“No; but he goes for famous hunting and the best shooting in Europe, it being no disparagement to either that he gets back at evening to a capital dinner and as good company as he 'd find in town.”
“May is of my mind,” said Sir William, half triumphantly; “she said so last night.”
“And she told me exactly the reverse this morning,” said the younger. “She said the monotony of this place was driving her mad. Scenery, she remarked, without people, is pretty much what a panorama is, compared to a play.”
“May is a traitress; and here she comes to make confession to which of us she has been false,” said Sir William, gayly, as he arose to place a chair for the young girl who now came towards them.
“I have heard you both, gentlemen,” said she, with a saucy toss of her head, “and I should like to hear why I should not agree with each and disagree afterwards, if it so pleased me.”
“Oh! if you fall back upon prerogative—” began Sir William.
“I have never quitted it. It is in the sovereignty of my woman's will that I reconcile opinions seemingly adverse, and can enjoy all the splendors of a capital and all the tameness of a village. I showed you already how I could appreciate Paris; I mean now to prove how charmed I can be with the solitudes of Marlia.”
“Which says, in plain English,” said the young man, “that you don't care for either.”
“Will you condescend to be a little more gallant than my cousin, sir,” said she, turning to Sir William, “and at least give me credit for having a mind and knowing it?”
There was a pettish half-seriousness in her tone that made it almost impossible to say whether she was amused or angry, and to this also the changeful expression of her beautiful features contributed; for, though she smiled, her dark gray eyes sparkled like one who invited a contradiction. In this fleeting trait was the secret of her nature. May Leslie was one of Fortune's spoiled children—one of those upon whom so many graces and good gifts had been lavished that it seemed as though Fate had exhausted her resources, and left herself no more to bestow.
She had surpassing beauty, youth, health, high spirits, and immense wealth. By her father's will she had been contracted in marriage with her distant relative, Charles Heathcote, with the proviso that if, on attaining the age of nineteen, she felt averse to the match, she should forfeit a certain estate in Wales which had once belonged to the Heathcotes, and contained the old residence of that family.
Sir William and his son had been living in the retirement of a little German capital, when the tidings of this wardship reached them. A number of unfortunate speculations had driven the baronet into exile from England, and left him with a pittance barely sufficient to live in the strictest economy. To this narrow fortune Charles Heathcote had come back, after serving in a most extravagant Hussar regiment, and taking his part in an Indian campaign; and the dashing' soldier first heard, as he lay wounded in the hospital, that he must leave the service, and retire into obscurity. If it had not been for his strong affection for his father, Charles would have enlisted as a private soldier, and taken his chance for future distinction, but he could not desert him at such a moment, nor separate himself from that share of privation which should be henceforth borne in common; and so he came back, a bronzed, brave soldier, true-hearted and daring, and, if a little stern, no more so than might be deemed natural in one who had met such a heavy reverse on the very threshold of life.
Father and son were at supper in a little arbor of their garden near Weimar, when the post brought them the startling news that May Leslie, who was then at Malta, would be at Paris in a few days, where she expected to meet them. When Sir William had read through the long letter of the lawyer, giving an account of the late General Leslie's will, with its strange condition, he handed it to his son, without a word.
The young man read it eagerly; his color changed once or twice as he went on, and his face grew harder and sterner ere he finished. “Do you mean to accept this wardship?” asked he, hurriedly.
“There are certain reasons for which I cannot decline it, Charley,” said the other, mildly. “All my life long I have been Tom Leslie's debtor, in gratitude, for as noble a sacrifice as ever man made. We were both suitors to your mother, brother officers at the time, and well received in her father's house. Leslie, however, was much better looked on than myself, for I was then but a second son, while he was the heir of a very large estate. There could not have been a doubt that his advances would have outweighed mine in a father and mother's estimate, and as he was madly in love, there seemed-nothing to prevent his success. Finding, however, in a conversation with your mother, that her affections were mine, he not only relinquished the place in my favor, but, although most eager to purchase his troop, suffered me, his junior, to pass over his head, and thus attain the rank which enabled me to marry. Leslie went to India, where he married, and we never met again. It was only some seven or eight months ago I read of his being named governor of a Mediterranean dependency, and the very next paper mentioned his death, when about to leave Calcutta.”
“It is, then, most probable that, when making this will, he had never heard of our reverses in fortune?” said the young man.
“It is almost certain he had not, for it is dated the very year of that panic which ruined me.”
“And, just as likely, might never have left such a will, had he known our altered fortunes?”
“I 'm not so sure of that. At all events, I can answer for it that no change in our condition would have made Tom Leslie alter the will, if he had once made it in our favor.”
“I have no fancy for the compact, read it how you may,” said Charles, impatiently; “nor can I say which I like least—the notion of marrying a woman who is bound to accept me, or accepting a forfeit to release her from the obligation.”
“I own it is—embarrassing,” said Sir William, after a moment's hesitation in choosing a suitable word.
“A downright indignity, I'd call it,” said the other, warmly, “and calculated to make the man odious in the woman's eyes, whichever lot befell him.”
“The wardship must be accepted, at all events,” said Sir William, curtly, as he arose and folded up the letter.
“You are the best judge of that; for if it depended upon me”
“Come, come, Charley,” said Sir William, in his tone of habitual kindness, “this life of quiet obscurity and poverty that we lead here has no terrors for me. I have been so long away from England that if I went back to-morrow I should look in vain for any of my old companions. I have forgotten the habits and the ways of home, and I have learned to submit myself to twenty things here which would be hardships elsewhere, but I don't like to contemplate the same sort of existence for you; I want to speculate on a very different future; and if—if—Nay, you need not feel so impatient at a mere conjecture.”
“Well, to another point,” said the young man, hastily. “We have got, as you have just said, to know that we can live very comfortably and contentedly here, looking after our celery and seakale, and watching our silver groschen; are you so very certain that you 'd like to change all this life, and launch out into an expensive style of living, to suit the notions of a rich heiress, and, what is worse again, to draw upon her resources to do it?”
“I won't deny that it will cost me severely; but, until we see her and know her, Charley, until we find out whether she may be one whose qualities will make our sacrifices easy—”
“Would you accept this charge if she were perfectly portionless, and without a shilling in the world?”
“If she were Tom Leslie's daughter, do you mean?”
“Ay, any one's daughter?”
“To be sure I would, boy; and if I were only to consult my own feelings in the matter, I 'd say that I 'd prefer this