“But why Mr. Layton? What do we know about him?”
“Not much, certainly; but enough to illustrate our meaning. It is quite clear he is desperately in love.”
“With whom, pray?” Asked May. And her face became crimson as she spoke.
“With a young lady who cannot speak of him without blushing,” said Mrs. Morris, calmly; and continued: “At first sight it does seem a very cruel thing to inspire such a man with a hopeless passion, yet, on second thought, we see what a stream of sunlight this early memory will throw over the whole bleak landscape of his after-life. You are his torture now, but you will be his benefactor in many a dark hour of the dreary pilgrimage before him. There will be touches of tenderness in that ode he 'll send to the magazine; there will be little spots of sweet melancholy in that village story; men will never know whence they found their way into the curate's heart. How little aware are they that there's a corner there for old memories, embalmed amongst holier thoughts,—a withered rose-leaf between the pages of a prayer-book!”
May again sighed, and with a tremor in the cadence that was almost a sob.
“So that,” resumed the other, in a more flippant voice, “you can forgive yourself for your present cruelty, by thinking of all the benefits you are to bestow hereafter, and all this without robbing your rightful lord of one affection, one solitary emotion, he has just claim to. And that, my sweet May, is more than you can do with your worldly wealth, for, against every check you send your banker, the cashier's book will retain the record.”
“You only confuse me with all this,” said May, pettishly. “I came for counsel.”
“And I have given you more,—I have given you consolation. I wish any one would be as generous with me!”
“Oh, you are not angry with me!” cried the girl, earnestly.
“Angry! no, dearest, a passing moment of selfish regret is not anger, but it is of you, not of me, I would speak; tell me everything. Has Charles spoken to you?”