One Of Them

“Is it for a woman?” asked O’Shea.

The other nodded, and then leaned his head on his hand.

“Upon my conscience, I sometimes think they ‘re worse than the Jews,” said the Member, violently; “and there’s no being ‘up to them.’”

“It’s our own fault, then,” cried Heathcote; “because we never play fairly with them.”

“Bosh!” muttered O’Shea, again.

“I defy you to deny it,” cried he, angrily.

“I ‘d like a five-pound note to argue it either way,” said O’Shea.

As if offended by the levity of the speech, Heathcote turned away and said nothing.

“When you get down to Rome, and have some fun over those ox-fences, you ‘ll forget all about her, whoever she is,” said O’Shea.

“I’m for England to-morrow, and for India next week, if they ‘ll have me.”

“Well, if that’s not madness – ”

“No, sir, it is not,” broke in Heathoote, angrily; “nor will I permit you or any other man to call it so.”

“What I meant was, that when a fellow had your prospects before him, India ought n’t to tempt him, even with the offer of the Governor-Generalship.”

“Forgive me my bad temper, like a good fellow,” cried Heathoote, grasping the other’s hand; “but, in honest truth, I have no prospects, no future, and there is not a more hopeless wretch to be found than the man before you.”

O’Shea was very near saying “Bosh!” once more, but he coughed it under.

Like all bashful men who have momentarily given way to impatience, Charles Heathoote was over eager to obtain his companion’s good will, and so he dashed at once into a full confession of all the difficulties that beset, and all the cares that surrounded him. O’Shea had never known accurately, till now, the amount of May Leslie’s fortune, nor how completely she was the mistress of her own fate. Neither had he ever heard of that strange provision in the will which imposed a forfeit upon her if unwilling to accept Charles Heathcote as her husband, – a condition which he shrewdly judged to be the very surest of all ways to prevent their marriage.

“And so you released her?” cried he, as Heathoote finished his narrative.

“Released her! No. I never considered that she was bound. How could I?”

“Upon my conscience,” muttered the O’Shea, “it is a hard case – a mighty hard case – to see one’s way in; for if, as you say, it’s not a worthy part for a man to compel a girl to be his wife just because her father put it in his will, it’s very cruel to lose her only because she has a fine property.”

“It is for no such reason,” broke in Heathoote, half angrily. “I was unwilling – I am unwilling – that May Leslie should be bound by a contract she never shared in.

“That’s all balderdash!” cried O’Shea, with energy.

“What do you mean, sir?” retorted the other, passionately.

“What I mean is this,” resumed he: “that it’s all balderdash to talk of the hardship of doing things that we never planned out for ourselves. Sure, ain’t we doing them every moment of our lives? Ain’t I doing something because you contrived it? and ain’t you doing something else because I left it in your way?”

“It comes to this, then, that you ‘d marry a girl who did n’t care for you, if the circumstances were such as to oblige her to accept you?”

“Not absolutely, – not unreservedly,” replied O’Shea.

“Well, what is the reservation? Let us hear it.”

“Her fortune ought to be suitable.”

“Oh, this is monstrous!”

“Hear me out before you condemn me. In marriage, as in everything else, you must take it out in malt or in meal: don’t fancy that you ‘re going to get love and money too. It’s only in novels such luck exists.”

“I’m very glad I do not share your sentiments,” said Charles, sternly.

“They ‘re practical, anyway. But now to another point. Here we are, sitting by the fire in all frankness and candor. Answer me fairly two questions: Have you given up the race?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, have you any objection if I enter for the stakes myself?”

“You! Do you mean that you would propose for May Leslie?”

“I do; and, what’s more, I don’t despair of success, either.”

An angry flush rose to Heathcote’s face, and for a moment it seemed as if his passion was about to break forth; but he mastered it, and, rising slowly, said: “If I thought such a thing possible, it would very soon cure me of one sorrow.” After a pause, he added: “As for me, I have no permission to give or to withhold. Go, by all means, and make your offer. I only ask one thing: it is, that you will honestly tell me afterwards how it has been received.”

“That I pledge my word to. Where do you stop in Paris?”

“At the Windsor.”

“Well, you shall have a despatch from me, or see myself there, by Saturday evening; one or the other I swear to.”

“Agreed. I’ll not wish you success, for that would be hypocritical, but I ‘ll wish you well over it!” And with this speech, uttered in a tone of jeering sarcasm, Heathcote said good-bye, and departed.

CHAPTER XXII. THE PUBLIC SERVANT ABROAD

We scarcely thought that the distinguished public servant, Mr. Ogden, was likely to occupy once more any portion of our readers’ attention; and yet it so fell out that this useful personage, being on the Continent getting up his Austria and Northern Italy for the coming session, received a few lines from the Earl of Sommerville, half mandatory, half entreating, asking him to find out the young Marquis of Agincourt, and take him back with him to England.

Now the Earl was a great man, for he was father-in-law of a Cabinet Minister, and related to half the leaders of the party, so that Mr. Ogden, however little the mission suited his other plans, was fain at once to accept it, and set out in search of his charge.

We need not follow him in his pursuit through Lombardy and the Legations, down to Tuscany and Lucca, which latter city he reached at the close of a cold and dreary day of winter, cheered to him, however, by the certainty that he had at length come up with the object of his chase.

It was a habit with Quackinboss, whenever he sent out Layton’s servant on an errand, to leave the house door ajar, that the sick man might not be disturbed by the loud summons of the bell; and so on the evening in question was it found by Mr. Ogden, who, after some gentle admonitions by his knuckles and some preparatory coughs, at last groped his way into the interior, and eventually entered the spacious sitting-room. Quackinboss had dined, and was seated at his wine beside an ample fireplace, with a blazing wood-fire. An old-fashioned screen sheltered him from the draught of the ill-fitting windows, while a comfortable buffalo rug was stretched under his feet. The Colonel was in his second cigar, and in the drowsy mood of its easy enjoyment, when the harsh accents of Mr. Ogden’s voice startled him, by asking, “Can you inform me if Lord Agincourt lives here?”

“You ‘re a Britisher now, I expect?” said the Colonel, as he slowly puffed out a long volume of smoke, but never moved from his seat.

“My question having the precedence, sir, it will be, perhaps, more regular to answer it first,” said Ogden, with a slow pertinacity.

“Well, I ain’t quite sure o’ that, stranger.” drawled out the other. “Mine was a sort of an amendment, and so might be put before the original motion.”

The remark chimed in well with the humor of one never indisposed to word-fencing, and so he deferred to the suggestion, told his name and his object in coming. “And now, sir,” added he, “I hope not to be deemed indiscreet in asking an equal candor from you.”

“You ain’t a doctor?” asked Quackinboss.