The coldness with which she spoke chilled him like a wintry blast; but he rallied soon, and with a vigorous energy said, “My mother no more believed ill of you than I did; and when I asked you what the slander meant, it was to know where I could find the man to pay for it.”
“You must deny yourself the pleasure this time, Tony,” said she, laughing. “It was a woman's story,—a disappointed woman,—and so, not so very blamable as she might be; not but that it was true in fact.”
“True, Alice,—true?”
“Yes, sir. The inference from it was the only falsehood; but, really, we have had too much of this. Tell me of yourself,—why are you here? Where are you now going?”
“You 've heard of my exploits as a messenger, I suppose,” said Tony, with a bitter laugh.
“I heard, as we all heard with great sorrow, that you left the service,” said she, with a hesitation on each word.
“Left it? Yes; I left to avoid being kicked out of it I lost my despatches, and behaved like a fool. Then I tried to turn sailor, but no skipper would take me; and I did turn clerk, and half ruined the honest fellow that trusted me. And now I am going—in good truth, Alice, I don't exactly know where, but it is somewhere in search of a pursuit to fit a fellow who begins to feel he is fit for nothing.”
“It is not thus your friends think of you, Tony,” said she, kindly.
“That's the worst of it,” rejoined he, bitterly; “I have all my life been trying to justify an opinion that never should have been formed of me,—ay, and that I well knew I had no right to.”
“Well, Tony, come back with us. I don't say with me, because I must be triple discreet for some time to come; but come back with papa; he 'll be overjoyed to have you with us.”