Mr. O'Shea had a very happy knack at billiards. It was an accomplishment
which had stood him more in stead in life than even his eloquence in the
House, his plausibility in the world, or his rose-amethyst ring. That
adventurous category of mankind, who have, as Curran phrased it, “the
title-deeds of their estates under the crown of their hats,” must, out
of sheer necessity, cultivate their natural gifts to a higher perfection
than that well-to-do, easy-living class for whom Fortune has provided
“land and beeves,” and are obliged to educate hand, eye, and hearing to
an amount of artistic excellence of which others can form no conception.
Now, just as the well-trained singer can modulate his tones, suiting
them to the space around him, or as the orator so pitches his voice as
to meet the ears of his auditory, without any exaggerated effort, so did
the Member for Inch measure out his skill, meting it to the ability of
his adversary with a graduated nicety as delicate as that of a chemist
in apportioning the drops of a precious medicament.
It was something to see him play. There was a sort of lounging
elegance,--a half purpose-like energy, dashed with indolence,--a sense
of power, blended with indifference,--a something that bespoke the
caprice of genius, mingled with a spirit that seemed to whisper that,
after all, “cannons” were only vanity, and “hazards” themselves but
vexation of spirit. He was, though a little past his best years, a good-
looking fellow,--a thought too pluffy, perhaps, and more than a thought
too swaggering and pretentious; but somehow these same attributes did
not detract from the display of certain athletic graces of which the
game admits, for, after all, it was only Antinous fallen a little into
flesh, and seen in his waistcoat.
It was mainly to this accomplishment he owed the invitations he received
to the villa. Charles Heathcote, fully convinced of his own superiority
at the game, was piqued and irritated at the other's success; while Sir
William was, perhaps, not sorry that his son should receive a slight
lesson on the score of his self-esteem, particularly where the price
should not be too costly. The billiard-room thus became each evening the
resort of all in the villa. Thither May Leslie fetched her work, and
Mrs. Morris her crochet needles, and Clara her book; while around the
table itself were met young Heathcote, Lord Agincourt, O'Shea, and
Layton. Of course the stake they played for was a mere trifle,--a mere
nominal prize, rather intended to record victory than reward the
victors,--just as certain taxes are maintained more for statistics than
revenue,--and half-crowns changed hands without costing the loser an
afterthought; so at least the spectators understood, and all but one
believed. Her quiet and practised eye, however, detected in Charles
Heathcote's manner something more significant than the hurt pride of a
beaten player, and saw under all the external show of O'Shea's
indifference a purpose-like energy, little likely to be evoked for a
trifling stake. Under the pretext of marking the game, a duty for which
she had offered her services, she was enabled to watch what went forward
without attracting peculiar notice, and she could perceive how, from
time to time, Charles and O'Shea would exchange a brief word as they
passed,--sometimes a monosyllable, sometimes a nod,--and at such times
the expression of Heathcote's face would denote an increased anxiety and
irritation. It was while thus watching one evening, a chance phrase she
overheard confirmed all her suspicions,--it was while bending down her
head to show some peculiar stitch to May Leslie that she brought her ear
to catch what passed.
“This makes three hundred,” whispered Charles.
“And fifty,” rejoined O'Shea, as cautiously.
“Nothing of the kind,” answered Charles, angrily.
“You 'll find I 'm right,” said the other, knocking the balls about to
drown the words. “Are you for another game?” asked he, aloud.
“No; I 've bad enough of it,” said Charles, impatiently, as he drew out
his cigar-case,--trying to cover his irritation by searching for a cigar
to his liking.
“I 'm your man, Inch-o'-brogue,” broke in Agincourt; for it was by this
impertinent travesty of the name of his borough he usually called him.
“What, isn't the pocket-money all gone yet?” said the other,
contemptuously.
“Not a bit of it, man. Look at that,” cried he, drawing forth a long
silk purse, plumply filled. “There's enough to pay off the mortgage on
an Irish estate, I 'm sure!”
While these freedoms were being interchanged, Charles Heathcote had left
the room, and strolled out into the garden. Mrs. Morris, affecting to go
in search of something for her work, took occasion also to go; but no
sooner had she escaped from the room than she followed him.
Why was it, can any one say, that May Leslie bestowed more than ordinary
attention on the game at this moment, evincing an interest in it she had
never shown before? Mr. O'Shea had given the young Marquis immense odds;
but he went further, he played off a hundred little absurdities to
increase the other's chances,--he turned his back to the table,--he
played with his left hand,--he poked the balls without resting his cue,-
-he displayed the most marvellous dexterity, accomplishing hazards that
seemed altogether beyond all calculation; for all crafty and subtle as
he was, vanity had got the mastery over him, and his self-conceit rose
higher and higher with every astonished expression of the pretty girl
who watched him. While May could not restrain her astonishment at his
skill, O'Shea's efforts to win her praise redoubled.
“I'll yield to no man in a game of address,” said he, boastfully: “to
ride across country, to pull a boat, to shoot, fish, fence, or swim--
There, my noble Marquis, drop your tin into that pocket and begin
another game. I 'll give you eighty-five out of a hundred.”
“Is n't he what Quackinboss would call a 'ternal swaggerer, May?” cried
Agincourt.
“He is a most brilliant billiard-player,” said May, smiling courteously,
with a glance towards the recess of the window, where Layton was leaning
over Clara's chair and reading out of the book she held in her hand.
“How I wish you would give me some lessons!” added she, still slyly
stealing a look at the window.
“Charmed,--only too happy. You overwhelm me with the honor, Miss Leslie,
and my name is not O'Shea if I do not make you an admirable player, for
I've remarked already you have great correctness of eye.”
“Indeed!”
“Astonishing; and with that, a wonderfully steady hand.”
“How you flatter me!”
“Flatter? Ah, you little know me, Miss Leslie!” said he, as he passed
before her.
May blushed, for at that moment Layton had lifted his eyes from the book
and turned them full upon her. So steadfastly did he continue to look,
that her cheek grew hotter and redder, and a something like resentment
seemed to possess her; while he, as though suddenly conscious of having
in some degree committed himself, held down his head in deep confusion.
May Leslie arose from her seat, and, with a haughty toss of her head,
drew nigh the table.
“Are you going to join us, May?” cried the boy, merrily.
“I 'm going to take my first lesson, if Mr. O'Shea will permit me,” said
she; but the tone of her voice vibrated less with pleasure than
resentment.
“I 'm at my lessons, too, May,” cried Clara, from the window. “Is it not
kind of him to help me?”
“Most kind,--most considerate!” said May, abruptly; and then, throwing
down the cue on the table, she said, “I fancy I have a headache. I hope
you 'll excuse me for the present.” And almost ere Mr. O'Shea could
answer, she had left the room. Clara speedily followed her, and for a
minute or two not a word was uttered by the others.
“I move that the house be counted,” cried the Member for Inch. “What has
come over them all this evening? Do _you_ know, Layton?”
“Do _I_ know? Know what?” cried Alfred, trying to arouse himself out of
a revery.
“Do you know that Inch-o'-brogue has not left me five shillings out of
my last quarter's allowance?” said the boy.
“You must pay for your education, my lad,” said O'Shea. “I did n't get
mine for nothing. Layton there can teach you longs and shorts, to
scribble nonsense-verses, and the like; but for the real science of
life, 'how to do _them_ as has done _you_,' you must come to fellows
like me.”
“Yes, there is much truth in _that_,” said Layton, who, not having heard
one word the other had spoken, corroborated all of it, out of pure
distraction of mind.
The absurdity was too strong for Agincourt and O'Shea, and they both
laughed out. “Come,” said O'Shea, slapping Layton on the shoulder, “wake
up, and roll the balls about. I 'll play you your own game, and give you
five-and-twenty odds. There's a sporting offer!”
“Make it to me,” broke in Agincourt.
“So I would, if you weren't pumped out, my noble Marquis.”
“And could you really bring yourself to win a boy's pocket-money,--a
mere boy?” said Layton, now suddenly aroused to full consciousness, and
coming so close to O'Shea as to be inaudible to the other.
“Smallest contributions thankfully received, is _my_ motto,” said
O'Shea. “Not but, as a matter of education, the youth has gained a
deuced sight more from _me_ than _you!_”
“The reproach is just,” said Layton, bitterly. “I _have_ neglected my
trust,--grossly neglected it,--and in nothing more than suffering him to
keep _your_ company.”
“Oh! is that your tone?” whispered the other, still lower. “Thank your
stars for it, you never met a man more ready to humor your whim.”
“What's the 'Member' plotting?” said Agincourt, coming up between them.
“Do let _me_ into the plan.”
“It is something he wishes to speak to _me_ about tomorrow at eleven
o'clock,” said Layton, with a significant look at O'Shea, “and which is
a matter strictly between ourselves.”
“All right,” said Agincourt, turning back to the table again, while
O'Shea, with a nod of assent, left the room.
“We must set to work vigorously to-morrow, Henry,” said Layton, laying
his hand on the boy's shoulder. “You have fallen into idle ways, and the
fault is all my own. For both our sakes, then, let us amend it.”
“Whatever you like, Alfred,” said the boy, turning on him a look of real
affection; “only never blame yourself if you don't make a genius of me.
I was always a stupid dog!”
“You are a true-hearted English boy,” muttered Layton, half to himself,
“and well deserved to have fallen into more careful hands than mine.
Promise me, however, all your efforts to repair the past.”
“That I will,” said he, grasping the other's hand, and shaking it in
token of his pledge. “But I still think,” said he, in a slightly broken
voice, “they might have made a sailor of me; they 'll never make a
scholar!”
“We must get away; we must leave this,” said Layton, speaking half to
himself.
“I 'm sorry for it,” replied the boy. “I like the old villa, and I like
Sir William and Charley, and the girls too. Ay, and I like that trout
stream under the alders, and that jolly bit of grass land where we have
just put up the hurdles. I say, Layton,” added he, with a sigh, “I
wonder when shall we be as happy as we have been here?”
“Who knows?” said Layton, sorrowfully.
“I'm sure _I_ never had such a pleasant time of it in my life. Have
you?”
“_I_--I don't know,--that is, I believe not. I mean--never,” stammered
out Layton, in confusion.
“Ha! I fancied as much. I thought you didn't like it as well as _I_
did.”
“Why so?” asked Layton, eagerly.
“It was May put it into my head the other morning. She said it was
downright cruelty to make you come out and stop here; that you could
n't, with all your politeness, conceal how much the place bored you!”
“She said this?”
“Yes; and she added that if it were not for Clara, with her German
lessons and her little Venetian barcarolles, you would have been driven
to desperation.”
“But you could have told her, Henry, that I delighted in this place;
that I never had passed such happy days as here.”
“I did think so when we knew them first, but latterly it seemed to me
that you were somehow sadder and graver than you used to be. You didn't
like to ride with us; you seldom came down to the river; you'd pass all
the morning in the library; and, as May said, you only seemed happy when
you were giving Clara her lesson in German.”
“And to whom did May say this?”
“To me and to Clara.
“And Clara,--did she make any answer?”
“Not a word. She got very pale, and seemed as though she would burst out
a-crying. Heaven knows why! Indeed, I 'm not sure the tears were n't in
her eyes, as she hurried away; and it was the only day I ever saw May
Leslie cross.”
“I never saw her so,” said Layton, half rebukefully.
“Then you didn't see her on that day, that's certain! She snubbed
Charley about his riding, and would n't suffer Mrs. Morris to show her
something that had gone wrong in her embroidery; and when we went down
to the large drawing-room to rehearse our tableau,--that scene you wrote
for us,--she refused to take a part, and said, 'Get Clara; she 'll do it
better!'”
“And it was thus our little theatricals fell to the ground,” said
Layton, musingly; “and I never so much as suspected all this!”
“Well,” said the boy, with a hesitating manner, “I believe I ought not
to have told you. I 'm sure she never intended I should; but somehow,
after our tiff--”
“And did _you_ quarrel with her?” asked Layton, eagerly.
“Not quarrel, exactly; but it was what our old commander used to call a
false-alarm fire; for I thought her unjust and unfair towards you, and
always glad when she could lay something or other to your charge, and I
said so to her frankly.”
“And she?”
“She answered me roundly enough. 'When you are a little older, young
gentleman,' said she, 'you 'll begin to discover that our likings and
dislikings are not always under our own control.' She tried to be very
calm and cool as she said it, but she was as pale as if going to faint
before she finished.”
“She said truly,” muttered Layton to himself; “our impulses are but the
shadows our vices or virtues throw before them.” Then laying his arm on
the boy's shoulder, he led him away, to plan and plot out a future
course of study, and repair all past negligence and idleness.
Ere we leave this scene, let us follow Mrs. Morris, who, having quitted
the house, quickly went in search of Charles Heathcote. There was that
in the vexed and angry look of the young man, as he left the room, that
showed her how easy it would be in such a moment to become his
confidante. Through the traits of his resentment she could read an
impatience that could soon become indiscretion. “Let me only be the
repository of any secret of his mind,” muttered she,--“I care not what,-
-and I ask nothing more. If there be one door of a house open,--be it
the smallest,--it is enough to enter by.”
She had not to go far in her search. There was a small raised terrace at
the end of the garden,--a favorite spot with him,--and thither she had
often herself repaired to enjoy the secret luxury of a cigar; for Mrs.
Morris smoked whenever opportunity permitted that indulgence without the
hazard of forfeiting the good opinion of such as might have held the
practice in disfavor. Now, Charles Heathcote was the only confidant of
this weakness, and the mystery, small as it was, had served to establish
a sort of bond between them.
“I knew I should find you here,” said she, stealing noiselessly to his
side, as, leaning over the terrace, he stood deep in thought. “Give me a
cigar.”
He took the case slowly from his pocket, and held it towards her in
silence.
“How vastly polite! Choose one for me, sir,” said she, pettishly.
“They 're all alike,” said he, carelessly, as he drew one from the
number and offered it.
“And now a light,” said she, “for I see yours has gone out, without your
knowing it. Pray do mind what you 're doing; you've let the match fall
on my foot. Look there!”
And he did look, and saw the prettiest foot and roundest ankle that ever
Parisian coquetry had done its uttermost to grace; but he only smiled
half languidly, and said, “There's no mischief done--to either of us!”
the last words being muttered to himself. Her sharp ears, however, had
caught them; and had he looked at her then, he would have seen her face
a deep crimson. “Is the play over? Have they left the billiard-room?”
asked he.
“Of course it is over,” said she, mockingly. “Sportsmen rarely linger in
the preserves where there is no game.”
“What do you think of that same Mr. O'Shea? You rarely mistake people.
Tell me frankly your opinion of him,” said he, abruptly.
“He plays billiards far better than _you_,” said she, dryly.
“I 'm not talking of his play, I 'm asking what you think of him.”
“He's your master at whist, écarté, and piquet. I _think_ he's a better
pistol shot; and he says he rides better.”
“I defy him. He's a boastful, conceited fellow. Take his own account,
and you 'll not find his equal anywhere. But still, all this is no
answer to my question.”
“Yes, but it is, though. When a man possesses a very wide range of small
accomplishments in a high degree of perfection, I always take it for
granted that he lives by them.”
“Just what I thought,--exactly what I suspected,” broke he in, angrily.
“I don't know how we ever came to admit him here, as we have. That
passion May has for opening the doors to every one has done it all.”
“If people will have a menagerie, they must make up their mind to meet
troublesome animals now and then,” said she, dryly.
“And then,” resumed he, “the absurdity is, if I say one word, the reply
is, 'Oh, you are so jealous!'”
“Naturally enough!” was the cool remark.
“Naturally enough! And why naturally enough? Is it of such fellows as
Layton or O'Shea I should think of being jealous?”
“I think you might,” said she, gravely. “They are, each of them, very
eager to succeed in that about which you show yourself sufficiently
indifferent; and although May is certainly bound by the terms of her
father's will, there are conditions by which she can purchase her
freedom.”
“Purchase her freedom! And is that the way she regards her position?”
cried he, trembling with agitation.
“Can you doubt it? Need you do more than ask yourself, How do you look
on your own case? And yet you are not going to bestow a great fortune. I
'm certain that, do what you will, your heart tells you it is a slave's
bargain.”
“Did May tell you so?” said he, in a voice thick with passion.
“No.”
“Did she ever hint as much?”
“No.”
“Do you believe that any one ever dared to say it?”
“As to that, I can't say; the world is very daring, and says a great
many naughty things without much troubling itself about their
correctness.”
“It may spare its censure on the present occasion, then.”
“Is it that you will not exact her compliance?”
“I will not.”
“How well I read you,” cried she, catching up his cold and still
reluctant hand between both her own; “how truly I understood your noble,
generous nature! It was but yesterday I was writing about you to a very
dear friend, who had asked me when the marriage was to take place, and I
said: 'If I have any skill in deciphering character, I should say,
Never. Charles Heathcote is not the man to live a pensioner on a wife's
rental; he is far more likely to take service again as a soldier, and
win a glorious name amongst those who are now reconquering India. His
daring spirit chafes against the inglorious idleness of his present
life, and I 'd not wonder any morning to see his place vacant at the
breakfast-table, and to hear he had sailed for Alexandria.'”
“You do me a fuller justice than many who have known me longer,” said
he, pensively.
“Because I read you more carefully,--because I considered you without
any disturbing element of self-interest; and if I was now and then angry
at the lethargic indolence of your daily life, I used to correct myself
and say, 'Be patient; his time is coming; and when the hour has once
struck for him, he 'll dally no longer!'”
“And my poor father--”
“Say, rather, your proud father, for he is the man to appreciate your
noble resolution, and feel proud of his son.”
“But to leave him--to desert him--”
“It is no eternal separation. In a year or two you will rejoin him,
never to part again. Take my word for it, the consciousness that his son
is accomplishing a high duty will be a strong fund of consolation for
absence. It is to mistake him to suppose that he could look on your
present life without deep regret.”
“Ah! is that so?” cried he, with an expression of pain.
“He has never owned as much to me; but I have read it in him, just as I
have read in _you_ that you are not the man to stoop to an ignominious
position to purchase a life of ease and luxury.”
“You were right there!” said he, warmly.
“Of course I was. I could not be mistaken.”
“You shall not be, at all events,” said he, hurriedly. “How cold your
hand is! Let us return to the house.” And they walked back in silence to
the door.