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.