The breakfast at the Villa Caprini always seemed to recall more of English daily life and habit than any other event of the day. It was not only in the luxuriously spread table, and the sideboard arrayed with that picturesque profusion so redolent of home, but there was that gay and hearty familiarity so eminently the temper of the hour, and that pleasant interchange of news and gossip, as each tore the envelope of his letter, or caught some amusing paragraph in his paper.
Mrs. Penthony Morris had a very wide correspondence, and usually contributed little scraps of intelligence from various parts of the Continent. They were generally the doings and sayings of that cognate world whose names require no introduction, and even those to whom they are unfamiliar would rather hear in silence than own to the ignorance. The derelicts of fashion are the staple of small-talk; they are suggestive of all the little social smartness one hears, and of that very Brummagem morality which assumes to judge them. In these Mrs. Morris revelled. No paragraph of the “Morning Post” was too mysteriously worded for her powers of interpretation; no asterisks could veil a name from her piercing gaze. Besides, she had fashioned a sort of algebraic code of life which wonderfully assisted her divination, and being given an unhappy marriage, she could foretell the separation, or, with the data of a certain old gentleman's visits to St. John's Wood, could predict his will with an accuracy that seemed marvellous. As she sat, surrounded with letters and notes of all sizes, she varied the tone of her intelligence so artfully as to canvass the suffrage of every listener. Now it was some piece of court gossip, some “scandal of Queen Elizabeth,” now a curious political intrigue, and now, again, some dashing exploit of a young soldier in India. But whether it told of good or evil fortune, of some deeply interesting event or some passing triviality, her power of narrating it was considerable, as, with a tact all her own, she selected some one especial individual as chief listener. After a number of short notices of London, Rome, and Paris, she tossed over several letters carelessly, saying,—
“I believe I have given you the cream of my correspondence. Stay, here is something about your old sloop the 'Mosquito,' Lord Agincourt; would you like to hear of how she attacked the forts at the mouth of the—oh, how shall I attack it?—the Bhageebhahoo? This is a midshipman's letter, written the same evening of the action.”
Though the question was addressed very pointedly, the boy never heard it, but sat deeply engaged in deciphering a very jagged handwriting in a letter before him. It was one of those scratchy, unfinished specimens of penmanship which are amongst the luxuries persons of condition occasionally indulge in. Seeing his preoccupation, Mrs. Morris did not repeat her question, but suffered him to pursue his researches undisturbed. He had just begun his breakfast when the letter arrived, and now he ceased to eat anything, but seemed entirely engrossed by his news. At last he arose abruptly, and left the room.
“I hope Agincourt has not got any bad tidings,” said Sir William; “he seems agitated and uneasy.”
“I saw his guardian's name—Sommerville—on the envelope,” said Mrs. Morris. “It is, probably, one of those pleasant epistles which wards receive quarterly to remind them that even minors have miseries.”
The meal did not recover its pleasant tone after this little incident, and soon after they all scattered through the house and the grounds, Mrs. Morris setting out for her usual woodland walk, which she took each morning. A half-glance the boy had given her as he quitted the room at breakfast-time, induced her to believe that he wanted to consult her about his letter, and so, as she entered the shrubbery, she was not surprised to find Lord Agincourt there before her.
“I was just wishing it might be your footstep I heard on the gravel,” said he, joining her. “May I keep you company?”
“To be sure, provided you don't make love to me, which I never permit in the forenoon.”
“Oh, I have other thoughts in my head,” said he, sighing drearily; “and you are the very one to advise me what to do. Not, indeed, that I have any choice about that, only how to do it, that's the question.”
“When one has the road marked out, it's never very hard to decide on the mode of the journey,” said she. “Tell me what your troubles are.”
ONE0202
“Troubles you may well call them,” said he, with a deeper sigh. “There, read that—if you can read it—for the old Earl does not grow more legible by being older.”
“'Crews Court,'” read she, aloud. “Handsome old abbey it must be,” added she, remarking on a little tinted sketch at the top of the letter.
“Yes, that's a place of mine. I was born there,” said the boy, half proudly.
“It's quite princely.”
“It's a fine old thing, and I 'd give it all this minute not to have had that disagreeable letter.”
“'My dear Henry,'” began she, in a low, muttering voice, “'I have heard with—with'—not abomination—oh no, 'astonishment—with astonishment, not unmixed with'—it can't be straw—is it straw?—no, it is 'shame,—not unmixed with shame, that you have so far forgiven—forgotten'—oh, that's it—'what was done to yourself.'”
“No, 'what was due to yourself,'” interrupted he; “that's a favorite word of his, and so I know it.”
“'To become the—the'—dear me, what can this be with the vigorous G at the beginning?—'to become'—is it really the Giant?—'to become the Giant'—”
The boy here burst into a fit of laughing, and, taking the letter from her, proceeded to read it out.
“I have spelt it all over five times,” said he, “and I know it by heart. 'I have heard with astonishment, not unmixed with shame, that you have so far forgotten what was due to yourself as to become the Guest of one who for so many years was the political opponent and even personal enemy of our house. Your ignorance of family history cannot possibly be such as that you are unaware of the claims once put forward by this same Sir William Heathcote to your father's peerage, or of the disgraceful law proceedings instituted to establish his pretensions.' As if I ever heard a word of all this before! as if I knew or cared a brass button about the matter!” burst he in. “'Had your tutor'—here comes in my poor coach forhisturn,” said Agincourt—“'had your tutor but bestowed proper attention to the instructions written by my own hand for his guidance.—We never could read them; we have been at them for hours together, and all we could make out was, 'Let him study hazard, roulette, and all other such games;' which rather surprised us, till we found out it was 'shun,' and not 'study,' and 'only frequent the fast society of each city he visits,' which was a mistake for 'first.'”
“Certainly the noble Lord has a most ambiguous calligraphy,” said she, smiling; “and Mr. Layton is not so culpable as might be imagined.”
“Ah!” cried the boy, laughing, “I wish you had seen Alfred's face on the day he received our first quarter's remittance, and read out: 'You may drag on me like a mouse, if you please,' which was intended to be, 'draw upon me to a like amount, if you please;' and it was three weeks before we could make that out! But let me go on—where was I? Oh, at 'guidance.' 'Recent information has, however, shown me that nothing could have been more unfortunate than our choice of this young man, his father being one of the most dangerous individuals known to the police, a man familiar with the lowest haunts of crime, a notorious swindler, and a libeller by profession. In the letter which I send off by this day's post to your tutor I have enclosed one from his father to myself. It is not very likely that he will show it to you, as it contains the most insolent demands for an increase of salary—“as some slight, though inadequate, compensation for an office unbecoming my son's rank, insulting to his abilities, and even damaging to his acquirements.” I give you this in his own choice language, but there is much more in the same strain. The man, it would appear, has just come out of a lunatic asylum, to which place his intemperate habits had brought him; and I may mention that his first act of gratitude to the benevolent individual who had undertaken the whole cost of his maintenance there was to assault him in the open street, and give him a most savage beating. Captain Hone or Holmes—a distinguished officer, as I am told—is still confined to his room from the consequences.'”
“How very dreadful!” said Mrs. Morris calmly. “Shocking treatment! for a distinguished officer too!”
“Dreadful fellow he must be,” said the boy. “What a rare fright he must have given my old guardian! But the end of it all is, I 'm to leave Alfred, and go back to England at once. I wish I was going to sea again; I wish I was off thousands of miles away, and not to come home for years. To part with the kind, good fellow, that was like a brother to me, this way,—how can I do it? And do you perceive, he has n't one word to say against Alfred? It's only that he has the misfortune of this terrible father. And, after all, might not that be any one's lot? You might have a father you couldn't help being ashamed of.”
“Of course,” said she; “I can fancy such a case easily enough.”
“I know it will nearly kill poor Alfred; he 'll not be able to bear it. He's as proud as he is clever, and he'll not endure the tone of the Earl's letter. Who knows what he 'll do? Canyouguess?”
“'Not in the least. I imagine that he 'll submit as patiently as he can, and look out for another situation.”
“Ah, there you don't know him!” broke in the boy: “he can't endure this kind of thing. He only consented to take me because his health was breaking up from hard reading; he wanted rest and a change of climate. At first he refused altogether, and only gave way when some of his college dons over-persuaded him.”
She smiled a half-assent, but said nothing.
“Then there's another point,” said he, suddenly: “I'm sure his Lordship has not been very measured in the terms of his letter to him. I can just fancy the tone of it; and I don't know how poor Alfred is to bear that.”
“My dear boy, you'll learn one of these days—and the knowledge will come not the less soon from your being a Peer—that all the world is either forbearing or overbearing. You must be wolf or lamb: there's no help for it.”
“Alfred never told me so,” said he, sternly.
“It's more than likely that he did not know! There are no men know less of life than these college creatures; and there lies the great mistake in selecting such men for tutors for our present-day life and its accidents. Alexandre Dumas would be a safer guide than Herodotus; and Thackeray teach you much more than Socrates.”
“If I only had in my head one-half of what Alfred knew, I 'd be well satisfied,” said the boy. “Ay, and what's better still, without his thinking a bit about it.”
“And so,” said she, musingly, “you are to go back to England?”
“That does not seem quite settled, for he says, in a postscript, that Sir George Rivers, one of the Cabinet, I believe, has mentioned some gentleman, a 'member of their party,' now in Italy, and who would probably consent to take charge of me till some further arrangements could be come to.”
“Hold your chain till a new bear-leader turned up!” said she, laughing. “Oh dear! I wonder when that wise generations of guardians will come to know that the real guide for the creatures like you is a woman. Yes, you ought to be travelling with your governess,—some one whose ladylike tone and good manners would insensibly instil quietness, reserve, and reverence in your breeding, correct your bad French, and teach you to enter or leave a room without seeming to be a housebreaker!”
“I should like to know who does that?” asked he, indignantly.
“Every one of you young Englishmen, whether you come fresh from Brasenose or the Mess of the Forty-something, you have all of you the same air of bashful bull-dogs!”
“Oh, come, this is too bad; is this the style of Charles Heathcote, for instance?”
“Most essentially it is; the only thing is that, the bulldog element predominating in his nature, he appears the less awkward in consequence.”
“I should like to bear what you 'd say of the O'Shea.”
“Oh, Mr. O'Shea is an Irishman, andtheirways bear the same relation to general good breeding that rope-dancing does to waltzing.”
“I 'll take good care not to ask you for any description of myself,” said he, laughingly.
“You are very wrong then, for you should have heard something excessively flattering,” was her reply. “Shall I tell you who your new protector is to be?” cried she, after a moment's pause; “I have just guessed it: the O'Shea himself!”
“O'Shea! impossible; how could you imagine such a thing?”
“I'm certain I'm right. He is always talking of his friend Sir George Rivers—he calls him Rivers,—who is Colonial Secretary, and who is to make him either Bishop of Barbadoes or a Gold Stick at the Gambia; and you 'll see if I 'm not correct, and that the wardship of a young scapegrace lordling is to be the retaining fee of this faithful follower of his party. Of course, there will be no question of tutorship; in fact, it would have such an unpleasant resemblance to the farce and Mr. O'Toole, as to be impossible. You will simply be travelling together. It will be double harness, but only one horse doing the work!”
“I never can make out whether you 're in jest or in earnest,” said he, pettishly.
“I'm always in earnest when I'm jesting; that's the only clue I can give you.”
“But all this time we have been wandering away from the only thing I wanted to think of,—how to part with dear Alfred. You have told me nothing about that.”
“These are things which, as the French say, always do themselves, and, consequently, it is better never to plan or provide for; and, remember, as a maxim, whenever the current is carrying you the way you want to go, put in your oar as little as possible. And as to old associations, they are like old boots: they are very pleasant wear, but they won't last forever. There now, I have given you quite enough matter to think over: and so, good-bye.”
As Agincourt turned his steps slowly towards the house, he marvelled with himself what amount of guidance she had given him.
MR. O'Shea's man was not one to put his light under a bushel; so, when he received at the post-office a very portentous-looking letter, heavily sealed, and marked “On Her Majesty's Service,” he duly stopped the two or three English loungers he saw about to show them the document, on pretence of asking if any demand for postage could be made; if it had not been wrongfully detained; if they thought it had been opened and read; and so on,—all these inquiries having for their object to inform the general public that the Member for Inch was in close relation and correspondence with Downing Street.
In sooth, the letter had as significant an external as any gentleman in pursuit of a place might have desired. In color, texture, and fashion there was nothing wanting to its authenticity, and it might, without any disparagement to its outside, have named Mr. O'Shea a Governor of the Bahamas, or a Mahogany Commissioner at Ruatan. It was, in fact, a document that, left negligently in the way, might have made a dun appeasable, and a creditor patient. There were few men it might not in some degree have imposed on, but of that few the O'Shea himself was one. He knew well—too well—that it foretold neither place nor employment; that it was the shell of a very small kernel; nothing more, in short, than a note from an old friend and schoolfellow, then acting as the Private Secretary of a Cabinet Minister,—one who, indeed, kept his friend O'Shea fully informed as to everything that fell vacant, but, unhappily, accompanied the intelligence with a catalogue of the applicants, usually something like the list of the Smiths in a Directory.
So little impatient was O'Shea for the contents, that he had half eaten his breakfast and looked through “Punch” before he broke the seal. The enclosure was from the hand of his friend Tom Radwell, but whose peculiar drollery it was to correspond in the form of a mock despatch. The note, therefore, though merely containing gossip, was written with all attention to margin and calligraphy, and even in places affected the solemn style of the Office. It was headed “Secret and Confidential,” and opened thus:—
“Sir,—By your despatch of the 18th ult, containing four enclosures,—three protested bills, and your stepmother's I O for 18L. 5s.,—I am induced to believe that no material change has occurred in the situation of your affairs,—a circumstance the more to be deplored, inasmuch as her Majesty's Government cannot at this moment, with that due regard imposed on them for the public service, undertake either to reconsider your claims, or by an extraordinary exercise of the powers vested in them by the Act of Teddy the Tiler, chap. 4, secs. 9 and 10, appoint you in the way and manner you propose. So much, my dear Gorman, old Rivers declared to me this morning, confidentially adding, I wish that Irish party would understand that, when we could buy them altogether in a basket, as in O'Connell's day, the arrangement was satisfactory; but to have to purchase them separately—each potato by himself—is a terrible loss of time, and leads to no end of higgling. Why can't you agree amongst yourselves,—make your bargain, and then divide the spoils quietly? It is the way your forefathers understood the law of commonage, and nobody ever grumbled that his neighbor had a cow or a pig too many! The English of all this is, they don't want you just now, and they won't have you, for you 're an article that never kept well, and, even when bonded, your loss by leakage is considerable.
“Every Irishman I ever met makes the same mistake of offering himself for sale when the commodity is not wanted. If you see muffs and boas in Regent Street in July, ain't they always ticketed 'a great sacrifice'? Can't you read the lesson? But so it is with you. You fancy you 'll induce people to travel a bad road by putting up a turnpike.
“I 'm sorry to say all this to you, but I see plainly politics will not do any longer as a pursuit. It is not only that all appointments are so scrutinized nowadays, but that every man's name in a division is weighed and considered in a fashion that renders a mere majority of less moment than the fact of how it was composed. If I cannot manage something for you in the West Indies, you must try Cheltenham.
“Rivers has just sent for me.
“'What of your friend O'Shea? Did n't you tell me he was in the north of Italy?'
“'Yes,' said I; 'he's getting up the Italian question. He has accumulated a mass of facts which will astonish the House next session.'
“'Confound his facts!' muttered he. 'Here has been Lord Sommerville with me, about some young ward of his. I don't well understand what he wants, or what he wishes me to do; but the drift is, to find some one—a gentleman, of course—who would take charge of the boy for a short time; he is a marquis, with large expectations, and one day or other will be a man of mark.'
“I tried the dignity tone, but old Rivers interrupted me quickly,—
“'Yes, yes, of course. Mere companionship, nothing more. Sound O'Shea upon it, and let me hear.'
“Here, then, my dear Gorman, is the 'opening' you so long have looked for; and ifyoucannot turn such a position to good profit,whocan? Nor are you the man I take you for, if you 're not married into the family before this day twelvemonth! There is no time to be lost, so telegraph back at once. A simple 'Yes' will do, if you accept, which I sincerely hope you will. All the minor arrangements you may safely trust tome.”
When Mr. O'Shea had read thus far, he arose, and, walking with head erect and well thrown-out chest towards the looking-glass, he desired to “take stock” of his appearance, and to all semblance was not displeased at the result. He was autumnalizing, it is true; tints were mellowing, colors more sombre; but, on the whole, there was nothing in the landscape, viewed at due distance and with suitable light, to indicate much ravage from Time. Your hard-featured men, like mountains in scenery, preserve the same appearance unchanged by years. It is your genial fellow, with mobile features, that suffers so terribly from age. The plough of Time leaves deep furrows in the arable soil of such faces. As in those frescos which depend altogether on color, the devastations of years are awfully felt; when black degenerates into gray, mellow browns grow a muddy yellow, and the bright touches that “accentuated” expression are little else than unmeaning blotches! If the Member for Inch had not travelled far upon the dreary road, I am bound in truth to own that he had begun the journey. A light, faint silvering showed on his whiskers, like the first touch of snow on an Alpine fern in October. The lines that indicated a ready aptitude for fun had deepened, and grown more marked at the angles at the mouth,—a sad sign of one whose wit was less genial and more biting than of yore. Then—worst of all—he had entered upon the pompous lustre wherein men feel an exaggerated self-importance, imagine that their opinions are formed, and their character matured. Nothing is so trying as that quarantine period, and both men and women make more egregious fools of themselves in it than in all the wild heydey of early youth. Mr. O'Shea, however, was an Irishman, and, in virtue of the fact, he had a light, jaunty, semi-careless way with him, which is a sort of electroplate youth, and looks like the real article, though it won't prove so lasting.
“I must have a look into the Peerage,” said he, as he turned to the bulky volume that records the alliances and the ages of the “upper ten thousand “:—
“'Lady Maria Augusta Sofronia Montserrat, born '—oh, by the powers, that won't do!—'born 1804.' Oh, come, after all, it's not so bad; 'died in '46.—Charlotte Rose Leopoldine, died in infancy.—Henrietta Louisa, born 1815; married in 1835 to Lord Julius de Raby; again married to Prince Beerstenshoften von Hahnsmarkt, and widowed same year, 1846.' I'll put a mark against her. And there's one more, 'Juliana de Vere, youngest daughter, born '26 '—that's the time of day!—born '26, and no more said. The paragraph has yet to be filled with, 'Married to the O'Shea, Member of Parliament for Inchabogue, High Sheriff of Tipperary, and head of the ancient copt known as O'Meadhlin Shamdoodhlin Naboklish O'Shea'—I wonder if they 'd put it in—'formerly Kings of Tulloch Reardhin and Bare-ma-bookle, and all the countries west of the Galtee Mountains.' If pedigree would do it, O'Shea may call himself first favorite! And now, Miss Leslie,” continued he, aloud, “you have no time to lose; make your bidding quickly, or the O'Shea will be knocked down to another purchaser. As Eugene Aram says, 'I 'm equal to either fortune.'”
“Well,” said Joe, entering the room, and approaching his master confidentially, “is it a place?”
“Nothing of the kind; a friendly letter from a member of the Cabinet,” replied he, carelessly.
“Devil take them! It isn't friendship we want; it's something to live on.”
“You are a low-minded, mercenary creature,” said O'Shea, oratorically. “Is our happiness in this life, our self-respect, our real worth, dependent upon the accident of our station, or upon the place we occupy in the affections of men,—what we possess of their sympathy and love? I look around me, and what do I see?”
“Sorra bit of me knows,” broke in Joe.
Unmindful of the interruption, O'Shea continued: “I see the high places occupied by the crafty, the subtle, and the scheming.”
“I wish we had one of them,” muttered Joe.
“I see that humble merit shivers at the door, while insolent pretension struts proudly in.”
“Ay, and more power to him, if he's able,” grumbled out the other.
“I see more,” said O'Shea, raising his voice, and extending his arm at full length,—“I see a whole nation,—eight millions of men,—great, glorious, and gifted,—men whose genius has shed a lustre over the dull swamp of their oppressors' nature, but who one day, rising from her ashes—”
“Ah! by my conscience, I knew it was comin'; and I said to myself, 'Here's the phaynix!'”
“Rising from her ashes like the Megatherion of Thebes. Where are you now, Master Joe?” said he, with an insolent triumph in his look.
“I 'd just as soon have the phaynix,” said Joe, doggedly. “Go on.”
“How can I go on? How could any man? Demosthenes himself would stand confused in presence of such vulgar interruptions. It is in such temperaments as yours men of genius meet their worst repulses. You are at once theferæ naturæof humanity, and the pestilential atmosphere that poisons—that poisons—”
“Oh! there you are 'pounded '! Poisons what?”
“Poisons the pellucid rills which should fertilize the soul of man! I'm never pounded. O'Connell himself had to confess that he never saw my equal in graceful imagery and figurative embellishment. 'Listening to O'Shea,' says he, 'is like watching a juggler with eight balls flying round and about him. You may think it impossible he 'll be in time, but never one of them will he fail to catch.' That's whatIcall oratory. Why is it, I ask, that, when I rise in the house, you 'd hear a pin drop?”
“Maybe they steal out on their tiptoes,” said Joe, innocently.
“No, sir, they stand hushed, eager, anxious, as were the Greeks of old to catch the words of Ulysses. I only wish you saw old P——— working away with his pencil while I 'm speaking.”
“Making a picture of you, maybe!”
“You are as insolent as you are ignorant,—one of those who, in the unregenerate brutality of their coarse nature, repel the attempts of all who would advocate the popular cause. I have said so over and over again. If you would constitute yourself the friend of the people, take care to know nothing of them; neither associate with them, nor mix in their society: as Tommy Moore said of Ireland, 'It's a beautiful country to live out of.'”
“Andhewas a patriot!” said Joe, contemptuously.
“There are no patriots among those who soar above the miserable limits of a nationality. Genius has no concern with geographies. To think for the million you must forget the man.”
“Say that again. I like the sound of that,” cried Joe, admiringly.
“If anything could illustrate the hopelessness of your class and condition in life,” continued O'Shea, “it is yourself. There you are, daily, hourly associating with one whose sentiments you hear, whose opinions you learn, whose judgments you record; one eagerly sought after in society, revered in private, honored in the Senate; and what have you derived from these unparalleled advantages? What can you say has been the benefit from these relations?”
“It's hard to say,” muttered Joe, “except, maybe, it's made me a philosopher.”
“A philosopher!—you a philosopher!”
“Ay; isn't it philosophy to live without wages, and work without pay? 'Tis from yourself I heerd that the finest thing of all is to despise money.”
“So it is,—so it would be, I mean, if society had not built up that flimsy card edifice it calls civilization. Put out my blue pelisse with the Astrachan collar, and my braided vest; I shall want to go over to the Villa this morning. But, first of all, take this to the telegraph-office: 'The O'Shea accepts.'”
“Tear and ages! what is it we've got?” asked Joe, eagerly.
“'The O'Shea accepts,'—four words if they charge for the 'O.' Let me know the cost at once.”
“But why don't you tell me where we're going? Is it Jamaica or Jerusalem?”
“Call your philosophy to your aid, and be anxious for nothing,” said O'Shea, pompously. “Away, lose no more time.”
If Joe had been the exponent of his feelings, as he left the room, he would probably have employed his favorite phrase, and confessed himself “humiliated.” He certainly did feel acutely the indignity that had been passed upon him. To live on a precarious diet and no pay was bad enough, but it was unendurable that his master should cease to consult with and confide in him. Amongst the shipwrecked sufferers on a raft, gradations of rank soon cease to be remembered, and of all equalizers there is none like misery! Now, Mr. O'Shea and his man Joe had, so to say, passed years of life upon a raft. They had been storm-tossed and cast away for many a day. Indeed, to push the analogy further, they had more than once drawn lots who should be first devoured; that is to say, they had tossed up whose watch was to go first to the pawnbroker. Now, was it fair or reasonable, if his master discovered a sail in the distance, or a headland on the horizon, that he should conceal the consoling fact, and leave his fellow-sufferer to mourn on in misery? Joe was deeply wounded; he was insulted and outraged.
From the pain of his personal wrongs he was suddenly aroused by the telegraph clerk's demand for thirty francs.
“Thirty francs for four words?”
“You might send twenty for the same sum,” was the bland reply.
“Faix, and so we will,” said Joe. “Give me a pen and a sheet of paper.”
His first inspirations were so full of vengeance that he actually meditated a distinct refusal of whatever it was had been offered to his master, and his only doubt was how to convey the insolent negative in its most outrageous form. His second and wiser thoughts suggested a little diplomacy; and though both the consideration and the mode of effectuating it cost no small labor, we shall spare the reader's patience, and give him the result arrived at after nearly an hour's exertion, the message transmitted by Joe running thus:—
“Send the fullest particulars about the pay and the name of the place we 're going to.
“O'Shea.”
“I don't think there will be many secrets after I see the answer to that; and see it I will, if I tear it open!” said Joe, sturdily, as he held his way back to the inn.
A rather warm discussion ensued on the subject of his long absence, O'Shea remarking that for all the use Joe proved himself he might as well be without a servant, and Joe rejoining that, for the matter of pay and treatment,hemight be pretty nearly as well off if he had no master; these polite passages being interchanged while the O'Shea was busily performing with two hair-brushes, and Joe equally industriously lacing his master's waistcoat, with an artistic skill that the valet of a corpulent gentleman alone attains to, as Joe said a hundred times.
“I wonder why I endure you,” said O'Shea, as he jauntily settled his hat on one side of his head, and carefully arranged the hair on the other.
“And you 'll wondher more, when I 'm gone, why I did n't go before,” was Joe's surly rejoinder.
“How did you come by that striped cravat, sir?” asked O'Shea, angrily, as he caught sight of Joe in front.
“I took it out of the drawer.”
“It's mine, then!”
“It was wonst I did n't suppose you 'd wear it after what the widow woman said of you up at the Villa,—that Mrs. Morris. 'Here 's the O'Shea,' says she, 'masquerading as a zebra;' as much as to say it was another baste you was in reality.”
“She never dared to be so insolent”
“She did; I heard it myself.”
“I don't believe you; I never do believe one word you say.”
“That's exactly what I hear whenever I say you 're a man of fine fortune and good estate; they all cry out, 'What a lying rascal he is!'”
O'Shea made a spring towards the poker, and Joe as rapidly took up a position behind the dressing-glass.
“Hush!” cried O'Shea, “there's some one at the door.”
And a loud summons at the same time confirmed the words. With a ready instinct Joe speedily recovered himself, and hastened to open it.
“Is your master at home?” asked a voice.
“Oh, Heathcote, is it you?” exclaimed O'Shea; “Just step into the next room, and I 'll be with you in a second or two. Joe, show Captain Heathcote into the drawing-room.”
“I wondher what's the matter with him?” said Joe, confidentially, as he came back. “I never see any one look so low.”
“So much the better,” said O'Shea, merrily; “it's a sign he's coming to pay money. When a man is about to put you off with a promise, he lounges in with an easy, devil-may-care look that seems to say, 'It's all one, old fellow, whether you have an I O or the ready tin.'”
“There's a deal of truth in that,” said Joe, approvingly, and with a look that showed how pleasurable it was to him to hear such words of wisdom.
O'Shea swaggered into the room where Heathcote was standing to await him, in the attitude of one who desired to make his visit as brief as might be.
“How good of you to drive over to this dreary spot,” began the Member, jauntily, “where the blue devils seem to have their especial home. I 'm hipped and bored here as I never was before. Come, sit down; have you breakfasted?”
“Three hours ago.”
“Take some luncheon, then; a glass of sherry, at least.”
“Nothing—thanks—it's too early.”
“Won't you have even a weed?” said he, opening a cigar-box.
“I 'm provided,” said the other, showing the half of a still lighted cigar. “I came over this morning, hoping to catch you at home, and make some sort of settlement about our little transactions together.”
“My dear fellow, you surely can't think it makes any matter betweenus. I hope you know that it is entirely a question for your own convenience. No man has more experience of what it is to be 'hit hard,' as they say. When I first came out, I got it. By Jove! did n't I get it, and at both sides of the head too. It was Mopus's year, when the Yorkshire Lass ran a dead heat with Skyrocket for the Diddlesworth. I stood seventeen to one, in thousands! think of that,—seventeen thousand pounds to one against the filly. It was thought so good a thing that Naylor—old Jerry, as they used to call him—offered me a clean thousand to let him take half the wager. But these are old stories now, and they only bore you; in fact, it was just to show you that every man has his turn—”
“I own frankly,” broke in Heathcote, “I am far too full of selfish cares to take a proper interest in your story. Just tell me if these figures are correct?” And he turned to look out for a particular page in a small book.
“Confound figures! I wish they never were invented. If one only thinks of all the hearty fellows they 've set by the ears, the close friendships they have severed, the strong attachments they have broken, I declare one would be justified in saying it was the devil himself invented arithmetic.”
“I wish he 'd have made it easier when he was about it,” said Heathcote.
“Excellent, by Jove!—how good! 'Made it easier'—capital!” cried O'Shea, laughing with a boisterous jollity that made the room ring. “I hope I 'll not forget that. I must book thatmotof yours.”
Heathcote grew crimson with shame, and, in an angry impulse, pitched his cigar into the fire.
“That's right,” broke in O'Shea; “these are far better smoking than your cheroots; these are Hudson's 'Grand Viziers,' made especially for Abba Pasha's own smoking.”
Heathcote declined coldly, and continued his search through his note-book.
“It was odd enough,” said O'Shea, “just as you came in I was balancing in my own mind whether I 'd go over to the Villa, or write to you.”
“Write to me!” said the other, reddening.
“Don't be scared; it was not to dun you. No; I was meditating whether it was quite fair of me to take that trap and the nags.Youlike that sort of thing; it suits you too. Now, I 'm sobering down into the period of Park phaetons and George the Fourths: a low step to get in, and a deep, well-cushioned seat, with plenty of leg room; that's more my style. As Holditch says, 'The O'Shea wants an armchair upon C springs and Collinge's patent' Free and easy that, from a rascally coachmaker, eh?”
“I don't want the horses. I have no use for them. I 'm not quite clear whether you valued the whole thing at two hundred and fifty or three hundred and fifty?”
“We said, two fifty,” replied O'Shea, in his silkiest of tones.
“Be it so,” muttered Heathcote; “I gave two hundred for the chestnut horse at Tattersall's.”
“He was dear,—too dear,” was the dry reply.
“Esterhazy called him the best horse he ever bred.”
“He shall have him this morning for a hundred and twenty.”
“Well, well,” burst in Heathcote, “we are not here to dispute about that. I handed you, as well as I remember, eighty, and two hundred and thirty Naps.”
“More than that, I think,” said O'Shea, thoughtfully, and as if laboring to recollect clearly.
“I'm certain I'm correct,” said Heathcote, haughtily. “I made no other payments than these two,—eighty and two hundred and thirty.”
“What a memory I have, to be sure!” said O'Shea, laughingly. “I remember now, it was a rouleau of fifty that I paid away to Layton was running in my head.”
Heathcote's lip curled superciliously, but it was only for a second, and his features were calm as before. “Two thirty and eighty make three hundred and ten, and three fifty—”
“Two fifty for the trap!” broke in O'Shea.
“Ah! to be sure, two fifty, make altogether five hundred and sixty Naps, leaving, let me see—ninety-four—sixty-one—one hundred and twelve—”
“A severe night that was. You never won a game!” chimed in O'Shea.
“—One hundred and twelve and seventy, making three hundred and thirty-seven in all. Am I right?”
“Correct as Cocker, only you have forgotten your walk against time, from the fish-pond to the ranger's lodge. What was it,—ten Naps, or twenty?”
“Neither. It was five, and I paid it!” was the curt answer.
“Ain't I the stupidest dog that ever sat for a borough?” said O'Shea, bursting out into one of his boisterous laughs. “Do you know, I'd have been quite willing to have bet you a cool hundred about that?”
“And you 'd have lost,” said Heathcote, dryly.
“Not a doubt of it, and deserved it too,” said he, merrily.
“I have brought you here one hundred and fifty,” said Heathcote, laying down three rouleaux on the table, “and, for the remainder, my note at three months. I hope that may not prove inconvenient?”
“Inconvenient, my boy! never say the word. Not to mention that fortune may take a turn one of these days, and all this California find its way back to its own diggings.”
“I don't mean to play any more.”
“Not play any more! Do you mean to say that, because you have been once repulsed, you 'll never charge again? Is that your soldier's pluck?”
“There is no question here of my soldier's pluck. I only said I 'd not play billiards.”
“May I ask you one thing? How can you possibly expect to attain excellence in any pursuit, great or small, when you are so easily abashed?”
“May I take the same liberty with you, and ask how can it possibly concern any one but myself that I have taken this resolution?”
“There you have me! a hazard and no mistake! I may be your match at billiards; but when it comes to repartee, you are the better man, Heathcote.”
Coarse as the flattery was, it was not unpleasing. Indeed, in its very coarseness there was a sort of mock sincerity, just as the stroke of a heavy hand on your shoulder is occasionally taken for good fellowship, though you wince under the blow. Now Heathcote was not only gratified by his own smartness, but after a moment or two he felt half sorry he had been so “severe on the poor fellow.” He had over-shotted his gun, and there was really no necessity to rake him so heavily; and so, with a sort of blundering bashfulness, he said,—
“You 're not offended; you 're not angry with me?”
“Offended! angry! nothing of the kind. I believe I am a peppery sort of fellow,—at least, down in the West there they say as much of me; but once a man is my friend,—once that I feel all straight and fair between us,—he may bowl me over ten times a day, and I 'll never resent it.”
There was a pause after this, and Heathcote found his position painfully awkward. He did not fancy exactly to repudiate the friendship thus assumed, and he certainly did not like to put his name to the bond; and so he walked to the window and looked out with that half-hopeless vacuity bashful men are prone to.
“What's the weather going to do?” said he, carelessly. “More rain?”
“Of course, more rain! Amongst all the humbugs of the day, do you know of one equal to the humbug of the Italian climate? Where's the blue sky they rave about?”
“Not there, certainly,” said Heathcote, laughing, as he looked up at the leaden-colored canopy that lowered above them.
“My father used to say,” said O'Shea, “that it was all a mistake to talk about the damp climate of Ireland; the real grievance was, that when it rained it always rained dirty water!”
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 allnow?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 hurthim.” 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.”