“He is welcome,” said O’Brien haughtily.
“No doubt, my dear fellow,” said Mackinnon; “that would be a dignified and pleasant ending to the affair. But what I want to know is this: what would you have done if she had agreed to go?”
“He never calculated on the possibility of such a contingency,” said I.
“By heavens, then, I thought she would like it,” said he.
“And to oblige her you were content to sacrifice yourself,” said Mackinnon.
“Well, that was just it. What the deuce is a fellow to do when a woman goes on in that way? She told me down there, upon the old race-course, you know, that matrimonial bonds were made for fools and slaves. What was I to suppose that she meant by that? But, to make all sure, I asked her what sort of a fellow the general was. ‘Dear old man,’ she said, clasping her hands together. ‘He might, you know, have been my father.’ ‘I wish he were,’ said I, ‘because then you’d be free.’ ‘I am free,’ said she, stamping on the ground, and looking up at me so much as to say that she cared for no one. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘accept all that is left of the heart of Wenceslaus O’Brien,’ and I threw myself before her in her path. ‘Hand,’ said I, ‘I have none to give, but the blood which runs red through my veins is descended from a double line of kings.’ I said that because she is always fond of riding a high horse. I had gotten close under the wall so that none of you should see me from the tower.”
“And what answer did she make?” said Mackinnon.
“Why, she was pleased as Punch—gave me both her hands and declared that we would be friends for ever. It is my belief, Mackinnon, that that woman never heard anything of the kind before. The general, no doubt, did it by letter.”
“And how was it that she changed her mind?”
“Why, I got up, put my arm round her waist, and told her that we would be off to Naples. I’m blessed if she didn’t give me a knock in the ribs that nearly sent me backward. She took my breath away, so that I couldn’t speak to her.”