CHAPTER III. SOME LAST WORDS
While Agincourt and O'Shea thus sat and conversed together, there was another fireside which presented a far happier picture, and where old Sir William sat, with his son and May Leslie, overjoyed to think that they were brought together again, and to separate no more. Charles had told them that he had determined never to leave them, and all their thoughts had gone back to the long, long ago, when they were so united and so happy. There was, indeed, one theme which none dared to touch. It was ever and anon uppermost in the mind of each, and yet none had courage to adventure on it, even in allusion. It was in one of the awkward pauses which this thought produced that a servant came to say Mrs. Morris would be glad to see Charles in her room. He had more than once requested permission to visit her, but somehow now the invitation had come ill-timed, and he arose with a half impatience to obey it.
During the greater part of that morning Charles Heathcote had employed himself in imagining by what process of persuasion, what line of argument, or at what price he could induce the widow herself to break off the engagement with his father. The guarded silence Sir William had maintained on the subject since his son's arrival was to some extent an evidence that he knew his project could not meet approval. Nor was the old man a stranger to the fact that May Leslie's manner to the widow had long been marked by reserve and estrangement. This, too, increased Sir William's embarrassment, and left him more isolated and alone. “How shall I approach such a question and not offend her?” was Charles's puzzle, as he passed her door. So full was he of the bulletins of her indisposition, that he almost started as he saw her seated at a table, writing away rapidly, and looking, to his thinking, as well as he had ever seen her.
“This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise,” said he, as he came forward. “I was picturing to myself a sick-room and a sufferer, and I find you more beautiful than ever.”
“You surely could n't imagine I 'd have sent for you if I were not conscious that my paleness became me, and that my dressing-gown was very pretty. Sit down—no, here—at my side; I have much to say to you, and not very long to say it. If I had not been actually overwhelmed with business, real business too, I 'd have sent for you long ago. I could imagine with very little difficulty what was uppermost in your mind lately, and how, having determined to remain at home, your thoughts would never quit one distressing theme,—you know what I mean. Well, I repeat, I could well estimate all your troubles and difficulties on this head, and I longed for a few minutes alone with you, when we could speak freely and candidly to each other, no disguise, no deception on either side. Shall we be frank with each other?”
“By all means.”
“Well, then, you don't like this marriage. Come, speak out honestly your mind.”
“Why, when I think of the immense disproportion in age; when I see on one side—”
“Fiddle faddle! if I were seventy, it wouldn't make it better. I tell you I don't want fine speeches nor delicate evasions; therefore be the blunt, straightforward fellow you used to be, and say, 'I don't like it at all.'”