“What I meant was, that when a fellow had your prospects before him, India ought n't to tempt him, even with the offer of the Governor-Generalship.”
“Forgive me my bad temper, like a good fellow,” cried Heathoote, grasping the other's hand; “but, in honest truth, I have no prospects, no future, and there is not a more hopeless wretch to be found than the man before you.”
O'Shea was very near saying “Bosh!” once more, but he coughed it under.
Like all bashful men who have momentarily given way to impatience, Charles Heathoote was over eager to obtain his companion's good will, and so he dashed at once into a full confession of all the difficulties that beset, and all the cares that surrounded him. O'Shea had never known accurately, till now, the amount of May Leslie's fortune, nor how completely she was the mistress of her own fate. Neither had he ever heard of that strange provision in the will which imposed a forfeit upon her if unwilling to accept Charles Heathcote as her husband,—a condition which he shrewdly judged to be the very surest of all ways to prevent their marriage.
“And so you released her?” cried he, as Heathoote finished his narrative.
“Released her! No. I never considered that she was bound. How could I?”
“Upon my conscience,” muttered the O'Shea, “it is a hard case—a mighty hard case—to see one's way in; for if, as you say, it's not a worthy part for a man to compel a girl to be his wife just because her father put it in his will, it's very cruel to lose her only because she has a fine property.”
“It is for no such reason,” broke in Heathoote, half angrily. “I was unwilling—I am unwilling—that May Leslie should be bound by a contract she never shared in.
“That's all balderdash!” cried O'Shea, with energy.
“What do you mean, sir?” retorted the other, passionately.