everything that was put before her, and now she really could not tell what remained to her of all that wealth of which she used to hear so much and care so little.

These thoughts tracked her along every line of the letter, and through all the terrible details she was reading; the woman herself, in her craft and subtlety, absorbed her entire attention. Even when she had read to the end, and learned the tidings of Clara's fortune, her mind would involuntarily turn back to Mrs. Penthony Morris and her wiles. It was in an actual terror at the picture her mind had drawn of this deep designing woman that Charles found her sitting with the letter before her, and her eyes staring wildly and on vacancy.

"I see, May," said he, gently taking her hand, and seating himself at her side, "this dreadful letter has shocked _you_, as it has shocked _me_; but remember, dearest, we are only looking back at a peril we have all escaped. She has _not_ separated us; she has not involved us in the disgrace of relationship to her; she is not one of us; she is not anything even to poor Clara; and though we may feel how narrowly we have avoided all our dangers, let us be grateful for that safety for which we really contributed nothing ourselves. Is it not so, dearest May? We have gained the harbor, and never knew that we had crossed a quicksand."

"And, after all, Charles, painful as all this is now, and must be when remembered hereafter, it is not without its good side. We will all draw closer to each other, and love more fondly where we can trust implicitly."

"And you forgive me, May?"

"Certainly not--if you assume forgiveness in that fashion!"

Now, though this true history records that May Leslie arose with a deep flush upon her cheek, and her massy roll of glossy hair somewhat dishevelled, there is no mention of what the precise fashion was in which Charles Heathcote sued out his pardon; nor, indeed, with our own narrow experiences of such incidents, do we care to hazard a conjecture.

"And now as to my father, May. How much of this letter shall we tell him?"

"All; every word of it. It will pain him, as it has pained us, or even more; but, that pain once over, he will come back, without one reserved thought, to all his old affection for us, and we shall be happy as we used to be."

CHAPTER XI. AN EAGER GUEST

When Lord Agincoort returned to his hotel, he was astonished to see waiters passing in and out of his apartment with trays covered with dishes, decanters of wine, and plates of fruit; but as he caught the deep tone of O'Shea's voice from within, he quickly understood how that free-and-easy personage was making himself at home.

"Oh, it is here you are!" said Agincourt, entering; "and Charley and I have been just speculating whether you might not have been expiating some of your transgressions in an Austrian jail."

"I am here, as you perceive," said the O'Shea, wiping his lips with his napkin, "and doing indifferently well, too. By the way they treat me, I 'm given to believe that your credit stands well with the hotel people."

"When did you arrive?"

"An hour ago; just in time to make them roast that hedgehog. They call it a sucking-pig, but I know it's a hedgehog, though I was eight-and-forty hours without eating."

"How was that?"

"This way," said he, as he drew out the lining of his pockets, and showed that they were perfectly empty. "I just left myself enough for the diligence fare from Bologna, and one roll of bread and a pint of wine as I started; since that I have tasted nothing but the pleasures of hope. Don't talk to me, therefore, or talk away, but don't expect me to answer you for fifteen minutes more."

Agincourt nodded, and seated himself at the table, in quiet contemplation of the O'Shea's performance. "I got an answer to my letter about you," said he, at length, and rather curious to watch the struggle between his hunger and his curiosity.

O'Shea gave a nod, as though to say "Proceed;" but Agincourt said nothing.

"Well, go on!" cried O'Shea, as he helped himself to half a duck.

"It's a long-winded sort of epistle," said Agincourt, now determined to try his patience to the uttermost. "I 'll have to show it to you."

"Is it Yes or No?" asked O'Shea, eagerly, and almost choking himself with the effort to speak.

"That's pretty much how you take it. You see, my uncle is one of those formal old fellows trained in official life, and who have a horror of doing anything against the traditions of a department--"

"Well, well, well! but can't he say whether he 'll give me something or not?"

"So he does say it, but you interrupt me at every moment. When you have read through his letter, you 'll be able to appreciate the difficulties of his position, and also decide on what you think most conducive to your own interests."

O'Shea groaned heavily, as he placed the remainder of the duck on his plate.

"What of your duel? How did it go off?"

"Beautifully."

"Did your man behave well?"

"Beautifully."

"Was he hit?"

A shake of the head.

"Was the Frenchman wounded?"

"Here--flesh wound--nothing serious."

"That's all right. I'll leave you now, to finish your lunch in quiet.

You 'll find me on the Pincian when you stroll out."

"Look here! Don't go! Wait a bit! I want you to tell me in one word,--can I get anything or not?"

The intense earnestness of his face as he spoke would have made any further tantalizing such a cruelty that Agincourt answered frankly, "Yes, old fellow, they 've made you a Boundary Commissioner; I forget where, but you're to have a thousand a year, and some allowances besides."

"This is n't a joke? You 're telling me truth?" asked he, trembling all over with anxiety.

"On honor," said Agincourt, giving his hand.

"You 're a trump, then; upon my conscience, you 're a trump. Here I am now, close upon eight-and-thirty,--I don't look it by five years, but I am,--and after sitting for four sessions in Parliament, not a man did I ever find would do me a hand's turn, but it 's to a brat of a boy I owe the only bit of good fortune of my whole life. That's what I call hard,--very hard."

"I don't perceive that it's very complimentary to myself, either," said Agincourt, struggling to keep down a laugh. But O'Shea was far too full of his own cares to have any thought for another's, and he went on muttering below his breath about national injustice and Saxon jealousy.

"You 'll accept this, then? Shall I say so?"