"A partnership in an old-established house," said she, with a mocking laugh, "is always something; but I won't prejudge events, nor throw my cards on the table till I have lost the game. And _a propos_ to losing the game, suppose that luck should turn against us,--suppose that we fail to supply some essential link in this chain of fortune,--suppose that Trover should change his mind and sell us,--suppose, in short, anything adverse you please,--what means are remaining to you, papa?

Have you enough to support us in some cheap unfrequented spot at home or abroad?"

"I could get together about two hundred and forty pounds a year, not more."

"One could live upon that, could n't one?" asked she.

"Yes, in a fashion. With a number of privations you have never experienced, self-denial in fifty things you have never known to be luxuries, with a small house and small habits and small acquaintances, one could rub through, but no more."

"Oh, how I should like to try it!" cried she, clasping her hands together. "Oh, what would I not give to pass one year--one entire year of life--without the ever-present terror of exposure, shame, and scorn,--to feel that when I lie down to rest at night a knock at the street door should not throw me into the cold perspiration of ague, or the coming of the postman set my heart a-throbbing, as though the missive were a sentence on me! Why cannot I have peace like this?"

"Poverty has no peace, my dear Loo. It is the poorest of all wars, for it is the pettiest of all objects. It would break my heart to see you engaged in such a conflict."

And the Captain suffered his eyes to range over the handsome room and its fine furniture, while his thoughts wandered to a French cook, and that delicious "Chateau Margaux" he had tasted yesterday.

Did she read what was passing in his mind, as, with a touch of scorn in her manner, she said, "Doubtless you know the world better," and left the room?

CHAPTER XLIX. THE PALAZZO BALBI

The household of the Palazzo Balbi was unusually busy and active. There was a coming and a parting guest. Sir William himself was far too much occupied by the thoughts of his son's arrival to bestow much interest upon the departure of Captain Holmes. Not that this ingenious gentleman had failed in any of the requirements of his parasitical condition, nay, he had daily improved the occasion of his presence, and ingratiated himself considerably in the old Baronet's favor; but it is, happily, the lot of such people to be always forgotten where the real affections are in play. They while away a weary day, they palliate the small irritations of daily life, they suggest devices to cheat ennui, but they have no share in deeper sentiments; we neither rejoice nor weep with them.

"Sorry for your friend's illness!"--"Sincerely trust you may find him better!"--or, "Ah, it is a lady, I forgot; and that we may soon see you on this side of the Alps again!"--"Charming weather for your journey!

"--"Good-bye, good-bye!"

And with this he shook his hand cordially enough, and forgot him.

"I'm scarcely sorry he's gone," said May, "he was _so_ deaf! And besides, papa, he was too civil,--too complaisant. I own I had become a little impatient of his eternal compliments, and the small scraps out of Shelley and Keats that he adapted to my address."

"All the better for Charley, that," said the old Baronet "You'll bear his rough frankness with more forgiveness after all this sugary politeness." He never noticed how this random speech sent the blood to her cheeks, and made her crimson over face and neck; nor, indeed, had he much time to bestow on it, for the servant opened the door at the instant, and announced, "Captain Heathcote." In a moment the son was in his father's arms. "My boy, my dear boy," was all the old man could say; and Charles, though determined to maintain the most stoical calm throughout the whole visit, had to draw his hand across his eyes in secret.

"How well you look, Charley,--stouter and heavier than when here.

English life and habits have agreed with you, boy."

"Yes, sir. If I can manage to keep my present condition, I 'm in good working trim for a campaign; and you--tell me of yourself."

"There is little to say on that subject. When men live to my term, about the utmost they can say is, that they are here."

Though he tried to utter these words in a half-jocular tone, his voice faltered, and his lips trembled; and as the young man looked, he saw that his father's face was careworn and sad, and that months had done the work of years on him since they parted. Charles did his utmost to treat these signs of sorrow lightly, and spoke cheerfully and even gayly.

"I'd go with your merry humor, boy, with all my heart, if you were not about to leave us."

Was it anything in the interests thus touched on, or was it the chance phrase, "to leave _us_." that made young Heathcote become pale as death while he asked, "How is May?"

"Well,--quite well; she was here a moment back. I fancied she was in the room when you came in. I'll send for her."

"No, no; time enough. Let us have a few more minutes together."

In a sort of hurried and not very collected way, he now ran on to talk of his prospects and the life before him. It was easy to mark how the assumed slap-dash manner was a mere mask to the bitter pain he felt and that he knew he was causing. He talked of India as though a few days'

distance,--of the campaign like a hunting-party; the whole thing was a sort of eccentric ramble, to have its requital in plenty of incident and adventure. He even assumed all the vulgar slang about "hunting down the niggers," and coming back loaded with "loot," when the old man threw his arm around him, and said,--

"But not to me, Charley,--not to _me_."

The chord was touched at last. All the pretended careless ease was gone, and the young man sobbed aloud as he pressed his father to his breast.

The secret which each wanted to keep to his own heart was out, and now they must not try any longer a deception.

"And why must it be, Charley? what is the urgent cause for deserting me?

I have more need of you than ever I had. I want your counsel and your kindness; your very presence--as I feel it this moment--is worth all my doctors."

"I think you know--I think I told you, I mean--that you are no stranger to the position I stood in here. You never taught me, father, that dependence was honorable. It was not amongst your lessons that a life of inglorious idleness was becoming." As with a faltering and broken utterance he spoke these words, his confusion grew greater and greater, for he felt himself on the very verge of a theme that he dreaded to touch; and at last, with a great effort, he said, "And besides all this, I had no right to sacrifice another to my selfishness."

"I don't understand you, Charley."

"Maybe not, sir; but I am speaking of what I know for certain. But let us not go back on these things."

"What are they? Speak out, boy," cried he, more eagerly.

"I see you are not aware of what I thought you knew. You do not seem to know that May's affections are engaged,--that she has given her heart to that young college man who was here long ago as Agincourt's tutor. They have corresponded."

"Corresponded!"

"Yes, I know it all, and she will not deny it,--nor need she, from all I can learn. He is a fine-hearted fellow, worthy of any girl's love.

Agincourt has told me some noble traits of him, and he deserves all his good fortune."

"But to think that she should have contracted this engagement without consulting me,--that she should have written to him--"

"I don't see how you can reproach her, a poor motherless girl. How could she go to you with her heart full of sorrows and anxieties? She was making no worldly compact in which she needed your knowledge of life to guide her."

"It was treachery to us all!" cried the old man, bitterly, for now he saw to what he owed his son's desertion of him.

"It was none to _me_; so much I will say, father. A stupid compact would have bound her to her unhappiness, and this she had the courage to resist."

"And it is for this I am to be forsaken in my old age!" exclaimed he, in an accent of deep anguish. "I can never forgive her,--never!"

Charles sat down beside him, and, with his arm on the old man's shoulder, talked to him long in words of truest affection. He recalled to his mind the circumstances under which May Leslie first came amongst them, the daughter of his oldest, dearest friend, intrusted to his care, to become one day his own daughter, if she willed it.

"Would you coerce her to this? Would you profit by the authority you possess over her to constrain her will? Is it thus you would interpret the last dying words of your old companion? Do not imagine, father, that I place these things before you in cold blood or indifference. I have my share of sorrow in the matter." He was going to say more, but he stopped himself, and, arising, walked towards the window. "There she is!" cried he, "on the terrace; I'll go and meet her." And with this he went out.

It is not impossible that the generous enthusiasm into which Charles Heathcote had worked himself to subdue every selfish feeling about May enabled him to meet her with less constraint and difficulty. At all events, he came towards her with a manner so like old friendship that, though herself confused, she received him with equal cordiality.

[Illustration: 504]

"How like old times, May, is all this!" said he, as, with her arm within his own, they strolled under a long vine trellis. "If I had not to remember that next Wednesday I most be at Malta, I could almost fancy I had never been away. I wonder when we are to meet again? and where, and how?"

"I'm sure it is not I that can tell you," said she, painfully; for in the attempt to conceal his emotion his voice had assumed a certain accent of levity that wounded her deeply.

"The where matters little, May," resumed he; "but the when is much, and the how still more."