One Of Them

The conceit amused Heathcote, and he laughed again.

“There it comes now, and with a will too!” And at the same instant, with a rushing sound like hail, the rain poured down with such intensity as to shut out the hills directly in front of the windows.

“You ‘re caught this time, Heathcote. Make the best of it, like a man, and resign yourself to eat a mutton-chop here with me at four o’clock; and if it clears in the evening, I ‘ll canter back with you.”

“No, no, the weather will take up; this is only a shower. They ‘ll expect me back to dinner, besides. Confound it, how it does come down!”

“Oh, faith!” said O’Shea, half mournfully, “I don’t wonder that you are less afraid of the rain than a bad dinner.”

“No, it’s not that, – nothing of the kind,” broke in Heathcote, hurriedly; “at another time I should be delighted! Who ever saw such rain as that!”

“Look at the river too. See how it is swollen already.”

“Ah! I never thought of the mountain torrents,” said Heathcote, suddenly.

“They ‘ll be coming down like regular cataracts by this time. I defy any one to cross at Borgo even now. Take my advice, Heathcote, and reconcile yourself to old Pan’s cookery for to-day.”

“What time do you dine?”

“What time will suit you? Shall we say four or five?”

“Four, if you’ll permit me. Four will do capitally.”

“That’s all right And now I ‘ll just step down to Panini myself, and give him a hint about some Burgundy he has got in the cellar.”

Like most men yielding to necessity, Heathcote felt discontented and irritated, and no sooner was he alone than he began to regret his having accepted the invitation. What signified a wetting? He was on horseback, to be sure, but he was well mounted, and it was only twelve miles, – an hour or an hour and a quarter’s sharp canter; and as to the torrents, up to the girths, perhaps, or a little beyond, – it could scarcely come to swimming. Thus he argued with himself as he walked to and fro, and chafed and fretted as he went. It was in this irritated state O’Shea found him when he came back.

“We ‘re all right. They ‘ve got a brace of woodcock below stairs, and some Pistoja mutton; and as I have forbidden oil and all the grease-pots, we ‘ll manage to get a morsel to eat.”

“I was just thinking how stupid I was to – to – to put you to all this inconvenience,” said he, hastily changing a rudeness into an apology.

“Isn’t it a real blessing for me to catch you?” cried O’Shea. “Imagine me shut up here by myself all day, no one to speak to, nothing to do, nothing to read but that old volume of the ‘Wandering Jew,’ that I begin to know by heart, or, worse again, that speech of mine on the Italian question, that whenever I ‘ve nearly finished it the villains are sure to do something or other that destroys all my predictions and ruins my argument. What would have become of me to-day if you had n’t dropped in?”

Heathcote apparently did not feel called upon to answer this inquiry, but walked the room moodily, with his hands in his pockets.

O’Shea gave a little faint sigh, – such a sigh as a weary pedestrian may give, as, turning the angle of the way, he sees seven miles of straight road before him, without bend or curve. It was now eleven o’clock, and five dreary hours were to be passed before dinner-time.

Oh, my good reader, has it been amongst your life’s experiences to have submitted to an ordeal of this kind, – to be caged up of a wet day with an unwilling guest, whom you are called on to amuse, but know not how to interest; to feel that you are bound to employ his thoughts, with the sad consciousness that in every pause of the conversation he is cursing his hard fate at being in your company; to know that you must deploy all the resources of your agreeability without even a chance of success, your very efforts to amuse constituting in themselves a boredom? It is as great a test of temper as of talent. Poor O’Shea, one cannot but pity you! To be sure, you are not without little aids to pass time, in the shape of cards, dice, and such-like. I am not quite sure that a travelling roulette-table is not somewhere amongst your effects. But of what use are they all now? None would think of a lecture on anatomy to a man who had just suffered amputation.

No, no! play must not be thought of, – it must be most sparingly alluded to even in conversation, – and so what remains? O’Shea was not without reminiscences, and he “went into them like a man.” He told scenes of early Trinity College life; gave sketches of his contemporaries, one or two of them now risen to eminence; he gave anecdotes of Gray’s Inn, where he had eaten his terms; of Templar life, its jollities and its gravities; of his theatrical experiences, when he wrote the “Drama” for two weekly periodicals; of his like employ when he reported prize-fights, boat-races, and pigeon-matches for “Bell’s Life.” He then gave a sketch of his entrance into public life, with a picture of an Irish election, dashed off spiritedly and boldly; but all he could obtain from his phlegmatic listener was a faint smile at times, and a low muttering sound, that resolved itself into, “What snobs!”

At last he was in the House, dealing with great names and great events, which he ingeniously blended up with Bellamy’s and the oyster suppers below stairs; but it was no use, – they, too, were snobs! It was all snobbery everywhere. Freshmen, Templars, Pugilists, Scullers, County Electors, and House of Commons celebrities, – all snobs!

O’Shea then tried the Turf, – disparagingly, as a great moralist ought. They were, as he said, a “bad lot;” but he knew them well, and they “could n’t hurt him.” He had a variety of curious stories about racing knaveries, and could clear up several mysterious circumstances, which all the penetration of the “Ring” had never succeeded in solving. Heathcote, however, was unappeasable; and these, too, – trainers, jockeys, judges, and gentlemen, – they were all snobs!

It was only two o’clock, and there were two more mortal hours to get through before dinner. With a bright inspiration he bethought him of bitter beer. Oh, Bass! ambrosia of the barrack-room, thou nectar of the do-nothings in this life, how gracefully dost thou deepen dulness into drowsiness, making stupidity but semi-conscious! What a bond of union art thou between those who have talked themselves out, and would without thy consoling froth, become mutually odious! Instead of the torment of suggestiveness which other drinks inspire, how gloriously lethargic are all thy influences, how mind-quelling, and how muddling!

There is, besides, a vague notion prevalent with your beer-drinker, that there is some secret of health in his indulgence, – that he is undergoing a sort of tonic regimen, something to make him more equal to the ascent of Mont Blanc, or the defeat of the Zouaves, and he grows in self-esteem as he sips. It is not the boastful sentiment begotten of champagne, or the defiant courage of port, but a dogged, resolute, resistant spirit, stout in its nature and bitter to the last!

And thus they sipped, and smoked, and said little to each other, and the hours stole over, and the wintry day darkened apace, and, at last, out of a drowsy nap over the fire, the waiter awoke them, to say dinner was on the table.

“You were asleep!” said O’Shea, to his companion.

“Yes, ‘twas your snoring set me off!” replied Heathcote, stretching himself, as he walked to the window. “Raining just as hard as ever!”

“Come along,” said the other, gayly. “Let us see what old Fan has done for us.”

CHAPTER XXI. MR. O’SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL

It was a most appetizing little dinner that was now set before the O’Shea and Charles Heathcote. The trout from Castellano and the mutton from Pistoja were each admirable; and a brace of woodcocks, shot in the first snowstorm on the Carrara mountains, were served in a fashion that showed the cook had benefited by English teachings.

“There are worse places than this, after all!” said O’Shea, as he sat at one side of the fire, Heathcote opposite, and a small table liberally covered with decanters between them.

“Wonderful Burgundy this,” said Heathcote, gazing at his glass in the light. “What does he call it?”

“He calls it Lafitte. These fellows think all red wines come from the Bordeaux country. Here it is, – marked seven francs.”

“Cheap at double the price. My governor will take every bottle of it.”

“Not before I leave, I hope,” said O’Shea, laughing. “I trust he ‘ll respect what they call vested interests.”

“Oh, by the way,” said the other, indolently, “you are going?”

“Yes. Our party are getting uneasy, and I am constantly receiving letters pressing me to return to England.”

“Want you in the House, perhaps?” said Heathcote, as he puffed his cigar in lazy enjoyment.

“Just so. You see, a parliamentary session is a sort of campaign in which every arm of warfare is needed. You want your great guns for the grand battles, your dashing cavalry charges for emergencies, and your light skirmishers to annoy the enemy and disconcert his advance.”

“And which are you?” asked the other, in a tone of bantering indifference.

“Well, I ‘m what you might call a mounted rifleman, – a dash of the dragoon with a spice of the sharpshooter.”

“Sharp enough, I take it,” muttered Heathcote, who bethought him of the billiard-table, and the wonderful “hazards” O’Shea used to accomplish.

“You understand,” resumed the Member, confidentially, “I don’t come out on the Budget, or Reform, or things of that kind; but I lie by till I hear some one make a blunder or a mistake, no matter how insignificant, and then I ‘m down on him, generally with an anecdote – something he reminds me of – and for which I ‘m sure to have the laugh against him. It’s so easy, besides, to make them laugh; the worst jokes are always successful in the House of Commons.”

“Dull fellows, I suppose?” chimed in Heathcote.

“No, indeed; not that. Go down with six or eight of them to supper, and you’ll say you never met pleasanter company. ‘T is being caged up there all together, saying the same things over and over, that’s what destroys them.”

“It must be a bore, I take it?” sighed out Heathcote.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said O’Shea, as, in a voice of deepest confidence, he leaned over the table and spoke, – “I ‘ll tell you what it is. Did you ever play the game called Brag, with very little money in your pocket?”

Heathcote nodded what might mean assent or the opposite.

“That’s what Parliament is,” resumed O’Shea. “You sit there, night after night, year after year, wondering within yourself, ‘Would it be safe for me to play this hand? Shall I venture now?’ You know well that if you do back your luck and lose, that it’s all up with you forever, so that it’s really a mighty serious thing to risk it. At last, maybe, you take courage. You think you ‘ve got the cards; it’s half-past two o’clock; the House is thin, and every one is tired and sleepy. Up you get on your legs to speak. You’re not well down again, till a fellow from the back benches, you thought sound asleep, gets up and tears all you said to tatters, – destroys your facts, scatters your inferences, and maybe laughs at your figures of speech.”