Charles sat down beside him, and, with his arm on the old man's shoulder, talked to him long in words of truest affection. He recalled to his mind the circumstances under which May Leslie first came amongst them, the daughter of his oldest, dearest friend, intrusted to his care, to become one day his own daughter, if she willed it.
“Would you coerce her to this? Would you profit by the authority you possess over her to constrain her will? Is it thus you would interpret the last dying words of your old companion? Do not imagine, father, that I place these things before you in cold blood or indifference. I have my share of sorrow in the matter.” He was going to say more, but he stopped himself, and, arising, walked towards the window. “There she is!” cried he, “on the terrace; I'll go and meet her.” And with this he went out.
It is not impossible that the generous enthusiasm into which Charles Heathcote had worked himself to subdue every selfish feeling about May enabled him to meet her with less constraint and difficulty. At all events, he came towards her with a manner so like old friendship that, though herself confused, she received him with equal cordiality.
“How like old times, May, is all this!” said he, as, with her arm within his own, they strolled under a long vine trellis. “If I had not to remember that next Wednesday I most be at Malta, I could almost fancy I had never been away. I wonder when we are to meet again? and where, and how?”
“I'm sure it is not I that can tell you,” said she, painfully; for in the attempt to conceal his emotion his voice had assumed a certain accent of levity that wounded her deeply.
“The where matters little, May,” resumed he; “but the when is much, and the how still more.”
“It is fortunate, then, that this is the only point I can at all answer for, for I think I can say that we shall meet pretty much as we part.”
“What am I to understand by that, May?” asked he, with an eagerness that forgot all dissimulation.