Kitabı oku: «One Of Them», sayfa 16

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.

“No, sir; not a physician, at least.”

“That’s a pity,” said Quackinboss, slowly, as he brushed the ashes off his cigar. “Help yourself, stranger; that’s claret, t’other’s the country wine, and this is cognac, – all three bad o’ their kind; but, as they say here to everything, ‘Come si fa, eh? Come si fa!’”

“It is not from any disparagement of your hospitality, sir,” said Ogden, somewhat pompously, “that I am forced to recall you to my first question.”

“Come si fa!” repeated Quackinboss, still ruminating over the philosophy of that expression, one of the very few he had ever succeeded in committing to memory.

“Am I to conclude, sir, that you decline giving me the information I ask?”

“I ain’t in a witness-box, stranger. I ‘m a-sittin’ at my own fireside. I ‘m a-smokin’ my Virginian, where I ‘ve a right to, and if you choose to come in neighborly-like, and take a liquor with me, we ‘ll talk it over, whatever it is; but if you think to come Holy Office and the Inquisition over Shaver Quackinboss, you ‘ve caught the wrong squirrel by the tail, Britisher, you have!”

“I must say, sir, you have put a most forced and unfair construction upon a very simple circumstance. I asked you if the Marquis of Agincourt resided here?”

“And so you ain’t a doctor?” said Quackinboss, pensively.

“No, sir; I have already told you as much.”

“Bred to the law, belike?”

“I have studied, sir, but not practised as a lawyer.”

“Well, now, I expected you was!” said Quackinboss, with an air of self-satisfaction. “You chaps betray yourselves sooner than any other class in all creation; as Flay Harris says: ‘A lawyer is a fellow won’t drink out of the bung-hole, but must always be for tapping the cask for himself.’ You ain’t long in these parts?”

“No, sir; a very short time, indeed,” said Ogden, drearily.

“You needn’t sigh about it, stranger, though it is main dull in these diggin’s! Here’s a people that don’t understand human natur’. What I mean, sir, is, human natur’ means goin’ ahead; doin’ a somewhat your father and your grandfather never so much as dreamt of. But what are these critturs about? Jest showin’ the great things that was done centuries before they was born, – what pictures and statues and monuments their own ancestors could make, and of which they are jest showmen, nothing more!”

“The Arts are Italy’s noblest inheritance,” said Ogden, sententionsly.

“That ain’t my platform, stranger. Civilization never got anything from painters or sculptors. They never taught mankind to be truthful or patient or self-denyin’ or charitable. You may look at a bronze Hercules till you ‘re black in the face, and it will never make you give a cent to a lame cripple. I ‘ll go further again, stranger, and I ‘ll say that there ain’t anything has thrown so many stumblin’-blocks before pro-gress as what you call the Arts, for there ain’t the equal o’ them to make people idlers. What’s all that loafing about galleries, I ask ye, but the worst of all idling? If you want them sort of emotions, go to the real article, sir. Look at an hospital, that’s more life-like than Gerard Dow and his dropsical woman, – ay, and may touch your heart, belike, before you get away.”

“Though your conversation interests me much, sir, you will pardon my observing that I feel myself an intruder.”

“No, you ain’t; I’m jest in a talkin’ humor, and I’d rather have you than that Italian crittur, as don’t understand me.”

“Even the flattery of your observation, sir, cannot make me forget that another object claims my attention.”

“For I ‘ve remarked,” resumed Quackinboss, as if in continuation of his speech, “that a foreigner that don’t know English wearies after a while in listenin’, even though you ‘re tellin’ him very interesting things.”

“I perceive, sir,” said Ogden, rising, “that I have certainly been mistaken in the address. I was told that at the Palazzo Barsotti – ”

“Well, you ‘re jest there; that’s what they call this ramshackle old crazy consarn. Their palaces, bein’ main like their nobility, would be all the better for a little washin’ and smartenin’ up.”

“You can perhaps, however, inform me where Lord Agincourt does live?”

“Well, he lives, as I may say, a little promiscuous. If he ain’t here. it’s because he’s there! You understand?”

“I cannot say very confidently that I do understand,” said Ogden, slowly.

“It was well as you was n’t a practisin’ lawyer, Britisher, for you ain’t smart! that’s a fact. No, sir; you ain’t smart!”

“Your countrymen’s estimate of that quality has a high standard, sir,” said Ogden, haughtily.

“What do you mean by my countrymen?” asked the other, quickly.

“I ventured to presume that you were an American,” said Ogden, with a supercilious smile.

“Well, stranger, you were main right; though darn me con-siderable if I know how you discovered it. Don’t you be a-goin’, now that we ‘re gettin’ friendly together. Set down a bit. Maybe you ‘d taste a morsel of something.”

“Excuse me, I have just dined.”

“Well, mix a summut in your glass. It’s a rare pleasure to me, stranger, to have a chat with a man as talks like a Christian. I’m tired of ‘Come si fa,’ – that’s a fact, sir.”

“I regret that I cannot profit by your polite invitation,” said Ogden, bowing stiffly. “I had been directed to this house as the residence of Lord Agincourt and his tutor; and as neither of them live here – ”

“Who told you that? There’s one of them a-bed in that room there; he’s caught swamp-fever, and it’s gone up to the head. He’s the tutor, – poor fellow.”

“And the Marquis?”

“The Marquis! he’s a small parcel to have such a big direction on him, ain’t he? He’s at a villa, a few miles off; but he ‘ll be over here to-morrow morning.”

“You are quite sure of that?” asked Ogden.

“Yes, sir,” said Quackinboss, drinking off his glass, and nodding, in token of salutation.

“I must beg you to accept my excuses for this intrusion on my part,” began Ogden.

“Jest set you down there again; there’s a point I ‘d like to be cleared up about I ‘m sure you ‘ll not refuse me. Jest set down.”

Ogden resumed his seat, although with an air and manner of no small disinclination.

“No wine, thank you. Excuse me,” said he, stiffly, as Quackinboss tried to fill his glass.

“You remarked awhile ago,” said Quackinboss, slowly, and like a man weighing all his words, “that I was an American born. Now, sir, it ain’t a very likely thing that any man who was ever raised in the States is goin’ to deny it. It ain’t, I say, very probable as he ‘d say I’m a Chinese, or a Mexican, or a Spaniard; no, nor a Britisher. Whatever we do in this life, stranger, one thing, I suppose, is pretty certain, – we don’t say the worst of ourselves. Ain’t that your platform, sir?”

“I agree to the general principle.”

“Agreein’, then, to the gen’ral principle, here’s where we go next, for I ain’t a-goin’ to let you off, Britisher; I ‘ve got a harpoon in you now, and I ‘ll tow you after me into shoal water; see if I don’t. Agreein’, as we say, to the gen’ral principle, that no man likes to make his face blacker than it need be, what good could it do me to say that I wasn’t born a free citizen of the freest country of the universe?”

“I am really at a loss to see how I am interested in this matter. I have not, besides, that perfect leisure abstract discussion requires. You will forgive me if I take my leave.” He moved hastily towards the door as he spoke, followed by Quackinboss, whose voice had now assumed the full tones and the swelling modulations of public oratory.

“That great land, sanctified by the blood of the pilgrim fathers, and whose proudest boast it is that from the first day, when the star-spangled banner of Freedom dallied with the wind and scorned the sun, waving its barred folds over the heads of routed enemies, – to that glorious consummation, when, from the rugged plains of New England to the golden groves of Florida – ”

“Good-bye, sir, – good-evening,” said Ogden, passing out and gaining the landing-place.

“ – One universal shout, floating over the Atlantic waters, proclaimed to the Old World that the ‘Young’ was alive and kickin’ – ”

“Good-night,” cried Ogden, from the bottom of the stairs; and Quackinboss re-entered his chamber and banged the door after him, muttering something to himself about Lexington and Concord, Columbus and Quincy Adams.

CHAPTER XXIII. BROKEN TIES

It was a sorrowful morning at the Villa Caprini on the 22d of November. Agincourt had come to take his last farewell of his kind friends, half heart-broken that he was not permitted even to see poor Layton before he went. Quackinbose, however, was obdurate on the point, and would suffer no one to pass the sick man’s door. Mr. Ogden sat in the carriage as the boy dashed hurriedly into the house to say “Good-bye.” Room after room he searched in vain. No one to be met with. What could it mean? – the drawing-room, the library, all empty!

“Are they all out, Fenton?” cried he, at last.

“No, my Lord, Sir William was here a moment since, Miss Leslie is in her room, and Mrs. Morris, I think, is in the garden.”

To the garden he hurried off at once, and just caught sight of Mrs. Morris and Clara, as, side by side, they turned the angle of an alley.

“At last!” cried he, as he came up with them. “At last I have found some one. Here have I been this half-hour in search of you all, over house and grounds. Why, what’s the matter? – what makes you look so grave?”

“Don’t you know? – haven’t you heard?” cried Mrs. Morris, with a sigh.

“Heard what?”

“Heard that Charles has gone off, – started for England last night, with the intention of joining the first regiment ordered for India.”

“I wish to Heaven he ‘d have taken me with him!” cried the boy, eagerly.

“Very possibly,” said she, dryly; “but Charles was certainly to blame for leaving a home of happiness and affection in this abrupt way. I don’t see how poor Sir William is ever to get over it, not to speak of leaving May Leslie. I hope, Agincourt, this is not the way you ‘ll treat the young lady you ‘re betrothed to.”

“I ‘ll never get myself into any such scrape, depend on’t. Poor Charley!”

“Why not poor May?” whispered Mrs. Morris.

“Well, poor May, too, if she cared for him; but I don’t think she did.”

“Oh, what a shame to say so! I ‘m afraid you young gentlemen are brought up in great heresies nowadays, and don’t put any faith in love.”

Had the boy been an acute observer, he would have marked how little the careless levity of the remark coincided with the assumed sadness of her former manner; but he never noticed this.

“Well,” broke in the boy, bluntly, “why not marry him, if she cared for him? I don’t suppose you ‘ll ask me to believe that Charley would have gone away if she had n’t refused him?”

“What a wily serpent it is!” said Mrs. Morris, smiling; “wanting to wring confidences from me whether I will or no.”

“No. I ‘ll be hanged if I am wily, – am I, Clara?”

What Clara answered was not very distinct, for her face was partly covered with her handkerchief.

“There, you see Clara is rather an unhappy witness to call to character. You ‘d better come to me for a reputation,” said Mrs. Morris, laughingly.

“It’s no matter, I’m going away now,” said he, sorrowfully.

“Going away, – where?”

“Going back to England; they ‘ve sent a man to capture me, as if I was a wild beast, and he’s there at the door now, – precious impatient, too, I promise you, because I ‘m keeping the post-horses waiting.”

“Oh, make him come in to luncheon. He’s a gentleman, – isn’t he?”

“I should think he is! A great political swell, too, a something in the Admiralty, or the Colonies, or wherever it is.”

“Well, just take Clara, and she ‘ll find out May for you, and send your travelling-companion into the garden here. I’ll do the honors to him till lunch-time.” And Mrs. Morris now turned into a shady walk, to think over what topics she should start for the amusement of the great official from Downing Street.

If we were going to tell tales of her, – which we are not, – we might reveal how it happened that she had seen a good deal of such sort of people, at one era of her life, living in a Blue-Book atmosphere, and hearing much out of “Hansard.” We merely mention the fact; as to the how, it is not necessary to refer to it. Not more are we bound to say why she did not retain for such high company what, in French, is called “the most distinguished consideration,” – why, on the contrary, she thought and pronounced them the most insupportable of all bores. Our readers cannot fail to have remarked and appreciated the delicate reserve we have unvaryingly observed towards this lady, – a respectful courtesy that no amount of our curiosity could endanger. Now, “charming women,” of whom Mrs. M. was certainly one, have a great fondness for little occasional displays of their fascinations upon strangers. Whether it is that they are susceptible of those emotions of vanity that sway smaller natures, or whether it be merely to keep their fascinations from rusting by want of exercise, is hard to say; but so is the fact, and the enjoyment is all the higher when, by any knowledge of a speciality, they can astonish their chance acquaintance. For what Lord Agincourt had irreverently styled the “great political swell,” she therefore prepared herself with such memories as some years of life had stored for her. “He’ll wonder,” thought she, “where I came by all my Downing Street slang. I ‘ll certainly puzzle him with my cant of office.” And so thinking, she walked briskly along in the clear frosty air over the crisped leaves that strewed the walk, till she beheld a person approaching from the extreme end of the alley.

The distance between them was yet considerable, and yet how was it that she seemed to falter in her steps, and suddenly, clasping her heart with both hands, appeared seized with a sort of convulsion? At the same instant she threw a terrified glance on every side, and looked like one prepared for sudden flight. To these emotions, more rapid in their course than it has taken time to describe them, succeeded a cold, determined calm, in which her features regained their usual expression, though marked by a paleness like death.

The stranger came slowly forward, examining the trees and flowers as he passed along, and peering with his double eye-glass to read the names attached to whatever was rarest. Affecting to be gathering flowers for a bouquet, she stooped frequently, till the other came near, and then, as he removed his hat to salute her, she threw back her veil and stood, silent, before him.

“Madam! madam!” cried he, in a voice of such intense agony as showed that he was almost choked for utterance. “How is this, madam?” said he, in a tone of indignant demand. “How is this?”

“I have really no explanation to offer, sir,” said she, in a cold, low voice. “My astonishment is great as your own; this meeting is not of my seeking. I need scarcely say so much.”

“I do not know that! – by Heaven I do not!” cried he, in a passion.

“You are surely forgetting, sir, that we are no longer anything to each other, and thus forgetting the deference due to me as a stranger?”

“I neither forget nor forgive!” said he, sternly.

“Happily, sir, you will not be called upon to do either. I no longer bear your name – ”

“Oh that you had never borne it!” cried he, in agony.

“There is at least one sentiment we agree in, sir, – would that I never had!” said she; and a slight – very slight – tremor shook the words as she spoke them.

“Tell me at once, madam, what do you mean by this surprise? I know all your skill in accidents, – what does this one portend?”

“You are too flattering, sir, believe me,” said she, with an easy smile. “I have plotted nothing, – I have nothing to plot, – at least, in which you are concerned. The unhappy bond that once united us is loosed forever; but I do not see that even harsh memories are to suggest bad manners.”

“I am no stranger to your flippancy, madam. You have made me acquainted with all your merits.”

“You were going to say virtues, George, – confess you were?” said she, coquettishly.

“Gracious mercy, woman! can you dare – ”

“My dear Mr. Ogden,” broke she in, gently, “I can dare to be that which you have just told me was impossible for you, – forgetful and forgiving.”

“Oh, madam, this is, indeed, generous!” said be, with a bitter mockery.

“Well, sir, it were no bad thing if there were a little generosity between us. Don’t fancy that all the forgiveness should come from you; don’t imagine that I am not plaintiff as well as defendant.” Then, suddenly changing her tone to one of easy indifference, she said, “And so your impression is, sir, that the Cabinet will undergo no change?”

She looked hurriedly round as she spoke, and saw Sir William Heathcote coming rapidly towards them.

“Sir William, let me present to you Mr. Ogden, a name you must be familiar with in the debates,” said she, introducing them.

“I hope Lord Agincourt has not been correct in telling me that you are pressed for time, Mr. Ogden. I trust you will give us at least a day.”

“Not an hour, not a minute, sir. I mean,” added he, ashamed of his violence, “I have not an instant to spare.”

“You ‘ll scarcely profit by leaving us this morning,” resumed Sir William. “The torrents between this and Massa are all full, and perfectly impassable.”

“Pray accept Sir William’s wise counsels, sir,” said she, with the sweetest of all smiles.

A stern look, and a muttered something inaudible, was all his reply.

“What a dreary servitude must political life be, when one cannot bestow a passing hour upon society!” said she, plaintively.

“Mr. Ogden could tell us that the rewards are worthy of the sacrifices,” said Sir William, blandly.

“Are they better than the enjoyments of leisure, the delights of friendship, and the joys of home?” asked she, half earnestly.

“By Heaven, madam!” cried Ogden, and then stopped; when Sir William broke in, —

“Mrs. Morris is too severe upon public men. They are rarely called on to make such sacrifices as she speaks of.”

While thus talking, they had reached the terrace in front of the house, where Agincourt was standing between May and Clara, holding a hand of each.

“Are you ready?” asked Ogden, abruptly.

“Ready; but very sorry to go,” said the boy, bluntly.

“May we not offer you some luncheon, Mr. Ogden? You will surely take a glass of wine with us?”

“Nothing, sir, nothing. Nothing beneath the same roof with this woman,” muttered he, below his breath; but her quick ears caught the words, and she whispered, —

“An unkind speech, George, – most unkind!”

While Agincourt was taking his last affectionate farewells of the girls and Sir William, Mr. Ogden had entered the carriage, and thrown himself deeply back into a corner. Mrs. Morris, however, leaned over the door, and looked calmly, steadfastly at him.

“Won’t you say good-bye?” said she, softly.

A look of insulting contempt was all his answer.

“Not one kind word at parting? Well, I am better than you; here’s my hand.” And she held out her fair and taper fingers towards him.

“Fiend, – not woman!” was his muttered expression as he turned away.

“And a pleasant journey,” said she, as if finishing a speech; while turning, she gave her hand to Agincourt: “Yes, to be sure, you may take a boy’s privilege, and give me a kiss at parting,” said she; while the youth, blushing a deep crimson, availed himself of the permission.

“There they go,” said Sir William, as the horses rattled down the avenue; “and a finer boy and a grumpier companion it has rarely been my lot to meet with. A thousand pardons, my dear Mrs. Morris, if he is a friend of yours.”

“I knew him formerly,” said she, coldly. “I can’t say I ever liked him.”

“I remember his name,” said Sir William, in a sort of hesitating way; “there was some story or other about him, – either his wife ran away, or he eloped with somebody’s wife.”

“I ‘m sure it must have been the former,” said Mrs. Morris, laughing. “Poor gentleman, he does not give one the impression of a Lothario. But whom have we here? The O’Shea, I declare! Look to your heart, May dearest; take my word for it, he never turned out so smartly without dreams of conquest.” Mr. O’Shea cantered up at the same moment, followed by Joe in a most accurate “get up” as groom, and, dismounting, advanced, hat in hand, to salute the party.

There are blank days in this life of ours in which even a pleasant visitor is a bore, – times in which dulness and seclusion are the best company, and it is anything but a boon to be broken in upon. It was the O’Shea’s evil fortune to have fallen on one of these. It was in vain he recounted his club gossip about politics and party to Sir William; in vain he told Mrs. Morris the last touching episode of town scandal; in vain, even, did he present a fresh bouquet of lily-of-the-valley to May: each in turn passed him on to the other, till he found himself alone with Clara, who sat sorrowfully over the German lesson Layton was wont to help her with.

“What’s the matter with you all?” cried he, half angrily, as he walked the room from end to end. “Has there any misfortune happened?”

“Charley has left us, Agincourt is just gone, the pleasant house is broken up; is not that enough to make us sad?” said she, sorrowfully.

“If you ever read Tommy Moore, you ‘d know it was only another reason to make the most of the friends that were left behind,” said he, adjusting his cravat at the glass, and giving himself a leer of knowing recognition. “That’s the time of day, Clara!”

She looked at him, somewhat puzzled to know whether he had alluded to his sentiment, his whiskers, which he was now caressing, or the French clock on the mantelpiece.

“Is that one of Layton’s?” said he, carelessly turning over a water-colored sketch of a Lucchese landscape.

“Yes,” said she, replacing it carefully in a portfolio.

“He won’t do many more of them, I suspect.”

“How so? – why? – what do you mean?” cried she, grasping his arm, while a death-like paleness spread over her features.

“Just that he’s going as fast as he can. What’s the mischief! is it fainting she is?”

With a low, weak sigh, the girl had relaxed her hold, and, staggering backwards, sunk senseless on the floor. O’Shea tugged violently at the bell: the servant rushed in, and immediately after Mrs. Morris herself; but by this time Clara had regained consciousness, and was able to utter a few words.

“I was telling her of Layton’s being so ill,” began he, in a whisper, to Mrs. Morris.

“Of course you were,” said she, pettishly. “For an inconvenience or an indiscretion, what can equal an Irishman?”

The speech was uttered as she led her daughter away, leaving the luckless O’Shea alone to ruminate over the politeness.

“There it is!” cried he, indignantly. “From the ‘Times’ down to the Widow Morris, it’s the same story, – the Irish! the Irish! – and it’s no use fighting against it. Smash the Minister in Parliament, and you ‘ll be told it was a speech more adapted to an Irish House of Commons; break the Sikh squares with the bayonet, and the cry is ‘Tipperary tactics.’ Isn’t it a wonder how we bear it! I ask any man, did he ever hear of patience like ours?”

It was just as his indignation had reached this crisis that May Leslie hurriedly came into the room to search for a locket Clara had dropped when she fainted. While O’Shea assisted her in her search, he bethought whether the favorable moment had not arrived to venture on the great question of his own fate. It was true, he was still smarting under a national disparagement; but the sarcasm gave a sort of reckless energy to his purpose, and he mattered, “Now, or never, for it!”

“I suppose it was a keepsake,” said he, as he peered under the tables after the missing object.

“I believe so. At least, the poor child attaches great value to it.”

“Oh dear!” sighed O’Shea. “If it was an old bodkin that was given me by one I loved, I ‘d go through fire and water to get possession of it.”

“Indeed!” said she, smiling at the unwonted energy of the protestation.

“I would,” repeated he, more solemnly. “It’s not the value of the thing itself I ‘d ever think of. There’s the ring was wore by my great-grandmother Ram, of Ram’s Mountain; and though it’s a rose-amethyst, worth three hundred guineas, it’s only as a family token it has merit in my eyes.”

Now this speech, discursive though it seemed, was artfully intended by the Honorable Member, for while incidentally throwing out claims to blood and an ancestry, it cunningly insinuated what logicians call the à fortiori, – how the man who cared so much for his grandmother would necessarily adore his wife.

“We must give it up, I see,” said May. “She has evidently not lost it here.”

“And it was a heart, you say!” sighed the Member.

“Yes, a little golden heart with a ruby clasp.”

“Oh dear! And to think that I’ve lost my own in the self-same spot”

“Yours! Why, had you a locket too?”

“No, my angel!” cried he, passionately, as he clasped her hand, and fell on his knee before her, “but my heart, – a heart that lies under your feet this minute! There, don’t turn away, – don’t! May I never, if I know what’s come over me these two months back! Night or day, it is the one image is always before me, – one voice always in my ears.”

“How tiresome that must be!” said she, laughing merrily. “There, pray let go my hand; this is only folly, and not in very good taste, either.”

“Folly, you call it? Love is madness, if you like. Out of this spot I ‘ll never stir till I know my fate. Say the word, and I’m the happiest man or the most abject creature – You ‘re laughing again, – I wonder how you can be so cruel!”

“Really, sir, if I regard your conduct as only absurd, it is a favorable view of it,” said she, angrily.

“Do, darling of my soul! light of my eyes! loadstar of my whole destiny! – do take a favorable view of it,” said he, catching at her last words.

“I have certainly given you no pretence to make me ridiculous, sir,” said she, indignantly.

“Ridiculous! ridiculous!” cried he, in utter amazement. “Sure it’s my hand I ‘m offering you. What were you thinking of?”

“I believe I apprehend you aright, sir, and have only to say, that, however honored by your proposal, it is one I must decline.”

“Would n’t you tell me why, darling? Would n’t you say your reasons, my angel? Don’t shake your head, my adored creature, but turn this way, and say, ‘Gorman, your affection touches me: I see your love for me; but I ‘m afraid of you: you ‘re light and fickle and inconstant; you ‘re spoiled by flattery among the women, and deference and respect amongst the men. What can I hope from a nature so pampered?’”

“No, in good truth, Mr. O’Shea, not one of these objections have occurred to me; my answer was dictated by much narrower and more selfish considerations. At all events, sir, it is final; and I need only appeal to your sense of good-breeding never to resume a subject I have told you is distasteful to me.” And with a heightened color, and a glance which certainly betokened no softness, she turned away and left him.

“Distasteful! distasteful!” muttered he over her last words. “Women! women! women! there’s no knowing ye – the devil a bit! What you ‘d like, and what you would n’t is as great a secret as the philosopher’s stone! Heigho!” sighed he, as he opened his cravat, and drew in a long breath. “I did n’t take a canter like that, these five years, and it has sent all the blood to my head. I hope she ‘ll not mention it. I hope she won’t tell it to the widow,” muttered he, as he walked to the window for air. “She’s the one would take her own fun out of it. Upon my conscience, this is mighty like apoplexy,” said he, as, sitting down, he fanned himself with a book.