"He says, too, that I have treated May as cruelly and as unjustly; also, that I have broken up their once happy home. In fact, he lays all at _my_ door."

"And have you seen _her?_"

"Yes, we had a meeting last night, and a long talk this morning; and, indeed, it was about that I wanted to speak to you when I found O'Shea here. Confound the fellow! he has made the thing more difficult than ever, for I have quite forgotten how I had planned it all."

"Planned it all! Surely there was no need of a plan, Charley, in anything that you meant to say to _me?_"

"Yes, but there was, though. You have very often piqued me by saying that I never knew my own mind from one day to another, that you were always prepared for some change of intention in me, and that nothing would surprise you less than that I should 'throw you over' the very day before we were to sail for India."

"Was I very, very unjust, Charley?" said he, kindly.

"_I_ think you were, and for this reason: he who is master of his own fate, so far as personal freedom and ample fortune can make him, ought not to judge rashly of the doubts and vacillations and ever changing purposes of him who has to weigh fifty conflicting influences. The one sufficiently strong to sway others may easily take his line and follow it; the other is the slave of any incident of the hour, and must be content to accept events, and not mould them."

"I read it all, Charley. You 'll not go out?"

"I will not."

Agincourt repressed the smile that was fast gathering on his lips, and, in a grave and quiet voice, said, "And why?"

"For the very reason you have so often given me. She cares for me; she has told me so herself, and even asked me not to leave them! I explained to her that I had given you not only a promise, but a pledge, that, unless you released me, I was bound in honor to accompany you. She said, 'Will you leave this part of the matter to _me?_' and I answered, 'No, I'll go frankly to him, and say, "I'm going to break my word with you: I have to choose between May Leslie and you, and I vote for her."'"

"What a deal of self-sacrifice it might have saved you, Charley," said he, laughing, "had you seen this telegram which came when I had sat down to breakfast." It came from the Horse Guards, sent by some private friend of Agincourt' s, and was in these words: "The row is over, no more drafts for India, do not go."

Heathcote read and re-read the paper for several minutes. "So, then, for once I have luck on my side. My resolve neither wounds a friend nor hurts my own self-esteem. Of course _you_ 'll not go?"

"Certainly not I 'll not go out to hunt the lame ducks that others have wounded."

"You 'll let me take this and show it to my father," said Heathcote. "He shall learn the real reason of my stay hereafter, but for the present this will serve to make him happy; and poor May, too, will be spared the pain of thinking that in yielding to her wish I have jeopardized a true friendship. I can scarcely believe all this happiness real, Agincourt.

After so long a turn of gloom and despondency, I cannot trust myself to think that fortune means so kindly by me. Were it not for one unhappy thought,--one only,--I could say I have nothing left to wish for."

"And what is that?--Is it anything in which I can be of service to you?"

"No, my dear fellow; if it were, I'd never have said it was a cause for sorrow. It is a case, however, equally removed from your help as from mine. I told you some time back that my father, yielding to a game of cleverly played intrigue, had determined to marry this widow, Mrs.

Penthony Morris, whom you remember. So long as the question was merely mooted in gossip, I could not allude to it; but when he wrote himself to me on the subject, I remonstrated with him as temperately as I was able.

I adverted to their disproportion of age, their dissimilarity of habits; and, lastly, I spoke out and told him that we knew nothing, any of us, of this lady, her family, friends, or connections; that though I had inquired widely, I never met the man who could give me any information about her, or had ever heard of her husband. I wrote all this, and much more of the same kind, in the strain of frank confidence a son might employ towards his father, particularly when they had long lived together in relations of the dearest and closest affection. I waited eagerly for his answer. Some weeks went over, and then there came a letter, not from him, but from her. The whole mischief was out: he had given her my letter, and said, 'Answer it.' I will show you her epistle one of these days. It is really clever. There wasn't a word of reproach,--not an angry syllable in the whole of it She was pained, fretted, deeply fretted by what I had written, but she acknowledged that I had, if I liked to indulge them, reasonable grounds for all my distrusts, though, perhaps, it might have been more generous to oppose them. At first, she said, she had resolved to satisfy all my doubts by the names and circumstances of her connections, with every detail of family history and fortune; but, on second thoughts, her pride revolted against a step so offensive to personal dignity, and she had made up her mind to confine these revelations to my father, and then leave his roof forever. 'Writing,' continued she, 'as I now do, without his knowledge of what I say,--for, with a generous confidence in me that I regret is not felt in other quarters, he has refused to read my letter,--I may tell you that I shall place my change of purpose on such grounds as can never possibly endanger your future relations with your father. He shall never suspect, in fact, from anything in my conduct, that my departure was influenced in the slightest degree by what has fallen from _you_. The reasons I will give him for my step will refer solely to circumstances that refer to myself. Go back, therefore, in all confidence and love, and give your whole affection to one who needs and who deserves it!

"There was, perhaps, a slight tendency to dilate upon what ought to constitute my duties and regards; but, on the whole, the letter was well written and wonderfully dispassionate. I was sorely puzzled how to answer it, or what course to take, and might have been more so, when my mind was relieved by a most angry epistle from my father, accusing me roundly, not only of having wilfully forsaken him, but having heartlessly insulted the very few who compassionated his lonely lot, and were even ready to share it.

"This ended our correspondence, and I never wrote again till I mentioned my approaching departure for India, and offered, if he wished it, to take Italy on my way and see him once more before I went. To this there came the kindest answer, entreating me to come and pass as many days as I could with him. It was all affection, but evidently written in great depression of mind and spirits. There were three lines of a postscript, signed 'Louisa,' assuring me that none more anxiously looked forward to my visit than herself; that she had a pardon to crave of me, and would far rather sue for it in person than on paper. 'As you _are_ coming,'

said she, 'I will say no more, for when you _do_ come you will both pity and forgive me.'"

As Heathcote had just finished the last word, the door of the room was quietly opened, and O'Shea peeped in. "Are you at the letter? for, if you are, you might as well say, 'Mr. Gorman O'Shea was never violent in his politics, but one of those who always relied upon the good faith and good will of England towards his countrymen.' That's a sentence the Whigs delight in, and I remark it's the sure sign of a good berth."

"Yes, yes, I 'll book it; don't be afraid," said Agincourt, laughing; and the late member for Inch retired, fully satisfied. "Go on, Charley; tell me the remainder."

"There is no more to tell; you have heard all. Since I arrived I have not seen her. She has been for two days confined to bed with a feverish cold, and, apprehending something contagious, she will not let May visit her. I believe, however, it is a mere passing illness, and I suppose that to-morrow or next day we shall meet."

"And _how?_ for that, I own, is a matter would puzzle me considerably."

"It will all depend upon her. She must give the key-note to the concert.

If she please to be very courteous and affable, and all the rest of it, talk generalities and avoid all questions of real interest, I must accept that tone, and follow it If she be disposed to enter upon private and personal details, I have only to be a listener, except she give me an opportunity to speak out regarding the marriage." "And you will?"

"That I will. I suspect, shrewdly, that she is mistaken about our circumstances, and confounds May Leslie's means with ours. Now, when she knows that my father has about five hundred a year in the world for everything, it is just possible that she may rue her bargain, and cry 'off.'"

"Scarcely, I think," said Agincourt "The marriage would give her station and place at once, if she wants them."

"What if O'Shea were to supplant Sir William? I half suspect he would succeed. He hasn't a sixpence. It's exactly his own beat to find some one willing to support him."

"Well, I 'll back myself to get him a place. I 'll not say it will be anything very splendid or lucrative, but something he shall have. Come, Charley, leave this to me. Let O'Shea and myself dine _tete-a-tete_ to-day, and I 'll contrive to sound him on it."

"I mean to aid you so far, for I know my father would take it ill were I to dine away from home,--on the first day too; but I own I have no great confidence in your plan, nor any unbounded reliance on your diplomacy."

"No matter, I'll try it; and, to begin, I'll start at once with a letter to Downing Street I have never asked for anything yet, so I 'll write like one who cannot contemplate a refusal."

"I wish you success, for all our sakes," said Charles; and left him.

END OF VOL. I.

ONE OF THEM, Volume II.

CHAPTER I. THE LONE VILLA ON THE cAMPAGNA.

About half-way between Rome and Albano, and something more than a mile off the high-road, there stands on a little swell of the campagna a ruined villa, inhabited by a humble family of peasants, who aid their scanty means of support by showing to strangers the view from the house-top. It is not, save for its extent, a prospect in any way remarkable. Rome itself, in the distance, is not seen in its most imposing aspect, and the campagna offers little on which the eye cares to rest long.

The "Villa of the Four Winds," however, is a place sought by tourists, and few leave Rome without a visit to it. These are, of course, the excursions of fine days in the fine season, and never occur during the dark and gloomy months of midwinter. It was now such a time. The wind tore across the bleak plain, carrying fitful showers of cold rain, driving cattle to their shelter, and sending all to seek a refuge within doors; and yet a carriage was to be seen toiling painfully through the deep clay of the by-road which led from the main line, and making for the villa. After many a rugged shake and shock, many a struggling effort of the weary beasts, and many a halt, it at length reached the little paved courtyard, and was speedily surrounded by the astonished peasants, curious to see the traveller whose zeal for the picturesque could bid defiance to such weather.

As the steps were let down, a lady got out, muffled in a large cloak, and wearing the hood over her head, and hastily passed into the little kitchen of the house. Scarcely had she entered, than, throwing off her cloak, she said, in a gay and easy voice, "I have often promised myself a visit to the villa when there would be a grand storm to look at Don't you think that I have hit on the day to keep my pledge?" The speech was made so frankly that it pleased the hearers, nowise surprised, besides, at any eccentricity on the part of strangers; and now the family, young and old, gathered around the visitor, and talked, and questioned, and admired her dress and her appearance, and told her so, too, with a pleasant candor not displeasing. They saw she was a stranger, but knew not from where. Her accent was not Roman; they knew no more; nor did she give much time for speculating, as she contrived to make herself at home amongst them by ingratiating herself imperceptibly into the good graces of each present, from the gray-headed man to whom she discoursed of cattle and their winter food, to the little toddling infant, who would insist upon being held upon her lap.

The day went on, and yet never a lull came in the storm that permitted a visit to the roof to see the lightning that played along the distant horizon. She betrayed no impatience, however; she laughingly said she was very comfortable at the fireside, and could afford to wait. She expected her brother, it is true, to have met her there, and more than once despatched a messenger to the door to see if he could not descry a horseman on the high-road. The same answer came always back: nothing to be seen for miles round.

"Well," said she, good-humoredly, "you must give me a share of your dinner, for my drive has given me an appetite, and I will still wait here another hour."

It would have made a pleasing picture as she sat there,--her fair and beautiful features graced with that indescribable charm of expression imparted by the wish to please in those who have made the art to please their study; to have seen her surrounded by those bronzed and seared and careworn looks, now brightened up by the charm of a spell that had often worked its power on their superiors; to have marked how delicately she initiated herself into their little ways, and how marvellously the captivation of her gentleness spread its influence over them. In their simple piety they likened her to the image of all that embodies beauty to their eyes, and murmured to each other that she was like the Madonna.

A cruel interruption to their quiet rapture was now given by the clattering sound of a horse's feet, and, immediately after, the entrance of a man drenched to the skin, and dripping from the storm. After a few hasty words of greeting, the strangers ascended the stairs, and were shown into a little room, scantily furnished, but from which the view they were supposed to come for could be obtained.

"What devotion to come out in such weather!" said she, when they were alone. "It is only an Irishman, and that Irishman the O'Shea, could be capable of this heroism."

"It's all very nice making fun of a man when he's standing like a soaked sponge," said he; "but I tell you what, Mrs. Morris, the devil a Saxon would do it. It's not in them to risk a sore-throat or a pain in the back for the prettiest woman that ever stepped."