“Well, here goes, I do not like it at all.”
“Neither do I,” said she, lying back listlessly in her chair, and looking calmly at him. “I see what is passing in your mind, Charles. I read your thoughts in their ebb and flow, and they come to this: 'Why have you taken such consummate pains about an object you would regret to see accomplished? To what end all your little coquetries and graces, and so forth?' Well, the question is reasonable enough, and I 'll give you only one answer. It amused me, and it worried others. It kept poor May and yourself in a small fever, and I have never through life had self-command enough to deny myself the pleasure of terrifying people at small cost, making them fancy they were drowning in two feet of water.”
“I hope May is grateful; I am sure I am,” said Charles, stiffly.
“Well, if you have not been in the past, I intend you to be so for the future. I mean to relinquish the great prize I had so nearly won; to give up the distinguished honor of being your stepmother, with all the rights and privileges I could have grouped around that station. I mean to abdicate all my power; to leave the dear Heathcotes to the enjoyment of such happiness as their virtues and merits cannot fail to secure them, under the simple condition that they will forget me, or, if that be more than they can promise, that they will never make me the subject of their discussions, nor bring up my name, either in praise or blame. Now understand me aright, Charles,” said she, earnestly; “this is no request prompted by any pique of injured pride or wounded self-love. It is not uttered in the irritation of one who feels rejected by you. It is a grave demand, made as the price of an important concession. I exact that my name be not spoken, or, if uttered by others in your presence, that it be unacknowledged and unnoticed. It is no idle wish, believe me; for who are the victims of the world's calumnies so often as the friendless, whose names call forth no sponsor? They are the outlaws that any may wound, or even kill, and their sole sanctuary is oblivion.”
“I think you judge us harshly,” began Charles.
But she stopped him.
“No, far from it. I know you all by this time. You are far more generously minded than your neighbors, but there is one trait attaches to human nature everywhere. Every one exaggerates any peril he has passed through, and every man and woman is prone to blacken the character of those who have frightened them. Come, I 'll not discuss the matter further. I have all those things to pack up, and some notes to write before I go.”
“Go! Are you going away so soon?”
“To-morrow, at daybreak. I have got tidings of a sick relative, an old aunt, who was very fond of me long ago, and who wishes to have me near her. I should like to see May, and, indeed, Sir William, but I believe it will be better not: I mean that partings are gratuitous sorrows. You will say all that I wish. You will tell them how it happened that I left so hurriedly. I 'm not sure,” added she, smiling, “that your explanation will be very lucid or very coherent, but the chances are, none will care to question you too closely. Of course you will repeat all my gratitude for the kindness I have met here. I have had some of my happiest days with you,” added she, as if thinking aloud,—“days in which I half forgot the life of trouble that was to be resumed on the morrow. And, above all, say,” said she, with earnestness, “that; when they have received my debt of thanks they are to wipe out my name from the ledger, and remember me no more.”
Charles Heathcote was much moved by her words. The very calm she spoke in had all its effect, and he felt he knew not what of self-accusation as he thought of her lonely and friendless lot. He could not disabuse his mind of the thought that it was through offended pride she was relinquishing the station she had so long striven to attain, and now held within her very grasp. “She is not the selfish creature I had deemed her; she is far, far better than I believed. I have mistaken her, misjudged her. That she has gone through much sorrow is plain; that there may be in her story incidents which she would grieve to see a town talk, is also likely; but are not all these reasons the more for our sympathy and support, and how shall we answer to ourselves, hereafter, for any show of neglect or harshness towards her?”