One Of Them

“Well, so far as having had my legs under that wood for many years with pleasure to myself and satisfaction to my friends, perhaps I might.”

“Do you know what I ‘d do if I were you?”

“I have not an idea.”

“I ‘d marry, – by Jove, I would! – I ‘d marry!”

“I ‘ve thought of it half a dozen times,” said he, stretching out his hand for the decanter, and rather desirous of escaping notice; “but, you see, to marry a woman with money, – and of course it’s that you mean, – there’s always the inquiry what you have yourself, where it is, and what are the charges on it. Now, as you shrewdly guessed awhile ago, I dipped my estate, – dipped it so deep that I begin to suspect it won’t come up again.”

“But look out for a woman that has her fortune at her own disposal.”

“And no friends to advise her.”

O’Shea’s face, as he said this, was so absurdly droll that Agincourt laughed aloud. “Well, as you observe, no friends to advise her. I suppose you don’t care much for connection, – I mean rank?”

“As for the matter of family, I have enough for as many wives as Bluebeard, if the law would let me have them.”

“Then I fancy I know the thing to suit you. She’s a stunning pretty woman, besides.”

“Where is she?”

“At Rome here.”

“And who is she?”

“Mrs. Penthony Morris, the handsome widow, that’s on a visit to the Heathcotes. She must have plenty of tin, I can answer for that, for old Nathan told me she was in all the heavy transfers of South American shares, and was a buyer for very large amounts.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I can give my word on it. I remember his saying one morning, ‘The widow takes her losses easily; she minds twelve thousand pounds no more than I would a five-pound note.”

“They have a story here that she’s going to marry old Heathcote.”

“Not true, – I mean, that she won’t have him.”

“And why? It was clear enough she was playing that game for some time back.”

“I wanted Charley to try his chance,” said Agincourt, evading the question; “but he is spooney on his cousin May, I fancy, and has no mind to do a prudent thing.”

“But how am I to go in?” said O’Shea, timidly. “If she’s as rich as you say, would she listen to a poor out-at-elbows Irish gentleman, with only his good blood to back him?”

“You ‘re the man to do it, – the very man.”

O’Shea shook his head.

“I say you ‘d succeed. I ‘d back you against the field.”

“Will you make me a bet on it?”

“With all my heart! What shall it be?”

“Lay me a hundred to one, in tens, and I give you my solemn word of honor I ‘ll do my very best to lose my wager and win the widow.”

“Done! I ‘ll bet you a thousand pounds to ten; book it, with the date, and I ‘ll sign it.”

While Agincourt was yet speaking, O’Shea had produced a small note-book, and was recording the bet. Scarcely had he clasped the little volume again, when the waiter entered, and handed him a note.

O’Shea read it rapidly, and, finishing off his glass, refilled and drank it. “I must leave you for half an hour,” said he, hastily. “There’s a friend of mine in a bit of a scrape with one of these French officers; but I ‘ll be back presently.”

“I say, make your man fight. Don’t stand any bullying with those fellows.”

O’Shea did not wait for his counsels, but hurried off.

“This way, sir,” whispered a man to him, as he passed out into the court of the hotel; “the carriage is round the corner.”

He followed the man, and in a few minutes found himself in a narrow by-street, where a single carriage was standing. The glass was quietly let down as he drew near, and a voice he had no difficulty in recognizing, said, “I have just received a most urgent letter, and I must leave Rome tomorrow at daybreak, for Germany. I have learned, besides, that Paten is at Baden. He was on his way here, but stopped to try his luck at the tables. He has twice broken the bank, and swears he will not leave till he has succeeded a third time. We all well know how such pledges finish. But you must set off there at once. Leave to-morrow night, if you can, and by the time you arrive, or the day after, you ‘ll find a letter for you at the post, with my address, and all your future directions. Do nothing with Paten till you hear; mind that, – nothing. I have not time for another word, for I am in terror lest my absence from the house should be discovered. If anything imminent occur, you shall hear by telegraph.”

“Let me drive back with you; I have much to say, much to ask you,” said he, earnestly.

“On no account. There, good-bye; don’t forget me.”

While he yet held her hand, the word was given to drive on, and his farewell was lost in the rattling of the wheels over the pavement.

“Well, have you patched it up, or is it a fight?” asked Agincourt when he entered the room once more.

“You’ll keep my secret, I know,” said O’Shea, in a whisper. “Don’t even breathe a word to Heathcote, but I ‘ll have to leave this to-morrow, get over the nearest frontier, and settle this affair.”

“You ‘d like some cash, would n’t you? – at all events, I am your debtor for that horse. Do you want more?”

“There, that’s enough, – two hundred will do,” said O’Shea, taking the notes from his fingers; “even if I have to make a bolt of it, that will be ample.”

“This looks badly for your wager, O’Shea. It may lose you the widow, I suspect.”

“Who knows?” said O’Shea, laughing. “Circular sailing is sometimes the short cut on land as well as sea. If you have any good news for me from Downing Street, I ‘ll shy you a line to say where to send; and so, good-bye.”

And Agincourt shook his hand cordially, but not without a touch of envy as he thought of the mission he was engaged in.

CHAPTER III. SOME LAST WORDS

While Agincourt and O’Shea thus sat and conversed together, there was another fireside which presented a far happier picture, and where old Sir William sat, with his son and May Leslie, overjoyed to think that they were brought together again, and to separate no more. Charles had told them that he had determined never to leave them, and all their thoughts had gone back to the long, long ago, when they were so united and so happy. There was, indeed, one theme which none dared to touch. It was ever and anon uppermost in the mind of each, and yet none had courage to adventure on it, even in allusion. It was in one of the awkward pauses which this thought produced that a servant came to say Mrs. Morris would be glad to see Charles in her room. He had more than once requested permission to visit her, but somehow now the invitation had come ill-timed, and he arose with a half impatience to obey it.

During the greater part of that morning Charles Heathcote had employed himself in imagining by what process of persuasion, what line of argument, or at what price he could induce the widow herself to break off the engagement with his father. The guarded silence Sir William had maintained on the subject since his son’s arrival was to some extent an evidence that he knew his project could not meet approval. Nor was the old man a stranger to the fact that May Leslie’s manner to the widow had long been marked by reserve and estrangement. This, too, increased Sir William’s embarrassment, and left him more isolated and alone. “How shall I approach such a question and not offend her?” was Charles’s puzzle, as he passed her door. So full was he of the bulletins of her indisposition, that he almost started as he saw her seated at a table, writing away rapidly, and looking, to his thinking, as well as he had ever seen her.

“This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise,” said he, as he came forward. “I was picturing to myself a sick-room and a sufferer, and I find you more beautiful than ever.”

“You surely could n’t imagine I ‘d have sent for you if I were not conscious that my paleness became me, and that my dressing-gown was very pretty. Sit down – no, here – at my side; I have much to say to you, and not very long to say it. If I had not been actually overwhelmed with business, real business too, I ‘d have sent for you long ago. I could imagine with very little difficulty what was uppermost in your mind lately, and how, having determined to remain at home, your thoughts would never quit one distressing theme, – you know what I mean. Well, I repeat, I could well estimate all your troubles and difficulties on this head, and I longed for a few minutes alone with you, when we could speak freely and candidly to each other, no disguise, no deception on either side. Shall we be frank with each other?”

“By all means.”