“Yes, uncle; think! you must remember. It was from a woman.”
Mr. Charles roused himself at once.
“A thing that should never have come under your eyes! I said so at the time. Try to forget it, May. Some women I have seen have a morbid sort of curiosity about such persons; but not you, my dear. Try to put it out of your mind.”
“You mistake, uncle,” said Marjory, gently. “I thought you were mistaken at the time. It is more important than you think, I have seen her—”
“You!” cried Mr. Charles, stammering with sudden anger. “You! Now this beats all! If your brother was coarse enough to think of such a thing, you, Marjory, a delicate young woman, you should have had more feeling.”
The implied blame brought the colour warmly to Marjory’s cheeks.
“Hush! Uncle Charles. I knew at the time you were mistaken.”
“Which is likely to know best, you or I?” said Mr. Charles, with not unnatural exasperation. “May, I am not your father, and I have no real authority; but still you obeyed me when you were a little bairn, and I am your nearest friend. There must be no more of this, no more of this! A young woman has no right to compromise herself.”
“Wait, uncle, till you hear me; it is more important than you think. I met her by chance, not knowing who she was. She is very ill—dying. She did not know me any more than I knew her; but I have come to know her story. Hush! wait, Uncle Charles—She was Tom’s wife; and she has—a son—”
Mr. Charles turned pale; his lower lip dropped in his surprise, as if he had been struck by sudden illness. He shook so that that pencil he held between his fingers dropped.