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diff --git a/33604-h/33604-h.htm b/33604-h/33604-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c64c20 --- /dev/null +++ b/33604-h/33604-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,27679 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Tony Butler, by Charles James Lever + </title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tony Butler, by Charles James Lever + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tony Butler + +Author: Charles James Lever + +Illustrator: E. J. Wheeler + +Release Date: September 1, 2010 [EBook #33604] +Last Updated: February 28, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TONY BUTLER *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h1> +TONY BUTLER. +</h1> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<h2> +By Charles James Lever +</h2> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<h3> +With Illustrations By E. J. Wheeler. +</h3> +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h4> +Little, Brown, and Company. <br /><br /> 1904. <br /><br /> Copyright, 1896 +</h4> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/butler0182.jpg" alt="butler0182" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="titlepage" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<blockquote> +<p class="toc"> +<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> +</p> +<p> +<br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> THE COTTAGE +BESIDE “THE CAUSEWAY” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. +</a> A COUNTRY-HOUSE IN IRELAND <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> A VERY “FINE +GENTLEMAN” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> SOME +NEW ARRIVALS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> IN +LONDON <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> DOLLY +STEWART <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> LYLE +ABBEY AND ITS GUESTS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. +</a> SOME EXPLANATIONS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> +CHAPTER IX. </a> MAITLAND'S FRIEND <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> A BLUNDER <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> EXPLANATIONS <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> MAITLAND'S VISIT +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> TONY +IN TOWN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> DINNER +AT RICHMOND <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> A +STRANGE MEETING AND PARTING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER +XVI. </a> AT THE ABBEY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> +CHAPTER XVII. </a> AT THE COTTAGE <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> ON THE ROAD <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> TONY'S TROUBLES +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> THE +MINISTER'S VISIT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> A +COMFORTABLE COUNTRY-HOUSE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER +XXII. </a> THE DINNER AT TILNEY <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> THE FIRST NIGHT AT +TILNEY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> A +STARLIT NIGHT IN A GARDEN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER +XXV. </a> JEALOUS TRIALS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> +CHAPTER XXVI. </a> BESIDE THE HEARTH <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> AN UNWELCOME LETTER +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> AT +THE MANSE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> DEPARTURES +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> CONSPIRATORS +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> TWO +FRIENDS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> ON +THE ROCKS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. </a> A +MORNING CALL AT TILNEY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER +XXXIV. </a> TONY ASKS COUNSEL <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. </a> SIR ARTHUR ON LIFE +AND THE WORLD IN GENERAL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER +XXXVI. </a> A CORNER IN DOWNING STREET <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. </a> MR. BUTLER FOR +DUTY ON——— <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER +XXXVIII. </a> TONY WAITING FOR ORDERS <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. </a> THE MAJOR'S +MISSION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. </a> THE +MAJOR'S TRIALS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. </a> EAVESDROPPING +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. </a> MARK +LYLE'S LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. </a> THE +MAJOR AT BADEN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a> THE +MESSENGER'S FIRST JOURNEY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER +XLV. </a> A SHOCK FOR TONY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0046"> +CHAPTER XLVI. </a> "THE BAG NO. 18” <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. </a> ADRIFT <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. </a> "IN RAGS” <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. </a> MET AND PARTED +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. </a> THE +SOLDIER OF MISFORTUNE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER LI. +</a> A PIECE OF GOOD TIDINGS <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER LII. </a> ON THE CHIAJA AT +NIGHT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER LIII. </a> UNPLEASANT +RECKONINGS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER LIV. </a> SKEFF +DAMER TESTED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER LV. </a> AMONGST +THE GARIBALDIANS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER LVI. </a> THE +HOSPITAL AT CAVA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER LVII. </a> AT +TONY'S BEDSIDE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER LVIII. </a> THE +SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER LIX. </a> AN +AWKWARD MOMENT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER LX. </a> A +DECK WALK <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER LXI. </a> TONY +AT HOME AGAIN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER LXII. </a> SKEFF +DAMER'S LAST “PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL” <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER LXIII. </a> AT THE COTTAGE +BESIDE THE CAUSEWAY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER LXIV. +</a> THE END <br /><br /> +</p> +</blockquote> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER I. THE COTTAGE BESIDE “THE CAUSEWAY” + </h2> +<p> +In a little cleft, not deep enough to be a gorge, between two grassy +hills, traversed by a clear stream, too small to be called a river, too +wide to be a rivulet, stood, and, I believe, still stands, a little +cottage, whose one bay-window elevates it above the condition of a +laboring-man's, and shows in its spacious large-paned proportions +pretensions to taste as well as station. From the window a coast-line can +be seen to which nothing in the kingdom can find the equal. It takes in +the bold curve of shore from the “White Rocks” to the Giant's Causeway,—a +sweep of coast broken by jutting headland and promontory, with sandy bays +nestling between gigantic walls of pillared rock, and showing beneath the +green water the tessellated pavement of those broken shafts which our +superstition calls Titanic. The desolate rock and ruin of Dunluce, the +fairy bridge of Carrig-a-Rede, are visible; and on a commonly clear day +Staffa can be seen, its outline only carrying out the strange formation of +the columnar rocks close at band. +</p> +<p> +This cottage, humble enough in itself, is not relieved in its aspect by +the culture around it A small vegetable garden, rudely fenced with a +dry-stone wall, is the only piece of vegetation; for the cutting winds of +the North Sea are unfriendly to trees, and the light sandy soil of the +hills only favors the fern and the foxglove. Of these, indeed, the growth +is luxuriant, and the path which leads down from the high-road to the +cottage is cut through what might be called a grove of these leafy +greeneries. This same path was not much traversed, and more than once +within the year was the billhook required to keep it open, so little +intercourse was maintained between the cottage and the world, whose +frontier lay about a mile off. A widow and her son, with one servant, were +the occupants. It had been a fishing-lodge of her husband's in more +prosperous days. His memory and the cheapness of life in the neighborhood +had decided her in choosing it, lonely and secluded as it was; and here +she had passed fourteen years, her whole care being the education of her +boy, a task to which she addressed herself with all the zeal and devotion +of her nature. There was, it is true, a village school at Ballintray, +about three miles off, to which he went in summer; but when the dark short +days of winter set in with swooping storms of rain and wind, she held him, +so far as she could, close prisoner, and pored with him over tasks to the +full as difficult to herself as to him. So far as a fine, open-hearted, +generous disposition, truthful and straightforward, could make him, he +repaid all the love and affection she could bear him. He was well-grown, +good-looking, and brave. There was scarcely an exercise of which he was +not master; and whether in the saddle over a stiff country, or on the +thwart of a boat in a stormy sea, Tony Butler could hold his own against +all competitors. The leap of twenty feet four inches he had made on the +level sward was one of the show objects of the village, and the place +where he had pitched a fourteen-pound sledge to the top of a cliff was +marked by a stone with a rude attempt at an inscription. Fortunate was he +if these were enough for glory, for his gifts scarcely rose to higher +things. He was not clever, nor was he very teachable; his apprehension was +not quick, and his memory was bad. The same scatterbrained forgetfulness +that he had in little things attended him in more serious ones. Whenever +his intellect was called on for a great effort he was sure to be +vanquished, and he would sit for hours before an open book as hopeless of +mastering it as though the volume were close-clasped and locked before +him. Dull men are not generally alive to their own dulness; but Tony was,—he +saw and felt it very bitterly. He thought, it is true, that there ought to +be a way to his intellect, if it could only be discovered, but he owned to +himself he had not found it; and, with some lingering hope of it, he would +carry his books to his room and sit down to them with a resolute heart, +and ponder and puzzle and wonder, till he either fell asleep over the +pages, or felt the scalding tears blinding him with the conscious thought +that he was not equal to the task before him. +</p> +<p> +Strange enough, his mother, cheated by that love which filled every avenue +of her heart, marked little of this. She thought that Tony had no great +taste for music, nor patience enough for drawing. She fancied he deemed +history dry, and rather undervalued geography. If he hated French, it was +because he was such an intense Anglican; and as to figures, his poor dear +father had no great skill in them, and indeed his ruined fortune came of +tampering with them. Though thus, item by item, she would have been +reduced to own that Tony was not much of a scholar, she would +unhesitatingly have declared that he was a remarkably gifted boy, and +equal to any condition he could be called to fulfil. There was this much +of excuse for her credulity,—he was a universal favorite. There was +not a person of any class who had other than a good word for him; and +this, be it remarked, in a country where people fall into few raptures, +and are rarely enthusiasts. The North of Ireland is indeed as cold a soil +for the affections as it is ungenial in its vegetation. Love finds it just +as hard to thrive as the young larch-trees, nipped as they are by cutting +winds and sleety storms; and to have won favor where it is weighed out so +scrupulously, implied no petty desert. There is, however, a rigid sense of +justice which never denies to accord its due to each. Tony had gained his +reputation by an honest verdict, the award of a jury who had seen him from +his childhood and knew him well. +</p> +<p> +The great house of the county was Sir Arthur Lyle's, and there Tony Butler +almost might be said to live. His word was law in the stables, the kennel, +the plantations, and the boat-quay. All liked him. Sir Arthur, a stern but +hearty old Anglo-Indian; my lady, a fine specimen of town pretension and +exclusiveness cultivated to its last perfection by Oriental indulgence; +Isabella,—a beauty and a fortune,—about to shine at the next +drawing-room, liked him; and the widowed daughter of the house, Mrs. +Trafford, whom many deemed handsomer than her sister, and whose tact and +worldly skill made even beauty but one of her attractions, said he was “a +fine creature,” and “it was a thousand pities he had not a good estate and +a title.” Sir Arthur's sons, three in number, were all in India; the two +elder in high civil appointments, the younger serving in a regiment of +hussars. Their sisters, however, constantly assured Tony that George, +Henry, and Mark would be so fond of him, especially Mark, who was the +soldier, and who would be charmed to meet with one so fond of all his own +pursuits. +</p> +<p> +It was with sincere pride Mrs. Butler saw her son in such favor at the +great house,—that princely place to which the company came from +remote parts of the kingdom, and to mix with which the neighboring gentry +were only admitted sparingly and at rare intervals; for Sir Arthur's +wealth was to society a sort of crushing power, a kind of social Nasmyth +hammer, that smashed and ground down whatever came beneath it. No small +distinction was it, therefore, for the widow's son to be there; not merely +admitted and on sufferance, but encouraged, liked, and made much of. Sir +Arthur had known Tony's father in India, long long years ago; indeed, it +was when Sir Arthur was a very small civil servant, and Captain Butler was +a gorgeous aide-de-camp on the Governor-General's staff; and strange it +was, the respect with which the brilliant soldier then inspired him had +survived through all the changes and advancements of a successful life, +and the likeness the youth bore to his father assisted to strengthen this +sentiment. He would have noticed the widow, too, if she had been disposed +to accept his attentions; but she refused all invitations to leave her +home, and save at the little meeting-house on a Sunday, where her friend +Dr. Stewart held forth, was never seen beyond the paling of her garden. +</p> +<p> +What career Tony was to follow, what he was to do, was an oft-debated +question between her and Dr. Stewart, her worthy adviser in spirituals; +and though it was the ever-recurring subject as they sat of an evening in +the porch, the solution seemed just as remote as ever,—Mrs. Butler +averring that there was nothing that with a little practice he could n't +do, and the minister sighingly protesting that the world was very full +just now, and there was just barely enough for those who were in it. +</p> +<p> +“What does he incline to himself, madam?” asked the worthy man, as he saw +that his speech had rather a discouraging effect. +</p> +<p> +“He'd like to follow his father's career, and be a soldier.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, dear!” sighed out the minister; “a man must be rich enough to do +without a livelihood that takes to that one. What would you say to the +sea?” + </p> +<p> +“He's too old for the navy. Tony will be twenty in August.” + </p> +<p> +The minister would have liked to hint that other ships went down into the +“great waters” as well as those that carried her Majesty's bunting, but he +was faint-hearted and silent. +</p> +<p> +“I take it,” said he, after a pause, “that he has no great mind for the +learned professions, as they call them?” + </p> +<p> +“No inclination whatever, and I cannot say I 'm sorry for it. My poor boy +would be lost in that great ocean of world-liness and self-seeking. I +don't mean if he were to go into the Church,” said she, blushing crimson +at the awkwardness of her speech, “but you know he has no vocation for +holy orders, and such a choice would be therefore impossible.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm thinking it would not be his line, neither,” said the old man, dryly. +“What o' the mercantile pursuits? You shake your head. Well, there's +farming?” + </p> +<p> +“Farming, my dear Dr. Stewart,—farming means at least some thousand +pounds' capital, backed by considerable experience, and, I fear me, my +poor Tony is about as wanting in one as in the other.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, ma'am, if the lad can neither be a soldier, nor a sailor, nor a +merchant, nor a farmer, nor will be a lawyer, a doctor, or a preacher o' +the Word, I 'm sore pushed to say what there's open to him, except some +light business in the way of a shop, or an agency like, which maybe you 'd +think beneath you.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm certain my son would, sir; and no great shame either that Colonel +Walter Butler's son should think so,—a C. B. and a Guelph of +Hanover, though he never wore the decoration. It is not so easy for <i>us</i> +to forget these things as it is for our friends.” + </p> +<p> +This was rather cruel, particularly to one who had been doing his best to +pilot himself through the crooked channels of difficulties, and was just +beginning to hope he was in deep water. +</p> +<p> +“Would n't the Colonel's friends be likely to give him a helping hand?” + said the minister, timidly, and like one not quite sure of his ground. +</p> +<p> +“I have not asked them, nor is it likely that I will,” said she, sternly; +then, seeing in the old man's face the dismay and discouragement her +speech had produced, she added, “My husband's only brother, Sir Omerod +Butler, was not on speaking terms with him for years,—indeed, from +the time of our marriage. Eleanor Mackay, the Presbyterian minister's +daughter, was thought a <i>mesalliance</i>; and maybe it was,—I +won't deny it, doctor. It was deemed a great rise in the world to me, +though I never felt it exactly in that way myself. It was <i>my</i> pride +to think my husband a far greater man than any of his family, and it was +<i>his</i> to say I had helped him to become so.” + </p> +<p> +“I've heard o' that too,” was the cautious rejoinder of the old minister. +</p> +<p> +The memories thus suddenly brought up were too much for the poor widow's +composure, and she had to turn away and wipe the tears from her eyes. +“Yes, sir,” said she at last, “my noble-hearted husband was made to feel +through his whole life the scorn of those who would not know his wife, and +it is not from such as these my poor boy is to crave assistance. As for +Tony himself,” said she, with more energy of voice and manner, “he'd never +forgive me if I took such a step.” + </p> +<p> +The good minister would fain have rebuked the indulgence of sentiments +like these, which had little of forgiveness in their nature. He felt +sorely tempted to make the occasion profitable by a word in season; but +his sagacity tempered his zeal, and he simply said, “Let byganes be +byganes, Mrs. Butler, or, at all events, let them not come back like +troubled spirits to disturb the future.” + </p> +<p> +“I will do my best, doctor,” said she, calmly, “and, to do so, I will talk +of something else. Can you tell me if there is a Mr. Elphinstone in the +Ministry now,—in the Cabinet, I mean,” said she, correcting herself, +for she remembered what the word signifies to Presbyterian ears. +</p> +<p> +“There is a Sir Harry Elphinstone, Secretary of State for the Colonies, +ma'am.” + </p> +<p> +“That must be the same, then; my husband always called him Harry; they +were like brothers at the Cape long, long ago. Could n't he do something +for Tony, think you?” + </p> +<p> +“The very man who could; and maybe, too, in the very sort of career would +suit the lad best of all. He's strong of limb and stout of heart, and has +brave health,—he's just the man to meet the life and enjoy the very +accidents of a new world.” + </p> +<p> +“If he could leave me,—that is, if I could bear to part with <i>him</i>, +doctor,” said she, with a thick utterance. +</p> +<p> +“These are not days, my dear madam, when a mother can tie a son to her +apron. The young birds will leave the nest, make it ever so warm and snug +for them; and it was a wise Providence that so decreed it.” + </p> +<p> +“Would there be any impropriety in my writing to Mr.—Sir Harry +Elphinstone?” asked she. +</p> +<p> +“I can see none whatever. It is more than likely that he 'll thank you +heartily for the chance of serving his old friend's son. Such a great man +gives away every day more places than would provide for three generations +of either of us; and it must be a rare pleasure when he can serve the +Queen and gladden his own heart together.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'd maybe help me with the letter, doctor,” asked she, half +diffidently. +</p> +<p> +“Not a doubt of it, Mrs. Butler; my poor aid is quite at your service: but +had n't we best, first of all, speir a bit, and see what the lad thinks of +it? Let us find out that it's the life he 'd take to willingly. It's no by +way of reproach to him I say it; but we all know that when a young fellow +gets accustomed to ride a blood horse with a groom after him, and eat his +soup with a damask napkin over his knees, it's a sore change to mount a +mustang and digest raw buffalo.” + </p> +<p> +“If you mean by that, Dr. Stewart, that Tony has been spoiled by a life of +luxury and indolence, you do him great wrong. The poor dear boy is half +heart-broken at-times at his purposeless, unprofitable existence. There +are days he is so overcome that he can scarcely lift up his head for it. +This very morning was one of them; and it was only when Sir Arthur sent +over a third time to say, 'You must come; I' ll take no excuse,' that I +could persuade him to set off. They are expecting young Captain Lyle +to-day, and making all sorts of festive preparations to receive him. Tony +has charge of the fireworks; and as Sir Arthur says, 'If you leave your +chemicals to other hands, the chances are we shall all be blown up +together. '” + </p> +<p> +“I remember the Captain when he was just so high,” said the doctor, +holding his hand about three feet from the ground,—“he used to come +to me every Saturday for a lesson in Scripture; smart enough he was, but a +proud sort of boy, that kept his class-fellows at a distance, and when the +lesson was over would not speak to one of them. He was the baronet's son, +and they were the sons of his father's tradespeople. I remember I made a +complaint against him once, I forget for what, but be never came to my +house after.” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Butler seemed not to follow the doctor's speech; indeed, her whole +heart was so set on one object and one theme that it was only by an effort +she could address herself to any other. The humblest piece in which Tony +played was a drama full of interest. Without <i>him</i> the stage had no +attraction, and she cared not who were the performers. The doctor, +therefore, was some time before he perceived that his edifying reflections +on the sins of pride and self-conceit were unheeded. Long experience had +taught him tolerance in such matters; he had known even elders to nod; and +so he took his hat and said farewell with a good grace, and a promise to +help her with a letter to the Secretary of State whenever the time came to +write it. +</p> +<p> +Late on the night of that day in which this conversation occurred, Mrs. +Butler sat at her writing-desk, essaying for the tenth time how to address +that great man whose favor she would propitiate. Letter-writing had never +been her gift, and she distrusted her powers even unfairly in this +respect. The present was, besides, a case of some difficulty. She knew +nothing of the sort of person she was addressing beyond the fact that he +and her husband, when very young men, lived on terms of close intimacy and +friendship. It might be that the great Minister had forgotten all about +that long ago, or might not care to be reminded of it. It might be that +her husband in his sanguine and warm-hearted way, calculated rather on the +affection he bestowed than that he should receive, and so deemed the +friendship between them a closer and stronger tie than it was. It might +be, too,—she had heard of such things,—that men in power are +so besieged by those who assume to have claims upon them, that they lose +temper and patience, and indiscriminately class all such applicants as +mere hungry place-hunters, presuming upon some accidental meeting,—some +hap-hazard acquaintance of a few minutes. “And so,” said she, “if he has +not heard of my husband for thirty-odd years, he may come to look coldly +on this letter of mine, and even ask, 'Who is Eleanor Butler, and of whom +is she the widow?' I will simply say to him: The son of the late Colonel +Walter Butler, with whose name his widow believes you are not +unacquainted, solicits some assistance on your part, towards—towards—shall +I say at once an appointment in one of our colonies, or merely what may +forward his pursuits in a new world? I wish I could hit upon something +that will not sound like the every-day tune that must ring in his ears; +but how can I, when what I seek is the selfsame thing?” + </p> +<p> +She leaned her head on her hand in thought, and, as she pondered, it +occurred to her what her husband would have thought of such a step as she +was taking. Would Walter have sanctioned it? He was a proud man on such +points. He had never asked for anything in his life, and it was one of his +sayings,—“There was no station that was not too dearly bought at the +price of asking for it” She canvassed and debated the question with +herself, balancing all that she owed to her husband's memory against all +that she ought to attempt for her boy's welfare. It was a matter of no +easy solution; but an accident decided for her what all her reasoning +failed in; for, as she sat thinking, a hurried step was heard on the +gravel, and then the well-known sound of Tony's latch-key followed, and he +entered the room, flushed and heated. He was still in dinner-dress, but +his cravat was partly awry, and his look excited and angry. +</p> +<p> +“Why, my dear Tony,” said she, rising, and parting his hair tenderly on +his forehead, “I did n't look for you here to-night; how came it that you +left the Abbey at this hour?” + </p> +<p> +“Wasn't it a very good hour to come home?” answered he, curtly. “We dined +at eight; I left at half-past eleven. Nothing very unusual in all that.” + </p> +<p> +“But you always slept there; you had that nice room you told me of.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I preferred coming home. I suppose that was reason enough.” + </p> +<p> +“What has happened, Tony darling? Tell me frankly and fearlessly what it +is that has ruffled you. Who has such a right to know it, or, if need be, +to sympathize with you, as your own dear mother?” + </p> +<p> +“How you run on, mother, and all about nothing! I dine out, and I come +back a little earlier than my wont, and immediately you find out that some +one has outraged or insulted me.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, no, no. I never dreamed of that, my dear boy!” said she, coloring +deeply. +</p> +<p> +“Well, there's enough about it,” said he, pacing the room with hasty +strides. “What is that you were saying the other day about a Mr. +Elphinstone,—that he was an old friend of my father's, and that they +had chummed together long ago?” + </p> +<p> +“All these scrawls that you see there,” said she, pointing to the table, +“have been attempts to write to him, Tony. I was trying to ask him to give +you some sort of place somewhere.” + </p> +<p> +“The very thing I want, mother,” said he, with a half-bitter laugh,—“some +sort of place somewhere.” + </p> +<p> +“And,” continued she, “I was pondering whether it might not be as well to +see if Sir Arthur Lyle would n't write to some of his friends in power—” + </p> +<p> +“Why should we ask him? What has he to do with it?” broke he in, hastily. +“I 'm not the son of an old steward or family coachman, that I want to go +about with a black pocket-book stuffed with recommendatory letters. Write +simply and fearlessly to this great man,—I don't know his rank,—and +say whose son I am. Leave me to tell him the rest.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Tony, you little know how such people are overwhelmed with +such-like applications, and what slight chance there is that you will be +distinguished from the rest.” + </p> +<p> +“At all events, I shall not have the humiliation of a patron. If he will +do anything for me, it will be for the sake of my father's memory, and I +need not be ashamed of that.” + </p> +<p> +“What shall I write, then?” And she took up her pen. +</p> +<p> +“Sir—I suppose he is 'Sir;' or is he 'My Lord'?” + </p> +<p> +“No. His name is Sir Harry Elphinstone.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Sir,—The young man who bears this note is the only son +of the late Colonel Walter Butler, C.B. He has no fortune, +no profession, no friends, and very little ability. Can you +place him in any position where he may acquire some of the +three first and can dispense with the last? + +“Your humble servant, + +“Eleanor Butler.” + </pre> +<p> +“Oh, Tony! you don't think we could send such a letter as this?” said she, +with a half-sad smile. +</p> +<p> +“I am certain I could deliver it, mother,” said he, gravely, “and I 'm +sure that it would answer its purpose just as well as a more finished +composition.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me at least make a good copy of it,” said she, as he folded it up and +placed it in an envelope. +</p> +<p> +“No, no,” said he; “just write his name, and all the fine things that he +is sure to be, before and after it, and, as I said before, leave the issue +to me.” + </p> +<p> +“And when would you think of going, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“To-morrow morning, by the steamer that will pass this on the way to +Liverpool. I know the Captain, and he will give me a passage; he's always +teasing me to take a trip with him.” + </p> +<p> +“To-morrow! but how could you get ready by to-morrow? I 'll have to look +over all your clothes, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear little mother,” said he, passing his arm round her, and kissing +her affectionately, “how easy it is to hold a review where there 's only a +corporal's guard for inspection! All my efficient movables will fit into a +very small portmanteau, and I 'll pack it in less than ten minutes.” + </p> +<p> +“I see no necessity for all this haste, particularly where we have so much +to consider and talk over. We ought to consult the doctor, too; he's a +warm friend, Tony, and bears you a sincere affection.” + </p> +<p> +“He's a good fellow; I like him anywhere but in the pulpit,” muttered he, +below his breath. “And he 'd like to write to his daughter; she's a +governess in some family near Putney, I think. I 'll go and see her; Dolly +and I are old playfellows. I don't know,” added he, with a laugh, “whether +hockey and football are part of a polite female education; but if they be, +the pupils that have got Dolly Stewart for their governess are in rare +luck.” + </p> +<p> +“But why must there be all this hurry?” + </p> +<p> +“Because it's a whim of mine, dear little mother. Because—but don't +ask me for reasons, after having spoiled me for twenty years, and given me +my own way in everything. I 've got it into my wise head—and you +know what a wise head it is—that I 'm going to do something very +brilliant. You 'll puzzle me awfully if you ask me where or how; so just +be generous and don't push me to the wall.” + </p> +<p> +“At all events, you 'll not go without seeing the doctor?” + </p> +<p> +“That I will. I have some experience of him as a questioner in the +Scripture-school of a Saturday, and I 'll not stand a cross-examination in +profane matters from so skilled a hand. Tell him from me that I had one of +my flighty fits on me, and that I knew I 'd make such a sorry defence if +we were to meet, that, in the words of his own song, 'I ran awa' in the +morning.'” + </p> +<p> +She shook her head in silence, and seemed far from satisfied. +</p> +<p> +“Tell him, however, that I 'll go and see Dolly the first day I'm free, +and bring him back a full account of her, how she looks, and what she says +of herself.” + </p> +<p> +The thought of his return flashed across the poor mother's heart like +sunshine over a landscape, spreading light and gladness everywhere. “And +when will that be, Tony?” cried she, looking up into his eyes. +</p> +<p> +“Let me see. To-morrow will be Wednesday.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Tony,—Thursday.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure, Thursday,—Thursday, the ninth; Friday, Liverpool; +Saturday, London! Sunday will do for a visit to Dolly; I suppose there +will be no impropriety in calling on her of a Sunday?” + </p> +<p> +“The M'Graders are a Scotch family, I don't know if they 'd like it.” + </p> +<p> +“That shall be thought of. Let me see; Monday for the great man, Tuesday +and Wednesday to see a little bit of London, and back here by the end of +the week.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! if I thought that, Tony—” + </p> +<p> +“Well, do think it; believe it, rely upon it. If you like, I'll give up +the Tuesday and Wednesday, though I have some very gorgeous speculations +about Westminster Abbey and the Tower, and the monkeys in the Zoological +Gardens, with the pantomime for a finish in the evening. But you 've only +to say the word, and I 'll start half an hour after I see the Don in +Downing Street.” + </p> +<p> +“No, of course not, darling. I 'm not so selfish as that; and if you find +that London amuses you and is not too expensive,—for you know, Tony, +what a slender purse we have,—stay a week,—two weeks, Tony, if +you like it.” + </p> +<p> +“What a good little woman it is!” said he, pressing her towards him; and +the big tears trembled in his eyes and rolled heavily along his cheeks. +“Now for the ugly part,—the money, I mean.” + </p> +<p> +“I have eleven pounds in the house, Tony, if that will do to take with +you.” + </p> +<p> +“Do, mother! Of course it will. I don't mean to spend near so much; but +how can you spare such a sum? that's the question.” + </p> +<p> +“I just had it by, Tony, for a rainy day, as they call it; or I meant to +have made you a smart present on the fourth of next month, for your +birthday.—I forget, indeed, what I intended it for,” said she, +wiping her eyes, “for this sudden notion of yours has driven everything +clean out of my head; and all I can think of is if there be buttons on +your shirts, and how many pairs of socks you have.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm sure everything is right; it always is. And now go to bed like a dear +little woman, and I 'll come in and say good-bye before I start in the +morning.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, Tony; I 'll be up and make you a cup of tea.” + </p> +<p> +“That you shall not. What a fuss to make of a trip to London; as if I was +going to Auckland or the Fijee Islands? By the way, mother, would n't you +come out to me if the great man gave me something very fine and lucrative?—for +I can't persuade myself that he won't make me a governor somewhere.” + </p> +<p> +She could not trust herself to speak, and merely clutched his hand in both +her own and held it fast. +</p> +<p> +“There's another thing,” said he, after a short struggle with himself; +“there may possibly be notes or messages of one sort or another from Lyle +Abbey; and just hint that I 've been obliged to leave home for a day or +two. You need n't say for where nor how long; but that I was called away +suddenly,—too hurriedly to go up and pay my respects, and the rest +of it I 'm not quite sure you 'll be troubled in this way; but if you +should, say what I have told you.” + </p> +<p> +“The doctor will be sorry not to have said good-bye, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“I may be back again before he need hear of my having gone. And now, +good-night, dear mother; I 'll come and see you before I start.” + </p> +<p> +When Tony Butler found himself alone in his room, he opened his +writing-desk and prepared to write,—a task, for him, of no common +magnitude and of the very rarest occurrence. What it exacted in the way of +strain and effort may be imagined from the swelling of the veins in his +forehead, and the crimson patches that formed on his cheeks. “What would I +give now,” muttered he, “for just ten minutes of ready tact, to express +myself suitably,—to keep down my own temper, and at the same time +make <i>his</i> boil over! If I have ten years of life before me, I 'd +give five of them to be able to do this; but I cannot,—I cannot! To +say all that I want, and not be a braggart or something worse, requires +mind and judgment and tact, and twenty other gifts that I have not got; +and I have only to picture him going about with my letter in his hand, +showing it to every one, with a sheer at my mode of expression,—possibly +of my spelling! Here goes; my very writing shames me:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Sir,—The manner I left your father's house last night +would require an apology [I wonder if there are two p's in +'apology'] from me, if I had not a graver one to ask from +you. [He read this over fully a dozen times, varying the +emphasis, and trying if the meaning it bore, or that he +meant it to bear, could be changed by the reading. 'All +right,' said he, 'no mistake there.'] There is, however, so +much of excuse for your conduct that you did not know how I +was treated by your family,—regarded as a friend, and not +the Cad you wanted to make me! ['Cad' reads wrong—vulgar; +I suppose it is vulgar, but it means what I intend, and so +let it go.] I cannot <i>make</i> a quarrel with your father's +son. [I 'll dash <i>make</i>, to show that I could accept one of +another's making.] But to avoid the risk, I must avoid the +society where I shall meet you [no; that's not right; +'father's son' ought to have <i>him</i> after it]—avoid the +society where I shall meet him. From this day, therefore, I +will not return to the Abbey without I receive that +reparation from you which is the right of + +“Your faithful servant, + +“T. Butler. +</pre> +<p> +“I could not write myself 'Anthony,' if I got five pounds for it” + </p> +<p> +Ten miles across a stiff country, straight as the crow flies would not +have “taken as much out” of poor Tony as the composition of this elegant +epistle; and though he felt a sincere satisfaction at its completion, he +was not by any means satisfied that he had achieved a success. “No,” + muttered he, as he sealed it, “my pen will not be my livelihood; that's +certain. If it wasn't for the dear mother's sake, I would see what a +musket could do, I'd enlist, to a certainty. It is the best thing for +fellows like me.” Thus musing and “mooning,” he lay down, dressed as he +was, and fell asleep. And as he lay, there came a noiseless step to his +door, and the handle turned, and his mother drew nigh his bed, and bent +over him. “Poor Tony!” muttered she, as her tears gushed out. “Poor Tony!” + what a story in two words was there!—what tender love, what +compassionate sorrow! It was the outburst of a mother's grief for one who +was sure to get the worst at the hands of the world,—a cry of +anguish for all the sorrows his own warm heart and guileless nature would +expose him to,—the deceptions, the wrongs, the treacheries that were +before him; and yet, in all the selfishness of her love, she would not +have had him other than he was! She never wished him to be crafty or +worldly-wise. Ten thousand times was he dearer, in all his weakness, than +if he had the cunning of the craftiest that ever outschemed their +neighbors. “My poor boy,” said she, “what hard lessons there are before +you! It is well that you have a brave, big heart, as well as a tender +one.” + </p> +<p> +He was so like his father, too, as he lay there,—no great guarantee +for success in life was that!—and her tears fell faster as she +looked at him; and fearing that her sobs might awake him, she stole +silently away and left the room. +</p> +<p> +“There's the steam-whistle, mother; I can just see the smoke over the +cliff. I 'm off,” said he, as she had dropped off asleep. +</p> +<p> +“But your breakfast, Tony; I 'll make you a cup of tea.” + </p> +<p> +“Not for the world; I 'm late enough as it is. God bless you, little +woman. I 'll be back before you know that I 'm gone. Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +She could hardly trace the black speck as the boat shot out in the deep +gloom of daybreak, and watched it till it rounded the little promontory, +when she lost it; and then her sorrow—sorrow that recalled her great +desolation—burst forth, and she cried as they only cry who are +forsaken. But this was not for long. It was the passion of grief, and her +reason soon vanquished it; and as she dried her tears, she said, “Have I +not much to be grateful for? What a noble boy he is, and what a brave good +man he may be!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER II. A COUNTRY-HOUSE IN IRELAND +</h2> +<p> +The country-house life of Ireland had—and I would say has, if I were +not unhappily drawing on my memory—this advantage over that of +England, that it was passed in that season when the country offered all +that it had of beauty and attraction; when the grove was leafy, and the +blossomy fruit-trees vied in gorgeous color with the flowery beds beneath +them; when the blackbird's mellow song rang through the thicket, and the +heavy plash of the trout rose above the ripple of the river; when the deep +grass waved like a sea under a summer wind, and the cattle, grouped +picturesquely, tempered the noonday heat beneath the spreading elms, or +stood contemplatively in the stream, happy in their luxurious indolence. +</p> +<p> +What a wealth of enjoyment does such a season offer! How imperceptibly +does the lovely aspect of nature blend itself day by day with every +incident of our lives, stealing its peaceful influence over our troubled +hearts, blunting the pangs of our disappointments, calming down the +anxieties of our ambitions! How pleasant is the companionship of our book, +and doubly, trebly delightful the converse of our friend! How gratefully, +too, do we imbibe the health that comes with every charm of color and +sound and form and odor, repeating at every step, “How beautiful the world +is, and how enjoyable!” + </p> +<p> +I am not going to disparage—far be it from me—the fox-cover or +the grouse-mountain; but, after all, these are the accidents, not the +elements, of country life, which certainly ought to be passed when the +woods are choral with the thrush, and the air scented with the +apple-blossom; when it is sweet to lie under the weeping-willow beside the +stream, or stroll at sunset through the grove, to gain that crested ridge +where the red horizon can be seen, and watch the great sun as it sinks in +splendor. +</p> +<p> +Lyle Abbey had not many pretensions to beauty of architecture in itself, +or to scenery in its neighborhood. Nor was it easy to say why a great, +bulky, incongruous building, disfigured by painted windows to make it +Gothic, should have ever been called an Abbey. It was, however, both roomy +and convenient within. There were fine, lofty, spacious reception-rooms, +well lighted and ventilated. Wide corridors led to rows of comfortable +chambers, where numbers of guests could be accommodated, and in every +detail of fitting and furniture, ease and comfort had been studied with a +success that attained perfection. +</p> +<p> +The grounds,—a space of several hundred acres,—enclosed within +a massive wall, had not more pretensions to beauty than the mansion. There +were, it is true, grand points of view,—noble stretches of shore and +sea-coast to be had from certain eminences, and abundant undulations,—some +of these wild and picturesque enough; but the great element of all was +wanting,—there was no foliage, or next to none. +</p> +<p> +Trees will not grow in this inhospitable climate, or only grow in the +clefts and valleys; and even there their stunted growth and scathed +branches show that the northwest wind has found them out, twisting their +boughs uncouthly towards the eastward, and giving them a semblance to some +scared and hooded traveller scudding away before a storm. +</p> +<p> +Vegetation thrives no better. The grass, of sickly yellow, is only fit for +sheep, and there are no traces of those vast tracts of verdure which +represent culture in the South of Ireland. Wealth had fought out the +battle bravely, however, and artificial soils and trees and ornamental +shrubs, replaced and replaced by others as they died off, combated the +ungrateful influences, and won at last a sort of victory. That is to say, +the stranger felt, as he passed the gate, that he was entering what seemed +an oasis, so wild and dreary and desolate was the region which stretched +away for miles on every side. +</p> +<p> +Some drives and walks had been designed—what will not landscape +gardening do?—with occasional shelter and cover. The majority, +however, led over wild, bleak crests,—breezy and bracing on fine +days, but storm-lashed whenever the wind came, as it will for ten months +out of twelve, over the great rolling waters of the Atlantic. +</p> +<p> +The most striking and picturesque of these walks led along the cliffs over +the sea, and, indeed, so close as to be fenced off by a parapet from the +edge of the precipice. It was a costly labor, and never fully carried out,—the +two miles which had been accomplished figuring for a sum that Sir Arthur +declared would have bought the fee-simple of a small estate. It was along +this pathway that Captain Lyle sauntered with his two sisters on the +morning after his arrival. It was the show spot of the whole demesne; and +certainly, as regards grand effects of sea-view and coastline, not to be +surpassed in the kingdom. They had plotted together in the morning how +they would lead Mark in this direction, and, suddenly placing him in one +of the most striking spots, enjoy all his wonderment and admiration; for +Mark Lyle had seldom been at home since his “Harrow” days, and the Abbey +and its grounds were almost strange to him. +</p> +<p> +“What are the rocks yonder, Bella?” said he, listlessly, as he puffed his +cigar and pointed seaward. +</p> +<p> +“The Skerries, Mark; see how the waves beat over that crag. They tried to +build a lighthouse there, but the foundations were soon swept away.” + </p> +<p> +“And what is that? It looks like a dismantled house.” + </p> +<p> +“That is the ruined castle of Dunluce. It belonged to the Antrim family.” + </p> +<p> +“Good heavens! what a dreary region it all is!” cried he, interrupting. “I +declare to you, South Africa is a garden compared to this.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Mark, for shame!” said his elder sister. “The kingdom has nothing +grander than this coast-line from Portrush to Fairhead.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm no judge of its grandeur, but I tell you one thing,—I 'd not +live here,—no, nor would I contract to live six months in a year +here,—to have the whole estate. This is a fine day, I take it.” + </p> +<p> +“It is a glorious day,” said Bella. +</p> +<p> +“Well, it's just as much as we can do to keep our legs here; and certainly +your flattened bonnets and dishevelled hair are no allies to your good +looks.” + </p> +<p> +“Our looks are not in question,” said the elder, tartly. “We were talking +of the scenery; and I defy you to tell me where, in all your travels, you +have seen its equal.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you one thing, Alice, it's deuced dear at the price we are +looking at it; I mean, at the cost of this precious bit of road we stand +on. Where did the governor get his engineer?” + </p> +<p> +“It was Tony planned this,—every yard of it,” said Bella, proudly. +</p> +<p> +“And who is Tony, pray?” said he, superciliously. +</p> +<p> +“You met him last night,—young Butler. He dined here, and sat next +Alice.” + </p> +<p> +“You mean that great hulking fellow, with the attempt at a straw-colored +moustache, who directed the fireworks.” + </p> +<p> +“I mean that very good-looking young man who coolly removed the +powder-flask that you had incautiously forgotten next the rocket-train,” + said Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +“And that was Tony!” said he, with a faint sneer. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, Mark, that was Tony; and if you want to disparage him, let it be to +some other than Bella and myself; for he is an old playmate that we both +esteem highly, and wish well to.” + </p> +<p> +“I am not surprised at it,” said he, languidly. “I never saw a snob yet +that could n't find a woman to defend him; and this fellow, it would seem, +has got two.” + </p> +<p> +“Tony a snob!” + </p> +<p> +“Tony Butler a snob! Just the very thing he is not. Poor boy, there never +was one to whom the charge was less applicable.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't be angry, Alice, because I don't admire your rustic friend. In my +ignorance I fancied he was a pretentious sort of bumpkin, who talked of +things a little out of his reach,—such as yachting,—steeple-chasing, +and the like. Is n't he the son of some poor dependant of the governor's?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind; his mother is a widow, with very narrow means, I +believe; but his father was a colonel, and a distinguished one. As to +dependence, there is no such relation between us.” + </p> +<p> +“I am glad of that, for I rather set him down last night” + </p> +<p> +“Set him down! What do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“He was talking somewhat big of 'cross-country riding, and I asked him +about his stable, and if his cattle ran more on bone than blood.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Mark, you did not do that?” cried Bella, anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; and when I saw his confusion, I said, 'You must let me walk over +some morning, and have a look at your nags; for I know from the way you +speak of horseflesh I shall see something spicy.'” + </p> +<p> +“And what answer did he make?” asked Bella, with an eager look. +</p> +<p> +“He got very red, crimson, indeed, and stammered out, 'You may spare +yourself the walk, sir; for the only quadruped I have is a spaniel, and +she is blind from age, and stupid.'” + </p> +<p> +“Who was the snob there, Mark?” said Mrs. Trafford, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Alice!” said he, raising his eyebrows, and looking at her with a cold +astonishment. +</p> +<p> +“I beg pardon in all humility, Mark,” said she, hastily. “I am very sorry +to have offended you; but I forgot myself. I fancied you had been unjust +to one we all value very highly, and my tongue outran me.” + </p> +<p> +“These sort of fellows,” continued he, as if unheeding her excuses, “only +get a footing in houses where there are no men, or at least none of their +own age; and thus they are deemed Admirable Crichtons because they can +row, or swim, or kill a salmon. Now, when a gentleman does these things, +and fifty more of the same sort, nobody knows it. You'll see in a day or +two here a friend of mine, a certain Norman Maitland, that will beat your +young savage at everything,—ride, row, walk, shoot or single-stick +him for whatever he pleases; and yet I 'll wager you 'll never know from +Maitland's manner or conversation that he ever took the lock of a canal in +a leap, or shot a jaguar single-handed.” + </p> +<p> +“Is your phoenix really coming here?” asked Mrs. Trafford, only too glad +to get another channel for the conversation. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; here is what he writes;” and he took a note from his pocket. “'I +forget, my dear Lyle, whether your château be beside the lakes of +Killarney, the groves of Blarney, or what other picturesque celebrity your +island claims; but I have vowed you a visit of two days,—three, if +you insist,—but not another if you die for it.' Is n't he droll?” + </p> +<p> +“He is insufferably impudent. There is 'a snob' if there ever was one,” + cried Alice, exultingly. +</p> +<p> +“Norman Maitland, Norman Maitland a snob! Why, my dear sister, what will +you say next? Ask the world its opinion of Norman Maitland, for he is just +as well known in St. Petersburg as Piccadilly, and the ring of his rifle +is as familiar on the Himalayas as on a Scotch mountain. There is not a +gathering for pleasure, nor a country-house party in the kingdom, would +not deem themselves thrice fortunate to secure a passing visit from him, +and he is going to give us three days.” + </p> +<p> +“Has he been long in your regiment, Mark?” asked Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +“Maitland has never served with us; he joined us in Simla as a member of +our mess, and we call him 'of ours' because he never would dine with the +9th or the 50th. Maitland would n't take the command of a division to have +the bore and worry of soldiering,—and why should he?” + </p> +<p> +It was not without astonishment Mark's sisters saw their brother, usually +cold and apathetic in his tone, so warmly enthusiastic about his friend +Maitland, of whom he continued to talk with rapture, recalling innumerable +traits of character and temper, but which unhappily only testified to the +success with which he had practised towards the world an amount of +impertinence and presumption that seemed scarcely credible. +</p> +<p> +“If he only be like your portrait, I call him downright detestable,” said +Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, but you are dying to see him all the same, and so is Bella.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me answer for myself, Mark,” said Isabella, “and assure you that, so +far from curiosity, I feel an actual repugnance to the thought of meeting +him. I don't really know whether the condescending politeness of such a +man, or his cool impertinence, is the greater insult.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Maitland, how will you encounter what is prepared for you?” said be, +mockingly; “but courage, girls, I think he 'll survive it,—only I +beg no unnecessary cruelty,—no harshness beyond what his own +transgressions may call down upon him; and don't condemn him merely, and +for no other reason, than because he is the friend of your brother.” And +with this speech he turned short round and ascended a steep path at his +side, and was lost to their view in a minute. +</p> +<p> +“Isn't he changed, Alice? Did you ever see any one so altered?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit changed, Bella; he is exactly what he was at the +grammar-school, at Harrow, and at Sandhurst,—very intolerant to the +whole world, as a compensation for the tyranny some one, boy or man as it +may be, exercises over him. All his good qualities lie under this veil, +and so it was ever with him.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish his friend was not coming.” + </p> +<p> +“And I wish that he had not sent away <i>ours</i>, for I 'm sure Tony +would have been up here before this if something unusual had not +occurred.” + </p> +<p> +“Here's a strange piece of news for you, girls,” said Sir Arthur, coming +towards them. “Tony Butler left for Liverpool in the packet this morning. +Barnes, who was seeing his brother off, saw him mount the side of the +steamer with his portmanteau in his hand. Is it not singular he should +have said nothing about this last night?” + </p> +<p> +The sisters looked with a certain secret intelligence at each other, but +did not speak. “Except, perhaps, he may have told you girls.” added he +quickly, and catching the glance that passed between them. +</p> +<p> +“No, papa,” said Alice, “he said nothing of his intention to us; indeed, +he was to have ridden over with me this morning to Mount-Leslie, and ask +about those private theatricals that have been concerted there for the +last two years, but of which all the performers either marry or die off +during the rehearsals.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps this all-accomplished friend of Mark's who comes here by the end +of the week, will give the project his assistance. If the half of what +Mark says of him be true, we shall have for our guest one of the wonders +of Europe.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish the Leslies would take me on a visit till he goes,” said Alice. +</p> +<p> +“And I,” said Bella, “have serious thoughts of a sore throat that will +confine me to my room. Brummelism—and I hate it—it is just +Brummelism—is somewhat out of vogue at this time of day. It wants +the prestige of originality, and it wants the high patronage that once +covered it; but there is no sacrifice of self-respect in being amused by +it, so let us at least enjoy a hearty laugh, which is more than the +adorers of the great Beau himself ever acquired at his expense.” + </p> +<p> +“At all events, girls, don't desert the field and leave me alone with the +enemy; for this man is just coming when we shall have no one here, as +ill-luck would have it.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't say ill-luck, papa,” interposed Bella; “for if he be like what we +suspect, he would outrage and affront every one of our acquaintance.” + </p> +<p> +“Three days are not an eternity,” said he, half gayly, “and we must make +the best of it.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER III. A VERY “FINE GENTLEMAN” + </h2> +<p> +One word about Mr. Norman Maitland, of whom this history will have +something more to say hereafter. He was one of those men, too few in +number to form a class, but of which nearly every nation on the Continent +has some examples,—men with good manners and good means, met with +always in the great world,—at home in the most exclusive circles, +much thought of, much caressed; but of whom, as to family, friends, or +belongings, no one can tell anything. They who can recall the society of +Paris some forty years back, will remember such a man in Montrond. Rich, +accomplished, handsome, and with the most fascinating address, Montrond +won his way into circles the barriers to which extended even to royalty; +and yet all the world were asking, “Who is he?—who knows him?” + Maitland was another of these. Men constantly canvassed him, agreed that +he was not of these “Maitlands” or of those—that nobody was at +school with him,—none remembered him at Eton or at Rugby. He first +burst upon life at Cambridge, where he rode boldly, was a first-rate +cricketer, gave splendid wine-parties, wrote a prize poem, and disappeared +none ever knew whence or wherefore. He was elected for a borough, but only +was seen twice or thrice in the House. He entered the army, but left +without joining his regiment. He was to be heard of in every city of +Europe, living sumptuously, playing high,—more often a loser than a +winner. His horses, his carriages, his liveries, were models; and wherever +he went his track could be marked in the host of imitators he left behind +him. For some four or five years back all that was known of him was in +some vague paragraph appearing from time to time that some tourist had met +him in the Rocky Mountains, or that he had been seen in Circassia. An +Archduke on his travels had partaken of his hospitality in the extreme +north of India; and one of our naval commanders spoke of dining on board +his yacht in the Southern Pacific. Those who were curious about him +learned that he was beginning to show some slight touches of years,—how +he had grown fatter, some said more serious and grave,—and a few +censoriously hinted that his beard and moustaches were a shade darker than +they used to be. Maitland, in short, was just beginning to drop out of +people's minds, when he reappeared once more in England, looking in +reality very little altered, save that his dark complexion seemed a little +darker from travel, and he was slightly, very slightly, bald on the top of +the head. +</p> +<p> +It was remarked, however, that his old pursuits, which were purely those +of pleasure or dissipation, had not, to all appearance, the same hold on +him as before. “He never goes down to Tattersall's,” “I don't think I have +seen him once at the opera,” “He has given up play altogether,” were the +rumors one heard on all sides; and so it was that the young generation, +who had only heard of but never seen him, were sorely disappointed in +meeting the somewhat quiet, reserved-looking, haughty man, whose wild +feats and eccentricities had so often amused them, but who now gave no +evidence of being other than a cold, well-bred gentleman. +</p> +<p> +It was when hastily passing through London, on his return from India, that +Mark Lyle had met him, and Maitland had given him a half-careless promise +to come and see him. “I want to go across to Ireland,” said he, “and +whenever town gets hot, I'll run over.” Mark would have heard the same +words from a royal duke with less pride, for he had been brought up in his +Sandhurst days with great traditions of Maitland; and the favor the great +man had extended to him in India, riding his horses, and once sharing his +bungalow, had so redounded to his credit in the regiment that even a +tyrannical major had grown bland and gentle to him. +</p> +<p> +Mark was, however, far from confident that he could rely on his promise. +It seemed too bright a prospect to be possible. Maitland, who had never +been in Ireland,—whom one could, as Mark thought, no more fancy in +Ireland than he could imagine a London fine lady passing her mornings in a +poorhouse, or inspecting the coarse labors of a sewing-school,—<i>he</i> +coming over to see him! What a triumph, were it only to be true! and now +the post told him it was true, and that Maitland would arrive at the Abbey +on Saturday. Now, when Mark had turned away so hastily and left his +sisters, he began to regret that he had announced the approaching arrival +of his friend with such a flourish of trumpets. “I ought to have said +nothing whatever about him. I ought simply to have announced him as a man +very well off, and much asked out, and have left the rest to fortune. All +I have done by my ill-judged praise has been to awaken prejudice against +him, and make them eager to detect flaws, if they can, in his manner,—at +all events in his temper.” The longer he thought over these things the +more they distressed him; and, at last, so far from being overjoyed, as he +expected, at the visit of his distinguished friend, he saw the day of his +coming dawn with dismay and misgiving. Indeed, had such a thing as putting +him off been possible, it is likely he would have done it. +</p> +<p> +The long-looked-for and somewhat feared Saturday came at last, and with it +came a note of a few lines from Maitland. They were dated from a little +village in Wicklow, and ran thus:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Dear L.,—I have come down here with a Yankee, whom I +chanced upon as a travelling companion, to look at the +mines,—gold, they call them; and if I am not seduced into +a search after nuggets, I shall be with you some time—I +cannot define the day—next week. The country is prettier +and the people less barbarous than I expected; but I hear +your neighborhood will compensate me for both +disappointments. + +“Yours, + +“N. M.” + </pre> +<p> +“Well! are we to send the carriage into Coleraine for him, Mark?” asked +Sir Arthur, as his son continued to read the letter, without lifting his +eyes. +</p> +<p> +“No,” said Mark, in some confusion. “This is a sort of put-off. He cannot +be here for several days. Some friend or acquaintance has dragged him off +in another direction;” and he crushed the note in his hand, afraid of +being asked to read or to show it. +</p> +<p> +“The house will be full after Tuesday, Mark,” said Lady Lyle. “The Gores +and the Masseys and the M'Clintocks will all be here, and Gambier Graham +threatens us with himself and his two daughters.” + </p> +<p> +“If they come,” broke in Mark, “you'll have my rooms at your disposal.” + </p> +<p> +“I delight in them,” said Mrs. Trafford; “and if your elegantly fastidious +friend should really come, I count upon them to be perfect antidotes to +all his impertinence. Sally Graham and the younger one, whom her father +calls 'Dick,' are downright treasures when one is in want of a forlorn +hope to storm town-bred pretension.” + </p> +<p> +“If Maitland is to be baited, Alice, I 'd rather the bullring was +somewhere else,” said her brother, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“The real question is, shall we have room for all these people and their +followers?” said Lady Lyle. +</p> +<p> +“I repeat,” said Mark, “that if the Graham girls are to be here, I 'm off. +They are the most insufferably obtrusive and aggressive women I ever met; +and I 'd rather take boat and pass a month at the Hebrides than stop a +week in the house with them.” + </p> +<p> +“I think Sally thrashed you when you came home once for the holidays,” + said Mrs. Trafford, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“No, Alice, it was Beck,” broke in her sister. “She has a wonderful story +of what she calls a left-hander, that she planted under his eye. She tells +it still with great gusto, but owns that Mark fought on very bravely for +two rounds after.” + </p> +<p> +“And are these the people you expect me to show Maitland?” said Mark, +rising from the table; “I'd rather, fifty times rather, write and say, 'We +cannot receive you; our house is full, and will be for a month to come.'” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, dear Mark, that is the really sensible way to look at it. Nobody +nowadays has any scruple in such matters. One is invited from Monday to +Thursday, but on no possible pretext can he stay to Friday.” And so Mrs. +Trafford ran away, heaping, by apparent consolations, coals of fire on his +angry head. +</p> +<p> +“I think you had better get Alice to write the letter herself,” said +Bella; “I'm sure she will do it with great tact and discretion.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray do,” added she. “Entrust me with the despatch, and I promise you the +negotiation will be completed then and there.” + </p> +<p> +“It is quite bad enough to shut the door in a man's face, without jeering +at him out of the window,” said Mark; and he dashed out of the room in a +rage. +</p> +<p> +“I wish he had shown us his friend's note,” said Alice. “I'm quite certain +that his anger has far, more to do with that epistle than with any of our +comments upon it.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm very sorry Mark should be annoyed,” said Bella; “but I'm selfish +enough to own that, if we escape Mr. Maitland's visit, I shall deem the +bargain a good one.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect Mr. Maitland does not intend to honor us by his company, and +that we may spare ourselves all the embarrassment of preparing for it,” + said Lady Lyle. And now the three ladies set themselves to consider in +committee that oft-vexed problem of how to make a country-house hold more +people than it had room for, and how to persuade the less distinguished of +the guests that they are “taking out” in cordiality all that their +reception wants in convenience. One difficulty presented itself at every +step, and in a variety of shapes. Never before had the Abbey been full of +visitors without Tony Butler being there to assist in their amusement,—Tony, +equally at home on land and on sea, the cavalier of young ladies, the safe +coachman of mammas, the guide to all that was noteworthy, the fisherman, +the yachtsman whom no weather disconcerted, no misadventure could provoke,—so +good-tempered and so safe; ay, so safe! for Tony never wanted to flirt +with the young heiress, nor teach her schoolboy brother to smoke a short +pipe. He had neither the ambition to push his fortune unfairly, nor to +attach his junior to him by unworthy means. And the sisters ran over his +merits, and grew very enthusiastic about traits in him which, by +inference, they implied were not the gifts of others nearer home. +</p> +<p> +“I wish, papa, you would ride over and see Mrs. Butler, and ask when Tony +is expected back again.” + </p> +<p> +“Or if,” added Mrs. Trafford—“or if we could get him back by +writing, and saying how much we want him.” + </p> +<p> +“I know I 'll never venture on Soliman till Tony has had a hand on him.” + </p> +<p> +“And those chestnuts mamma wants for the low phaeton,—who is to +break them now?” cried Bella. +</p> +<p> +“I only heard yesterday,” said Sir Arthur, “that the 'Mermaid's' sails +were all cut up. Tony was going to make a schooner of her, it seems; and +there she is now, dismantled, and not one of us able to put her in +commission again.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare it sounds absurd,” broke in Lady Lyle, “but I fancy the garden +is beginning to look neglected already. Certainly I never saw Mr. Graft +there the whole morning; and he would not have dared to absent himself if +Tony were here.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd go over willingly and see his mother,” said Sir Arthur; “but as Tony +did not confide to us his intended journey, but set off without a word, it +would have the appearance of a certain prying curiosity on my part were I +to ask after him, and when he is expected home again.” + </p> +<p> +“Not if you were to say frankly that we wanted him, and could n't get on +without him, papa,” said Alice. “I 'd have no shame in saying that we are +perfectly helpless without his skill, his courage, his ready wit, and his +good nature.” + </p> +<p> +“Why not secure all those perfections beyond risk, Alice?” said Sir +Arthur, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“How so?—only tell me.” + </p> +<p> +“Marry him.” + </p> +<p> +“First of all, papa, he might not marry me; and, secondly, if he should, +it might not be the way to insure the perpetuity I covet. You know what +Swift says of the 'promising' Princes and the 'bad' Kings the world is +full of?” + </p> +<p> +“I protest,” said Lady Lyle, haughtily, “I have a great regard for young +Butler; but it has never gone the length of making me desire him for a +son-in-law.” + </p> +<p> +“Meanwhile, papa,—for we have quite time enough to think over the +marriage,—pray let me order them to saddle Peter for you, and ride +over to the Burnside.” + </p> +<p> +“Do so, Alice; I'm quite ready; but, first of all, give me my +instructions.” + </p> +<p> +“We want Tony,” broke in Bella. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; and insist on having him. He must be here by Monday night or Tuesday +morning, if it cost an express to go after him.” + </p> +<p> +“We ought to bear in mind, girls, that Tony has not left home in pursuit +of pleasure. The poor fellow has had some call of urgency or necessity, +and our selfishness must not go the length of a cruelty.” + </p> +<p> +“But with your nice tact, papa, you'll find out all that; you 'll learn, +in the course of conversation, whether anything of importance has called +him away, or whether it be not, as I half suspect, a sort of passing +caprice.” And she looked significantly at Bella, and left her sentence +unfinished. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know of anything that should induce you to believe this, Alice?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing more than a chance word that dropped from Mark this morning. He +took it into his head last night that poor Tony was presumptuous, and gave +himself airs,—Tony! of all creatures in the world; and so the great +hussar, in the plenitude of his regimental experiences, essayed what he +called 'to put him down'! Now, the chances are that this may have +occasioned some unpleasantness, and it is not in the least unlikely may +have led to Tony's departure.” + </p> +<p> +“You must be right, Alice; and since we have been standing here at the +window, I saw Mrs. Butler's herd give Mark a letter, which, after reading, +he crushed impatiently in his hand and thrust into his pocket. This +decides me at once. I will go down to Mrs. Butler's without delay.” + </p> +<p> +“Please explain that I have not called, solely because the carriage-road +is so bad. The drive down through that forest of fern and reeds is like a +horrid nightmare on me,” said Lady Lyle. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I think I can apologize for your absence without telling her that +she lives in an unapproachable wilderness,” said he, laughing; “and as she +cares little for visiting or being visited, the chances are my task will +be an easy one. +</p> +<p> +“Would you like me to go with you, papa?” asked Alice. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, by all means; but stay,” added he, quickly, “it might possibly be +better not to come; if anything unpleasant should have occurred between +Mark and Tony, she will have less reluctance to speak of it when we are +alone.” + </p> +<p> +They all agreed that this was well thought of, and soon after saw him set +out on his mission, their best wishes for his success following him. +</p> +<p> +Sir Arthur pondered as he went over what he should say, and how he would +meet the remarks he deemed it likely she would make to him. Without being +in the least what is called a person of superior abilities, Mrs. Butler +was a somewhat hard-headed woman, whose North of Ireland caution and +shrewdness stood her in stead for higher qualities; and if they would not +have guided her in great difficulties, she had the good fortune or the +prudence to escape from such. He knew this; and he knew besides that there +pertains to a position of diminished means and station a peculiar species +of touchy pride, always suggesting to its possessor the suspicion that +this or that liberty would never have been taken in happier days, and thus +to regard the most well-meant counsels and delicately conveyed advice as +uncalled-for interference, or worse. +</p> +<p> +It was after much consideration he saw himself at the little wicket of the +garden, where he dismounted, and, fastening his bridle to the gate, +knocked at the door. Though he could distinctly hear the sound of voices +within, and the quick movement of feet, his summons was unanswered, and he +was about to repeat it for the third time when the door was opened. +</p> +<p> +“Is your mistress at home, Jeanie?” said he, recognizing with a smile the +girl's courtesy to him. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, she's at home,” was the dry answer. +</p> +<p> +“Will you just tell her, then, that Sir Arthur Lyle would take it as a +great favor if she'd permit him to speak to her?” + </p> +<p> +The girl disappeared with the message, but did not return again for +several minutes; and when she did, she looked slightly agitated. “My +mistress is very sorry, sir, but she canna see ye the day; it's a sort of +a headache she has.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Anthony, is he at home?” asked he, curious to remark the effect of +his question. +</p> +<p> +“He's no just at name the noo,” was the cautious reply. +</p> +<p> +“He has not been up at the Abbey to-day,” said he, carelessly; “but, to be +sure, I came through the 'bracken,' and might have missed him.” + </p> +<p> +A little dry nod of the head, to acknowledge that this or anything else +was possible, was all that his speech elicited. +</p> +<p> +“Say that I was very sorry, Jeanie, that Mrs. Butler could not see me, and +sorrier for the reason; but that I hope tomorrow or next day to be more +fortunate. Not,” added he, after a second thought, “that what I wanted to +speak of is important, except to myself; don't forget this, Jeanie.” + </p> +<p> +“I winna forget,” said she; and courtesying again, closed the door. Sir +Arthur rode slowly back to report that his embassy had failed. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IV. SOME NEW ARRIVALS +</h2> +<p> +Day after day went over, and no tidings of Maitland. When the post came in +of a morning, and no letter in his hand appeared, Mark's impatience was +too perceptible to make any comment for his sisters either safe or +prudent. Nor was it till nigh a week passed over that he himself said, “I +wonder what has become of Maitland? I hope he's not ill.” None followed up +the theme, and it dropped. The expected guests began to drop in soon +after, and, except by Mark himself, Mr. Norman Maitland was totally +forgotten. The visitors were for the most part squires, and their wives +and families; solid, well-to-do gentlemen, whose chief objects in life +were green crops and the poor-law. Their talk was either of mangold or +guano, swedes or the union, just as their sons' conversation ranged over +dogs, horses, meets, and covers; and the ladies disported in toilette, and +such details of the Castle drawing-rooms as the Dublin papers afforded. +There were Mr. and Mrs. Warren, with two daughters and a son; and the +Hunters, with two sons and a daughter. There were Colonel Hoyle and Mrs. +Hoyle, from regimental head-quarters, Belfast; and Groves Bulkney, the +member for the county, who had come over, in the fear of an approaching +dissolution of Parliament, to have a look at his constituents. He was a +Tory, who always voted with the Whigs; a sort of politician in great favor +with the North of Ireland, and usually supposed to have much influence +with both parties. There were Masseys from Tipperary, and M'Clintocks from +Louth; and, lastly, herald of their approach, three large coffin-shaped +trunks, undeniably of sea-origin, with the words “Cap. Gambier Graham, +R.N.,” marked on them, which arrived by a carrier, with three gun-cases +and an immense array of fishing-tackle, gaffs, and nets. +</p> +<p> +“So I see those odious Grahams are coming,” said Mark, ill-humoredly, as +he met his elder sister in the hall. “I declare, if it were not that +Maitland might chance to arrive in my absence, I 'd set off this very +morning.” + </p> +<p> +“I assure you, Mark, you are all wrong; the girls are no favorites of +mine; but looking to the staple of our other guests, the Grahams are +perfect boons from Heaven. The Warrens, with their infant school, and Mrs. +Maxwell, with her quarrel with the bishop, and the Masseys, with their +pretension about that daughter who married Lord Claude Somebody, are so +terribly tiresome that I long for the racket and noise of those bustling +young women, who will at least dispel our dulness.” + </p> +<p> +“At the cost of our good breeding.” + </p> +<p> +“At all events, they are Jolly and good-tempered girls. We have known them +for—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, don't say how long. The younger one is two years older than myself.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Mark, Beck is exactly your own age.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I 'm determined to call myself five-and-thirty the first opportunity +I have. She shall have three years tacked to her for the coming into the +world along with me.” + </p> +<p> +“Sally is only thirty-four.” + </p> +<p> +“Only! the idea of saying <i>only</i> to thirty-four.” + </p> +<p> +“They don't look within eight or nine years of it, I declare. I suppose +you will scarcely detect the slightest change in them.” + </p> +<p> +“So much the worse. Any change would improve them, in my eyes.” + </p> +<p> +“And the Captain, too. He, I believe, is now Commodore.” + </p> +<p> +“I perceive there is no change in the mode of travel,” said Mark, pointing +to the trunks. “The heavy luggage used always to arrive the day before +they drove up in their vile Irish jaunting-car. Do they still come in that +fashion?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; and I really believe with the same horse they had long, long ago.” + </p> +<p> +“A flea-bitten mare with a twisted tail?” + </p> +<p> +“The very same,” cried she, laughing. “I'll certainly tell Beck how well +you remember their horse. She 'll take it as a flattery.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell her what you like; she'll soon find out how much flattery she has to +expect from <i>me!</i>” After a short pause, in which he made two +ineffectual attempts to light a cigar, and slightly burned his fingers, he +said, “I 'd not for a hundred pounds that Maitland had met them here. With +simply stupid country gentry, he 'd not care to notice their ways nor pay +attention to their humdrum habits; but these Grahams, with all their +flagrant vulgarity, will be a temptation too irresistible, and he will +leave this to associate us forever in his mind with the two most ill-bred +women in creation.” + </p> +<p> +“You are quite unfair, Mark; they are greatly liked,—at least, +people are glad to have them; and if we only had poor Tony Butler here, +who used to manage them to perfection, they 'd help us wonderfully with +all the dulness around us.” + </p> +<p> +“Thank Heaven we have not. I 'd certainly not face such a constellation as +the three of them. I tell you, frankly, that I 'd pack my portmanteau and +go over to Scotland if that fellow were to come here again.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're not likely to be driven to such an extremity, I suspect; but here +comes papa, and I think he has been down at the Burnside; let us hear what +news he has.” + </p> +<p> +“It has no interest for me,” said he, walking away, while she hastened out +to meet Sir Arthur. +</p> +<p> +“No tidings, Alice,—at least, none that I can learn. Mrs. Butler's +headache still prevents her seeing me, though I could wager I saw her at +work in the garden when I turned off the high-road.” + </p> +<p> +“How strange! You suspect that she avoids you?” + </p> +<p> +“I am certain of it; and I went round by the minister's, thinking to have +a talk with Stewart, and hear something that might explain this; but he +was engaged in preparing his sermon, and begged me to excuse him.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish we could get to the bottom of this mystery. Would she receive me, +do you think, if I were to go over to the cottage?” + </p> +<p> +“Most likely not I suspect whatever it be that has led to this +estrangement will be a passing cloud; let us wait and see. Who are those +coming up the bend of the road? The horse looks fagged enough, certainly.” + </p> +<p> +“The Grahams, I declare! Oh, I must find Mark, and let him be caught here +when they arrive.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't let the Commodore get at <i>me</i> before dinner; that's all I +ask,” said Sir Arthur, as he rode round to the stables. +</p> +<p> +When Alice entered the house, she found Mark at the open window watching +with an opera-glass the progress of the jaunting-car as it slowly wound +along the turns of the approach, lost and seen as the woods intervened or +opened. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot make it out at all, Alice,” said he; “there are two men and two +women, as well as I can see, besides the driver.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; they have their maid, whom you mistake for a man.” + </p> +<p> +“Then the maid wears a wideawake and a paletot. Look, and see for +yourself;” and he handed her the glass. +</p> +<p> +“I declare you are right,—it is a man; he is beside Beck. Sally is +on the side with her father.” + </p> +<p> +“Are they capable of bringing some one along with them?” cried he, in +horror. “Do you think they would dare to take such a liberty as that +here?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm certain they would not. It must be Kenrose the apothecary, who was +coming to see one of the maids, or one of our own people, or—” Her +further conjectures were cut short by the outburst of so strong an +expletive as cannot be repeated; and Mark, pale as death, stammered out, +“It's Maitland! Norman Maitland!” + </p> +<p> +“But how, Mark, do they know him?” + </p> +<p> +“Confound them! who can tell how it happened?” said he., “I 'll not meet +him; I 'll leave the house,—I 'll not face such an indignity.” + </p> +<p> +“But remember, Mark, none of us know your friend, we have not so much as +seen him; and as he was to meet these people, it's all the better they +came as acquaintances.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all very fine,” said he, angrily; “you can be beautifully +philosophical about it, all because you have n't to go back to a +mess-table and be badgered by all sorts of allusions and references to +Maitland's capital story.” + </p> +<p> +“Here they are, here they are!” cried Alice; and the next moment she was +warmly embracing those dear friends to whose failings she was nowise +blind, however ardent her late defence of them. Mark, meanwhile, had +advanced towards Maitland, and gave him as cordial a welcome as he could +command. “My sister Mrs. Trafford, Mr. Maitland,” said he; and Alice gave +her hand with a graceful cordiality to the new guest. +</p> +<p> +“I declare, Mark is afraid that I 'll kiss him,” cried Beck. “Courage, <i>mon +ami</i>, I'll not expose you in public.” + </p> +<p> +“How are you? how are you?” cried the Commodore; “brown, brown, very +brown; Indian sun. Lucky if the mischief is only skin-deep.” + </p> +<p> +“Shake hands, Mark,” said Sally, in a deep masculine voice; “don't bear +malice, though I did pitch you out of the boat that day.” + </p> +<p> +Mark was however, happily, too much engaged with his friend to have heard +the speech. He was eagerly listening to Maitland's account of his first +meeting with the Grahams. +</p> +<p> +“My lucky star was in the ascendant; for there I stood,” said Maitland, +“in the great square of Bally—Bally—” + </p> +<p> +“Ballymena,” broke in Beck; “and there's no great square in the place; but +you stood in a very dirty stable-yard, in a much greater passion than such +a fine gentleman should ever give way to.” + </p> +<p> +“Calling, 'A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!'” + </p> +<p> +“It was 'a chaise and pair' <i>I</i> heard, and you were well laughed at +for your demand. The baker offered you a seat, which you rejected with +dismay; and, to tell the truth, it was half in the hope of witnessing +another outburst of your indignation that I went across and said, 'Would +you accept a place beside me, sir?'” + </p> +<p> +“And was I not overwhelmed with joy? Was it not in a transport of +gratitude that I embraced your offer?” + </p> +<p> +“I know you very nearly embraced my maid as you lifted her off the car.” + </p> +<p> +“And, by the way, where is Patience?” asked Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +“She's coming on, some fashion, with the swell's luggage,” added she, +dropping her voice to a whisper,—“eight trunks, eleven carpet-bags, +and four dressing-boxes, besides what I thought was a show-box, but is +only a shower-bath.” + </p> +<p> +“My people will take every care of her,” said Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“Is Fenton still with you?” asked Mark. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; he had some thoughts of leaving me lately. He said he thought he 'd +like to retire,—that he 'd take a consulate or a barrack-mastership; +but I laughed him out of it.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Arthur and Lady Lyle had now come down to welcome the new arrivals; +and greetings and welcomes and felicitations resounded on all sides. +</p> +<p> +“Come along with me, Maitland,” said Mark, hurrying his friend away. “Let +me show you your quarters;” and as he moved off, he added, “What a piece +of ill-luck it was that you should have chanced upon the greatest bores of +our acquaintance!—people so detestable to me that if I had n't been +expecting your visit I 'd have left the house this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know that,” said Maitland, half languidly; “perhaps I have grown +more tolerant, or more indifferent,—what may be another name for the +same thing; but I rather liked the young women. Have we any more stairs to +mount?” + </p> +<p> +“No; here you are;” and Mark reddened a little at the impertinent +question. “I have put you here because this was an old <i>garçon</i> +apartment I had arranged for myself; and you have your bath-room yonder, +and your servant, on the other side of the terrace.” + </p> +<p> +“It's all very nice, and seems very quiet,” said Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“As to that, you'll not have to complain; except the plash of the sea at +the foot of those cliffs, you 'll never hear a sound here.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a bold thing of you to make me so comfortable, Lyle. When I wrote to +you to say I was coming, my head was full of what we call country-house +life, with all its bustle and racket,—noisy breakfasts and noisier +luncheons, with dinners as numerous as <i>tables d'hôte</i>. I never +dreamed of such a paradise as this. May I dine here all alone when in the +humor?” + </p> +<p> +“You are to be all your own master, and to do exactly as you please. I +need not say, though, that I will scarce forgive you if you grudge us your +company.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not always up to society. I'm growing a little footsore with the +world, Lyle, and like to lie down in the shade.” + </p> +<p> +“Lewis told me you were writing a book,—a novel, I think he said,” + said Mark. +</p> +<p> +“I write a book! I never thought of such a thing. Why, my dear Lyle, the +fellows who—like myself—know the whole thing, never write! +Have n't you often remarked that a man who has passed years of life in a +foreign city loses all power of depicting its traits of peculiarity, just +because, from habit, they have ceased to strike him as strange? So it is. +Your thorough man of the world knows life too well to describe it. No, no; +it is the creature that stands furtively in the flats that can depict what +goes on in the comedy. Who are your guests?” + </p> +<p> +Mark ran over the names carelessly. +</p> +<p> +“All new to me, and I to them. Don't introduce me, Mark; leave me to shake +down in any bivouac that may offer. I'll not be a bear if people don't +bait me. You understand?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I do.” + </p> +<p> +“There are no foreigners? That's a loss. They season society, though they +never make it, and there's an evasive softness in French that contributes +much to the courtesies of life. So it is; the habits of the Continent to +the wearied man of the world are just like loose slippers to a gouty man. +People learn to be intimate there without being over-familiar,—a +great point, Mark.” + </p> +<p> +“By the way,—talking of that same familiarity,—there was a +young fellow who got the habit of coming here, before I returned from +India, on such easy terms that I found him installed like one of +ourselves. He had his room, his saddle-horse, a servant that waited on +him, and who did his orders, as if he were a son of the family. I cut the +thing very short when I came home, by giving him a message to do some +trifling service, just as I would have told my valet. He resented, left +the house, and sent me this letter next morning.” + </p> +<p> +“Not much given to letter-writing, I see,” muttered Mait-land, as he read +over Tony's epistle; “but still the thing is reasonably well put, and +means to say, 'Give me a chance, and I 'm ready for you.' What's the name,—Buller?” + </p> +<p> +“No; Butler,—Tony Butler they call him here.” + </p> +<p> +“What Butlers does he belong to?” asked Maitland, with more interest in +his manner. +</p> +<p> +“No Butlers at all,—at least, none of any standing. My sisters, who +swear by this fellow, will tell you that his father was a colonel and +C.B., and I don't know what else; and that his uncle was, and I believe +is, a certain Sir Omerod Butler, minister or ex-minister somewhere; but I +have my doubts of all the fine parentage, seeing that this youth lives +with his mother in a cottage here that stands in the rent-roll at £18 per +annum.” + </p> +<p> +“There is a Sir Omerod Butler,” said Maitland, with a slow, thoughtful +enunciation. +</p> +<p> +“But if he be this youth's uncle, he never knows nor recognizes him. My +sister, Mrs. Trafford, has the whole story of these people, and will be +charmed to tell it to you.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no curiosity in the matter,” said Maitland, languidly. “The world +is really so very small that by the time a man reaches my age he knows +every one that is to be known in it. And so,” said he, as he looked again +at the letter, “he went off, after sending you the letter?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, he left this the same day.” + </p> +<p> +“And where for?” + </p> +<p> +“I never asked. The girls, I suppose, know all about his movements. I +overhear mutterings about poor Tony at every turn. Tell me, Maitland,” + added he, with more earnestness, “is this letter a thing I can notice? Is +it not a regular provocation?” + </p> +<p> +“It is, and it is not,” said Maitland, as he lighted a cigar, puffing the +smoke leisurely between his words. “If he were a man that you would chance +upon at every moment, meet at your club, or sit opposite at dinner, the +thing would fester into a sore in its own time; but here is a fellow, it +may be, that you 'll never see again, or if so, but on distant terms, I 'd +say, put the document with your tailor's bills, and think no more of it.” + </p> +<p> +Lyle nodded an assent, and was silent. +</p> +<p> +“I say, Lyle,” added Maitland, after a moment, “I'd advise you never to +speak of the fellow,—never discuss him. If your sisters bring up his +name, let it drop unnoticed; it is the only way to put the tombstone on +such memories. What is your dinner-hour here?” + </p> +<p> +“Late enough, even for you,—eight.” + </p> +<p> +“That <i>is</i> civilized. I 'll come down—at least, to-day,” said +he, after a brief pause; “and now leave me.” + </p> +<p> +When Lyle withdrew, Maitland leaned on the window-sill, and ranged his +eyes over the bold coast-line beneath him. It was not, however, to admire +the bold promontory of Fairhead, or the sweeping shore that shelved at its +base; nor was it to gaze on the rugged outline of those perilous rocks +which stretched from the Causeway far into the open sea. His mind was far, +far away from the spot, deep in cares and wiles and schemes; for his was +an intriguing head, and had its own store of knaveries. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER V. IN LONDON +</h2> +<p> +Seeking one's fortune is a very gambling sort of affair. It is leaving so +much to chance, trusting so implicitly to what is called “luck,” that it +makes all individual exertion a merely secondary process,—a kind of +“auxiliary screw” to aid the gale of Fortune. It was pretty much in this +spirit that Tony Butler arrived in London; nor did the aspect of that +mighty sea of humanity serve to increase his sense of self-reliance. It +was not merely his loneliness that he felt in that great crowd, but it was +his utter inutility—his actual worthlessness—to all others. If +the gamester's sentiment, to try his luck, was in his heart, it was the +spirit of a very poor gambler, who had but one “throw” to risk on fortune; +and, thus thinking, he set out for Downing Street. +</p> +<p> +If he was somewhat disappointed in the tumble-down, ruinous old mass of +building which held the state secrets of the empire, he was not the less +awestruck as he found himself at the threshold where the great men who +guide empires were accustomed to pass in. With a bold effort he swung back +the glass door of the inner hall, and found himself in presence of a very +well-whiskered, imposing-looking man, who, seated indolently in a deep +armchair, was busily engaged in reading the “Times.” A glance over the top +of the paper was sufficient to assure this great official that it was not +necessary to interrupt his perusal of the news on the stranger's account, +and so he read on undisturbed. +</p> +<p> +“I have a letter here for Sir Harry Elphinstone,” began Tony; “can I +deliver it to him?” + </p> +<p> +“You can leave it in that rack yonder,” said the other, pointing to a +glass-case attached to the wall. +</p> +<p> +“But I wish to give it myself,—with my own hand.” + </p> +<p> +“Sir Harry comes down to the office at five, and, if your name is down for +an audience, will see you after six.” + </p> +<p> +“And if it is not down?” + </p> +<p> +“He won't see you; that 's all.” There was an impatience about the last +words that implied he had lost his place in the newspaper, and wished to +be rid of his interrogator. +</p> +<p> +“And if I leave my letter here, when shall I call for the answer?” asked +Tony, diffidently. +</p> +<p> +“Any time from this to this day six weeks,” said the other, with a wave of +the hand to imply the audience was ended. +</p> +<p> +“What if I were to try his private residence?” said Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Eighty-one, Park Lane,” said the other, aloud, while he mumbled over to +himself the last line he had read, to recall his thoughts to the passage. +</p> +<p> +“You advise me then to go there?” + </p> +<p> +“Always cutting down, always slicing off something!” muttered the other, +with his eyes on the paper. “'For the port-collector of Hallihololulo, +three hundred and twenty pounds. Mr. Scrudge moved as amendment that the +vote be reduced by the sum of seventy-four pounds eighteen and sevenpence, +being the amount of the collector's salary for the period of his absence +from his post during the prevalence of the yellow fever on the coast. The +honorable member knew a gentleman, whose name he was unwilling to mention +publicly, but would have much pleasure in communicating confidentially to +any honorable gentleman on either side of the House, who had passed +several days at Haccamana, and never was attacked by any form of yellow +fever.' That was a home-thrust, eh?” cried the reader, addressing Tony. +“Not such an easy thing to answer old Scrudge there?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm a poor opinion on such matters,” said Tony, with humility; “but pray +tell me, if I were to call at Park Lane—” + </p> +<p> +The remainder of his question was interrupted by the sudden start to his +legs of the austere porter, as an effeminate-looking young man with his +hat set on one side, and a glass to his eye, swung wide the door, and +walked up to the letter-rack. +</p> +<p> +“Only these, Willis?” said he, taking some half-dozen letters of various +sizes. +</p> +<p> +“And this, sir,” said the porter, handing him Tony's letter; “but the +young man thinks he 'd like to have it back;” while he added, in a low but +very significant tone, “he's going to Park Lane with it himself.” + </p> +<p> +The young gentleman turned round at this, and took a Tery leisurely survey +of the man who contemplated a step of such rare audacity. +</p> +<p> +“He 's from Ireland, Mr. Darner,” whispered the porter, with a half-kindly +impulse to make an apology for such ignorance. +</p> +<p> +Mr. Darner smiled faintly, and gave a little nod, as though to say that +the explanation was sufficient; and again turned towards Tony. +</p> +<p> +“I take it that you know Sir Harry Elphinstone?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“I never saw him; but he knew my father very well, and he 'll remember my +name.” + </p> +<p> +“Knew your father? And in what capacity, may I ask?” + </p> +<p> +“In what capacity?” repeated Tony, almost fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; I mean, as what—on what relations did they stand to each +other?” + </p> +<p> +“As schoolfellows at Westminster, where he fagged to my father; in the +Grenadier Guards afterwards, where they served together; and, last of all, +as correspondents, which they were for many years.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, yes,” sighed the other, as though he had read the whole story, and a +very painful story too, of change of fortune and ruined condition. “But +still,” continued he, “I 'd scarcely advise your going to Park Lane. He +don't like it. None of them like it!” + </p> +<p> +“Don't they?” said Tony, not even vaguely guessing at whose prejudices he +was hinting, but feeling bound to say something. +</p> +<p> +“No, they don't,” rejoined Mr. Darner, in a half-confidential way. “There +is such a deal of it,—fellows who were in the same 'eleven' at +Oxford, or widows of tutors, or parties who wrote books,—I think +they are the worst, but all are bores, immense bores! You want to get +something, don't you?” + </p> +<p> +Tony smiled, as much at the oddity of the question as in acquiescence. +</p> +<p> +“I ask,” said the other, “because you'll have to come to me: I 'm private +secretary, and I give away nearly all the office patronage. Come +upstairs;” and with this he led the way up a very dirty staircase to a +still dirtier corridor, off which a variety of offices opened, the open +doors of which displayed the officials in all forms and attitudes of +idleness,—some asleep, some reading newspapers, some at luncheon, +and two were sparring with boxing-gloves. +</p> +<p> +“Sir Harry writes the whole night through,” said Mr. Damer; “that's the +reason these fellows have their own time of it now;” and with this bit of +apology he ushered Tony into a small but comfortably furnished room, with +a great coal-fire in the grate, though the day was a sultry one in autumn. +</p> +<p> +Mr. Skeffington Darner's first care was to present himself before a +looking-glass, and arrange his hair, his whiskers, and his cravat; having +done which, he told Tony to be seated, and threw himself into a most +comfortably padded arm-chair, with a writing-desk appended to one side of +it. +</p> +<p> +“I may as well open your letter. It's not marked private, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“Not marked private,” said Tony, “but its contents are strictly +confidential.” + </p> +<p> +“But it will be in the waste-paper basket to-morrow morning for all that,” + said Darner, with a pitying compassion for the other's innocence. “What is +it you are looking for,—what sort of thing?” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know, because I 'm fit for so little; they tell me the +colonies, Australia or New Zealand, are the places for fellows like me.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't believe a word of it,” cried Darner, energetically. “A man with any +'go' in him can do fifty thousand times better at home. You go some +thousand miles away—for what? to crush quartz, or hammer limestone, +or pump water, or carry mud in baskets, at a dollar, two dollars, five +dollars, if you like, a day, in a country where Dillon, one of our fellows +that's under-secretary there, writes me word he paid thirty shillings for +a pot of Yarmouth bloaters. It's a rank humbug all that about the +colonies,—take my word for it!” + </p> +<p> +“But what is there to be done at home, at least by one like me?” + </p> +<p> +“Scores of things. Go on to the Exchange,—go in for a rise, go in +for a fall. Take Peruvian Twelves—they 're splendid—or +Montezuman mining script. I did a little in Guatemalas last week, and I +expect a capital return by next settling-day. If you think all this too +gambling, get named director of a company. There's the patent phosphorus +blacking, will give fifty pounds for a respectable chairman; or write a +novel,—that's the easiest thing in life, and pays wonderfully,—Herd +and Dashen give a thousand down, and double the money for each edition; +and it's a fellow's own fault if it ain't a success. Then there's patent +medicine and scene-painting,—any one can paint a scene, all done +with a great brush—this fashion; and you get up to fifteen, ay, +twenty pounds a week. By the way, are you active?” + </p> +<p> +“Tolerably so. Why do you ask?” said Tony, smiling at the impetuous +incoherence of the other's talk. +</p> +<p> +“Just hold up this newspaper—so—not so high—there. Don't +move; a very little to the right.” So saying, Mr. Darner took three +sofa-cushions, and placed them in a line on the floor; and then, taking +off his coat and waistcoat, retired to a distant corner of the room. “Be +steady, now; don't move,” cried he; and then, with a brisk run, he dashed +forward, and leaped head-foremost through the extended newspaper, but with +so vigorous a spring as to alight on the floor a considerable distance in +advance of the cushions, so that he arose with a bump on his forehead, and +his nose bleeding. +</p> +<p> +“Admirably done! splendidly done!” cried Tony, anxious to cover the +disaster by a well-timed applause. +</p> +<p> +“I never got so much as a scratch before,” said Darner, as be proceeded to +sponge his face. “I 've done the clock and the coach-window at the +Adelphi, and they all thought it was Salter. I could have five pounds a +night and a free benefit. Is it growing black around the eye? I hope it's +not growing black around the eye?” + </p> +<p> +“Let me bathe it for you. By the way, have you any one here could manage +to get you a little newly baked dough? That's the boxer's remedy for a +bruise. If I knew where to go, I 'd fetch it myself.” + </p> +<p> +Darner looked up from his bathing proceedings, and stared at the +good-natured readiness of one so willing to oblige as not to think of the +ridicule that might attach to his kindness. “My servant will go for it,” + said he; “just pull that bell, will you, and I 'll send him. Is not it +strange how I could have done this?” continued he, still bent on +explaining away his failure; “what a nose I shall have to-morrow! Eh! +what's that? It's Sir Harry's bell ringing away furiously! Was there ever +the like of this! The only day he should have come for the last eight +months!” The bell now continued to ring violently, and Damer had nothing +for it but to huddle on his coat and rush away to answer the summons. +</p> +<p> +Though not more than ten minutes absent, Tony thought the time very long; +in reality be felt anxious about the poor fellow, and eager to know that +his disaster had not led to disgrace. +</p> +<p> +“Never so much as noticed it,” said Darner,—“was so full of other +matters. I suspect,” added he, in a lower tone,—“I suspect we are +going out.” + </p> +<p> +“Out where?” asked Tony, with simplicity. +</p> +<p> +“Out of office, out of power,” replied the other, half testily; then added +in a more conciliatory voice, “I 'll tell you why I think so. He began +filling up all the things that are vacant. I have just named two colonial +secretaries, a chief justice, an auditor-general, and an inspector of +convicts. I thought of that for <i>you</i>, and handed him your letter; +but before he broke the seal he had filled up the place.” + </p> +<p> +“So then he has read the letter?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, he read it twice; and when I told him you were here in waiting, he +said, 'Tell him not to go; I 'll see him.'” + </p> +<p> +The thought of presenting himself bodily before the great man made Tony +feel nervous and uncomfortable; and after a few moments of fidgety +uneasiness, he said, “What sort of person is he,—what is he like?” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” said Damer, who now stood over a basin, sponging his eye with cold +water, “he's shy—very shy—but you 'd never guess it; for he +has a bold, abrupt sort of way with him; and he constantly answers his own +questions, and if the replies displease him, he grows irritable. You 've +seen men like that?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot say that I have.” + </p> +<p> +“Then it's downright impossible to say when he's in good humor with one, +for he 'll stop short in a laugh and give you such a pull up!” + </p> +<p> +“That is dreadful!” exclaimed Tony. +</p> +<p> +“<i>I</i> can manage him! They say in the office I 'm the only fellow that +ever could manage him. There goes his bell,—that's for you; wait +here, however, till I come back.” + </p> +<p> +Darner hurried away, but was back in a moment, and beckoned to Tony to +follow him, which he did in a state of flurry and anxiety that a real +peril would never have caused him. +</p> +<p> +Tony found himself standing in the Minister's presence, where he remained +for full a couple of minutes before the great man lifted his head and +ceased writing. “Sit down,” was the first salutation; and as he took a +chair, he had time to remark the stern but handsome features of a large +man, somewhat past the prime of life, and showing in the lines of his face +traces of dissipation as well as of labor. +</p> +<p> +“Are you the son of Watty Butler?” asked he, as he wheeled his chair from +the table and confronted Tony. +</p> +<p> +“My father's name was Walter, sir,” replied Tony, not altogether without +resenting this tone of alluding to him. +</p> +<p> +“Walter! nothing of the kind; nobody ever called him anything but Watty, +or Wat Tartar, in the regiment. Poor Watty! you are very like him,—not +so large,—not so tall.” “The same height to a hair, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't tell me; Watty was an inch and a half over you, and much broader in +the chest. I think I ought to know; he has thrown me scores of times +wrestling, and I suspect it would puzzle <i>you</i> to do it.” Tony's face +flushed; he made no answer, but in his heart of hearts he 'd like to have +had a trial. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps the great man expected some confirmation of his opinion, or +perhaps he had his own doubts about its soundness; but, whatever the +reason, his voice was more peevish as he said: “I have read your mother's +note, but for the life of me I cannot see what it points to. What has +become of your father's fortune? He had something, surely.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, he had a younger son's portion, but he risked it in a +speculation—some mines in Canada—and lost it.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, and dipped it too by extravagance! There's no need to tell me how he +lived; there wasn't so wasteful a fellow in the regiment; he 'd have +exactly what he pleased, and spend how he liked. And what has it come to? +ay, that's what I ask,—what has it come to? His wife comes here with +this petition—for it is a petition—asking—I 'll be shot +if I know what she asks.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I 'll tell you,” burst in Tony; “she asks the old brother-officer of +her husband—the man who in his letters called himself his brother—to +befriend his son, and there's nothing like a petition in the whole of it.” + </p> +<p> +“What! what! what! This is something I 'm not accustomed to! You want to +make friends, young man, and you must not begin by outraging the very few +who might chance to be well disposed towards you.” + </p> +<p> +Tony stood abashed and overwhelmed, his cheeks on fire with shame, but he +never uttered a word. +</p> +<p> +“I have very little patronage,” said Sir Harry, drawing himself up and +speaking in a cold, measured tone; “the colonies appoint their own +officials, with a very few exceptions. I could make you a bishop or an +attorney-general, but I could n't make you a tide-waiter! What can you do? +Do you write a good hand?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; it is legible,—that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“And of course you know nothing of French or German?” + </p> +<p> +“A little French; not a word of German, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd be surprised if you did. It is always when a fellow has utterly +neglected his education that he comes to a Government for a place. The +belief apparently is that the State supports a large institution of +incapables, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps there is that impression abroad,” said Tony, defiantly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, the impression, as you phrase it, is unfounded, I can affirm. +I have already declared it in the House, that there is not a government in +Europe more ably, more honestly, or more zealously served than our own. We +may not have the spirit of discipline of the French, or the bureaucracy of +the Prussian; but we have a class of officials proud of the departments +they administer; and, let me tell you,—it's no small matter,—very +keen after retiring pensions.” + </p> +<p> +Either Sir Harry thought he had said a smart thing, or that the theme +suggested something that tickled his fancy, for he smiled pleasantly now +on Tony, and looked far better tempered than before. Indeed, Tony laughed +at the abrupt peroration, and that laugh did him no disservice. +</p> +<p> +“Well, now, Butler, what are we to do with you?” resumed the Minister, +good-humoredly. “It's not easy to find the right thing, but I 'll talk it +over with Darner. Give him your address, and drop in upon him +occasionally,—not too often, but now and then, so that he should n't +forget you. Meanwhile brush up your French and Italian. I 'm glad you know +Italian.” + </p> +<p> +“But I do not, sir; not a syllable of the language.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, it was German, then? Don't interrupt me. Indeed, let me take the +occasion to impress upon you that you have this great fault of manners,—a +fault I have remarked prevalent among Irishmen, and which renders them +excessively troublesome in the House, and brings them frequently under the +reproof of the Speaker. If you read the newspapers, you will have seen +this yourself.” + </p> +<p> +Second to a censure of himself, the severest thing for poor Tony to endure +was any sneer at his countrymen; but he made a great effort to remain +patient, and did not utter a word. +</p> +<p> +“Mind,” resumed the Minister, “don't misunderstand me. I do not say that +your countrymen are deficient in quickness and a certain ready-witted way +of meeting emergencies. Yes, they have that as well as some other +qualities of the same order; but these things won't make statesmen. This +was an old battle-ground between your father and myself thirty years ago. +Strange to think I should have to fight over the same question with his +son now.” + </p> +<p> +Tony did not exactly perceive what was his share in the conflict, but he +still kept silence. +</p> +<p> +“Your father was a clever fellow, too, and he had a brother,—a much +cleverer, by the way; there 's the man to serve you,—Sir Omerod +Butler. He 's alive, I know, for I saw his pension certificate not a week +ago. Have you written to him?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir. My father and my uncle were not on speaking terms for years, and +it is not likely I would appeal to Sir Omerod for assistance.” + </p> +<p> +“The quarrel, or coolness, or whatever it was, might have been the fault +of your father.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, it was not.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, with that I have no concern. All that I know is, your uncle is a +man of a certain influence—at least with his own party—which +is not ours. He is, besides, rich; an old bachelor, too, if I 'm not +mistaken; and so it might be worth the while of a young fellow who has his +way to make in life, to compromise a little of his family pride.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think so: I won't do it,” broke in Tony, hotly. “If you have no +other counsel to give me than one you never would have given to my father, +all I have to say is, I wish I had spared myself the trouble, and my poor +mother the cost of this journey.” + </p> +<p> +If the great man's wrath was moved by the insolent boldness of the first +part of this speech, the vibrating voice and the emotion that accompanied +the last words touched him, and, going over to where the young man stood, +he laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said: “You'll have to keep +this warm temper of yours in more subjection, Butler, if you want to get +on in life. The advice I gave you was very worldly, perhaps; but when you +live to be my age, such will be the temper in which you'll come to +consider most things. And, after all,” said he, with a smile, “you 're +only the more like your father for it! Go away now; look up your decimals, +your school classics, and such like, to be ready for the Civil Service +people, and come back here in a week or so,—let Darner know where to +find you,” were the last words, as Tony retired and left the room. +</p> +<p> +“Well, what success?” cried Darner, as Tony entered his room. +</p> +<p> +“I can scarcely tell you, but this is what took place;” and he recounted, +as well as memory would serve him, all that had happened. +</p> +<p> +“Then it's all right,—you are quite safe,” said Darner. +</p> +<p> +“I don't see that, particularly as there remains this examination.” + </p> +<p> +“Humbug,—nothing but humbug! They only pluck the 'swells,' the +fellows who have taken a double-first at Oxford. No, no; you 're as safe +as a church; you 'll get—let me see what it will be—you'll get +the Postmaster-ship of the Bahamas; or be Deputy Coal-meter at St. Helena; +or who knows if he'll not give you that thing he exchanged for t'other day +with F. O. It's a Consul's place, at Trincolopolis. It was Cole of the +Blues had it, and he died; and there are four widows of his now claiming +the pension. Yes, that's where you 'll go, rely on't. There 's the bell +again. Write your address large, very large, on that sheet of paper, and I +'ll send you word when there 's anything up.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VI. DOLLY STEWART +</h2> +<p> +Tony's first care, when he got back to his hotel, was to write to his +mother. He knew how great her impatience would be to hear of him, and it +was a sort of comfort to himself, in his loneliness, to sit down and pour +out his hopes and his anxieties before one who loved him. He told her of +his meeting with the Minister, and, by way of encouragement, mentioned +what Damer had pronounced upon that event. Nor did he forget to say how +grateful he felt to Damer, who, “after all, with his fine-gentleman airs +and graces, might readily have turned a cold shoulder to a rough-looking +fellow like me.” + </p> +<p> +Poor Tony! in his friendlessness he was very grateful for very little. Nor +is there anything which is more characteristic of destitution than this +sentiment. It is as with the schoolboy, who deems himself rich with a +half-crown! +</p> +<p> +Tony would have liked much to make some inquiry about the family at the +Abbey; whether any one had come to ask after or look for him; whether Mrs. +Trafford had sent down any books for his mother's reading, or any fresh +flowers,—the only present which the widow could be persuaded to +accept; but he was afraid to touch on a theme that had so many painful +memories to himself. Ah, what happy days he had passed there! What a +bright dream it all appeared now to look back on! The long rides along the +shore, with Alice for his companion, more free to talk with him, less +reserved than Isabella; and who could, on the pretext of her own +experiences of life,—she was a widow of two-and-twenty,—caution +him against so many pitfalls, and guard him against so many deceits of the +world. It was in this same quality of widow, too, that she could go out to +sail with him alone, making long excursions along the coast, diving into +bays, and landing on strange islands, giving them curious names as they +went, and fancying that they were new voyagers on unknown seas. +</p> +<p> +Were such days ever to come back again? No, he knew they could not They +never do come back, even to the luckiest of us; and how far less would be +our enjoyment of them if we but knew that each fleeting moment could never +be re-acted! “I wonder, is Alice lonely? Does she miss me? Isabella will +not care so much. She has books and her drawing, and she is so +self-dependent; but Alice, whose cry was, 'Where 's Tony?' till it became +a jest against her in the house. Oh, if she but knew how I envy the dog +that lies at her feet, and that can look up into her soft blue eyes, and +wonder what she is thinking of! Well, Alice, it has come at last. Here is +the day you so long predicted. I have set out to seek my fortune; but +where is the high heart and the bold spirit you promised me? I have no +doubt,” cried he, as he paced his room impatiently, “there are plenty who +would say, it is the life of luxurious indolence and splendor that I am +sorrowing after; that it is to be a fancied great man,—to have +horses to ride, and servants to wait on me, and my every wish gratified,—it +is all this I am regretting. But <i>I</i> know better! I 'd be as poor as +ever I was, and consent never to be better, if she 'd just let me see her, +and be with her, and love her, to my own heart, without ever telling her. +And now the day has come that makes all these bygones!” + </p> +<p> +It was with a choking feeling in his throat, almost hysterical, that he +went downstairs and into the street to try and walk off his gloomy humor. +The great city was now before him,—a very wide and a very noisy +world,—with abundance to interest and attract him, had his mind been +less intent on his own future fortunes; but he felt that every hour he was +away from his poor mother was a pang, and every shilling he should spend +would be a privation to her. Heaven only could tell by what thrift and +care and time she had laid by the few pounds he had carried away to pay +his journey! As his eye fell upon the tempting objects of the +shop-windows, every moment displaying something he would like to have +brought back to her,—that nice warm shawl, that pretty clock for her +mantelpiece, that little vase for her flowers; how he despised himself for +his poverty, and how meanly the thought of a condition that made him a +burden where he ought to have been a benefit! Nor was the thought the less +bitter that it reminded him of the wide space that separated him from her +he had dared to love! “It comes to this,” cried he bitterly to himself, +“that I have no right to be here; no right to do anything, or think of +anything that I have done. Of the thousands that pass me, there is not, +perhaps, one the world has not more need of than of me! Is there even one +of all this mighty million that would have a kind word for me, if they +knew the heavy heart that was weighing me down?” At this minute he +suddenly thought of Dolly Stewart, the doctor's daughter, whose address he +had carefully taken down from his mother, at Mr. Alexander M'Grader's, 4 +Inverness Terrace, Richmond. +</p> +<p> +It would be a real pleasure to see Dolly's good-humored face, and hear her +merry voice, instead of those heavy looks and busy faces that addled and +confused him; and so, as much to fill up his time as to spare his purse, +he set out to walk to Richmond. +</p> +<p> +With whatever gloom and depression he began his journey, his spirits rose +as he gained the outskirts of the town, and rose higher and higher as he +felt the cheering breezes and the perfumed air that swept over the rich +meadows at either side of him. It was, besides, such a luxuriant aspect of +country as he had never before seen nor imagined,—fields cultivated +like gardens, trim hedgerows, ornamental trees, picturesque villas on +every hand. How beautiful it all seemed, and how happy! Was not Dolly a +lucky girl to have her lot thrown in such a paradise? How enjoyable she +must find it all!—she whose good spirits knew always how “to take +the most out of” whatever was pleasant How he pictured her delight in a +scene of such loveliness! +</p> +<p> +“That's Inverness Terrace, yonder,” said a policeman of whom he inquired +the way,—“that range of small houses you see there;” and he pointed +to a trim-looking row of cottage-houses on a sort of artificial embankment +which elevated them above the surrounding buildings, and gave a view of +the Thames as it wound through the rich meadows beneath. They were neat +with that English neatness which at once pleases and shocks a foreign eye,—the +trim propriety that loves comfort, but has no heart for beauty. Thus, each +was like his neighbor. The very jalousies were painted the same color; and +every ranunculus in one garden had his brother in the next No. 4 was soon +found, and Tony rang the bell and inquired for Miss Stewart. +</p> +<p> +“She's in the school-room with the young ladies,” said the woman servant; +“but if you 'll step in and tell me your name, I 'll send her to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Just say that I have come from her own neighborhood; or, better, say Mr. +Tony Butler would be glad to see her.” He had scarcely been a moment in +the neat but formal-looking front parlor, when a very tall, thin, somewhat +severe-looking lady—not old, nor yet young—entered, and +without any salutation said, “You asked for Miss Stewart, sir,—are +you a relative of hers?” + </p> +<p> +“No, madam. My mother and Miss Stewart's father are neighbors and very old +friends; and being by accident in London, I desired to see her, and bring +back news of her to the doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“At her father's request, of course?” + </p> +<p> +“No, madam; I cannot say so, for I left home suddenly, and had no time to +tell him of my journey.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor any letter from him?” + </p> +<p> +“None, madam.” + </p> +<p> +The thin lady pursed up her parched lips, and bent her keen cold eyes on +the youth, who really felt his cheek grow hot under the scrutiny. He knew +that his confession did not serve to confirm his position; and he heartily +wished himself out of the house again. +</p> +<p> +“I think, then, sir,” said she, coldly, “it will serve every purpose if I +inform <i>you</i> that Miss Stewart is well; and if I tell <i>her</i> that +you were kind enough to call and ask after her.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm sure you are right, madam,” said he, hurriedly moving towards the +door, for already he felt as if the ground was on fire beneath him,—“quite +right; and I 'll tell the doctor that though I did n't see Miss Dora, she +was in good health, and very happy.” + </p> +<p> +“I did n't say anything about her happiness, that I remember, sir; but as +I see her now passing the door, I may leave that matter to come from her +own lips. Miss Stewart,” cried she, louder, “there is a gentleman here, +who has come to inquire after you.” A very pale but nicely featured young +girl, wearing a cap,—her hair had been lately cut short in a fever,—entered +the room, and, with a sudden flush that made her positively handsome, held +out her hand to young Butler, saying, “Oh, Tony, I never expected to see +you here! how are all at home?” + </p> +<p> +Too much shocked at the change in her appearance to speak, Tony could only +mumble out a few broken words about her father. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” cried she, eagerly, “his last letter says that he rides old Dobbin +about just as well as ever; 'perhaps it is,' says he, 'that having both of +us grown old together, we bear our years with more tolerance to each +other;' but won't you sit down, Tony? you 're not going away till I have +talked a little with you.” + </p> +<p> +“Is the music lesson finished, Miss Stewart?” asked the thin lady, +sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, ma'am; we have done everything but sacred history.” + </p> +<p> +“Everything but the one important task, you might have said, Miss Stewart; +but, perhaps, you are not now exactly in the temperament to resume +teaching for to-day; and as this young gentleman's mission is apparently +to report, not only on your health but your happiness, I shall leave you a +quarter of an hour to give him his instructions.” + </p> +<p> +“I hate that woman,” muttered Tony, as the door closed after her. +</p> +<p> +“No, Tony, she's not unkind; but she doesn't exactly see the world the way +you and I used long ago. What a great big man you have grown!” + </p> +<p> +“And what a fine tall girl, you! And I used to call you a stump!” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, there were few compliments wasted between us in those days; but +weren't they happy?” + </p> +<p> +“Do you remember them all, Dolly?” + </p> +<p> +“Every one of them,—the climbing the big cherry-tree the day the +branch broke, and we both fell into the melon-bed; the hunting for eels +under the stones in the river,—was n't that rare sport? and going +out to sea in that leaky little boat that I 'd not have courage to cross +the Thames in now!—oh, Tony, tell me, you never were so jolly +since?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think I was; and what's worse, Dolly, I doubt if I ever shall +be.” + </p> +<p> +The tone of deep despondency of these words went to her heart, and her lip +trembled, as she said,— +</p> +<p> +“Have you had any bad news of late? is there anything going wrong with +you?” + </p> +<p> +“No, Dolly, nothing new, nothing strange, nothing beyond the fact that I +have been staring at, though I did not see it three years back, that I am +a great hulking idle dog, of no earthly use to himself or to anybody else. +However, I <i>have</i> opened my eyes to it at last; and here I am, come +to seek my fortune, as we used to say long ago, which, after all, seems a +far nicer thing in a fairy book than when reduced to a fact.” + </p> +<p> +Dolly gave a little short cough, to cover a faint sigh which escaped her; +for she, too, knew something about seeking her fortune, and that the +search was not always a success. +</p> +<p> +“And what are you thinking of doing, Tony?” asked she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Like all lazy good-for-nothings, I begin by begging; that is to say, I +have been to a great man this morning who knew my father, to ask him to +give me something,—to make me something.” + </p> +<p> +“A soldier, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“No; mother won't listen to that She 's so indignant about the way they +treated my poor father about that good-service pension,—one of a +race that has been pouring out their blood like water for three centuries +back,—that she says she 'd not let me accept a commission if it were +offered to me, without it came coupled with a full apology for the wrong +done my father; and as I am too old for the navy, and too ignorant for +most other things, it will push all the great man's ingenuity very close +to find out the corner to suit me.” + </p> +<p> +“They talk a deal about Australia, Tony; and, indeed, I sometimes think I +'d like to go there myself. I read in the 'Times' t' other day that a +dairy-maid got as much as forty-six pounds a-year and her board; only +fancy, forty-six pounds a-year! Do you know,” added she, in a cautious +whisper, “I have only eighteen pounds here, and was in rare luck too, they +say, to get it.” + </p> +<p> +“What if we were to set out together, Dolly?” said he, laughing; but a +deep scarlet flush covered her face, and though she tried to laugh too, +she had to turn her head away, for the tears were in her eyes. +</p> +<p> +“But how could <i>you</i> turn dairymaid, Dolly?” cried he, half +reproachfully. +</p> +<p> +“Just as well, or rather better, than <i>you</i> turn shepherd or +gold-digger. As to mere labor, it would be nothing; as to any loss of +condition, I 'd not feel it, and therefore not suffer it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I have no snobbery myself about working with my hands,” added he, +hastily. “Heaven help me if I had, for my head would n't keep <i>me</i>; +but a girl's bringing up is so different from a boy's; she oughtn't to do +anything menial out of her own home.” + </p> +<p> +“We ought all of us just to do our best, Tony, and what leaves us less of +a burden to others,—that's my reading of it; and when we do that, we +'ll have a quiet conscience, and that's something that many a rich man +could n't buy with all his money.” + </p> +<p> +“I think it's the time for the children's dinner, Miss Stewart,” said the +grim lady, entering. “I am sorry it should cut short an interview so +interesting.” + </p> +<p> +A half-angry reply rose to Tony's lips, when a look from Dora stopped him, +and he stammered out, “May I call and see you again before I go back?” + </p> +<p> +“When <i>do</i> you go back, young gentleman?” asked the thin lady. +</p> +<p> +“That's more than I can tell. This week if I can; next week if I must.” + </p> +<p> +“If you 'll write me a line, then, and say what day it would be your +convenience to come down here, I will reply, and state whether it will be +Miss Stewart's and mine to receive you.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, at all events,” said Dora, in a low voice, as they shook hands and +parted. +</p> +<p> +“Poor Dolly!” muttered he, as he went his way towards town. “What between +the pale cheeks and the cropped hair and the odious cap, I 'd never have +known her!” He suddenly heard the sound of footsteps behind him, and, +turning, he saw her running towards him at full speed. +</p> +<p> +“You had forgotten your cane, Tony,” said she, half breathless, “and I +knew it was an old favorite of yours, and you 'd be sorry to think it was +lost. Tell me one thing,” cried she, and her cheek flushed even a deeper +hue than the exercise had given it; “could you—would you be a clerk—in +a merchant's office, I mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Why do you ask me, Dolly?” said he; for her eager and anxious face +directed all his solicitude from himself to her. +</p> +<p> +“If you only would and could, Tony,” continued she, “write. No; make papa +write me a line to say so. There, I have no time for more; I have already +done enough to secure me a rare lesson when I get back. Don't come here +again.” + </p> +<p> +She was gone before he could answer her; and with a heavier heart and a +very puzzled head, he resumed his road to London, “Don't come here again” + ringing in his head as he went. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VII. LYLE ABBEY AND ITS GUESTS +</h2> +<p> +The company at Lyle Abbey saw very little of Maitland for some days after +his arrival. He never appeared of a morning; he only once came down to +dinner; his pretext was indifferent health, and Mark showed a disposition +to quarrel with any one who disputed it. Not, indeed, that the squirearchy +then present were at all disposed to regret Maitland's absence. They would +infinitely rather have discussed his peculiarities in secret committee +than meet himself in open debate. It was not very easy to say why they did +not like him, but such was the fact. It was not that he overbore them by +any species of assumption; he neither took on him airs of superior station +nor of superior knowledge; he was neither insolent nor haughty; nor was he +even, what sometimes is not less resented, careless and indifferent His +manner was a sort of middle term between popularity-seeking and +inattention. The most marked trait in it was one common enough in persons +who have lived much on the Continent,—a great preference for the +society of ladies making him almost ignore or avoid the presence of the +men around him. Not that Maitland was what is called <i>petit maître</i>; +there was not any of that flippant prettiness which is supposed to have +its fascination for the fair sex; he was quiet without any touch of +over-seriousness, very respectful, and at the same time with an insinuated +friendliness as though the person he talked to was one selected for +especial cordiality; and there was a sort of tender languor too about him, +that implied some secret care in his heart, of which each who listened to +his conversation was sure to fancy that she was one day to become the +chosen depositary. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know, Bella,” said Mrs. Trafford, as they sat together at the fire +in her dressing-room, “I shall end by half liking him.” + </p> +<p> +“I have n't got that far, Alice, though I own that I am less in dread of +him than I was. His superiority is not so crushing as I feared it might +be; and certainly, if he be the Admirable Crichton Mark pretends he is, he +takes every possible pains to avoid all display of it.” + </p> +<p> +“There may be some impertinence in that,” said the other. “Did you remark +how he was a week here before he as much as owned he knew anything of +music, and listened to our weary little ballads every evening without a +word? and last night, out of pure caprice, as it seemed, he sits down, and +sings song after song of Verdi's difficult music, with a tenor that +reminds one of Mario.” + </p> +<p> +“And which has quite convinced old Mrs. Maxwell that he is a professional, +or, as she called it, 'a singing man.'” + </p> +<p> +“She would call him a sketching man if she saw the caricature he made of +herself in the pony carriage, which he tore up the moment he showed it to +me.” + </p> +<p> +“One thing is clear, Alice,—he means that we should like him; but he +is too clever to set about it in any vulgar spirit of captivation.” + </p> +<p> +“That is, he seeks regard for personal qualities rather more than +admiration for his high gifts of intellect. Well, up to this, it is his +cleverness that I like.” + </p> +<p> +“What puzzles me is why he ever came here. He is asked about everywhere, +has all manner of great houses open to him, and stores of fine people, of +whose intimacy you can see he is proud; and yet he comes down to a dull +country place in a dull county; and, stranger than all, he seems to like +it.” + </p> +<p> +“John Hunter says it is debt,” said Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +“Mark Fortescue hints that a rich and handsome widow has something to say +to it.” + </p> +<p> +“Paul M'Clintock declares that he saw your picture by Ary Scheffer in the +Exhibition, and fell madly in love with it, Bella.” + </p> +<p> +“And old Colonel Orde says that he is intriguing to get in for the borough +of Coleraine; that he saw him in the garden t'other morning with a list of +the electors in his hand.” + </p> +<p> +“My conjecture is, that he is intolerably bored everywhere, and came down +here to try the effect of a new mode of the infliction that he had never +experienced before. What else would explain a project I heard him arrange +for this morning,—a walk with Beck Graham!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I was in the window when he asked her where she usually went in +those wanderings over the fern hills, with that great umbrella; and she +told him to visit an old lady—a Mrs. Butler—who had been a +dear friend of her mother's; and then he said, 'I wish you 'd take me with +you. I have a positive weakness for old ladies;' and so the bargain was +struck, that they were to go to the cottage to-day together.” + </p> +<p> +“Beck, of course, fancying that it means a distinct avowal of attention to +herself.” + </p> +<p> +“And her sister, Sally, very fully persuaded that Maitland is a suitor for +her hand, and cunningly securing Beck's good offices before he risks a +declaration.” + </p> +<p> +“Sally already believes that Mark is what she calls 'landed;' and she gave +me some pretty broad hints about the insufferable pretensions of younger +sons, to which class she consigns him.” + </p> +<p> +“And Beck told me yesterday, in confidence, that Tony had been sent away +from home by his mother, as the last resource against the consequence of +his fatal passion for her.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Tony,” sighed the young widow, “he never thought of her.” + </p> +<p> +“Did he tell you as much, Alice?” said her sister, slyly. +</p> +<p> +“No, dear; it is the one subject—I mean love in any shape—that +we never discussed. The poor boy confessed to me all his grief about his +purposeless idle life, his mother's straitened fortune, and his uncle's +heartless indifference; everything, in short, that lay heavily on his +heart.” + </p> +<p> +“Everything but the heaviest, Alice,” said the other smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Well, if he had opened that sorrow, I 'd have heard him without anger; +I'd have honestly told him it was a very vain and fruitless pursuit. But +still my own heart would have declared to me that a young fellow is all +the better for some romance of this kind,—that it elevates motives +and dignifies actions, and, not least of all advantages, makes him very +uncompanionable for creatures of mere dissipation and excess.” + </p> +<p> +“But that, of course, you were merely objective the while,—the +source from which so many admirable results were to issue, and never so +much as disturbed by the breath of his attachment. Is n't that so?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd have said, 'You 're a very silly boy if you imagine that anything +can come of all this. '” + </p> +<p> +“And if he were to ask for the reason, and say, 'Alice, are you not your +own mistress, rich, free to do whatever you incline to do? Why should you +call me a fool for loving you?'” + </p> +<p> +“Take my word for it, Bella, he 'll never risk the answer he 'd be sure to +meet to such a speech,” said the other, haughtily; and Isabella, who felt +a sort of awe of her sister at certain moments, desisted from the theme. +“Look! yonder they go, Maitland and Rebecca, not exactly arm-inarm, but +with bent-down heads, and that propinquity that implies close converse.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare I feel quite jealous,—I mean on your account, Bella,” + said Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +“Never mind <i>my</i> interests in the matter, Alice,” said she, +reddening; “it is a matter of the most complete indifference to me with +whom he walks or talks. Mr. Norman Maitland is not to me one whit more of +consequence than is Tony Butler to my sister.” + </p> +<p> +“That's a confession, Bella,—a confession wrung out of a hasty +moment; for Tony certainly likes <i>me</i>, and <i>I</i> know it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, the cases are not similar, for Mr. Maitland does not care for +me; or, if he does, I don't know it, nor do I want to know it.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, darling, put on your shawl, and let us have a breezy walk on the +cliffs before the day darkens; neither of these gentlemen are worth the +slightest estrangement between such sisters as we are. Whether Tony likes +me or not, don't steal him from me, and I 'll promise you to be just as +loyal with regard to the other. How I 'd like to know what they are +talking of there!” + </p> +<p> +As it is not impossible the reader may in some slight degree participate +in the fair widow's sentiment, we mean to take up the conversation just as +it reached the time in which the remark was applied to it. Miss Becky +Graham was giving her companion a sketchy description of all the persons +then at the Abbey, not taking any especial care to be epigrammatic or +picturesque, but to be literal and truthful. +</p> +<p> +“Mrs. Maxwell,—an old horror,—tolerated just because she owns +Tilney Park, and can leave it to whom she likes; and the Lyles hope it +will fall to Mark, or, possibly, to Bella. They stand to win on either.” + </p> +<p> +“And which is the favorite?” asked Maitland, with a faint smile. +</p> +<p> +“You 'd like to think Isabella,” said Miss Becky, with a sharp piercing +glance to read his thoughts at an unguarded moment, if he had such, “but +she is not. Old Aunt Maxwell—she 's as much your aunt as theirs—detests +girls, and has, I actually believe, thoughts of marrying again. By the +way, you said you wanted money; why not 'go in' there? eight thousand +a-year in land, real estate, and a fine old house with some great timber +around it.” + </p> +<p> +“I want to pay my old debts, not incur new ones, my dear Miss Graham.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not your dear Miss Graham,—I 'm Beck, or Becky, or I 'm Miss +Rebecca Graham, if you want to be respectful. But what do you say to the +Maxwell handicap? I could do you a good turn there; she lets me say what I +please to her.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd rather you'd give me that privilege with yourself, charming Rebecca.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't, I say; don't try that tiresome old dodge of mock flattery. I 'm +not charming, any more than you are honest or straightforward. Let us be +on the square—do you understand that? Of course you do? Whom shall I +trot out next for you?—for the whole lot shall be disposed of +without any reserve. Will you have Sir Arthur, with his tiresome Indian +stories, enhanced to himself by all the lacs of rupees that are associated +with them? Will you have the gay widow, who married for pique, and +inherited a great fortune by a blunder? Will you have Isabella, who is +angling for a coronet, but would not refuse <i>you</i> if you are rich +enough? Will you have that very light dragoon, who thinks 'ours' the +standard for manners in Europe?—or the two elder brothers, +gray-headed, pale-faced, husky-voiced civil servants, working hard to make +a fortune in advance of a liver complaint? Say the 'number' and the animal +shall be led out for inspection.” + </p> +<p> +“After all, it is scarcely fair in me to ask it, for I don't come as a +buyer.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if you have a taste for that sort of thing—are we out of +sight of the windows?—if so, let me have a cigarette like that you +have there. I have n't smoked for five months. Oh! is n't it a pleasure?” + </p> +<p> +“Tell me about Mrs. Butler,—who is she?” + </p> +<p> +“She is Mrs. Butler; and her husband, when he was alive, was Colonel +Butler, militarily known as Wat Tartar. He was a terrible pipeclay; and +her son Tony is the factotum at the Abbey; or rather he was, till Mark +told him to shave, a poodle, or singe a pony, or paint a wheelbarrow—I +forget; but I know it was something he had done once out of good-humor, +and the hussar creature fancied he'd make him do it again through an +indignity.” + </p> +<p> +“And he—I mean Butler—stands upon being a gentleman?” + </p> +<p> +“I should think he does; is not his birth good?” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly; the Butlers are of an old stock.” + </p> +<p> +“They talk of an uncle, Sir Ramrod,—it is n't Ramrod, but it's like +it,—a tiresome old fellow, who was envoy at Naples, and who married, +I believe, a ballet-dancer, and who might leave Tony all his fortune, if +he liked,—which he doesn't.” + </p> +<p> +“Having no family of his own?” asked Maitland, as he puffed his cigar. +</p> +<p> +“None; but that doesn't matter, for he has turned Jesuit, and will leave +everything to the sacred something or other in Rome. I 've heard all that +from old Widow Butler, who has a perfect passion for talking of her +amiable brother-in-law, as she calls him. She hates him,—always did +hate him,—and taught Tony to hate him; and with all that it was only +yesterday she said to me that perhaps she was not fully justified in +sending back unopened two letters he had written to her,—one after +the loss of some Canadian bonds of hers, which got rumored abroad in the +newspapers; the other was on Tony's coming of age; and she said, 'Becky, I +begin to suspect that I had no right to carry my own unforgiveness to the +extent of an injury to my boy,—tell me what you would do.'” + </p> +<p> +“And what was your answer?” + </p> +<p> +“I'd have made it up with the old swell. I'd say, 'Is not this boy more to +you than all those long-petticoated tonsured humbugs, who can always cheat +some one or other out of an Inheritance?' I 'd say, 'Look at him, and +you'll fancy it's Walter telling you that he forgives you.'” + </p> +<p> +“If he be like most of his order, Miss Becky, he 'd only smile at your +appeal,” said Maitland, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I 'd not let it be laughing matter with him, I can tell you; stupid +wills are broken every day of the week, and I don't think the Jesuits are +in such favor in England that a jury would decide for them against an +English youth of the kith and kin of the testator.” + </p> +<p> +“You speak cleverly, Miss Graham, and you show that you know all the value +that attaches to popular sympathy in the age we live in.” + </p> +<p> +“And don't you agree with me?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, there's a deal to be said on either side.” + </p> +<p> +“Then, for Heaven's sake, don't say it. There—no—more to the +left—there, where you see the blue smoke rising over the rocks—there +stands the widow's cottage. I don't know how she endures the loneliness of +it. Could <i>you</i> face such a life?” + </p> +<p> +“A double solitude—what the French call an <i>egoisme à deux</i>—is +not so insupportable. In fact, it all depends upon 'the partner with whom +we share our isolation.'” He threw a tone of half tenderness into the +words that made them very significant, and Rebecca gave him one of her +quick sudden glances with which she often read a secret motive. This time, +however, she failed. There was nothing in that sallow but handsome face +that revealed a clew to anything. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll have to ask Mrs. Butler's leave before I present you,” said she, +suddenly. +</p> +<p> +“Of course, I 'll await her permission.” + </p> +<p> +“The chances are she'll say no; indeed, it is all but certain she will.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I must resign myself to patience and a cigar till you come out +again,” said he, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Shall I say that there's any reason for your visit? Do you know any +Butlers, or have you any relationship, real or pretended, with the family, +that would make a pretext for coming to see her?” + </p> +<p> +Had Miss Graham only glanced as keenly at Maitland's features now as she +had a few moments back, she might have seen a faint, a very faint, flush +cross his cheek, and then give way to a deep paleness. “No,” said he, +coldly, “I cannot pretend the shadow of a claim to her acquaintance, and I +can scarcely presume to ask you to present me as a friend of your own, +except in the common acceptation given to the word.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I'll do that readily enough. Bless your heart, if there was anything +to be gained by it, I 'd call you my cousin, and address you as Norman all +the time of the visit.” + </p> +<p> +“If you but knew how the familiarity would flatter me, particularly were I +to return it!” + </p> +<p> +“And call <i>me</i> Becky,—I hope! Well, you <i>are</i> a cool +hand!” + </p> +<p> +“My friends are in the habit of amusing themselves with my diffidence and +my timidity.” + </p> +<p> +“They must be very ill off for a pastime, then. I used to think Mark Lyle +bad enough, but his is a blushing bash-fulness compared to yours.” + </p> +<p> +“You only see me in my struggle to overcome a natural defect. Miss Graham,—just +as a coward assumes the bully to conceal his poltroonery; you regard in me +the mock audacity that strives to shroud a most painful modesty.” + </p> +<p> +She looked full at him for an instant, and then burst into a loud and +joyful fit of laughter, in which he joined without the faintest show of +displeasure. “Well, I believe you are good-tempered,” said she, frankly. +</p> +<p> +“The best in the world; I am very seldom angry; I never bear malice.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you any other good qualities?” asked she, with a slight mockery in +her voice. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,—many; I am trustful to the verge of credulity; I am generous +to the limits of extravagance; I am unswerving in my friendships, and +without the taint of a selfishness in all my nature.” + </p> +<p> +“How nice that is, or how nice it must be!” + </p> +<p> +“I could grow eloquent over my gifts, if it were not that my bashfulness +might embarrass me.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you any faults?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think so; at least I can't recall any.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor failings?” + </p> +<p> +“Failings! perhaps,” said he, dubiously; “but they are, after all, mere +weaknesses,—such as a liking for splendor, a love of luxury +generally, a taste for profusion, a sort of regal profusion in daily life, +which occasionally jars with my circumstances, making me—not +irritable, I am never irritable—but low-spirited and depressed.” + </p> +<p> +“Then, from what you have told me, I think I'd better say to Mrs. Butler +that there 's an angel waiting outside who is most anxious to make her +acquaintance.” + </p> +<p> +“Do so; and add that he 'll fold his wings, and sit on this stone till you +come to fetch him.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Au revoir</i>, Gabriel, then,” said she, passing in at the wicket, and +taking her way through the little garden. +</p> +<p> +Maitland sat discussing in his own mind the problem how far Alcibiades was +right or wrong in endeavoring to divert the world from any criticism of +himself by a certain alteration in his dog's tail, rather opining that, in +our day at least, the wiser course would have been to avoid all comment +whatsoever,—the imputation of an eccentricity being only second to +the accusation of a crime. With the Greeks of that day the false scent was +probably a success; with the English of ours, the real wisdom is not to be +hunted. “Oh, if it were all to be done again, how very differently I +should do it!” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed, and in what respect?” said a voice behind his shoulder. He looked +up, and saw Beck Graham gazing on him with something of interest in her +expression. “How so?” cried she, again. Not in the slightest degree +discomposed or flurried, he lay lazily back on the sward, and drawing his +hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun, said, in a half-languid, +weary tone, “If it were to do again, I 'd go in for happiness.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean by happiness?” + </p> +<p> +“What we all mean by it: an organized selfishness, that draws a close +cordon round our home, and takes care to keep out, so far as possible, +duns, bores, fevers, and fashionable acquaintances. By the way, is your +visit ended, or will she see me?” + </p> +<p> +“Not to-day. She hopes to-morrow to be able. She asks if you are of the +Maitlands of Gillie—Gillie—not 'crankie,' but a sound like it,—and +if your mother's name was Janet.” + </p> +<p> +“And I trust, from the little you know of me, you assured her it could not +be,” said he, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I said that I knew no more of your family than all the rest of us +up at the Abbey, who have been sifting all the Maitlands in the three +kingdoms in the hope of finding you.” + </p> +<p> +“How flattering! and at the same time how vain a labor! The name came to +me with some fortune. I took it as I 'd have taken a more ill-sounding one +for money! Who wouldn't be baptized in bank stock? I hope it's not on the +plea of my mother being Janet, that she consents to receive me?” + </p> +<p> +“She hopes you are Lady Janet's son, and that you have the Maitland eyes, +which it seems are dark, and a something in their manner which she assures +me was especially captivating.” + </p> +<p> +“And for which, I trust, you vouched?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. I said you were a clever sort of person, that could do a number of +things well, and that I for one did n't quarrel with your vanity or +conceit, but thought them rather good fun.” + </p> +<p> +“So they are! and we 'll laugh at them together,” said he, rising, and +preparing to set out “What a blessing to find one that really understands +me! I wish to heaven that you were not engaged!” + </p> +<p> +“And who says I am?” cried she, almost fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“Did I dream it? Who knows? The fact is, my dear Miss Becky, we do talk +with such a rare freedom to each other, it is pardonable to mix up one's +reveries with his actual information. How do you call that ruin yonder?” + </p> +<p> +“Dunluce.” + </p> +<p> +“And that great bluff beyond it?” + </p> +<p> +“Fairhead.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll take a long walk to-morrow, and visit that part of the coast.” + </p> +<p> +“You are forgetting you are to call on Mrs. Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“So I was. At what hour are we to be here?” + </p> +<p> +“There is no question of 'we' in the matter; your modesty must make its +advances alone.” + </p> +<p> +“You are not angry with me, <i>cariasima</i> Rebecca?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't think that a familiarity is less a liberty because it is dressed in +a foreign tongue.” + </p> +<p> +“But it would 'out;' the expression forced itself from my lips in spite of +me, just as some of the sharp things you have been saying to me were +perfectly irrepressible?” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect you like this sort of sparring?” + </p> +<p> +“Delight in it” + </p> +<p> +“So do I. There's only one condition I make: whenever you mean to take off +the gloves, and intend to hit out hard, that you 'll say so before. Is +that agreed?” + </p> +<p> +“It's a bargain.” + </p> +<p> +She held out her hand frankly, and he took it as cordially; and in a +hearty squeeze the compact was ratified. +</p> +<p> +“Shall I tell you,” said she, as they drew nigh the Abbey, “that you are a +great puzzle to us all here? We none of us can guess how so great a person +as yourself should condescend to come down to such an out-o'-the-world +spot, and waste his fascinations on such dull company.” + </p> +<p> +“Your explanation, I 'll wager, was the true one: let me hear it.” + </p> +<p> +“I called it eccentricity; the oddity of a man who had traded so long in +oddity that he grew to be inexplicable, even to himself, and that an Irish +country-house was one of the few things you had not 'done,' and that you +were determined to 'do' it.” + </p> +<p> +“There was that, and something more,” said Maitland, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“The 'something more' being, I take it, the whole secret.” + </p> +<p> +“As you read me like a book, Miss Rebecca, all I ask is, that you 'll shut +the volume when you 've done with it, and not talk over it with your +literary friends.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not my way,” said she, half pettishly; and they reached the door as +she spoke. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VIII. SOME EXPLANATIONS +</h2> +<p> +If there was anything strange or inexplicable in the appearance of one of +Maitland's pretensions in an unfrequented and obscure part of the world,—if +there was matter in it to puzzle the wise heads of squires, and make +country intelligences look confused,—there is no earthly reason why +any mystification should be practised with our reader. He, at least, is +under our guidance, and to him we impart whatever is known to ourselves. +For a variety of reasons, some of which this history later on will +disclose,—others, the less imminent, we are free now to avow,—Mr. +Norman Maitland had latterly addressed much of his mind to the political +intrigues of a foreign country: that country was Naples. He had known it—we +are not free to say how, at this place—from his childhood; he knew +its people in every rank and class; he knew its dialect in all its idioms. +He could talk the slang of the lazzaroni, and the wild <i>patois</i> of +Calabria, just as fluently as that composite language which the King +Ferdinand used, and which was a blending of the vulgarisms of the Chiaja +with the Frenchified chit-chat of the Court. There were events happening +in Italy which, though not for the moment involving the question of +Naples, suggested to the wiser heads in that country the sense of a coming +peril. We cannot, at this place, explain how or why Maitland should have +been a sharer in these deeds; it is enough to say that he was one of a +little knot who had free access to the palace, and enjoyed constant +intercourse with the king,—free to tell him of all that went on in +his brilliant capital of vice and levity, to narrate its duels, its +defalcations, its intrigues, its family scandals and domestic disgraces,—to +talk of anything and everything but one: not a word on politics was to +escape them; never in the most remote way was a syllable to drop of either +what was happening in the State, or what comments the French or English +press might pass on it. No allusion was to escape on questions of +government, nor the name of a minister to be spoken, except he were the +hero of some notorious scandal. All these precautions could not stifle +fear. The menials had seen the handwriting on the wall before Belshazzar's +eyes had fallen on it. The men who stood near the throne saw that it +rocked already. There was but one theme within the palace,—the +fidelity of the army; and every rude passage between the soldiery and the +people seemed to testify to that faithfulness. Amongst those who were +supposed to enjoy the sovereign confidence—for none in reality +possessed it—was the Count Caffarelli, a man of very high family and +large fortune; and though not in the slightest degree tinctured with +Liberalism in politics, one of the very few Neapolitan nobles who either +understood the drift, or estimated the force of the party of action. He +foresaw the coming struggle, and boded ill of its result. With Mr. +Maitland he lived in closest intimacy. The Italian, though older than the +Englishman, had been his companion in years of dissipation. In every +capital of Europe these two men had left traditions of extravagance and +excess. They had an easy access to the highest circles in every city, and +it was their pleasure to mix in all, even to the lowest Between them there +had grown what, between such men, represented a strong friendship,—that +is, either would readily have staked his life or his fortune; in other +words, have fought a duel, or paid the play-debts of the other. Each knew +the exact rules of honor which guided the conduct of the other, and knew, +besides, that no other principles than these held any sway or influence +over him. +</p> +<p> +Caffarelli saw that the Bourbon throne was in danger, and with it the +fortunes of all who adhered to the dynasty. If all his prejudices and +sympathies were with monarchy, these would not have prevented him from +making terms with the revolution, if he thought the revolution could be +trusted; but this was precisely what he did not, could not believe. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Ceux qui sont Bleus restent Bleus</i>” said the first Napoleon; and so +Caffarelli assured himself that a <i>canaille</i> always would be a <i>canaille</i>. +Philip Égalité was a case in point of what came of such concessions; +therefore he decided it was better to stand by the monarchy, and that real +policy consisted in providing that there should be a monarchy to stand by. +</p> +<p> +To play that mock game of popularity, the being cheered by the lazzaroni, +was the extent of toleration to which the king could be persuaded. Indeed, +he thought these <i>vivas</i> the hearty outburst of a fervent and +affectionate loyalty; and many of his Ministers appeared to concur with +him. Caffarelli, who was Master of the Horse, deemed otherwise, and +confessed to Maitland that, though assassination was cheap enough in the +quarter of Santa Lucia, there was a most indiscriminating indifference as +to who might be the victim, and that the old Marquess of Montanara, the +Prefect of the Palace, would not cost a <i>carlino</i> more than the +veriest follower of Mazzini. +</p> +<p> +Both Caffarelli and Maitland enjoyed secret sources of information. They +were members of that strange league which has a link in every grade and +class of Neapolitan society, and makes the very highest in station the +confidant and the accomplice of the most degraded and the meanest This +sect, called La Camorra, was originally a mere system of organized +extortion, driving, by force of menace, an impost on every trade and +occupation, and exacting its dues by means of agents well known to be +capable of the greatest crimes. Caffarelli, who had long employed its +services to assist him in his intrigues or accomplish his vengeances, was +a splendid contributor to its resources. He was rich and munificent; he +loved profusion, but he adored it when it could be made the mainspring of +some dark and mysterious machinery. Though the Camorra was not in the +remotest degree political, Caffarelli learned, through its agency, that +the revolutionary party were hourly gaining strength and courage. They saw +the growing discontent that spread abroad about the ruling dynasty, and +they knew how little favor would be shown the Bourbons by the Western +Powers, whose counsels had been so flatly rejected, and whose warnings +despised. They felt that their hour was approaching, and that Northern +Italy would soon hasten to their aid if the work of overthrow were once +fairly begun. Their only doubts were lest the success, when achieved, +should have won nothing for them. It may be as in Forty-eight, said they; +we may drive the king out of Naples as we drove the Austrians out of +Milan, and, after all, only be conquering a larger kingdom for the House +of Savoy. Hence they hesitated and held back; nor were their fears +causeless. For what had revolution poured forth its blood like water in +Paris? To raise up the despotism of the Second Empire! +</p> +<p> +Caffarelli was in possession of all this; he knew what they hoped and +wished and feared. The Camorra itself numbered many professed +revolutionists (“Reds,” as they liked to be called) in its sect, but was +itself untinctured by politics. The wily Count thought that it was a pity +so good an organization should be wasted on mere extortion and robbery. +There were higher crimes they might attain to, and grander interests they +might subserve. Never, perhaps, was the world of Europe so much in the +hands of a few powerful men. Withdraw from it, say, half a dozen,—one +could name them at once,—and what a change might come over the +Continent! Caffarelli was no assassin; but there are men, and he was one +of them, that can trifle with great crimes, just as children play with +fire; who can jest with them, laugh at them, and sport with them, till, +out of mere familiarity, they forget the horror they should inspire and +the penalty they enforce. He had known Orsini intimately, and liked him; +nor did he talk of his memory with less affection that he had died beneath +the guillotine. He would not himself engage in a crime that would dishonor +his name; but he knew there were a great number of people in the world who +could no more be punctilious about honor than about the linen they wore,—fellows +who walked in rags and dined off garlic. Why should they stick at trifles? +<i>They</i> had no noble escutcheons to be tarnished, no splendid names, +no high lineage to be disgraced. In fact, there were crimes that became +them, just as certain forms of labor suited them. They worked with their +hands in each case. Amongst the Camorra he knew many such. The difficulty +was to bring the power of the sect to bear upon the questions that engaged +him. It would not have been difficult to make them revolutionists,—the +one word “pillage” would have sufficed for that; the puzzle was how to +make them royalists. Mere pay would not do. These fellows had got a taste +for irregular gain. To expect to win them over by pay, or retain them by +discipline, was to hope to convert a poacher by inviting him to a battue. +Caffarelli had revolved the matter very long and carefully; he had talked +it over scores of times with Maitland. They agreed that the Camorra had +great capabilities, if one only could use them. Through the members of +that league in the army they had learned that the troops, the long-vaunted +reliance of the monarchy, could not be trusted. Many regiments were ready +to take arms with the Reds; many more would disband and return to their +homes. As for the navy, they declared there was not one ship's company +would stand by the Sovereign. The most well-affected would be neutral; +none save the foreign legions would fight for the king. The question then +was, to reinforce these, and at once,—a matter far more difficult +than it used to be. Switzerland would no longer permit this recruitment. +Austria would give none but her criminals. America, it was said, abounded +in ardent adventurous spirits that would readily risk life in pursuit of +fortune; but then the cause was not one which, by any ingenuity, could be +made to seem that of liberty. Nothing then remained but Ireland. There +there was bravery and poverty both; thousands, who had no fears and very +little food, ready for any enterprise, but far readier for one which could +be dignified as being the battle of the Truth and the cause of the Holy +Father. +</p> +<p> +An Irish legion, some five or six thousand devout Catholics and valiant +soldiers, was a project that the Minister of War at once embraced. His +Excellency saw Maitland on it, and talked over the whole plan. Maitland +was himself to direct all its operations. Caffarelli would correspond with +him from Naples, and, in case of any complication or difficulty, shroud +the Minister from attack. Ample funds would be provided. The men could be +engaged as laborers upon some great public work, and forwarded in small +drafts to a convenient port. Arms could be easily procured from Liège. +Officers could be readily obtained, either Irish or Poles or Hungarians, +who could speak English. In a word, all the details had been well +discussed and considered; and Maitland, on arriving in London, had again +talked over the project with wise and crafty heads, whose prudent counsels +showed him how little fit he was, personally, to negotiate directly with +the Irish peasant, and how imperative above all things it was to depute +this part of his task to some clever native, capable of employing the +subordinates he needed. “Hide yourself,” said they, “in some +out-of-the-way spot in Wales or Scotland; even the far North of Ireland +will do; remain anywhere near enough to have frequent communication with +your agent, but neither be seen nor known in the plot yourself. Your +English talk and your English accent would destroy more confidence than +your English gold would buy.” + </p> +<p> +Such an agent was soon found,—a man admirably adapted in many +respects for the station. He had been an adventurer all his life; served +with the French in Austria, and the Austrians in the Banat; held an +independent command of Turks during the Crimean War; besides, +episodically, having “done a little,” as he called it, on the Indian +frontier with the Yankees; and served on the staff of Rosas, at La Plata; +all his great and varied experiences tending to one solitary conviction, +that no real success was ever to be attained in anything except by means +of Irishmen; nor could order, peace, and loyalty be ever established +anywhere without their assistance. If he was one of the bravest men +living, he was one of the most pushing and impertinent. He would have +maintained a point of law against the Lord Chancellor, and contested +tactics with a Marshal of France. He thought himself the ornament of any +society he entered, and his vanity, in matters of intellect, was only +surpassed by his personal conceit. And now one word as to his appearance. +With the aid of cleverly constructed boots he stood five feet four, but +was squarely, stoutly built, broad in the chest, and very bow-legged; his +head was large, and seemed larger from a mass of fiery red hair, of which +he was immensely vain as the true Celtic color; he wore great whiskers, a +moustache, and chin-tuft; but the flaming hue of these seemed actually +tamed and toned down beside his eyes, which resembled two flaring +carbuncles. They were the most excitable, quarrelsome, restless pair of +orbs that ever beamed in a human head. They twinkled and sparkled with an +incessant mischief, and they darted such insolent glances right and left +as seemed to say, “Is there any one present who will presume to contradict +me?” + </p> +<p> +His boundless self-conceit would have been droll if it had not been so +offensive. His theory was this: all men detested him; all women adored +him. Europe had done little better than intrigue for the last quarter of a +century what country could secure his services. As for the insolent things +he had said to kings and emperors, and the soft speeches that empresses +and queens had made to himself, they would fill a volume. Believe him, and +he had been on terms of more than intimacy in every royal palace of the +Continent. Show the slightest semblance of doubt in him, and the chances +were that he 'd have had you “out” in the morning. +</p> +<p> +Amongst his self-delusions, it was one to believe that his voice and +accent were peculiarly insinuating. There was, it is true, a certain +slippery insincerity about them, but the vulgarity was the chief +characteristic; and his brogue was that of Leinster, which, even to Irish +ears, is insufferable. +</p> +<p> +Such was, in brief, the gentleman who called himself Major M'Caskey, +Knight-Commander of various Orders, and C.S. in the Pope's household,—which, +interpreted, means Cameriere Secreto,—a something which corresponds +to gentleman-in-waiting. Maitland and he had never met. They had +corresponded freely, and the letters of the Major had by no means made a +favorable impression upon Maitland, who had more than once forwarded +extracts from them to the committees in London, pettishly asking, “if +something better could not be found than the writer of this rubbish.” And +yet, for the work before him, “the writer of this rubbish” was a most +competent hand. He knew his countrymen well,—knew how to approach +them by those mingled appeals to their love of adventure and love of gain; +their passion for fighting, for carelessness, for disorder; and, above +all, that wide uncertainty as to what is to come, which is, to an +Irishman's nature, the most irresistible of all seductions. The Major had +established committees—in other words, recruiting-depots—in +several county towns; had named a considerable number of petty officers; +and was only waiting Maitland's orders whether or not he should propose +the expedition to adventurous but out-at-elbows young fellows of a +superior station,—the class from which officers might be taken. We +have now said enough of him and the project that engaged him to admit of +our presenting him to our readers in one of his brief epistles. It was +dated,— +</p> +<p> +“Castle Dubbow, August—, 18—. +</p> +<p> +“Sir,—I have the honor to report for your information that I +yesterday enrolled in this town and neighborhood eighteen fine fellows for +H. N. M. Two of them are returned convicts, and three more are bound over +to come up for sentence at a future assizes, and one, whom I have named a +corporal, is the notorious Hayes, who shot Captain Macon on the fair green +at Ballinasloe. So you see there's little fear that they'll want to come +back here when once they have attained to the style and dignity of +Neapolitan citizens. Bounty is higher here by from sixteen to twenty +shillings than in Meath; indeed, fellows who can handle a gun, or are +anyways ready with a weapon, can always command a job from one of the +secret clubs; and my experiences (wide as most men's) lead me entirely to +the selection of those who have shown any aptitude for active service. I +want your permission and instruction to engage some young gentlemen of +family and station, for the which I must necessarily be provided with +means of entertainment. <i>Tafel Gelt ist nicht Teufel's Gelt</i>, says +the Austrian adage; and I believe a very moderate outlay, assisted by my +own humble gifts of persuasion, will suffice. <i>Séduction de M'Casky</i>, +was a proverb in the 8th Voltigeurs. You may ask a certain high personage +in France who it was that told him not to despair on a particular evening +at Strasbourg. A hundred pounds—better if a hundred and fifty—would +be useful. The medals of his Holiness have done well, but I only +distribute them in the lower ranks. Some titles would be very advisable if +I am to deal with the higher class. Herewith you have a muster-roll of +what has been done in two counties; and I say it without fear, not a man +in the three kingdoms could have accomplished it but Miles M'Marmont could +plan, but not execute; Masséna execute, but not organize; Soul could do +none but the last. It is no vanity makes me declare that I combine all the +qualities. You see me now 'organizing;' in a few days you shall judge me +in the field; and, later on, if my convictions do not deceive me, in the +higher sphere of directing the great operations of an army. I place these +words in your hands that they may be on record. If M'Caskey falls, it is a +great destiny cut off; but posterity will see that he died in the full +conviction of his genius. I have drawn on you for thirty-eight, +ten-and-six; and to-morrow will draw again for seventy-four, fifteen. +</p> +<p> +“Your note has just come. I am forced to say that its tone is not that to +which, in the sphere I have moved, I have been accustomed. If I am to +regard you as my superior officer, duty cries, 'Submit.' If you be simply +a civilian, no matter how exalted, I ask explanation. The dinner at the +Dawson Arms <i>was</i> necessary; the champagne was <i>not</i> excessive; +none of the company were really drunk before ten o'clock; and the +destruction of the furniture was a <i>plaisanterie</i> of a young +gentleman from Louth who was going into holy orders, and might most +probably not have another such spree in all his life again. Are you +satisfied? If not, tell me what and where any other satisfaction may meet +your wishes. You say, 'Let us meet.' I reply, 'Yes, in any way you +desire.' You have not answered my demand—it was demand, not request—to +be Count M'Caskey. I have written to Count Caffarelli on the subject, and +have thoughts of addressing the king. Don't talk to me of decorations. I +have no room for them on the breast of my coat. I am forced to say these +things to you, for I cannot persuade myself that you really know or +understand the man you correspond with. After all, it took Radetzky a +year, and Omar Pasha seventeen months, to arrive at that knowledge which +my impatience, unjustly perhaps, complains that you have not attained to. +Yet I feel we shall like each other; and were it not like precipitancy, +I'd say, believe me, dear Maitland, very faithfully your friend, +</p> +<p> +“Miles M'Caskey.” + </p> +<p> +The answer to this was very brief, and ran thus:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Lyle Abbey, August. + +“Sir,—You will come to Coleraine, and await my orders +there,—the first of which will be to take no liberties of +any kind with your obedient servant, + +“Norman Maitland. + +“Major M'Caskey, 'The Dawson Arms, Castle Durrow. + +“P. S. Avoid all English acquaintances on your road. Give +yourself out to be a foreigner, and speak as little as +possible.” + </pre> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IX. MAITLAND'S FRIEND +</h2> +<p> +“I don't think I 'll walk down to the Burnside with you to-day,” said Beck +Graham to Maitland, on the morning after their excursion. +</p> +<p> +“And why not?” + </p> +<p> +“People have begun to talk of our going off together alone,—long +solitary walks. They say it means something—or nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“So, I opine, does every step and incident of our lives.” + </p> +<p> +“Well. You understand what I intended to say.” + </p> +<p> +“Not very clearly, perhaps; but I shall wait a little further explanation. +What is it that the respectable public imputes to us?” + </p> +<p> +“That you are a very dangerous companion for a young lady in a country +walk.” + </p> +<p> +“But am I? Don't you think you are in a position to refute such a +calumny?” + </p> +<p> +“I spoke of you as I found you.” + </p> +<p> +“And how might that be?” + </p> +<p> +“Very amusing at some moments; very absent at others; very desirous to be +thought lenient and charitable in your judgments of people, while +evidently thinking the worst of every one; and with a rare frankness about +yourself that, to any one not very much interested to learn the truth, was +really as valuable as the true article.” + </p> +<p> +“But you never charged me with any ungenerous use of my advantage; to make +professions, for instance, because I found you alone.” + </p> +<p> +“A little—a very little of that—there was; just as children +stamp on thin ice and run away when they hear it crack beneath them.” + </p> +<p> +“Did I go so far as that?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; and Sally says, if she was in my place, she 'd send papa to you this +morning.” + </p> +<p> +“And I should be charmed to see him. There are no people whom I prefer to +naval men. They have the fresh, vigorous, healthy tone of their own sea +life in all they say.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; you'd have found him vigorous enough, I promise you.” + </p> +<p> +“And why did you consult your sister at all?” + </p> +<p> +“I did not consult her; she got all out of me by cross-questioning. She +began by saying, 'That man is a mystery to me; he has not come down here +to look after the widow nor Isabella; he's not thinking of politics nor +the borough; there 's no one here that he wants or cares for. What can he +be at?'” + </p> +<p> +“Could n't you have told her that he was one of those men who have lived +so much in the world it is a luxury to them to live a little out of it? +Just as it is a relief to sit in a darkened room after your eyes have been +dazzled with too strong light. Could n't you have said, He delights to +talk and walk with me, because he sees that he may expand freely, and say +what comes uppermost, without any fear of an unfair inference? That, for +the same reason,—the pleasure of an unrestricted intercourse,—he +wishes to know old Mrs. Butler, and talk with her,—over anything, in +short? Just to keep mind and faculties moving,—as a light breeze +stirs a lake and prevents stagnation?” + </p> +<p> +“Well. I 'm not going to perform Zephyr, even in such a high cause.” + </p> +<p> +“Could n't you have said, We had a pleasant walk and a mild cigarette +together,—<i>voilà tout?</i>” said he, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“I think it would be very easy to hate you,—hate you cordially,—Mr. +Norman Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“So I've been told; and some have even tried it, but always +unsuccessfully.” + </p> +<p> +“Who is this wonderful foreigner they are making so much of at the Castle +and the Viceregal Lodge?” cried Mark, from one of the window recesses, +where he was reading a newspaper. “Maitland, you who know all these +people, who is the Prince Caffarelli?” + </p> +<p> +“Caffarelli! it must be the Count,” cried Maitland, hurrying over to see +the paragraph. “The Prince is upwards of eighty; but his son, Count +Caffarelli, is my dearest friend in the world. What could have brought him +over to Ireland?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! there is the very question he himself is asking about the great Mr. +Norman Maitland,” said Mrs. Trafford, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“My reasons are easily stated. I had an admirable friend who could secure +me a most hospitable reception. I came here to enjoy the courtesies of +country home life in a perfection I scarcely believed they could attain +to. The most unremitting attention to one's comfort, combined with the +wildest liberty.” + </p> +<p> +“And such port wine,” interposed the Commodore, “as I am free to say no +other cellar in the province can rival.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us come back to your Prince or Count,” said Mark, “whichever he is. +Why not ask him down here?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; we have room,” said Lady Lyle; “the M'Clintocks left this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“By all means, invite him,” broke in Mrs. Trafford; “that is, if he be +what we conjecture the dear friend of Mr. Maitland might and should be.” + </p> +<p> +“I am afraid to speak of him,” said Maitland; “one disserves a friend by +any over-praise; but at Naples, and in his own set, he is thought +charming.” + </p> +<p> +“I like Italians myself,” said Colonel Hoyle. “I had a fellow I picked up +at Malta,—a certain Geronimo. I 'm not sure he was not a Maltese; +but such a salad as he could make! There was everything you could think of +in it,—tomato, eggs, sardines, radishes, beetroot, cucumber.” + </p> +<p> +“Every Italian is a bit of a cook,” said Maitland, relieving adroitly the +company from the tiresome detail of the Colonel. “I 'll back my friend +Caffarelli for a dish of macaroni against all professional artists.” + </p> +<p> +While the Colonel and his wife got into a hot dispute whether there was or +was not a slight flavor of parmesan in the salad, the others gathered +around Maitland to hear more of his friend. Indeed, it was something new +to hear of an Italian of class and condition. They only knew the nation as +tenors or modellers or language masters. Their compound idea of Italian +was a thing of dark skin and dark eyes; very careless in dress, very +submissive in aspect, with a sort of subdued fire, however, in look, that +seemed to say how much energy was only sleeping there! and when Maitland +sketched the domestic ties of a rich magnate of the land, living a life of +luxurious indolence, in a sort of childlike simplicity as to what engaged +other men in other countries, without a thought for questions of politics, +religion, or literature, living for mere life's sake, he interested them +much. +</p> +<p> +“I shall be delighted to ask him here,” said he, at last; “only let me +warn you against disappointment. He'll not be witty like a Frenchman, nor +profound like a German, nor energetic like an Englishman; he 'll neither +want to gain knowledge nor impart it. He'll only ask to be permitted to +enjoy the pleasures of a very charming society without any demand being +made upon him to contribute anything; to make him fancy, in short, that he +knew you all years and years ago, and has just come back out of cloud-land +to renew the intimacy. Will you have him after this?” + </p> +<p> +“By all means,” was the reply. “Go and write your letter to him.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland went to his room, and soon wrote the following:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Caro Carlo mio,—Who'd have thought of seeing you in +Ireland? but I have scarce courage to ask you how and why +you came here, lest you retort the question upon myself. For +the moment, however, I am comfortably established in a +goodish sort of country-house, with some pretty women, and, +thank Heaven, no young men save one son of the family, whom +I have made sufficiently afraid of me to repress all +familiarities. They beg me to ask you here, and I see +nothing against it. We eat and drink very well. The place is +healthy, and though the climate is detestable, it braces and +gives appetite. We shall have, at all events, ample time to +talk over much that interests us both, and so I say, Come! + +“The road is by Belfast, and thence to Coleraine, where we +shall take care to meet you. I ought to add that your host's +name is Sir Arthur Lyle, an Anglo-Indian, but who, thank +your stars for it! being a civilian, has neither shot tigers +nor stuck pigs. It will also be a relief to you to learn +that there's no sport of any kind in the neighborhood, and +there cannot be the shade of a pretext for making you mount +a horse or carry a gun, nor can any insidious tormentor +persecute you with objects of interest or antiquity; and so, +once again, Come—and believe me, ever your most cordial +friend, + +“N. Maitland. + +“There is no reason why you should not be here by Saturday, +so that, if nothing contrary is declared, I shall look out +for you by that day; but write at all events.” + </pre> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER X. A BLUNDER +</h2> +<p> +Sir Arthur Lyle was a county dignity, and somewhat fond of showing it. It +is true he could not compete with the old blood of the land, or contest +place with an O'Neil or an O'Hara; but his wealth gave him a special +power, and it was a power that all could appreciate. There was no mistake +about one who could head a subscription by a hundred pounds, or write +himself patron of a school or a hospital with a thousand! And then his +house was more splendid, his servants more numerous, their liveries finer, +his horses better, than his neighbors; and he was not above making these +advantages apparent. Perhaps his Indian experiences may have influenced +his leanings, and taught him to place a higher value on show and all the +details of external greatness. On everything that savored of a public +occasion, he came with all the pomp and parade of a sovereign. A meeting +of poor-law guardians, a committee of the county infirmary, a board of +railway directors, were all events to be signalized by his splendid +appearance. +</p> +<p> +His coach and four, and his outriders—for he had outriders—were +admirable in all their appointments. Royalty could not have swung upon +more perfectly balanced nor easier springs, nor could a royal team have +beat the earth with a grander action or more measured rhythm. The harness—bating +the excess of splendor—was perfect. It was massive and well-fitting. +As for the servants, a master of the horse could not have detected an +inaccurate fold in their cravats, nor a crease in their silk stockings. +Let the world be as critical or slighting as it may, these things are +successes. They are trifles only to him who has not attempted them. +Neither is it true to say that money can command them; for there is much +in them that mere money cannot do. There is a keeping in all details,—a +certain “tone” throughout, and, above all, a discipline the least flaw in +which would convert a solemn display into a mockery. +</p> +<p> +Neighbors might criticise the propriety or canvass the taste of so much +ostentation, but none, not the most sarcastic or scrutinizing, could say +one word against the display itself; and so, when on a certain forenoon +the dense crowd of the market-place scattered and fled right and left to +make way for the prancing leaders of that haughty equipage, the sense of +admiration overcame even the unpleasant feeling of inferiority, and that +flunkeyism that has its hold on humanity felt a sort of honor in being +hunted away by such magnificence. +</p> +<p> +Through the large square—or Diamond, as the Northerns love to call +it—of the town they came, upsetting apple-stalls and +crockery-booths, and frightening old peasant women, who, with a goose +under one arm and a hank of yarn under the other, were bent on enterprises +of barter and commerce. Sir Arthur drove up to the bank, of which he was +the governor, and on whose steps, to receive him, now stood the other +members of the board. With his massive gold watch in hand, he announced +that the fourteen miles had been done in an hour and sixteen minutes, and +pointed to the glossy team, whose swollen veins stood out like whipcord, +to prove that there was no distress to the cattle. The board chorused +assent, and one—doubtless an ambitious man—actually passed his +hand down the back sinews of a wheeler, and said, “Cool as spring-water, I +pledge my honor.” Sir Arthur smiled benignly, looked up at the sky, gave +an approving look at the sun as though to say, “Not bad for Ireland,” and +entered the bank. +</p> +<p> +It was about five o'clock in the same evening when the great man again +appeared at the same place; he was flushed and weary-looking. Some +rebellious spirits—is not the world full of them?—had dared to +oppose one of his ordinances. They had ventured to question some subsidy +that he would accord or refuse to some local line of railroad. The +opposition had deeply offended him; and though he had crushed it, it had +wounded him. He was himself the bank!—its high repute, its great +credit, its large connection, were all of his making; and that same Mr. +M'Candlish who had dared to oppose him was a creature of his own,—that +is, he had made him a tithe-valuator, or a road-inspector, or a stamp +distributor, or a something or other of the hundred petty places which he +distributed just as the monks of old gave alms at the gates of their +convents. +</p> +<p> +Sir Arthur whispered a word to Mr. Boyd, the secretary, as he passed +downstairs. “How does M'Candlish stand with the bank? He has had advances +lately; send me a note of them.” And thus, bent on reprisals, he stood +waiting for that gorgeous equipage which was now standing fully ready in +the inn yard, while the coachman was discussing a chop and a pot of +porter. “Why is not he ready?” asked Sir Arthur, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“He was getting a nail in Blenheim's off foreshoe, sir,” was the ready +reply; and as Blenheim was a blood bay sixteen-three, and worth two +hundred and fifty pounds, there was no more to be said; and so Sir Arthur +saw the rest of the board depart on jaunting-cars, gigs, or dog-carts, as +it might be,—humble men with humble conveyances, that could take +them to their homes without the delays that wait upon greatness. +</p> +<p> +“Anything new stirring, Boyd?” asked Sir Arthur, trying not to show that +he was waiting for the pleasure of his coachman. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; all dull as ditch-water.” + </p> +<p> +“We want rain, I fancy,—don't we?” + </p> +<p> +“We 'd not be worse for a little, sir. The after-grass, at least, would +benefit by it.” + </p> +<p> +“Why don't you pave this town better, Boyd? I 'm certain it was these +rascally stones twisted Blenheim's shoe.” + </p> +<p> +“Our corporation will do nothing, sir,—nothing,” said the other, in +a whisper. +</p> +<p> +“Who is that fellow with the large whiskers, yonder,—on the steps of +the hotel? He looks as if he owned the town.” + </p> +<p> +“A foreigner, Sir Arthur; a Frenchman or a German, I believe. He came over +this morning to ask if we knew the address of Mr. Norman Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“Count Caffarelli,” muttered Sir Arthur to himself; “what a chance that I +should see him! How did he come?” + </p> +<p> +“Posted, sir; slept at Cookstown last night, and came here to breakfast.” + </p> +<p> +Though the figure of the illustrious stranger was very far from what Sir +Arthur was led to expect, he knew that personal appearance was not so +distinctive abroad as in England, and so he began to con over to himself +what words of French he could muster, to make his advances. Now, had it +been Hindostanee that was required, Sir Arthur would have opened his +negotiations with all the florid elegance that could be wished; but French +was a tongue in which he had never been a proficient, and, in his ordinary +life, had little need of. He thought, however, that his magnificent +carriage and splendid horses would help him out of the blunders of +declensions and genders, and that what he wanted in grammar he could make +up in greatness. “Follow me to M'Grotty's,” said he to his coachman, and +took the way across the square. +</p> +<p> +Major M'Caskey—for it was no other than that distinguished gentleman—was +standing with both hands in the pockets of a very short shooting-jacket, +and a clay pipe in his mouth, as Sir Arthur, courteously uncovering, bowed +his way up the steps, saying something in which <i>l'honneur, la félicité, +and infiniment flatté</i>, floated amidst a number of less intelligibly +rendered syllables, ended the whole with “<i>Ami de mon ami</i>, M. Norman +Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +Major M'Caskey raised his hat straight above his head and replaced it, +listening calmly to the embarrassed attempts of the other, and then coldly +replied in French, “I have the honor to be the friend of M. Maitland,—how +and when can I see him?” + </p> +<p> +“If you will condescend to be my guest, and allow me to offer you a seat +with me to Lyle Abbey, you will see your friend.” And, as Sir Arthur +spoke, he pointed to his carriage. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, and this is yours? <i>Pardie!</i> it's remarkably well done. I accept +at once. Fetch down my portmanteau and the pistol-case,” said he to a +small, ill-looking boy in a shabby green livery, and to whom he spoke in a +whisper; while, turning to Sir Arthur, he resumed his French. +</p> +<p> +“This I call a real piece of good-fortune,—I was just saying to +myself, 'Here I am; and though he says, Come! how are we to meet?'” + </p> +<p> +“But you knew, Count, that we were expecting you.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind. All I knew was his message, 'Come here.' I had no +anticipation of such pleasant quarters as you promise me.” + </p> +<p> +Seated in the post of honor on the right of Sir Arthur, the Major, by way +of completing the measure of his enjoyments, asked leave to smoke. The +permission was courteously accorded, and away they rolled over the smooth +highway to the pleasant measure of that stirring music,—the trot of +four spanking horses. +</p> +<p> +Two—three—four efforts did Sir Arthur make at conversation, +but they all ended in sad failure. He wanted to say something about the +crops, but he did not remember the French for “oats;” he wished to speak +of the road, but he knew not the phrase for “grand jury;” he desired to +make some apology for a backward season, but he might as well have +attempted to write a Greek ode; and so he sat and smiled and waved his +hand, pointing out objects of interest, and interjectionally jerking out, +“Bons—braves—très braves—but poor—pauvres—très +pauvres—light soil—légère, you understand,” and with a +vigorous “hem” satisfied himself that he had said something intelligible. +After this no more attempts at conversation were made; for the Major had +quietly set his companion down for an intense bore, and fell back upon his +tobacco for solace. +</p> +<p> +“Là !” cried the Baronet, after a long silence—and he pointed with +his finger to a tall tower, over which a large flag was waving, about half +a mile away,—“Là ! Notre chateau—Lyle Abbey—moi;” and he +tapped his breast to indicate the personal interest that attached to the +spot. +</p> +<p> +“Je vous en fais mes compliments,” cried M'Caskey, who chuckled at the +idea of such quarters, and very eloquently went on to express the infinite +delight it gave him to cultivate relations with a family at once so +amiable and so distinguished. The happy hazard which brought him was in +reality another tie that bound him to the friendship of that “cher +Maitland.” Delivered of this, the Major emptied his pipe, replaced it in +its case, and then, taking off his hat, ran his hands through his hair, +arranged his shirt-collar, and made two or three other efforts at an +improvised toilet. +</p> +<p> +“We are late—<i>en retard</i>—I think,” said Sir Arthur, as +they drew up at the door, where two sprucely dressed servants stood to +receive them. “We dine—at eight—eight,” said he, pointing to +that figure on his watch. “You 'll have only time to dress,—dress;” + and he touched the lappet of his coat, for he was fairly driven to +pantomime to express himself. “Hailes,” cried he to a servant in discreet +black, “show the Count to his room, and attend to him; his own man has not +come on, it seems,” and then, with many bows and smiles and courteous +gestures, consigned his distinguished guest to the care of Mr. Hailes, and +walked hurriedly upstairs to his own room. +</p> +<p> +“Such a day as I have had,” cried he, as he entered the dressing-room, +where Lady Lyle was seated with a French novel. “Those fellows at the +bank, led on by that creature M'Candlish, had the insolence to move an +amendment to that motion of mine about the drainage loan. I almost thought +they'd have given me a fit of apoplexy; but I crushed them: and I told +Boyd, 'If I see any more of this, I don't care from what quarter it comes,—if +these insolences be repeated,—I' ll resign the direction. It's no +use making excuses, pleading that you misunderstood this or mistook that, +Boyd,' said I. 'If it occurs again, I go.' And then, as if this was not +enough, I 've had to talk French all the way out. By the way, where's +Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“Talk French! what do you mean by that?” + </p> +<p> +“Where's Maitland, I say?” + </p> +<p> +“He's gone off with Mark to Larne. They said they 'd not be back to +dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“Here's more of it; we shall have this foreign fellow on our hands till he +comes,—this Italian Count. I found him at M'Grotty's, and brought +him back with me.” + </p> +<p> +“And what is he like? is he as captivating as his portrait bespeaks?” + </p> +<p> +“He is, to my mind, as vulgar a dog as ever I met: he smoked beside me all +the road, though he saw how his vile tobacco set me a-coughing; and he +stretched his legs over the front seat of the carriage, where, I promise +you, his boots have left their impress on the silk lining; and he poked +his cane at Crattle's wig, and made some impertinent remark which I could +n't catch. I never was very enthusiastic about foreigners, and the present +specimen has not made a convert of me.” + </p> +<p> +“Maitland likes him,” said she, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, then, it is an excellent reason not to like Maitland. There's the +second bell already. By the way, this Count, I suppose, takes you in to +dinner?” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose so, and it is very unpleasant, for I am out of the habit of +talking French. I 'll make Alice sit on the other side of him and +entertain him.” + </p> +<p> +The news that the distinguished Italian friend of Mr. Norman Maitland had +arrived created a sort of sensation in the house; and as the guests +dropped into the drawing-room before dinner, there was no other topic than +the Count. The door at last opened for his <i>entree</i>; and he came in +unannounced, the servant being probably unable to catch the name he gave. +In the absence of her father and mother, Mrs. Trafford did the honors, and +received him most courteously, presenting the other guests to him, or him +to them, as it might be. When it came to the turn of the Commodore, he +started, and muttered, “Eh, very like, the born image of him!” and +coloring deeply at his own awkwardness, mumbled out a few unmeaning +commonplaces. As for the Major, he eyed him with one of his steadiest +stares,—unflinching, un-blenching; and even said to Mrs. Trafford in +a whisper, “I didn't catch the name; was it Green you said?” Seated +between Lady Lyle and Mrs. Trafford, M'Caskey felt that he was the honored +guest of the evening: Maitland's absence, so feelingly deplored by the +others, gave him little regret; indeed, instinct told him that they were +not men to like each other, and he was all the happier that he had the +field for a while his own. It was not a very easy task to be the pleasant +man of an Irish country-house, in a foreign tongue; but if any man could +have success, it was M'Caskey. The incessant play of his features, the +varied tones of his voice, his extraordinary gestures, appealed to those +who could not follow his words, and led them very often to join in the +laughter which his sallies provoked from others. He was, it is true, the +exact opposite to all they had been led to expect,—he was neither +well-looking, nor distinguished, nor conciliatory in manner,—there +was not a trace of that insinuating softness and gentleness Maitland had +spoken of,—he was, even to those who could not follow his speech, +one of the most coolly unabashed fellows they had ever met, and made +himself at home with a readiness that said much more for his boldness than +for his breeding; and yet, withal, each was pleased in turn to see how he +out-talked some heretofore tyrant of conversation, how impudently he +interrupted a bore, and how mercilessly he pursued an antagonist whom he +had vanquished. It is not at all improbable, too, that he owed something +of bis success to that unconquerable objection people feel at confessing +that they do not understand a foreign language,—the more when that +language is such a cognate one as French. What a deal of ecstasy does not +the polite world expend upon German drama and Italian tragedy, and how +frequently are people moved to every imaginable emotion, without the +slightest clew to the intention of the charmer! If he was great at the +dinner-table, he was greater in the drawing-room. Scarcely was coffee +served than he was twanking away with a guitar, and singing a Spanish +muleteer song, with a jingling imitation of bells for the accompaniment; +or seated at the piano, he carolled out a French canzonette descriptive of +soldier life, far more picturesque than it was proper; and all this time +there was the old Commodore cruising above and below him, eying and +watching him,—growing perfectly feverish with the anxiety of his +doubts, and yet unable to confirm or refute them. It was a suspicious +craft; he felt that he had seen it before, and knew the rig well, and yet +he was afraid to board and say, “Let me look at your papers.” + </p> +<p> +“I say, Beck, just go slyly up and say something accidentally about +Barbadoes; don't ask any questions, but remark that the evening is close, +or the sky threatening, or the air oppressive, just as it used to be +before a tornado there.” The old sailor watched her, as he might have +watched a boat-party on a cutting-out expedition; he saw her draw nigh the +piano; he thought he could trace all the ingenious steps by which she +neared her object; and he was convinced that she had at last thrown the +shell on board him; but what was his grievous disappointment, as he saw +that the little fellow had turned to her with a look of warmest +admiration, and actually addressed a very ardent love-song to the eyes +that were then bent upon him. The Commodore made signals to cease firing +and fall back, but in vain. She was too deeply engaged to think of orders; +and there she stood to be admired and worshipped and adored, in all the +moods and tenses of a French “romance.” But Miss Rebecca Graham was not +the only victim of the Major's captivations; gradually the whole company +of the drawing-room had gathered round the piano, some to wonder, some to +laugh at, some to feel amused by, and not a few to feel angry with, that +little fiery-eyed, impertinent-looking fellow, who eyed the ladies so +languishingly, and stared at the men as if asking, “Who'll quarrel with +me?” You might not like, but it was impossible to ignore him. There was, +too, in his whole air and bearing a conscious sense of power,—a sort +of bold self-reliance,—that dignifies even impudence; and as he sat +in his chair with head up and hands vigorously striking the chords of the +piano, he looked, as it is by no means improbable that he felt, “M'Caskey +against the field.” It was in the midst of hearty applause at a song he +had just completed, that Maitland entered the room. In the hall he had +learned from the servants that his foreign friend had arrived, and he +hurried forward to greet him. Rather puzzled at the vociferous gayety of +the company, he made his way through the crowd and approached the piano, +and then stood staring on every side, to find out his friend. Though he +saw the Major, his eye only rested passingly on him, as it ranged eagerly +to catch the features of another. +</p> +<p> +“He's very amusing, though not in the least what you led us to expect,” + whispered Mrs. Trafford. “Who is it of whom you are speaking?” “Your +friend yonder, the Count Caffarelli.” “What—that man?” cried +Maitland, as he grew pale with passion; and now, pushing forward, he +leaned over the back of the music-stool, and whispered, “Who are you that +call yourself Count Caffarelli?” + </p> +<p> +“Is your name Maitland?” said the other, with perfect coolness. +</p> +<p> +“Yes.” + </p> +<p> +“Mine is M'Caskey, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“And by what presumption do I find you here?” + </p> +<p> +“This is not the place nor the moment for explanations; but if you want or +prefer exposures, don't balk your fancy. I 'm as ready as you are.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland reeled back as if from a blow, and looked positively ill; and +then laughingly turning to the company, he said some common-place words +about his ill luck in being late to hear the last song. +</p> +<p> +“Well, it must be the last for to-night,” said Mr. M'Caskey, rising. “I +have really imposed too much upon every one's forbearance.” + </p> +<p> +After a little of the usual skirmishing,—the entreaties and the coy +refusals, the recollection of that charming thing you sang for us at +Woodpark, and the doubts lest they had brought no music with them,—the +Misses Graham sat down to one, of those duets which every one in England +seems able to compose and to sing; lackadaisical ditties adapted to the +humblest musical proficiency, and unfortunately, too, the very narrowest +intelligences. While the remainder of the company, after a brief moment of +silence, resumed conversation, Major M'Caskey stepped unobserved from the +room,—by all, at least, but by Maitland, who speedily followed him, +and, led by the sound of his footsteps along the corridor, tracked him +through the great hall. M'Caskey was standing on the lawn, and in the act +of lighting his cigar, as Maitland came up. +</p> +<p> +“Explain this intrusion here, sir, now, if you can,” cried Maitland, as he +walked straight towards him. +</p> +<p> +“If you want any explanations from me, you 'll have to ask for them more +suitably,” said the other, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“I desire to know, under what pretence you assume a name and rank you have +no right to, to obtain admission to this house?” + </p> +<p> +“Your question is easily answered: your instructions to me were, on my +arrival at Coleraine, to give myself out for a foreigner, and not to speak +English with any one. I have your note in my desk, and think there can be +no mistake about its meaning.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well; I know all that: go on,” cried Maitland, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +M'Caskey smiled, half insolently, at this show of temper, and continued: +“It was, then, in my assumed character of Frenchman, Spaniard, Italian, or +whatever you wish,—for they are pretty much alike to me,—I was +standing at the door of the inn, when a rather pompous old fellow, with +two footmen after him, came up, and in some execrable French endeavored to +accost me, mingling your name in his jargon, and inviting me, as well as +his language would permit, to return with him to his house. What was I to +conclude but that the arrangement was yours? indeed, I never gave a doubt +to it.” + </p> +<p> +“When he addressed you as the Count Caffarelli, you might have had such a +doubt,” said Maitland, sneeringly. +</p> +<p> +“He called me simply Count,” was the reply. +</p> +<p> +“Well; so far well: there was no assumption of a name, at least.” + </p> +<p> +“None whatever; and if there had been, would the offence have seemed to +you so very—very unpardonable?” It is not easy to convey the intense +impertinence given to the delivery of this speech by the graduated +slowness of every word, and the insolent composure with which it was +spoken. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean, sir, by this—this insinuation?” cried Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“Insinuation!—it's none. It is a mere question as to a matter of +good taste or good morals.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no time for such discussions, sir,” said Maitland, hotly. “I am +glad to find that the blunder by which you came here was not of your own +provoking, though I cannot see how it makes the explanation less difficult +to myself.” + </p> +<p> +“What is your difficulty, may I ask?” cried M'Caskey, coolly. +</p> +<p> +“Is it no difficulty that I must explain how I know—” and he stopped +suddenly, just as a man might stop on the verge of a precipice, and look +horror-struck down into the depth below him. “I mean,” said he, recovering +himself, “that to enter upon the question of our relations to each other +would open the discussion of matters essentially secret. When I have said +I know you, the next question will be, 'Who is he?'” + </p> +<p> +“Well, what is the difficulty there? I am Graf M'Caskey, in Bavaria; Count +of Serra-major, in Sicily; Commander of the Order of St. Peter and St. +Paul, and a Knight of Malta. I mention these, for I have the 'brevets' +with me.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true,” said Maitland; “but you are also the same Lieutenant Miles +M'Caskey, who served in the 2d West Indian Regiment, and who left a few +unsettled matters between him and the Government there, when he quitted +Barbadoes.” + </p> +<p> +“And which they won't rake up, I promise you, if they don't want to hang +an ex-governor,” said he, laughing. “But none of us, Mr. Maitland, will +stand such investigations as these. There's a statute of limitations for +morals as well as for small debts.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland winced under the insolent look of the other, and in a tone +somewhat shaken, continued, “At all events it will not suit me to open +these inquiries. The only piece of good fortune in the whole is that there +was none here who knew you.” + </p> +<p> +“I am not so very sure of that, though,” said the Major, with a quiet +laugh. +</p> +<p> +“How so? what do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Why; that there is an old fellow whom I remember to have met on the West +Indian Station; he was a lieutenant, I think, on board the 'Dwarf,' and he +looked as if he were puzzled about me.” + </p> +<p> +“Gambier Graham?” + </p> +<p> +“That's the man; he followed me about all night, till some one carried him +off to play cribbage; but he 'd leave his game every now and then to come +and stare at me, till I gave him a look that said, 'If you do that again, +we 'll have a talk over it in the morning.'” + </p> +<p> +“To prevent which you must leave this to-night, sir,” said Maitland. “I am +not in the habit of carrying followers about with me to the country-houses +where I visit.” + </p> +<p> +A very prolonged whistle was M'Caskey's first reply to this speech, and +then he said: “They told me you were one of the cleverest fellows in +Europe, but I don't believe a word of it; for if you were, you would never +try to play the game of bully with a man of my stamp. Bigger men than Mr. +Norman Maitland have tried that, and did n't come so well out of it.” + </p> +<p> +An insolent toss of the head, as he threw away his cigar, was all +Maitland's answer. At last he said, “I suppose, sir, you cannot wish to +drive me to say that I do not know you?” + </p> +<p> +“It would be awkward, certainly; for then I 'd be obliged to declare that +I <i>do</i> know you.” + </p> +<p> +Instantly Maitland seized the other's arm; but M'Caskey, though not by any +means so strong a man, flung off the grasp, and started back, saying, +“Hands off, or I'll put a bullet through you. We've both of us lived long +enough amongst foreigners to know that these are liberties that cost +blood.” + </p> +<p> +“This is very silly and very unprofitable,” said Maitland, with a ghastly +attempt at a smile. “There ought not, there cannot be, any quarrel between +you and me. Though it is no fault of yours that this blunder has occurred, +the mistake has its unpleasant side, and may lead to some embarrassment, +the more as this old sea-captain is sure to remember you if you meet +again. There 's only one thing for it, therefore,—get away as fast +as you can. I 'll supply the pretext, and show Sir Arthur in confidence +how the whole affair occurred.” + </p> +<p> +M'Caskey shook his head dubiously. “This is not to my liking, sir; it +smacks of a very ignominious mode of retreat. I am to leave myself to be +discussed by a number of perhaps not over-favorable critics, and defended +by one who even shrinks from saying he knows me. No, no; I can't do this.” + </p> +<p> +“But remember you are not the person to whom these people meant to offer +their hospitality.” + </p> +<p> +“I am Major Miles M'Caskey,” said he, drawing himself up to the full +height of his five feet four inches; “and there is no mistake whatever in +any consideration that is shown to the man who owns that name.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, but why are you here,—how have you come?” + </p> +<p> +“I came by the host's invitation, and I look to you to explain how the +blunder occurred, and to recognize me afterwards. That is what I expect, +and what I insist on.” + </p> +<p> +“And if your old friend the Commodore, whose memory for ugly anecdotes +seems inexhaustible, comes out with any unpleasant reminiscences of West +Indian life—” + </p> +<p> +“Leave that to me, Mr. Norman Maitland. I 'll take care to see my friend, +as you call him, and I 'll offer you a trifling wager he 'll not be a whit +more anxious to claim my acquaintance than you are.” + </p> +<p> +“You appear to have no small reliance on your powers of intimidation, +Major,” said Maitland, with a sneering smile. +</p> +<p> +“They have never failed me, for I have always backed them with a very +steady hand and a correct eye, both of which are much at your service.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland lifted his hat and bowed an acknowledgment. +</p> +<p> +“I think we are losing our time, each of us, Major M'Caskey. There need be +no question of etiquette here. You are, if I understand the matter aright, +under my orders. Well, sir, these orders are, that you now start for +Castle Durrow, and be prepared by Tuesday next to make me a full report of +your proceedings, and produce for me, if necessary, the men you have +engaged.” + </p> +<p> +The change effected in the Major's manner at these words was magical; he +touched his hat in salute, and listened with all show of respect. +</p> +<p> +“It is my intention, if satisfied with your report, to recommend you for +the command of the legion, with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel,” continued +Maitland; “and I have already written about those advances you mentioned.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll take care that you are satisfied with me,” said M'Caskey, +respectfully; “I'll start within half an hour.” + </p> +<p> +“This is all as it should be. I hope it is our first and last +misunderstanding;” and he held out his hand frankly, which the other +grasped and shook cordially. “How are you off for ready cash? Treat me as +a comrade, and say freely.” + </p> +<p> +“Not over flush, but I suppose I can rub on,” said the Major, with some +confusion. +</p> +<p> +“I have some thirty sovereigns here,” said Maitland; “take them, and we'll +settle all when we meet.” + </p> +<p> +M'Caskey put the purse in his pocket, and, with the uneasy consciousness +of a man ashamed of what he was doing, muttered out a few unmeaning words +of thanks, and said, “Good-bye!” + </p> +<p> +“These condottieri rascals have been troublesome fellows in all ages,” + said Maitland, as he smoked away alone; “and I suspect they are especially +unsuited to our present-day life and its habits. I must rid myself of the +Major.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XI. EXPLANATIONS +</h2> +<p> +By the time Maitland had despatched his man Fenton to meet Count +Cafifarelli, and prevent his coming to Lyle Abbey, where his presence +would be sure to occasion much embarrassment, the company had retired to +their rooms, and all was quiet. +</p> +<p> +Though Mark was curious to know why and how Maitland had disappeared with +his foreign friend, he had grown tired thinking over it, and fallen sound +asleep. Nor did he hear Maitland as he entered the room and drew nigh his +bedside. +</p> +<p> +“What's wrong,—what has happened?” cried Mark, as he started up +suddenly on his bed. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing very serious, but still something worth waking you for; but are +you sure you are awake?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes, perfectly. What is it all about? Who are in it?” + </p> +<p> +“We are all in it, for the matter of that,” said Maitland, with a quiet +laugh. “Try and listen to me attentively for a couple of minutes. The man +your father brought back with him from Coleraine, believing him to be my +friend Caffarelli, was not Cafifarelli at all!” + </p> +<p> +“What! And he pretended to be?” + </p> +<p> +“No such thing: hear me out. Your father spoke to him in French; and +finding out—I don't exactly know how—that he and I were +acquaintances, rushed at once to the conclusion that he must be +Caffarelli. I conclude that the interview was not made more intelligible +to either party by being carried on in French; but the invitation so +frankly given was as freely accepted. The stranger came, dined, and was +here in the drawing-room when we came back.” + </p> +<p> +“This is unpardonable. Who is he? What is he?” + </p> +<p> +“He is a gentleman. I believe, as well born as either of us. I know +something—not much—about him, but there are circumstances +which, in a manner, prevent me from talking of him. He came down to this +part of the world to see me, though I never intended it should have been +here.” + </p> +<p> +“Then his intrusion here was not sanctioned by you?” + </p> +<p> +“No. It was all your father's doing.” + </p> +<p> +“My father's doing, if you like, Maitland, but concurred in and abetted by +this man, whoever he is.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll not even say that; he assures me that he accepted the invitation in +the belief that the arrangement was made by me.” + </p> +<p> +“And you accept that explanation?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I do. I see nothing in it in the smallest degree improbable or +unlikely.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, who is he? That is the main point; for it is clear you do not wish +us to receive him as a friend of yours.” + </p> +<p> +“I say I 'd not have presented him here, certainly; but I 'll not go the +length of saying he could n't have been known by any one in this house. He +is one of those adventurous fellows whose lives must not be read with the +same glasses as those of quieter people. He has knocked about the world +for some five-and-twenty years, without apparently having found his corner +in it yet. I wanted him,—what for, I shall probably tell you one of +these days,—and some friends of mine found him out for me!” + </p> +<p> +“One of your mysteries, Maitland,” said Mark, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, 'one of my mysteries!” + </p> +<p> +“Of what nation is he?” + </p> +<p> +“There, again, I must balk your curiosity. The fact is, Mark, I can +explain nothing about this man without going into matters which I am +solemnly bound not to reveal. What I have to ask from you is that you will +explain to your father, and of course to Lady Lyle and your sisters, the +mistake that has occurred, and request that they will keep it a secret. He +has already gone, so that your guests will probably not discuss him after +a day or two.” + </p> +<p> +“Not even so much, for there's a break-up. Old Mrs. Maxwell has suddenly +discovered that her birthday will fall on next Friday, and she insists +upon going back to Tilney Park to entertain the tenantry, and give a ball +to the servants. Most of the people here accompany her, and Isabella and +myself are obliged to go. Each of us expects to be her heir, and we have +to keep out competitors at all hazards.” + </p> +<p> +“'Why has she never thought of me?” said Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“She means to invite you, at all events; for I heard her consulting my +mother how so formidable a personage should be approached,—whether +she ought to address you in a despatch, or ask for a conference.” + </p> +<p> +“If a choice be given me, I 'll stay where I am. The three days I promised +you have grown nearer to three weeks, and I do not see the remotest chance +of your getting rid of me.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you promise me to stay till I tell you we want your rooms?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, my dear fellow, you don't know—you could n't know—what +very tempting words you are uttering. This is such a charming, charming +spot, to compose that novel I am—not—writing—that I +never mean to leave till I have finished it; but, seriously, speaking like +an old friend, am I a bore here? am I occupying the place that is wanted +for another? are they tired of me?” + </p> +<p> +Mark overwhelmed his friend with assurances, very honest in the main, that +they were only too happy to possess him as their guest, and felt no common +pride in the fact that he could find his life there endurable. “I will own +now,” says he, “that there was a considerable awe of you felt before you +came; but you have lived down the fear, and become a positive favorite.” + </p> +<p> +“But who could have given such a version of me as to inspire this?” + </p> +<p> +“I am afraid I was the culprit,” said Mark. “I was rather boastful about +knowing you at all, and I suppose I frightened them.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Lyle, what a narrow escape I had of being positively odious! and +I now see with what consummate courtesy my caprices have been treated, +when really I never so much as suspected they had been noticed.” + </p> +<p> +There was a touch of sincerity in his accent as he spoke, that vouched for +the honesty of his meaning; and Mark, as he looked at him, muttered to +himself, “This is the man they call an egotist, and who is only intent on +taking his turn out of all around him.” + </p> +<p> +“I think I must let you go to sleep again, Mark,” said Maitland, rising. +“I am a wretched sleeper myself, and quite forget that there are happy +fellows who can take their ten hours of oblivion without any help from the +druggist. Without this”—and he drew a small phial from his +waistcoat-pocket—“I get no rest.” + </p> +<p> +“What a bad habit!” + </p> +<p> +“Isn't almost everything we do a bad habit? Have we ever a humor that +recurs to us, that is not a bad habit? Are not the simple things which +mean nothing in themselves an evil influence when they grow into +requirements and make slaves of us? I suppose it was a bad habit that made +me a bad sleeper, and I turn to another bad habit to correct it. The only +things which are positively bad habits are those that require an effort to +sustain, or will break down under us without we struggle to support them. +To be morose is not one jot a worse habit than to be agreeable; for the +time will come when you are indisposed to be pleasant, and the company in +which you find yourself are certain to deem the humor as an offence to +themselves; but there is a worse habit than this, which is to go on +talking to a man whose eyes are closing with sleep. Good-night.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland said no more than the truth when he declared how happy he found +himself in that quiet unmolested existence which he led at Lyle Abbey. To +be free in every way, to indulge his humor to be alone or in company, to +go and come as he liked, were great boons; but they were even less than +the enjoyment he felt in living amongst total strangers,—persons who +had never known, never heard of him, for whom he was not called on to make +any effort or support any character. +</p> +<p> +No man ever felt more acutely the slavery that comes of sustaining a part +before the world, and being as strange and as inexplicable as people +required he should be. While a very young man, it amused him to trifle in +this fashion, and to set absurd modes afloat for imitation; and he took a +certain spiteful pleasure in seeing what a host of followers mere +eccentricity could command. As he grew older, he wearied of this, and, to +be free of it, wandered away to distant and unvisited countries, trying +the old and barren experiment whether new sensations might not make a new +nature. <i>Cælum non animum mutant</i>, says the adage; and he came back +pretty much as he went, with this only difference, that he now cared only +for quietness and repose. Not the contemplative repose of one who sought +to reflect without disturbance, so much as the peaceful isolation that +suited indolence. He fancied how he would have liked to be the son of that +house, and dream away life in that wild secluded spot; but, after all, the +thought was like the epicure's notion of how contented he could be with a +meal of potatoes! +</p> +<p> +As the day broke, he was roused from his light sleep by the tumult and +noise of the departing guests. He arose and watched them through the +half-closed jalousies. It was picturesque enough, in that crisp, fresh, +frosty air, to see the groups as they gathered on the long terrace before +the door; while equipages the most varied drew up,—here a +family-coach with long-tailed “blacks;” there a smart britschka, with +spanking grays; a tandem, too, there was for Mark's special handling; and, +conspicuous by its pile of luggage in the “well,” stood Gambier Graham's +outside jaunting-car,—a large basket of vegetables and fruit, and a +hamper of lobsters, showing how such guests are propitiated, even in the +hours of leave-taking. +</p> +<p> +Maitland watched Isabella in all her little attentive cares to Mrs. +Maxwell, and saw, as he thought, the heir-expectant in every movement. He +fancied that the shawl she carried on her arm was the old lady's, and was +almost vexed when he saw her wrap it around her own shoulders. “Well, that +at least is sycophancy,” muttered he, as he saw her clutch up a little +white Maltese terrier and kiss it; but, alas for his prescience! the next +moment she had given the dog to a servant to carry back into the house; +and so it was her own that she was parting from, and not Mrs. Maxwell's +that she was caressing! +</p> +<p> +It is strange to say that he was vexed at being disappointed. She was very +pretty, very well-mannered, and very pleasing; but he longed to find that +all the charm and grace about her were conventional; he wished to believe +that “the whole thing,” as he called life, was a mere trick, where all +cheated in proportion to their capacities. Mark had been honest enough to +own that they were fortune-hunting, and Isabella certainly could not be +ignorant of the stake she played for. +</p> +<p> +One by one the carriages drew up and moved away, and now Gambier Graham's +car stood before the door, alone; for the crowd of footmen who had +thronged to press their services on the others, gradually melted away, +hopeless of exacting a blackmail from the old Commodore. While Maitland +stood watching the driver, who, in a composite sort of costume, rather +more gardener than coachman, amused himself flicking with his whip +imaginary flies off the old mare's neck and withers, a smart tap came to +the door; while a hasty voice called out, “May I come in?” + </p> +<p> +“Let me first hear who you are?” said Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“Commodore Graham,” was the answer. +</p> +<p> +In a moment it flashed across Maitland that the old sailor had come to +reveal his discovery of M'Caskey. Just as quickly did he decide that it +was better to admit him, and, if possible, contrive to make the story seem +a secret between themselves. +</p> +<p> +“Come in, by all means,—the very man I wanted to see,” said +Maitland, as he opened the door, and gave him a cordial shake-hands. “I +was afraid you were going without seeing me, Commodore; and, early as it +was, I got up and was dressing in hope to catch you.” + </p> +<p> +“That I call hearty,—downright hearty,—Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland actually started at this familiar mention of him by one whom he +had never met till a few days before. +</p> +<p> +“Rather a rare event in your life to be up at this hour, I 'll be sworn,—except +when you have n't been to bed, eh?” And he laughed heartily at what he +fancied was a most witty conceit. “You see we 're all off! We 've had +springs on our cables these last twenty-four hours, with this frolicsome +old woman, who would insist on being back for her birthday; but she 's +rich, Maitland, immensely rich, and we all worship her!” + </p> +<p> +Maitland gave a faint shrug of the shoulders, as though he deplored the +degeneracy, but couldn't help it. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, yes; I 'm coming,” cried the Commodore, shouting from the open +window to his daughters beneath. “The girls are impatient; they want to be +at Lesliesford when the others are crossing. There's a fresh on the river, +and it 's better to get some stout fellows to guide the carriages through +the water. I wanted greatly to have five minutes alone with you,—five +would do; half of it, perhaps, between men of the world, as we are. You +know about what.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect I do,” said Maitland, quietly. +</p> +<p> +“I saw, too,” resumed Graham, “that you wished to have no talk about it +here, amongst all these gossiping people. Was n't I right?” + </p> +<p> +“Perfectly right; you appreciated me thoroughly.” + </p> +<p> +“What I said was this,—Maitland knows the world well. He 'll wait +till he has his opportunity of talking the matter over with myself. He 'll +say, 'Graham and I will understand one another at once.' One minute; only +one,” screamed he out from the window. “Could n't you come down and just +say a word or two to them? They 'd like it so much.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland muttered something about his costume. +</p> +<p> +“Ah! there it is. You fellows will never be seen till you are in full fig. +Well, I must be off. Now, then, to finish what we 've been saying. You 'll +come over next week to Port-Graham,—that's my little place, though +there's no port, nor anything like a port, within ten miles of it,—and +we 'll arrange everything. If I 'm an old fellow, Maitland, I don't forget +that I was once a young one,—mind that, my boy.” And the Commodore +had to wipe his eyes, with the laughter at his drollery. “Yes; here I am,” + cried he, again; and then turning to Maitland, shook his hand in both his +own, repeating, “On Wednesday,—Wednesday to dinner,—not later +than five, remember,”—he hastened down the stairs, and scrambled up +on the car beside his eldest daughter, who apparently had already opened a +floodgate of attack on him for his delay. +</p> +<p> +“Insupportable old bore!” muttered Maitland, as he waved his hand from the +window, and smiled his blandest salutations to the retreating party. “What +a tiresome old fool to fancy that I am going over to Graham-pond, or port, +or whatever it is, to talk over an incident that I desire to have +forgotten! Besides, when once I have left this neighborhood, he may +discuss M'Caskey every day after his dinner; he may write his life, for +anything I care.” + </p> +<p> +With this parting reflection he went down to the garden, strolling +listlessly along the dew-spangled alleys, and carelessly tossing aside +with his cane the apple-blossoms, which lay thick as snow-flakes on the +walks. While thus lounging, he came suddenly upon Sir Arthur, as, hoe in +hand, he imagined himself doing something useful. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, by the way, Mr. Maitland,” cried he, “Mark has just told me of the +stupid mistake I made. Will you be generous enough to forgive me?” + </p> +<p> +“It is from me, sir, that the apologies must come,” began Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Maitland. You will overwhelm me with +shame if you say so. Let us each forget the incident; and, believe me, I +shall feel myself your debtor by the act of oblivion.” He shook Maitland's +hand warmly, and in an easier tone added, “What good news I have heard! +You are not tired of us,—not going!” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot—I told Mark this morning—I don't believe there is a +road out of this.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, wait here till I tell you it is fit for travelling,” said Sir +Arthur, pleasantly, and addressed himself once more to his labors as a +gardener. +</p> +<p> +Meanwhile Maitland threw himself down on a garden-bench, and cried aloud, +“This is the real thing, after all,—this is actual repose. Not a +word of political intrigue, no snares, no tricks, no deceptions, and no +defeats; no waking to hear of our friends arrested, and our private +letters in the hands of a Police Prefect. No horrid memories of the night +before, and that run of ill-luck that has left us almost beggars. I wonder +how long the charm of this tranquillity would endure; or is it like all +other anodynes, which lose their calming power by habit? I 'd certainly +like to try.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, there is no reason why you shouldn't,” said a voice from the back +of the summer-house, which he knew to be Mrs. Trafford's. +</p> +<p> +He jumped up to overtake her, but she was gone. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XII. MAITLAND'S VISIT +</h2> +<p> +“What was it you were saying about flowers, Jeanie? I was not minding,” + said Mrs. Butler, as she sat at her window watching the long heaving roll +of the sea, as it broke along the jagged and rugged shore, her thoughts +the while far beyond it. +</p> +<p> +“I was saying, ma'am, that the same man that came with the books t' other +day brought these roses, and asked very kindly how you were.” + </p> +<p> +“You mean the same gentleman, lassie, who left his card here!” said the +old lady, correcting that very Northern habit of Ignoring all differences +of condition. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I mind he was; for he had very white hands, and a big bright ring +on one of his fingers.” + </p> +<p> +“You told him how sorry I was not to be able to see him,—that these +bad headaches have left me unable to receive any one?” + </p> +<p> +“Na; I did n't say that,” said she, half doggedly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, and what did you say?” + </p> +<p> +“I just said, she's thinking too much about her son, who is away from +home, to find any pleasure in a strange face. He laughed a little quiet +laugh, and said, 'There is good sense in that, Jeanie, and I 'll wait for +a better moment.'” + </p> +<p> +“You should have given my message as I spoke it to you,” said the +mistress, severely. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm no sae blind that I canna see the differ between an aching head and +a heavy heart Ye 're just frettin', and there 's naething else the matter +wi' you. There he goes now, the same man,—the same gentleman, I +mean,” said she, with a faint scoff. “He aye goes back by the strand, and +climbs the white rocks opposite the Skerries.” + </p> +<p> +“Go and say that I 'll be happy to have a visit from him to-morrow, +Jeanie; and mind, put nothing of your own in it, lassie, but give my words +as I speak them.” + </p> +<p> +With a toss of her head Jeanie left the room, and soon after was seen +skipping lightly from rock to rock towards the beach beneath. To the old +lady's great surprise, however, Jeanie, instead of limiting herself to the +simple words of her message, appeared to be talking away earnestly and +fluently with the stranger; and, worse than all, she now saw that he was +coming back with her, and walking straight for the cottage. Mrs. Butler +had but time to change her cap and smooth down the braids of her +snow-white hair, when the key turned in the lock, and Jeanie ushered in +Mr. Norman Maitland. Nothing could be more respectful or in better taste +than Maitland's approach. He blended the greatest deference with an +evident desire to make her acquaintance, and almost at once relieved her +from what she so much dreaded,—the first meeting with a stranger. +</p> +<p> +“Are you of the Clairlaverock Maitlands, sir?” asked she, timidly. +</p> +<p> +“Very distantly, I believe, madam. We all claim Sir Peter as the head of +the family; but my own branch settled in India two generations back, and, +I shame to say, thought of everything but genealogy.” + </p> +<p> +“There was a great beauty, a Miss Hester Maitland. When I was a girl, she +married a lord, I think?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, she married a Viscount Kinross, a sort of cousin of her own; though +I am little versed in family history. The truth is, madam, younger sons +who had to work their way in the world were more anxious to bequeath +habits of energy and activity to their children than ideas of blazons and +quarterings.” + </p> +<p> +The old lady sighed at this; but it was a sigh of relief. She had been +dreading not a little a meeting with one of those haughty Maitlands, +associated in her childhood's days with thoughts of wealth and power, and +that dominance that smacks of, if it does not mean, insolence; and now she +found one who was not ashamed to belong to a father who had toiled for his +support and worked hard for his livelihood. And yet it was strange with +what tenacity she clung to a topic that had its terrors for her. She liked +to talk of the family, and high connections, and great marriages of all +these people with whose names she was familiar as a girl, but whom she had +never known, if she had so much as seen. +</p> +<p> +“My poor husband, sir,—you may have heard of him,—Colonel +Walter Butler, knew all these things by heart. You had only to ask when +did so-and-so die, and who married such a one, and he 'd tell you as if +out of a book.” + </p> +<p> +“I have heard of Colonel Butler, madam. His fame as a soldier is +widespread in India; indeed, I had hoped to have made his son's +acquaintance when I came here; but I believe he is with his regiment.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, he's not in the service,” said she, flushing. +</p> +<p> +“Ah! a civilian, then. Well, madam, the Butlers have shown capacity in all +careers.” + </p> +<p> +“My poor boy has not had the chance given him as yet, Mr. Maitland. We +were too poor to think of a profession; and so, waiting and hoping, though +it 's not very clear for what, we let the time slip over; and there he is +a great grown man! as fine a young fellow as you ever looked on, and as +good as handsome; but yet he cannot do one hand's turn that would give him +bread; and yet, ask your friends at the Abbey if there's a grace or gift +of a gentleman he is not the master of.” + </p> +<p> +“I think I know how the Lyles speak of him, and what affection they bear +him.” + </p> +<p> +“Many would condemn me, sir,” cried she, warming with the one theme that +engaged her whole heart, “for having thrown my boy amongst those so far +above him in fortune, and given him habits and ways that his own condition +must deny him; but it was my pride to see him in the station that his +father held, and to know that he became it. I suppose there are dangers in +it, too,” said she, rather answering his grave look than anything he had +said. “I take it, sir, there are great temptations, mayhap over-strong +temptations, for young natures.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland moved his head slightly, to imply that he assented. +</p> +<p> +“And it's not unlikely the poor boy felt that himself; for when he came +home t' other night he looked scared and worn, and answered me shortly and +abruptly in a way he never does, and made me sit down on the spot and +write a letter for him to a great man who knew his father, asking—it +is hard to say what I asked, and what I could have expected.” + </p> +<p> +“Colonel Butler's son can scarcely want friends, madam,” said Maitland, +courteously. +</p> +<p> +“What the world calls friends are usually relatives, and we have but one +who could pretend to any sort of influence; and his treatment of my poor +husband debars us from all knowledge of him. He was an only brother, a +certain Sir Omerod Butler. You may, perhaps, have heard of him?” + </p> +<p> +“Formerly British Minister at Naples, I think?” + </p> +<p> +“The same, sir; a person, they tell me, of great abilities, but very +eccentric, and peculiar,—indeed, so his letters bespeak him.” + </p> +<p> +“You have corresponded with him then, madam?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, never; but he wrote constantly to my husband before our +marriage. They were at that time greatly attached to each other; and the +elder, Sir Omerod, was always planning and plotting for his brother's +advancement. He talked of him as if he was his son, rather than a younger +brother; in fact, there were eighteen years between them. Our marriage +broke up all this. The great man was shocked at the humble connection, and +poor Walter would not bear to have me slightingly spoken of; but dear me, +Mr. Maitland, how I am running on! To talk of such things to you! I am +really ashamed of myself! What will you think of me?” + </p> +<p> +“Only what I have learned to think of you, madam, from all your neighbors,—with +sentiments of deep respect and sincere interest.” + </p> +<p> +“It is very good of you to say it, sir; and I wish Tony was back here to +know you and thank you for all your attention to his mother.” + </p> +<p> +“You are expecting him, then?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, I am, and I am not. One letter is full of hope and expectancy; +by Thursday or Friday he 's to have some tidings about this or that place; +and then comes another, saying how Sir Harry counsels him to go out and +make friends with his uncle. All mammon, sir,—nothing but mammon; +just because this old man is very rich, and never was married.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect you are in error there, madam. Sir Omerod was married at least +twenty years ago, when I first heard of him at Naples.” + </p> +<p> +She shook her head doubtfully, and said, “I have always been told the +reverse, sir. I know what you allude to, but I have reason to believe I am +right, and there is no Lady Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“It is curious enough, madam, that through a chance acquaintance on a +railroad train, I learned all about the lady he married. She was an +Italian.” + </p> +<p> +“It 's the same story I have heard myself, sir. We only differ about the +ending of it. She was a stage-player or a dancer.” + </p> +<p> +“No, madam; a very celebrated prima donna.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay,” said she, as though there was no discrepancy there. “I heard how the +old fool—for he was no young man then—got smitten with her +voice and her beauty, and made such a fuss about her, taking her here and +there in his state coach, and giving great entertainments for her at the +Embassy, where the arms of England were over the door; and I have been +told that the king heard of it, and wrote to Sir Omerod a fearful letter, +asking how he dared so to degrade the escutcheon of the great nation he +represented. Ah, you may smile, sir.” Maitland had, indeed, smiled alike +at her tale, and the energy with which she told it “You may smile, sir; +but it was no matter for laughter, I promise you. His Majesty called on +him to resign, and the great Sir Omerod, who would n't know his own +brother, because he married a minister's daughter, fell from his high +station for the sake of—I will not say any hard words; but she was +not certainly superior in station to myself, and I will make no other +comparison between us.” \ +</p> +<p> +“I suspect you have been greatly misled about all this, madam,” said +Maitland, with a quiet, grave manner. “Sir Omerod—I heard it from my +travelling companion—took his retiring pension and quitted diplomacy +the very day he was entitled to it So far from desiring him to leave, it +is said that the Minister of the day pressed him to remain at his post. He +has the reputation of possessing no mean abilities, and certainly enjoyed +the confidence of the Court to which he was accredited.” + </p> +<p> +“I never heard so much good of him before; and to tell you the truth, Mr. +Maitland, if you had warned me that you were his friend, I 'd scarcely +have been so eager to make your acquaintance.” + </p> +<p> +“Remember, my dear madam, all I have been telling you reached myself as +hearsay.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well,” said she, sighing. “He's not over-likely to trouble his head +about me, and I don't see why I am to fash myself for him. Are you minded +to stay much longer in this neighborhood, Mr. Maitland?” said she, to +change the topic. +</p> +<p> +“I fear not, madam. I have overstayed everything here but the kindness of +my hosts. I have affairs which call me abroad, and some two or three +engagements that I have run to the very last hour. Indeed, I will confess +to you, I delayed here to meet your son.” + </p> +<p> +“To meet Tony, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, madam. In my intercourse with the Lyles I have learned to know a +great deal about him; to hear traits of his fine generous nature, his +manly frankness, and his courage. These were the testimonies of witnesses +who differed widely from each other in age and temperament; and yet they +all concurred in saying he was a noble-hearted young fellow, who richly +deserved all the fortune that could befall him.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh dear, sir, these are sweet words to his poor mother's ears. He is all +that I have left me; and you cannot know how he makes up to me for want of +station and means, and the fifty other things that people who are well-off +look for. I do hope he 'll come back before you leave this. I 'd like to +let you see I 'm not over-boastful about him.” + </p> +<p> +“I have had a project in my head for some days back. Indeed, it was in +pursuance of it I have been so persevering in my attempts to see you, +madam. It occurred to me, from what Sir Arthur Lyle said of your son, that +he was just the person I have long been looking out for,—a man of +good name and good blood, fresh to the world, neither hackneyed, on the +one hand, nor awkwardly ignorant, on the other; well brought up and +high-principled,—a gentleman, in fact It has long been a plan of +mine to find one such as this, who, calling himself my secretary, would be +in reality my companion and my friend; who would be content to share the +fortunes of a somewhat wayward fellow for a year or two, till, using what +little influence I possess, I could find means of effectually establishing +him in life. Now, madam, I am very diffident about making such a proposal +to one in every respect my equal, and, I have no doubt, more than my equal +in some things; but if he were not my equal, there would be an end to what +I desire in the project. In fact, to make the mere difference of age the +question of superiority between us, is my plan. We should live together +precisely on the terms of equality. In return for that knowledge of life I +could impart to him,—what I know of the world, not acquired +altogether without some sharp experience,—he would repay me by that +hearty and genial freshness which is the wealth of the young. Now, madam, +I will not tire you with any more of my speculations, purely selfish as +they are; but will at once say, if, when your son and I meet, this notion +of mine is to his taste, all the minor details of it shall not deter him. +I know I am not offering a career, but it is yet the first step that will +fit him for one. A young fellow, gifted as he is, will needs become, in a +couple of years' intercourse with what is pre-eminently society, a man of +consummate tact and ability. All that I know of life convinces me that the +successful men are the ready-witted men. Of course I intend to satisfy you +with respect to myself. You have a right to know the stability of the bank +to whom you are intrusting your deposit At all events, think over my plan, +and if nothing has already fallen to your son's hands in London, ask him +to come back here and talk it over with me. I can remain here for a week, +that is, if I can hope to meet him.” The old lady listened with all +attention and patience to this speech. She was pleased by the flattery of +it. It was flattery, indeed, to hear that consummately fine gentleman +declare that he was ready to accept Tony as his equal in all things, and +it was more than flattery to fancy her dear boy mingling in the pleasures +and fascinations of the great world, courted and admired, as she could +imagine he would be; but there were still drawbacks to all these. The +position was that of a dependant; and how would Tony figure in such a +post? He was the finest-tempered, most generous creature in the world, +where no attempt to overbear interfered; but any show of offensive +superiority would make a tiger of him. +</p> +<p> +“Well, well,” thought she, “it's not to be rejected all at once, and I 'll +just talk it over with the minister.” “May I consult an old friend and +neighbor of mine, sir, before I speak to Tony himself?” said she, timidly. +</p> +<p> +“By all means, madam; or, if you like it better, let me call on him, and +enter more fully into my plan than I have ventured to do with you.” + </p> +<p> +“No, thank you, sir. I 'll just talk the matter over with the doctor, and +I 'll see what he says to it all. This seems a very ungracious way to meet +your great kindness, sir; but I was thinking of what awhile ago you called +my deposit, and so it is,—it's all the wealth I possess,—and +even the thought of resigning it is more than I can bear.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope to convince you one of these days, madam, that you have not +invested unprofitably;” and with many courteous assurances that, decide +how she might, his desire to serve her should remain, he took his leave, +bequeathing, as he passed out, a glow of hope to the poor widow's heart, +not the less cheering that she could not freely justify nor even define +it. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIII. TONY IN TOWN +</h2> +<p> +Day followed day, and Tony Butler heard nothing from the Minister. He went +down each morning to Downing Street, and interrogated the austere +doorkeeper, till at length there grew up between that grim official and +himself a state of feeling little short of hatred. +</p> +<p> +“No letter?” would say Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Look in the rack,” was the answer. +</p> +<p> +“Is this sort of thing usual?” + </p> +<p> +“What sort of thing?” + </p> +<p> +“The getting no reply for a week or eight days?” + </p> +<p> +“I should say it is very usual with certain people.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean by certain people?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, the people that don't have answers to the letters, nor ain't likely +to have them.” + </p> +<p> +“Might I ask you another question?” said Tony, lowering his voice, and +fixing a very quiet but steady look on the other. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, if it's a short one.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a very short one. Has no one ever kicked you for your impertinence?” + </p> +<p> +“Kicked <i>me</i>,—kicked <i>me</i>, sir!” cried the other, while +his face became purple with passion. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” resumed Tony, mildly; “for let me mention it to you in confidence, +it's the last thing I mean to do before I leave London.” + </p> +<p> +“We 'll see about this, sir, at once,” cried the porter, who rushed +through the inner door, and tore upstairs like a madman. Tony meanwhile +brushed some dust off his coat with a stray clothes-brush near, and was +turning to leave the spot, when Skeffington came hurriedly towards him, +trying to smother a fit of laughter that would not be repressed. +</p> +<p> +“What's all this, Butler?” said he. “Here's the whole office in commotion. +Willis is up with the chief clerk and old Brand telling them that you drew +a revolver and threatened his life, and swore if you had n't an answer by +tomorrow at twelve, you'd blow Sir Harry's brains out.” + </p> +<p> +“It's somewhat exaggerated. I had no revolver, and never had one. I don't +intend any violence beyond kicking that fellow, and I 'll not do even that +if he can manage to be commonly civil.” + </p> +<p> +“The Chief wishes to see this gentleman upstairs for a moment,” said a +pale, sickly youth to Skeffington. +</p> +<p> +“Don't get flurried. Be cool, Butler, and say nothing that can irritate,—mind +that,” whispered Skeffington, and stole away. +</p> +<p> +Butler was introduced into a spacious room, partly office, partly library, +at the fireplace of which stood two men, a short and a shorter. They were +wonderfully alike in externals, being each heavy-looking +white-complexioned serious men, with a sort of dreary severity of aspect, +as if the spirit of domination had already begun to weigh down even +themselves. +</p> +<p> +“We have been informed,” began the shorter of the two, in a slow, +deliberate voice, “that you have grossly outraged one of the inferior +officers of this department; and although the case is one which demands, +and shall have, the attention of the police authorities, we have sent for +you—Mr. Brand and I—to express our indignation,—eh, +Brand?” added he, in a whisper. +</p> +<p> +“Certainly, our indignation,” chimed in the other. +</p> +<p> +“And aware, as we are,” resumed the Chief, “that you are an applicant for +employment under this department, to convey to you the assurance that such +conduct as you have been guilty of totally debars you—excludes you—” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, excludes you,” chimed in Brand. +</p> +<p> +“From the most remote prospect of an appointment!” said the first, taking +up a book, and throwing it down with a slap on the table, as though the +more emphatically to confirm his words. +</p> +<p> +“Who are you, may I ask, who pronounce so finally on my prospects?” cried +Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Who are we,—who are we?” said the Chief, in a horror at the query. +“Will you tell him, Mr. Brand?” + </p> +<p> +The other was, however, ringing violently at the bell, and did not hear +the question. +</p> +<p> +“Have you sent to Scotland Yard?” asked he of the servant who came to his +summons. “Tell Willis to be ready to accompany the officer, and make his +charge.” + </p> +<p> +“The gentleman asks who we are!” said Baynes, with a feeble laugh. +</p> +<p> +“I ask in no sort of disrespect to you,” said Butler, “but simply to learn +in what capacity I am to regard you. Are you magistrates? Is this a +court?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, we are not magistrates,” said Brand; “we are heads of +departments,—departments which we shall take care do not include +within their limits persons of your habits and pursuits.” + </p> +<p> +“You can know very little about my habits or pursuits. I promised your +hall-porter I 'd kick him, and I don't suspect that either you or your +little friend there would risk any interference to protect him.” + </p> +<p> +“My Lord!” said a messenger, in a voice of almost tremulous terror, while +he flung open both inner and outer door for the great man's approach. The +person who entered with a quick, active step was an elderly man, +white-whiskered and white-haired, but his figure well set up, and his hat +rakishly placed a very little on one side; his features were acute, and +betokened promptitude and decision, blended with a sort of jocular humor +about the mouth, as though even State affairs did not entirely indispose a +man to a jest. +</p> +<p> +“Don't send that bag off to-night, Baynes, till I come down,” said he, +hurriedly; “and if any telegrams arrive, send them over to the house. +What's this policeman doing at the door?—who is refractory?” + </p> +<p> +“This—young man”—he paused, for he had almost said “gentleman”—“has +just threatened an old and respectable servant of the office with a +personal chastisement, my Lord.” + </p> +<p> +“Declared he 'd break every bone in his body,” chimed in Brand. +</p> +<p> +“Whose body?” asked his Lordship. +</p> +<p> +“Willis's, my Lord,—the hall-porter,—a man, if I mistake not, +appointed by your Lordship.” + </p> +<p> +“I said I 'd kick him,” said Tony, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Kick Willis?” said my Lord, with a forced gravity, which could not, +however, suppress a laughing twinkle of his keen gray eyes,—“kick +Willis?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, my Lord; he does not attempt to deny it.” + </p> +<p> +“What's your name, sir,” asked my Lord. +</p> +<p> +“Butler,” was the brief reply. +</p> +<p> +“The son of—no, not son—but relative of Sir Omerod's?” asked +his Lordship again. +</p> +<p> +“His nephew.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, Sir Harry Elphinstone has asked me for something for you. I don't +see what I can do for you. It would be an admirable thing to have some one +to kick the porters; but we have n't thought of such an appointment,—eh, +Baynes? Willis, the very first; most impudent dog! We want a messenger for +Bucharest, Brand, don't we?” + </p> +<p> +“No, my Lord; you filled it this morning,—gave it to Mr. Beed.” + </p> +<p> +“Cancel Beed, then, and appoint Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Beed has gone, my Lord,—started with the Vienna bag.” + </p> +<p> +“Make Butler supernumerary.” + </p> +<p> +“There are four already, my Lord.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't care if there were forty, Mr. Brand! Go and pass your +examination, young gentleman, and thank Sir Harry Elphinstone, for this +nomination is at his request. I am only sorry you didn't kick Willis.” And +with this parting speech he turned away, and hopped downstairs to his +brougham, with the light step and jaunty air of a man of thirty. +</p> +<p> +Scarcely was the door closed, when Baynes and Brand retired into a window +recess, conversing in lowest whispers and with much head-shaking. To what +a frightful condition the country must come—any country must come—when +administered by men of such levity, who make a sport of its interests, and +a practical joke of its patronage—was the theme over which they now +mourned in common. +</p> +<p> +“Are you going to make a minute of this appointment, Brand?” asked Baynes. +“I declare I 'd not do it.” + </p> +<p> +The other pursed up his lips and leaned his head to one side, as though to +imply that such a course would be a bold one. +</p> +<p> +“Will you put his name on your list?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know,” muttered the other. “I suspect we can do it better. Where +have you been educated, Mr. Butler?” + </p> +<p> +“At home, principally.” + </p> +<p> +“Never at any public school?” + </p> +<p> +“Never, except you call a village school a public one.” + </p> +<p> +Brand's eyes glistened, and Baynes's returned the sparkle. +</p> +<p> +“Are you a proficient in French?” + </p> +<p> +“Far from it. I could spell out a fable, or a page of 'Telemachus,' and +even that would push me hard.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you write a good hand?” + </p> +<p> +“It is legible, but it's no beauty.” + </p> +<p> +“And your arithmetic?” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty much like my French,—the less said about it the better.” + </p> +<p> +“I think that will do, Brand,” whispered Baynes. +</p> +<p> +The other nodded, and muttered, “Of course; and it is the best way to do +it.” + </p> +<p> +“These are the points, Mr. Butler,” he continued, giving him a printed +paper, “on which you will have to satisfy the Civil Service Commissioners; +they are, as you see, not very numerous nor very difficult. A certificate +as to general conduct and character—British subject—some +knowledge of foreign languages—the first four rules of arithmetic—and +that you are able to ride—” + </p> +<p> +“Thank Heaven, there is one thing I can do; and if you ask the +Commissioners to take a cast 'cross country, I 'll promise them a +breather.” + </p> +<p> +Tony never noticed—nor, had he noticed, had he cared for—the +grave austerity of the heads of departments at this outburst of +enthusiasm. He was too full of his own happiness, and too eager to share +it with his mother. +</p> +<p> +As he gained the street, Skeffington passed his arm through his, and +walked along with him, offering him his cordial gratulations, and giving +him many wise and prudent counsels, though unfortunately, from the state +of ignorance of Tony's mind, these latter were lamentably unprofitable. It +was of “the Office” that he warned him,—of its tempers, its +caprices, its rancors, and its jealousies, till, lost in the maze of his +confusion, poor Tony began to regard it as a beast of ill-omened and +savage passions,—a great monster, in fact, who lived on the bones +and flesh of ardent and high-hearted youths, drying up the springs of +their existence, and exhausting their brains out of mere malevolence. Out +of all the farrago that he listened to, all that he could collect was, +“that he was one of those fellows that the chiefs always hated and +invariably crushed.” Why destiny should have marked him out for such odium—why +he was born to be strangled by red tape, Tony could not guess, nor, to say +truth, did he trouble himself to inquire; but, resisting a pressing +invitation to dine with Skeffington at his club, he hastened to his room +to write his good news to his mother. +</p> +<p> +“Think of my good fortune, dearest little mother,” he wrote. “I have got a +place, and such a place! You 'd fancy it was made for me, for I have +neither to talk nor to think nor to read nor to write,—all my +requirements are joints that will bear bumping, and a head that will stand +the racket of railroad and steamboat without any sense of confusion, +beyond what nature implanted there. Was he not a wise Minister who named +me to a post where bones are better than brains, and a good digestion +superior to intellect? I am to be a messenger,—a Foreign Service +Messenger is the grand title,—a creature to go over the whole globe +with a white leather bag or two, full of mischief or gossip, as it may be, +and whose whole care is to consist in keeping his time, and beins never +out of health. +</p> +<p> +“They say in America the bears were made for Colonel Crocket's dog, and I +'m sure these places were made for fellows of my stamp,—fellows to +carry a message, and yet not intrusted with the telling it. +</p> +<p> +“The pay is capital, the position good,—that is, three fourths of +the men are as good or better than myself; and the life, all tell me, is +rare fun,—you go everywhere, see everything, and think of nothing. +In all your dreams for me, you never fancied the like of this. They talk +of places for all sorts of capacities, but imagine a berth for one of no +capacity at all! And yet, mother dear, they have made a blunder,—and +a very absurd blunder too, and no small one! they have instituted a test—a +sort of examination—for a career that ought to be tested by a round +with the boxing-gloves, or a sharp canter over a course with some +four-feet hurdles! +</p> +<p> +“I am to be examined, in about six weeks from this, in some foreign +tongues, multiplication, and the state of my muscles. I am to show proof +that I was born of white parents, and am not too young or too old to go +alone of a message. There's the whole of it. It ain't much, but it is +quite enough to frighten one, and I go about with the verb <i>avoir</i> in +my head, and the first four rules of arithmetic dance round me like so +many furies. What a month of work and drudgery there is before <i>you</i>, +little woman! You 'll have to coach me through my declensions and +subtractions. If you don't fag, you 'll be plucked, for, as for me, I'll +only be your representative whenever I go in. Look up your grammar, then, +and your history too, for they plucked a man the other day that said +Piccolomini was not a general, but a little girl that sang in the +'Traviata'! I 'd start by the mail this evening, but that I have to go up +to the Office—no end of a chilling place—for my examination +papers, and to be tested by the doctor that I am all right, thews and +sinews; but I 'll get away by the afternoon, right glad to leave all this +turmoil and confusion, the very noise of which makes me quarrelsome and +ill-tempered. +</p> +<p> +“There is such a good fellow here, Skeffington,—the Honorable +Skeffington Darner, to speak of him more formally,—who has been most +kind to me. He is private secretary to Sir Harry, and told me all manner +of things about the Government offices, and the Dons that rule them. If I +was a clever or a sharp fellow, I suppose this would have done me infinite +service; but, as old Dr. Kinward says, it was only 'putting the wine in a +cracked bottle;' and all I can remember is the kindness that dictated the +attention. +</p> +<p> +“Skeff is some relation—I forget what—to old Mrs. Maxwell of +Tilney, and, like all the world, expects to be her heir. He talks of +coming over to see her when he gets his leave, and said—God forgive +him for it—that he 'd run down and pass a day with us. I could n't +say 'Don't,' and I had not heart to say 'Do!' I had not the courage to +tell him frankly that we lived in a cabin with four rooms and a kitchen, +and that butler, cook, footman, and housemaid were all represented by a +barefooted lassie, who was far more at home drawing a fishing-net than in +cooking its contents. I was just snob enough to say, 'Tell us when we may +look out for you;' and without manliness to add, 'And I 'll run away when +I hear it.' But he 's a rare good fellow, and teases me every day to dine +with him at the Arthur,—a club where all the young swells of the +Government offices assemble to talk of themselves, and sneer at their +official superiors. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll go out, if I can, and see Dolly before I leave, though she told me +that the family did n't like her having friends,—the flunkeys called +them followers,—and of course I ought not to do what would make her +uncomfortable; still, one minute or two would suffice to get me some +message to bring the doctor, who 'll naturally expect it I'd like, +besides, to tell Dolly of my good fortune,—though it is, perhaps, +not a very graceful thing to be full of one's own success to another, +whose position is so painful as hers, poor girl. If you saw how pale she +has grown, and how thin; even her voice has lost that jolly ring it had, +and is now weak and poor. She seems so much afraid—of what or whom I +can't make out—but all about her bespeaks terror. You say very +little of the Abbey, and I am always thinking of it. The great big world, +and this great big city that is its capital, are very small things to <i>me</i>, +compared to that little circle that could be swept by a compass, with a +centre at the Burnside, and a leg of ten miles long, that would take in +the Abbey and the salmon-weir, the rabbit-warren and the boat-jetty! If I +was very rich, I 'd just add three rooms to our cottage, and put up one +for myself, with my own traps; and another for you, with all the books +that ever were written; and another for Skeff, or any other good fellow we +'d like to have with us. Would n't that be jolly, little mother? I won't +deny I 'e seen what would be called prettier places here,—the Thames +above and below Richmond, for instance. Lawns smooth as velvet, great +trees of centuries' growth, and fine houses of rich people, are on every +side. But I like our own wild crags and breezy hillsides better; I like +the great green sea, rolling smoothly on, and smashing over our rugged +rocks, better than all those smooth eddied currents, with their smart +racing-boats skimming about. If I could only catch these fellows outside +the Skerries some day, with a wind from the northwest: wouldn't I spoil +the colors of their gay jackets? 'ere's Skeff come again. He says he is +going to dine with some very pleasant fellows at the Star and Garter, and +that I must positively come. He won't be denied, and I am in such rare +spirits about my appointment that I feel as if I should be a churl to +myself to refuse, though I have my sore misgiving about accepting what I +well know I never can make any return for. How I 'd like one word from you +to decide for me! +</p> +<p> +“I must shut up. I 'm off to Richmond, and they are all making such a row +and hurrying me so, that my head is turning. One has to hold the candle, +and another stands ready with the sealing-wax, by way of expediting me. +Good-bye, dearest mother—I start to-morrow for home.—Your +affectionate son, +</p> +<p> +“Tony Butler.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIV. DINNER AT RICHMOND +</h2> +<p> +With the company that composed the dinner-party we have only a very +passing concern. They were—including Skeffington and Tony—eight +in all. Three were young officials from Downing Street; two were +guardsmen; and one an inferior member of the royal household,—a +certain Mr. Arthur Mayfair, a young fellow much about town, and known by +every one. +</p> +<p> +The dinner was ostensibly to celebrate the promotion of one of the +guardsmen,—Mr. Lyner; in reality, it was one of those small orgies +of eating and drinking which our modern civilization has imported from +Paris. +</p> +<p> +A well-spread and even splendid table was no novelty to Tony; but such +extravagance and luxury as this he had never witnessed before; it was, in +fact, a banquet in which all that was rarest and most costly figured, and +it actually seemed as if every land of Europe had contributed some +delicacy or other to represent its claims to epicurism, at this congress. +There were caviare from Russia, and oysters from Ostend, and red trout +from the Highlands, and plover-eggs and pheasants from Bohemia, and +partridges from Alsace, and scores of other delicacies, each attended by +its appropriate wine; to discuss which, with all the high connoissèurship +of the table, furnished the whole conversation. Politics and literature +apart, no subject could have been more removed from all Tony's +experiences. He had never read Brillat-Savarin, nor so much as heard of M. +Ude,—of the great controversy between the merits of white and brown +truffles, he knew positively nothing; and he had actually eaten terrapin, +and believed it to be very exquisite veal! +</p> +<p> +He listened, and listened very attentively. If it might have seemed to him +that the company devoted a most extravagant portion of the time to the +discussion, there was such a realism in the presence of the good things +themselves, that the conversation never descended to frivolity; while +there was an earnestness in the talkers that rejected such an imputation. +</p> +<p> +To hear them, one would have thought—at least, Tony thought—that +all their lives had been passed in dining, Could any memory retain the +mass of small minute circumstances that they recorded, or did they keep +prandial records as others keep game-books? Not one of them ever forgot +where and when and how he had ever eaten anything remarkable for its +excellence; and there was an elevation of language, an ecstasy imported +into the reminiscences, that only ceased to be ludicrous when he grew used +to it. Perhaps, as a mere listener, he partook more freely than he +otherwise might of the good things before him. In the excellence and +endless variety of the wines, there was, besides, temptation for cooler +heads than his; not to add that on one or two occasions he found himself +in a jury empanelled to pronounce upon some nice question of flavor,—points +upon which, as the evening wore on, he entered with a far greater reliance +on his judgment than he would have felt half an hour before dinner. +</p> +<p> +He had not what is called, in the language of the table, a “made head,”—that +is to say, at Lyle Abbey, his bottle of Sneyd's Claret after dinner was +more than he liked well to drink; but now, when Sauterne succeeded Sherry, +and Marcobrunner came after Champagne, and in succession followed +Bordeaux, and Burgundy, and Madeira, and then Bordeaux again of a rarer +and choicer vintage, Tony's head grew addled and confused. Though he spoke +very little, there passed through his mind all the varied changes that his +nature was susceptible of. He was gay and depressed, daring and cautious, +quarrelsome and forgiving, stern and affectionate, by turns. There were +moments when he would have laid down his life for the company, and +fleeting instants when his eye glanced around to see upon whom he could +fix a deadly quarrel; now he felt rather vainglorious at being one of such +a distinguished company, and now a sharp distrust shot through him that he +was there to be the butt of these town-bred wits, whose merriment was +nothing but a covert impertinence. +</p> +<p> +All these changeful moods only served to make him drink more deeply. He +filled bumpers and drank them daringly. Skeffington told the story of the +threat to kick Willis,—not much in itself, but full of interest to +the young officials who knew Willis as an institution, and could no more +have imagined his personal chastisement than an insult to the royal arms. +When Skeff, however, finished by saying that the Secretary of State +himself rather approved of the measure, they began to feel that Tony +Butler was that greatest of all created things, “a rising man.” For as the +power of the unknown number is incommensurable, so the height to which a +man's success may carry him can never be estimated. +</p> +<p> +“It's deuced hard to get one of these messenger-ships,” said one of the +guardsmen; “they say it's far easier to be named Secretary of Legation.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course it is. Fifty fellows are able to ride in a coach for one that +can read and write,” said May fair. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean by that?” cried Tony, his eyes flashing fire. +</p> +<p> +“Just what I said,” replied the other, mildly,—“that as there is no +born mammal so helpless as a real gentleman, it's the rarest thing to find +an empty shell to suit him.” + </p> +<p> +“And they're, well paid, too,” broke in the soldier. “Why, there's no +fellow so well off. They have five pounds a day.” + </p> +<p> +“No, they have not.” + </p> +<p> +“They have.” + </p> +<p> +“They have not.” + </p> +<p> +“On duty—when they're on duty.” + </p> +<p> +“No, nor off duty.” + </p> +<p> +“Harris told me.” + </p> +<p> +“Harris is a fool.” + </p> +<p> +“He's my cousin,” said a sickly young fellow, who looked deadly pale, “and +I'll not hear him called a liar.” + </p> +<p> +“Nobody said liar. I said he was a fool.” + </p> +<p> +“And so he is,” broke in Mayfair, “for he went and got married the other +day to a girl without sixpence.” + </p> +<p> +“Beaumont's daughter?” + </p> +<p> +“Exactly. The 'Lively Kitty,' as we used to call her; a name she'll scarce +go by in a year or two.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think,” said Tony, with a slow, deliberate utterance,—“I +don't think that he has made me a suit—suit—suitable apology +for what he said,—eh, Skeff?” + </p> +<p> +“Be quiet, will you?” muttered the other. +</p> +<p> +“Kitty had ten thousand pounds of her own.” + </p> +<p> +“Not sixpence.” + </p> +<p> +“I tell you she had.” + </p> +<p> +“Grant it. What is ten thousand pounds?” lisped out a little pink-cheeked +fellow, who had a hundred and eighty per annum at the Board of Trade. “If +you are economical, you may get two years out of it.” + </p> +<p> +“If I thought,” growled out Tony into Skeff's ear, “that he meant it for +insolence, I'd punch his head, curls and all.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you just be quiet?” said Skeff, again. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd have married Kitty myself,” said pink cheeks, “if I thought she had +ten thousand.” + </p> +<p> +“And I 'd have gone on a visit to you,” said Mayfair, “and we 'd have +played billiards, the French game, every evening.” + </p> +<p> +“I never thought Harris was so weak as to go and marry,” said the youngest +of the party, not fully one-and-twenty. +</p> +<p> +“Every one hasn't your experience, Upton,” said May-fair. +</p> +<p> +“Why do the fellows bear all this?” whispered Tony, again. +</p> +<p> +“I say, be quiet,—do be quiet,” mumbled Skeff. +</p> +<p> +“Who was it used to call Kitty Beaumont the Lass of Richmond Hill?” said +Mayfair; and now another uproar ensued as to the authority in question, in +which many contradictions were exchanged, and some wagers booked. +</p> +<p> +“Sing us that song Bailey made on her,—'Fair Lady on the River's +Bank;' you can sing it, Clinton?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, let us have the song,” cried several together. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll wager five pounds I 'll name a prettier girl on the same spot,” + said Tony to Skeff. +</p> +<p> +“Butler challenges the field,” cried Skeff. “He knows, and will name, the +prettiest girl in Richmond.” + </p> +<p> +“I take him. What 's the figure?” said Mayfair. +</p> +<p> +“And I—and I!” shouted three or four in a breath. +</p> +<p> +“I think he offered a pony,” lisped out the youngest. +</p> +<p> +“I said, I 'd bet five pounds,” said Tony, fiercely; “don't misrepresent +me, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll take your money, then,” cried Mayfair. +</p> +<p> +“No, no; I was first: I said 'done' before you,” interposed a guardsman. +</p> +<p> +“But how can it be decided? We can't summon the rival beauties to our +presence, and perform Paris and the apple,” said Skeff. +</p> +<p> +“Come along with me and you shall see her,” broke in Tony; “she lives +within less than five minutes' walk of where we are. I am satisfied that +the matter should be left to your decision, Skefflngton.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no,” cried several, together; “take Mayfair with you. He is the +fittest man amongst us for such a criticism; he has studied these matters +profoundly.” + </p> +<p> +“Here 's a health to all good lasses!” cried out another; and goblets were +filled with champagne, and drained in a moment, while some attempted the +song; and others, imagining that they had caught the air, started off with +“Here's to the Maiden of Blooming Fifteen,” making up an amount of +confusion that was perfectly deafening, in which the waiter entered to +observe, in a very meek tone, that the Archdeacon of Halford was +entertaining a select party in the next room, and entreated that they +might be permitted to hear each other occasionally. +</p> +<p> +Such a burst of horror and indignation as followed this request! Some were +for an armed intervention at once; some for a general smash of all things +practicable; and two or three, haughtier in their drunkenness, declared +that the Star and Garter should have no more of their patronage, and +proudly ordered the waiter to fetch the bill. +</p> +<p> +“Thirty-seven—nine—six,” said Mayfair, as he held the document +near a candle; “make it an even forty for the waiters, and it leaves five +pounds a head, eh?—not too much, after all.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I don't know; the asparagus was miserably small.” + </p> +<p> +“And I got no strawberries.” + </p> +<p> +“I have my doubts about that Moselle.” + </p> +<p> +“It ain't dear; at least, it's not dearer than anywhere else.” + </p> +<p> +While these criticisms were going forward, Tony perceived that each one in +turn was throwing down his sovereigns on the table, as his contribution to +the fund; and he approached Skeffington, to whisper that he had forgotten +his purse,—his sole excuse to explain, what he would n't confess, +that he believed he was an invited guest Skeff was, however, by this time +so completely overcome by the last toast that he sat staring fatuously +before him, and could only mutter, in a melancholy strain, “To be, or not +to be; that's a question.” + </p> +<p> +“Can you lend me some money?” whispered Tony. “I if want your purse.” + </p> +<p> +“He—takes my purse—trash—trash—” mumbled out the +other. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll book up for Skeffy,” said one of the guardsmen; “and now it's all +right.” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said Tony, aloud; “I haven't paid. I left my purse behind, and I +can't make Skeffington understand that I want a loan from him;” and he +stooped down again and whispered in his ear. +</p> +<p> +While a buzz of voices assured Tony that “it did n't matter; all had +money, any one could pay,” and so on, Skeffington gravely handed out his +cigar-case, and said, “Take as much as you like, old fellow; it was +quarter-day last week.” + </p> +<p> +In a wild, uproarious burst of laughter they now broke up; some helping +Skeffington along, some performing mock-ballet steps, and two or three +attempting to walk with an air of rigid propriety, which occasionally +diverged into strange tangents. +</p> +<p> +Tony was completely bewildered. Never was a poor brain more addled than +his. At one moment he thought them all the best fellows in the world; he +'d have risked his neck for any of them; and at the next he regarded them +as a set of insolent snobs, daring to show off airs of superiority to a +stranger, because he was not one of them; and so he oscillated between the +desire to show his affection for them, or have a quarrel with any of them. +</p> +<p> +Meanwhile Mayfair, with a reasonable good voice and some taste, broke out +into a wild sort of air, whose measure changed at every moment One verse +ran thus:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“By the light of the moon, by the light of the moon, +We all went home by the light of the moon. +With a ringing song +We trampled along, +Recalling what we 'll forget so soon, +How the wine was good, +And the talk was free, +And pleasant and gay the company. + +“For the wine supplied +What our wits denied, +And we pledge the girls whose eyes we knew, whose eyes we knew. +You ask her name, but what's that to you, what's that to you?” + </pre> +<p> +“Well, there 's where she lives, anyhow,” muttered Tony, as he came to a +dead stop on the road, and stared full at a small two-storeyed house in +front of him. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, that's where she lives!” repeated Mayfair, as he drew his arm within +Tony's, and talked in a low and confidential tone. +</p> +<p> +“And a sweet, pretty cottage it is. What a romantic little spot! What if +we were to serenade her!” + </p> +<p> +Tony gave no reply. He stood looking up at the closed shutters of the +quiet house, which, to his eyes, represented a sort of penitentiary for +that poor imprisoned hardworking girl. His head was not very clear, but he +had just sense enough to remember the respect he owed her condition, and +how jealously he should guard her from the interference of others. +Meanwhile Mayfair had leaped over the low paling of the little front +garden, and stood now close to the house. With an admirable imitation of +the prelude of a guitar, he began to sing,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Come dearest Lilla, +Thy anxious lover +Counts, counts the weary moments over—” + </pre> +<p> +As he reached thus far, a shutter gently opened, and in the strong glare +of the moonlight some trace of a head could be detected behind the +curtain. Encouraged by this, the singer went on in a rich and flowery +voice,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Anxious he waits, +Thy voice to hear +Break, break on his enraptured ear.” + </pre> +<p> +At this moment the window was thrown open, and a female voice, in an +accent strongly Scotch, called out, “Awa wi' ye,—pack o' +ne'er-do-weels as ye are,—awa wi' ye a'! I 'll call the police.” But +Mayfair went on,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The night invites to love, +So tarry not above, +But Lilla—Lilla—Lilla, come down to me! +</pre> +<p> +“I'll come down to you, and right soon,” shouted a hoarse masculine voice. +Two or three who had clambered over the paling beside Mayfair now +scampered off; and Mayfair himself, making a spring, cleared the fence, +and ran down the road at the top of his speed, followed by all but Tony, +who, half in indignation at their ignominious flight, and half with some +vague purpose of apology, stood his ground before the gate. +</p> +<p> +The next moment the hall door opened, and a short thickset man, armed with +a powerful bludgeon, rushed out and made straight towards him. Seeing, +however, that Tony stood firm, neither offering resistance nor attempting +escape, he stopped short, and cried out, “What for drunken blackguards are +ye, that canna go home without disturbing a quiet neighborhood?” + </p> +<p> +“If you can keep a civil tongue in your head,” said Tony, “I 'll ask your +pardon for this disturbance.” + </p> +<p> +“What's your apology to me, you young scamp!” cried the other, wrenching +open the gate and passing out into the road. “I'd rather give you a lesson +than listen to your excuses.” He lifted his stick as he spoke; but Tony +sprang upon him with the speed of a tiger, and, wrenching the heavy +bludgeon out of his hand, flung it far into a neighboring field, and then, +grasping him by the collar with both hands, he gave him such a shake as +very soon convinced his antagonist how unequal the struggle would be +between them. “By Heaven!” muttered Tony, “if you so much as lay a hand on +me, I 'll send you after your stick. Can't you see that this was only a +drunken frolic, that these young fellows did not want to insult you, and +if I stayed here behind them, it was to appease, not to offend you?” + </p> +<p> +“Dinna speak to me, sir. Let me go,—let go my coat I 'm not to be +handled in this manner,” cried the other, in passion. +</p> +<p> +“Go back to your bed, then!” said Tony, pushing him from him. “It's clear +enough you have no gentleman's blood in your body, or you 'd accept an +amends or resent an affront.” + </p> +<p> +Stung by this retort, the other turned and aimed a blow at Butler's face; +but he stopped it cleverly, and then, seizing him by the shoulder, he +swung him violently round, and threw him within the gate of the garden. +</p> +<p> +“You are more angered than hurt,” muttered Tony, as he looked at him for +an instant. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Tony, that this could be you!” cried a faint voice from a little +window of an attic, and a violent sob closed the words. +</p> +<p> +Tony turned and went his way towards London, those accents ringing in his +ears, and at every step he went repeating, “That this could be you!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XV. A STRANGE MEETING AND PARTING +</h2> +<p> +What a dreary waking was that of Tony's on the morning after the orgies! +Not a whit the less overwhelming from the great difficulty he had in +recalling the events, and investigating his own share in them. There was +nothing that he could look back upon with pleasure. Of the dinner and the +guests, all that he could remember was the costliness and the tumult; and +of the scene at Mrs. M'Grader's, his impression was of insults given and +received, a violent altercation, in which his own share could not be +defended. +</p> +<p> +How different had been his waking thoughts, had he gone as he proposed, to +bid Dora a good-bye, and tell her of his great good fortune! How full +would his memory now have been of her kind words and wishes; how much +would he have to recall of her sisterly affection, for they had been like +brother and sister from their childhood! It was to Dora that Tony confided +all his boyhood's sorrows, and to the same ear he had told his first talc +of love, when the beautiful Alice Lyle had sent through his heart those +emotions which, whether of ecstasy or torture, make a new existence and a +new being to him who feels them for the first time. He had loved Alice as +a girl, and was all but heart-broken when she married. His sorrows—and +were they not sorrows?—had all been intrusted to Dora; and from her +he had heard such wise and kind counsels, such encouraging and hopeful +words; and when the beautiful Alice came back, within a year, a widow, far +more lovely than ever, he remembered how all bis love was rekindled. Nor +was it the less entrancing that it was mingled with a degree of deference +for her station, and an amount of distance which her new position exacted. +</p> +<p> +He had intended to have passed his last evening with Dora in talking over +these things; and how had he spent it? In a wild and disgraceful debauch, +and in a company of which he felt himself well ashamed. +</p> +<p> +It was, however, no part of Tony's nature to spend time in vain regrets; +he lived ever more in the present than the past. There were a number of +things to be done, and done at once. The first was to acquit his debt for +that unlucky dinner; and, in a tremor of doubt, he opened his little store +to see what remained to him. Of the eleven pounds ten shillings his mother +gave him he had spent less than two pounds; he had travelled third-class +to London, and while in town denied himself every extravagance. He rang +for his hotel bill, and was shocked to see that it came to three pounds +seven-and-sixpence. He fancied he had half-starved himself, and he saw a +catalogue of steaks and luncheons to his share that smacked of very +gluttony. He paid it without a word, gave an apology to the waiter that he +had run himself short of money, and could only offer him a crown. The +dignified official accepted the excuse and the coin with a smile of bland +sorrow. It was a pity that cut both ways,—for himself and for Tony +too. +</p> +<p> +There now remained but a few shillings above five pounds, and he sat down +and wrote this note:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“My dear Skeffington,—Some one of your friends, last +night, was kind enough to pay my share of the reckoning for +me. Will you do me the favor to thank and repay him? I am +off to Ireland hurriedly, or I 'd call and see you. I have +not even time to wait for those examination papers, which +were to be delivered to me either to-day or to-morrow. Would +you send them by post, addressed T. Butler, Burnside, +Coleraine? My head is not very clear to-day, but it should +be more stupid if I could forget all your kindness since we +met. + +“Believe me, very sincerely, &c., + +“Tony Butler.” + </pre> +<p> +The next was to his mother:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Dearest Mother,—Don't expect me on Saturday; it may be +two or three days later ere I reach home. I am all right, +in rare health and capital spirits, and never in my life +felt more completely your own + +“Tony Butler.” + </pre> +<p> +One more note remained, but it was not easy to write it, nor even to +decide whether to address it to Dora or to Mr. M'Gruder. At length he +decided for the latter, and wrote thus:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Sir,—I beg to offer you the very humblest apology for +the disturbance created last night before your house. We had +all drunk too much wine, lost our heads, and forgotten good +manners. If I had been in a fitting condition to express +myself properly, I 'd have made my excuses on the spot. As +it is, I make the first use of my recovered brains to tell +you how heartily ashamed I am of my conduct, and how +desirous I feel to know that you will cherish no ungenerous +feelings towards your faithful servant, + +“T. Butler.” + </pre> +<p> +“I hope he 'll think it all right. I hope this will satisfy him. I trust +it is not too humble, though I mean to be humble. If he's a gentleman, he +'ll think no more of it; but he may not be a gentleman, and will probably +fancy that, because I stoop, he ought to kick me. That would be a mistake; +and perhaps it would be as well to add, by way of P.S., 'If the above is +not fully satisfactory, and that you prefer another issue to this affair, +my address is T. Butler, Burnside, Coleraine, Ireland.' +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps that would spoil it all,” thought Tony. “I want him to forgive an +offence; and it's not the best way to that end to say, 'If you like +fighting better, don't balk your fancy.' No, no; I 'll send it in its +first shape. I don't feel very comfortable on my knees, it is true, but it +is all my own fault if I am there. +</p> +<p> +“And now to reach home again. I wish I knew how that was to be done! Seven +or eight shillings are not a very big sum, but I 'd set off with them on +foot if there was no sea to be traversed.” To these thoughts there was no +relief by the possession of any article of value that he could sell or +pledge. He had neither watch nor ring, nor any of those fanciful trinkets +which modern fashion affects. +</p> +<p> +He knew not one person from whom he could ask the loan of a few pounds; +nor, worse again, could he be certain of being able to repay them within a +reasonable time. To approach Skeffington on such a theme was impossible; +anything rather than this. If he were once at Liverpool, there were sure +to be many captains of Northern steamers that would know him, and give him +a passage home. But how to get to Liverpool? The cheapest railroad fare +was above a pound. If he must needs walk, it would take him a week; and he +could not afford himself more than one meal a day, taking his chance to +sleep under a corn-stack or a hedgerow. Very dear, indeed, was the price +that grand banquet cost him, and yet not dearer than half the +extravagances men are daily and hourly committing; the only difference +being that the debt is not usually exacted so promptly. He wrote his name +on a card, and gave it to the waiter, saying, “When I send to you under +this name, you will give my portmanteau to the bearer of the message, for +I shall probably not come back,—at least, for some time.” + </p> +<p> +The waiter was struck by the words, but more still by the dejected look of +one whom, but twenty-four hours back, he had been praising for his frank +and gay bearing. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing wrong, I hope, sir?” asked the man, respectfully. +</p> +<p> +“Not a great deal,” said Tony, with a faint smile. +</p> +<p> +“I was afraid, sir, from seeing you look pale this morning, I fancied, +indeed, that there was something amiss. I hope you 're not displeased at +the liberty I took, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit; indeed, I feel grateful to you for noticing that I was not in +good spirits. I have so very few friends in this big city of yours, your +sympathy was pleasant to me. Will you remember what I said about my +luggage?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, sir, I 'll attend to it; and if not called for within a +reasonable time, is there any address you 'd like me to send it to?” + </p> +<p> +Tony stared at the man, who seemed to flinch under the gaze; and it shot +like a bolt through his mind, “He thinks I have some gloomy purpose in my +head.” “I believe I apprehend you,” said he, laying his hand on the man's +shoulder; “but you are all wrong. There is nothing more serious the matter +with me than to have run myself out of money, and I cannot conveniently +wait here till I write and get an answer from home; there 's the whole of +it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, sir, if you 'll not be offended at a humble man like me,—if you +'d forgive the liberty I take, and let me as far as a ten-pound note;” he +stammered, and reddened, and seemed positively wretched in his attempt to +explain himself without any breach of propriety. Nor was Tony, indeed, +less moved as he said,— +</p> +<p> +“I thank you heartily; you have given me something to remember of this +place with gratitude so long as I live. But I am not so hard pressed as +you suspect. It is a merely momentary inconvenience, and a few days will +set it all right Good-bye; I hope we'll meet again.” + </p> +<p> +And he shook the man's hand cordially in his own strong fingers, and +passed out with a full heart and a very choking throat. +</p> +<p> +When he turned into the street, he walked along without choosing his way. +His mind was too much occupied to let him notice either the way or the +passers-by; and he sauntered along, now musing over his own lot, now +falling back upon that trustful heart of the poor waiter, whose position +could scarcely have inspired such confidence. +</p> +<p> +“I am certain that what are called moralists are unfair censors of their +fellow-men. I 'll be sworn there is more of kindness and generosity and +honest truth in the world than there is of knavery and falsehood; but as +we have no rewards for the one, and keep up jails and hulks for the other, +we have nothing to guide our memories. That's the whole of it; all the +statistics are on one side.” + </p> +<p> +While he was thus ruminating, he had wandered along, and was already deep +in the very heart of the City. Nor did the noise, the bustle, the +overwhelming tide of humanity arouse him, as it swept along in its +ceaseless flow. So intently was his mind turned inward, that he narrowly +escaped being run over by an omnibus, the pole of which struck him, and +under whose wheels he had unquestionably fallen, if it were not that a +strong hand grasped him by the shoulder, and swung him powerfully back +upon the flag-way. +</p> +<p> +“Is it blind you are, that you didn't hear the 'bus?” cried a somewhat +gruff voice, with an accent that told of a land he liked well; and Tony +turned and saw a stout, strongly built young fellow, dressed in a sort of +bluish frieze, and with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder. He was +good-looking, but of a more serious cast of features than is common with +the lower-class Irish. +</p> +<p> +“I see,” said Tony, “that I owe this good turn to a countryman. You're +from Ireland?” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed, and I am, your honor, and no lie in it,” said he, reddening, as +if—although there was nothing to be ashamed of by the avowal—popular +prejudice lay rather in the other direction. +</p> +<p> +“I don't know what I was thinking of,” said Tony, again; and even yet his +head bad not regained its proper calm. “I forgot all about where I was, +and never heard the horses till they were on me.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis what I remarked, sir,” said the other, as with his sleeve he brushed +the dirt off Tony's coat. “<i>I</i> saw you was like one in a dhream.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I had anything worth offering you,” said Tony, reddening, while he +placed the last few shillings he had in the other's palm. +</p> +<p> +“What's this for?” said the man, half angrily; “sure you don't think it's +for money I did it;” and he pushed the coin back almost rudely from him. +</p> +<p> +While Tony assuaged, as well as he might, the anger of his wounded pride, +they walked on together for some time, till at last the other said, “I'll +have to hurry away now, your honor; I 'm to be at Blackwall, to catch the +packet for Derry, by twelve o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +“What packet do you speak of?” + </p> +<p> +“The 'Foyle,' sir. She's to sail this evening, and I have my passage paid +for me, and I mustn't lose it.” + </p> +<p> +“If I had my luggage, I 'd go in her too. I want to cross over to +Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“And where is it, sir,—the luggage, I mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, it's only a portmanteau, and it's at the Tavistock Hotel, Covent +Garden.” + </p> +<p> +“If your honor wouldn't mind taking charge of this,” said he, pointing to +his bundle, “I 'd be off in a jiffy, and get the trunk, and be back by the +time you reached the steamer.” + </p> +<p> +“Would you really do me this service? Well, here 's my card; when you show +this to the waiter, he 'll hand you the portmanteau; and there is nothing +to pay.” + </p> +<p> +“All right, sir; the 'Foyle,' a big paddle-steamer,—you 'll know her +red chimney the moment you see it;” and without another word he gave Tony +his bundle and hurried away. +</p> +<p> +“Is not this trustfulness?” thought Tony, as he walked onward; “I suppose +this little bundle contains all this poor fellow's worldly store, and he +commits it to a stranger without one moment of doubt or hesitation.” It +was for the second time on that same morning that his heart was touched by +a trait of kindness; and he began to feel that if such proofs of +brotherhood were rife in the world, narrow fortune was not half so bad a +thing as he had ever believed it. +</p> +<p> +It was a long walk he had before him, and not much time to do it in, so +that he was obliged to step briskly out. As for the bundle, it is but fair +to own that at first he carried it with a certain shame and awkwardness, +affecting in various ways to assure the passers-by that such an occupation +was new to him; but as time wore on, and he saw, as he did see, that very +few noticed him, and none troubled themselves as to what was the nature of +his burden, he grew more indifferent, well consoled by thinking that +nothing was more unlikely than that he should be met by any one he knew. +</p> +<p> +When he got down to the river-side, boats were leaving in every direction, +and one for the “Foyle,” with two passengers, offered itself at the +moment. He jumped in, and soon found himself aboard a large mercantile +boat, her deck covered with fragments of machinery and metal for some new +factory in Belfast. “Where's the captain?” asked Tony of a gruff-looking +man in a tweed coat and a wideawake. +</p> +<p> +“I'm the captain; and what then?” said the other. +</p> +<p> +In a few words Tony explained that he had found himself short of cash, and +not wishing to be detained till he could write and have an answer from +home, he begged he might have a deck passage. “If it should cost more than +I have money for, I will leave my trunk with your steward till I remit my +debt.” + </p> +<p> +“Get those boats aboard; clear away that hawser there; look out, or you +'ll foul that collier,” cried the skipper, his deep voice ringing above +the din and crash of the escaping steam, but never so much as noticing one +word of Tony's speech. +</p> +<p> +Too proud to repeat his address, and yet doubting how it had been taken, +he stood, occasionally buffeted about by the sailors as they hurried +hither and thither; and now, amidst the din, a great bell rang out; and +while it clattered away, some scrambled up the side of the ship, and +others clambered down, while with shouts and oaths and imprecations on +every side, the great mass swung round, and two slow revolutions of her +paddles showed she was ready to start Almost frantic with anxiety for his +missing friend, Tony mounted on a bulwark, and scanned every boat he could +see. +</p> +<p> +“Back her!” screamed the skipper; “there, gently; all right Go ahead;” and +now with a shouldering, surging heave, the great black monster lazily +moved forward, and gained the middle of the river. Boats were now hurrying +wildly to this side and to that, but none towards the “Foyle.” “What will +become of me? What will he think of me?” cried Tony; and he peered down +into the yellow tide, almost doubtful if he ought not to jump into it. +</p> +<p> +“Go on,” cried the skipper; and the speed increased, a long swell issuing +from either paddle, and stretching away to either bank of the river. Far +away in this rocking tide, tossing hopelessly and in vain, Tony saw a +small boat wherein a man was standing, wildly waving his handkerchief by +way of signal. +</p> +<p> +“There he is, in one minute; give him one minute, and he will be here,” + cried Tony, not knowing to whom he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll get jammed, my good fellow, if you don't come down from that,” + said a sailor. “You'll be caught in the davits when they swing round;” and +seeing how inattentive he was to the caution, he laid a hand upon him and +forced him upon deck. The ship had now turned a bend of the river, and as +Tony turned aft to look for the boat, she was lost to him, and he saw her +no more. +</p> +<p> +For some miles of the way, all were too much occupied to notice him. There +was much to stow away and get in order, the cargo having been taken in +even to the latest moment before they started. There were some carriages +and horses, too, on board, neither of which met from the sailors more +deferential care than they bestowed on cast-metal cranks and iron +sleepers, thus occasioning little passages between those in charge and the +crew, that were the reverse of amicable. It was in one of these Tony heard +a voice he was long familiar with. It was Sir Arthur Lyle's coachman, who +was even more overjoyed than Tony at the recognition. He had been sent +over to fetch four carriage-horses and two open carriages for his master, +and his adventures and mishaps were, in his own estimation, above all +human experience. +</p> +<p> +“I'll have to borrow a five-pound note from you,” said Tony; “I have come +on board without anything,—even my luggage is left behind.” + </p> +<p> +“Five-and-twenty, Mr.. Tony, if you want it. I'm as glad as fifty to see +you here. You'll be able to make these fellows mind what I say. There's +not as much as a spare tarpaulin to put over the beasts at night; and if +the ship rocks, their legs will be knocked to pieces.” + </p> +<p> +If Tony had not the same opinion of his influence, he did not however +hesitate to offer his services, and assisted the coachman to pad the +horse-boxes, and bandage the legs with an overlaid covering of hay rope, +against any accidents. +</p> +<p> +“Are you steerage or aft?” asked a surly-looking steward of Tony, as he +was washing his hands after his exertions. +</p> +<p> +“There's a question to ask of one of the best blood in Ireland,” + interposed the coachman. +</p> +<p> +“The best blood in Ireland will then have to pay cabin fare,” said the +steward, as he jotted down a mem. in his book; and Tony was now easy +enough in mind to laugh at the fellow's impertinence as he paid the money. +</p> +<p> +The voyage was not eventful in any way; the weather was fine, the sea not +rough, and the days went by as monotonously as need be. If Tony had been +given to reflection, he would have had a glorious opportunity to indulge +the taste, but it was the very least of all his tendencies. +</p> +<p> +He would indeed, have liked much to review his life, and map out something +of his future road; but he could do nothing of this kind without a +companion. Asking him to think for himself and by himself was pretty much +like asking him to play chess or backgammon with himself, where it +depended on his caprice which side was to be the winner. The habit of +self-depreciation had, besides, got hold of him, and he employed it as an +excuse to cover his inertness. “What's the use of my doing this, that, or +t'other? I 'll be a stupid dog to the end of the chapter. It's all waste +of time to set me down to this or that. Other fellows could learn it,—it's +impossible for <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +It is strange how fond men will grow of pleading <i>in forma pauperis</i> +to their own hearts,—even men constitutionally proud and +high-spirited. Tony had fallen into this unlucky habit, and got at last to +think it was his safest way in life to trust very little to his judgment. +</p> +<p> +“If I had n't been 'mooning,' I 'd not have walked under the pole of the +omnibus, nor chanced upon this poor fellow, whose bundle I have carried +away, nor lost my own kit, which, after all, was something to me.” Worse +than all these—infinitely worse—was the thought of how that +poor peasant would think of him! What a cruel lesson of mistrust and +suspicion have I implanted in that honest heart! “What a terrible +revulsion must have come over him, when he found I had sailed away and +left him!” Poor Tony's reasoning was not acute enough to satisfy him that +the man could not accuse him for what was out of his power to prevent,—the +departure of the steamer; nor with Tony's own luggage in his possession, +could he arraign his honesty, or distrust his honor. +</p> +<p> +He bethought him that he would consult Waters, for whose judgment in +spavins, thoroughpins, capped hocks, and navicular lameness, he had the +deepest veneration. Waters, who knew horses so thoroughly, must needs not +be altogether ignorant of men. +</p> +<p> +“I say, Tom,” cried he, “sit down here, and let me tell you something +that's troubling me a good deal, and perhaps you can give me some advice +on it.” They sat down accordingly under the shelter of a horse-box, while +Tony related circumstantially his late misadventure. +</p> +<p> +The old coachman heard him to the end without interruption. He smoked +throughout the whole narrative, only now and then removing his pipe to +intimate by an emphatic nod that the “court was with the counsel.” Indeed, +he felt that there was something judicial in his position, and assumed a +full share of importance on the strength of it. +</p> +<p> +“There 's the whole case now before you,” said Tony, as he finished,—“what +do you say to it?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, there an't a great deal to say to it, Mr. Tony,” said he, slowly. +“If the other chap has got the best kit, by course he has got the best end +of the stick; and you may have an easy conscience about that. If there's +any money or val'able in <i>his</i> bundle, it is just likely there will +be some trace of his name, and where he lives too; so that, turn out +either way, you 're all right.” + </p> +<p> +“So that you advise me to open his pack and see if I can find a clew to +him.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, indeed, I 'd do that much out of cur'osity. At all events, you 'll +not get to know about him from the blue hand-kercher with the white +spots.” + </p> +<p> +Tony did not quite approve the counsel; he had his scruples, even in a +good cause, about this investigation, and he walked the deck till far into +the night, pondering over it. He tried to solve the case by speculating on +what the countryman would have done with <i>his</i> pack. “He 'll have +doubtless tried to find out where I am to be met with or come at. He 'll +have ransacked my traps, and if so, there will be the less need of <i>my</i> +investigating <i>his</i>. <i>He 's</i> sure to trace <i>me</i>.” This +reasoning satisfied him so perfectly that he lay down at last to sleep +with an easy conscience and so weary a brain that he slept profoundly. As +he awoke, however, he found that Waters had already decided the point of +conscience which had so troubled him, and was now sitting contemplating +the contents of the peasant's bundle. +</p> +<p> +“There an't so much as a scrap o' writing, Mr. Tony; there an't even a +prayer-book with his name in it,—but there 's a track to him for all +that. I have him!” and he winked with that self-satisfied knowingness +which had so often delighted him in the detection of a splint or a +bone-spavin. +</p> +<p> +“You have him,” repeated Tony. “Well, what of him?” + </p> +<p> +“He's a jailer, sir,—yes, a jailer. I won't say he 's the chief,—he +'s maybe second or third,—but he 's one of 'em.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you know that?” + </p> +<p> +“Here's how I found it out;” and he drew forth a blue cloth uniform, with +yellow cuffs and collar, and a yellow seam down the trousers. There were +no buttons on the coat, but both on the sleeve and the collar were +embroidered two keys, crosswise. “Look at them, Master Tony; look at them, +and say an't that as clear as day? It's some new regulation, I suppose, to +put them in uniform; and there's the keys, the mark of the lock-up, to +show who he is that wears them.” + </p> +<p> +Though the last man in the world to read riddles or unravel difficulties, +Tony did not accept this information very willingly. In truth, he felt a +repugnance to assign to the worthy country fellow a station which bears, +in the appreciation of every Irishman, a certain stain. For, do as we +will, reason how we may, the old estimate of the law as an oppression +surges up through our thoughts, just as springs well up in an undrained +soil. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm certain you're wrong, Waters,” said he, boldly; “he had n't a bit +the look of that about him: he was a fine, fresh-featured, determined sort +of fellow, but without a trace of cunning or distrust in his face.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll stand to it I 'm right, Master Tony. What does keys mean? Answer me +that. An't they to lock up? It must be to lock up something or somebody,—you +agree to that?” + </p> +<p> +Tony gave a sort of grunt, which the other took for concurrence, and +continued. +</p> +<p> +“It's clear enough he an't the county treasurer,” said he, with a mocking +laugh,—“nor he don't keep the Queen's private purse neither; no, +sir. It's another sort of val'ables is under his charge. It's highwaymen +and housebreakers and felony chaps.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it; he's no more a jailer than I'm a hangman. Besides, what +is to prove that this uniform is his own? Why not be a friend's,—a +relation's? Would a fellow trained to the ways of a prison trust the first +man he meets in the street, and hand him over his bundle? Is that like one +whose daily life is passed among rogues and vagabonds?” + </p> +<p> +“That's exactly how it is,” said Waters, closing one eye to look more +piercingly astute. “Did you ever see anything trust another so much as a +cat does a mouse? She hasn't no dirty suspicions at all, but lets him run +here and run there, only with a make-believe of her paw letting him feel +that he an't to trespass too far on her patience.” + </p> +<p> +“Pshaw!” said Tony, turning away angrily; and he muttered to himself as he +walked off, “how stupid it is to take any view of life from a fellow who +has never looked at it from a higher point than a hayloft!” + </p> +<p> +As the steamer rounded Fairhead, and the tall cliffs of the Causeway came +into view, other thoughts soon chased away all memory of the poor country +fellow. It was home was now before him,—home, that no humility can +rob of its hold upon the heart; home, that appeals to the poorest of us by +the selfsame sympathies the richest and greatest feel! Yes, yonder was +Carrig-a-Rede, and there were the Skerries, so near and yet so far off. +How slowly the great mass seemed to move, though it was about an hoar ago +she seemed to cleave the water like a fish! How unfair to stop her course +at Larne to land those two or three passengers, and what tiresome +leave-takings they indulge in; and the luggage, too, they 'll never get it +together! So thought Tony, his impatience mastering both reason and +generosity. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll have to take the horses on to Derry, Master Tony,” said Waters, in +an insinuating tone of voice, for he knew well what able assistance the +other could lend him in any difficulty of the landing. “Sir Arthur thought +that if the weather was fine we might be able to get them out on a raft +and tow them into shore, but it's too rough for that.” + </p> +<p> +“Far too rough,” said Tony, his eyes straining to catch the well-known +landmarks of the coast. +</p> +<p> +“And with blood-horses too, in top condition, there's more danger.” + </p> +<p> +“Far more.” + </p> +<p> +“So, I hope, your honor will tell the master that I did n't ask the +captain to stop, for I saw it was no use.” + </p> +<p> +“None whatever. I 'll tell him,—that is, if I see him,” muttered +Tony, below his breath. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe, if there was too much sea 'on' for your honor to land—” + </p> +<p> +“What?” interrupted Tony, eying him sternly. +</p> +<p> +“I was saying, sir, that if your honor was forced to come on to Derry—” + </p> +<p> +“How should I be forced?” + </p> +<p> +“By the heavy surf, no less,” said Waters, peevishly, for he foresaw +failure to his negotiation. +</p> +<p> +“The tide will be on the flood till eleven, and if they can't lower a +boat, I 'll swim it, that's all. As to going on to Derry with you, Tom,” + added he, laughing, “I'd not do it if you were to give me your four +thoroughbreds for it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, the wind 's freshening, anyhow,” grumbled Waters, not very sorry, +perhaps, at the turn the weather was taking. +</p> +<p> +“It will be the rougher for you as you sail up the Lough,” said Tony, as +he lighted his cigar. +</p> +<p> +Waters pondered a good deal over what he could not but regard as a great +change in character. This young man, so gay, so easy, so careless, so +ready to do anything or do nothing,—how earnest he had grown, and +how resolute, and how stern too! Was this a sign that the world was going +well, or the reverse, with him? Here was a knotty problem, and one which, +in some form or other, has ere now puzzled wiser heads than Waters's. For +as the traveller threw off in the sunshine the cloak which he had gathered +round him in the storm, prosperity will as often disclose the secrets of +our hearts as that very poverty that has not wealth enough to buy a +padlock for them. +</p> +<p> +“You want to land here, young man,” said the captain to Tony; “and there's +a shore-boat close alongside. Be alive, and jump in when she comes near.” + </p> +<p> +“Good-bye, Tom,” said Tony, shaking hands with him. “I 'll report well of +the beasts, and say also how kindly you treated me.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll tell Sir Arthur that the rub on the off shoulder won't signify, +sir; and that Emperor's hock is going down every day. And please to say, +sir,—for he 'll mind <i>you</i> more than me,—that there 's +nothing will keep beasts from kicking when a ship takes to rollin'; and +that when the helpers got sea-sick, and could n't keep on deck, if it had +n't been for yourself—Oh, he's not minding a word I'm saying,” + muttered he, disconsolately; and certainly this was the truth, for Tony +was now standing on a bulwark, with the end of a rope in his hand, slung +whip fashion from the yard, to enable him to swing himself at an opportune +moment into the boat, all the efforts of the rowers being directed to keep +her from the steamer's side. +</p> +<p> +“Now's your time, my smart fellow,” cried the Captain,—“off with +you!” And, as he spoke, Tony swung himself free with a bold spring, and, +just as the boat rose on a wave, dropped neatly into her. +</p> +<p> +“Well done for a landsman!” cried the skipper; “port the helm, and keep +away.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're forgetting the bundle, Master Tony,” cried Waters, and he flung +it towards him with all his strength; but it fell short, dropped into the +sea, floated for about a second or so, and then sank forever. +</p> +<p> +Tony uttered what was not exactly a blessing on his awkwardness, and, +turning his back to the steamer, seized the tiller and steered for shore. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVI. AT THE ABBEY +</h2> +<p> +“Who said that Tony Butler had come back?” said Sir Arthur, as they sat at +breakfast on the day after his arrival. +</p> +<p> +“The gardener saw him last night, papa,” said Mrs. Trafford; “he was +sitting with his mother on the rocks below the cottage; and when Gregg +saluted him, he called out, 'All well at the Abbey, I hope?'” + </p> +<p> +“It would have been more suitable if he had taken the trouble to assure +himself of that fact by a visit here,” said Lady Lyle. “Don't you think +so, Mr. Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“I am disposed to agree with you,” said he, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Besides,” added Sir Arthur, “he must have come over in the 'Foyle,' and +ought to be able to bring me some news of my horses. Those two rough +nights have made me very uneasy about them.” + </p> +<p> +“Another reason for a little attention on his part,” said her Ladyship, +bridling; and then, as if anxious to show that so insignificant a theme +could not weigh on her thoughts, she asked her daughter when Mark and +Isabella purposed coming home. +</p> +<p> +“They spoke of Saturday, mamma; but it seems now that Mrs. Maxwell has got +up—or somebody has for her—an archery meeting for Tuesday, and +she writes a most pressing entreaty for me to drive over, and, if +possible, persuade Mr. Maitland to accompany me.” + </p> +<p> +“Which I sincerely trust he will not think of.” + </p> +<p> +“And why, dearest mamma?” + </p> +<p> +“Can you ask me, Alice? Have we not pushed Mr. Maitland's powers of +patience far enough by our own dulness, without subjecting him to the +stupidities of Tilney Park?—the dreariest old mansion of a dreary +neighborhood.” + </p> +<p> +“But he might like it. As a matter of experimental research, he told us +how he passed an autumn with the Mandans, and ate nothing but eels and +wood-squirrels.” + </p> +<p> +“You are forgetting the prairie rats, which are really delicacies.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor did I include the charms of the fair Chachinhontas, who was the +object of your then affections,” said she, laughingly, but in a lower +tone. +</p> +<p> +“So, then,” said he, “Master Mark has been playing traitor, and divulging +my confidence. The girl was a marvellous horsewoman, which is a rare gift +with Indian women. I 've seen her sit a drop-leap—I 'll not venture +to say the depth, but certainly more than the height of a man—with +her arms extended wide, and the bridle loose and flowing.” + </p> +<p> +“And you followed in the same fashion?” asked Alice, with a roguish +twinkle of the eye. +</p> +<p> +“I see that Mark has betrayed me all through,” said he, laughing. “I own I +tried it, but not with the success that such ardor deserved. I came +head-foremost to the ground before my horse.” + </p> +<p> +“After all, Mr. Maitland, one is not obliged to ride like a savage,” said +Lady Lyle. +</p> +<p> +“Except when one aspires to the hand of a savage princess, mamma. Mr. +Maitland was ambitious in those days.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true,” said he, with a deep sigh; “but it was the only time in my +life in which I could say that I suffered my affection to be influenced by +mere worldly advantages. She was a great heiress; she had a most powerful +family connection.” + </p> +<p> +“How absurd you are!” said Lady Lyle, good-humoredly. +</p> +<p> +“Let him explain himself, mamma; it is so very seldom he will condescend +to let us learn any of his sentiments on any subject. Let us hear him +about marriage.” + </p> +<p> +“It is an institution I sincerely venerate. If I have not entered into the +holy estate myself, it is simply from feeling I am not good enough. I +stand without the temple, and only strain my eyes to catch a glimpse of +the sanctuary.” + </p> +<p> +“Does it appear to you so very awful and appalling, then?” said my Lady. +</p> +<p> +“Certainly it does. All the efforts of our present civilization seem +directed to that end. We surround it with whatever can inspire terror. We +call in the Law as well as the Church,—we add the Statutes to the +Liturgy; and we close the whole with the most depressing of all +festivities,—a wedding-breakfast.” + </p> +<p> +“And the Mandans, do they take a more cheerful view of matters?” asked +Alice. +</p> +<p> +“How can you be so silly, Alice?” cried Lady Lyle. +</p> +<p> +“My dear mamma, are you forgetting what a marvellous opportunity we enjoy +of learning the geography of an unknown sea, from one of the only voyagers +who has ever traversed it?” + </p> +<p> +“Do you mean to go to Tilney, Alice?” asked her mother, curtly. +</p> +<p> +“If Mr. Maitland would like to add Mrs. Maxwell to his curiosities of +acquaintance.” + </p> +<p> +“I have met her already. I think her charming. She told me of some port, +or a pair of coach-horses, I can't be certain which, her late husband +purchased forty-two years ago; and she so mingled the subjects together, +that I fancied the horses were growing yellow, and the wine actually +frisky.” + </p> +<p> +“I see that you <i>have</i> really listened to her,” said Mrs. Trafford. +“Well, do you consent to this visit?” + </p> +<p> +“Delighted. Tell me, by way of parenthesis, is she a near neighbor of the +worthy Commodore with the charming daughters? Gambier Graham, I think his +name is.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; she lives about twelve miles from his cottage: but why do you ask?” + </p> +<p> +“I have either promised, or he fancies I have promised, to pay him a +flying visit.” + </p> +<p> +“Another case of a savage princess,” whispered Mrs. Trafford; and he +laughed heartily at the conceit. “If we take the low road,—it's very +little longer and much prettier,—we pass the cottage; and if your +visit be not of great length, more than a morning call, in fact,—I +'ll go there with you.” + </p> +<p> +“You overwhelm me with obligations,” said he, bowing low, to which she +replied by a courtesy so profound as to throw an air of ridicule over his +courtly politeness. +</p> +<p> +“Shall we say to-morrow for our departure, Mr. Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“I am at your orders, madam.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, I'll write to dear old Aunt Maxwell—I suppose she'll be +your aunt too before you leave Tilney (for we all adopt a relation so very +rich and without an heir)—and delight her by saying that I have +secured Mr. Maitland, an announcement which will create a flutter in the +neighborhood by no means conducive to good archery.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell her we only give him up till Wednesday,” said Lady Lyle, “for I hope +to have the Crayshaws here by that time, and I shall need you all back to +receive them.” + </p> +<p> +“More beauties, Mr. Maitland,” exclaimed Mrs. Trafford. “What are you +looking so grave about?” + </p> +<p> +“I was thinking it was just possible that I might be called away suddenly, +and that there are some letters I ought to write; and, last of all, +whether I should n't go and make, a hurried visit to Mrs. Butler; for in +talking over old friends in Scotland, we have grown already intimate.” + </p> +<p> +“What a mysterious face for such small concerns!” said Mrs. Trafford. “Did +n't you say something, papa, about driving me over to look at the +two-year-olds?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; I am going to inspect the paddock, and told Giles to meet me there.” + </p> +<p> +“What's the use of our going without Tony?” said she, disconsolately; +“he's the only one of us knows anything about a colt.” + </p> +<p> +“I really did hope you were beginning to learn that this young gentleman +was not an essential of our daily life here,” said Lady Lyle, haughtily. +“I am sorry that I should have deceived myself.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear mamma, please to remember your own ponies that have become +undrivable, and Selim, that can't even be saddled. Gregg will tell you +that he does n't know what has come over the melon-bed,—the plants +look all scorched and withered; and it was only yesterday papa said that +he 'd have the schooner drawn up till Tony came back to decide on the new +keel and the balloon jib!” + </p> +<p> +“What a picture of us to present to Mr. Maitland! but I trust, sir, that +you know something of my daughter's talent for exaggerated description by +this time, and you will not set us down for the incapables she would +exhibit us.” Lady Lyle moved haughtily away as she spoke; and Sir Arthur, +drawing Mrs. Trafford's arm within his own, said, “You 're in a fighting +mood to-day. Come over and torment Giles.” + </p> +<p> +“There 's nothing I like better,” said she. “Let me go for my hat and a +shawl.” + </p> +<p> +“And I'm off to my letter-writing,” said Maitland. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVII. AT THE COTTAGE +</h2> +<p> +What a calm, still, mellow evening it was, as Tony sat with his mother in +the doorway of the cottage, their hands clasped, and in silence, each very +full of thought, indeed, but still fuller of that sweet luxury, the sense +of being together after an absence,—the feeling that home was once +more home, in all that can make it a centre of love and affection. +</p> +<p> +“I began to think you were n't coming back at all, Tony,” said she, “when +first you said Tuesday, and then it was Friday, and then it came to be the +middle of another week. 'Ah me!' said I to the doctor, 'he 'll not like +the little cottage down amongst the tall ferns and the heather, after all +that grand town and its fine people.'” + </p> +<p> +“If you knew how glad I am to be back here,” said he, with a something +like choking about the throat; “if you knew what a different happiness I +feel under this old porch, and with you beside me!” + </p> +<p> +“My dear, dear Tony, let us hope we are to have many such evenings as this +together. Let me now hear all about your journey; for, as yet, you have +only told me about that good-hearted country fellow whose bundle has been +lost Begin at the beginning, and try and remember everything.” + </p> +<p> +“Here goes, then, for a regular report. See, mother, you 'd not believe it +of me, but I jotted all down in a memorandum-book, so that there's no +trusting to bad memory; all's in black and white.” + </p> +<p> +“That was prudent, Tony. I 'm really glad that you have such forethought. +Let me see it.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no. It's clean and clear beyond your reading. I shall be lucky enough +if I can decipher it myself. Here we begin: 'Albion, Liverpool. Capital +breakfast, but dear. Wanted change for my crown-piece, but chaffed out of +it by pretty barmaid, who said—' Oh, that's all stuff and nonsense,” + said he, reddening. “'Mail-train to London; not allowed to smoke +first-class; travelled third, and had my 'baccy.' I need n't read all this +balderdash, mother; I 'll go on to business matters. 'Skeffy, a trump, +told me where he buys “birdseye” for one and nine the pound; and, mixed +with cavendish, it makes grand smoking. Skeffy says he 'll get me the +first thing vacant'” + </p> +<p> +“Who is Skeffy? I never heard of him before.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course you 've heard. He's private secretary to Sir Harry, and gives +away all the Office patronage. I don't think he 's five feet five high, +but he 's made like a Hercules. Tom Sayers says Skeffy's deltoid—that's +the muscle up here—is finer than any in the ring, and he's such an +active devil. I must tell you of the day I held up the 'Times' for him to +jump through; but I see you are impatient for the serious things: well, +now for it. +</p> +<p> +“Sir Harry, cruel enough, in a grand sort of overbearing way, told me my +father was called Watty. I don't believe it; at least, the fellow who took +the liberty must have earned the right by a long apprenticeship.” + </p> +<p> +“You are right there, Tony; there were not many would venture on it.” + </p> +<p> +“Did any one ever call him Wat Tartar, mother?” + </p> +<p> +“If they had, they 'd have caught one, Tony, I promise you.” + </p> +<p> +“I thought so. Well, he went on to say that he had nothing he could give +me. It was to the purport that I was fit for nothing, and I agreed with +him.” + </p> +<p> +“That was not just prudent, Tony; the world is prone enough to disparage +without helping them to the road to it.” + </p> +<p> +“Possibly; but he read me like a book, and said that I only came to him +because I was hopeless. He asked me if I knew a score of things he was +well aware that I must be ignorant of, and groaned every time I said 'No!' +When he said, 'Go home and brush up your French and Italian,' I felt as if +he said, 'Look over your rent roll, and thin your young timber.' He 's a +humbug, mother.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Tony, you must not say that.” + </p> +<p> +“I will say it; he's a humbug, and so is the other.” + </p> +<p> +“Who is the other you speak of?” + </p> +<p> +“Lord Ledgerton, a smartish old fellow, with a pair of gray eyes that look +through you, and a mouth that you can't guess whether he's going to eat +you up or to quiz you. It was he that said, 'Make Butler a messenger.' +They did n't like it. The Office fellows looked as sulky as night; but +they had to bow and snigger, and say, 'Certainly, my Lord;' but I know +what they intend, for all that. They mean to pluck me; that's the way they +'ll do it; for when I said I was nothing to boast of in English, and +something worse in French, they grinned and exchanged smiles, as much as +to say, 'There's a rasper he 'll never get over.'” + </p> +<p> +“And what is a messenger, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“He's a fellow that carries the despatches over the whole world,—at +least, wherever there is civilization enough to have a Minister or an +Envoy. He starts off from Downing Street with half-a-dozen great bags as +tall as me, and he drops one at Paris, another at Munich, another at +Turin, and perhaps the next at Timbuctoo. He goes full speed,—regular +steeple-chase pace,—and punches the head of the first postmaster +that delays him; and as he is well paid, and has nothing to think of but +the road, the life is n't such a bad one.” + </p> +<p> +“And does it lead to anything; is there any promotion from it?” + </p> +<p> +“Not that I know, except to a pension; but who wants anything better? Who +asks for a jollier life than rattling over Europe in all directions at the +Queen's expense? Once on a time they were all snobs, or the same thing; +now they are regular swells, who dine with the Minister, and walk into the +attachés at billiards or blind hookey; for the dons saw it was a grand +thing to keep the line for younger sons, and have a career where learning +might be left out, and brains were only a burden!” + </p> +<p> +“I never heard of such a line of life,” said she, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“I had it from the fellows themselves. There were five of them in the +waiting-room, tossing for sovereigns, and cursing the first clerk, whoever +he is; and they told me they 'd not change with the first secretaries of +any legation in Europe. But who is this, mother, that I see coming down +the hill?—he 's no acquaintance of ours, I think?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, it's Mr. Maitland, Tony,” said she, in some confusion; for she was +not always sure in what temper Tony would receive a stranger. +</p> +<p> +“And who may Mr. Maitland be?” + </p> +<p> +“A very charming and a very kind person, too, whose acquaintance I made +since you left this; he brought me books and flowers, and some geranium +slips; and, better than all, his own genial company.” + </p> +<p> +“He's not much of a sportsman, I see; that short gun he carries is more +like a walking-stick than a fowling-piece.” And Tony turned his gaze +seaward, as though the stranger was not worth a further scrutiny. +</p> +<p> +“They told me I should find you here, madam,” said Maitland, as he came +forward, with his hat raised, and a pleasant smile on his face. +</p> +<p> +“My son, sir,” said the old lady, proudly,—“my son Tony, of whom I +have talked to you.” + </p> +<p> +“I shall be charmed if Mr. Butler will allow me to take that place in his +acquaintance which a sincere interest in him gives me some claim to,” said +Maitland, approaching Tony, intending to shake his hand, but too cautious +to risk a repulse, if it should be meditated. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/butler0182.jpg" alt="182" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +Tony drew himself up haughtily, and said, “I am much honored, sir; but I +don't see any reason for such an interest in me.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Tony,” broke in the widow; but Maitland interrupted, and said: “It's +easy enough to explain. Your mother and myself have grown, in talking over +a number of common friends, to fancy that we knew each other long ago. It +was, I assure you, a very fascinating delusion for me. I learned to recall +some of the most cherished of my early friends, and remember traits in +them which had been the delight of my childhood. Pray forgive me, then, if +in such a company your figure got mixed up, and I thought or fancied that +I knew you.” + </p> +<p> +There was a rapid eagerness in the manner he said these words that seemed +to vouch for their sincerity; but their only immediate effect was to make +Tony very ill at ease and awkward. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Maitland has not told you, as he might have told you, Tony, that he +came here with the offer of a substantial service. He had heard that you +were in search of some pursuit or occupation.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray, madam, I entreat of you to say nothing of this now; wait, at least, +until Mr. Butler and I shall know more of each other.” + </p> +<p> +“A strange sort of a piece you have there,” said Tony, in his confusion; +for his cheek was scarlet with shame,—“something between an old +duelling-pistol and a carbine.” + </p> +<p> +“It 's a short Tyrol rifle, a peasant's weapon. It 's not a very comely +piece of ordnance, but it is very true and easy to carry. I bought it from +an old chamois-hunter at Maltz; and I carried it with me this morning with +the hope that you would accept it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I couldn't think of it; I beg you to excuse me. I 'm much obliged; in +fact, I never do—never did—take a present.” + </p> +<p> +“That's true, sir. Tony and I bear our narrow means only because there's a +sort of ragged independence in our natures that saves us from craving for +whatever we can do without.” + </p> +<p> +“A pretty wide catalogue, too, I assure you,” said Tony, laughing, and at +once recovering his wonted good-humor. “We have made what the officials +call the extraordinaires fill a very small column. There!” cried he, +suddenly, “is the sea-gull on that point of rock yonder out of range for +your rifle?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing near it. Will you try?” asked Maitland, offering the gun. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd rather see you.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm something out of practice latterly. I have been leading a town +life,” said Maitland, as he drew a small eyeglass from his pocket and +fixed it in his eye. “Is it that fellow there you mean? There's a far +better shot to the left,—that large diver that is sitting so calmly +on the rolling sea. There he is again.” + </p> +<p> +“He 's gone now,—he has dived,” said Tony; “there's nothing harder +to hit than one of these birds,—what between the motion of the sea +and their own wariness. Some people say that they scent gunpowder.” + </p> +<p> +“That fellow shall!” said Maitland, as he fired; for just as the bird +emerged from the depth, he sighted him, and with one flutter the creature +fell dead on the wave. +</p> +<p> +“A splendid shot; I never saw a finer!” cried Tony, in ecstasy, and with a +look of honest admiration at the marksman. “I'd have bet ten—ay, +twenty—to one you 'd have missed. I 'm not sure I 'd not wager +against your doing the same trick again.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'd lose your money, then,” said Maitland; “at least, if I was rogue +enough to take you up.” + </p> +<p> +“You must be one of the best shots in Europe, then!” + </p> +<p> +“No; they call me second in the Tyrol. Hans Godrel is the first We have +had many matches together, and he has always beaten me.” + </p> +<p> +The presence of a royal prince would not have inspired Tony with the same +amount of respect as these few words, uttered negligently and carelessly; +and he measured the speaker from head to foot, recognizing for the first +time his lithe and well-knit, well-proportioned figure. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll be bound you are a horseman, too?” cried Tony. +</p> +<p> +“If you hadn't praised my shooting, I 'd tell you that I ride better than +I shoot.” + </p> +<p> +“How I 'd like to have a brush across country with you!” exclaimed Tony, +warmly. +</p> +<p> +“What easier?—what so easy? Our friend Sir Arthur has an excellent +stable; at least, there is more than one mount for men of our weight I +suspect Mark Lyle will not join us; but we 'll arrange a match,—a +sort of home steeple-chase.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd like it well,” broke in Tony, “but I have no horses of my own, and I +'ll not ride Sir Arthur's.” + </p> +<p> +“This same independence of ours has a something about it that won't let us +seem very amiable, Mr. Maitland,” said the old lady, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Pardon me, madam; it has an especial attraction for <i>me</i>. I have all +my life long been a disciple of that school; but I must say that in the +present case it is not applicable. I have been for the last couple of +weeks a guest at Lyle Abbey; and if I were asked whose name came most +often uppermost, and always in terms of praise, I should say—your +son's.” + </p> +<p> +“I have met with great kindness from Sir Arthur and his family,” said +Tony, half sternly, half sorrowfully. “I am not likely ever to forget it.” + </p> +<p> +“You have not seen them since your return, I think?” said Maitland, +carelessly. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir,” broke in the old lady; “my son has been so full of his travels, +and all the great people he met, that we have not got through more than +half of his adventures. Indeed, when you came up he was just telling me of +an audience he had with a Cabinet Minister—” + </p> +<p> +“Pooh, pooh, mother! Don't bore Mr. Maitland with these personal details.” + </p> +<p> +“I know it is the privilege of friendship to listen to these,” said +Maitland, “and I am sincerely sorry that I have not such a claim.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, you ought to have that claim, were it only in consideration of +your own kind offer to Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, pray, madam, do not speak of it,” said Maitland, with something +nearer confusion than so self-possessed a gentleman was likely to exhibit +“When I spoke of such a project, I was in utter ignorance that Mr. Butler +was as much a man of the world as myself, and far and away beyond the +reach of any guidance of mine.” + </p> +<p> +“What, then, were your intentions regarding me?” asked Tony, in some +curiosity. +</p> +<p> +“I entreat of you, madam,” said Maitland, eagerly, “to forget all that we +said on that subject.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot be so ungrateful, sir. It is but fair and just that Tony should +hear of your generous plan. Mr. Maitland thought he 'd just take you +abroad—to travel with him—to go about and see the world. He 'd +call you his secretary.” + </p> +<p> +“His what!” exclaimed Tony, with a burst of laughter. “His what, mother?” + </p> +<p> +“Let <i>me</i> try and explain away, if I can, the presumption of such a +project. Not now, however,” said Maitland, look-ing at his watch, “for I +have already overstayed my time; and I have an appointment for this +evening,—without you will kindly give me your company for half a +mile up the road, and we can talk the matter over together.” + </p> +<p> +Tony looked hesitatingly for a moment at bis mother; but she said, “To be +sure, Tony. I 'll give Mr. Maitland a loan of you for half an hour. Go +with him, by all means.” + </p> +<p> +With all that courtesy of which he was a master, Maitland thanked her for +the sacrifice she was making, and took his leave. +</p> +<p> +“You have no objection to walk fast, I hope,” said Maitland; “for I find I +am a little behind my time.” + </p> +<p> +Tony assented with a nod, and they stepped out briskly; the device of the +speed being merely assumed to give Maitland an opportunity of seeing a +little more of his companion before entering upon any serious converse. +Tony, however, was as impenetrable in his simplicity as some others are in +their depth; and after two or three attempts to draw him on to talk of +commonplaces, Maitland said abruptly: “You must have thought it a great +impertinence on my part to make such a proposal to your mother as she has +just told you of; but the fact was, I had no other way of approaching a +very difficult subject, and opening a question which to her, certainly, I +could not explain myself fully upon. I heard a good deal about you up at +the Abbey, and all that I heard confirmed me in the notion that you were +just the man for an enterprise in which I am myself deeply interested. +However, as I well knew, even if I succeeded in inducing you to become my +comrade, it would be necessary to have a sort of narrative which would +conceal the project from your mother, it occurred to me to get up this +silly idea of a secretaryship, which I own freely may have offended you.” + </p> +<p> +“Not offended; it only amused me,” said Tony, good-humoredly. “I can't +imagine a man less fitted for such an office than myself.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not so sure of that,” said Maitland, “though I'm quite certain it +would be a very unprofitable use to make of you. You are, like myself, a +man of action; one to execute and do, and not merely to note and record. +The fellows who write history very seldom make it,—isn't that true?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know. I can only say I don't think I 'm very likely to do one or +the other.” + </p> +<p> +“We shall see that I don't concur in the opinion, but we shall see. It +would be rather a tedious process to explain myself fully as to my +project, but I 'll give you two or three little volumes.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; don't give me anything to read; if you want me to understand you, +tell it out plainly, whatever it is.” + </p> +<p> +“Here goes, then, and it is not my fault if you don't fully comprehend me; +but mind, what I am about to reveal to you is strictly on honor, and never +to be divulged to any one. I have your word for this?” They pressed hands, +and he continued: “There is a government on the Continent so undermined by +secret treachery that it can no longer rely upon its own arms for defence, +but is driven to enlist in its cause the brave and adventurous spirits of +other countries,—men who, averse to ignoble callings or monotonous +labor, would rather risk life than reduce it to the mere condition of +daily drudgery. To this government, which in principle has all my +sympathies, I have devoted all that I have of fortune, hope, or personal +energy. I have, in a word, thrown my whole future into its cause. I have +its confidence in return; and I am enabled not only to offer a high career +and a noble sphere of action, but all that the world calls great rewards, +to those whom I may select to join me in its defence.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it France?” asked Tony; and Maitland had to bite his lip to repress a +smile at such a question. +</p> +<p> +“No, it is not France,” said he, calmly; “for France, under any rule, I 'd +not shed one drop of my blood.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor I, neither!” cried Tony. “I hate Frenchmen; my father hated them, and +taught me to do the same.” + </p> +<p> +“So far from enlisting you to serve France, it is more than probable that +in the cause I speak of you 'll find yourself arrayed against Frenchmen.” + </p> +<p> +“All right; I 'd do that with a heart and a half; but what is the State? +Is it Austria?—is it Russia?” + </p> +<p> +“Neither. If you only give me to believe that you listen favorably to my +plan, you shall hear everything; and I 'll tell you, besides, what I shall +offer to you, personally,—the command of a company in an Irish +regiment, with the certainty of rapid advancement, and ample means to +supply yourself with all that your position requires. Is that sufficient?” + </p> +<p> +“Quite so, if I like the cause I 'm to fight for.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll engage to satisfy you on that head. You need but read the names of +those of our own countrymen who adopt it, to be convinced that it is a +high and a holy cause. I don't suppose you have studied very deeply that +great issue which our century is about to try,—the cause of order <i>versus</i> +anarchy,—the right to rule of the good, the virtuous, and the +enlightened, against the tyranny of the unlettered, the degraded, and the +base.” + </p> +<p> +“I know nothing about it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'll tax your patience some day to listen to it all from me; for +the present what say you to my plan?” + </p> +<p> +“I rather like it. If it had only come last week, I don't think I could +have refused it.” + </p> +<p> +“And why last week?” + </p> +<p> +“Because I have got a promise of an appointment since that” + </p> +<p> +“Of what nature,—a commission in the army?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said he, shaking his head. +</p> +<p> +“They 're not going to make a clerk of a fellow like you, I trust?” + </p> +<p> +“They 'd be sorely disappointed if they did.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, what <i>are</i> they going to do with you?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, it's nothing very high and mighty. I am to be what they call a +Queen's Messenger.” + </p> +<p> +“Under the Foreign Office?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes.” + </p> +<p> +“Not bad things these appointments,—that is to say, gentlemen hold +them, and contrive to live on them. How they do so it's not very easy to +say; but the fact is there, and not to be questioned.” + </p> +<p> +This speech, a random shot as it was, hit the mark; and Maitland saw that +Tony winced under it, and he went on. +</p> +<p> +“The worst is, however, that these things lead to nothing. If a man takes +to the law, he dreams of the Great Seal, or, at least, of the bench. If he +be a soldier, he is sure to scribble his name with 'lieutenant-general' +before it. One always has an eye to the upper branches, whatever be the +tree; but this messenger affair is a mere bush, which does not admit of +climbing. Last of all, it would never do for you.” + </p> +<p> +“And why not do for me?” asked Tony, half fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“Simply because you could not reduce yourself to the mere level of a piece +of mechanism,—a thing wound up at Downing Street, to go 'down' as it +reached Vienna. To you life should present, with its changes of fortune, +its variety, its adventures, and its rewards. Men like you confront +dangers, but are always conquered by mere drudgery. Am I right?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps there is something in that.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't fancy that I am talking at hazard; I have myself felt the very +thing I am telling you of; and I could no more have begun life as a +Cabinet postboy, than I could have taken to stone-breaking.” + </p> +<p> +“You seem to forget that there is a class of people in this world whom a +wise proverb declares are not to be choosers.” + </p> +<p> +“There never was a sillier adage. It assumes that because a man is poor he +must remain poor. It presumes to affirm that no one can alter his +condition. And who are the successful in life? The men who have energy to +will it,—the fellows who choose their place, and insist upon taking +it. Let me assure you, Butler, you are one of these, if you could only +throw off your humility and believe it. Only resolve to join us, and I 'll +give you any odds you like that I am a true prophet; at all events, turn +it over in your mind; give it a fair consideration,—of course, I +mean your own consideration, for it is one of those things a man cannot +consult his mother upon; and when we meet again, which will not be for a +few days, as I leave for a short absence to-morrow, you 'll give me your +answer.” + </p> +<p> +“What day do you expect to be back here?” + </p> +<p> +“I hope, by Saturday; indeed, I can safely say by Saturday.” + </p> +<p> +“By that time I shall have made up my mind. Goodbye.” + </p> +<p> +“The mind is made up already,” mattered Maitland, as he moved away,—“I +have him.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVIII. ON THE ROAD +</h2> +<p> +A great moralist and a profound thinker has left it on record that there +were few pleasanter sensations than those of being whirled rapidly along a +good road at the top speed of a pair of posters. Whether, had he lived in +our age of express trains, the “rail” might not have qualified the +judgment is not so sure. One thing is, however, certain,—the charm +of a brisk drive on a fine breezy morning, along a bold coast, with a very +beautiful woman for a companion, is one that belongs to all eras, +independent of broad gauges and narrow, and deriving none of its enjoyment +from steam or science. Maitland was to know this now in all its ecstasy, +as he drove off from Lyle Abbey with Mrs. Trafford. There was something of +gala in the equipage,—the four dappled grays with pink roses at +their heads, the smartly dressed servants, and, more than all, the lovely +widow herself, most becomingly dressed in a costume which, by favor of the +climate, could combine furs with lace,—that forcibly struck him as +resembling the accompaniments of a wedding; and he smiled at the pleasant +conceit. +</p> +<p> +“What is it amuses you, Mr. Maitland?” said she, unable to repress her +curiosity. +</p> +<p> +“I am afraid to tell you,—that is, I might have told you a moment +ago, but I can't now.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I guess it?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think so.” + </p> +<p> +“No matter; let us talk of something else. Isn't that a very beautiful +little bay? It was a fancy of mine once to build a cottage there. You can +see the spot from here, to the left of those three rocks.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; but there are walls there,—ruins, I think.” + </p> +<p> +“No, not exactly ruins. They were the outer walls of my intended villa, +which I abandoned after I had begun it; and there they stand,—accusers +of a change of mind, sad reminders of other days and their projects.” + </p> +<p> +“Were they very pleasant days that you sigh over them, or are they sad +reminiscences?” + </p> +<p> +“Both one and the other. I thought it would be such a nice thing to retire +from the world and all its vanities, and live there very secluded and +forgotten.” + </p> +<p> +“And how long ago was this?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, very long ago,—fully a year and a half.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” cried he, with a well-feigned astonishment. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said she, resuming. “I was very tired of being flattered and feted, +and what people call 'spoiled;' for it is by no means remembered how much +amusement is afforded to those who play the part of 'spoilers' in the +wilfulness and caprice they excite; and so I thought, 'I 'll show you all +how very easy it is to live without you. I 'll let you see that I can +exist without your homage.'” + </p> +<p> +“And you really fancied this?” + </p> +<p> +“You ask as if you thought the thing incredible.” + </p> +<p> +“Only difficult,—not impossible.” + </p> +<p> +“I never intended total isolation, mind. I 'd have had my intimates, say +two or three,—certainly not more,—dear friends, to come and go +and stay as they pleased.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you know how you 'd have passed your time, or shall I tell you?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. Let me hear your version of it.” + </p> +<p> +“In talking incessantly of that very world you had quitted, in greedily +devouring all its scandals, and canvassing all its sins,—criticising, +very possibly, its shortcomings and condemning its frivolities; but still +following with a wistful eye all its doings, and secretly longing to be in +the thick of them.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, how wrong you are, how totally wrong! You know very little about him +who would have been my chief adviser and Grand Vizier.” + </p> +<p> +“And who, pray, would have been so fortunate as to fill that post?” + </p> +<p> +“The son of that old lady to whom you devoted so many mornings,—the +playfellow of long ago, Tony Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed, I only made his acquaintance yesterday, and it would be rash to +speak on such a short experience; but I may be permitted to ask, has he +that store of resources which enliven solitude? is he so full of life's +experiences that he can afford to retire from the world and live on the +interest of his knowledge of mankind?” + </p> +<p> +“He knows nothing whatever of what is called life,—at least what Mr. +Maitland would call life. He is the most simple-hearted young fellow in +the world, with the finest nature, and the most generous.” + </p> +<p> +“What would I not give for a friend who would grow so enthusiastic about +me!” + </p> +<p> +“Are you so sure you 'd deserve it?” + </p> +<p> +“If I did, there would be no merit in the praise. Credit means trust for +what one may or may not have.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I am speaking of Tony as I know him; and, true to the adage, there +he is, coming down the hill. Pull up, George.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Butler's making me a sign, ma'am, not to stop till I reach the top of +the hill.” + </p> +<p> +The moment after, the spanking team stood champing their bits and tossing +their manes on the crest of the ridge. +</p> +<p> +“Come here, Tony, and be scolded!” cried Mrs. Trafford; while the young +fellow, instead of approaching the carriage, busied himself about the +horses. +</p> +<p> +“Wait a moment till I let down their heads. How could you have suffered +them to come up the long hill with the bearing-reins on, Alice?” cried he. +</p> +<p> +“So, then, it is I that am to have the scolding,” said she, in a whisper; +then added aloud, “Come here and beg pardon. I 'm not sure you 'll get it, +for your shameful desertion of us. Where have you been, sir? and why have +not you reported yourself on your return?” + </p> +<p> +Tony came up to the side of the carriage with an attempt at swagger that +only increased his own confusion, and made him blush deeply. No sooner, +however, had he seen Maitland, of whose presence up to that he had been +ignorant, than he grew pale, and had to steady himself by catching hold of +the door. +</p> +<p> +“I see you are ashamed,” said she, “but I 'll keep you over for sentence. +Meanwhile, let me present you to Mr. Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“I know him,” said Tony, gulping out the words. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” chimed in Maitland, “we made acquaintance yesterday; and if Mr. +Butler be but of my mind, it will not be a mere passing knowledge we shall +have of each other.” + </p> +<p> +“Get in, Tony, and come a mile or two with us. You know all the short cuts +in the mountains, and can get back easily.” + </p> +<p> +“There's the short cut I mean to take now,” said Tony, sternly, as he +pointed to a path that led down to the seashore. “I am going home.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” resumed she, with a well-feigned air of severity; “but mine is +a command.” + </p> +<p> +“I have left the service,—I have taken my discharge,” said he, with +a forced laugh. +</p> +<p> +“At least, you ought to quit with honor,—not as a deserter,” said +she, softly but sadly. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps he could not trust his resolution, if he were to see again the +old flag he had served under,” said Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“Who made you the exponent of what I felt, sir?” said he, savagely. “I +don't remember that in our one single conversation we touched on these +things.” + </p> +<p> +“Tony!” cried Alice, in a low voice, full of deep feeling and sorrow,—“Tony!” + </p> +<p> +“Good-bye, Alice; I 'm sorry to have detained you, but I thought—I +don't know what I thought. Remember me to Bella,—good-bye!” He +turned away; then suddenly, as if remembering himself, wheeled round and +said, “Good-morning, sir,” with a short quick nod of his head. The moment +after he had sprung over the low wall at the roadside, and was soon lost +to view in the tall ferns. +</p> +<p> +“How changed he is! I declare I can scarcely recognize him,” said Mrs. +Trafford, as they resumed their journey. “He used to be the gentlest, +easiest, and softest of all natures,—never put out, never crossed by +anything.” + </p> +<p> +“And so I 've no doubt you 'd have found him to-day if I had not been +here.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Surely you remarked the sudden change that came over his face when he saw +me. He thought you were alone. At all events, he never speculated on +finding me at your side.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said she, with an air of half-offended pride; “and are you +reputed to be such a very dangerous person that to drive out with you +should inspire all this terror?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't believe I am,” said Maitland, laughing; “but perhaps your rustic +friend might be pardoned if he thought so.” + </p> +<p> +“How very subtle that is! Even in your humility you contrive to shoot a +bolt at poor Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“And why poor? Is he poor who is so rich in defenders? Is it a sign of +poverty when a man can afford to dispense with all the restraints that +attach to others, and say and do what he likes, with the certainty that it +will all be submitted to? I call that wealth unbounded,—at least, it +is the one prize that money confers; and if one can have it without the +dross, I 'd say, Give me the privilege and keep the title-deeds.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Maitland,” said she, gravely, “Tony Butler is not in the least like +what you would represent him. In my life I never knew any one so full of +consideration for others.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on,” said he, laughing. “It's only another goldmine of his you are +displaying before me. Has he any other gifts or graces?” + </p> +<p> +“He has a store of good qualities, Mr. Maitland; they are not, perhaps, +very showy ones.” + </p> +<p> +“Like those of some other of our acquaintance,” added he, as if finishing +her speech for her. “My dear Mrs. Trafford, I would not disparage your +early friend—your once playfellow—for the world. Indeed, I +feel, if life could be like a half-holiday from school, he 'd be an +admirable companion to pass it with; the misfortune is that these men must +take their places in the common tournament with the rest of us, and then +they are not so certain of making a distinguished figure as when seen in +the old playground with bat and ball and wicket.” + </p> +<p> +“You mean that such a man as Tony Butler will not be likely to make a +great career in life?” + </p> +<p> +His reply was a shrug of the shoulders. +</p> +<p> +“And why not, pray?” asked she, defiantly. +</p> +<p> +“What if you were to ask Mark this question? Let him give you his +impressions on this theme.” + </p> +<p> +“I see what it is,” cried she, warmly. “You two fine gentlemen have +conspired against this poor simple boy,—for really, in all dealings +with the world, he is a boy; and you would like us to believe that if we +saw him under other circumstances and with other surroundings, we should +be actually ashamed of him. Now, Mr. Maitland, I resent this supposition +at once, and I tell you frankly I am very proud of his friendship.” + </p> +<p> +“You are pushing me to the verge of a great indiscretion; in fact, you +have made it impossible for me to avoid it,” said he, seriously. “I must +now trust you with a secret, or what I meant to be one. Here it is. Of +course, what I am about to tell you is strictly to go no further,—never, +never to be divulged. It is partly on this young man's account—chiefly +so—that I am in Ireland. A friend of mine—that same Caffarelli +of whom you heard—was commissioned by a very eccentric old +Englishman who lives abroad, to learn if he could hear some tidings of +this young Butler,—what sort of person he was, how brought up, how +educated, how disciplined. The inquiry came from the desire of a person +very able indeed to befriend him materially. The old man I speak of is the +elder brother of Butler's father; very rich and very influential. This old +man, I suppose, repenting of some harshness or other to his brother in +former days, wants to see Tony,—wants to judge of him for himself,—wants, +in fact, without disclosing the relationship between them, to pronounce +whether this young fellow is one to whom he could rightfully bequeath a +considerable fortune, and place before the world as the head of an honored +house; but he wants to do this without exciting hopes or expectations, or +risking, perhaps, disappointments. Now, I know very well by repute +something of this eccentric old man, whose long life in the diplomatic +service has made him fifty times more lenient to a moral delinquency than +to a solecism in manners, and who could forgive the one and never the +other. If he were to see your diamond in the rough, he 'd never +contemplate the task of polishing,—he 'd simply say, 'This is not +what I looked for; I don't want a gamekeeper, or a boatman, or a +horse-breaker.'” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Mr. Maitland!” + </p> +<p> +“Hear me out. I am representing, and very faithfully representing, +another; he 'd say this more strongly too than I have, and he 'd leave him +there. Now, I 'm not very certain that he 'd be wrong; permit me to +finish. I mean to say that in all that regards what the old +Minister-plenipotentiary acknowledges to be life, Master Tony would not +shine. The solid qualities you dwelt on so favorably are like rough +carvings; they are not meant for gilding. Now, seeing the deep interest +you and all your family take in this youth, and feeling as I do a sincere +regard for the old lady his mother, in whose society I have passed two or +three delightful mornings, I conceived a sort of project which might +possibly give the young fellow a good chance of success. I thought of +taking him abroad,—on the Continent,—showing him something of +life and the world in a sphere in which he had not yet seen it; letting +him see for himself the value men set upon tact and address, and making +him feel that these are the common coinage daily intercourse requires, +while higher qualities are title-deeds that the world only calls for on +emergencies.” + </p> +<p> +“But you could never have persuaded him to such a position of dependence.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd have called him my private secretary; I'd have treated him as my +equal.” + </p> +<p> +“It was very generous; it was nobly generous.” + </p> +<p> +“When I thought I had made him presentable anywhere,—and it would +not take long to do so—I'd have contrived to bring him under his +uncle's notice,—as a stranger, of course: if the effect were +favorable, well and good; if it proved a failure, there was neither +disappointment nor chagrin. Mrs. Butler gave me a half assent, and I was +on the good road with her son till this morning, when that unlucky meeting +has, I suspect, spoiled everything.” + </p> +<p> +“But why should it?” + </p> +<p> +“Why should anything happen as men's passions or impulses decide it? Why +should one man be jealous of the good fortune that another man has not +won?” + </p> +<p> +She turned away her bead and was silent. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd not have told you one word of this, Mrs. Trafford, if I had not been +so sore pressed that I could n't afford to let you, while defending your +friend, accuse me of want of generosity and unfairness. Let me own it +frankly,—I was piqued by all your praises of this young man; they +sounded so like insidious criticisms on others less fortunate in your +favor.” + </p> +<p> +“As if the great Mr. Maitland could care for any judgments of mine!” said +she; and there was in her voice and manner a strange blending of levity +and seriousness. +</p> +<p> +“They are the judgments that he cares most for in all the world,” said he, +eagerly. “To have heard from your lips one half the praise, one tenth part +of the interest you so lately bestowed on that young man—” + </p> +<p> +“Where are we going, George? What river is this?” exclaimed she, suddenly. +</p> +<p> +“To Tilney Park, ma'am; this is the Larne.” + </p> +<p> +“But it's the upper road, and I told you to take the lower road, by +Captain Graham's.” + </p> +<p> +“No, ma'am; you only said Tilney.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it possible? and did n't you tell him, Mr. Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“I? I knew nothing of the road. To tell you the truth,” added he, in a +whisper, “I cared very little where it led, so long as I sat at your +side.” + </p> +<p> +“Very flattering, indeed! Have we passed the turn to the lower road very +far, George?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, ma'am; it's a good five miles behind us, and a bad bit of road too,—all +fresh stones.” + </p> +<p> +“And you were so anxious to call at the cottage?” said she, addressing +Maitland, with a smile of some significance. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind. I made some sort of silly promise to make a visit as +I passed. I 'm sure I don't know why, or to gratify whom.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, cruel Mr. Maitland, false Mr. Maitland I how can you say this? But +are we to go back?—that is the question; for I see George is very +impatient, and trying to make the horses the same.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course not. Go back! it was all the coachman's fault,—took the +wrong turning, and never discovered his blunder till we were—I don't +know where.” + </p> +<p> +“Tilney, George,—go on,” said she; then turning to Maitland, “and do +you imagine that the charming Sally Graham or the fascinating Rebecca will +understand such flimsy excuses as these, or that the sturdy old Commodore +will put up with them?” + </p> +<p> +“I hope so, for their sakes at least; for it will save them a world of +trouble to do so.” + </p> +<p> +“Ungrateful as well as perfidious! You were a great favorite with the +Grahams. Beck told me, the night before they left the Abbey, that you were +the only <i>élégant</i>—exquisite she called it—she ever met +that was n't a fool.” + </p> +<p> +“The praise was not extravagant. I don't feel my cheek growing hot under +it.” + </p> +<p> +“And Sally said that if she had not seen with her own eyes, she'd never +have believed that a man with such a diamond ring, and such wonderful +pendants to his watch, could hook an eight-pound salmon, and bring him to +land.” + </p> +<p> +“That indeed touches me,” said he, laying his hand over his heart. +</p> +<p> +“And old Graham himself declared to my father that if one of his girls had +a fancy that way, though you were n't exactly his style of man, nor +precisely what he 'd choose—” + </p> +<p> +“Do spare me. I beseech you, have <i>some</i> pity on me.” + </p> +<p> +“That he'd not set himself against it; and that, in fact, with a good +certificate as to character, and the approved guarantee of respectable +people, who had known you some years—” + </p> +<p> +“I implore you to stop.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I'll stop when you tell me the theme is one too delicate to +follow up; but, like all the world, you let one run into every sort of +indiscretion, and only cry Halt when it is too late to retire. The +Grahams, however, are excellent people,—old G. G., as they call him, +a distinguished officer. He cut out somebody or something from under the +guns of a Spanish fort, and the girls have refused—let me see whom +they have not refused; but I 'll make them tell you, for we 'll certainly +call there on our way back.” + </p> +<p> +The malicious drollery with which she poured out all this had heightened +her color and given increased brilliancy to her eyes. Instead of the +languid delicacy which usually marked her features, they shone now with +animation and excitement, and became in consequence far more beautiful. So +striking was the change that Maitland paid little attention to the words, +while he gazed with rapture at the speaker. +</p> +<p> +It must have been a very palpable admiration he bestowed, for she drew +down her veil with an impatient jerk of the hand, and said, “Well, sir, +doesn't this arrangement suit you, or would you rather make your visit to +Port-Graham alone?” + </p> +<p> +“I almost think I would,” said he, laughing. “I suspect it would be +safer.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, now that I know your intentions,—that you have made me your +confidante,—you 'll see that I can be a marvel of discretion.” + </p> +<p> +“Put up your veil again, and you may be as <i>maligne</i> as you please.” + </p> +<p> +“There! yonder is Tilney,” said she, hastily, “where you see those fine +trees. Are the horses distressed, George?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, ma'am, they 've had enough of it” + </p> +<p> +“I mean, are they too tired to go round by the river-side and the old +gate?” + </p> +<p> +“It's a good two miles round, ma'am.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I know what that means,” said she, in a whisper. “If there should be +anything amiss for the next three months, it will be that cruel day's work +down at Tilney will be charged with it. Go in by the new lodge,” added +she, aloud; “and as they have innumerable carriages here, Mr. Maitland, I +'ll take you a drive over there to-morrow. It's a very nice thing, is n't +it, to be as rich as old Mrs. Maxwell, and to be always playing the part +of 'Good Fairy,' giving splendid banquets, delicious little +country-parties to all the world; offering horses to ride, boats to sail +in? What <i>are</i> you looking at so fixedly?” + </p> +<p> +“I think I recognize a conveyance I once had the happiness to travel in. +Isn't that the Graham equipage before us?” + </p> +<p> +“I declare, it is!” cried she, joyfully. “Oh, lucky Mr. Maitland; they are +going to Tilney.” + </p> +<p> +As she spoke, George, indignant at being dusted by a shambling old mare +with long fetlocks, gathered up his team in hand, and sent them “spinning” + past the lumbering jaunting-car, giving the Grahams only time to recognize +the carriage and its two occupants. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIX. TONY'S TROUBLES +</h2> +<p> +When Tony Butler met Mrs. Trafford's carriage, he was on his road, by a +cross path, to the back entrance of Lyle Abbey. It was not his intention +to pay a visit there at that moment, though he was resolved to do so +later. His present errand was to convey a letter he had written to +Maitland, accepting the proposal of the day before. +</p> +<p> +He had not closed his eyes all night thinking of it. There was a +captivation in its promise of adventure that he felt to be irresistible. +He knew too well the defects of his nature and of his intelligence not to +be aware that, in any of the ordinary and recognized paths in life, he +must see himself overtaken and left behind by almost all. What were called +the learned professions were strictly debarred to him. Had he even the +means for the study he would not have the qualities to pursue them. +</p> +<p> +He did not feel that he could take willingly to a trade; as little could +he be a clerk. To be sure, he had obtained this appointment as messenger, +but how disparagingly Maitland had spoken of it! He said, it is true they +“weren't bad things,” that “gentlemen somehow or other managed to live on +them;” but he hinted that these were gentlemen whose knowledge of life had +taught them a variety of little accomplishments,—such as whist, +billiards, and <i>écarté</i>,—which form the traffic of society, and +a very profitable traffic too, to him who knows a little more of them than +his neighbors. Worst of all, it was a career, Maitland said, that led to +nothing. You can become an “old messenger,” if you live long enough, but +nothing more; and he pictured the life of a traveller who had lost every +interest in the road he journeyed,—who, in fact, only thought of it +with reference to the time it occupied,—as one of the dreariest of +all imaginable things. “This monotony,” added he, “will do for the fellow +who has seen everything and done everything; not for the fresh spirit of +youth, eager to taste, to learn, and to enjoy. A man of your stamp ought +to have a wider and better field,—a sphere wherein his very vitality +will have fair play. Try it; follow it if you can, Butler,” said he; “but +I'm much mistaken in you, if you 'll be satisfied to sit down with a +station that only makes you a penny-postman magnified.” Very few of us +have courage to bear such a test as this,—to hear the line we are +about to take, the service we are about to enter, the colony we are about +to sail for, disparaged, unmoved. +</p> +<p> +The unknown has always enough of terror about it without the dark +forebodings of an evil prophet. +</p> +<p> +“I like Maitland's project better,” said Tony, after a long night's +reflection. “At all events, it's the sort of thing to suit <i>me</i>. If I +should come to grief, it will be a sad day for poor mother; but the same +might happen to me when carrying a despatch-bag. I think he ought to have +been more explicit, and let me hear for whom I am to fight, though, +perhaps, it does n't much signify. I could fight for any one but Yankees! +I think I 'll say 'done.' This Maitland is a great 'Don;' has, apparently, +fortune and station. It can't be a mistake to sail in the same boat with +<i>him</i>. I'll certainly say 'done.'” With this resolve he jumped out of +bed, and wrote the following brief note:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Burnside, Tuesday morning. + +“Dear Sir,—I'll not take the three days you gave me +to consider your offer; I accept it at once.—Yours truly, + +“Tony Butler. + +“Norman Maitland, Esq., Lyle Abbey.” + </pre> +<p> +“I'll have to write to Skeffy,” said he to himself, “and say you may tell +my noble patron that I don't want the messengership, and that when next I +call at the Office I 'll kick Willis for nothing. I don't suppose that +this is the formal way of resigning; but I take it they 'll not be sorry +to be quit of me, and it will spare the two old coves in white cravats all +the trouble of having me plucked at the examination. Poor Skeffy won't be +pleased, though; he was to have 'coached me' in foreign tongues and the +Rule of Three. Well, I 'm glad I 'm in for a line of life where nobody +asks about Colenso's Arithmetic, nor has so much as heard of Ollendorff's +Method. Oh dear! how much happier the world must have been when people +weren't so confoundedly well informed!—so awfully brimful of all +knowledge as they now are! In those pleasant days, instead of being a +black sheep, I 'd have been pretty much like the rest of the flock.” + </p> +<p> +The speculations on this topic—this golden age of ignorance and +bliss—occupied him all the way, as he walked over the hills to leave +his letter at the gate-lodge for Mr. Maitland. +</p> +<p> +Resisting all the lodge-keeper's inducements to talk,—for he was an +old friend of Tony's, and wanted much to know where he had been and what +doing of late, and why he was n't up at the Abbey every day as of yore,—Tony +refused to hear of all the sad consequences that had followed on his +absence; how the “two three-year-olds had gone back in their training;” + how “Piper wouldn't let a saddle be put on his back;” how the carp were +all dying in the new pond, nobody knew why,—there was even something +gone wrong with the sun-dial over the stable, as though the sun himself +had taken his departure in dudgeon, and would n't look straight on the +spot since. These were, with many more, shouted after him as he turned +away, while he, laughing, called out, “It will be all right in a day or +two, Mat. I 'll see to everything soon.” + </p> +<p> +“That I 'll not,” muttered he to himself when alone. “The smart hussar—the +brave Captain—may try his hand now. I 'd like to see him on Piper. I +only wish that he may mount him with the saddle tightly girthed; and if he +does n't cut a somerset over his head, my name is n't Tony! Let us see, +too, what he 'll do with those young dogs; they 're wild enough by this +time! I take it he 's too great a swell to know anything about gardening +or grafting; so much the worse for my Lady's flower-pot! There 's one +thing I 'd like to be able to do every morning of my life,” thought he, in +sadder mood,—“just to give Alice's chestnut mare one canter, to make +her neck flexible and her mouth light, and to throw her back on her +haunches. And then, if I could only see Alice on her! just to see her as +she bends down over the mane and pats the mare's shoulder to coax her not +to buck-leap! There never was a picture that equalled it! the mare +snorting and with eyes flashing, and Alice all the while caressing her, +and saying, 'How silly you are, Maida! come, now, do be gentle!'” + </p> +<p> +These thoughts set others in motion,—the happy, happy days of long +ago; the wild, half-reckless gallops over the fern-clad hills in the clear +bright days of winter; or the still more delightful saunterings of a +summer's eve on the sea-shore!—none of them—not one—ever +to come back again. It was just as his reveries had reached so far that he +caught sight of the four dappled grays—they were Alice's own—swinging +smoothly along in that long easy stride by which thoroughbreds persuade +you that work is no distress to them. It was only as they breasted the +hill that he saw that the bearing-reins were not let down,—a +violation of a precept on which he was inexorable; and he hastened, with +all the speed he could, to catch them ere they gained the crest of the +ridge. +</p> +<p> +To say the truth, Tony was somewhat ashamed of himself for his long +absence from the Abbey. If it was not ingratitude, it had a look of it. <i>They</i> +knew nothing of what had passed between Mark and himself, and could only +pronounce upon his conduct as fickleness, or worse; and he was glad of an +opportunity to meet them less formally than by a regular morning visit. +Either Alice and her sister, or Alice alone, were certain to be in the +carriage; for Lady Lyle was too timid to trust herself with those “grays;” + and so he bounded forward, his heart full of expectancy, and burning once +more to hear that voice whose very chidings were as music to him. +</p> +<p> +He was close to the carriage before he saw Maitland,—indeed, the +sight of Alice, as he drew near, had so entranced him that he saw nothing +else; but when his eyes did fall on her companion, a pang shot through him +as though he had been stabbed. In the raging jealousy of the moment +everything was forgotten but his passion,—his hatred of that man. He +'d have given his right hand to be able to hurl at him a mortal defiance, +to have dared him to the death. Indeed, so far as the insolence of his +stare could convey his meaning, it declared an open war between them. Nor +did Maitland's attitude assuage this anger; he lay back with a cool +assumption of superiority—an air of triumphant satisfaction—that +seemed to say, Each of us is in the place that befits him. +</p> +<p> +So overcome was he by passion, that even Alice's invitation to get into +the carnage sounded like an outrage to his ears. It was bitter enough to +cast him off without making him witness the success of another. Maitland's +daring to apologize for him—to explain away why he had or had not +done this, that, or t' other—was more than his endurance could +brook; and as he hurried away from the spot, dashing recklessly down cliff +and crag, and sprang from rock to rock without a thought of the peril, he +almost accused himself of cowardice and cold-bloodedness for not having +insulted him on the instant, and by some open outrage forced upon him a +quarrel from which there could be no retreating. “If I 'd insulted him +before her,” cried he, “he never could have evaded me by calling me an +angry boy.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll have no companionship with him, at all events,” said he, suddenly +checking himself in his speed; “he shall neither be leader nor comrade of +mine. I 'll get my letter back before it reach him.” With this resolve he +turned his steps back again to the Abbey. Although he knew well that he +must reach the lodge before they could return from their drive, he hurried +along as though his life depended on it The keeper was out, but Tony +dashed into the lodge, and found, as he expected, the letter on the +chimney; he tore it into fragments, and turned away. +</p> +<p> +The day was already drawing to a close as he descended the little path to +the Burnside, and saw his mother awaiting him in the porch. As he came +nearer, he perceived that she held up a letter in her hand. “Something +important, Tony dear,” cried she. “It is printed at top, 'On H. M's +Service,' and marked 'Immediate' underneath. I have been very impatient +all the day for your return.” + </p> +<p> +Although Tony's mood at the moment did not dispose him to be on the very +best terms with the world at large, nor even with himself, he felt a +strange sort of vainglorious glow through him at being addressed on a +great square-shaped envelope, “On Her Majesty's Service,” and with a huge +seal, the royal arms affixed. It imparted a sense of self-importance that +was very welcome at such a moment It was a spoonful of brandy to a man not +far from fainting. +</p> +<p> +With all this, he did n't like his mother to see how much this gratified +or interested him; and he tossed the letter to one side, and said, “I hope +the dinner isn't far off; I'm very hungry.” + </p> +<p> +“It will be on the table in a few minutes, Tony; but let us hear what Her +Majesty wants with you.” + </p> +<p> +“It's nothing that won't keep till I have eaten my dinner, mother; at all +events, I don't mean to inquire.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose I may break the seal myself, then,” said she, in a half-pique. +</p> +<p> +“If you like,—if you have any curiosity in the matter.” + </p> +<p> +“That I have,” said she, tearing open the envelope. “Why, it's nothing, +after all, Tony. It's not from Her Majesty at all. It begins 'Dear +Butler.'” + </p> +<p> +“It's from Skeffy,” cried he, taking it from her hands, “and is far more +interesting to me than if it came from the Premier.” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Butler sat down, disappointed and sad. It was a reminiscence of long +ago, that formally shaped document, with its big seal, reminding her of +days when the Colonel—her Colonel—used to receive despatches +from the War Office,—grave documents of which he seldom spoke, but +whose importance she could read in the thoughtful lines of his face, and +which always impressed her with his consequence. “Ah, dear!” sighed she, +drearily, “who would have thought it?” + </p> +<p> +So is it very often in this same world of ours, that the outsides of +things are only solemn cheats. The orderly, who terrifies the village as +he dashes past at speed, is but the bearer of an invitation to dine. The +ambassador's bag is filled not with protocols and treaties, but with +fish-sauce or pickled walnuts; the little sack—marked “most +important”—being choke-full of Russian cigarettes. Even lawn and +lawyers' wigs are occasionally the external coverings to qualities that +fall short of absolute wisdom; so that though Mrs. Butler exclaimed, “Who +would have thought it?” one more conversant with life would have felt less +surprise and less disappointment. +</p> +<p> +A laugh from Tony—almost a hearty laugh—startled her from her +musings. “What is it, Tony dear?” asked she,—“what is it that amuses +you?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll read it all for you, mother. It's from Skeffy, and you 'd think you +heard him talking, it's so like him. +</p> +<p> +“'F. O., Sunday morning. +</p> +<p> +“'Dear Butler,—What a fright you have given us all, old fellow, to +have levanted so suddenly, leaving your traps with the waiter, as we first +thought, but, as we afterwards discovered, exchanging them with one Rory +Quin, who, apparently sorry for his bargain, came for three successive +mornings to the hotel to find out your present whereabouts.' +</p> +<p> +“Do you understand him, mother?” asked Tony at this. +</p> +<p> +“Partly,—go on.” + </p> +<p> +He resumed: “'Rory, however, would seem to have a private scrape of his +own to occupy him now, for I found to-day that a policeman was waiting all +the morning to arrest him, of which he seems to have had timely notice, +for he did not appear, and “R. 960” says, with much solemnity, “he won't +come no more."'” + </p> +<p> +“What does that mean, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“I can make nothing of it. I hope and trust that I am not the cause of the +poor fellow's troubles. I 'll write about this at once. 'More of all this, +however, when we meet, which, I rejoice to say, will be soon. I have got +fourteen days' leave, and am going over to your immediate neighborhood, to +visit an aunt, or a cousin, or a grandmother,—if she likes,—a +certain Mrs. Maxwell of Tilney, who has lots of cash, and no one to leave +it to,—five thousand a year in estate; I don't know what in the +Threes; and is, they tell me, weighing all her relatives, real or +imaginary, in the balance of her esteem, to decide who is to be the Lord +of Tilney, and which of us would most worthily represent her name and +house. Preaching for a call is nothing to this; and a C. S. examination is +cakes and gingerbread to it Just fancy a grand competitive dinner of both +sexes, and the old lady watching who ate of her favorite dish, or who +passed the decanter she “affectioned.” Imagine yourself talking, moving, +sneezing, smiling, or blowing your nose, with five thousand a year on the +issue. Picture to your mind the tortures of a scrutiny that may take in +anything, from your complexion to your character, and which, though +satisfied with your morals, might discover “something unpleasing about +your mouth.” + </p> +<p> +“'Worst news of all, I hear that the great Norman Maitland is somewhere in +your vicinity, and, of course, will be invited wherever anything is going +on. If he cares to do it, I suppose he 'll cut us all out, and that the +old lady would rather fancy she made a graceful exit from life if this +illustrious swell were to play chief mourner to her. By the way, do you +know the man I 'm talking of? He's a monstrous clever fellow, and a great +mystery to boot. I know him very slightly; indeed, so slightly that I'm +not sure he knows<i> me</i>. +</p> +<p> +“'As it would be invaluable to me to have a word of counsel from you, +knowing nothing, or next to nothing, of my dear relative, I mean to start +directly for you at once, and have one day with you before I go on to +Tilney. Will this bore you, or inconvenience you? Is your house full? Most +houses are at this time o' year.'” + </p> +<p> +At this Tony laid down the letter and laughed immoderately; not so, +however, his mother. She turned her head away, and sat, with her hands +closely locked, in silence. +</p> +<p> +“Is n't it good,—is n't it downright droll, mother, to ask if our +house be so full of guests we have no room for another? I declare, though +it has a sore side to it, the question overcomes me with its absurdity.” + </p> +<p> +“That's not the way I 'm looking at it, Tony,” said she, sadly. +</p> +<p> +“But there's no other way to look at it. If one can't take that view of +it, one would—” He stopped suddenly, for he saw the old lady lift +her handkerchief to her eyes, and hold it there. “But you are right, +mother,” said he, quickly. “To bear it well, one need n't laugh at it. At +all events, what answer are we to make him?” + </p> +<p> +“Finish the letter first.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, this is all about putting him up—anywhere—in a +dressing-room or a closet. 'At Carlscourt, last year, they had nothing to +give me but a bathroom. They used to quiz me about sleeping in “marble +halls,” for I lay in the bath.'” + </p> +<p> +“He seems a good-tempered creature,” said the old lady, who could not +repress a laugh this time. +</p> +<p> +“The best in the world; and such spirits! I wish you saw him do the +back-somersault over a chair, or the frog's leap across a table. For all +that, mother,” said he, with a change of tone, “he's a perfect gentleman; +and though he's very short,—only so high,—he looks a +gentleman, too.” + </p> +<p> +“I am not likely to forget all his kindness to you, Tony,” said she, +feelingly. “If we could only receive him suitably, I 'd be happy and proud +to do it; as it is, however, the man, being a gentleman, will put up all +the better with our humble entertainment: so just tell him to come, Tony; +but tell him, also, what he's coming to. His room will be pretty much like +the bathroom, and the company he'll meet afterwards very unlike what he +saw at the fine house.” + </p> +<p> +“He 'll take all in good part, or I 'm much mistaken in him. So here goes +for the answer:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'Dear Skeff,—We live in a cottage with five rooms. We have +one maidservant, and we dine at two. If you have courage to +face all this, you'll have the heartiest of welcomes from my +mother and your sincere friend, + +“'Tony Butler. + +“'The mail will drop you at Coleraine, and I 'll be on the +look-out for you every morning from this forward.' +</pre> +<p> +“Won't that do, mother?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“I think you might have done it better; but I suppose you young folk +understand each other best in your own fashion, so let it be.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XX. THE MINISTER'S VISIT +</h2> +<p> +While Tony was absent that morning from home, Mrs. Butler had a visit from +Dr. Stewart; he came over, he said, to see Tony, and ask the news of what +he had done in England. “I hope, ma'am,” said he,—and there was +something dry and reserved in his manner,—“I hope, ma'am, your son +has brought you good tidings of his late journey. A big city is a big +temptation, and we dinna want temptations in this world of ours.” + </p> +<p> +“I know it well, doctor,” said she, with a sigh; “and if it had been any +other than Tony—Ah, doctor! why do you shake your head? you make me +think you 've heard something or other. What is it, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“It's just nothing at all, Mrs. Butler, but your own fears, and very +proper fears too they are, for a young lad that goes away from home for +the first time in his life, and to such a place too. Ah me!” cried he, in +a soil of apostrophe, “it 's not so easy to be in grace down about Charing +Cross and the Hay market.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're just frightening me, Dr. Stewart; that's what it is you are +doing.” + </p> +<p> +“And I say it again, ma'am, it's yourself is the cause o' it all. But tell +me what success he has had,—has he seen Sir Harry Elphinstone?” + </p> +<p> +“That he has, and seen a greater than Sir Harry; he has come back with a +fine place, doctor; he's to be one of the Queen's—I forget whether +they call them couriers or messengers—that bring the state +despatches all over the world; and, as poor dear Tony says, it's a place +that was made for him,—for they don't want Greek or Latin, or any +more book-learning than a country gentleman should have. +</p> +<p> +“What are you sighing about, Dr. Stewart? There's nothing to sigh over +getting five, maybe six, hundred a year.” + </p> +<p> +“I was not sighing; I was only thinkin'. And when is he to begin this new +life?” + </p> +<p> +“If you are sighing over the fall it is for a Butler, one of his kith and +kin, taking a very humble place, you may just spare your feelings, doctor, +for there are others as good as himself in the same employ.” + </p> +<p> +“And what does Sir Arthur say to it, ma'am?” asked he, as it were to +divert her thoughts into another course. +</p> +<p> +“Well, if you must know, Dr. Stewart,” said she, drawing herself up and +smoothing down her dress with dignity, “we have ventured to take this step +without consulting Sir Arthur or any of his family.” + </p> +<p> +A somewhat long silence ensued. At last she said: “If Tony was at home, +doctor, he 'd tell you how kindly his father's old friend received him,—taking +up stories of long ago, and calling him Watty, just as he used to do. And +so, if they did not give my poor boy a better place, it was because there +was nothing just ready at the moment, perhaps,—or nothing to fit +him; for, as Sir Harry said laughingly, 'We can't make you a bishop, I +fear.'” + </p> +<p> +“I dinna see anything against it,” muttered the old minister, not sorry +for the chance of a shot against Episcopacy. +</p> +<p> +“I'm thinking, Dr. Stewart,” said she, tartly, “that your rheumatism must +be troubling you to-day; and, indeed, I 'm ashamed to say I never asked +you how the pains were?” + </p> +<p> +“I might be better, and I might be worse, ma'am,” was the qualified reply; +and again came a pause. +</p> +<p> +“Tony was saying the other day, doctor,” resumed she, “that if you will +try a touch of what he calls the white oils.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm very much obliged to him, Mrs. Butler; he put a touch of the same +white oils on my pony one day, and the beast that was always a lamb before +just kicked me over his head when I got into the saddle.” + </p> +<p> +“You forget, doctor, you are not a beast of burden yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“We 're all beasts of burden, ma'am,—all of us,—even the best, +if there be any best! heavy laden wi' our sins, and bent down wi' our +transgressions. No, no,” added he, with a slight asperity, “I 'll have +none of his white oils.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you know the proverb, doctor, 'He that winna use the means must +bear the moans.'” + </p> +<p> +“'T is a saying that hasna much sense in it,” said the doctor, crankily; +“for who's to say when the means is blessed?” + </p> +<p> +Here was a point that offered so wide a field for discussion that the old +lady did not dare to make a rejoinder. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll be going to Derry to-morrow, Mrs. Butler,” resumed he, “if I can be +of any service to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Going to Derry, doctor? that's a long road for you!” + </p> +<p> +“So it is, ma'am; but I'm going to fetch back my dochter Dolly; she's to +come by the packet to-morrow evening.” + </p> +<p> +“Dolly coming home! How is that? You did not expect her, did you?” + </p> +<p> +“Not till I got her letter this morning; and that's what made me come over +to ask if Tony had, maybe, told you something about how she was looking, +and what sort of spirits she seemed in; for her letter's very short; only +says, 'I 've got a kind of longing to be back again, dear father; as the +song says, “It's hame, and it's hame, and it's hame I fain wad be;” and as +I know well there will be an open heart and an open door to greet me, I 'm +off tonight for Liverpool.'” + </p> +<p> +“She 's a good girl, and whatever she does it will be surely for the +best,” said the old lady. +</p> +<p> +“I know it well;” and he wiped his eyes as he spoke. “But I 'm sore +troubled to think it's maybe her health is breaking, and I wanted to ask +Tony about her. D' ye remember, ma'am, how he said she was looking?” + </p> +<p> +Now, if there was anything thoroughly repugnant to the old lady's habits, +it was untruthfulness; and yet, as Tony had not mentioned Dolly since his +return, her only escape was by a little evasion, saying, “When he wrote to +me his first letter from London, doctor, he said, 'I was sorry to find +Dolly looking pale, and I thought thin also; besides,' added he, 'they +have cut off her pretty brown hair.'” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, she told me of that,” sighed the doctor. “And in her last note she +says again, 'Dinna think me a fright father dear, for it's growing again, +and I 'm not half so ugly as I was three weeks ago;' for the lassie knows +it was always a snare to me, and I was ever pleased wi' her bright, cheery +face.” + </p> +<p> +“And a bright, cheery face it was!” + </p> +<p> +“Ye mind her smile, Mrs. Butler. It was like hearing good news to see it. +Her mother had the same.” And the old man's lip trembled, and his cheek +too, as a heavy tear rolled slowly down it. “Did it ever strike you, +ma'am,” added he, in a calmer tone, “that there's natures in this world +gi'en to us just to heal the affections, as there are herbs and plants +sent to cure our bodily ailments?” + </p> +<p> +“It's a blessed thought, doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“Eh, ma'am, it's more than a thought; it's a solemn truth. But I 'm +staying o'er-long; I 've to go over to John Black's and see his sister +before I leave; and I 'd like, too, to say a word o' comfort to auld Matty +McClintock.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll be back for the Sabbath, doctor?” asked she. +</p> +<p> +“Wi' <i>His</i> help and blessing, ma'am.” + </p> +<p> +“I was thinking if maybe you and dear Dolly would come and take dinner +here—Saturday—there will be nothing ready for you at home; and +it would be such a pleasure to Tony before he goes away.” + </p> +<p> +“T thank you heartily, Mrs. Butler; but our first evening under the auld +roof we must e'en have it by ourselves. You 'll no think the worse o' us +for this, I am sure, ma'am.” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not; then shall we say Monday? Dolly will be rested by that +time, and Tony talks of leaving me so soon.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll just, wi' your good leave—I 'll just wait till I see Dolly; +for maybe she 'll no be ower-strong when she comes. There's nothing I can +do for you in Derry, is there?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing, sir,—nothing that I think of at this moment,” said she, +coldly; for the doctor's refusal of her second invitation had piqued her +pride, and whether it was from his depression or some other cause, the +doctor himself seemed less cordial than was his wont, and took his leave +with more ceremony than usual. +</p> +<p> +The old lady watched him till he was out of sight, sorely perplexed to +divine whether he had really unburdened his conscience of all he had to +say, or had yet something on his mind unrevealed. Her kindly nature, +however, in the end, mastered all other thoughts; and as she sat down once +more to her knitting, she muttered, “Poor man! it's a sore stroke of +poverty when the sight of one's only child coming back to them brings the +sense of distress and want with it.” The words were not well uttered when +she saw Tony coming up the little pathway; he was striding along at his +own strong pace, but his hat was drawn down over his brows, and be neither +looked right nor left as he went. +</p> +<p> +“Did you meet the doctor, Tony?” said she, as she opened the door for him. +</p> +<p> +“No; how should I meet him? I've not been to the Burn Bide.” + </p> +<p> +“But he has only left the house this minute,—you must have passed +each other.” + </p> +<p> +“I came down the cliff. I was taking a short cut,” said he, as he threw +himself into a seat, evidently tired and weary. +</p> +<p> +“He has been here to say that he's off for Derry to-night with the mail to +meet Dolly.” + </p> +<p> +“To meet Dolly!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, she's coming back; and the doctor cannot say why, for she's over +that fever she had, and getting stronger every day; and yet she writes, +'You must come and fetch me from Derry, father, for I 'm coming home to +you.' And the old man is sore distressed to make out whether she's ill +again, or what's the meaning of it. And he thought, if he saw you, it was +just possible you could tell him something.” + </p> +<p> +“What could I tell him? Why should he imagine I could tell him?” said +Tony, as a deep crimson flush covered his face. +</p> +<p> +“Only how she was looking, Tony, and whether you thought she seemed happy +where she was living, and if the folk looked kind to her.” + </p> +<p> +“I thought she looked very sickly, and the people about her—the +woman at least—not over-kind. I'm not very sure, too, that Dolly +herself was n't of my mind, though she did n't say so. Poor girl!” + </p> +<p> +“It's the poor old father I pity the most, Tony; he's not far off seventy, +if he 's not over it; and sore work he finds it keeping body and soul +together; and now he has the poor sick lassie come back to him, wanting +many a little comfort, belike, that he can't afford her. Ah, dear! is n't +there a deal of misery in this life?” + </p> +<p> +“Except for the rich,” said Tony, with an almost savage energy. “They +certainly have fine times of it. I saw that fellow, Maitland, about an +hour ago, lolling beside Alice Lyle—Trafford, I mean, in her +carriage, as if he owned the equipage and all it contained; and why? Just +because he is rich.” + </p> +<p> +“He's a fine handsome man, Tony, and has fine manners, and I would not +call him a fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“I would, then; and if he only gives me the chance, I 'll call him a +harder name to his face.” + </p> +<p> +“Tony, Tony, how can you speak so of one that wanted to befriend you?” + </p> +<p> +“Befriend me, mother! You make me ashamed to bear you say such a word. +Befriend me!” + </p> +<p> +“What's the matter with you, Tony? You are not talking, no, nor looking +like yourself. What's befallen you, my dear Tony? You went out this +morning so gay and light-hearted, it made me cheery to see you. Ay, and I +did what I 've not done for many a day, I sang to myself over my work +without knowing it, and now you 're come back as dark as night. What's in +it, my boy? tell your poor old mother. What's in it?” + </p> +<p> +“There's nothing in it, my own little mother, except that I'm a +good-for-nothing, discontented dog, that sees himself in a very shabby +condition without having the pluck to try and get out of it. I say, +mother, when are we to begin our lessons? That confounded river Danube +goes between me and my rest. Whether it rises in the Black Sea or the +Black Forest is just as great a puzzle to me as whether the word is spelt +'peo' or 'poe' in 'people.'” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Tony!” + </p> +<p> +“It's all very well saying, 'Oh, Tony;' but I tell you, mother, a stupid +fellow ought never to be told two ways for anything: never say to him, you +can do it in this fashion or in that; but, there's the road straight +before you; take care you never go off it.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Maitland made that same remark to me last week.” + </p> +<p> +“Then don't tell it to me, for I hate him. By the way, there's that gun of +his. I forgot to take it back to Lyle Abbey. I think it was precious cool +in him to suppose a stranger—a perfect stranger, as I am—would +accept a present from him.” + </p> +<p> +“If you are going to the Abbey, Tony, I wish you 'd leave these books +there, and thank my Lady for all her kind attentions to me; and say a word +to Sir Arthur, too, to excuse my not seeing him when he called. Tell +Gregg, the gardener, not to send me any more vegetables now; it's the +scarce season, and they 'll be wanting them for themselves; and if you +should chance to see Mr. Lockyer, the steward, just mention to him that +the new sluice is just no good at all, and when the rain comes heavy, and +the mill is not working, the water comes up to the kitchen door. Are you +minding me, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not sure that I am,” said he, moodily, as he stood examining the +lock of the well-finished rifle. “I was to tell Lady Lyle something about +cabbages or the mill-race,—which was it?” + </p> +<p> +“You are not to make a fool of yourself, Tony,” said she, half vexed and +half amused. “I 'll keep my message for another day.” + </p> +<p> +“And you'll do well,” said he; “besides, I'm not very sure that I 'll go +further than the gate-lodge;” and so saying, he took his hat, and, with +the rifle on his shoulder, strolled out of the room. +</p> +<p> +“Ah! he 's more like his father every day!” sighed she, as she looked +after him; and if there was pride in the memory, there was some pain also. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXI. A COMFORTABLE COUNTRY-HOUSE +</h2> +<p> +If a cordial host and a graceful hostess can throw a wondrous charm over +the hospitalities of a house, there is a feature in those houses where +neither host nor hostess is felt which contributes largely to the +enjoyment of the assembled company. I suspect, indeed, that republics work +more smoothly domestically than nationally. Tilney was certainly a case in +point. Mrs. Maxwell was indeed the owner,—the demesne, the stables, +the horses, the gardens, the fish-ponds, were all hers; but somehow none +of the persons under her roof felt themselves her guests. It was an +establishment in which each lived as he liked, gave his own orders, and +felt very possibly more at home, in the pleasant sense of the phrase, than +in his own house. Dinner alone was a “fixture;” everything else was at the +caprice of each. The old lady herself was believed to take great pride in +the perfect freedom her guests enjoyed; and there was a story current of a +whole family who partook of her hospitalities for three weeks, meeting her +once afterwards in a watering-place, and only recognizing her as an old +woman they saw at Tilney. Other tales there were of free comments of +strangers made upon the household, the dinners, and such-like to herself, +in ignorance of who she was, which she enjoyed vastly, and was fond of +relating, in strict confidence, to her few intimates. +</p> +<p> +If there were a number of pleasant features in such a household, there +were occasionally little trifling drawbacks that detracted slightly from +its perfect working,—mere specks in the sun, it is true, and, after +all, only such defects as are inseparable from all things where humanity +enters and influences. One of these—perhaps the most marked one—was +the presumption of certain <i>habitués</i> to install themselves in +certain rooms, which, from long usage, they had come to regard as their +own. These prescriptive rights were so well understood that the +frequenters of Tilney no more thought of disturbing them than they would +of contesting their neighbors' title-deeds, or appropriating to themselves +some portions of their wardrobes. Occasionally, however, it did happen +that some guest of more than ordinary pretension arrived,—some +individual whose rank or station placed him above these conventionalities,—and +in such cases some deviations from ordinary routine would occur, but so +quietly and peacefully withal as never to disturb the uniform working of +the domestic machinery. +</p> +<p> +“I find my rooms always ready for me here,” said Mrs. Trafford; “and I +have no doubt that Mrs. Maxwell has given orders about yours, Mr. +Maitland; but it's your own fault, remember, if you 're not lodged to your +liking.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland was not long in making his choice. A little garden pavilion, +which was connected with the house by a glass corridor, suited him +perfectly; it combined comfort and quiet and isolation,—who could +ask for more?—within an easy access of society when it was wanted. +There was the vast old garden, as much orchard and shrubbery as garden, to +stroll in unobserved; and a little bathroom into which the water trickled +all day long with a pleasant drip, drip, that sounded most soothingly. +</p> +<p> +“It's the Commodore's favorite place, sir, this garden-house,” said the +butler, who did the honors to Maitland, “and it's only a chance that he's +not here to claim it. There was some mistake about his invitation, and I +suppose he's not coming.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I passed him a couple of miles off; he 'll be here almost +immediately.” + </p> +<p> +“We 'll put him up on the second floor, sir; the rooms are all newly done +up, and very handsome.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm sorry if I inconvenience him, Mr. Raikes,” said Maitland, languidly; +“but I've got here now, and I'm tired, and my traps are half taken out; +and, in fact, I should be sorrier still to have to change. You understand +me,—don't you?” + </p> +<p> +“Perfectly, sir; and my mistress, too, gave orders that you were to have +any room you pleased; and your own hours, too, for everything.” + </p> +<p> +“She is most kind. When can I pay my respects to her?” + </p> +<p> +“Before dinner, sir, is the usual time. All the new company meet her in +the drawing-room. Oh, there's the Commodore now; I hear his voice, and I +declare they 're bringing his trunks here, after all I said.” + </p> +<p> +The old sailor was now heard, in tones that might have roused a main-deck, +calling to the servants to bring down all his baggage to the pavilion, to +heat the bath, and send him some sherry and a sandwich. +</p> +<p> +“I see you 're getting ready for me, Raikes,” said he, as the somewhat +nervous functionary appeared at the door. +</p> +<p> +“Well, indeed, Commodore Graham, these rooms are just taken.” + </p> +<p> +“Taken! and by whom? Don't you know, and have n't you explained, that they +are always mine?” + </p> +<p> +“We thought up to this morning, Commodore, that you were not coming.” + </p> +<p> +“Who are 'we,'—you and the housemaids, eh? Tell me who are 'we,' +sir?” + </p> +<p> +“My mistress was greatly distressed, sir, at George's mistake, and she +sent him back late last night.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't bother me about that. Who's here,—who has got my quarters, +and where is he? I suppose it's a man.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a Mr. Norman Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“By George, I'd have sworn it!” cried the Commodore, getting purple with +passion. “I knew it before you spoke. Go in and say that Commodore Graham +would wish to speak with him.” + </p> +<p> +“He has just lain down, sir; he said he did n't feel quite well, and +desired he mightn't be disturbed.” + </p> +<p> +“He's not too ill to hear a message. Go in and say that Commodore Graham +wishes to have one word with him. Do you hear me, sir?” + </p> +<p> +A flash of the old man's eye and a tighter grasp of his cane—very +significant in their way—sent Mr. Raikes on his errand, from which, +after a few minutes, he came back, saying, in a low whisper, “He's asleep, +sir,—at least I think so; for the bedroom door is locked, and his +breathing comes very long.” + </p> +<p> +“This is about the most barefaced, the most outrageously impudent—” + He stopped, checked by the presence of the servant, which he had totally +forgotten. “Take my traps back into the hall,—do you hear me?—the +hall.” + </p> +<p> +“If you 'd allow me, sir, to show the yellow rooms upstairs, with the bow +window—” + </p> +<p> +“In the attics, I hope?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir,—just over the mistress's own room on the second floor.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll save you that trouble, Mr. Raikes; send Corrie here, my coachman,—send +him here at once.” + </p> +<p> +While Mr. Raikes went, or affected to go, towards the stables,—a +mission which his dignity secretly scorned,—the Commodore called out +after him, “And tell him to give the mare a double feed, and put on the +harness again,—do you hear me?—to put the harness on her.” + </p> +<p> +Mr. Raikes bowed respectfully; but had the Commodore only seen his face, +he would have seen a look that said, “What I now do must not be taken as a +precedent,—I do it, as the lawyers say, 'without prejudice.'” + </p> +<p> +In a glow of hot temper, to which the ascent of two pairs of stairs +contributed something, the old Commodore burst into the room where his +daughters were engaged unpacking. Sofas, tables, and chairs were already +covered with articles of dress, rendering his progress a matter of very +nice steering through the midst of them. +</p> +<p> +“Cram them in again,—stow them all away!” cried he; “we 're going +back.” + </p> +<p> +“Back where?” asked the elder, in a tone of dignified resistance years of +strong opposition had taught her. +</p> +<p> +“Back to Port-Graham, if you know such a place. I 've ordered the car +round to the door, and I mean to be off in a quarter of an hour.” + </p> +<p> +“But why—what has happened? what's the reason for this?” + </p> +<p> +“The reason is that I 'm not going to be packed up in the top story, or +given a bed in a barrack room. That fellow Raikes,—I 'll remember it +to him next Christmas,—that fellow has gone and given the +garden-house to that Mr. Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, is that all?” broke in Miss Graham. +</p> +<p> +“All, all! Why, what more would you have? Did you expect that he had told +me to brush his coat or fetch his hot water? What the d——l do +you mean by 'all'?” + </p> +<p> +“Then why don't you take Mrs. Chetwyn's rooms? They are on this floor. +She's going now. They are most comfortable, and have a south aspect: by +the way she was just talking of Maitland; she knows all about him, and he +is the celebrated Norman Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, let us hear that. I want to unearth the fellow if I only knew how,” + said he, taking a chair. +</p> +<p> +“There's nothing to unearth, papa,” said the younger daughter. “Mrs. +Chetwyn says that there's not a man in England so courted and feted as he +is; that people positively fight for him at country-houses; and it's a +regular bait to one's company to say, 'We 're to have Maitland with us.'” + </p> +<p> +“And who is he?” + </p> +<p> +“She does n't know.” + </p> +<p> +“What's his fortune?” + </p> +<p> +“She doesn't know.” + </p> +<p> +“Where is it?” + </p> +<p> +“She's not sure. It must be somewhere abroad,—in India, perhaps.” + </p> +<p> +“So that this old woman knows just as much as we do ourselves,—which +is simply nothing, but that people go on asking this man about to this +dinner and that shooting just because they met him somewhere else, and he +amused them.” + </p> +<p> +“'T is pretty clear that he has money, wherever it comes from,” said Miss +Graham, authoritatively. “He came to Hamilton Court with four hunters and +three hackneys, the like of which were never seen in the county.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell papa about his yacht,” broke in the younger. +</p> +<p> +“I don't want to hear about his yacht; I 'd rather learn why he turned me +out of my old quarters.” + </p> +<p> +“In all probability he never heard they were yours. Don't you know well +what sort of house this is,—how everybody does what he likes?” + </p> +<p> +“Why didn't Alice Lyle—Mrs. Trafford, I mean—tell him that I +always took these rooms.” + </p> +<p> +“Because probably she was thinking of something else,” said Miss Graham, +significantly. “Mrs. Chetwyn watched them as they drove up, and she +declared that, if Maitland had n't his hand in her muff, her eyes have +greatly deceived her.” + </p> +<p> +“And what if he had?” + </p> +<p> +“Simply that it means they are on very excellent terms. Not that Alice +will make any real conquest there: for, as Mrs. Chetwyn said, 'he has seen +far too many of these fine-lady airs and graces to be taken by them;' and +she added, 'A frank, outspoken, natural girl, like your sister there, +always attracts men of this stamp.'” + </p> +<p> +“Why didn't he come over on Wednesday, then? It was his own appointment, +and we waited dinner till seven o'clock, and have not had so much as one +line—no, not one line of apology.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps he was ill, perhaps he was absent; his note might have +miscarried. At all events, I 'd wait till we meet him, and see what +explanation he 'll make.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, papa,” chimed in Beck, “just leave things alone. 'A strange hand on +the rod never hooked the salmon,' is a saying of your own.” + </p> +<p> +“There's that stupid fellow brought the car round to the door; just as if +our splendid equipage had n't attracted criticism enough on our arrival,” + said Miss Graham, as she opened the window, and by a gesture more eloquent +than graceful motioned to the servant to return to the stableyard; “and +there come the post-horses,” added she, “for the Chetwyns. Go now and +secure her rooms before you 're too late;” and, rather forcibly aiding her +counsel, she bundled the old Commodore out of the chamber, and resumed the +unpacking of the wardrobe. +</p> +<p> +“I declare, I don't know what he'll interfere in next,” said Miss Graham. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Beck, with a weary sigh, “I wish he'd go back to the American +war, and what we did or did not do at Ticonderoga.” + </p> +<p> +Leaving these young ladies to discuss in a spirit more critical than +affectionate the old Commodore's ways and habits, let us for a moment +return to Maitland who had admitted young Lyle after two unsuccessful +attempts to see him. +</p> +<p> +“It's no easy matter to get an audience of you,” said Mark. “I have been +here I can't say how many times, always to hear Fenton lisp out. In the +bath sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. I usually take my siesta that way. With plenty of eau-de-Cologne in +it there 'a no weakening effect. Well, and what is going on here? any +people that I know? I suppose not.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think it very likely: they are all country families, except a few +refreshers from the garrison at Newry and Dundalk.” + </p> +<p> +“And what do they do?” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty much the same sort of thing you 'd find in an English +country-house. There 's some not very good shooting. They make +riding-parties. They have archery when it's fine, and billiards when it +rains; but they always dine very well at seven, that much I can promise +you.” + </p> +<p> +“Not such a cook as your father's, Lyle, I 'm certain.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps not,” said Mark, evidently flattered by the compliment. “But the +cellar here is unequalled. Do you know that in the mere shadowy +possibility of being one day her heir, I groan every time I see that +glorious Madeira placed on the table before a set of fellows that smack +their lips and say, 'It's good sherry, but a trifle too sweet for my +taste.'” + </p> +<p> +“And this same heritage,—how do the chances look?” + </p> +<p> +“I shall want your power of penetration to say that. One day the old woman +will take me aside and consult me about fifty things; and the next she'll +say, 'Perhaps we'd better make no changes, Mark. Heaven knows what ideas +they may have who 'll come after me.' She drives me half distracted with +these capricious turns.” + </p> +<p> +“It is provoking, no doubt of it.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd not care so much if I thought it was to fall to Bella; though, to be +sure, no good-looking girl needs such a fortune as this. Do you know that +the timber thrown down by the late gales is worth eight thousand pounds? +and Harris the steward tells me it's not one fourth of what ought to be +felled for the sake of the young wood.” + </p> +<p> +“And she has the whole and sole disposal of all this?” + </p> +<p> +“Every stick of it, and some six thousand acres besides!” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd marry her if I were you. I declare I would.” + </p> +<p> +“Nonsense! this is a little too absurd.” + </p> +<p> +“Amram married his aunt, and I never heard that she had such a dower; not +to say that the relationship in the present case is only a myth.” + </p> +<p> +“Please to remember that she is about thirty years older than my mother.” + </p> +<p> +“I bear it most fully in mind, and I scout the vulgar impertinences of +those who ridicule these marriages. I think there is something actually +touching in the watchful care and solicitude of a youthful husband for the +venerable object of his affections.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you shall not point the moral by my case, I promise you,” said +Mark, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“That sublime spectacle that the gods are said to love—a great man +struggling with adversity—is so beautifully depicted in these +unions.” + </p> +<p> +“Then why not—” He was going to say, “Why not marry her yourself?” + but the fear of taking such a liberty with his distinguished friend just +caught him in time and stopped him. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you why not,” said Maitland, replying to the unuttered +question. “If you have ever dined at a civic <i>fête</i> you 'll have +remarked that there is some one dish or other the most gluttonous alderman +will suffer to pass untasted,—a sort of sacrifice offered to public +opinion. And so it is, an intensely worldly man, as people are polite +enough to regard me, must show, every now and then, that there are +temptations which he is able to resist. Marrying for money is one of +these. I might speculate in a bubble company, I might traffic in cotton +shares, or even 'walk into' my best friend al faro, but I mustn't marry +for money,—that's positive.” + </p> +<p> +“But apparently <i>I</i> might,” said Mark, sulkily. +</p> +<p> +“You might,” replied Maitland, with calm dignity of manner. +</p> +<p> +“It is a privilege of which I do not mean to avail myself,” said Mark, +while his face was flushed with temper. “Do you know that your friends the +Grahams are here?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; I caught a glimpse of the fair Rebecca slipping sideways through +life on a jaunting-car.” + </p> +<p> +“And there's the old Commodore tramping over the house, and worrying every +one with his complaints that you have turned him out of his rooms here,—rooms +dedicated to his comfort for the last thirty years.” + </p> +<p> +“Reason enough to surrender them now. Men quit even the Treasury benches +to give the Opposition a turn of office.” + </p> +<p> +“He 's a quarrelsome old blade, too,” said Mark, “particularly if he +suspects he's been 'put upon.'” + </p> +<p> +“No blame to him for that.” + </p> +<p> +“A word or two, said as you well know how to say it, will set all right; +or a line, perhaps, saying that having accidentally heard from me—” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, Mark. Written excuses are like undated acceptances, and they may +be presented unexpectedly to you years after you 've forgotten them. I 'll +tell the Commodore that I shall not inconvenience him beyond a day or two, +for I mean to start by the end of the week.” + </p> +<p> +“They expect you to come back with us. Alice told me you had promised.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>L'homme propose</i>,” said he, sighing. “By the way, I saw that young +fellow you told me about,—Butler; a good-looking fellow, too, well +limbed and well set up, but not a marvel of good-breeding or tact.” + </p> +<p> +“Did he attempt any impertinences with <i>you?</i>” asked Mark, in a tone +of amazement. +</p> +<p> +“Not exactly; he was not, perhaps, as courteous as men are who care to +make a favorable impression; but he is not, as you suspected,—he is +not a snob.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said Mark, reddening; for, though provoked and angry, he did not +like to contest the judgment of Norman Maitland on such a point. “You 'll +delight my sisters by this expression of your opinion; for my own part, I +can only say I don't agree with it.” + </p> +<p> +“The more reason not to avow it, Lyle. Whenever you don't mean very well +by a man, never abuse him, since, after that, all your judgments of him +become <i>suspect</i>. Remember that where you praise you can detract; +nobody has such unlimited opportunities to poison as the doctor. There, +now,—there's a bit of Machiavelism to think over as you dress for +dinner, and I see it's almost time to do so.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXII. THE DINNER AT TILNEY. +</h2> +<p> +When Maitland entered the drawing-room before dinner, the Commodore was +standing in the window-recess pondering over in what way he should receive +him; while Sally and Beck sat somewhat demurely watching the various +presentations to which Mrs. Maxwell was submitting her much-valued guest. +At last Maitland caught sight of where they sat, and hurried across the +room to shake hands with them, and declare the delight he felt at meeting +them. “And the Commodore, is he here?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; I 'll find him for you,” said Beck, not sorry to display before her +country acquaintance the familiar terms she stood on with the great Mr. +Maitland. +</p> +<p> +With what a frank cordiality did he shake the old sailor's hand, and how +naturally came that laugh about nothing, or something very close to +nothing, that Graham said, in allusion to the warm quarters they found +themselves in. “Such Madeira!” whispered he, “and some old '34 claret. By +the way, you forgot your promise to taste mine.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you how that occurred when we 've a quiet moment together,” + said Maitland, in a tone of such confidential meaning that the old man was +reassured at once. “I 've a good deal to say to you; but we 'll have a +morning together. You know every one here? Who is that with all the medals +on his coat?” + </p> +<p> +“General Carnwroth; and that old woman with the blue turban is his wife; +and these are the Grimsbys; and that short man with the bald head is +Holmes of Narrow Bank, and the good-looking girl there is his niece,—and +heiress too.” + </p> +<p> +“What red arms she has!” whispered Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“So they are, by Jove!” said Graham, laughing; “and I never noticed it +before.” + </p> +<p> +“Take me in to dinner,” said Mrs. Trafford, in a low voice, as she swept +past Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“I can't. Mrs. Maxwell has ordered me to give her my arm,” said he, +following her; and they went along for some paces, conversing. +</p> +<p> +“Have you made your peace with the Grahams?” asked she, smiling half +maliciously. +</p> +<p> +“In a fashion; at least, I have put off the settling-day.” + </p> +<p> +“If you take to those morning rambles again with the fair Rebecca, I warn +you it will not be so easy to escape an explanation. Here's Mrs. Maxwell +come to claim you.” + </p> +<p> +Heaving with fat and velvet and bugles and vulgar good-humor, the old lady +leaned heavily on Maitland's arm, really proud of her guest, and honestly +disposed to show him that she deemed his presence an honor. “It seems like +a dream to me,” said she, “to see you here after reading of your name so +often in the papers at all the great houses in England. I never fancied +that old Tilney would be so honored.” + </p> +<p> +It was not easy to acknowledge such a speech, and even Maitland's +self-possession was pushed to its last limits by it; but this awkward +feeling soon passed away under the genial influence of the pleasant +dinner. And it was as pleasant a dinner as good fare and good wine and a +well-disposed company could make it. +</p> +<p> +At first a slight sense of reserve, a shade of restraint, seemed to hold +conversation in check, and more particularly towards where Maitland sat, +showing that a certain dread of him could be detected amongst those who +would have fiercely denied if charged with such a sentiment. +</p> +<p> +The perfect urbanity, tinctured, perhaps, with a sort of racy humor, with +which Maitland acknowledged the old Commodore's invitation to take wine +with him, did much to allay this sense of distrust. “I say, Maitland,” + cried he, from the foot of the table, “are you too great a dandy to drink +a glass of wine with me?” + </p> +<p> +A very faint flush colored Maitland's cheek, but a most pleasant smile +played on his mouth as he said, “I am delighted, my dear Commodore,—delighted +to repudiate the dandyism and enjoy the claret at the same time.” + </p> +<p> +“They tell me it's vulgar and old-fashioned, and I don't know what else, +to take wine with a man,” resumed the old sailor, encouraged by his +success to engage a wider attention. +</p> +<p> +“I only object to the custom when practised at a royal table,” said +Maitland, “and where it obliges you to rise and drink your wine standing.” + As some of the company were frank enough to own that they heard of the +etiquette for the first time, and others, who affected to be conversant +with it, ingeniously shrouded their ignorance, the conversation turned +upon the various traits which characterize different courtly circles; and +it was a theme Maitland knew how to make amusing,—not vaingloriously +displaying himself as a foreground figure, or even detailing the +experiences as his own, but relating his anecdotes with all the modest +diffidence of one who was giving his knowledge at second-hand. +</p> +<p> +The old General was alone able to cap stories with Maitland on this theme, +and told with some gusto an incident of his first experiences at Lisbon. +“We had,” said he, “a young attaché to our Legation there; I am talking +of, I regret to say, almost fifty years ago. He was a very good-looking +young fellow, quite fresh from England, and not very long, I believe, from +Eton. In passing through the crowd of the ball-room, a long streamer of +lace which one of the Princesses wore in her hair caught in the attache's +epaulette. He tried in vain to extricate himself, but, fearing to tear the +lace, he was obliged to follow the Infanta about, his confusion making his +efforts only the more hopeless. 'Where are you going, sir? What do you +mean by this persistence?' asked a sour-faced old lady-of-honor, as she +perceived him still after them. 'I am attached to her Royal Highness,' +said he, in broken French, 'and I cannot tear myself away.' The Infanta +turned and stared at him, and then instantly burst out a-laughing, but so +good-humoredly withal, and with such an evident forgiveness, that the duenna +became alarmed, reported the incident to the Queen, and the next morning +our young countryman got his orders to leave Lisbon at once.” + </p> +<p> +While the company commented on the incident, the old General sighed +sorrowfully,—over the long past, perhaps,—and then said, “He +did not always get out of his entanglements so easily.” + </p> +<p> +“You knew him, then?” asked some one. +</p> +<p> +“Slightly; but I served for many years with his brother, Wat Butler, as +good a soldier as ever wore the cloth.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you aware that his widow and son are in this neighborhood?” asked +Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +“No; but it would give me great pleasure to see them. Wat and I were in +the same regiment in India. I commanded the company when he joined us. And +how did he leave them?” + </p> +<p> +“On short rations,” broke in old Graham. “Indeed, if It was n't for Lyle +Abbey, I suspect very hard up at times.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind, Commodore,” broke in Mrs. Trafford. “You have been +quite misinformed. Mrs. Butler is, without affluence, perfectly +independent; and more so even in spirit than in fortune.” + </p> +<p> +A very significant smile from Maitland seemed to say that he recognized +and enjoyed her generous advocacy of her friend. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps you could do something, General, for his son?” cried Mrs. +Maxwell. +</p> +<p> +“What sort of a lad is he?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't ask me, for I don't like him; and don't ask my sisters, for they +like him too well,” said Mark. +</p> +<p> +“Have you met him, Mr. Maitland?” asked the General. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, but passingly. I was struck, however, by his good looks and manly +bearing. The country rings with stories of his courage and intrepidity.” + </p> +<p> +“And they are all true,” said Isabella Lyle. “He is the best and bravest +creature breathing.” + </p> +<p> +“There's praise,—that's what I call real praise,” said the General. +“I'll certainly go over and see him after that.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll do better, General,” said Mrs. Maxwell; “I 'll send over and ask +him here to-morrow. Why do you shake your head, Bella? He 'll not come?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said she, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Not if you and Alice were to back my request?” + </p> +<p> +“I fear not,” said Alice. “He has estranged himself of late from every +one; he has not been even once to see us since he came back from England.” + </p> +<p> +“Then Mark will go and fetch him for us,” said Mrs. Maxwell, the most +unobservant of all old ladies. +</p> +<p> +“Not I, madam; nor would that be the way to secure him.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, have him we must,” said Mrs. Maxwell; while she added in a whisper +to Mrs. Trafford, “It would never do to lose the poor boy such a chance.” + </p> +<p> +“Beck says, if some one will drive her over to the Causeway,” cried the +Commodore, “she'll vouch for success, and bring young Tony back with her.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Maitland offers himself,” said Alice, whose eyes sparkled with fun, +while her lips showed no trace of a smile. +</p> +<p> +“Take the phaeton, then,” said Mrs. Maxwell; “only there will be no place +for young Butler; but take a britscha, and order post-horses at Greme's +Mill.” And now a sharp discussion ensued which road was the shorter, and +whether the long hill or the “new cut” was the more severe on the cattle. +</p> +<p> +“This was most unfair of you,” said Maitland to Mrs. Trafford, as they +rose from the table; “but it shall not succeed.” + </p> +<p> +“How will you prevent it?” said she, laughing. “What can you do?” + </p> +<p> +“Rather than go I 'd say anything.” + </p> +<p> +“As how, for instance?” + </p> +<p> +He leaned forward and whispered a few words in her ear, and suddenly her +face became scarlet, her eyes flashed passionately, as she said, “This +passes the limit of jest, Mr. Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“Not more than the other would pass the limit of patience,” said he; and +now, instead of entering the drawing-room, he turned short round and +sought his own room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIII. THE FIRST NIGHT AT TILNEY +</h2> +<p> +Mattland was not in the best of tempers when he retired to his room. +Whatever the words he had whispered in Alice's ear,—and this history +will not record them,—they were a failure. They were even worse than +a failure, for they produced an effect directly the opposite to that +intended. +</p> +<p> +“Have I gone too fast?” muttered he; “have I deceived myself? She +certainly understood me well in what I said yesterday. She, if anything, +gave me a sort of encouragement to speak. She drew away her hand, it is +true, but without any show of resentment or anger; a sort of protest, +rather, that implied, 'We have not yet come to this.' These home-bred +women are hard riddles to read. Had she been French, Spanish, or Italian,—ay, +or even one of our own, long conversant with the world of Europe,—I +never should have blundered.” Such thoughts as these be now threw on +paper, in a letter to his friend Caffarelli. +</p> +<p> +“What a fiasco I have made, <i>Carlo mio</i>,” said he, “and all from not +understanding the nature of these creatures, who have never seen a sunset +south of the Alps. I know how little sympathy any fellow meets with from +you, if he be only unlucky. I have your face before me,—your +eyebrows on the top of your forehead, and your nether lip quivering with +malicious drollery, as you cry out, '<i>Ma perche? perche? perche?</i>' +And I'll tell you why: because I believed that she had hauled down her +colors, and there was no need to continue firing. +</p> +<p> +“Of course you'll say, '<i>Meno male</i>,' resume the action. But it won't +do, Signor Conte, it won't do. She is not like one of your hardened +coquettes on the banks of the Arno or the slopes of Castellamare, who +think no more of a declaration of love than an invitation to dinner; nor +have the slightest difficulty in making the same excuse to either,—a +pre-engagement. She is English, or worse again, far worse,—Irish. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd give—I don't know what I would n't give—that I could +recall that stupid speech. I declare I think it is this fearful language +has done it all. One can no more employ the Anglo-Saxon tongue for a +matter of delicate treatment, than one could paint a miniature with a +hearth-brush. What a pleasant coinage for cajolery are the liquid lies of +the sweet South, where you can lisp duplicity, and seem never to hurt the +Decalogue.” + </p> +<p> +As he had written so far, a noisy summons at his door aroused him; while +the old Commodore's voice called out, “Maitland! Maitland! I want a word +with you.” Maitland opened the door, and without speaking, returned to the +fire, standing with his back to it, and his hands carelessly stuck in his +pockets. +</p> +<p> +“I thought I 'd come over and have a cigar with you here, and a glass of +brandy-and-water,” said Graham. “They 're hard at it yonder, with harp and +piano, and, except holystoning a deck, I don't know its equal.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm the more sorry for your misfortune, Commodore, that I am unable to +alleviate it I 'm deep in correspondence just now, as you see there, and +have a quantity more to do before bedtime.” + </p> +<p> +“Put it aside, put it aside; never write by candlelight. It ruins the +eyes; and yours are not so young as they were ten years ago.” + </p> +<p> +“The observation is undeniable,” said Maitland, stiffly. +</p> +<p> +“You're six-and-thirty? well, five-and-thirty, I take it.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm ashamed to say I cannot satisfy your curiosity on so natural a +subject of inquiry.” + </p> +<p> +“Sally says forty,” said he, in a whisper, as though the remark required +caution. “Her notion is that you dye your whiskers; but Beck's idea is +that you look older than you are.” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know to which of the young ladies I owe my deeper +acknowledgments,” said Maitland, bowing. +</p> +<p> +“You're a favorite with both; and if it hadn't been for the very decided +preference you showed, I tell you frankly they 'd have been tearing caps +about you ere this.” + </p> +<p> +“This flattery overwhelms me; and all the more that it is quite +unexpected.” + </p> +<p> +“None of your mock modesty with me, you dog!” cried the Commodore, with a +chuckling laugh. “No fellow had ever any success of that kind that he did +n't know it; and, upon my life, I believe the very conceit it breeds goes +halfway with women.” + </p> +<p> +“It is no small prize to learn the experiences of a man like yourself on +such a theme.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'll not deny it,” said he, with a short sigh. “I had my share—some +would say a little more than my share—of that sort of thing. You'll +not believe it, perhaps, but I was a devilish good-looking fellow when I +was—let me see—about six or eight years younger than you are +now.” + </p> +<p> +“I am prepared to credit it,” said Maitland, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“There was no make-up about <i>me</i>,—no lacquering, no paint, no +padding; all honest scantling from keel to taffrail. I was n't tall, it's +true. I never, with my best heels on, passed five feet seven and a half.” + </p> +<p> +“The height of Julius Caesar,” said Maitland, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“I know nothing about Julius Caesar; but I 'll say this, it was a good +height for a sailor in the old gun-brig days, when they never gave you +much head-room 'tween decks. It don't matter so much now if every fellow +in the ward-room was as tall as yourself. What's in this jar here?” + </p> +<p> +“Seltzer.” + </p> +<p> +“And this short one,—is it gin?” + </p> +<p> +“No; it's Vichy.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, what sort of stomach do you expect to have with all these confounded +slops? I never tasted any of these vile compounds but once,—what +they called Carlsbad,—and, by Jove, it was bad, and no mistake. It +took three fourths of a bottle of strong brandy to bring back the heat +into my vitals again. Why don't you tell Raikes to send you in some +sherry? That old brown sherry is very pleasant, and it must be very +wholesome, too, for the doctor here always sticks to it.” + </p> +<p> +“I never drink wine, except at my dinner,” was the cold and measured +reply. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll come to it later on,—you 'll come to it later on,” said the +Commodore, with a chuckle, “when you 'll not be careful about the color of +your nose or the width of your waistcoat. There's a deal of vanity wrapped +up in abstemiousness, and a deal of vexation of spirit too.” And he +laughed at his own drollery till his eyes ran over. “You 're saying to +yourself, Maitland, 'What a queer old cove that is!'—ain't you? Out +with it, man! I'm the best-tempered fellow that ever breathed,—with +the men I like, mind you; not with every one. No, no; old G. G., as they +used to call me on board the 'Hannibal,' is an ugly craft if you board him +on the wrong quarter. I don't know how it would be now, with all the +new-fangled tackle; but in the old days of flint-locks and wide bores I +was a dead shot. I 've heard you can do something that way?” + </p> +<p> +“A little,” said he, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Every gentleman ought; I've always maintained it; as poor old Bowes used +to say, 'With a strong head for port, and a steady hand for a pistol, a +man may go a long way in this world.' There, I think it's your turn now at +the pump. I've had all the talk to myself since I came in; and the most +you've done has been to grant out 'Indeed!' or 'Really!'” + </p> +<p> +“I have listened, Commodore,—listened most attentively. It has been +my great privilege to have heard your opinions on three most interesting +topics,—women, and wine, and the duel; and, I assure you, not +unprofitably.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not blown, not a bit run off my wind, for all that, if I was n't so +dry; but my mouth is like a lime-burner's hat. Would you just touch that +bell and order a little sherry or Madeira? You don't seem to know the ways +of the house here; but every one does exactly as he pleases.” + </p> +<p> +“I have a faint inkling of the practice,” said Maitland, with a very +peculiar smile. +</p> +<p> +“What's the matter with you this evening? You 're not like yourself one +bit. No life, no animation about you. Ring again; pull it strong. There, +they'll hear that, I hope,” cried he, as, impatient at Maitland's +indolence, he gave such a Jerk to the bell-rope that it came away from the +wire. +</p> +<p> +“I didn't exactly come in here for a gossip,” said the Commodore, as he +resumed his seat. “I wanted to have a little serious talk with you, and +perhaps you are impatient that I haven't begun it, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“It would be unpardonable to feel impatience in such company,” said' +Maitland, with a bow. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, yes; I know all that. That's what Yankees call soft sawder; but I 'm +too old a bird, Master Maitland, to be caught with chaff, and I think as +clever a fellow as you are might suspect as much.” + </p> +<p> +“You are very unjust to both of us if you imply that I have not a high +opinion of your acuteness.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want to be thought acute, sir; I am not a lawyer, nor a lawyer's +clerk,—I'm a sailor.” + </p> +<p> +“And a very distinguished sailor.” + </p> +<p> +“That's as it may be. They passed me over about the good-service pension, +and kept 'backing and filling' about that coast-guard appointment till I +lost temper and told them to give it to the devil, for he had never been +out of the Admiralty since I remembered it; and I said, 'Gazette him at +once, and don't let him say, You 're forgetting an old friend and +supporter.'” + </p> +<p> +“Did you write that?” + </p> +<p> +“Beck did, and I signed it; for I 've got the gout or the rheumatism in +these knuckles that makes writing tough work for me, and tougher for the +man it's meant for. What servants they are in this house!—no answer +to the bell.” + </p> +<p> +“And what reply did they make you?” asked Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“They shoved me on the retired list; and Curtis, the Secretary, said, 'I +had to suppress your letter, or my Lords would certainly have struck your +name off the Navy List,'—a thing I defy them to do; a thing the +Queen could n't do!” + </p> +<p> +“Will you try one of these?” said Maitland, opening his cigar-case; “these +are stronger than the pale ones.” + </p> +<p> +“No; I can't smoke without something to drink, which I foresee I shall not +have here.” + </p> +<p> +“I deplore my inhospitality.” + </p> +<p> +“Inhospitality! why, you have nothing to say to it. It is old mother +Maxwell receives us all here. You can be neither hospitable nor +inhospitable, so far as I see, excepting, perhaps, letting me see a little +more of that fire than you have done hitherto, peacocking out the tail of +your dressing-gown in front of me.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray draw closer,” said Maitland, moving to one side; “make yourself +perfectly at home here.” + </p> +<p> +“So I used to be, scores of times, in these very rooms. It's more than +five-and-twenty years that I ever occupied any others.” + </p> +<p> +“I was thinking of going back to the drawing-room for a cup of tea before +I resumed my work here.” + </p> +<p> +“Tea! don't destroy your stomach with tea. Get a little gin,—they +'ve wonderful gin here; I take a glass of it every night Beck mixes it, +and puts a sprig of, not mint, but marjoram, I think they call it I 'll +make her mix a brew for you; and, by the way, that brings me to what I +came about.” + </p> +<p> +“Was it to recommend me to take gin?” asked Maitland, with a well-assumed +innocence. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; not to recommend you to take gin,” said the old Commodore, +sternly. “I told you when I came in that I had come on an errand of some +importance.” + </p> +<p> +“If you did, it has escaped me.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you sha'n't escape me; that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope I misunderstand you. I trust sincerely that it is to the dryness +of your throat and the state of your tonsils that I must attribute this +speech. Will you do me the very great favor to recall it?” + </p> +<p> +The old man fidgeted in his chair, buttoned his coat, and unbuttoned it, +and then blurted out in an abrupt spasmodic way, “All right,—I did +n't mean offence—I intended to say that as we were here now—that +as we had this opportunity of explaining ourselves—” + </p> +<p> +“That's quite sufficient, Commodore. I ask for nothing beyond your simple +assurance that nothing offensive was intended.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll be hanged if I ever suffered as much from thirst in all my life. I +was eighteen days on a gill of water a day in the tropics, and didn't feel +it worse than this. I must drink some of that stuff, if I die for it. +Which is the least nauseous?” + </p> +<p> +“I think you'll find the Vichy pleasant; there is a little fixed air in +it, too.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish there was a little cognac in it. Ugh! it's detestable! Let's try +the other. Worse! I vow and declare—worse! Well, Maitland, whatever +be your skill in other matters, I 'll be shot if I 'll back you for your +taste in liquors.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland smiled, and was silent. +</p> +<p> +“I shall have a fever—I know I shall—if I don't take +something. There's a singing in my head now like a chime of bells, and the +back of my throat feels like a coal-bunker in one of those vile steamers. +How you stand it I don't know; but to be sure you 've not been talking as +I have.” The old Commodore rose, but when he reached the door, seemed +suddenly to have remembered something; for he placed his hand to his +forehead, and said, “What a brain I have! here was I walking away without +ever so much as saying one word about it.” + </p> +<p> +“Could we defer it till to-morrow, my dear Commodore?” said Maitland, +coaxingly. “I have not the slightest notion what it is, but surely we +could talk it over after breakfast.” + </p> +<p> +“But you 'll be off by that time. Beck said that there would be no use +starting later than seven o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +“Off! and where to?” + </p> +<p> +“To the Burnside,—to the widow Butler's,—where else! You heard +it all arranged at dinner, didn't you?” + </p> +<p> +“I heard something suggested laughingly and lightly, but nothing serious, +far less settled positively.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you please to tell me, sir, how much of your life is serious, and +how much is to be accepted as levity? for I suppose the inquiry I have to +make of you amounts just to that, and no more.” + </p> +<p> +“Commodore Graham, it would distress me much if I were to misunderstand +you once again to-night, and you will oblige me deeply if you will put any +question you expect me to answer in its very simplest form.” + </p> +<p> +“That I will, sir; that I will! Now then, what are your intentions?” + </p> +<p> +“What are my intentions?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,—exactly so; what are your intentions?” + </p> +<p> +“I declare I have so many, on such varied subjects, and of such different +hues, that it would be a sore infliction on your patience were I only to +open the budget; and as to either of us exhausting it, it is totally out +of the question. Take your chance of a subject, then, and I 'll do my best +to enlighten you.” + </p> +<p> +“This is fencing, sir; and it doesn't suit me?” + </p> +<p> +“If you knew how very little the whole conversation suits me, you 'd not +undervalue my patience.” + </p> +<p> +“I ask you once again, what are your intentions as regards my youngest +daughter, Miss Rebecca Graham! That's plain speaking, I believe.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing plainer; and my reply shall be equally so. I have none,—none +whatever.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you mean to say you never paid her any particular attentions?” + </p> +<p> +“Never.” + </p> +<p> +“That you never took long walks with her when at Lyle Abbey, quite alone +and unaccompanied?” + </p> +<p> +“We walked together repeatedly. I am not so ungrateful as to forget her +charming companionship.” + </p> +<p> +“Confound your gratitude, sir! it's not that I'm talking of. You made +advances. You—you told her—you said—in fact, you made +her believe—ay, and you made me believe—that you meant to ask +her to marry you.” + </p> +<p> +“Impossible!” said Maitland; “impossible!” + </p> +<p> +“And why impossible? Is it that our respective conditions are such as to +make the matter impossible?” + </p> +<p> +“I never thought of such an impertinence, Commodore. When I said +impossible, it was entirely with respect to the construction that could be +placed on all my intercourse with Miss Graham.” + </p> +<p> +“And did n't I go up to your room on the morning I left, and ask you to +come over to Port-Graham and talk the matter over with me?” + </p> +<p> +“You invited me to your house, but I had not the faintest notion that it +was to this end. Don't shake your head as if you doubted me; I pledge you +my word on it.” + </p> +<p> +“How often have you done this sort of thing? for no fellow is as cool as +you are that's not an old hand at it.” + </p> +<p> +“I can forgive a good deal—” + </p> +<p> +“Forgive! I should think you could forgive the people you've injured. The +question is, can I forgive? Yes, sir, can I forgive?” + </p> +<p> +“I declare it never occurred to me to inquire.” + </p> +<p> +“That's enough,—quite enough; you shall hear from me. It may take me +twenty-four hours to find a friend; but before this time to-morrow +evening, sir, I 'll have him.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and said, “As you please, +sir.” + </p> +<p> +“It shall be as I please, sir; I 'll take care of that. Are you able to +say at present to whom my friend can address himself?” + </p> +<p> +“If your friend will first do the favor to call upon me, I 'll be able by +that time to inform him.” + </p> +<p> +“All right. If it's to be Mark Lyle—” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not; it could never occur to me to make choice of your friend +and neighbor's son for such an office.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I thought not,—I hoped not; and I suspected, besides, that +the little fellow with the red whiskers—that major who dined one day +at the Abbey—” + </p> +<p> +Maitland's pale cheek grew scarlet, his eyes flashed with passion, and all +the consummate calm of his manner gave way as he said, “With the choice of +my friend, sir, you have nothing to do, and I decline to confer further +with you.” + </p> +<p> +“Eh, eh! that shell broke in the magazine, did it? I thought it would. I +'ll be shot but I thought it would!” And with a hearty laugh, but bitter +withal, the old Commodore seized his hat and departed. +</p> +<p> +Maitland was much tempted to hasten after the Commodore, and demand—imperiously +demand—from him an explanation of his last words, whose taunt was +even more in the manner than the matter. Was it a mere chance hit, or did +the old sailor really know something about the relations between himself +and M'Caskey? A second or two of thought reassured him, and he laughed at +his own fears, and turned once more to the table to finish his letter to +his friend. +</p> +<p> +“You have often, my dear Carlo, heard me boast that amidst all the +shifting chances and accidents of my life, I had ever escaped one signal +misfortune,—in my mind, about the greatest that ever befalls a man. +I have never been ridiculous. This can be my triumph no longer. The charm +is broken! I suppose, if I had never come to this blessed country, I might +have preserved my immunity to the last; but you might as well try to keep +your gravity at one of the Polichinello combats at Naples as preserve your +dignity in a land where life is a perpetual joke, and where the few +serious people are so illogical in their gravity, they are the best fun of +all. Into this strange society I plunged as fearlessly as a man does who +has seen a large share of life, and believes that the human crystal has no +side he has not noticed; and the upshot is, I am supposed to have made +warm love to a young woman that I scarcely flirted with, and am going to +be shot at to-morrow by her father for not being serious in my intentions! +You may laugh—you may scream, shout, and kick with laughter, and I +almost think I can hear you; but it's a very embarrassing position, and +the absurdity of it is more than I can face. +</p> +<p> +“Why did I ever come here? What induced me ever to put foot in a land +where the very natives do not know their own customs, and where all is +permitted and nothing is tolerated? It is too late to ask you to come and +see me through this troublesome affair; and indeed my present vacillation +is whether to marry the young lady or run away bodily; for I own to you I +am afraid—heartily afraid—to fight a man that might be my +grandfather; and I can't bear to give the mettlesome old fellow the fun of +shooting at me for nothing. And worse—a thousand times worse than +all this,—Alice will have such a laugh at me! Ay, Carlo, here is the +sum of my affliction. +</p> +<p> +“I must close this, as I shall have to look out for some one long of +stride and quick of eye, to handle me on the ground. Meanwhile, order +dinner for two on Saturday week, for I mean to be with you; and, +therefore, say nothing of those affairs which interest us, <i>ultra +montant</i>. I write by this post to M'C. to meet me as I pass through +Dublin; and, of course, the fellow will want money. I shall therefore draw +on Cipriani for whatever is necessary, and you must be prepared to tell +him the outlay was indispensable. I have done nothing, absolutely nothing, +here,—neither seduced man nor woman, and am bringing back to the +cause nothing greater or more telling than +</p> +<p> +“Norman Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIV. A STARLIT NIGHT IN A GARDEN +</h2> +<p> +It was late at night, verging indeed on morning, when Maitland finished +his letter. All was silent around, and in the great house the lights were +extinguished, and apparently all retired to rest. Lighting his cigar, he +strolled out into the garden. The air was perfectly still; and although +there was no moon, the sky was spangled over with stars, whose size seemed +greater seen through the thin frosty atmosphere. It was pre-eminently the +bright clear elastic night of a northern latitude, and the man of pleasure +in a thousand shapes, the voluptuary, the <i>viveur</i>, was still able to +taste the exquisite enjoyment of such an hour, as though his appetite for +pleasure bad not been palled by all the artifices of a life of luxury. He +strolled about at random from alley to alley, now stopping to inhale the +rich odor of some half-sleeping plant, now loitering at some old fountain, +and bathing his temples with the ice-cold water. He was one of those men—it +is not so small a category as it might seem—who fancy that the same +gifts which win success socially, would be just as sure to triumph if +employed in the wider sphere of the great ambitions of life. He could +count the men he had passed, and easily passed, in the race of social +intercourse,—men who at a dinner-table or in a drawing-room had not +a tithe of his quickness, his versatility, his wit, or his geniality, and +yet, plodding onwards and upwards, had attained station, eminence, and +fortune; while he—he, well read, accomplished, formed by travel and +polished by cultivation—there he was! just as he had begun the +world, the only difference being those signs of time that tell as fatally +on temperament as on vigor; for the same law that makes the hair gray and +the cheek wrinkled, renders wit sarcastic and humor malevolent Maitland +believed—honestly believed—he was a better man than this one +here who held a high command in India, and that other who wrote himself +Secretary of State. He knew how little effort it had cost him, long ago, +to leave “scores of such fellows” behind at school and at the university; +but he, unhappily, forgot that in the greater battle of life he had made +no such efforts, and laid no tax on either his industry or his ability. He +tried—he did his very best—to undervalue, to his own mind, +their successes, and even asked himself aloud, “Which of them all do I +envy?” but conscience is stronger than casuistry, however crafty it be, +and the answer came not so readily as he wished. +</p> +<p> +While he thus mused, he heard his name uttered, so close to him, too, that +he started, and, on looking up, saw that Mrs. Trafford's rooms were +lighted, and one of the windows which “gave” upon a terrace was open. +Voices came from the room within, and soon two figures passed out on the +terrace, which he speedily recognized to be Alice and Mark Lyle. +</p> +<p> +“You mistake altogether, Mark,” said she, eagerly. “It is no question +whatever, whether your friend Mr. Maitland goes away disgusted with +Ireland, and sick of us all. It is a much graver matter here. What if he +were to shoot this old man? I suppose a fine gentleman as he is would deem +it a very suitable punishment to any one who even passingly angered him.” + </p> +<p> +“But why should there be anything of the kind? It is to me Maitland would +come at once if there were such a matter in hand.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not so sure of that; and I am sure that Raikes overheard provocation +pass between them, and that the Commodore left this half an hour ago, +merely telling Sally that he had forgotten some lease or law paper that he +ought to have sent off by post.” + </p> +<p> +“If that be the case, there's nothing to be done.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you mean nothing to be done?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean, that as Maitland has not consulted me, I have no pretence to know +anything about it.” + </p> +<p> +“But if you do know it, and if I tell it to you?” + </p> +<p> +“All that would not amount to such knowledge as I could avail myself of. +Maitland is not a man with whom any one can take liberties, Alice.” + </p> +<p> +“What?” said she, haughtily, and as though she had but partly heard his +speech. +</p> +<p> +“I said that no man takes liberties with Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +A very insolent laugh from Alice was the answer. +</p> +<p> +“Come, come,” cried Mark, angrily. “All these scornful airs are not in +keeping with what you yourself wrote about Maitland to Bella just two days +ago.” + </p> +<p> +“And had Bella—did she show you my letters?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't believe she intended me to see the turned-down bit at the end; +but I did see it, and I read a very smart sketch of Norman Maitland, but +not done by an unfriendly hand.” + </p> +<p> +“It's not too late to revoke my opinion,” said she, passionately. “But +this is all quite beside what I'm thinking of. Will you go down and see +Mr. Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“He's in bed and asleep an hour ago.” + </p> +<p> +“He is not. I can see the light on the gravel from his windows; and if he +were asleep, he could be awakened, I suppose.” + </p> +<p> +“I have not the slightest pretext to intrude upon him, Alice.” + </p> +<p> +“What nonsense all this is! Who is he,—what is he, that he must be +treated with all this deference?” + </p> +<p> +“It 's somewhat too late in the day to ask who and what the man is of whom +every society in Europe contests the possession.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Mark, be reasonable. What have we to do just now with all the +courtly flatteries that have been extended to your distinguished friend, +or the thousand and one princesses he might have married? What I want is +that he should n't, first of all, make a great scandal; and secondly, +shoot a very worthy old neighbor, whose worst sin is being very tiresome.” + </p> +<p> +“And what I want is, first, that Maitland should n't carry away from this +county such an impression that he'd never endure the thought of revisiting +it; and secondly, I want to go to bed, and so good-night.” + </p> +<p> +“Mark, one word,—only one,” cried she; but he was gone. The bang of +a heavy door resounded, and then a deep silence showed she was alone. +</p> +<p> +Maitland watched her as she paced the terrace from end to end with +impatient steps. There was a secret pleasure in his heart as he marked all +the agitation that moved her, and thought what a share he himself had in +it all. At last she withdrew within the room, but the opening and shutting +of a door followed, and he surmised that she had passed out. While he was +disputing with himself whether she might have followed Mark to his room, +he heard a footstep on the gravel, and saw that she was standing and +tapping with her finger on the window of his chamber. Maitland hurried +eagerly back. “Is it possible that I see you here, Mrs. Trafford,” cried +he, “at this hour?” + </p> +<p> +She started, and for a moment seemed too much overcome to answer, when she +said: “You may believe that it is no light cause brings me; and even now I +tremble at what I am doing: but I have begun and I 'll go on. Let us walk +this way, for I want to speak with you.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you take my arm?” said Maitland, but without anything of gallantry +in his tone. +</p> +<p> +“No,—yes, I will,” said she, hurriedly; and now for some paces they +moved along side by side in silence. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Maitland,” said she at last, “a silly speech I made to-day at dinner +has led to a most serious result, and Commodore Graham and you have +quarrelled.” + </p> +<p> +“Forgive me if I interrupt you. Nothing that fell from you has occasioned +any rupture between Commodore Graham and myself; for that I can pledge you +my word of honor.” + </p> +<p> +“But you have quarrelled. Don't deny it.” + </p> +<p> +“We had a very stupid discussion, and a difference; and I believe, if the +Commodore would have vouchsafed me a patient hearing, he would have seen +that he had really nothing to complain of on my part. I am quite ready to +make the same explanation to any friend he will depute to receive it.” + </p> +<p> +“It was, however, what I said about your driving over with Miss Rebecca +Graham to the Burnside that led to all this.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind, I assure you.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I don't care for the reason,” said she, impatiently; “but you have +had a quarrel, and are about to settle it by a duel. I have no doubt,” + continued she, more rapidly, “that you, Mr. Maitland, can treat this sort +of thing very lightly. I suppose it is part of your code as man of the +world to do so; but this old man is a father; his life, however little you +may think of it, is of very great consequence to his family; he is an old +friend and neighbor whom we all care for, and any mishap that might befall +him would be a calamity to us all.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray continue,” said he, softly; “I am giving you all my attention. +Having given the sketch of one of so much value to his friends, I am +waiting now to hear of the other whom nobody is interested for.” + </p> +<p> +“This is no time for sarcasm, however witty, Mr. Maitland; and I am sure +your better feeling will tell you that I could not have come here to +listen to it. Do not be offended with me for my bluntness, nor refuse what +I have asked you.” + </p> +<p> +“You have not asked anything from me,” said he, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I will now,” said she, with more courage in her tone; “I will ask +you not to go any further in this affair,—to pledge your word to me +that it shall stop here.” + </p> +<p> +“Remember I am but one; any promise I may make you can only take effect +with the concurrence of another.” + </p> +<p> +“I know nothing—I want to know nothing—of these subtleties; +tell me flatly you'll not give this old man a meeting.” + </p> +<p> +“I will, if you 'll only say how I am to avoid it. No, no; do not be angry +with me,” said he, slightly touching the hand that rested on his arm. “I'd +do far more than this to win one, even the faintest smile that ever said, +'I thank you;' but there is a difficulty here. You don't know with what he +charges me.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I suspect it.” + </p> +<p> +“It is that after paying most marked attention to his daughter, I have +suddenly ceased to follow up my suit, and declared that I meant nothing by +it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well?” said she, quietly. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” repeated he. “Surely no one knows better than you that there was +no foundation for this.” + </p> +<p> +“I! how should I know it?” + </p> +<p> +“At all events,” replied he, with some irritation of manner, “you could +n't believe it.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare I don't know,” said she, hesitatingly, for the spirit of +drollery had got the better even of the deep interest of the moment,—“I +declare I don't know, Mr. Maitland. There is a charm in the manner of an +unsophisticated country girl which men of the world are often the very +first to acknowledge.” + </p> +<p> +“Charming unsophistication!” muttered he, half aloud. +</p> +<p> +“At all events, Mr. Maitland, it is no reason that because you don't +admire a young lady, you are to shoot her papa.” + </p> +<p> +“How delightfully illogical you are!” said he; and, strangely enough, +there was an honest admiration in the way he said it. +</p> +<p> +“I don't want to convince, sir; I want to be obeyed. What I insist upon +is, that this matter shall end here. Do you mind, Mr. Maitland, that it +end here?” + </p> +<p> +“Only show me how, and I obey you.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you mean to say that with all your tact and cleverness, you cannot +find a means of showing that you have been misapprehended, that you are +deeply mortified at being misunderstood, that by an expression of great +humility—Do you know how to be humble?” + </p> +<p> +“I can be abject,” said he, with a peculiar smile. +</p> +<p> +“I should really like to see you abject!” said she, laughingly. +</p> +<p> +“Do so then,” cried he, dropping on his knee before her, while he still +held her hand, but with a very different tone of voice,—a voice now +tremulous with earnest feeling,—continued: “There can be no humility +deeper than that with which I ask your forgiveness for one word I spoke to +you this evening. If you but knew all the misery it has caused me!” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Maitland, this mockery is a just rebuke for my presence here. If I +had not stooped to such a step, you would never have dared this.” + </p> +<p> +“It is no mockery to say what my heart is full of, and what you will not +deny you have read there. No, Alice, you may reject my love; you cannot +pretend to ignore it.” + </p> +<p> +Though she started as he called her Alice, she said nothing, but only +withdrew her hand. At last she said: “I don't think this is very generous +of you. I came to ask a great favor at your hands, and you would place me +in a position not to accept it.” + </p> +<p> +“So far from that,” said he, rising, “I distinctly tell you that I place +all, even my honor, at your feet, and without one shadow of a condition. +You say you came here to ask me a favor, and my answer is that I accord +whatever you ask, and make no favor of it. Now, what is it you wish me to +do?” + </p> +<p> +“It's very hard not to believe you sincere when you speak in this way,” + said she, in a low voice. +</p> +<p> +“Don't try,” said he, in the same low tone. +</p> +<p> +“You promise me, then, that nothing shall come of this?” + </p> +<p> +“I do,” said he, seriously. +</p> +<p> +“And that you will make any amends the Commodore's friend may suggest? +Come, come,” said she, laughing, “I never meant that you were to marry the +young lady.” + </p> +<p> +“I really don't know how far you were going to put my devotion to the +test.” + </p> +<p> +The pleasantness with which he spoke this so amused her that she broke +again into laughter, and laughed heartily too. “Confess,” said she at +last,—“confess it's the only scrape you did not see your way out +of!” + </p> +<p> +“I am ready to confess it's the only occasion in my life in which I had to +place my honor in the hands of a lady.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, let us see if a lady cannot be as adroit as a gentleman in such an +affair; and now, as you are in my hands, Mr. Maitland,—completely in +<i>my</i> hands,—I am peremptory, and my first orders are that you +keep close arrest. Raikes will see that you are duly fed, and that you +have your letters and the newspapers; but mind, on any account, no +visitors without my express leave: do you hear me, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“I do; and all I would say is this, that if the tables should ever turn, +and it would be my place to impose conditions, take my word for it, I 'll +be just as absolute. Do you hear me, madam?” + </p> +<p> +“I do; and I don't understand, and I don't want to understand you,” said +she, in some confusion. “Now, good-bye. It is almost day. I declare that +gray streak there is daybreak!” + </p> +<p> +“On, Alice, if you would let me say one word—only one—before +we part.” + </p> +<p> +“I will not, Mr. Maitland, and for this reason, that I intend we should +meet again.” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so,” said he, sadly, and turned away. After he had walked a few +paces, he stopped and turned round; but she was already gone, how and in +what direction he knew not. He hurried first one way, then another, but +without success. If she had passed into the house,—and, of course, +she had,—with what speed she must have gone! Thoughtful, but not +unhappy, he returned to his room, if not fully assured that he had done +what was wisest, well disposed to hope favorably for the future. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXV. JEALOUS TRIALS +</h2> +<p> +When Mrs. Maxwell learned, in the morning, that Mr. Maitland was +indisposed and could not leave his room, that the Commodore had gone off +in the night, and Mark and Mrs. Trafford had started by daybreak, her +amazement became so insupportable that she hastened from one of her guests +to the other, vainly asking them to explain these mysteries. +</p> +<p> +“What a fidgety old woman she is!” said Beck Graham, who had gone over to +Bella Lyle, then a prisoner in her room from a slight cold. “She has been +rushing over the whole house, inquiring if it be possible that my father +has run away with Alice, that your brother is in pursuit of them, and Mr. +Maitland taken poison in a moment of despair. At all events, she has set +every one guessing and gossiping at such a rate that all thought of +archery is forgotten, and even our private theatricals have lost their +interest in presence of this real drama.” + </p> +<p> +“How absurd!” said Bella, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, it's very absurd to fill one's house with company, and give them no +better amusement than the chit-chat of a boarding-house. I declare I have +no patience with her.” + </p> +<p> +“Where did your father go?” + </p> +<p> +“He went over to Port-Graham. He suddenly bethought him of a lease—I +think it was a lease—he ought to have sent off by post, and he was +so eager about it that he started without saying good-bye. And Mark,—what +of him and Alice?” + </p> +<p> +“There's all the information I can give you;” and she handed her a card +with one line in pencil: “Good-bye till evening, Bella. You, were asleep +when I came in.—Alice.” + </p> +<p> +“How charmingly mysterious! And you have no idea where they 've gone?” + </p> +<p> +“Not the faintest; except, perhaps, back to the Abbey for some costumes +that they wanted for that 'great tableau.'” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think so,” said she, bluntly. “I suspect—shall I tell you +what I suspect? But it's just as likely you 'll be angry, for you Lyles +will never hear anything said of one of you. Yes, you may smile, my dear, +but it's well known, and I 'm not the first who has said it.” + </p> +<p> +“If that be true, Beck, it were best not to speak of people who are so +excessively thin-skinned.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know that. I don't see why you are to be indulged any more than +your neighbors. I suppose every one must take his share of that sort of +thing.” + </p> +<p> +Bella merely smiled, and Rebecca continued: “What I was going to say was +this,—and, of course, you are at liberty to dissent from it if you +like,—that, however clever a tactician your sister is, Sally and I +saw her plan of campaign at once. Yes, dear, if you had been at dinner +yesterday you 'd have heard a very silly project thrown out about my being +sent over to fetch Tony Butler, under the escort of Mr. Norman Maitland. +Not that it would have shocked me, or frightened me in the least,—I +don't pretend that; but as Mr. Maitland had paid me certain attention at +Lyle Abbey,—you look quite incredulous, my dear, but it is simply +the fact; and so having, as I said, made these advances to me, there would +have been considerable awkwardness in our going off together a drive of +several hours without knowing—without any understanding—” She +hesitated for the right word, and Bella added, “<i>A quoi s'en tenir</i>, +in fact.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know exactly what that means, Bella; but, in plain English, I +wished to be sure of what he intended. My dear child, though that smile +becomes you vastly, it also seems to imply that you are laughing at my +extreme simplicity, or my extreme vanity, or both.” + </p> +<p> +Bella's smile faded slowly away; but a slight motion of the angle of the +mouth showed that it was not without an effort she was grave. +</p> +<p> +“I am quite aware,” resumed Beck, “that it requires some credulity to +believe that one like myself could have attracted any notice when seen in +the same company with Alice Lyle—Trafford, I mean—and her +sister; but the caprice of men, my dear, will explain anything. At all +events, the fact is there, whether one can explain it or not; and, to +prove it, papa spoke to Mr. Maitland on the morning we came away from the +Abbey; but so hurriedly—for the car was at the door, and we were +seated on it—that all he could manage to say was, that if Mr. +Maitland would come over to Port-Graham and satisfy him on certain points,—the +usual ones, I suppose,—that—that, in short, the matter was one +which did not offer insurmountable obstacles. All this sounds very strange +to your ears, my dear, but it is strictly true, every word of it.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot doubt whatever you tell me,” said Bella; and now she spoke with +a very marked gravity. +</p> +<p> +“Away we went,” said Rebecca, who had now got into the sing-song tone of a +regular narrator,—“away we went, our first care on getting back home +being to prepare for Mr. Maitland's visit. We got the little green-room +ready, and cleared everything out of the small store-closet at the back, +and broke open a door between the two so as to make a dressing-room for +him, and we had it neatly papered, and made it really very nice. We put up +that water-colored sketch of Sally and myself making hay, and papa leaning +over the gate; and the little drawing of papa receiving the French +commander's sword on the quarter-deck of the 'Malabar:' in fact, it was as +neat as could be,—but he never came. No, my dear,—never.” + </p> +<p> +“How was that?” + </p> +<p> +“You shall hear; that is, you shall hear what followed, for explanation I +have none to give you. Mr. Maitland was to have come over, on the +Wednesday following, to dinner. Papa said five, and he promised to be +punctual; but he never came, nor did he send one line of apology. This may +be some new-fangled politeness,—the latest thing in that fashionable +world he lives in,—but still I cannot believe it is practised by +well-bred people. Be that as it may, my dear, we never saw him again till +yesterday, when he passed us in your sister's fine carriage-and-four, he +lolling back this way, and making a little gesture, so, with his hand as +he swept past, leaving us in a cloud of dust that totally precluded him +from seeing whether we had returned his courtesy—if he cared for it. +That's not all,” she said, laying her hand on Bella's arm. “The first +thing he does on his arrival here is to take papa's rooms. Well,—you +know what I mean,—the rooms papa always occupies here; and when +Raikes remarks, 'These are always kept for Commodore Graham, sir; they go +by the name of the Commodore's quarters,' his reply is, 'They 'll be +better known hereafter as Mr. Norman Maitland's, Mr. Raikes.' Word for +word what he said; Raikes told me himself. As for papa, he was furious; he +ordered the car to the door, and dashed into our room, and told Sally to +put all the things up again,—that we were going off. I assure you, +it was no easy matter to calm him down. You have no idea how violent he is +in one of these tempers; but we managed at last to persuade him that it +was a mere accident, and Sally began telling him the wonderful things she +had heard about Maitland from Mrs. Chetwyn,—his fortune and his +family, and what not. At last he consented to take the Chetwyns' rooms, +and down we went to meet Mr. Maitland,—I own, not exactly certain on +what terms it was to be. Cordial is no name for it, Bella; he was—I +won't call it affectionate, but I almost might: he held my hand so long +that I was forced to draw it away; and then he gave a little final squeeze +in the parting, and a look that said very plainly, 'We, at least, +understand each other.' It was at that instant, my dear, Alice opened the +campaign.” + </p> +<p> +“Alice! What had Alice to do with it?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing,—nothing whatever, by right, but everything if you admit +interference and—Well, I'll not say a stronger word to her own +sister. I 'll keep just to fact, and leave the commentary on this to +yourself. She crosses the drawing-room,—the whole width of the large +drawing-room,—and, sweeping grandly past us in that fine +Queen-of-Sheba style she does so well, she throws her head back,—it +was that stupid portrait-painter, Hillyer, told her 'it gave action to the +features,'—and says, 'Take me into dinner, will you?' But she was +foiled; old Mrs. Maxwell had already bespoke him. I hope you 're satisfied +now, Bella, that this is no dream of mine.” + </p> +<p> +“But I cannot see any great mischief in it, either.” + </p> +<p> +“Possibly not. I have not said that there was. Sally 's no fool, however, +and her remark was,—'There 's nothing so treacherous as a widow.'” + </p> +<p> +Bella could not contain herself any longer, but laughed heartily at this +profound sentiment. +</p> +<p> +“Of course we do not expect you to see this with our eyes, Bella, but +we're not blind, for all that. Later on came the project for fetching over +Tony Butler, when Alice suggested that Mr. Maitland was to drive me over +to the Burns ide—” + </p> +<p> +“Was that so very ungenerous, then?” + </p> +<p> +“In the way it was done, my dear,—in the way it was done. In that +ha, ha, ha! manner, as though to say, 'Had n't you both better go off on a +lark to-morrow that will set us all talking of you?'” + </p> +<p> +“No, no! I'll not listen to this,” cried Bella, angrily; “these are not +motives to attribute to my sister.” + </p> +<p> +“Ask herself; let her deny it, that's all; but, as Sally says, 'There 's +no playing against a widow, because she knows every card in your hand.'” + </p> +<p> +“I really had no idea they were so dangerous,” said Bella, recovering all +her good-humor again. +</p> +<p> +“You may, perhaps, find it out one day. Mind, I 'm not saying Alice is not +very handsome, and has not the biggest blue eyes in the world, which she +certainly does not make smaller in the way she uses them; or that any one +has a finer figure, though some do contrive to move through a room without +catching in the harp or upsetting the china. Men, I take it, are the best +judges, and they call her perfection.” + </p> +<p> +“They cannot think her more beautiful than she is.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps not, dear; and as you are so like as to be constantly mistaken—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Beck! surely this is not fair,” said she, and so imploringly that the +other's voice softened down as she said,—“I never meant to be rude; +but my head is gone wild to-day; for, after all, when matters had gone so +far, Alice had no right to come in in this fashion; and, as Sally says, +'Why did she never encourage him till she saw his attentions addressed to +another?'” + </p> +<p> +“I never perceived that she gave Mr. Maitland any encouragement. Yes, you +may hold up your hands, Beck, and open your eyes very wide; but I repeat +what I have said.” + </p> +<p> +“That's a matter of taste, I suppose,” said Beck, with some irritation. +“There are various sorts of encouragements: as Sally says, 'A look will go +further with one than a lock of your hair with another.'” + </p> +<p> +“But, really, Sally would seem to have a wisdom like Solomon's on these +subjects,” said Bella. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; and what's more, she has acquired it without any risk or peril. She +had neither to drive half over a county with a gentleman alone, or pass a +good share of a night walking with him in the alleys of a garden.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean by this?” asked Bella, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Ask Alice; she 'll be here, I suppose, this evening; and I 'm sure she +'ll be delighted to satisfy all your sisterly anxiety.” + </p> +<p> +“But one word, Beck,—just one word before you go.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a syllable. I have said now what I rigidly promised Sally not to +mention when I came in here. You got it out of me in a moment of +irritation, and I know well what's in store for me when I confess it,—so +good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +“But, Beck—” + </p> +<p> +“Don't make yourself cough, dear; lie down and keep your shawl round you. +If I 'd thought you were so feverish, I 'd not have come over to torment +you,—good-bye;” and, resisting all Bella's entreaties and prayers, +Beck arose and left the room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVI. BESIDE THE HEARTH +</h2> +<p> +As Tony sat at tea with his mother, Janet rushed in to say that Dr. +Stewart had just come home with his daughter, and that she seemed very +weak and ill,—“daunie-like,” as Janet said, “and naething like the +braw lassie that left this twa years ago. They had to help her out o' the +stage; and if it hadna been that Mrs. Harley had gi'en her a glass o' +gooseberry wine, she wad hae fainted.” Janet saw it all, for she had gone +into Coleraine, and the doctor gave her a seat back with himself and his +daughter. +</p> +<p> +“Poor girl! And is she much changed?” asked Mrs. Butler. +</p> +<p> +“She's no that changed that I wudna know her,” said Janet, “and that's +all. She has no color in her cheeks nor mirth in her een; and instead of +her merry laugh, that set everybody off, she's just got a little faint +smile that's mair sad than onything else.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course she's weak; she's had a bad fever, and she's now come off a +long journey,” said Tony, in a sort of rough discontented voice. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” muttered Janet; “but I doubt she 'll never be the same she was.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure you do,” broke in Tony, rudely. “You would n't belong to your +county here if you did n't look at the blackest side of everything. This +end of our island is as cheerful in its population as it is in scenery; +and whenever we have n't a death in a cabin, we stroll out to see if +there's no sign of a shipwreck on the coast.” + </p> +<p> +“No such a thing, Master Tony. He that made us made us like ither folk; +and we 're no worse or better than our neighbors.” + </p> +<p> +“What about the letters, Janet? Did you tell the postmaster that they 're +very irregular down here?” asked Mrs. Butler. +</p> +<p> +“I did, ma'am, and he said ye 're no warse off than others; that when the +Lord sends floods, and the waters rise, human means is a' that we have; +and if the boy couldna swim, the leather bag wi' the letters would hae +gi'en him little help.” + </p> +<p> +“And could n't he have told ye all that without canting—” + </p> +<p> +“Tony! Tony!” broke in his mother, reprovingly. “This is not the way to +bear these things, and I will not hear it.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't be angry, little mother,” said he, taking her hand between both his +own. “I know how rough and ill-tempered I have grown of late; and though +it frets me sorely, I can no more throw it off than I could a fever.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll be soon yourself again, my poor Tony. Your dear father had his +days when none dare go near him but myself; and I remember well Sir Archy +Cole, who was the General, and commanded in Stirling, saying to me, 'I +wish, Mrs. Butler, you would get me the sick-return off Wat's table, for +he's in one of his tantrums to-day, and the adjutant has not courage to +face him.' Many and many a time I laughed to myself over that.” + </p> +<p> +“And did you tell this to my father?” + </p> +<p> +“No, Tony,” said she, with a little dry laugh, “I didn't do that; the +Colonel was a good man, and a God-fearing man; but if he had thought that +anything was said or done because of certain traits or marks in his own +nature, he 'd have been little better than a tiger.” + </p> +<p> +Tony pondered, or seemed to ponder, over her words, and sat for some time +with his head between his hands. At last he arose hastily, and said, “I +think I'll go over to the Burnside and see the doctor, and I 'll take him +that brace of birds I shot to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a cold night, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“What of that, mother? If one waits for fine weather in this climate, I 'd +like to know when he 'd go out.” + </p> +<p> +“There, you are railing again, Tony; and you must not fall into it as a +habit, as people do with profane swearing, so that they cannot utter a +word without blaspheming.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, the country is beautiful; the weather is more so; the night is a +summer one, and I myself am the most jolly, light-hearted young fellow +from this to anywhere you like. Will that do, little mother?” and he threw +his arm around her, and kissed her fondly. “They 've got a colt up there +at Sir Arthur's that no one can break; but if you saw him in the paddock, +you 'd say there was the making of a strong active horse in him; and +Wylie, the head groom, says he 'd just let him alone, for that some horses +'break themselves.' Do you know, mother, I half suspect I am myself one of +these unruly cattle, and the best way would be never to put a cavesson on +me?” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Butler had not the vaguest conception of what a caves-son meant, but +she said, “I'll not put that nor anything like it on you, Tony; and I 'll +just believe that the son of a loyal gentleman will do nothing to dishonor +a good name.” + </p> +<p> +“That's right; there you've hit it, mother; now we understand each other,” + cried he, boldly. “I'm to tell the doctor that we expect him and Dolly to +dine with us on Monday, ain't I?” + </p> +<p> +“Monday or Tuesday, or whenever Dolly is well enough to come.” + </p> +<p> +“I was thinking that possibly Skeffy would arrive by Tuesday.” + </p> +<p> +“So he might, Tony, and that would be nice company for him,—the +doctor and Dolly.” + </p> +<p> +There was something positively comic in the expression of Tory's face as +he heard this speech, uttered in all the simplicity of good faith; but he +forbore to reply, and, throwing a plaid across his shoulders, gave his +habitual little nod of good-bye, and went out. It was a cold starlit +night,—far colder on the sea-shore than in the sheltered valleys +inland. Tony, however, took little heed of this; his thoughts were bent +upon whither he was going; while between times his mother's last words +would flash across him, and once he actually laughed aloud as he said, +“Nice company for Skeffy! Poor mother little knows what company he keeps, +and what fine folk he lives with.” + </p> +<p> +The minister's cottage lay at the foot of a little hill, beside a small +stream or burn,—a lonesome spot enough, and more than usually dreary +in the winter season; but, as Tony drew nigh, he could make out the mellow +glow of a good fire as the gleam, stealing between the ill-closed +shutters, fell upon the gravel without. “I suppose,” muttered Tony, “she +'s right glad to be at home again, humble as it is;” and then came +another, but not so pleasant thought, “But why did she come back so +suddenly? why did she take this long journey in such a season, and she so +weak and ill?” He had his own dark misgivings about this, but he had not +the courage to face them, even to himself; and now he crept up to the +window and looked in. +</p> +<p> +A good fire blazed on the hearth; and at one side of it, deep in his old +leather chair,—the one piece of luxury the room possessed,—the +minister lay fast asleep, while opposite to him, on a low stool, sat +Dolly, her head resting on the arm of a chair at her side. If her closely +cropped hair and thin, wan face gave her a look of exceeding +youthful-ness, the thin band that hung down at her side told of suffering +and sickness. A book had fallen from her fingers, but her gaze was bent +upon the burning log before her—mayhap in unconsciousness; mayhap +she thought she read there something that revealed the future. +</p> +<p> +Lifting the latch—there was no lock, nor was any needed—of the +front door, Tony moved stealthily along the little passage, turned the +handle of the door, and on tiptoe moved across the room, unseen by Dolly, +and unheard. As his hand touched the chair on which her head leaned, she +looked up and saw him. She did not start nor cry out, but a deep crimson +blush covered her face and her temples, and spread over her throat. +</p> +<p> +“Hush!” said she, in a whisper, as she gave him her hand without rising; +“hush! he's very tired and weary; don't awake him.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll not awake him,” whispered Tony, as he slid into the chair, still +holding her hand, and bending down his head till it leaned against her +brow. “And how are you, dear Dolly? Are you getting quite strong again?” + </p> +<p> +“Not yet awhile,” said she, with a faint shadow of a smile, “but I suppose +I shall soon. It was very kind of you to come over so soon; and it's a +severe night too. How is Mrs. Butler?” + </p> +<p> +“Well and hearty; she sent you scores of loves,—if it was like long +ago, I 'd have said kisses too,” said he, laughing. But Dolly never +smiled; a grave, sad look, indeed, came over her, and she turned her head +away. +</p> +<p> +“I was so glad to hear of your coming home, dear Dolly. I can't tell you +how dreary the Burnside seems without you. Ay, pale as you are, you make +it look bright and cheery at once. It was a sudden thought, was n't it?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe it was; but we 'll talk of it all another time. Tell me of +home. Janet says it's all as I left it: is it so?” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect it is. What changes did you look for?” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know. I believe when one begins to brood over one's own +thoughts, one thinks the world without ought to take on the same dull cold +coloring. Haven't you felt that?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know—I may; but I'm not much given to brooding. But how +comes it that you, the lightest-hearted girl that ever lived—What +makes you low-spirited?” + </p> +<p> +“First of all, Tony, I have been ill; then, I have been away from home; +but come, I have not come back to complain and mourn. Tell me of your +friends and neighbors. How are all at the Abbey? We'll begin with the +grand folk.” + </p> +<p> +“I know little of them; I have n't been there since I saw you last.” + </p> +<p> +“And how is that, Tony? You used to live at the Abbey when I was here long +ago.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it is as I tell you. Except Alice Trafford,—and that only in +a carriage, to exchange a word as she passed,—I have not seen one of +the Lyles for several weeks.” + </p> +<p> +“And didn't she reproach you? Did n't she remark on your estrangement?” + </p> +<p> +“She said something,—I forget what,” said he, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“And what sort of an excuse did you make?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't remember. I suppose I blundered out something about being engaged +or occupied. It was not of much consequence, anyhow, for she did n't +attach any importance to my absence.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/butler0266.jpg" alt="266 " width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Don't say that, Tony, for I remember my father saying, in one of his +letters, that he met Sir Arthur at the fair of Ballymena, and that he +said, 'If you should see Tony, doctor, tell him I 'm hunting for him +everywhere, for I have to buy some young stock. If I do it without Tony +Butler's advice, I shall have the whole family upon me.'” + </p> +<p> +“That's easy enough to understand. I was very useful and they were very +kind; but I fancy that each of us got tired of his part.” + </p> +<p> +“They were stanch and good friends to you, Tony. I 'm sorry you 've given +them up,” said she, sorrowfully. +</p> +<p> +“What if it was <i>they</i> that gave me up? I mean, what if I found the +conditions upon which I went there were such as I could not stoop to? +Don't ask me any more about it; I have never let a word about it escape my +lips, and I am ashamed now to hear myself talk of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Even to me, Tony,—to sister Dolly?” + </p> +<p> +“That's true; so you are my dear, dear sister,” said he, and he stooped +and kissed her forehead; “and you shall hear it all, and how it happened.” + </p> +<p> +Tony began his narrative of that passage with Mark Lyle with which our +reader is already acquainted, little noticing that to the deep scarlet +that at first suffused Dolly's cheeks, a leaden pallor had succeeded, and +that she lay with half-closed eyes, in utter unconsciousness of what he +was saying. +</p> +<p> +“This, of course,” said Tony, as his story flowed on,—“this, of +course, was more than I could bear, so I hurried home, not quite clear +what was best to be done. I had n't <i>you</i>, Dolly, to consult, you +know;” he looked down as he said this, and saw that a great tear lay on +her cheek, and that she seemed fainting. “Dolly, my dear,—my own +dear Dolly,” whispered he, “are you ill,—are you faint?” + </p> +<p> +“Lay my head back against the wall,” sighed she, in a weak voice; “it's +passing off.” + </p> +<p> +“It was this great fire, I suppose,” said Tony, as he knelt down beside +her, and bathed her temples with some cold water that stood near. “Coming +out of the cold air, a fire will do that.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said she, trying to smile, “it was that.” + </p> +<p> +“I thought so,” said he, rather proud of his acuteness. “Let me settle you +comfortably here;” and he lifted her up in his strong arms, and placed her +in the chair where he had been sitting. “Dear me, Dolly, how light you +are!” + </p> +<p> +She shook her head, but gave a smile, at the same time, of mingled +melancholy and sweetness. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd never have believed you could be so light; but you 'll see what home +and native air will do,” added he, quickly, and ashamed of his own want of +tact. “My little mother, too, is such a nurse, I 'll be sworn that before +a month's over you 'll be skipping over the rocks, or helping me to launch +the coble, like long ago,—won't you, Dolly?” + </p> +<p> +“Go on with what you were telling me,” said she, faintly. +</p> +<p> +“Where was I? I forget where I stopped. Oh, yes; I remember it now. I went +home as quick as I could, and I wrote Mark Lyle a letter. I know you 'll +laugh at the notion of a letter by my hand; but I think I said what I +wanted to say. I did n't want to disclaim all that I owed his family; +indeed I never felt so deeply the kindness they had shown me as at the +moment I was relinquishing it forever; but I told him that if he presumed, +on the score of that feeling, to treat me like some humble hanger-on of +his house, I'd beg to remind him that by birth at least I was fully his +equal. That was the substance of it, but I won't say that it was conveyed +in the purest and best style.” + </p> +<p> +“What did he reply?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing,—not one line. I ought to say that I started for England +almost immediately after; but he took no notice of me when I came back, +and we never met since.” + </p> +<p> +“And his sisters,—do you suspect that they know of this letter of +yours?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot tell, but I suppose not. It's not likely Mark would speak of +it.” + </p> +<p> +“How, then, do they regard your abstaining from calling there?” + </p> +<p> +“As a caprice, I suppose. They always thought me a wayward, uncertain sort +of fellow. It's a habit your well-off people have, to look on their poorer +friends as queer and odd and eccentric,—eh, Dolly?” + </p> +<p> +“There's some truth in the remark, Tony,” said she, smiling; “but I +scarcely expected to hear you come out as a moralist.” + </p> +<p> +“That's because, like the rest of the world, you don't estimate me at my +true value. I have a great vein of reflection or reflectiveness—which +is it, Dolly? but it 's the deepest of the two—in me, if people only +knew it.” + </p> +<p> +“You have a great vein of kind-heartedness, and you are a good son to a +good mother,” said she, as a pink blush tinged her cheek, “and I like that +better.” + </p> +<p> +It was plain that the praise had touched him, and deeply too, for he drew +his hand across his eyes, and his lip trembled as he said, “It was just +about that dear mother I wanted to speak to you, Dolly. You know I'm going +away?” + </p> +<p> +“My father told me,” said she, with a nod of her head. +</p> +<p> +“And though, of course, I may manage a short leave now and then to come +over and see her, she 'll be greatly alone. Now, Dolly, you know how she +loves you,—how happy she always is when you come over to us. Will +you promise me that you'll often do so? You used to think nothing of the +walk long ago, and when you get strong and hearty again, you 'll not think +more of it. It would be such a comfort to me, when I am far away, to feel +that you were sitting beside her,—reading to her, perhaps, or +settling those flowers she's so fond of. Ah, Dolly, I'll have that window +that looks out on the white rocks in my mind, and you sitting at it, many +and many a day, when I 'll be hundreds of miles off.” + </p> +<p> +“I love your mother dearly, Tony; she has been like a mother to myself for +many a year, and it would be a great happiness to me to be with her; but +don't forget, Tony,”—and she tried to smile as she spoke,—“don't +forget that I'll have to go seek my fortune also.” + </p> +<p> +“And are n't you come to live at home now for good?” + </p> +<p> +She shook her head with a sorrowful meaning, and said: +</p> +<p> +“I'm afraid not, Tony. My dear, dear father does not grow richer as he +grows older, and he needs many a little comfort that cannot come of his +own providing, and you know he has none but me.” + </p> +<p> +The intense sadness of the last few words were deepened by the swimming +eyes and faltering lips of her that uttered them. +</p> +<p> +“And are you going back to these M'Gruders?” + </p> +<p> +She shook her head in negative. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm glad of that I 'm sure they were not kind.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, Tony, they were good folk, but after their own fashion; and they +always strove to be just.” + </p> +<p> +“Another word for being cruel. I 'd like to know what's to become of any +of us in this world if we meet nothing better than Justice. But why did +you leave them?—I mean leave them for good and all.” + </p> +<p> +She changed color hastily, and turned her head away, while in a low +confused manner she said: “There were several reasons. I need n't tell you +I was n't strong, Tony, and strength is the first element of governess +life.” + </p> +<p> +“I know how it came about,” broke in Tony. “Don't deny it,—don't, +Dolly. It was all my fault.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't speak so loud,” whispered she, cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“It all came of that night I dined at Richmond. But if he hadn't struck at +me—” + </p> +<p> +“Who struck at you, Tony, my man?” said the old minister, waking up. “He +wasna over-gifted with prudence whoever did it, that I maun say; and how +is Mrs. Butler and how are you yourself?” + </p> +<p> +“Bravely, sir, both of us. I 've had a long chat with Dolly over the fire, +and I fear I must be going now. I 've brought you a brace of woodcocks, +and a message from my mother about not forgetting to dine with us on +Monday.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know about that, Tony. The lassie yonder is very weak just yet.” + </p> +<p> +“But after a little rest, eh, Dolly? Don't you think you'd be strong +enough to stroll over by Monday? Then Tuesday be it.” + </p> +<p> +“We 'll bide and see, Tony,—we 'll bide and see. I'll be able, +perhaps, to tell you after meeting to-morrow; not that you 're very +reg'lar in attendance, Maister Tony; I mean to have a word or two with you +about that one of these days.” + </p> +<p> +“All right, sir,” said Tony. “If you and Dolly come over to us on Monday, +you may put me on the cutty-stool if you like afterwards;” and with that +he was gone. +</p> +<p> +“And all this has been my doing,” thought Tony, as he wended his way +homewards. “I have lost to this poor girl the means by which she was +earning her own livelihood, and aiding to make her father's life more +comfortable! I must make her tell me how it all came about, and why they +made her pay the penalty of my fault. Not very fair that for people so +just as they are.” “And to think,” added he, aloud, after a pause,—“to +think it was but the other day I was saying to myself, 'What can people +mean when they talk of this weary world,—this life of care and toil +and anxiety?'—and already I feel as if I stood on the threshold, and +peeped in, and saw it all; but, to be sure, at that time I was cantering +along the strand with Alice, and now—and now I am plodding along a +dark road, with a hot brain and a heavy heart, to tell me that sorrow is +sown broadcast, and none can escape it.” + </p> +<p> +All was still at the cottage when he reached it, and he crept gently to +his room, and was soon asleep, forgetting cares and griefs, and only +awaking as the strong sunlight fell upon his face and proclaimed the +morning. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVII. AN UNWELCOME LETTER +</h2> +<p> +The doctor had guessed aright. Tony did not present himself at meeting on +Sunday. Mrs. Butler, indeed, was there, though the distance was more than +a mile, and the day a raw and gusty one, with threatenings of snow in the +air. +</p> +<p> +“Are you coming with me, Tony, to hear the minister? It will be an +interesting lecture to-day on the character of Ahab,” said she, opening +his door a few inches. +</p> +<p> +“I'm afraid not, mother; I'm in for a hard day's work this morning. Better +lose Ahab than lose my examination.” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Butler did not approve of the remark, but she closed the door and +went her way, while Tony covered his table with a mass of books, arranged +paper and pens, and then, filling the bowl of a large Turkish pipe, sat +himself down, as he fancied, to work, but in reality to weave thoughts +about as profitable and as connected as the thin blue wreaths of smoke +that issued from his lips, and in watching whose wayward curls and +waftings he continued to pass hours. +</p> +<p> +I have often suspected—indeed, my experience of life leads me much +to the conviction—that for the perfect enjoyment of what is called +one's own company, the man of many resources must yield the palm to him of +none; and that the mere man of action, whose existence is stir, movement, +and adventure, can and does find his occasional hours of solitude more +pleasurable than he who brings to his reveries the tormenting doubts and +distrusts, the casuistical indecisions, and the dreary discontents, that +so often come of much reading. Certainly in the former there is no strain,—no +wear and tear. He is not called on to breast the waves and stem the tide, +but to float indolently down the stream without even remarking the scenery +that clothes the banks. +</p> +<p> +Tony, I fancy, was a master of this art; he knew how to follow up any +subject in thought till it began to become painful, and then to turn his +attention to the sea and some far-off white sail, or to the flickering +leaflet of falling snow, tossed and drifted here and there like some +castaway,—a never-failing resource. He could follow with his eyes +the azure circles of smoke, and wonder which would outstrip the other. To +fit him for the life of a “messenger,” he had taken down “Cook's Voyages;” + but after reading a few pages, he laid down the book to think how far the +voyager's experiences could apply to the daily exigencies of a Foreign +Office official, and to ask himself if he were not in reality laying down +too wide and too extensive a foundation for future acquirement. “No,” + thought he, “I 'll not try to be any better or smarter than the rest. I +'ll just stick to the practical part, and here goes for Ollendorf.” Three +or four sentences read,—he leaned back, and wondered whether he +would not rather undertake an excursion on foot to Jerusalem than set out +on an expedition into the French language. As if a whole life could master +that bulky dictionary, and transfer its contents to his poor brain! To be +sure, Alice knew it; but Alice could learn what she pleased. She learned +to skate in three lessons,—and how she did it too! Who ever glided +over the ice with such a grace,—so easy, so quiet, but with such a +perfection of movement! Talk of dancing,—it was nothing to it. And +could n't she ride? See her three fields off, and you'd know the ground +just by the stride of her horse. Such a hand she had! But who was like +Alice? +</p> +<p> +Ah! there was the boundless prairie, to his thoughts, on which he might +ramble forever; and on that wide swelling savannah, roaming and straying, +we shall now leave him, and turn our glance elsewhere. +</p> +<p> +The morning service of the meeting-house over, Dr. Stewart proposed to +walk home with Mrs. Butler. The exposition about Ahab had neither been as +full or as able as he had intended, but it was not his fault,—at +least, only in part his fault; the sum of which consisted in the fact that +he had broken through a good rule, which up to that hour had never met +with infraction,—he had opened a post-letter on the Sabbath-morn. +“This comes,” said he, plaintively, “of letting the sinfu' things of this +warld mingle wi' the holier and higher ones of the warld to come. +Corruption is aye stronger than life; and now I maun tell you the whole of +it.” If we do not strictly follow the good minister, and tell what he had +to say in his own words, it is to spare our reader some time on a matter +which may not possess the amount of interest to him it had for the person +who narrated it. The matter was this: there came that morning a letter +from Mrs. M'Gruder to Dr. Stewart,—a letter that almost overwhelmed +him. The compensation to humility of station is generally this, that the +interests of the humble man are so lowly, so unpretending, and so little +obtrusive that they seldom or never provoke the attention of his more +fortunate neighbors. As with the rivulet that can neither float a barque +nor turn a mill-wheel none meddles, so with the course of these lowly +lives few concern themselves, and they ripple along unheeded. Many and +many a time had the old minister hugged this thought to his heart,—many +and many a time had he felt that there were cares and troubles in this +life so proud and so haughty that they disdained the thatched cabin and +the humble roof-tree, but loved to push their way through crowds of +courtiers up marble stairs and along gilded corridors. It was then with a +perfect shock that he came to learn that even they, in all their +lowliness, could claim no exemption from common calamity. The letter began +by stating that the writer, before putting pen to paper, had waited till +Miss Stewart should have reached her home, so that no anxieties as to her +health should be added to the pain the communication might cause. After +this louring commencement the epistle went on to state that the +satisfaction which Dolly had at first given by her general good temper and +strict attention to her duties, “compensating in a great measure for the +defects in her own education and want of aptitude as a teacher,” soon +ceased to be experienced, as it was found that she was subject to constant +intervals of great depression, and even whole days, when she seemed +scarcely equal to her duties. The cause was not very long a secret. +</p> +<p> +It was an attachment she had formed to a brother of Mr. M'Gruder's, who, +some years younger than himself, had been established in Italy as a +partner, and had now come over to England on business. +</p> +<p> +It was not necessary to say that the writer had never encouraged this +sentiment; on the contrary, she had more than remonstrated with her +brother-in-law on the score of his attentions, and flatly declared that, +if he persisted, she would do her utmost to have the partnership with his +brother dissolved, and all future intercourse at an end between them. This +led to scenes of a very violent nature, in which she was obliged to own +her husband had the cruelty to take his brother's side against her, and +avow that Samuel was earning his own bread, and if he liked to share it +with an “untochcred lassie,” it should be far from him, Robert M'Grader, +that any reproach should come,—a sarcasm that Mrs. M'Grader seemed +keenly to appreciate. +</p> +<p> +The agitation caused by these cares, acting on a system already excited, +had brought on a fever to Dolly; and it was only on her convalescence, and +while still very weak, that a young man arrived in London and called to +see her, who suddenly seemed to influence all her thoughts and plans for +the future. Sam, it appeared, had gone back to Italy, relying on Dolly's +promise to consult her father and give him a final reply to his offer of +marriage. From the day, however, that this stranger had called, Dolly +seemed to become more and more indifferent to this project, declaring that +her failing health and broken spirits would render her rather a burden +than a benefit, and constantly speaking of home, and wishing to be back +there. “Though I wished,” continued the writer, “that this resolve had +come earlier, and that Miss Stewart had returned to her father before she +had thrown discord into a united family, I was not going to oppose it, +even late as it occurred. It was therefore arranged that she was to go +home, ostensibly to recruit and restore herself in her native air; but I, +I need hardly tell you, as firmly determined she should never pass this +threshold again. Matters were in this state, and Miss Stewart only waiting +for a favorable day to begin her journey—an event I looked for with +the more impatience as Mr. M'G. and myself could never, I knew, resume our +terms of affection so long as she remained in our house,—when one +night, between one and two o'clock, we were awoke by the sound of feet in +the garden under our window. I heard them first, and, creeping to the +casement, I saw a figure clamber over the railing and make straight for +the end of the house where Miss Stewart slept, and immediately begin a +sort of low moaning kind of song, evidently a signal. Miss Stewart's +window soon opened, and on this I called Mr. M'Grader. He had barely time +to reach the window, when a man's voice from below cried out, 'Come down; +are you coming?' On this, Mr. M'Gruder rushed downstairs and into the +garden. Two or three loud and angry words succeeded, and then a violent +struggle, in which my husband was twice knocked down and severely injured. +The man, however, made his escape, but not unrecognized; for your +daughter's voice cried out, 'Oh, Tony, I never thought you 'd do this,' +or, 'Why did you do this?' or some words to that effect. +</p> +<p> +“The terms on which, through Miss Stewart's behavior, I have latterly +lived with Mr. M'Gruder, gave me no opportunity to learn anything from <i>him</i>. +Indeed, he never so much as spoke of an incident which confined him two +days to his room and five days to the house; but, as if bent on +exasperation, redoubled his kind inquiries about your daughter, who was +now, as she said, too ill to leave her room. +</p> +<p> +“No other course was then open to me than to write the present letter to +you and another to my brother-in-law. He, at least, I am determined, shall +know something of the young lady with whom he wishes to share his fortune, +though I trust that a minister of the Gospel will have no need of any +promptings of mine to prevent such a casualty. My last words, on parting +with your daughter, were to ask if the man I saw that night was the same +who had called to see her, and her reply was, 'Yes, the same.' I will not +disguise that she had the grace to cry as she said it. +</p> +<p> +“That she is never to return here, I need not say. Ay, more than that; no +reference to me will be responded to in terms that can serve her. But this +is not all. I require that you will send, and send open for my inspection, +such a letter to Mr. S. M'Gruder as may finally put an end to any +engagement, and declare that, from the circumstances now known to you, you +could neither expect, or even desire, that he would make her his wife. +Lastly, I demand—and I am in a position to enforce a demand—that +you do not communicate with my husband at all in this affair; sufficient +unpleasantness and distrust having been already caused by our unhappy +relations with your family.” + </p> +<p> +A few moral reflections closed the epistle. They were neither very novel +nor very acute, but they embodied the sense of disappointment experienced +by one who little thought, in taking a teacher from the manse of a +minister, she was incurring a peril as great as if she had sent over to +France for the latest refinement in Parisian depravity. “Keep her at home +with yourself, Dr. Stewart,” wrote she, “unless the time comes when the +creature she called Tony may turn up as a respectable man, and be willing +to take her.” And with a gracefully expressed hope that Dolly's ill health +might prove seasonable for self-examination and correction, she signed +herself, “Your compassionate friend, Martha M'Gruder.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you say to that, Mrs. Butler? Did ever you read as much cruelty +in pen and ink, I ask you? Did you ever believe that the mother of +children could write to a father of his own daughter in such terms as +these?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know what it means, doctor; it 's all confusion to me. Who is +Tony? It's not our Tony, surely?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not so sure of that, Mrs. Butler. Tony was up in London and he called +to see Dolly. You remember that he told in his letter to you how the puir +lassie's hair was cut short—” + </p> +<p> +“I remember it all, Dr. Stewart; but what has all that to do with all this +dreadful scene at night in the garden?” The doctor shook his head +mournfully, and made no reply. “If you mean, Dr. Stewart, that it was my +Tony that brought about all these disasters, I tell you I will not—I +cannot believe it. It would be better to speak your mind out, sir, than to +go on shaking your head. We're not altogether so depraved that our +disgrace is beyond words.” + </p> +<p> +“There 's nothing for anger here, my dear old friend,” said he, calmly, +“though maybe there's something for sorrow. When you have spoken to your +son, and I to my daughter, we 'll see our way better through this thorny +path. Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +“You are not angry with me, doctor?” said she, holding out her hand, while +her eyes were dimmed with tears,—“you are not angry with me?” + </p> +<p> +“That I am not,” said he, grasping her hand warmly in both his own. “We +have no other treasures in this world, either of us, than this lad and +this lassie, and it's a small fault if we cling to them the more closely. +I think I see Tony coming to meet you, so I'll just turn home again.” And +with another and more affectionate good-bye, they parted. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVIII. AT THE MANSE +</h2> +<p> +In no small perturbation of mind was it that Mrs. Butler passed her +threshold. That a word should be breathed against her Tony, was something +more than she could endure; that he could have deserved it, was more than +she could believe. Tony, of whom for years and years she had listened to +nothing but flatteries, how clever and ready-witted he was, how bold and +fearless, how kind-hearted, and how truthful,—ay, how truthful! and +how is it then, asked she of herself, that he has told me nothing of all +this mischance, and what share he has had in bringing misfortune upon poor +Dolly? +</p> +<p> +“Is Master Tony at home, Jenny?” said she, as she entered. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; he's reading a letter that has just come wi' the post.” + </p> +<p> +The old lady stopped, with her hand on the handle of the door, to draw a +full breath, and regain a calm look; but a merry laugh from Tony, as he +sat reading his letter, did more to rally her, though her heart smote her +to think how soon she might have to throw a shadow across his sunshine. +</p> +<p> +“Who's your letter from, Tony?” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“From Skeffy; he 'll be here to-morrow; he's to arrive at Coleraine by six +in the morning, and wants me to meet him there.” + </p> +<p> +“And what's the other sealed note in your hand?” + </p> +<p> +“This?—this is from another man,—a fellow you've never heard +of; at least, you don't know him.” + </p> +<p> +“And what may be his name, Tony?” asked she, in a still colder tone. +</p> +<p> +“He's a stranger to you, mother. Skeffy found the note at my hotel, and +forwarded it,—that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“You were n't wont to have secrets from me, Tony,” said she, tremulously. +</p> +<p> +“Nor have I, mother; except it may be some trifling annoyance or worry +that I don't care to tease you about. If I had anything heavier on my +mind, you may trust me, I 'd very soon be out with it.” + </p> +<p> +“But I 'm not to hear who this man is?” said she, with a strange +pertinacity. +</p> +<p> +“Of course you are, if you want to hear; his name is there, on the corner +of his note,—Robt M'Gruder,—and here's the inside of it, +though I don't think you 'll be much the wiser when you 've read it.” + </p> +<p> +“It's for yourself to read your own letter, Tony,” said she, waving back +the note. “I merely asked who was your correspondent.” + </p> +<p> +Tony broke the seal, and ran his eye hastily over the lines. “I 'm as glad +as if I got a hundred pounds!” cried he. “Listen to this, mother:— +</p> +<p> +“'Dear Sir,—When I received your note on Monday—' +</p> +<p> +“But wait a bit, mother; I must tell you the whole story, or you 'll not +know why he wrote this to me. Do you remember my telling you, just at the +back of a letter, that I was carried off to a dinner at Richmond?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, perfectly.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I wish I hadn't gone, that's all. Not that it was n't jolly, and +the fellows very pleasant and full of fun, but somehow we all of us took +too much wine, or we talked too much, or perhaps both; but we began laying +wagers about every imaginable thing, and I made a bet,—I 'll be +hanged if I could tell what it was; but it was something about Dolly +Stewart. I believe it was that she was handsomer than another girl. I +forgot all about her hair being cut off, and her changed looks. At all +events, off we set in a body, to M'Gruder's house. It was then about two +in the morning, and we all singing, or what we thought was singing, most +uproariously. Yes, you may shake your head. I 'm ashamed of it now, too, +but it was some strange wine—I think it was called Marcobrunner—that +completely upset me; and the first thing that really sobered me was seeing +that the other fellows ran away, leaving me all alone in the garden, while +a short stout man rushed out of the house with a stick to thrash me. I +tried to make him hear me, for I wanted to apologize; but he wouldn't +listen, and so I gave him a shake. I didn't strike him; but I shook him +off, roughly enough perhaps, for he fell, and then I sprang over the gate, +and cut off as fast as I could. When I awoke next morning, I remembered it +all, and heartily ashamed I was of myself; and I thought that perhaps I +ought to go out in person and beg his pardon; but I had no time for that; +I wanted to get away by that day's packet, and so I wrote him a few civil +lines. I don't remember them exactly, but they were to say that I was very +sorry for it all, and I hoped he 'd see the thing as it was,—a +stupid bit of boyish excess, of which I felt much ashamed; and here's his +answer:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'Dear Sir,—When I received your note on Monday morning, +I was having leeches to my eye, and could n't answer it. +Yesterday both eyes were closed, and it is only to-day that +I can see to scratch these lines. If I had had a little more +patience on the night I first met you, it would have been +better for both of us. As it is, I receive all your +explanation as frankly as it is given; and you 'll be lucky +in life if nobody bears you more ill-will than—Yours +truly, + +'Robt. M'Gruder. + +“'If you come up to town again, look in on me at 27 Cannon +Street, City. I do not say here, as Mrs. M'G, has not yet +forgiven the black eye.'” + </pre> +<p> +“Oh, Tony! my own, dear, dear, true-hearted Tony!” cried his mother, as +she flung her arms around him, and hugged him to her heart “I knew my own +dear boy was as loyal as his own high-hearted father.” + </p> +<p> +Tony was exceedingly puzzled to what precise part of his late behavior be +owned all this enthusiastic fondness, and was curious also to know if +giving black eyes to Scotchmen had been a trait of his father's. +</p> +<p> +“And this was all of it, Tony?” asked she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you think it was quite enough? I'm certain Dolly did; for she knew +my voice, and cried out, 'Oh, Tony, how could you?' or something like that +from the window. And that's a thing, mother, has been weighing heavily on +my mind ever since. Has this unlucky freak of mine anything to do with +Dolly's coming home?” + </p> +<p> +“We 'll find that out later on, Tony; leave that to me,” said she, +hurriedly; for with all her honesty, she could not bear to throw a cloud +over his present happiness, or dash with sorrow the delight he felt at his +friend's coming. +</p> +<p> +“I don't suspect,” continued he, thoughtfully, “that I made a very +successful impression on that Mrs. M'Grader the day I called on Dolly; and +if she only connected me with this night's exploit, of course it's all up +with me.” + </p> +<p> +“Her husband bears you no grudge for it at all, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“That's clear enough; he's a fine fellow; but if it should turn out, +mother, that poor Dolly lost her situation,—it was no great thing, +to be sure; but she told me herself, it was hard enough to get as good; +and if, I say, it was through me she lost it—” + </p> +<p> +“You mustn't give yourself the habit of coining evil, Tony. There are +always enough of hard and solid troubles in life without our conjuring up +shadows and spectres to frighten us. As I said before, I 'll have a talk +with Dolly herself, and I 'll find out everything.” + </p> +<p> +“Do so, mother; and try and make her come often over here when I'm gone; +she'll be very lonely yonder, and you 'll be such good company for each +other, won't you?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll do my best, for I love her dearly! She has so many ways, too, that +suit an old body like myself. She's so quiet and so gentle, and she 'll +sit over her work at the window there, and lay it down on her knee to look +out over the sea, never saying a word, but smiling a little quiet smile +when our eyes meet, as though to say, 'This is very peaceful and happy, +and we have no need to tell each other about it, for we can feel it just +as deeply.'” + </p> +<p> +Oh, if she 'd only let Alice come to see her and sit with her, thought +Tony; how she <i>would</i> love her! Alice could be all this, and would, +too; and then, what a charm she can throw around her with that winning +smile! Was there ever sunshine like it? And her voice—no music ever +thrilled through <i>me</i> as that voice did. “I say, mother,” cried he, +aloud, “don't say No; don't refuse her if she begs to come over now and +then with a book or a few flowers; don't deny her merely because she's +very rich and much courted and flattered. I pledge you my word the +flattery has not spoiled her.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Dolly! it's the first time I ever heard that you were either rich or +inn after! What 's the boy dreaming of, with his eyes staring in his +head?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm thinking that I 'll go into Coleraine to-night, so as to be there +when the mail arrives at six in the morning,” said Tony, recovering +himself, though in considerable confusion. “Skeffy's room is all ready, +isn't it?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure it is; and very nice and comfortable it looks too;” and as she +spoke, she arose and went into the little room, on which she and Jenny had +expended any amount of care and trouble. “But, Tony dear,” she cried out, +“what's become of Alice Lyle's picture? I put it over the fireplace +myself, this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“And I took it down again, mother. Skeffy never knew Alice,—never +saw her.” + </p> +<p> +“It was n't for that I put it there; it was because she was a handsome +lassie, and it's always a pleasant sight to look upon. Just bring it back +again; the room looks nothing without it.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; leave it in your own room, in which it has always been,” said he, +almost sternly. “And now about dinner to-morrow; I suppose we'd better +make no change, but just have it at three, as we always do.” + </p> +<p> +“Your grand friend will think it's luncheon, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“He 'll learn his mistake when it comes to tea-time; but I 'll go and see +if there 's not a salmon to be had at Carrig-a-Rede before I start; and if +I 'm lucky, I 'll bring you a brace of snipe back with me.” + </p> +<p> +“Do so, Tony; and if Mr. Gregg was to offer you a little seakale, or even +some nice fresh celery—Eh, dear, he 's off, and no minding me! He 's +a fine true-hearted lad,” muttered she, as she reseated herself at her +work; “but I wonder what's become of all his high spirits, and the merry +ways that he used to have.” + </p> +<p> +Tony was not successful in his pursuit of provender. There was a heavy sea +on the shore, and the nets had been taken up; and during his whole walk he +never saw a bird He ate a hurried dinner when he came back, and, taking +one more look at Skeffy's room to see whether it looked as comfortable as +he wished it, he set out for Coleraine. +</p> +<p> +Now, though his mind was very full of his coming guest, in part +pleasurably, and in part with a painful consciousness of his inability to +receive him handsomely, his thoughts would wander off at every moment to +Dolly Stewart, and to her return home, which he felt convinced was still +more or less connected with his own freak. The evening service was going +on in the meeting-house as he passed, and he could hear the swell of the +voices in the last hymn that preceded the final prayer, and he suddenly +bethought him that he would take a turn by the Burnside and have a few +minutes' talk with Dolly before her father got back from meeting. +</p> +<p> +“She is such a true-hearted, honest girl,” said he to himself, “she 'll +not be able to hide the fact from me; and I will ask her flatly, Is this +so? was it not on my account you left the place?” + </p> +<p> +All was still and quiet at the minister's cottage, and Tony raised the +latch and walked through the little passage into the parlor unseen. The +parlor, too, was empty. A large old Bible lay open on the table, and +beside it a handkerchief—a white one—that he knew to be +Dolly's. As he looked at it, he bethought him of one Alice had given him +once as a keepsake; he had it still. How different that fragment of +gossamer with the frill of rich lace from this homely kerchief! Were they +not almost emblems of their owners? and if so, did not his own fortunes +rather link him with the humbler than with the higher? With one there +might be companionship; with the other, what could it be but dependence? +</p> +<p> +While he was standing thus thinking, two ice-cold hands were laid over his +eyes, and he cried out. “Ay, Dolly, those frozen fingers are yours;” and +as he removed her hands, he threw one arm round her waist, and, pressing +her closely to him, he kissed her. +</p> +<p> +“Tony, Tony!” said she, reproachfully, while her eyes swam in two heavy +tears, and she turned away. +</p> +<p> +“Come here and sit beside me, Dolly. I want to ask you a question, and we +have n't much time, for the doctor will be here presently, and I am so +fretted and worried thinking over it that I have nothing left but to come +straight to yourself and ask it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, what is it?” said she, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“But you will be frank with me, Dolly,—frank and honest, as you +always were,—won't you?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I think so,” said she, slowly. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, but you must be sure to be frank, Dolly, for it touches me very +closely; and to show you that you may, I will tell you a secret, to begin +with. Your father has had a letter from that Mrs. M'Gruder, where you +lived.” + </p> +<p> +“From her?” said Dolly, growing so suddenly pale that she seemed about to +faint; “are you sure of this?” + </p> +<p> +“My mother saw it; she read part of it, and here 's what it implies,—that +it was all my fault—at least, the fault of knowing me—that +cost you your place. She tells, not very unfairly, all things considered, +about that unlucky night when I came under the windows and had that row +with her husband; and then she hints at something, and I'll be hanged if I +can make out at what; and if my mother knows, which I suspect she does +not, she has not told me; but whatever it be, it is in some way mixed up +with your going away; and knowing, my dear Dolly, that you and I can talk +to one another as few people can in this world,—is it not so? Are +you ill, dear,—are you faint?” + </p> +<p> +“No; those are weak turns that come and go.” + </p> +<p> +“Put your head down here on my shoulder, my poor Dolly. How pale you are! +and your hands so cold. What is it you say, darling? I can't hear.” + </p> +<p> +Her lips moved, but without a sound, and her eyelids fell lazily over her +eyes, as, pale and scarcely seeming to breathe, she leaned heavily towards +him, and fell at last in his arms. There stood against the opposite wall +of the room a little horse-hair sofa, a hard and narrow bench, to which he +carried her, and, with her head supported by his arm, he knelt down beside +her, helpless a nurse as ever gazed on sickness. +</p> +<p> +“There, you are getting better, my dear, dear Dolly,” he said, as a long +heavy sigh escaped her. “You will be all right presently, my poor dear.” + </p> +<p> +“Fetch me a little water,” said she, faintly. +</p> +<p> +Tony soon found some, and held it to her lips, wondering the while how it +was he had never before thought Dolly beautiful, so regular were the +features, so calm the brow, so finely traced the mouth, and the +well-rounded chin beneath it. How strange it seemed that the bright eye +and the rich color of health should have served to hide rather than +heighten these traits! +</p> +<p> +“I think I must have fainted, Tony,” said she, weakly. +</p> +<p> +“I believe you did, darling,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“And how was it? Of what were we talking, Tony? Tell me what I was saying +to you.” + </p> +<p> +Tony was afraid to refer to what he feared might have had some share in +her late seizure; he dreaded to recur to it. +</p> +<p> +“I think I remember it,” said she, slowly, and as if struggling with the +difficulty of a mental effort. “But stay; is not that the wicket I heard? +Father is coming, Tony;” and as she spoke, the heavy foot of the minister +was heard on the passage. +</p> +<p> +“Eh, Tony man, ye here? I'd rather hae seen ye at the evening lecture; but +ye 're no fond of our form of worship, I believe. The Colonel, your +father, I have heard, was a strong Episcopalian.” + </p> +<p> +“I was on my way to Coleraine, doctor, and I turned off at the mill to see +Dolly, and ask her how she was.” + </p> +<p> +“Ye winna stay to supper, then?” said the old man, who, hospitable enough +on ordinary occasions, had no wish to see the Sabbath evening's meal +invaded by the presence of a guest, even of one so well known as Tony. +</p> +<p> +Tony muttered some not very connected excuses, while his eyes turned to +Dolly, who, still pale and sickly-looking, gave him one little brief nod, +as though to say it were better he should go; and the old minister himself +stood erect in the middle of the floor, calmly and almost coldly waiting +the words “Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +“Am I to tell mother you 'll come to us to-morrow, doctor,—you and +Dolly?” asked Tony, with his band on the door. +</p> +<p> +“It's no on the Sabbath evening we should turn our thoughts to feastin', +Master Tony; and none know that better than your worthy mother. I wish you +a good-evening and a pleasant walk.” + </p> +<p> +“Good-night,” said Tony, shutting the door sharply; “and,” muttered he to +himself, “if you catch <i>me</i> crossing your threshold again, Sabbath or +week-day—” He stopped, heaved a deep sigh, and, drawing his hand +across his eyes, said, “My poor dear Dolly, hasn't my precious temper done +you mischief enough already, that I must let it follow you to your own +quiet fireside?” + </p> +<p> +And he went his way, with many a vow of self-amendment, and many a kind +wish, that was almost a prayer, for the minister and his daughter. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIX. DEPARTURES +</h2> +<p> +All was confusion and dismay at Tilney. Bella Lyle's cold turned out to be +scarlatina, and Mark and Alice brought back tidings that old Commodore +Graham had been seized with a fit, and was seriously, if not dangerously, +ill. Of course, the company scattered like an exploded shell. The Graham +girls hastened back to their father, while the other guests sought safety +in flight, the great struggle now being who should soonest secure +post-horses to get away. Like many old people rich in this world's +comforts, Mrs. Maxwell had an especial aversion to illness in any shape. +It was a topic she never spoke on; and, if she could, would never have +mentioned before her. Her intimates understood this thoroughly, and many +were the expressions employed to imply that Mr. Such-a-one had a fever, or +Mrs. So-and-so was given over by her doctors. As to the fatal result +itself, it was always veiled in a sort of decent mystery, as though it +would not be perfectly polite to inquire whither the missing friend had +retired to. +</p> +<p> +“Dr. Reede says it is a very mild case of the malady, and that Bella will +be up in a day or two, aunt,” said Alice. +</p> +<p> +“Of course she will,” replied the old lady, pettishly. “It 's just a cold +and sore throat,—they had n't that fine name for it long ago, and +people got well all the sooner. Is he gone?” + </p> +<p> +“No; he's talking with Mark in the library; he'll be telling him, I think, +about the Commodore.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, don't ask him to stop to dinner; we have sorrow enough without +seeing a doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, here comes Mark! Where is Dr. Reede?” + </p> +<p> +“He's gone over to see Maitland. Fenton came to say that he wished to see +him.” + </p> +<p> +“Surely he's not ill,” said Alice. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, dear! what a misfortune that would be!” cried the old lady, with real +affliction in her tone; “to think of Mr. Norman Maitland taking ill in +one's house.” + </p> +<p> +“Have n't you been over to ask after him, Mark?” + </p> +<p> +“No. I was waiting till Reede came back: he's one of those men that can't +bear being inquired after; and if it should turn out that he was not ill, +he 'd not take the anxiety in good part.” + </p> +<p> +“How he has contrived to play the tyrant to you all, I can't imagine,” + said Alice; “but I can see that every whim and caprice he practises is +studied as courtiers study the moods of their masters.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure, darling, naturally,” broke in Mrs. Maxwell, who always +misunderstood everybody. “Of course, we are only too happy to indulge him +in a whim or fancy; and if the doctor thinks turtle would suit him—turtle +is so light; I took it for several weeks for luncheon—we can have it +at once. Will you touch the bell, Mark, and I'll tell Raikes to telegraph? +Who is it he gets it from?” + </p> +<p> +Mark pulled the bell, but took no notice of her question. “I wish,” + muttered he below his breath, “we had never come here. There 's Bella now, +laid up, and here 's Maitland. I 'm certain he's going away, for I +overheard Fenton ask about the distance to Dundalk.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose we might survive even that misfortune,” said she, haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“And one thing I'll swear to,” said Mark, walking the room with +impatience,—“it 's the last Ireland will see of him.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Ireland! the failure in the potato-crop was bad enough, but this is +more than can be endured.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all very fine, Alice, but I 'm much mistaken if you are as +indifferent as you pretend.” + </p> +<p> +“Mark! what do you mean?” said she, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Here's Raikes now; and will some one tell him what it is we want?” said +Mrs. Maxwell; but the others were far too deeply engaged in their own +whispered controversy now to mind her. +</p> +<p> +“Captain Lyle will tell you by and by, Raikes,” said she, gathering up the +mass of loose <i>impedimenta</i> with which she usually moved from one +room to the other, and by which, as they fell at every step, her course +could always be tracked. “He'll tell you,” added she, moving away. “I +think it was caviare, and you are to telegraph for it to Swan and Edgar's—but +my head is confused to-day; I'll just go and lie down.” + </p> +<p> +As Mrs. Maxwell left by one door, Alice passed out by another; while Mark, +whose temper evinced itself in a flushed cheek and a contracted brow, +stood at a window, fretfully tapping the ground with his foot. +</p> +<p> +“Have you any orders, sir?” asked Raikes. +</p> +<p> +“Orders! No—stay a moment Have many gone away this morning?” + </p> +<p> +“Nearly all, sir. Except your family and Mr. Maitland, there's nobody left +but Major Clough, and he 's going, I believe, with Dr. Reede.” + </p> +<p> +“You 've heard nothing of Mr. Maitland going, have you?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, yes, sir! his man sent for post-horses about an hour ago.” + </p> +<p> +Muttering impatiently below his breath, Mark opened the window and passed +out upon the lawn. What an unlucky turn had everything taken! It was but a +week ago, and his friend Maitland was in high delight with all around him. +The country, the scenery, the people were all charming; indeed, in the +intervals between the showers, he had a good word to say for the climate. +As for Lyle Abbey, he pronounced it the perfection of a country-house; and +Mark actually speculated on the time when these opinions of his +distinguished friend would have acquired a certain currency, and the +judgment of one that none disputed would be recorded of his father's +house. And all these successes were now to be reversed by this stupid old +sailor's folly,—insanity he might call it; for what other word could +characterize the pretension that could claim Norman Maitland for a +son-in-law?—Maitland, that might have married, if the law would have +let him, half a score of infantas and archduchesses, and who had but to +choose throughout Europe the alliance that would suit him. And Alice—what +could Alice mean by this impertinent tone she was taking towards him? Had +the great man's patience given way under it all, and was he really going +away, wearied and tired out? +</p> +<p> +While Mark thus doubted and reasoned and questioned, Maitland was seated +at his breakfast at one side of the fire, while Dr. Reede confronted him +at the other. +</p> +<p> +Though Maitland had sent a message to say he wished to see the doctor, he +only gave him now a divided attention, being deeply engaged, even as he +talked, in deciphering a telegram which had just reached him, and which +was only intelligible through a key to the cipher. +</p> +<p> +“So, then, doctor, it is simply the return of an old attack,—a thing +to be expected, in fact, at his time of life?” + </p> +<p> +“Precisely, sir. He had one last autumn twelve month, brought on by a fit +of passion. The old Commodore gives way, rather, to temper.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! gives way, does he?” muttered Maitland, while he mumbled below his +breath, “'seventeen thousand and four D + X, and a gamba,'—a very +large blood-letting. By the way, doctor, is not bleeding—bleeding +largely—a critical remedy with a man of seventy-six or seven?” + </p> +<p> +“Very much so, indeed, sir; and, if you observe, I only applied some +leeches to the <i>nuchæ</i>. You misapprehended me in thinking I took +blood from him freely.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, yes, very true,” said Maitland, recovering himself. “I have no doubt +you treated him with great judgment. It is a case, too, for much caution. +Forty-seven and two G's,” and he hastily turned over the leaves of his +little book, muttering continually, “and two G's, forty-six, forty-seven, +with two B's, two F's. Ah! here it is. Shivering attacks are dangerous—are +they—in these cases?” + </p> +<p> +“In which cases?” asked the doctor; for his shrewd intelligence at once +perceived the double object which Maitland was trying to contemplate. +</p> +<p> +“In a word, then,” continued Maitland, not heeding the doctor's question, +but bending his gaze fixedly on the piece of paper before him, scrawled +over and blotted by his own hand,—“in a word, then, a man of +seventy, seized with paralysis, and, though partially rallied by bleeding, +attacked with shivering, is in a very critical state? But how long might +he live in that way?” + </p> +<p> +“We are not now speaking of Commodore Graham, I apprehend?” asked the +doctor, slyly. +</p> +<p> +“No; I am simply putting a case,—a possible case, Doctors, I know, +are not fond of these imagined emergencies; lawyers like them.” + </p> +<p> +“Doctors dislike them,” broke in Reede, “because they are never given to +them in any completeness,—every important sign of pulse and tongue +and temperature omitted—” + </p> +<p> +“Of course you are right,” said Maitland, crumpling up the telegram and +the other papers; “and now for the Commodore. You are not apprehensive of +anything serious, I hope?” + </p> +<p> +“It 's an anxious case, sir,—a very anxious case; he 's +eighty-four.” + </p> +<p> +“Eighty-four!” repeated Maitland, to whom the words conveyed a +considerable significance. +</p> +<p> +“Eighty-four!” repeated the other, once more. “No one would suspect it. +Why, Sally Graham is the same age as my wife; they were at school +together.” + </p> +<p> +Too polite to push a question which involved a double-shotted answer, +Maitland merely said, “Indeed!” and, after a slight pause, added, “You +said, I think, that the road to Dundalk led past Commodore Graham's +cottage?” + </p> +<p> +“By the very gate.” + </p> +<p> +“May I offer you a seat with me? I am going that way. I have received news +which calls me suddenly to England.” + </p> +<p> +“I thank you much, but I have some visits yet to make before I return to +Port-Graham. I promised to stop the night there.” + </p> +<p> +Having charged the doctor to convey to the Commodore's daughters his +sincere regret for their father's illness, and his no less sincere hope of +a speedy recovery, Maitland endeavored, in recognition of a preliminary +question or two about himself, to press the acceptance of a fee; but the +doctor, armed with that self-respect and tact his profession so eminently +upholds, refused to accept it, and took his leave, perhaps well requited +in having seen and spoken with the great Mr. Norman Maitland, of whom half +the country round were daily talking. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Maitland is not ill, I hope?” said Alice, as she met the doctor on +his way through the garden. +</p> +<p> +“No, Mrs. Trafford; I have been making a friendly call—no more,” + said the doctor, rather vain that he could thus designate his visit; and +with a few words of advice about her sister, he went his way. Alice, +meanwhile, saw that Maitland had observed her from his window, and rightly +guessed that he would soon be in search of her. +</p> +<p> +With that feminine instinct that never deceives in such cases, she +determined that whatever was to pass between them should be undisturbed. +She selected a most unfrequented path, bordered on one side by the high +laurel-hedge, and on the other by a little rivulet, beyond which lay some +rich meadows, backed in the distance by a thick plantation. +</p> +<p> +She had not gone far when she beard a short quick footstep behind her, and +in a few minutes Maitland was at her side. “You forgot to liberate me,” + said he, “so I had to break my arrest.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Signor mio</i>, you must forgive me; we have had such a morning of +confusion and trouble: first, Bella ill,—not seriously, but confined +to bed; and then this poor old Commodore,—the doctor has told you +all about it; and, last of all, Mark storming about the house, and angry +with every one for having caught cold or a fever, and so disgusted (the +great) Mr. Maitland that he is actually hurrying away, with a vow to +heaven nevermore to put foot in Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“Be a little serious, and tell me of your mission this morning,” said he, +gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Three words will do it. We reached Port-Graham just as the doctor arrived +there. The Commodore, it seemed, got home all safe by about four o'clock +in the morning; and instead of going to bed, ordered a fire in his +dressing-room, and a bottle of mulled port; with which aids to comfort he +sat down to write. It would not appear, however, that he had got far in +his correspondence, for at six, when his man entered, he found but two +lines, and his master, as he thought, fast asleep; but which proved to be +a fit of some kind, for he was perfectly insensible. He rallied, however, +and recognized his servant, and asked for the girls. And now Dr. Reede +thinks that the danger has in a great measure passed off, and that all +will go well.” + </p> +<p> +“It is most unhappy,—most unhappy,” muttered Mainland. “I am +sincerely sorry for it all.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course you are, though perhaps not really to blame,—at least, +not blamable in a high degree.” + </p> +<p> +“Not in any degree, Mrs. Trafford.” + </p> +<p> +“That must be a matter of opinion. At all events, your secret is safe, for +the old man has totally forgotten all that occurred last night between +you; and lest any clew to it should remain, I carried away the beginning +of the letter he was writing. Here it is.” + </p> +<p> +“How thoughtfully done!” said he, as he took the paper and read aloud: +“'Dear Triphook, come over and help me to a shot at a rascal'—not +civil, certainly—'at a rascal; that because he calls himself—' +It was well he got no further,” added he, with a faint smile. +</p> +<p> +“A good, bold hand it is too for such an old man. I declare, Mr. Maitland, +I think your usual luck must have befriended you here. The fingers that +held the pen so steadily might have been just as unshaken with the +pistol.” + </p> +<p> +There was something so provocative in her tone that Maitland detected the +speech at once, and became curious to trace it to a cause. At this sally, +however, he only smiled in silence. +</p> +<p> +“I tried to persuade Mark to drive over and see Tony Butler,” continued +she, “but he would n't consent: in fact, a general impulse to be +disobliging would appear to have seized on the world just now. Don't you +think so?” + </p> +<p> +“By the way, I forgot to tell you that your protégé Butler refuses to +accept my offer. I got three lines from him, very dry and concise, saying +'no' to me. Of course I trust to your discretion never to disclose the +negotiation in any way. I myself shall never speak of it; indeed, I am +very little given to doing civil things, and even less accustomed to +finding them ill-received, so that my secrecy is insured.” + </p> +<p> +“He ought not to have refused,” said she, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps not.” + </p> +<p> +“He ought certainly to have given the matter more consideration. I wish I +could have been consulted by him. Is it too late yet?” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect it is,” said he, dryly. “First of all, as I told you, I am +little in the habit of meeting a repulse; and, secondly, there is no time +to renew the negotiation. I must leave this to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“To-day?” + </p> +<p> +“Within an hour,” added he, looking at his watch; “I must manage to reach +Dublin in time to catch the mail-packet to-morrow morning.” + </p> +<p> +“This is very sudden, this determination.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I am called away by tidings I received awhile ago,—tidings of, +to me, the deepest importance.” + </p> +<p> +“Mark will be extremely sorry,” said she, in a low tone. +</p> +<p> +“Not sorrier than I am,” said he, despondently. +</p> +<p> +“We all counted on your coming back with us to the Abbey; and it was only +awhile ago Bella begged that we should wait here for a day or two, that we +might return together, a family party.” + </p> +<p> +“What a flattery there is in the phrase!” said he, with deep feeling. +</p> +<p> +“You don't know,” continued she, “what a favorite you are with my mother. +I dare not trust myself to repeat how she speaks of you.” + </p> +<p> +“Why will you multiply my regrets, Mrs. Trafford? Why will you make my +parting so very, very painful?” + </p> +<p> +“Because I prefer that you should stay; because I speak in the name of a +whole house who will be afflicted at your going.” + </p> +<p> +“You have told me of all save one,” said be, in a voice of deepest +feeling; “I want to learn what she thinks.” + </p> +<p> +“She thinks that if Mr. Maitland's good-nature be only on a par with his +other qualities, he would sooner face the tiresomeness of a stupid house +than make the owners of it feel that they bored him.” + </p> +<p> +“She does not think anything of the kind,” said he, with a peculiar smile. +“She knows that there is no question of good nature or of boredom in the +matter at all; but there is something at stake far more touching than +either.” He waited to see if she would speak, but as she was silent he +went on: “I will be honest, if you will not. I am not going away of my +freewill. I have been called by a telegram this morning to the Continent; +the matter is so pressing that—shall I confess it?—if this +stupid meeting with the Commodore had been arranged, I should have been a +defaulter. Yes, I'd have made I don't well know what explanation to +account for my absence. I can imagine what comments would have been passed +upon my conduct. I feel very painfully, too, for the part I should have +left to such of my friends here as would defend me, and yet have not a +fragment to guide their defence. And still, with all these before me, I +repeat, I would have gone away, so imminent is the case that calls me, and +so much is the matter one that involves the whole future of my life. And +now,” said he, while his voice became fuller and bolder, “that I have told +you this, I am ready to tell you more, and to say that at one word of +yours—one little word—I 'll remain.” + </p> +<p> +“And what may that word be?” said she, quietly; for while he was speaking +she had been preparing herself for some such issue. +</p> +<p> +“I need not tell you,” said he, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Supposing, then, that I guess it,—I am not sure that I do,—but +suppose that,—and could it not be just as well said by another,—by +Bella, for instance?” + </p> +<p> +“You know it could not. This is only fencing, for you know it could not.” + </p> +<p> +“You mean, in fact, that I should say, 'don't go?'” + </p> +<p> +“I do.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'm willing enough to say so, if my words are not to convey more +than I intend by them.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll risk even that,” said he, quickly. “Put your name to the bond, and +we 'll let lawyers declare what it is worth after.” + </p> +<p> +“You frighten me, Mr. Maitland,” said she, and her tone showed that now at +least she was sincere. +</p> +<p> +“Listen to me for one moment, Alice,” said he, taking her hand as he +walked beside her. “You are fully as much the mistress of your fate as I +am master of mine. You may consult, but you need not obey. Had it been +otherwise, I never would have dared on a hardihood that would probably +have wrecked my hopes. It is just as likely I never could satisfy the +friends about you on the score of my fortune,—my means,—my +station, and so on. It is possible, too, that scandal, which makes free +with better men, may not have spared me, and that they who would have the +right to advise you might say, 'Beware of that dreadful man.' I repeat, +this is an ordeal my pride would feel it hard to pass through; and so I +come to you, in all frankness, and declare I love you. To you—you +alone—I will give every guarantee that a man may give of his honor +and honesty. I will tell all my past, and so much as I mean for the +future; and in return, I only ask for time,—nothing but time, Alice. +I am not asking you for any pledge, simply that you will give me—what +you would not have refused a mere acquaintance—the happiness of +seeing you daily; and if—if, I say, you yourself should not deem the +hand and the love I offer beneath you,—if you should be satisfied +with the claims of him who would share his fortune with you,—that +then—not till then—others should hear of it. Is this too much +for me to ask, or you to give, Alice?” + </p> +<p> +“Even now I do not know what you ask of me.” + </p> +<p> +“First of all, that you bid me stay.” + </p> +<p> +“It is but this moment you have declared to me that what calls you away is +of the very last importance to you in life.” + </p> +<p> +“The last but one, Alice,—the last is here;” and he kissed her hand +as he spoke, but still with an air so deferent that she could not resent +it. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot consent that it shall be so,” said she, with energy. “It is true +I am my own mistress, and there is but the greater reason why I should be +more cautious. We are almost strangers to each other. All the flattery of +your professions—and of course, I feel it as flattery—does not +blind me to the fact that I scarcely know you at all.” + </p> +<p> +“Why not consent to know me more?” asked he, almost imploringly. +</p> +<p> +“I agree, if no pledge is to accompany my consent.” + </p> +<p> +“Is not this a somewhat hard condition?” said he, with a voice of +passionate meaning. “You bid me, in one word, place all that I have of +hope on the issue,—not even on that, but simply for leave to play +the game. Is this generous, Alice,—is it even just?” + </p> +<p> +“You bewilder me with all these subtleties, and I might ask if this were +either just or generous; but at least, I will be frank. I like you very +well. I think it not at all impossible that I might like you better; but +even after that, Mr. Mainland, there would be a long stage to travel to +that degree of regard which you profess to desire from me. Do I make +myself understood?” + </p> +<p> +“Too well for me and my hopes!” said he, despondingly. “You are able, +however, to impose hard conditions.” + </p> +<p> +“I impose none, sir. Do not mistake me.” + </p> +<p> +“You leave none others open to me, at least, and I accept them. To give me +even that faint chance of success, however, I must leave this to-day. Is +it not better I should?” + </p> +<p> +“I really cannot advise,” said she, with a well-assumed coldness. +</p> +<p> +“Even contingently, Mrs. Trafford will not involve herself in my +fortunes,” said he, half haughtily. “Well, my journey to Ireland, amongst +other benefits, has taught me a lesson that all my wanderings never +imparted. I have at last learned something of humility. Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +“Good-bye, Mr. Maitland,” said she, with calm, but evidently not without +effort. +</p> +<p> +He stooped and kissed her hand, held it for a moment or two in his own, +and with a very faint “Good-bye,” turned away and left her. He turned +suddenly around after a few paces, and came back. “May I ask one question, +Alice, before I go?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know whether I shall answer it,” said she, with a faint smile. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot afford to add jealousy to my other torments. Tell me, then—” + </p> +<p> +“Take care, sir, take care; your question may cost you more than you think +of.” + </p> +<p> +“Good-bye,—good-bye,” said he, sadly, and departed. “Are the horses +ready, Fenton?” asked he, as his servant came to meet him. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; and Captain Lyle has been looking for you all over the garden.” + </p> +<p> +“He's going,—he 's off, Bella,” said Alice, as she sat down beside +her sister's bed, throwing her bonnet carelessly down at her feet. +</p> +<p> +“Who is going?—who is off?” asked Bella, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Of course,” continued Alice, following up her own thoughts, “to say +'Stay' means more than I like to be pledged to,—I couldn't do it.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Tony!—give him my love, Alice, and tell him I shall often +think of him,—as often as ever I think of bygone days and all their +happiness.” + </p> +<p> +“And why must it be Tony that I spoke of?” said Alice, rising, while a +deep crimson flush covered her face and brow. “I think Master Tony has +shown us latterly that he has forgotten the long ago, and has no wish to +connect us with thoughts of the future.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXX. CONSPIRATORS +</h2> +<p> +In one of those low-ceilinged apartments of a Parisian <i>hôtel</i> which +modern luxury seems peculiarly to affect, decorating the walls with the +richest hangings, and gathering together promiscuously objects of art and +<i>virtù</i>, along with what can minister to voluptuous ease, Maitland +and Caffarelli were now seated. They had dined, and their coffee stood +before them on a table spread with a costly dessert and several bottles, +whose length of neck and color indicated choice liquor. +</p> +<p> +They lounged in the easiest of chairs in the easiest of attitudes, and, as +they puffed their havannahs, did not ill-represent in tableau the +luxurious self-indulgence of the age we live in. For let us talk as we +will of progress and mental activity, be as boastful as we may about the +march of science and discovery, in what are we so really conspicuous as in +the inventions that multiply ease, and bring the means of indulgence +within the reach of even moderate fortune? +</p> +<p> +As the wood fire crackled and flared on the ample hearth, a heavy plash of +hail struck the window, and threatened almost to smash it. +</p> +<p> +“What a night!” said Maitland, drawing closer to the blaze. “I say, <i>Carlo +mio</i>, it's somewhat cosier to sit in this fashion than be toddling over +the Mont Cenis in a shabby old sledge, and listening to the discussion +whether you are to spend the night in the 'Refuge No. One, or No. Two.'” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Caffarelli, “it must have been a great relief to you to have +got my telegram in Dublin, and to know that you need not cross the Alps.” + </p> +<p> +“If I could only have been certain that I understood it aright, I 'd have +gone straight back to the north from whence I came; but there was a word +that puzzled me,—the word <i>calamità </i>. Now we have not yet +arrived at the excellence of accenting foreign words in our telegraph +offices; and as your most amiable and philosophical of all nations has but +the same combination of letters to express an attraction and an +affliction, I was sorely puzzled to make out whether you wrote with or +without an accent on the last syllable. It made all the difference in the +world whether you say events are a 'loadstone' or a 'misfortune.' I gave +half an hour to the study of the passage, and then came on.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco!</i> I never thought of that; but what, under any +circumstances, would have induced you to go back again?” + </p> +<p> +“I fell in love!” + </p> +<p> +Caffarelli pushed the lamp aside to have a better view of his friend, and +then laughed long and heartily. “Maso Arretini used often to say, +'Maitland will die a monk;' and I begin now to believe it is quite +possible.” + </p> +<p> +“Maso was a fool for his prediction. Had I meant to be a monk, I 'd have +taken to the cowl when I had youth and vigor and dash in me, the qualities +a man ought to bring to a new career. Ha! what is there so strange in the +fact that I should fall in love?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't ask as if you were offended with me, and I 'll try and tell you.” + </p> +<p> +“I am calm; go on.” + </p> +<p> +“First of all, Maitland, no easy conquest would satisfy your vanity, and +you'd never have patience to pursue a difficult one. Again, the objects +that really have an attraction for you—such as Ambition and Power—have +the same fascination for you that high play has for a gambler. You do not +admit nor understand any other; and, last of all,—one is nothing if +not frank in these cases,—you 'd never believe any woman was lovely +enough, clever enough, or graceful enough to be worthy of Norman +Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“The candor has been perfect. I 'll try and imitate it,” said Maitland, +filling his glass slowly, and slightly wetting his lips. “All you have +just said, Carlo, would be unimpeachable if all women were your +countrywomen, and if love were what it is understood to be in an Italian +city; but there are such things in this dreary land of fog and snow-drift +as women who do not believe intrigue to be the chief object of human +existence, who have fully as much self-respect as they have coquetry, and +who would regard no addresses so offensive as those that would reduce them +to the level of a class with which they would not admit companionship.” + </p> +<p> +“Bastions of virtue that I never ask to lay siege to!” broke out the +other, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Don't believe it, Carlo. You'd like the campaign well, if you only knew +how to conduct it. Why, it's not more than a week ago I quitted a +country-house where there were more really pretty women than you could +number in the crowd of one of your ball-rooms on either Arno or Tiber.” + </p> +<p> +“And, in the name of Heaven, why didn't you bring over one of them at +least, to strike us with wonderment and devotion?” + </p> +<p> +“Because I would not bring envy, malice, and jealousy to all south of the +Alps; because I would not turn all your heads, or torment your hearts; and +lastly, because—she would n't come. No, Carlo, she would n't come.” + </p> +<p> +“And you really asked her?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. At first I made the lamentable blunder of addressing her as I should +one of your own dark-skinned damsels, but the repulse I met taught me +better. I next tried the serious line, but I failed there also; not +hopelessly, however,—at least, not so hopelessly as to deter me from +another attempt. Yes, yes; I understand your smile, and I know your +theory,—there never was a bunch of grapes yet that was worth going +on tiptoe to gather.” + </p> +<p> +“Not that, but there are scores within reach quite as good as one cares +for,” said Caffarelli, laughing. “What are you thinking of?” asked he, +after a pause. +</p> +<p> +“I was thinking what possible hope there was for a nation of twenty +millions of men, with temperament like yours,—fellows so ingrained +in indolence that the first element they weigh in every enterprise was, +how little trouble it was to cost them.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare,” said the Italian, with more show of energy, “I 'd hold life +as cheaply as yourself if I had to live in your country,—breathe +only fogs, and inhale nothing pleasanter than coal-smoke.” + </p> +<p> +“It is true,” said Maitland, gravely, “the English have not got climate,—they +have only weather; but who is to say if out of the vicissitudes of our +skies we do not derive that rare activity which makes us profit by every +favorable emergency?” + </p> +<p> +“To do every conceivable thing but one.” + </p> +<p> +“And what is that one?” + </p> +<p> +“Enjoy yourselves! Oh, <i>caro amico</i>, you do with regard to your +pleasures what you do with your music,—you steal a little from the +Continent, and always spoil it in the adaptation.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland sipped his wine in half-sullen silence for some minutes, and then +said, “You think then, really, we ought to be at Naples?” + </p> +<p> +“I am sure of it. Baretti,—do you forget Baretti? he had the +wine-shop at the end of the Contrada St. Lucia.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember him as a Caraorrista.” + </p> +<p> +“The same; he is here now. He tells me that the Court is so completely in +the hands of the Queen that they will not hear of any danger; that they +laugh every time Cavour is mentioned; and now that both France and England +have withdrawn their envoys, the King says openly, 'It is a pleasure to +drive out on the Chiaja when one knows they 'll not meet a French gendarme +or an English detective.'” + </p> +<p> +“And what does Baretti say of popular feeling?” + </p> +<p> +“He says the people would like to do something, though nobody seems to +know what it ought to be. They thought that Milano's attempt t 'other day +was clever, and they think it might n't be bad to blow up the Emperor, or +perhaps the Pope, or both; but he also says that the Camorra are open to +reason, and that Victor Emmanuel and Cavour are as legitimate food for an +explosive shell as the others; and, in fact, any convulsion that will +smash the shutters and lead to pillage must be good.” + </p> +<p> +“You think Baretti can be depended on?” + </p> +<p> +“I know he can. He has been Capo Camorrista eight years in one of the +vilest quarters of Naples; and if there were a suspicion of him, he'd have +been stabbed long ago.” + </p> +<p> +“And what is he doing here?” + </p> +<p> +“He came here to see whether anything could be done about assassinating +the Emperor.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd not have seen him, Carlo. It was most unwise to have spoken with +him.” + </p> +<p> +“What would you have?” said the other, with a shrug of his shoulders. “He +came to set this clock to rights,—it plays some half-dozen airs from +Mercadante and Verdi,—and he knows how to arrange them. He goes +every morning to the Tuileries, to Moquard, the Emperor's secretary: he, +too, has an Italian musical clock, and he likes to chat with Baretti.” + </p> +<p> +“I distrust these fellows greatly.” + </p> +<p> +“That is so English!” said Caffarelli; “but we Italians have a finer +instinct for knavery, just as we have a finer ear for music; and as we +detect a false note, so we smell a treachery, where you John Bulls would +neither suspect one or the other. Baretti sees the Prince Napoleon, too, +almost every day, and with Pietri he is like a brother.” + </p> +<p> +“But we can have no dealings with a fellow that harbors such designs.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Caro amico</i>, don't you know by this time that no Italian of the +class of this fellow ever imagines any other disentanglement in a +political question than by the stiletto? It is you, or I, or somebody +else, must, as they phrase it, 'pay with his skin.' Fortunately for the +world, there is more talk than action in all this; but if you were to +oppose it, and say, 'None of this,' you 'd only be the first victim. We +put the knife in politics just as the Spanish put garlic in cookery: we +don't know any other seasoning, and it has always agreed with our +digestion.” + </p> +<p> +“Can Giacomo come in to wind up the clock, Eccellenza?” said Caffarelli's +servant, entering at the moment; and as the Count nodded an assent, a fat, +large, bright-eyed man of about forty entered, with a mellow frank +countenance, and an air of happy joyous contentment that might have sat +admirably on a well-to-do farmer. +</p> +<p> +“Come over and have a glass of wine, Giacomo,” said the Count, filling a +large glass to the brim with Burgundy; and the Italian bowed with an air +of easy politeness first to the Count and next to Maitland, and then, +after slightly tasting the liquor, retired a little distance from the +table, glass in hand. +</p> +<p> +“My friend here,” said the Count, with a motion of his hand towards +Maitland, “is one of ourselves, Giacomo, and you may speak freely before +him.” + </p> +<p> +“I have seen the noble signor before,” said Giacomo, bowing respectfully, +“at Naples, with His Royal Highness the Count of Syracuse.” + </p> +<p> +“The fellow never forgets a face; nobody escapes him,” muttered +Caffarelli; while he added, aloud, “Well, there are few honester patriots +in Italy than the Count of Syracuse.” + </p> +<p> +Giacomo smiled, and showed a range of white teeth, with a pleasant air of +acquiescence. +</p> +<p> +“And what is stirring?—what news have you for us, Giacomo?” asked +Caffarelli. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing, Eccellenza,—positively nothing. The French seem rather to +be growing tired of us Italians, and begin to ask, 'What, in the name of +wonder, do we really want?' and even his Majesty the Emperor t' other day +said to one of ours, 'Don't be importunate.'” + </p> +<p> +“And will you tell me that the Emperor would admit to his presence and +speak with fellows banded in a plot against his life?” asked Maitland, +contemptuously. +</p> +<p> +“Does the noble signor know that the Emperor was a Carbonaro once, and +that he never forgets it? Does the noble signor know that there has not +been one plot against his life—not one—of which he has not +been duly apprised and warned?” + </p> +<p> +“If I understand you aright, Master Giacomo, then, it is that these +alleged schemes of assassination are simply plots to deliver up to the +Emperor the two or three amongst you who may be sincere in their blood +thirstiness. Is that so?” + </p> +<p> +Far from seeming offended at the tone or the tenor of this speech, Giacomo +smiled good-naturedly, and said, “I perceive that the noble signor is not +well informed either as to our objects or our organization; nor does he +appear to know, as your Excellency knows, that all secret societies have a +certain common brotherhood.” + </p> +<p> +“What! does he mean when opposed to each other?” + </p> +<p> +“He does, and he is right, Maitland. As bankers have their +changing-houses, these fellows have their appointed places of meeting; and +you might see a Jesuit in talk with a Garibaldian, and a wild +revolutionist with one of the Pope's household.” + </p> +<p> +“The real pressure of these fellows,” whispered the Count, still lower, +“is menace! Menace it was brought about the war with Austria, and it +remains to be seen if menace cannot undo its consequences. Killing a king +is trying an unknown remedy; threatening to kill him is coercing his +policy. And what are you about just now, Giacomo?” added he, louder. +</p> +<p> +“Little jobs here and there, signor, as I get them; but this morning, as I +was mending a small organ at the Duc de Broglie's, an agent of the police +called to say I had better leave Paris.” + </p> +<p> +“And when?” + </p> +<p> +“To-night, sir. I leave by the midnight mail for Lyons, and shall be in +Turin by Saturday.” + </p> +<p> +“And will the authorities take his word, and suffer him to go his road +without surveillance?” whispered Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Si, signor!</i>” interposed Giacomo, whose quick Italian ear had +caught the question. “I won't say that they'll not telegraph down the +whole line, and that at every station a due report will not be made of me; +but I am prepared for that, and I take good care not even to ask a light +for my cigar from any one who does not wear a French uniform.” + </p> +<p> +“If I had authority here, Master Giacomo,” said Maitland, “it's not you, +nor fellows like you, I 'd set at liberty.” + </p> +<p> +“And the noble signor would make a great mistake, that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“Why so?” + </p> +<p> +“It would be like destroying the telegraph wires because one received an +unpleasant despatch,” said Giacomo, with a grin. +</p> +<p> +“The fellow avows, then, that he is a spy, and betrays his fellows,” + whispered Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd be very sorry to tell him so, or hear you tell him so,” whispered +the Count, with a laugh. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Giacomo,” added he, aloud, “I 'll not detain you longer. We shall +probably be on t' other side of the Alps ourselves in a few days, and +shall meet again. A pleasant journey and a safe one to you!” He adroitly +slipped some napoleons into the man's hand as he spoke. “<i>Tanti saluti</i> +to all our friends, Giacomo,” said he, waving his hand in adieu; and +Giacomo seized it and kissed it twice with an almost rapturous devotion, +and withdrew. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” cried Maitland, with an irritable vibration in his tone, “this is +clear and clean beyond me. What can you or I have in common with a fellow +of this stamp; or supposing that we could have anything, how should we +trust him?” + </p> +<p> +“Do you imagine that the nobles will ever sustain the monarchy, my dear +Maitland; or in what country have you ever found that the highest in class +were freest of their blood? It is Giacomo, and the men like him, who +defend kings to-day that they may menace them to-morrow. These fellows +know well that with what is called a constitutional government and a +parliament the king's life signifies next to nothing, and their own trade +is worthless. They might as well shoot a President of the Court of +Cassation! Besides, if we do not treat with these men, the others will. +Take my word for it, our king is wiser than either of us, and he never +despised the Caraorra. But I know what you 're afraid of, Maitland,” said +he, laughing,—“what you and all your countrymen tremble before,—that +precious thing you call public opinion, and your 'Times' newspaper! +There's the whole of it. To be arraigned as a regicide, and called the +companion of this, that, or t' other creature, who was or ought to have +been guillotined, is too great a shock for your Anglican respectability; +and really I had fancied you were Italian enough to take a different view +of this.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland leaned his head on his hand, and seemed to muse for some minutes. +“Do you know, Carlo,” said he, at last, “I don't think I 'm made for this +sort of thing. This fraternizing with scoundrels—for scoundrels they +are—is a rude lesson. This waiting for the <i>mot d'ordre</i> from a +set of fellows who work in the dark is not to my humor. I had hoped for a +fair stand-up fight, where the best man should win; and what do we see +before us? Not the cause of a throne defended by the men who are loyal to +their king, but a vast lottery, out of which any adventurer is to draw the +prize. So far as I can see it, we are to go into a revolution to secure a +monarchy.” + </p> +<p> +Caffarelli leaned across the table and filled Maitland's glass to the +brim, and then replenished his own. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Caro mio</i>,” said he, coaxingly, “don't brood and despond in this +fashion, but tell me about this charming Irish beauty. Is she a brunette?” + </p> +<p> +“No; fair as a lily, but not like the blond damsels you have so often +seen, with a certain timidity of look that tells of weak and uncertain +purpose. She might by her air and beauty be a queen.” + </p> +<p> +“And her name?” + </p> +<p> +“Alice—Alicia, some call it.” + </p> +<p> +“Alice is better. And how came she to be a widow so very young? What is +her story?” + </p> +<p> +“I know nothing of it; how should I? I could tell nothing of my own,” said +Maitland, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Rich as well as beautiful,—what a prize, Maitland! I can scarcely +imagine why you hesitate about securing it.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland gave a scornful laugh, and with a voice of bitterness said: +“Certainly my pretensions are great. I have fortune—station— +family—name—and rank to offer her. Can you not remind me, +Carlo, of some other of my immense advantages?” + </p> +<p> +“I know this much,” said the other, doggedly, “that I never saw you fail +in anything you ever attempted.” + </p> +<p> +“I had the trick of success once,” said Maitland, sorrowfully, “but I seem +to have lost it. But, after all, what would success do for me here, but +stamp me as an adventurer?” + </p> +<p> +“You did not argue in that fashion two years ago, when you were going to +marry a Spanish princess, and the half-sister of a queen.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I have never regretted that I broke off the match. It estranged me, +of course, from <i>him</i>; and indeed he has never forgiven me.” + </p> +<p> +“He might, however, now, if he saw that you could establish your fortunes +so favorably,—don't you think so?” + </p> +<p> +“No, Carlo. It is all for rank and title, not for money, that he cares! +His whole game in life was played for the Peerage. He wanted to be 'My +Lord;' and though repeatedly led to believe he was to have the title, the +Minister put off, and put off, and at last fell from power without keeping +his pledge. Now in this Spanish business he bargained that I was to be a +Duke,—a Grandee of Spain. The Queen declared it impossible. Mufios +himself was refused. The dukedom, however, I could have. With the glitter +of that ducal coronet before his eyes, he paid three hundred thousand +francs I lost at the Jockey Club in Paris, and he merely said, 'Your luck +in love has been somewhat costly,—don't play such high stakes +again.'” + </p> +<p> +“He is <i>très grand seigneur!</i>” said the Italian, with a voice of +intense admiration and respect. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Maitland; “in every case where mere money enters, he is +princely. I never met a man who thought less of his gold. The strange +thing is, that it is his ambition which exhibits him so small!” + </p> +<p> +“Adagio, adagio, caro mio!” cried Caffarelli, laughing. “I see where you +are bound for now. You are going to tell me, as you have some score of +times, that to all English estimation our foreign titles are sheer +nonsense; that our pauper counts and beggarly dukes are laughing matter +for even your Manchester folk; and that in your police code baron and +blackleg are synonyms. Now spare me all this, <i>caro</i> Maitland, for I +know it by heart.” + </p> +<p> +“If one must say such impertinences, it is well to say them to a +cardinal's nephew.” + </p> +<p> +The slight flush of temper in the Italian's cheek gave way at once, and he +asked good-humoredly, as he said, “Better say them to me, certainly, than +to my uncle. But, to be practical, if he does attach so much importance to +rank and title, why do you not take that countship of Amalfi the King +offered you six months ago, and which, to this day, he is in doubt whether +you have accepted or refused?” + </p> +<p> +“How do you know that?” asked Maitland, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I know it in this wise; that when his Majesty mentioned your name t' +other day to Filangieri, he said, 'The Chevalier Maitland or Count of +Amalfi,—I don't know by which name he likes to call himself.'” + </p> +<p> +“Are you sure of this?” + </p> +<p> +“I heard it; I was present when he said it.” + </p> +<p> +“If I did not accept when it was offered, the reason was this: I thought +that the first time I wrote myself Count of Amalfi, old Santarelli would +summon me before him to show birth and parentage, and fifty other +particulars which I could have no wish to see inquired after; and as the +title of Amalfi was one once borne by a cadet of the royal family, he 'd +have been all the more exacting in his perquisitions before inscribing my +name in that precious volume he calls the 'Libro d'Oro.' If, however, you +tell me that the King considers that I have accepted the rank, it gives +the matter another aspect.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect poor old Santarelli has very little heart for heraldry just +now. He has got a notion that the first man the Revolutionists will hang +will be himself, representing, as he does, all the privileges of +feudalism.” + </p> +<p> +“There is one way to do it if it could be managed,” said Maitland, +pondering. “Three lines in the King's hand, addressing me 'The Chevalier +Maitland, Count of Amalfi!' With these I 'd defy all the heralds that ever +carried a painted coat in a procession.” + </p> +<p> +“If that be all, I 'll promise you it. I am writing to Filangieri +to-morrow. Let me have some details of what men you have recruited and +what services you have rendered, briefly, not formally; and I'll say, 'If +our master would vouchsafe in his own hand a line, a word even, to the +Count of Amalfi, it would be a recompense he would not exchange for +millions.' I 'll say 'that the letter could be sent to Ludolf at Turin, +where we shall probably be in a week or two. '” + </p> +<p> +“And do you think the King will accede?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course he will. We are not asking for a pension, or leave to shoot at +Caserta. The thing is the same as done. Kings like a cheap road out of +their indebtedness as well as humbler people. If not, they would never +have invented crosses and grand cordons.” + </p> +<p> +“Now, let us concoct the thing regularly,” said Maitland, pushing the +decanters from before him, as though, by a gesture, to show that he had +turned from all conviviality to serious considerations. “You,” continued +he, “will, first of all, write to Filangieri.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. I will say, half incidentally, as it were, Maitland is here with me, +as eager as the warmest of us in the cause. He has been eminently +successful in his recruitment, of which he will soon send you details—” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but how? That fellow M'Caskey, who has all the papers, did not meet +me as I ordered him, and I cannot tell where he is.” + </p> +<p> +“I am to blame for this, Maitland, for I ordered him to come over here, as +the most certain of all ways of seeing you.” + </p> +<p> +“And he is here now?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. Arrived last night In the hope of your arrival, I gave him a +rendezvous here—any hour from ten to one or two to-night—and +we shall soon see him.” + </p> +<p> +“I must confess, I don't care how brief the interview be: the man is not +at all to my liking.” + </p> +<p> +“You are not likely to be much bored by him here, at least.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“The police are certain to hear of his arrival, and to give him a friendly +hint to arrange his private affairs with all convenient despatch and move +off.” + </p> +<p> +“With what party or section do they connect him?” + </p> +<p> +“With how many? you might perhaps ask; for I take it he has held office +with every shade of opinion, and intrigued for any cause from Henry V. to +the reddest republicanism. The authorities, however, always deal with a +certain courtesy to a man of this sort. They intimate, simply, We are +aware you are here,—we know pretty well for what; and so don't push +us to any disagreeable measures, but cross over into Belgium or +Switzerland. M'Caskey himself told me he was recognized as he drew up at +the hotel, and, in consequence, thinks he shall have to go on in a day or +two.” + </p> +<p> +“Is not the fellow's vanity in some measure a reason for this? Does he not +rather plume himself on being <i>l'homme dangereux</i> to all Europe?” + </p> +<p> +“In conversation he would certainly give this idea, but not in fact. He is +marvellously adroit in all his dealings with the authorities, and in +nothing is he more subtle than in the advantage he takes of his own +immense conceit. He invariably makes it appear that vanity is his weak +point; or, as he phrases it himself, 'I always show my adversary so much +of my hand as will mislead him.'” + </p> +<p> +“And is he really as deep as all this would imply?” + </p> +<p> +“Very deep for an Englishman; fully able to cope with the cunningest of +his own people, but a child amongst ours, Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland laughed scornfully as he said, “For the real work of life all +your craft avails little. No man ever cut his way through a wood with a +penknife, were it ever so sharp.” + </p> +<p> +“The Count M'Caskey, Eccellenza, desires to know if you receive?” said +Caffarelli's servant, in a low tone. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, certainly; but do not admit any one else.” + </p> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/butler0009.jpg" alt="butler0009" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<p> +Very significant—but very differently significant—were the +looks that passed between Maitland and Caffarelli in the brief interval +before M'Caskey entered. At last the door was flung wide, and the +distinguished Major appeared in full evening dress, one side of his coat a +blaze of stars and crosses, while in front of his cravat he wore the +ribbon and collar of some very showy order. Nothing could be easier than +his <i>entrée</i>; nothing less embarrassed than his salutation to each in +turn, as, throwing his white gloves into his hat, he drew over to the +table, and began to search for an unused wine-glass. +</p> +<p> +“Here is a glass,” said Caffarelli. “What will you drink? This is +Bordeaux, and this is some sort of Hock; this is Moselle.” + </p> +<p> +“Hand me the sherry; I am chilly. I have been chilly all day, and went out +to dine against my will.” + </p> +<p> +“Where did you dine?” + </p> +<p> +“With Plon-Plon,” said he, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“With the Prince Napoleon?” asked Maitland, incredulously. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; he insisted on it I wrote to him to say that La Verrier, the +sous-prefect, had invited me to make as short a delay at Paris as was +consistent with my perfect convenience,—the police euphuism for +twenty-four hours; and I said, 'Pray excuse me at dinner, for I shall want +to see Caffarelli.' But he would n't take any apology, and I went, and we +really were very pleasant.” + </p> +<p> +“Who was there?” asked Caffarelli. +</p> +<p> +“Only seven altogether: Bagration and his pretty niece; an Aldobrandini +Countess,—bygone, but still handsome; Joseph Poniatowsky; Botrain of +'La Patrie;' and your humble servant. Fould, I think, was expected, but +did not come. Fearfully hot, this sherry,—don't you think so?” + </p> +<p> +Maitland looked superbly defiant, and turned his head away without +ceremony. Caffarelli, however, came quickly to the rescue by pushing over +a bottle of Burgundy, and Baying, “And it was a pleasant party?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, decidedly pleasant,” said M'Caskey, with the air of one pronouncing +a judicial opinion. “The women were nice, very well dressed,—the +little Russian, especially; and then we talked away as people only do talk +in Paris, where there is none of that rotten cant of London, and no +subject discussed but the little trivialities of daily life.” + </p> +<p> +Caffarelli's eyes sparkled with mischievous delight as he watched the +expansive vanity in M'Caskey's face, and the disgust that darkened in +Maitland's. “We had a little of everything,” said M'Caskey, with his head +thrown back and two fingers of one hand jauntily stuck in his waistcoat +pocket. “We had politics,—Plon-Plon's own peculiar politics,—Europe +a democracy, and himself the head of it. We discussed dinners and +dinner-givers,—a race fast dying out We talked a little finance, +and, lastly, women.” + </p> +<p> +“Your own theme!” said Caffarelli, with a slight inclination of the head. +</p> +<p> +“Without vanity I might say it was. Poor old D'Orsay always said, 'Scratch +M'Caskey, and I'll back myself for success against any man in Europe.'” + </p> +<p> +Maitland started as if a viper had bitten him; but by an effort he seemed +to restrain himself, and, taking out his cigar-case, began a diligent +search for a cigar. +</p> +<p> +“Ha, cheroots, I see?” cried M'Caskey; “cheroots are a weakness of mine. +Pick me out a well-spotted one, will you?” + </p> +<p> +Maitland threw the case as it was across the table to him without a word. +</p> +<p> +M'Caskey selected some six or eight, and laid them beside him. “You are +low, depressed, this evening, Maitland,” said he; “what's the matter with +you?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, not depressed,—disgusted.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, disgusted!” said M'Caskey, slowly; and his small eyes twinkled like +two balls of fire. “Would it be indiscreet to ask the cause?” + </p> +<p> +“It would be very indiscreet, Count M'Caskey,” interposed Caffarelli, “to +forget that you are here purely on a grave matter of business,—far +too grave to be compromised by any forgetfulness on the score of temper.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” broke in Maitland; “there can always be found a fitting time +and place to arrange any small questions outstanding between you and me. +We want now to learn something of what you have done in Ireland lately, +for the King's service.” + </p> +<p> +M'Caskey drew from his pocket a much-worn pocket-book, crammed to bursting +with a variety of loose papers, cards, and photographs, which fell about +as he opened it. Not heeding the disorder, he sought out a particular +page, and read aloud: “Embarked this twenty-second of September, at +Gravesend, on board the 'Ocean Queen,' bound for Messina with machinery, +two hundred and eleven laborers—laborers engaged for two years—to +work on the State railroads, twenty-eight do. do. on board of the 'Star of +Swansea,' for Molo de Gaeta with coals,—making, with three hundred +and eighty-two already despatched, within about thirty of the first +battalion of the Cacciatori of St Patrick.” + </p> +<p> +“Well done! bravissimo!” cried Caffarelli, right glad to seize upon the +opportunity to restore a pleasanter understanding. +</p> +<p> +“There's not a man amongst them would not be taken in the Guards; and they +who regard height of stature as the first element of the soldier—amongst +whom I am not one—would pronounce them magnificent!” + </p> +<p> +“And are many more available of the same sort?” asked Caffarelli. +</p> +<p> +“Ten thousand, sir, if you like to pay for them.” + </p> +<p> +“Do these men understand that they are enlisted as soldiers, not engaged +as navvies?” asked Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“As well as you do. Whatever our friend Caffarelli may think, I can tell +him that my countrymen are no more deficient in acuteness than his own. +These fellows know the cause just as well as they know the bounty.” + </p> +<p> +“I was not inquiring as to their sympathies,” said Mait-land, caustically; +“I merely wanted to hear how they understood the contract.” + </p> +<p> +“They are hirelings, of course, as I am, and as you are,” said M'Caskey. +</p> +<p> +“By what presumption, sir, do you speak of me?” said Maitland, rising, his +face dark with passion. “If the accidents of life range us in the same +cause, is there any other tie or bond between us?” + </p> +<p> +“Once more I declare I will have none of this,” said Caffarelli, pushing +Maitland down into his chair. “Count M'Caskey, the Central Committee have +placed you under my orders. These orders are that you report yourself to +General Filangieri at Naples as soon as you can arrive there; that you +duly inform the Minister at War of what steps you have already taken in +the recruitment, putting yourself at his disposition for further service. +Do you want money?” added he in a lower tone, as he drew the Major aside. +</p> +<p> +“A man always wants money, sir,” said M'Caskey, sententiously. +</p> +<p> +“I am your banker: what shall it be?” said Caffarelli, drawing out his +pocket-book. +</p> +<p> +“For the present,” said M'Caskey, carelessly, “a couple of thousand francs +will suffice. I have a rather long bill against his Majesty, but it can +wait.” + </p> +<p> +He pocketed the notes without deigning to look at them, and then, drawing +closer to Caffarelli, said, in a whisper, “You 'll have to keep your +friend yonder somewhat 'better in hand,'—you will, really. If not, I +shall have to shoot him.” + </p> +<p> +“The Chevalier Maitland is your superior officer, sir,” said Caffarelli, +haughtily. “Take care how you speak of him to any one, but more especially +to me, who am his friend.” + </p> +<p> +“I am at his 'friend's' orders, equally,” said the Major; “my case +contains two pistols.” + </p> +<p> +Caffarelli turned away with a shrug of the shoulder, and a look that +unmistakably bespoke disgust. +</p> +<p> +“Here goes, then, for the stirrup-cup!” said M'Caskey, filling a large +goblet with Burgundy. “To our next meeting, gentlemen,” and he bowed as he +lifted it to his lips. “Won't you drink to my toast?” said he, stopping. +</p> +<p> +Caffarelli filled his glass, and touched it to his lips; but Maitland sat +with his gaze bent upon the fire, and never looked up. +</p> +<p> +“Present my homage to the pretty widow when you see her, Maitland, and +give her that;” and he flung down a photograph on the table. “It's not a +good one, but it will serve to remind her of me.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland seized the card and pitched it into the fire, pressing down the +embers with his boot. +</p> +<p> +Caffarelli sprang forward, and laid his hands on M'Caskey's shoulders. +</p> +<p> +“When and where?” said the Major, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Now—here—if you like,” said Maitland, as calmly. +</p> +<p> +“At last,” said a deep voice; and a brigadier of the gendarmerie entered, +followed by two of his men. +</p> +<p> +“M. le Comte,” said he, addressing the Major, “I have been in search of +you since eleven o'clock. There 's a special train waiting to convey you +to Macon; pray don't lose any more time.” + </p> +<p> +“I shall be at Naples within a fortnight,” whispered Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“All right,” replied M'Caskey. “M. le Brigadier, <i>à vos ordres</i>. +Good-bye, Count. By the way, I was forgetting my cheroots, which are +really excellent;” and so saying, he carefully placed them in his +cigar-case; and then, giving his great-coat to one of the gendarmes to +assist him while he drew it on, he waved a little familiar adieu with his +hand and departed. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Maitland, how could you so far forget yourself, and with such a +man?” said Caffarelli, laying his hands on his shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“With any <i>other</i> man I could <i>not</i> have forgotten myself,” said +he, sternly. “Let us think no more of him.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXI. TWO FRIENDS +</h2> +<p> +It was like a return to his former self—to his gay, happy, careless +nature—for Tony Butler to find himself with his friend Skeflfy. As +painters lay layers of the same color on, one over the other, to deepen +the effect, so does youth double itself by companionship. As for Skeflfy, +never did a schoolboy exult more in a holiday; and, like a schoolboy, his +spirits boiled over in all manner of small excesses, practical jokes on +his fellow-passengers, and all those glorious tomfooleries, to be able to +do which with zest is worth all the enjoyment that ever cynicism yielded +twice told. +</p> +<p> +“I was afraid you would n't come. I did n't see you when the coach drove +into the inn-yard; and I was so disappointed,” said Tony, as he surveyed +the mass of luggage which the guard seemed never to finish depositing +before his friend. +</p> +<p> +“Two portmanteaus, sir,” said the guard, “three carpetbags, a +dressing-case, a hat-box, a gun-case, bundle of sticks and umbrellas, and +I think this parrot and cage are yours.” + </p> +<p> +“A parrot, Skeflfy!” + </p> +<p> +“For Mrs. Maxwell, you dog: she loves parrots, and I gave ten guineas for +that beggar, because they assured me he could positively keep up a +conversation; and the only thing he <i>can</i> say is, 'Don't you wish you +may get it?'” + </p> +<p> +No sooner had the bird heard the words than he screamed them out with a +wild and scornful cry that made them sound like a bitter mockery. +</p> +<p> +“There,—that's at me,” whispered Skeflfy,—“at <i>me</i> and <i>my</i> +chance of Tilney. I 'm half inclined to wring his neck when I hear it.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you looking for any one, Harris?” asked Tony of a servant in livery +who had just ridden into the yard. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; I have a letter from my mistress for a gentleman that was to +have come by the mail.” + </p> +<p> +“Here he is,” said Tony, as he glanced at the address. “This is Mr. +Skefflngton Darner.” + </p> +<p> +While Skeffy broke the seal, Tony muttered in his ear, “Mind, old fellow, +you are to come to us before you go to Tilney, no matter how pressing she +may be.” + </p> +<p> +“Here's a business,” said Skeffy; “as well as I can make out her old +pothooks, it is that she can't receive me. 'My dear,'—she first +wrote 'Nephew,' but it's smudged out,—'My dear Cousin Darner, I am +much distressed to tell you that you must not come here. It is the +scarlatina, which the doctors all think highly infectious, though we burn +cinnamon and that other thing through all the rooms. My advice would be to +go to Harrogate, or some nice place, to amuse yourself, and I enclose this +piece of thin paper.' Where is it, though?” said he, opening the letter +and shaking it “Just think of the old woman forgetting to put up the +enclosure!” + </p> +<p> +“Try the envelope!” cried Tony, eagerly; but, no, the envelope was also +empty, and it was plain enough she had omitted it. +</p> +<p> +Skeffy read on: “'I had a very pretty pony for you here; and I remember +Lydia Darner told me how nice you looked riding, with the long curls down +your back.' Why, that was five-and-twenty years ago!” cried he, with a +scream of laughter,—“just fancy, Tony!” and he ran his fingers +through his hair. “How am I ever to keep up the illusion with this crop! +'But,'”—he went on to read,—“'but I suppose I shall not see +that now. I shall be eighty-one next November. Mind that you drink my +health on the 22nd, if I be alive. I could send you the pony if you +thought it would not be too expensive to keep him in London. Tilney is +looking beautiful, and the trees are budding as if it were spring. Drop me +a line before you leave the neighborhood; and believe me, your +affectionate godmother, +</p> +<p> +“'Dinah Maxwell.' +</p> +<p> +“I think I had better say I'll send an answer,” said Skeffy, as he +crumpled up the letter; “and as to the enclosure—” + </p> +<p> +A wild scream and some unintelligible utterance broke from the parrot at +this instant. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, you beggar, 'you wish I may get it' By the way, the servant can take +that fellow back with him; I am right glad to be rid of him.” + </p> +<p> +“It's the old adage of the ill wind,” said Tony, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“How so? What do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean that <i>your</i> ill-luck is <i>our</i> good fortune; for as you +can't go to Tilney, you'll have to stay the longer with us.” + </p> +<p> +Skeffy seized his hand and gave it a cordial shake, and the two young +fellows looked fully and frankly at each other, as men do look before the +game of life has caught too strong a hold upon their hearts, and taught +them over-anxiety to rise winners from it. +</p> +<p> +“Now, then, for your chateau,” said Skeffy, as he leaped up on the car, +already half hidden beneath his luggage. +</p> +<p> +“Our chateau is a thatched cabin,” said Tony, blushing in spite of all his +attempts to seem at ease. “It is only a friend would have heart to face +its humble fare.” + </p> +<p> +Not heeding, if he even heard the remark, Skeffy rattled on about +everything,—past, present, and future; talked of their jolly dinner +at Richmond, and of each of their companions on that gay day; asked the +names of the various places they passed on the road, what were the usual +fortunes of the proprietors, how they spent them; and, seldom waiting for +the answer, started some new query, to be forgotten in its turn. +</p> +<p> +“It is a finer country to ride over,” said Tony, anxious to say something +favorable for his locality, “than to look at. It is not pretty, perhaps, +but there's plenty of grass, and no end of stone walls to jump, and in the +season there's some capital trout-fishing too.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't care a copper for either. I'd rather see a new pantomime than the +best stag-hunt in Europe. I 'd rather see Tom Salter do the double spring +backwards than I 'd see them take a whale.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not of your mind, then,” said Tony. “I 'd rather be out on the +hillside of a dull, good-scenting day,—well mounted, of course,—and +hear the dogs as they rushed yelping through the cover.” + </p> +<p> +“Yoics, yoics, yoics! I saw it all at Astley's, and they took a gate in +rare style. But, I say, what is that tower yonder, topping the trees?” + </p> +<p> +“That is Lyle Abbey,—Sir Arthur Lyle's place.” + </p> +<p> +“Lyle,—Lyle. There was such a picture in the Exhibition last year of +two sisters, Maud, or Alice, or Bella Lyle, and another, by Watts. I used +to go every morning, before I went down to the office, to have a look at +them, and I never was quite certain which I was in love with.” + </p> +<p> +“They are here! they are Sir Arthur's daughters.” + </p> +<p> +“You don't say so! And do you know them, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“As well as if they were my sisters.” + </p> +<p> +“Ain't I in luck!” cried Skeffy, in exultation. “I'd have gone to Tarnoff,—that's +the place Holmes was named consul at,—and wrote back word that it +did n't exist, and that the geography fellows were only hoaxing the +office! just fancy, hoaxing the office! Hulloa!—what have we here? A +four-horse team, by all that's stunning.” + </p> +<p> +“Mrs. Trafford's. Draw up at the side of the road till they pass, Peter,” + said Tony, hurriedly. The servant on the box of the carriage had, however, +apparently announced Tony Butler's presence, for the postilions slackened +their pace, and came to a dead halt a few paces in front of the car. +</p> +<p> +“My mistress, sir, would be glad to speak to you,” said the servant, +approaching Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Is she alone, Coles?” asked he, as he descended from the car. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir.” + </p> +<p> +Somewhat reassured by this, but at the same time not a little agitated, +Tony drew nigh the carriage. Mrs. Trafford was wrapped up in a large fur +mantle,—the day was a cold one,—and lay back without making +any movement to salute, except a slight bend of the head as he approached. +</p> +<p> +“I have to apologize for stopping you,” said she, coldly; “but I had a +message to give you from Mr. Maitland, who left this a couple of days +ago.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he gone,—gone for good?” asked Tony, not really knowing what he +said. +</p> +<p> +“I don't exactly know what 'for good' means,” said she, smiling faintly; +“but I believe he has not any intention to return here. His message was to +say that, being much pressed for time, he had not an opportunity to reply +to your note.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think it required an answer,” broke in Tony, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps not as regarded you, but possibly it did as respected himself.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't understand you.” + </p> +<p> +“What I mean is, that, as you had declined his offer, you might possibly, +from inadvertence or any other cause, allude to it; whereas he expressly +wished that the subject should never be mentioned.” + </p> +<p> +“You were apparently very much in his confidence?” said Tony, fixing his +eyes steadily on her. +</p> +<p> +“When I learn by what right you ask me that question, I 'll answer it,” + said she, just as defiantly. +</p> +<p> +Tony's face became crimson, and he could not utter a word. At last he +stammered out, “I have a friend here,—Mr. Darner: he is just come +over to pay a visit at Tilney, and Mrs. Maxwell sends him a note to say +that they are all ill there.” + </p> +<p> +“Only Bella, and she is better.” + </p> +<p> +“And was Bella ill?” asked Tony, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, since Tuesday or Wednesday, and even up to Friday, very ill. There +was a time this could scarcely have happened without your coming to ask +after her.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it my fault, Alice? First of all, I never knew it. You know well I go +nowhere. I do not mix with those who frequent grand houses. But tell me of +Bella.” + </p> +<p> +“She was never alarmingly ill; but the doctor called it scarlatina, and +frightened every one away; and poor Mrs. Maxwell has not yet recovered the +shock of seeing her guests depart and her house deserted, for Bella and +myself are all that remain.” + </p> +<p> +“May I present my friend to you?—he would take it as such a favor,” + asked Tony, timidly. +</p> +<p> +“I think not,” said she, with an air of indolence. +</p> +<p> +“Do let me; he saw your picture—that picture of you and Bella at the +Exhibition—and he is wild to see yourself. Don't refuse me, Alice.” + </p> +<p> +“If you think this a favor, I wonder you have courage to ask it. Come, you +need not look cross, Master Tony, particularly as all the fault is on your +own side. Come over to Tilney the day after to-morrow with your friend.” + </p> +<p> +“But I don't know Mrs. Maxwell.” + </p> +<p> +“That does not signify in the least; do what I bid you. I am as much +mistress there as she is while I stay. Come early. I shall be quite alone, +for Mark goes to-morrow to town, and Bella will scarcely be well enough to +see you.” + </p> +<p> +“And you'll not let me introduce him now?” + </p> +<p> +“No; I shall look more like my picture in a house dress; and perhaps—though +I 'll not promise—be in a better temper too. Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +“Won't you shake hands with me, Alice?” + </p> +<p> +“No; it's too cold to take my hand out of my muff. Remember, now, Saturday +morning, without fail.” + </p> +<p> +“Alice!” said he, with a look at once devoted and reproachful. +</p> +<p> +“Tony!” said she, imitating his tone of voice to perfection, “there's your +friend getting impatient. Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +As the spanking team whirled past, Skeffy had but a second or two to catch +a glance at the veiled and muffled figure that reclined so voluptuously in +the corner of the carriage; but he was ready to declare that she had the +most beautiful eyes in the world, and “knew what to do with them besides.” + “You 're in love with her, Tony,” cried he, fixing a steadfast stare on +the pale and agitated features at his side. “I see it, old fellow! I know +every shade and tint of that blessed thing they miscall the tender +passion. Make me no confessions; I don't want them. Your heart is at her +feet, and she treats it like a football.” + </p> +<p> +Tony's cheeks grew purple. +</p> +<p> +“There's no shame in that, my boy. Women do that with better men than +either of us; ay, and will continue to do it centuries after you and I +shall be canonized as saints. It's that same contempt of us that makes +them worth the winning; but, I say, why is the fellow drawing up here?—Is +he going to bait his beast?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” muttered Tony, with a certain confusion; “but we must get down and +walk here. Our road lies by that path yonder: there 's no carriage-way up +to our 'chateau;'” and he gave a peculiar accent to the last word. +</p> +<p> +“All right,” said Skeffy, gayly. “I 'm good for ten miles of a walk.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll not test your powers so far; less than a quarter of an hour will +bring us home. Take down the luggage, and I 'll send up for it,” said he +to the driver. +</p> +<p> +“What honest poor devils you must be down here!” said Skeffy, as he saw +the carman deposit the trunks on the road and drive off. “I 'd not like to +try this experiment in Charing Cross.” + </p> +<p> +“You see there is some good in poverty, after all,” said Tony, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Egad, I've tried it for some years without discovering it,” said Skeffy, +gravely. “That,” continued he, after a brief pause, “it should make men +careless, thoughtless, reckless if you like, I can conceive; but why it +should make them honest, is clean beyond me. What an appetite this sharp +air is giving me, Master Tony! I'll astonish that sirloin or that saddle +of yours, whichever it be.” + </p> +<p> +“More likely neither, Skeffy. You 're lucky if it be a rasher and eggs.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, that it may be,” cried the other, “and draught beer! Have you got +draught beer?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think we have any other. There's our crib,—that little +cabin under the rocks yonder.” + </p> +<p> +“How pretty it is,—the snuggest spot I ever saw!” + </p> +<p> +“You're a good fellow to say so,” cried Tony; and his eyes swam in tears +as he turned away. +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +What a change has come over Tony Butler within the last twenty-four hours! +All his fears and terrors as to what Skeffy would think of their humble +cottage and simple mode of life have given way, and there he goes about +from place to place, showing to his friend how comfortable everything is, +and how snug. “There are grander dining-rooms, no doubt, but did you ever +see a warmer or a 'cosier'? And as to the drawing-room,—match the +view from the window in all Europe; between that great bluff of Fairhead +and the huge precipice yonder of the Causeway there is a sweep of coast +unrivalled anywhere. Those great rocks are the Skerries; and there, where +you see that one stone-pine tree,—there, under that cliff, is the +cove where I keep my boat; not much of a boat,” added he, in a weaker +voice, “because I used always to have the cutter,—Sir Arthur's yacht +Round that point there is such a spot to bathe in; twenty feet water at +the very edge, and a white gravel bottom, without a weed. Passing up that +little pathway, you gain the ledge yonder; and there—do you mark the +two stones, like gate-piers?—there you enter Sir Arthur Lyle's +demesne. You can't see the shrubberies, for the ground dips, and the trees +will only grow in the valleys here!” And there was a despondent tenderness +in the last words that seemed to say, “If it were not for that, this would +be paradise!” + </p> +<p> +Nor was it mere politeness, and the spirit of good breeding, that made +Skeffy a genial listener to these praises. What between the sense of a +holiday, the delight of what cockneys call an “outing,” the fine fresh +breezy air of the place, the breadth and space,—great elements of +expansiveness,—Skeffy felt a degree of enjoyment that amounted to +ecstasy. +</p> +<p> +“I don't wonder that you like it all, Tony,” said he. “You 'll never, in +all your wanderings, see anything finer.” + </p> +<p> +“I often say as much to myself,” replied Tony. “As I sit here of an +evening, with my cigar, I often say, 'Why should I go over the world in +search of fortune, when I have all that one wants here,—here at my +very hand?' Don't you think a fellow might be content with it?” + </p> +<p> +“Content! I could be as happy as a king here!” and for a moment or two +Skeffy really revelled in delighted thoughts of a region where the tinkle +of a minister's hand-bell had never been heard, where no “service +messengers” ever came, where no dunning tailors invaded; a paradise that +knew not the post nor dreamed of the telegraph. +</p> +<p> +“And as to money,” continued Tony, “one does not want to be rich in such a +place. I 'm as well off here with, we 'll say, two hundred a year—we +have n't got so much, but I 'll say that—as I should be in London +with a thousand.” + </p> +<p> +“Better! decidedly better!” said Skeffy, puffing his cigar, and thinking +over that snowstorm of Christmas bills which awaited him on his return. +</p> +<p> +“If it were not for one thing, Skeffy, I 'd never leave it,” said he, with +a deep sigh, and a look that said as plainly as ever words spoke, “Let me +open my heart to you.” + </p> +<p> +“I know it all, old fellow, just as if you had confessed it to me. I know +the whole story.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you know, or what do you suspect you know?” said Tony, growing +red. +</p> +<p> +“I say,” said Skeffy, with that tone of superiority that he liked to +assume,—“I say that I read you like a book.” + </p> +<p> +“Read aloud, then, and I 'll say if you 're right” + </p> +<p> +“It 's wrong with you here, Butler,” said Skeffy, laying his hand on the +other's heart; and a deep sigh was all the answer. “Give me another weed,” + said Skeffy, and for some seconds he employed himself in lighting it +“There's not a man in England,” said he, slowly, and with the +deliberateness of a judge in giving sentence,—“not a man in England +knows more of these sort of things than I do. You, I 'm certain, take me +for a man of pleasure and the world,—a gay, butterfly sort of +creature, flitting at will from flower to flower; or you believe me—and +in that with more reason—a fellow full of ambition, and determined +to play a high stake in life; but yet, Tony Butler, within all these there +is another nature, like the holy of holies in the sanctuary. Ay, my dear +friend, there is the—what the poet calls the 'crimson heart within +the rose.' Isn't that it?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know,” said Tony, bluntly. +</p> +<p> +And now Skeffy smoked on for some minutes without a word. At length he +said, in a solemn tone, “It has not been for nothing, Butler, that I +acquired the gift I speak of. If I see into the hearts of men like you, I +have paid the price of it.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not so certain that you can do it” said Tony, half doubting his +friend's skill, and half eager to provoke an exercise of it. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll show whether I can or not. Of coarse, if you like to disclaim or +deny—” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll disclaim nothing that I know to be true.” + </p> +<p> +“And I am to speak freely?” + </p> +<p> +“As freely as you are able.” + </p> +<p> +“Here it is, then, in five words: You are in love, Tony,—in love +with that beautiful widow.” + </p> +<p> +Tony held his head down between his hands, and was silent. +</p> +<p> +“You feel that the case is hopeless,—that is to say, that you know, +besides being of rank and wealth, she is one to make a great match, and +that her family would never consent to hear of your pretensions; and yet +all this while you have a sort of lurking suspicion that she cares for +you?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no!” muttered Tony, between his hands. +</p> +<p> +“Well, that she did once, and that not very long ago.” + </p> +<p> +“Not even that,” said Tony, drearily. +</p> +<p> +“I know better,—you <i>do</i> think so. And I'll tell you more; what +makes you so keenly alive to her change—perfidy, you would like to +call it—is this, that you have gone through that state of the +disease yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't understand you.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you shall. The lovely Alice—isn't that the name?” + </p> +<p> +Tony nodded. +</p> +<p> +“The lovely Alice got your own heart only, at second hand. You used to be +in love with the little girl that was governess at Richmond.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word of it true,—nothing of the kind,” broke out Tony, +fiercely. “Dolly and I were brother and sister,—we always said we +were.” + </p> +<p> +“What does that signify? I tried the brother-and-sister dodge, and I know +what it cost me when she married Maccleston;” and Skeffy here threw his +cigar into the sea, as though an emblem of his shipwrecked destiny. “Mind +me well, Butler,” said he, at last; “I did not say that you ever told your +heart you loved her; but she knew it, take my word for it. She knew, and +in the knowing it was the attraction that drew you on.” + </p> +<p> +“But I was not drawn on.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't tell me, sir. Answer me just this: Did any man ever know the hour, +or even the day, that he caught a fever? Could he go back in memory, and +say, it was on Tuesday last, at a quarter to three, that my pulse rose, my +respiration grew shorter, and my temples began to throb? So it is with +love, the most malignant of all fevers. All this time that you and +What's-her-name were playing brother and sister so innocently, your hearts +were learning to feel in unison,—just as two pendulums in the same +room acquire the same beat and swing together. You 've heard that?” + </p> +<p> +“I may; but you are all wrong about Dolly.” + </p> +<p> +“What would she say to it?” + </p> +<p> +“Just what I do.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, we cannot ask her, for she 's not here.” + </p> +<p> +“She is here,—not two miles from where we are standing; not that it +signifies much, for, of course, neither of us would do <i>that</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“Not plump out, certainly, in so many words.” + </p> +<p> +“Not in any way, Skeffy. It is because I look upon Dolly as my own dear +sister, I would not suffer a word to be said that could offend her.” + </p> +<p> +“Offend her! Oh dear, how young you are in these things!” + </p> +<p> +“What is it, Jenny?” cried Tony to the servant-girl, who was shouting not +very intelligibly, from a little knoll at a distance. “Oh, she 's saying +that supper is ready, and the kippered salmon getting cold, as if any one +cared!” + </p> +<p> +“Don't they care!” cried Skeffy. “Well, then, they have n't been inhaling +this sea-breeze for an hour, as I have. Heaven grant that love has carried +off your appetite, Tony, for I feel as if I could eat for six.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXII. ON THE ROCKS +</h2> +<p> +It was a rare thing for Tony Butler to lie awake at night, and yet he did +so for full an hour or more after that conversation with Skeffy. It was +such a strange blunder for one of Skeffy's shrewdness to have made,—so +inexplicable. +</p> +<p> +To imagine that he, Tony, had ever been in love with Dolly! Dolly, his +playfellow since the time when the “twa had paidled i' the burn;” Dolly, +to whom he went with every little care that crossed him, never shrinking +for an instant from those avowals of doubt or difficulty that no one makes +to his sweetheart. So, at least, thought Tony. And the same Dolly to whom +he had revealed once, in deepest secrecy, that he was in love with Alice! +To be sure, it was a boyish confession, made years ago; and since that +Alice had grown up to be a woman, and was married, so that the story of +the love was like a fairy tale. +</p> +<p> +“In love with Dolly!” muttered he. “If he had but ever seen us together, +he would have known that could not be.” Poor Tony! he knew of love in its +moods of worship and devotion, and in its aspect of a life-giving impulse,—a +soul-filling, engrossing sentiment,—inspiring timidity when near, +and the desire for boldness when away. With such alternating influence +Dolly had never racked his heart. He sought her with a quiet conscience, +untroubled by a fear. +</p> +<p> +“How could Skeffy make such a mistake! That it is a mistake, who would +recognize more quickly than Dolly herself; and with what humorous drollery—a +drollery all her own—would she not treat it! A rare punishment for +your blunder, Master Skeffy, would it be to tell Dolly of it all in your +presence;” and at last, wearied out with thinking, he fell asleep. +</p> +<p> +The day broke with one of those bright breezy mornings which, though +“trying” to the nerves of the weak and delicate, are glorious stimulants +to the strong. The sea plashed merrily over the rocks, and the white +streaky clouds flew over the land with a speed that said it blew hard at +sea. “Glorious day for a sail, Skeffy; we can beat out, and come back with +a stern-wind whenever we like.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll anticipate the wish by staying on shore, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“I can't offer you a mount, Skeffy, for I am not the owner of even a +donkey.” + </p> +<p> +“Who wants one? Who wants anything better than to go down where we were +yesterday evening, under that big black rock, with the sea before us, and +the whole wide world behind us, and talk? When a fellow lives as I do, +cooped up within four walls, the range of his view some tiers of +pigeon-holes, mere freedom and a sea-breeze are the grandest luxuries in +creation;” and off they set, armed with an ample supply of tobacco, the +life-buoy of those stragglers in the sea of thought who only ask to float, +but not to reach the shore. +</p> +<p> +How delightfully did the hours pass over! At least, so Tony felt, for what +a wonderful fellow was Skeffy! What had he not seen or heard or read? What +theme was new, what subject unknown to him? But, above all, what a +marvellous insight had he into the world,—the actual world of men +and women! Great people were not to <i>his</i> eyes mighty gods and +goddesses, seated loftily on a West-End Olympus, but fallible mortals, +with chagrins about the court and grievances about invitations to Windsor. +Ministers, too, whose nods shook empires, were humanities, very irritable +under the gout, and much given to colchicum. Skeffy “knew the whole +thing,”—<i>he</i> was not one of the mere audience. He lived in the +green-room or in the “flats.” He knew all the secrets of state, from the +splendid armaments that existed on paper, to the mock thunders that were +manufactured and patented by F. O. +</p> +<p> +These things Skeffy told like confidences,—secrete he would not have +breathed to any one he held less near his heart than Tony. But somehow +commonplaces told by the lips of authority will assume an immense +authority, and carry with them a stupendous weight; and Tony listened to +the precious words of wisdom as he might have listened to the voice of +Solomon. +</p> +<p> +But even more interesting still did he become as he sketched forth, very +vaguely indeed,—a sort of Turner in his later style of cloud and +vapor,—his own great future. Not very clear and distinct the steps +by which he was fated to rise, but palpable enough the great elevation he +was ultimately to occupy. +</p> +<p> +“Don't imagine, old fellow,” said he, laying his hand on Tony's shoulders, +“that I am going to forget you when that time comes. I'm not going to +leave you a Queen's messenger.” + </p> +<p> +“What could you make of me?” said Tony, despondently. +</p> +<p> +“Fifty things,” said the other, with a confidence that seemed to say, “I, +Skeffy, am equal to more than this; fifty things. You, of course, cannot +be expected to know it, but I can tell you, it's far harder to get a small +place than a big one,—harder to be a corporal than a +lieutenant-general.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you explain that?” asked Tony, with an eager curiosity. +</p> +<p> +“You can't understand it without knowing life. I cannot convey to you how +to win a trick where you don't know the game.” And Skeffy showed, by the +impatient way he tried to light a fresh cigar, that he was not fully +satisfied with the force or clearness of his own explanation; and he went +on: “You see, old fellow, when you have climbed up some rungs of the +ladder with a certain amount of assurance, many will think you are +determined to get to the top.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, but if a man's ladder has only one rung, as I imagine is the case +with mine!” broke in Tony. +</p> +<p> +Skeffy looked at his companion for a moment, half surprised that he should +have carried out the figure, and then laughed heartily, as he said, +“Splice it to mine, my boy; it will bear us both.” + </p> +<p> +It was no use that Tony shook his head and looked despondingly; there was +a hopeful warmth about Skeffy not to be extinguished by any +discouragement. In fact, if a shade of dissatisfaction seemed ever to +cloud the brightness of his visions, it was the fear lest, even in his +success, some other career might be neglected wherein the rewards were +greater and the prizes more splendid. He knew, and he did not scruple to +declare that he knew, if he had been a soldier he 'd have risen to the +highest command. If he 'd have gone to the bar, he'd have ended on the +woolsack. Had he “taken that Indian appointment,” he 'd have been high up +by this time on the Council, with his eye on Government House for a +finish. “That's what depresses me about diplomacy, Tony. The higher you +go, the less sure you are. They—I mean your own party—give you +Paris or St. Petersburg, we 'll say; and if they go out, so must you.” + </p> +<p> +“Why must you?” asked Tony. +</p> +<p> +“For the reason that the well-bred dog went downstairs when he saw certain +preparations that betokened kicking him down. +</p> +<p> +“After all, I think a new colony and the gold-fields the real thing,—the +glorious independence of it; you live how you like, and with whom you +like. No Mrs. Grundy to say, 'Do you know who dined with Skeffington +Darner yesterday?' 'Did you remark the young woman who sat beside him in +his carriage?' and such-like.” + </p> +<p> +“But you cannot be always sure of your nuggets,” muttered Tony. “I 've +seen fellows come back poorer than they went.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course you have; it's not every horse wins the Derby, old boy. And +I'll tell you another thing, too; the feeling, the instinct, the inner +consciousness that you carry success in your nature, is a rarer and a +higher gift than the very power to succeed. You meet with clever fellows +every day in the week who have no gauge of their own cleverness. To give +an illustration; you write a book, we'll say.” + </p> +<p> +“No, I don't,” blurted out Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Well, but you might; it is at least possible.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, let us take something else. You are about to try something that has +a great reward attached to it, if successful; you want, we 'll suppose, to +marry a woman of high rank and large fortune, very beautiful,—in +fact, one to whom, according to every-day notions, you have not the +slightest pretensions. Is n't that a strong case, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“Worse than the book. Perhaps I 'd better try authorship,” said Tony, +growing very red; “but make the case your own, and I 'll listen just as +attentively.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, here goes; I have only to draw on memory,” said he, with a sigh; “I +suppose you don't remember seeing in the papers, about a year and a half +ago, that the Prince of Cobourg Cohari—not one of our Cobourgs, but +an Austrian branch—came over to visit the Queen. He brought his +daughter Olga with him; she was called Olga after the Empress of Russia's +sister. And such a girl! She was nearly as tall as you, Tony,—I'll +swear she was,—with enormous blue eyes, and masses of fair hair that +she wore in some Russian fashion that seemed as if it had fallen loose +over her neck and shoulders. And were n't they shoulders! I do like a +large woman! a regular Cleopatra,—indolent, voluptuous, dreamy. I +like the majestic languor of their walk; and there is a massive grandeur +in their slightest gesture that is very imposing.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on,” muttered Tony, as the other seemed to pause for a sentiment of +concurrence. +</p> +<p> +“I was in the Household in those days, and I was sent down with old +Dollington to Dover to meet them; but somehow they arrived before we got +down, and were comfortably installed at the 'Lord Warden' when we arrived. +It did not matter much; for old Cohari was seized with an attack of gout, +and could not stir; and there I was, running back and forward to the +telegraph office all day, reporting how he was, and whether he would or +would not have Sir James This or Sir John That down to see him! Dollington +and he were old friends, fortunately, and had a deal to say to each other, +so that I was constantly with Olga. At first she was supremely haughty and +distant, as you may imagine; a regular Austrian Serene Highness grafted on +a beauty,—fancy that! but it never deterred <i>me</i>; and I +contrived that she should see mine was the homage of a heart she had +captivated, not of a courtier that was bound to obey her. She saw it, sir,—saw +it at once; saw it with that instinct that whispers to the female heart, +'He loves me,' ere the man has ever said it to himself. She not only saw, +but she did not discourage, my passion. Twenty little incidents of our +daily life showed this, as we rambled across the downs together, or +strolled along the shore to watch the setting sun and the arrival of the +mail-boat from Calais. +</p> +<p> +“At last the Prince recovered sufficiently to continue his journey, and I +went down to order a special train to take us up to town the following +morning. By some stupid arrangement, however, of the directors, an earlier +announcement should have been given, and all they could do was to let us +have one of the royal carriages attached to the express. I was vexed at +this, and so was Dollington, but the Prince did not care, in the least; +and when I went to speak of it to Olga, she hung down her head for an +instant, and then, in a voice and with an accent I shall never forget, she +said, 'Ah, Monsieur Darner, it would appear to be your destiny to be +always too late!' She left me as she spoke, and we never met after; for on +that same evening I learned from Dollington she was betrothed to the Duke +Max of Hohenhammelsbraten, and to be married in a month. That was the +meaning of her emotion,—that was the source of a sorrow that all but +overcame her; for she loved me, Tony,—she loved me! not with that +headlong devotion that belongs to the wanner races, but with a Teutonic +love; and when she said, 'I was too late,' it was the declaration of a +heart whose valves worked under a moderate pressure, and never risked an +explosion.” + </p> +<p> +“But how do you know that she was not alluding to the train, and to your +being late to receive them on the landing?” asked Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't you prosaic, Tony,—ain't you six-and-eight-pence! with your +dull and commonplace interpretation! I tell you, sir, that she meant, 'I +love you, but it is in vain,—I love you, but another is before you,—I +love you, but you come too late!'” + </p> +<p> +“And what did you do?” asked Tony, anxious to relieve himself from a +position of some awkwardness. +</p> +<p> +“I acted with dignity, sir. I resigned in the Household, and got appointed +to the Colonial.” + </p> +<p> +“And what does it all prove, except it be something against your own +theory, that a man should think there is nothing too high for his reach?” + </p> +<p> +“Verily, Tony, I have much to teach you,” said Skeffy, gravely, but +good-naturedly. “This little incident shows by what slight casualties our +fortunes are swayed: had it not been for Max of Hammelsbraten, where might +not I have been to-day? It is by the flaw in the metal the strength of the +gun is measured,—so it is by a man's failures in life you can +estimate his value. Another would not have dared to raise his eyes so +high!” + </p> +<p> +“That I can well believe,” said Tony, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“You, for instance, would no more have permitted yourself to fall in love +with her, than you'd have thought of tossing for half-crowns with the +Prince her father.” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty much the same,” muttered Tony. +</p> +<p> +“That 's it,—that is exactly what establishes the difference between +men in life. It is by the elevation given to the cannon that the ball is +thrown so far. It is by the high purpose of a man that you measure his +genius.” + </p> +<p> +“All the genius in the world won't make you able to take a horse over +seven feet of a stone wall,” said Tony; “and whatever is impossible has no +interest for me.” + </p> +<p> +“You never can say what is impossible,” broke in Skeffy. “I 'll tell you +experiences of mine, and you 'll exclaim at every step, 'How could that +be?'” Skeffy had now thoroughly warmed to his theme,—the theme he +loved best in the world,—himself; for he was one of those who “take +out” all their egotism in talk. Let him only speak of himself, and he was +ready to act heartily and energetically in the cause of his friends. All +that he possessed was at their service,—his time, his talents, his +ingenuity, his influence, and his purse. He could give them everything but +one; he could not make them heroes in his stories. No, his romance was his +own realm, and he could share it with none. +</p> +<p> +Listen to him, and there never was a man so traded on,—so robbed and +pilfered from. A Chancellor of the Exchequer had caught up that notion of +his about the tax on domestic cats. It was on the railroad he had dropped +that hint about a supply of cordials in all fire-escapes. That clever +suggestion of a web livery that would fit footmen of all sizes was his; he +remembered the day he made it, and the fellow that stole it, too, on the +chain-pier at Brighton. What leaders in the “Times,” what smart things in +the “Saturday,” what sketches in “Punch” were constructed out of his +dinner-talk! +</p> +<p> +Poor Tony listened to all these with astonishment, and even confusion, for +one-half, at least, of the topics were totally strange and new to him. +“Tell me,” said he at last, with a bold effort to come back to a land of +solid reality, “what of that poor fellow whose bundle I carried away with +me? Your letter said something mysterious about him, which I could make +nothing of.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, yes,—a dangerous dog,—a friend of Mazzini's, and a member +of I can't say how many secret societies. The Inspector, hearing that I +had asked after him at the hotel, came up to F. O. t' other morning to +learn what I knew of him, and each of us tried for full half an hour to +pump the other.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll not believe one word against him,” said Tony, sturdily; “an +honester, franker face I never looked at.” + </p> +<p> +“No doubt! Who would wish to see a better-looking fellow than Orsini?” + </p> +<p> +“And what has become of him,—of Quin, I mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Got away, clean away, and no one knows how or where. I 'll tell <i>you</i>, +Tony,” said he, “what I would not tell another,—that they stole that +idea of the explosive bombs from <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“You don't mean to say—” + </p> +<p> +“Of course not, old fellow. I 'm not a man to counsel assassination; but +in the loose way I talk, throwing out notions for this and hints for that, +they caught up this idea just as Blakeney did that plan of mine for +rifling large guns.” + </p> +<p> +Tony fixed his eyes on him for a moment or two in silence, and then said +gravely, “I think it must be near dinnertime; let us saunter towards +home.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIII. A MORNING CALL AT TILNEY +</h2> +<p> +On the morning after this conversation, the two friends set out for +Tilney; Skeffy, as usual, full of himself, and consequently in high +spirits,—happy in the present, and confident for the future. Tony, +indeed, was delighted with his companion, and thoroughly enjoyed the +volatile gayety of one who seemed to derive pleasure from everything. With +all a school-boy's zest for a holiday, Skeffy would be forever at +something. Now he would take the driver's seat on the car and play +coachman till, with one wheel in the ditch and the conveyance nearly over, +he was summarily deposed by Tony, and stoutly rated for his awkwardness. +</p> +<p> +Then it was his pleasure to “chaff” the people on the road,—a +population the least susceptible of drollery in all Europe!—a grave, +saturnine race, who, but for Tony's intervention, would have more than +once resented such liberties very practically. As they saw the smoke from +the chimney of a little cottage under the hill, and heard it was there +Dolly Stewart lived, it was all Tony could do to prevent Skeffy running +down to “have a look at her,” just as it required actual force to keep him +from jumping off as they passed a village school, where Skeffy wanted to +examine a class in the Catechism. Then he would eat and drink everywhere, +and, with a mock desire for information, ask the name of every place they +passed, and as invariably miscall them, to the no small amusement of the +carman, this being about the limit of his appreciation of fun. +</p> +<p> +“What a fidgety beggar you are!” said Tony, half angry and half laughing +at the incessant caprices of his vivacious companion. “Do you know it's +now going on to eleven o'clock, and we have fourteen miles yet before us?” + </p> +<p> +“One must eat occasionally, my dear friend. Even in the 'Arabian Nights' +the heroine takes a slight refection of dates now and then.” + </p> +<p> +“But this is our third 'slight refection' this morning, and we shall +probably arrive at Tilney for luncheon.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>You</i> can bear long fasts, I know. I have often heard of the +'starving Irish;' but the Anglo-Saxon stomach requires a 'retainer,' to +remind it of the great cause to be tried at dinner-time. A mere bite of +bread and cheese, and I'm with you.” + </p> +<p> +At last the deep woods of Tilney came in sight; and evidence of a +well-cared-for estate—trim cottages on the roadside, and tasteful +little gardens—showed that they were approaching the residence of +one who was proud of her tenantry. +</p> +<p> +“What's the matter with you?” asked Tony, struck by a momentary silence on +his companion's part. +</p> +<p> +“I was thinking, Tony,” said he, gravely,—“I was just thinking +whether I could not summon up a sort of emotion at seeing the woods under +whose shade my ancestors must have walked for heaven knows what +centuries.” + </p> +<p> +“Your ancestors! Why, they never lived here.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if they did n't, they ought. It seems a grand old place, and I +already feel my heart warming to it. By the way, where's Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“Gone; I told you he was off to the Continent. What do you know about this +man,—anything?” + </p> +<p> +“Not much. When I was at school, Tony, whenever in our New Testament +examination they asked me who it was did this or said that, I always +answered John the Baptist, and in eight times out of ten it was a hit; and +so in secular matters, whenever I was puzzled about a fellow's parentage, +I invariably said—and you 'll find as a rule it is invaluable—he's +a son of George IV., or his father was. It accounts for everything,—good +looks, plenty of cash, air, swagger, mystery. It explains how a fellow +knows every one, and is claimed by none.” + </p> +<p> +“And is this Maitland's origin?” + </p> +<p> +“I can't tell; perhaps it is. Find me a better, or, as the poet says, 'bas +accipe mecum.' I say, is that the gate-lodge? Tony, old fellow, I hope +I'll have you spending your Christmas here one of these days, with Skeff +Darner your host!” + </p> +<p> +“More unlikely things have happened!” said Tony, quietly. +</p> +<p> +“What a cold northernism is that! Why, man, what so likely—what so +highly probable—what, were I a sanguine fellow, would I say so +nearly certain? It was through a branch of the Darners—no, of the +Nevils, I mean—who intermarried with us, that the Maxwells got the +estate. Paul Nevil was Morton Maxwell's mother—aunt, I should say—” + </p> +<p> +“Or uncle, perhaps,” gravely interposed Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, uncle,—you 're right! but you 've muddled my genealogy for all +that! Let us see. Who was Noel Skeffington? Noel was a sort of pivot in +our family-engine, and everything seemed to depend on him; and such a +respect had we for his intentions, that we went on contesting the meaning +of his last will till we found out there was nothing more left to fight +for. This Noel was the man that caught King George's horse when he was run +away with at the battle of Dettingen; and the King wanted to make him a +baronet, but with tears in his eyes, he asked how he had ever incurred the +royal displeasure to be visited with such a mark of disgrace? 'At all +events,' said he, 'my innocent child, who is four years old, could never +have offended your Majesty. Do not, therefore, involve him in my shame. +Commute the sentence to knighthood, and my dishonor will die with me.'” + </p> +<p> +“I never heard of greater insolence,” said Tony. +</p> +<p> +“It saved us, though; but for this, I should have been Sir Skeffington +to-day. Is that the house I see yonder?” + </p> +<p> +“That's a wing of it.” + </p> +<p> +“'Home of my fathers, how my bosom throbs!' What's the next line? 'Home of +my fathers, through my heart there runs!' That's it,—'there runs'—runs. +I forget how it goes, but I suppose it must rhyme to 'duns.'” + </p> +<p> +“Now, try and be reasonable for a couple of minutes,” said Tony. “I +scarcely am known to Mrs. Maxwell at all. I don't mean to stop here; I +intend to go back to-night What are your movements?” + </p> +<p> +“Let the Fates decide; that is to say, I'll toss up,—heads, and I am +to have the estate, and therefore remain; tails,—I'm disinherited, +and go back with you.” + </p> +<p> +“I want you to be serious, Skeffy.” + </p> +<p> +“Very kind of you, when I've only got fourteen days' leave, and three of +them gone already.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd rather you 'd return with me; but I 'd not like you to risk your +future to please me.” + </p> +<p> +“Has jealousy no share in this? Be frank and open: 'Crede Darner' is our +proud motto; and by Jove, if certain tailors and bootmakers did not accept +it, it would be an evil day for your humble servant!” + </p> +<p> +“I don't understand you,” said Tony, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“You fear I 'll make love to 'your widow,' Tony. Don't get so red, old +fellow, nor look as if you wanted to throw me into the fish-pond.” + </p> +<p> +“I had half a mind to do it,” muttered Tony, in something between jest and +earnest. +</p> +<p> +“I knew it,—I saw it. You looked what the Yankees call mean-ugly; +and positively I was afraid of you. But just reflect on the indelible +disgrace it would be to you if I was drowned.” + </p> +<p> +“You can swim, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a stroke; it's about the only thing I cannot do.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, you told me yesterday that you never shoot, you could n't ride, +never handled a fishing-rod.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor hemmed a pocket-handkerchief,” broke in Skeffy. “I own not to have +any small accomplishments. What a noble building! I declare I am attached +to it already. No, Tony; I pledge you my word of honor, no matter how +pressed I may be, I'll not cut down a tree here.” + </p> +<p> +“You may go round to the stable-yard,” said Tony to the driver,—“they +'ll feed you and your horse here.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course they will,” cried Skeffy; and then, grasping Tony's two hands, +he said, “You are welcome to Tilney, my dear boy; I am heartily glad to +see you here.” + </p> +<p> +Tony turned and pulled the bell; the deep summons echoed loudly, and a +number of small dogs joined in the uproar at the same time. +</p> +<p> +“There's 'the deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home,'” said Skeffy, +while he threw the end of his cigar away. +</p> +<p> +A servant soon appeared and ushered them into a large low-ceilinged room, +with fireplaces of antique fashion, the chimney-pieces of dark oak, +surmounted by massive coats of arms glowing in all the colors of heraldry. +It was eminently comfortable in all its details of fat low ottomans, deep +easy-chairs, and squat cushions; and although the three windows which +lighted it looked out upon a lawn, the view was bounded by a belt of +trees, as though to convey that it was a room in which snugness was to be +typified, to the exclusion of all that pretended to elegance. A massive +and splendidly bound Bible, showing little signs of use, lay on a centre +table; a very well-thumbed “Peerage” was beside it. +</p> +<p> +“I say, Tony, this is evidently Aunt Maxwell's own drawing-room. It has +all the peculiar grimness of an old lady's sanctum; and I declare that fat +old dog, snoring away on the rug, looks like a relation.” While he stooped +down to examine the creature more closely, the door opened, and Mrs. +Maxwell, dressed in bonnet and shawl, and with a small garden watering-pot +in her hand, entered. She only saw Tony; and, running towards him with her +open hand, said, “You naughty boy, did n't I tell you not to come here?” + </p> +<p> +Tony blushed deeply, and blurted something about being told or ordered to +come by Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +“Well, well; it does n't matter now; there 's no danger. It's not +'catching,' the doctor says, and she'll be up tomorrow. Dear me! and who +is this?” The latter question was addressed to Skeffy, who had just risen +from his knees. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Skeffington Darner, ma'am,” said Tony. +</p> +<p> +“And who are you, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Tony Butler: I thought you knew me.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure I do, and delighted to see you too. And this Pickle is Skeff, +is he?” + </p> +<p> +“Dear aunt, let me embrace you,” cried Skeffy, rushing rapturously into +her arms. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I declare!” said the old lady, looking from one to the other; “I +thought, if it was you, Skeff, what a great fine tall man you had grown; +and there you are, the same little creature I saw you last.” + </p> +<p> +“Little, aunt! what do you mean by little? Standard of the Line! In France +I should be a Grenadier!” + </p> +<p> +The old lady laughed heartily at the haughty air with which he drew +himself up and threw forward his chest as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“What a nice parrot you have sent me! but I can't make out what it is he +says.” + </p> +<p> +“He says, 'Don't you wish you may get it?' aunt.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! so it is; and he means luncheon, I 'm sure, which is just coming on +the table. I hope you are both very hungry?” + </p> +<p> +“I ought to be, aunt. It's a long drive from the Causeway here.—Hold +your tongue, you dog,” whispered he to Tony; “say nothing about the three +breakfasts on the road, or I shall be disgraced.” + </p> +<p> +“And how is your mother, Mr. Tony? I hope she has good health. Give me +your arm to the dining-room; Pickle will take care of himself. This is a +sickly season. The poor dear Commodore fell ill! and though the weather is +so severe, woodcocks very scarce,—there's a step here,—and all +so frightened for fear of the scarlatina that they run away; and I really +wanted you here to introduce you to—who was it?—not Mrs. +Craycroft, was it? Tell Mrs. Trafford luncheon is ready, Groves, and say +Mr. Butler is here. She doesn't know you, Pickle. Maybe you don't like to +be called Pickle now?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I do, aunt; it reminds me of long ago,” said he, with an air of +emotion. +</p> +<p> +“By the way, it was George, and not you, I used to call Pickle,—poor +George, that went to Bombay.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, yes; he was India Pickle, aunt, and you used to call me Piccalilli!” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I did, but I forget. Here, take the head of the table; Mr. Tony, +sit by me. Oh dear! what a small party! This day last week we were +twenty-seven! Oh, he 'll not find Alice, for I left her in my +flower-garden; I 'll go for her myself.” + </p> +<p> +“Make yourself at home, Tony,” said Skeffy, as soon as the old Lady left +the room. “Believe me, it is with no common pleasure that I see you under +my roof.” + </p> +<p> +“I was going to play parrot, and say, 'Don't you wish you may?'” muttered +Tony, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Unbeliever, that will not credit the mutton on his plate, nor the sherry +in his glass! Hush! here they are.” + </p> +<p> +Alice sailed proudly into the room, gave her hand to Tony with a pretended +air of condescension, but a real cordiality, and said, “You 're a good +boy, after all; and Bella sends you all manner of kind forgivenesses.” + </p> +<p> +“My nephew Darner, Alice,” said Mrs. Maxwell, never very formal in her +presentations of those she regarded as little more than children. “I +suppose he 'll not mind being called Pickle before you?” + </p> +<p> +Even Tony—not the shrewdest, certainly, of observers—was +struck by the well-bred ease with which his friend conducted himself in a +situation of some difficulty, managing at the same time neither to offend +the old lady's susceptibilities nor sacrifice the respect he owed himself. +In fact, the presence of Alice recalled Skeffy, as if by magic, to every +observance of his daily life. She belonged to the world he knew best,—perhaps +the only one he knew at all; and his conversation at once became as easy +and as natural as though he were once more back in the society of the +great city. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Maxwell, however, would not part with him so easily, and proceeded to +put him through a catechism of all their connections—Skeffingtons, +Darners, Maxwells, and Nevils—in every variety of combination. As +Skeffy avowed afterwards, “The 'Little Go' was nothing to it.” With the +intention of shocking the old lady, and what he called “shunting her” off +all her inquiries, he reported nothing of the family but disasters and +disgraces. The men and women of the house inherited, according to him, +little of the proud boast of the Bayards; no one ever before heard such a +catalogue of rogues, swindlers, defaulters, nor so many narratives of +separations and divorces. What he meant for a shock turned out a +seduction; and she grew madly eager to hear more,—more even than he +was prepared to invent. +</p> +<p> +“Ugh!” said he at last to himself, as he tossed off a glass of sherry, +“I'm coming fast to capital offences, and if she presses me more I'll give +her a murder.” + </p> +<p> +These family histories, apparently so confidentially imparted, gave Alice +a pretext to take Tony off with her, and show him the gardens. Poor Tony, +too, was eager to have an opportunity to speak of his friend to Alice. +“Skeffy was such a good fellow; so hearty, so generous, so ready to do a +kind thing; and then, such a thorough gentleman! If you had but seen him, +Alice, in our little cabin, so very different in every way from all he is +accustomed to, and saw how delighted he was with everything; how +pleasantly he fell into all our habits, and how nice his manner to my +mother. She reads people pretty quickly; and I 'll tell you what she said,—'He +has a brave big heart under all his motley.'” + </p> +<p> +“I rather like him already,” said Alice, with a faint smile at Tony's +eagerness; “he is going to stop here, is he not?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot tell. I only know that Mrs. Maxwell wrote to put him off.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, that she did a couple of days ago; but now that Bella is so much +better,—so nearly well, I may say,—I think she means to keep +him, and you too, Tony, if you will so far favor us.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot,—it is impossible.” + </p> +<p> +“I had hoped, Tony,” said she, with a malicious sparkle in her eyes, “that +it was only against Lyle Abbey you bore a grudge, and not against every +house where I should happen to be a visitor.” + </p> +<p> +“Alice, Alice!” said he, with trembling lips, “surely this is not fair.” + </p> +<p> +“If it be true, is the question; and until you have told me why you ceased +to come to us,—why you gave up those who always liked you,—I +must, I cannot help believing it to be true.” + </p> +<p> +Tony was silent: his heart swelled up as if it would burst his chest; but +he struggled manfully, and hid his emotion. +</p> +<p> +“I conclude,” said she, sharply, “it was not a mere caprice which made you +throw us off. You had a reason, or something that you fancied was a +reason.” + </p> +<p> +“It is only fair to suppose so,” said he, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I 'll give you the benefit of that supposition; and I ask you, as a +matter of right, to give me your reason.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot, Alice,—I cannot,” stammered he out, while a deadly +paleness spread over his face. +</p> +<p> +“Tony,” said she, gravely, “if you were a man of the world like your +friend Mr. Darner, for instance, I would probably say that in a matter of +this kind you ought to be left to your own judgment; but you are not. You +are a kind-hearted simple-minded boy. Nay, don't blush and look offended; +I never meant to offend you. Don't you know that?” and she held out to him +her fair white hand, the taper fingers trembling with a slight emotion. +Tony stooped and kissed it with a rapturous devotion. “There, I did not +mean that, Master Tony,” said she, blushing; “I never intended your +offence was to be condoned; I only thought of a free pardon.” + </p> +<p> +“Then give it to me, Alice,” said he, gulping down his emotion; “for I am +going away, and who knows when I shall see you again?” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed,” said she, with a look of agitation; “have you reconsidered it, +then? have you resolved to join Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“And were you told of this, Alice?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Tony: as one who feels a very deep interest in you, I came to hear +it; but, indeed, partly by an accident.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you tell me what it was you heard?” said he, gravely; “for I am +curious to hear whether you know more than myself.” + </p> +<p> +“You were to go abroad with Maitland,—you were to travel on the +Continent together.” + </p> +<p> +“And I was to be his secretary, eh?” broke in Tony, with a bitter laugh; +“was n't that the notable project?” + </p> +<p> +“You know well, Tony, it was to be only in name.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I do; my incapacity would insure that much.” + </p> +<p> +“I must say, Tony,” said she, reproachfully, “that so far as I know of Mr. +Maitland's intentions towards you, they were both kind and generous. In +all that he said to me, there was the delicacy of a gentleman towards a +gentleman.” + </p> +<p> +“He told you, however, that I had refused his offer?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; he said it with much regret, and I asked his leave to employ any +influence I might possess over you to make you retract the refusal,—at +least to think again over his offer.” + </p> +<p> +“And of course he refused you nothing?” said Tony, with a sneering smile. +</p> +<p> +“Pardon me,—he did not grant my request.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I think better of him than I did before.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect, Tony, that, once you understood each other, you are men to be +friends.” + </p> +<p> +“You mean by that to flatter me, Alice,—and of course it is great +flattery; but whether it is that I am too conscious of my own inferiority, +or that I have, as I feel I have, such a hearty hatred of your +accomplished friend, I would detest the tie that should bind me to him. Is +he coming back here?” + </p> +<p> +“I do not know.” + </p> +<p> +“You do not know!” said he, slowly, as he fixed his eyes on her. +</p> +<p> +“Take care, sir, take care; you never trod on more dangerous ground than +when you forgot what was due to <i>me</i>, I told you I did not know; it +was not necessary I should repeat it.” + </p> +<p> +“There was a time when you rebuked my bad breeding less painfully, Alice,” + said he, in deep sorrow; “but these are days not to come back again. I do +not know if it is not misery to remember them.” + </p> +<p> +“John Anthony Butler, Esq.,” cried a loud voice, and Skeffy sprang over a +box-hedge almost as tall as himself, flourishing a great sealed packet in +his band. “A despatch on Her Majesty's service just sent on here!” cried +he; “and now remember, Tony, if it's Viceroy you're named, I insist on +being Chief Sec.; if you go to India as Governor-General, I claim Bombay +or Madras. What stuff is the fellow made of? Did you ever see such a +stolid indifference? He doesn't want to know what the Fates have decreed +him.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't care one farthing,” said Tony, doggedly. +</p> +<p> +“Here goes, then, to see,” cried Skeffy, tearing open the packet and +reading: “'Downing Street, Friday, 5th.—Mr. Butler will report +himself for service as F. O. Messenger on Tuesday morning, 9 th. By order +of the Under-Secretary of State.'” + </p> +<p> +“There's a way to issue a service summons. It was Graves wrote that, I 'd +swear. All he ought to have said was, 'Butler for service, F. O., to +report immediately.'” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose the form is no great matter,” said Mrs. Trafford, whose eyes +now turned with an anxious interest towards Tony. +</p> +<p> +“The form is everything, I assure you. The Chief Secretary is a regular +Tartar about style. One of our fellows, who has an impediment in his +speech, once wrote, 'I had had,' in a despatch, and my Lord noted it with, +'It is inexcusable that he should stutter in writing.'” + </p> +<p> +“I must be there on Wednesday, is it?” asked Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Tuesday—Tuesday, and in good time too. But ain't you lucky, you +dog! They 're so hard pressed for messengers, they've got no time to +examine you. You are to enter official life <i>par la petite porte</i>, +but you get in without knocking.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot imagine that the examination would be much of a difficulty,” + said Mrs. Trafford. +</p> +<p> +Tony shook his head in dissent, and gave a sad faint sigh. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd engage to coach him in a week,” broke in Skeffy. “It was I ground +Vyse in Chinese, and taught him that glorious drinking-song, 'Tehin Tehan +Ili-Ta!' that he offered to sing before the Commissioners if they could +play the accompaniment.” + </p> +<p> +Leaving Skeffy to revel in his gratifying memories of such literary +successes, Alice turned away a few steps with Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Let us part good friends, Tony,” said she, in a low tone. “You 'll go up +to the Abbey, I hope, and wish them a good-bye, won't you?” + </p> +<p> +“I am half ashamed to go now,” muttered he. +</p> +<p> +“No, no, Tony; don't fancy that there is any breach in our friendship; and +tell me another thing: would you like me to write to you? I know you 're +not very fond of writing yourself, but I 'll not be exacting. You shall +have two for one,—three, if you deserve it.” + </p> +<p> +He could not utter a word; his heart felt as if it would burst through his +side, and a sense of suffocation almost choked him. He knew, if he tried +to speak, that his emotion would break out, and in his pride he would have +suffered torture rather than shed a tear. +</p> +<p> +With a woman's nice tact she saw his confusion, and hastened to relieve +it. “The first letter must, however, be from you, Tony. It need be only +half a dozen lines, to say if you have passed your examination, what you +think of your new career, and where you are going.” + </p> +<p> +“I couldn't write!” stammered out Tony; “I could not!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I will,” said she, with a tone of kind feeling. “Your mother shall +tell me where to address you.” + </p> +<p> +“You will see mother, then?” asked he, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Of course, Tony. If Mrs. Butler will permit me, I will be a frequent +visitor.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, if I thought so!” + </p> +<p> +“Do think so,—be assured of it; and remember, Tony, whenever you +have courage to think of me as your own old friend of long ago, write and +tell me so.” These words were not said without a certain difficulty. +“There, don't let us appear foolish to your smart friend, yonder. +Goodbye.” + </p> +<p> +“Good-bye, Alice,” said he, and now the tears rushed fast, and rolled down +his cheeks; but he drew his hand roughly across his face, and, springing +upon the car, said, “Drive on, and as hard as you can; I am too late +here.” + </p> +<p> +Skeffy shouted his adieux, and waved a most picturesque farewell; but Tony +neither heard nor saw either. Both hands were pressed on his face, and he +sobbed as if his very heart was breaking. +</p> +<p> +“Well, if that's not a melodramatic exit, I'm a Dutchman,” exclaimed +Skeffy, turning to address Alice; but she too was gone, and he was left +standing there alone. +</p> +<p> +“Don't be angry with me, Bella! don't scold, and I 'll tell you of an +indiscretion I have just committed,” said Alice, as she sat on her +sister's bed. +</p> +<p> +“I think I can guess it,” said Bella, looking up in her face. +</p> +<p> +“No, you cannot,—you are not within a thousand miles of it. I know +perfectly what you mean, Bella; you suspect that I have opened a +flirtation with the distinguished Londoner, the wonderful Skeffington +Darner.” + </p> +<p> +Bella shook her head dissentingly. +</p> +<p> +“Not but one might,” continued Alice, laughing, “in a dull season, with an +empty house and nothing to do; just as I 've seen you trying to play that +twankling old harpsichord in the Flemish drawing-room, for want of better; +but you are wrong, for all that.” + </p> +<p> +“It was not of him I was thinking, Alice,—on my word, it was not. I +had another, and, I suppose, a very different person in my head.” + </p> +<p> +“Tony!” + </p> +<p> +“Just so.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, what of him; and what the indiscretion with which you would charge +me?” + </p> +<p> +“With which you charge yourself, Alice dearest! I see it all in that pink +spot on your cheek, in that trembling of your lips, and in that quick +impatience of your manner.” + </p> +<p> +“Dear me! what can it be which has occasioned such agitation, and called +up such terrible witnesses against me?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you, Alice. You have sent away that poor boy more in love than +ever. You have let him carry away a hope which you well know is only a +delusion.” + </p> +<p> +“I protest this is too bad. I never dreamed of such a lecture, and I 'll +just go downstairs and make a victim of Mr. Damer.” + </p> +<p> +Alice arose and dashed out of the room; not, however, to do as she said, +but to hurry to her own room, and lock the door after her as she entered +it. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIV. TONY ASKS COUNSEL +</h2> +<p> +It was just as Bella said; Alice had sent off that poor boy “twice as much +in love as ever.” Poor fellow! what a strange conflict was that that raged +within him!—all that can make life glorious, give ecstasy to the +present and hope to the future, mingled with everything that can throw a +gloom over existence, and make it a burden and a task. Must it be ever +thus?—must the most exquisite moments of our life, when we have +youth and hope and health and energy, be dashed with fears that make us +forget all the blessings of our lot, and deem ourselves the most wretched +of created beings? +</p> +<p> +In this feverish alternation he travelled along homeward,—now +thinking of the great things he could do and dare to win her love, now +foreshadowing the time when all hopes should be extinguished, and he +should walk the world alone and forsaken. He went over in memory—who +has not done so at one time or other?—all she had said to him at +their last meeting, asking what ground there might be for hope in this, +what reason for belief in that. With what intense avidity do we seek for +the sands of gold in this crushed and crumbled rock! how eagerly do we +peer to catch one glittering grain that shall whisper to us of wealth +hereafter! +</p> +<p> +Surely, thought he, Alice is too good and too true-hearted to give me even +this much of hope if she meant me to despair. Why should she offer to +write to me if she intended that I was to forget her? “I wonder,” muttered +he, in his dark spirit of doubt,—“I wonder if this be simply the +woman's way of treating a love she deems beneath her?” He had read in some +book or other that it is no uncommon thing for those women whose grace and +beauty win homage and devotion thus to sport with the affections of their +worshippers, and that in this exercise of a cruel power they find an +exquisite delight. But Alice was too proud and too high-hearted for such +an ignoble pastime. But then he had read, too, that women sometimes fancy +that, by encouraging a devotion they never mean to reward, they tend to +elevate men's thoughts, ennobling their ambitions, and inspiring them with +purer, holier hopes. What if she should mean this, and no more than this? +Would not her very hatred be more bearable than such pity? For a while +this cruel thought unmanned him, and he sat there like one stunned and +powerless. +</p> +<p> +For some time the road had led between the low furze-clad bills of the +country, but now they had gained the summit of a ridge, and there lay +beneath them that wild coast-line, broken with crag and promontory towards +the sea, and inland swelling and falling in every fanciful undulation, +yellow with the furze and the wild broom, but grander for its wide expanse +than many a scene of stronger features. How dear to his heart it was! How +inexpressibly dear the spot that was interwoven with every incident of his +life and every spring of his hope! There the green lanes he used to +saunter with Alice; there the breezy downs over which they cantered; +yonder the little creek where they had once sheltered from a storm: he +could see the rock on which he lit a fire in boyish imitation of a +shipwrecked crew! It was of Alice that every crag and cliff, every bay and +inlet spoke. +</p> +<p> +“And is all that happiness gone forever?” cried he, as he stood gazing at +the scene. “I wonder,” thought he, “could Skeffy read her thoughts and +tell me how she feels towards me? I wonder will he ever talk to her of me, +and what will they say?” His cheek grew hot and red, and he muttered to +himself, “Who knows but it may be in pity?” and with the bitterness of the +thought the tears started to his eyes, and coursed down his cheeks. +</p> +<p> +That same book,—how it rankled, like a barbed arrow, in his side!—that +same book said that men are always wrong in their readings of woman,—that +they cannot understand the finer, nicer, more subtle springs of her +action; and in their coarser appreciation they constantly destroy the +interest they would give worlds to create. It was as this thought flashed +across his memory the car-driver exclaimed aloud, “Ah, Master Tony, did +ever you see as good a pony as you? he 's carried the minister these +eighteen years, and look at him how he jogs along to-day!” + </p> +<p> +He pointed to a little path in the valley where old Dr. Stewart ambled +along on his aged palfrey, the long mane and flowing tail of the beast +marking him out though nigh half a mile away. +</p> +<p> +“Why didn't I think of that before?” thought Tony. “Dolly Stewart is the +very one to help me. She has not been bred and brought up like Alice, but +she has plenty of keen woman's wit, and she has all a sister's love for +me, besides. I 'll just go and tell her how we parted, and I 'll ask her +frankly what she says to it.” + </p> +<p> +Cheered by this bright idea, he pursued his way in better spirits, and +soon reached the little path which wound off from the high-road through +the fields to the Burnside. Not a spot there unassociated with memories, +but they were the memories of early boyhood. The clump of white thorns +they used to call the Forest, and where they went to hunt wild beasts; the +little stream they fancied a great and rapid river, swarming with +alligators; the grassy slope, where they had their house, and the tiny +garden whose flowers, stuck down at daybreak, were withered before noon!—too +faithful emblems of the joys they illustrated! +</p> +<p> +“Surely,” thought he, “no boy had ever such a rare playfellow as Dolly; so +ready to take her share in all the rough vicissitudes of a boy's +pleasures, and yet to bring to them a sort of storied interest and +captivation which no mere boy could ever have contributed. What a little +romance the whole was,—just because she knew how to impart the charm +of a story to all they did and all they planned!” + </p> +<p> +It was thus thinking that he entered the cottage. So still was everything +that he could hear the scratching noise of a pen as a rapid writer's hand +moved over the paper. He peeped cautiously in and saw Dolly seated, +writing busily at a table all strewn over with manuscript: an open book, +supported by other books, lay before her, at which from time to time she +glanced. +</p> +<p> +Before Tony had advanced a step she turned round and saw him. “Was it not +strange, Tony?” said she, and she flushed as she spoke. “I felt that you +were there before I saw you; just like long ago, when I always knew where +you were hid.” + </p> +<p> +“I was just thinking of that same long ago, Dolly,” said he, taking a +chair beside her, “as I came up through the fields. There everything is +the same as it used to be when we went to seek our fortune across the +sandy desert, near the Black Lake.” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said she, correcting; “the Black Lake was at the foot of Giant's +Rock, beyond the rye-field.” + </p> +<p> +“So it was, Dolly; you are right.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, Master Tony, I suspect I have a better memory of those days than you +have. To be sure, I have not had as many things happening in the mean +while to trouble these memories.” + </p> +<p> +There was a tone of sadness in her voice, very slight, very faint, indeed, +but still enough to tinge these few words with melancholy. +</p> +<p> +“And what is all this writing about?” said he, moving his hands through +the papers. “Are you composing a book, Dolly?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said she, timidly; “I am only translating a little German story. +When I was up in London, I was lucky enough to obtain the insertion of a +little fairy tale in a small periodical meant for children, and the editor +encouraged me to try and render one of Andersen's stories; but I am a very +sorry German, and, I fear me, a still sorrier prose writer; and so, Tony, +the work goes on as slowly as that bridge of ours used long ago. Do you +remember when it was made, we never had the courage to pass over it! +Mayhap it will be the same with my poor story, and when finished, it will +remain unread.” + </p> +<p> +“But why do you encounter such a piece of labor?” said he. “This must have +taken a week or more.” + </p> +<p> +“A month yesterday, my good Tony; and very proud I am, too, that I did it +in a month.” + </p> +<p> +“And for what, in heaven's name?” + </p> +<p> +“For three bright sovereigns, Master Tony!” said she, blushing. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, I didn't mean that,” said he, in deep shame and confusion. “I meant +only, why did you engage on such a hard task.” + </p> +<p> +“I know you did n't mean it, Tony; but I was so proud of my success as an +author it would out. Yes,” said she, with a feigned air of importance, “I +have just disposed of my copyright; and you know, Tony, Milton did not get +a great deal more for 'Paradise Lost.' You see,” added she, seriously, +“what with poor papa's age and his loneliness, and my own not over-great +strength, I don't think I shall try (at least, not soon) to be a governess +again; and it behoves me to be as little as I can of a burden to him; and +after thinking of various things, I have settled upon this as the best.” + </p> +<p> +“What a good girl you are!” said he, and he fixed his eyes full upon her; +nor did he know how admiringly, till he saw that her face, her forehead, +and even her neck were crimson with shame and confusion. +</p> +<p> +“There is no such great goodness, in doing what is simply one's duty,” + said she, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“I don't know that, Dolly.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Tony, you never fancied yourself a hero, just because you are +willing to earn your bread, and ready to do so by some sacrifice of your +tastes and habits.” + </p> +<p> +The allusion recalled Tony to himself and his own cares, and after a few +seconds of deep thought, he said, “I am going to make the venture now, +Dolly. I am called away to London by telegraph, and am to leave to-morrow +morning.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you fully prepared, Tony, for the examination?” + </p> +<p> +“Luckily for me, they do not require it Some accidental want of people has +made them call in all the available fellows at a moment's warning, and in +this way I may chance to slip into the service unchallenged.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, but, Tony,” said she, reproachfully, “you surely could face the +examination?” + </p> +<p> +“I could face it just as I could face being shot at, of course, but with +the same certainty of being bowled over. Don't you know, Dolly, that I +never knew my grammar long ago till you had dinned it into my head; and as +you never come to my assistance now, I know well what my fate would be.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Tony,” said she, “do get rid once for all of the habit of +underrating your own abilities; as my dear father says, people very easily +make self-depreciation a plea of indolence. There, don't look so dreary; I +'m not going to moralize in the few last minutes we are to have together. +Talk to me about yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“It was for that I came, Dolly,” said he, rising and taking a turn or two +up and down the room; for, in truth, he was sorely puzzled how to approach +the theme that engaged him. “I want your aid; I want your woman's wit to +help me in a difficulty. Here's what it is, Dolly,” and he sat down again +at her side, and took her hand in his own. “Tell me, Dolly,” said he, +suddenly, “is it true, as I have read somewhere, that a woman, after +having made a man in love with her, will boast that she is not in the +least bound to requite his affection if she satisfies herself that she has +elevated him in his ambition, given a higher spring to his hope,—made +him, in fact, something better and nobler than his own uninspired nature +had ever taught him to be? I 'm not sure that I have said what I meant to +say; but you 'll be able to guess what I intend.” + </p> +<p> +“You mean, perhaps, will a woman accept a man's love as a means of serving +him without any intention of returning it?” + </p> +<p> +Perhaps he did not like the fashion in which she put his question, for he +did not answer, save by a nod. +</p> +<p> +“I say yes; such a thing is possible, and might happen readily enough if +great difference of station separated them.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you mean if one was rich and the other poor?” + </p> +<p> +“Not exactly; because inequalities of fortune may exist between persons of +equal condition.” + </p> +<p> +“In which case,” said he, hurriedly, “you would not call their stations +unequal, would you?” + </p> +<p> +“That would depend on how far wealth contributed to the habits of the +wealthier. Some people are so accustomed to affluence, it is so much the +accompaniment of their daily lives, that the world has for them but one +aspect.” + </p> +<p> +“Like our neighbors here, the Lyles, for instance?” said he. +</p> +<p> +Dolly gave a slight start, like a sudden pang of pain, and grew deadly +pale. She drew away her hand at the same time, and passed it across her +brow. +</p> +<p> +“Does your head ache, dear Dolly?” asked he, compassionately. +</p> +<p> +“Slightly; it is seldom quite free of pain. You have chosen a poor guide, +Tony, when there is a question of the habits of fine folk. None know so +little of their ways as I do. But surely you do not need guidance. Surely +you are well capable of understanding them in all their moods.” + </p> +<p> +With all her attempts to appear calm and composed, her lips shook and her +cheeks trembled as she spoke; and Tony, more struck by her looks than her +words, passed his arm round her, and said, in a kind and affectionate +voice, “I see you are not well, my own dear Dolly; and that I ought not to +come here troubling you about my own selfish cares; but I can never help +feeling that it's a sister I speak to.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, a sister,” said she, in a faint whisper,—“a sister!” + </p> +<p> +“And that your brother Tony has the right to come to you for counsel and +help.” + </p> +<p> +“So he has,” said she, gulping down something like a sob; “but these days, +when my head is weary and tired, and when—as to-day, Tony—I am +good for nothing—Tell me,” said she, hastily, “how does your mother +bear your going away? Will she let me come and sit with her often? I hope +she will.” + </p> +<p> +“That she will, and be so happy to have you too; and only think, Dolly, +Alice Lyle—Mrs. Trafford, I mean—has offered to come and keep +her company sometimes. I hope you 'll meet her there; how you 'd like her. +Dolly!” + </p> +<p> +Dolly turned away her head; and the tears, against which she had struggled +so long, now burst forth, and slowly fell along her cheek. +</p> +<p> +“You must not fancy, Dolly, that because Alice is rich and great you will +like her less. Heaven knows, if humble fortune could separate us, ours +might have done so.” + </p> +<p> +“My head is splitting, Tony dear. It is one of those sudden attacks of +pain. Don't be angry if I say good-bye; there's nothing for it but a dark +room, and quiet.” + </p> +<p> +“My poor dear Dolly,” said he, pressing her to him, and kissing her twice +on the cheek. +</p> +<p> +“No, no!” cried she, hysterically, as though to something she was +answering; and then, dashing away, she rushed from the room, and Tony +could hear her door shut and locked as she passed in. +</p> +<p> +“How changed from what she used to be!” muttered he, as he went his way; +“I scarcely can believe she is the same! And, after all, what light has +she thrown on the difficulty I put before her? Or was it that I did not +place the matter as clearly as I might? Was I too guarded, or was I too +vague? Well, well. I remember the time when, no matter how stupid <i>I</i> +was, she would soon have found out my meaning! What a dreary thing that +life of a governess must be, when it could reduce one so quick of +apprehension and so ready-witted as she was to such a state as this! Oh, +is she not changed!” And this was the burden of his musings as he wended +his way towards home. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXV. SIR ARTHUR ON LIFE AND THE WORLD IN GENERAL +</h2> +<p> +“Here it is at last, mother,” said Tony, holding up the “despatch” as he +entered the cottage. +</p> +<p> +“The order for the examination, Tony!” said she, as she turned pale. +</p> +<p> +“No, but the order to do without it, mother dear!—the order for +Anthony Butler to report himself for service, without any other test than +his readiness to go wherever they want to send him. It seems that there 's +a row somewhere—or several rows—just now. Heaven bless the +fellows that got them up, for it gives them no time at the Office to go +into any impertinent inquiries as to one's French, or decimal fractions, +or the other qualifications deemed essential to carrying a letter-bag, and +so they 've sent for me to go off to Japan.” + </p> +<p> +“To Japan, Tony,—to Japan?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't mean positively to Japan, for Skeffy says it might be Taganrog, +or Timbuctoo, or Tamboff, or some other half-known place. But no matter, +mother; it 's so much a mile, and something besides, per day; and the +short and long of it is, I am to show myself on Tuesday, the 9th, at +Downing Street, there to be dealt with as the law may direct.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a hasty summons, my poor Tony—” + </p> +<p> +“It might be worse, mother. What would we say to it if it were, 'Come up +and be examined'? I think I 'm a good-tempered fellow; but I declare to +you frankly, if one of those 'Dons' were to put a question to me that I +could n't answer,—and I 'm afraid it would not be easy to put any +other,—I 'd find it very hard not to knock him down! I mean, of +course, mother, if he did it offensively, with a chuckle over my +ignorance, or something that seemed to say, 'There 's a blockhead, if ever +there was one!' I know I couldn't help it!” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Tony, Tony!” said she, deprecatingly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, it's all very well to say Tony, Tony; but here's how it is. It would +be 'all up' with me. It would be by that time decided that I was good for +nothing, and to be turned back. The moment would be a triumphant one for +the fellow that 'plucked' me,—it always is, I 'm told,—but I +'ll be shot if it should be all triumph to him!” + </p> +<p> +“I won't believe this of you, Tony,” said she, gravely. “It 's not like +your father, sir!” + </p> +<p> +“Then I 'd not do it, mother,—at least, if I could help it,” said +he, growing very red. “I say, mother, is it too late to go up to the Abbey +and bid. Sir Arthur good-bye? Alice asked me to do it, and I promised +her.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, Tony, I don't know how you feel about these things now, but there +was a time that you never thought much what hour of the day or night it +was when you went there.” + </p> +<p> +“It used to be so!” said he, thoughtfully; and then added, “but I 'll go, +at all events, mother; but I 'll not be long away, for I must have a talk +with you before bedtime.” + </p> +<p> +“I have a note written to Sir Arthur here; will you just give it to him, +Tony, or leave it for him when you 're coming away, for it wants no +answer?” + </p> +<p> +“All right, mother; don't take tea till I come back, and I 'll do my best +to come soon.” + </p> +<p> +It was a well-worn path that led from the cottage to Lyle Abbey. There was +not an hour of day or night Tony had not travelled it; and as he went now, +thoughts of all these long-agos would crowd on his memory, making him ask +himself, Was there ever any one had so much happiness as I had in those +days? Is it possible that my life to come will ever replace to me such +enjoyment as that? +</p> +<p> +He was not a very imaginative youth, but he had that amount of the quality +that suffices for small castle-building; and he went on, as he walked, +picturing to himself what would be the boon he would ask from Fortune if +some benevolent fairy were to start out from the tall ferns and grant him +his wish. Would it be to be rich and titled and great, so that he might +propose to make Alice his wife without any semblance of inordinate +pretension? or would it not be to remain as he was, poor and humble in +condition, and that Alice should be in a rank like his own, living in a +cottage like Dolly Stewart, with little household cares to look after? +</p> +<p> +It was a strange labyrinth these thoughts led him into, and he soon lost +his way completely, unable to satisfy himself whether Alice might not lose +in fascination when no longer surrounded by all the splendid appliances of +that high station she adorned, or whether her native gracefulness would +not be far more attractive when her life became ennobled by duties. A +continual comparison of Alice and Dolly would rise to his mind; nothing +could be less alike, and yet there they were, in incessant juxtaposition; +and while he pictured Alice in the humble manse of the minister, beautiful +as he had ever seen her, he wondered whether she would be able to subdue +her proud spirit to such lowly ways, and make of that thatched cabin the +happy home that Dolly had made it. His experiences of life were not very +large, but one lesson they had certainly taught him,—it was, to +recognize in persons of condition, when well brought up, a great spirit of +accommodation. In the varied company of Sir Arthur's house he had +constantly found that no one submitted with a better grace to accidental +hardships than he whose station had usually elevated him above the risks +of their occurrence, and that in the chance roughings of a sportsman's +life it was the born gentleman—Sybarite it might be at times—whose +temper best sustained him in all difficulties, and whose gallant spirit +bore him most triumphantly over the crosses and cares that beset him. It +might not be a very logical induction that led him to apply this reasoning +to Alice, but he did so, and in so doing he felt very little how the time +went over, till he found himself on the terrace at Lyle Abbey. +</p> +<p> +Led on by old habit, he passed in without ringing the bell, and was +already on his way to the drawing-room when he met Hailes the butler. +</p> +<p> +In the midst of a shower of rejoicings at seeing him again,—for he +was a great favorite with the household,—Hailes hastened to show him +into the dining-room, where, dinner over, Sir Arthur sat in an easy-chair +at the fire, alone, and sound asleep. Roused by the noise of the opening +door, Sir Arthur started and looked up; nor was he, indeed, very full +awake while Tony blundered out his excuses for disturbing him. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Tony, not a word of this. It is a real pleasure to see you. I was +taking a nap, just because I had nothing better to do. We are all alone +here now, and the place feels strange enough in the solitude. Mark gone—the +girls away—and no one left but Lady Lyle and myself. There's your +old friend; that's some of the '32 claret; fill your glass, and tell me +that you are come to pass some days with us.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I was, sir; but I have come to say good-bye. I 'm off to-morrow +for London.” + </p> +<p> +“For London! What! another freak, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“Scarcely a freak, sir,” said he, smiling. “They 've telegraphed to me to +come up and report myself for service at the Foreign Office.” + </p> +<p> +“As a Minister, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; a Messenger.” + </p> +<p> +“An excellent thing, too; a capital thing. A man must begin somewhere, you +know. Every one is not as lucky as I was, to start with close on twelve +hundred a year. I was n't twenty when I landed at Calcutta, Tony,—a +mere boy!” Here the baronet filled his glass, and drank it off with a +solemnity that seemed as if it were a silent toast to his own health, for +in his own estimation he merited that honor, very few men having done more +for themselves than he had; not that he had not been over-grateful, +however, to the fortune of his early days in this boastful acknowledgment, +since it was in the humble capacity of an admiral's secretary—they +called them clerks in those days—he had first found himself in the +Indian Ocean, a mere accident leading to his appointment on shore and all +his subsequent good fortune. “Yes, Tony,” continued he, “I started at what +one calls a high rung of the ladder. It was then I first saw your father; +he was about the same age as you are now. He was on Lord Dollington's +staff. Dear me, dear me! it seems like yesterday;” and he closed his eyes, +and seemed lost in revery; but if he really felt like yesterday, he would +have remembered how insolently the superb aide-de-camp treated the meek +civilian of the period, and how immeasurably above Mr. Lyle of those days +stood the haughty Captain Butler of the Governor-General's staff. +</p> +<p> +“The soldiers used to fancy they had the best of it, Tony; but, I take it, +we civilians won the race at last;” and his eyes ranged over the vast +room, with the walls covered by pictures, and the sideboard loaded with +massive plate, while the array of decanters on the small spider-table +beside him suggested largely of good living. +</p> +<p> +“A very old friend of mine, Jos. Hughes—he was salt assessor at +Bussorabad—once remarked to me, 'Lyle,' said he, 'a man must make +his choice in life, whether he prefers a brilliant start or a good finish, +for he cannot have both.' Take your pleasure when young, and you must +consent to work when old; but if you set out vigorously, determined to +labor hard in early life, when you come to my age, Tony, you may be able +to enjoy your rest”—and here he waved his hand round, as though to +show the room in which they sat,—“to enjoy your rest, not without +dignity.” + </p> +<p> +Tony was an attentive listener, and Sir Arthur was flattered, and went on. +“I am sincerely glad to have the opportunity of these few moments with +you. I am an old pilot, so to say, on the sea you are about to venture +upon; and really, the great difficulty young fellows have in life is, that +the men who know the whole thing from end to end will not be honest in +giving their experiences. There is a certain 'snobbery'—I have no +other word for it—that prevents their confessing to small +beginnings. They don't like telling how humble they were at the start; and +what is the consequence? The value of the whole lesson is lost! Now, I +have no such scruples, Tony. Good family connections and relatives of +influence I had; I cannot deny it. I suppose there are scores of men would +have coolly sat down and said to their right honorable cousin or their +noble uncle, 'Help me to this,—get me that;' but sach was not my +mode of procedure. No, sir; I resolved to be my own patron, and I went to +India.” + </p> +<p> +When Sir Arthur said this, he looked as though his words were: “I +volunteered to lead the assault It was I that was first up the breach.” + “But, after all, Tony, I can't get the boys to believe this.” Now these +boys were his three sons, two of them middle-aged, white-headed, liverless +men in Upper India, and the third that gay dragoon with whom we have had +some slight acquaintance. +</p> +<p> +“I have always said to the boys, 'Don't lie down on your high relations.'” + Had he added that they would have found them a most uncomfortable bed, he +would not have been beyond the truth. “'Do as I did, and see how gladly, +ay, and how proudly, they will recognize you.' I say the same to you, +Tony. You have, I am told, some family connections that might be turned to +account?” + </p> +<p> +“None, sir; not one,” broke in Tony, boldly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, there is that Sir Omerod Butler. I don't suspect he is a man of +much actual influence. He is, I take it, a bygone.” + </p> +<p> +“I know nothing of him; nor do I want to know anything of him,” said Tony, +pushing his glass from him, and looking as though the conversation were +one he would gladly change for any other topic; but it was not so easy to +tear Sir Arthur from such a theme, and he went on. +</p> +<p> +“It would not do for you, perhaps, to make any advances towards him.” + </p> +<p> +“I should like to see myself!” said Tony, half choking with angry +impatience. +</p> +<p> +“I repeat, it would not do for <i>you</i> to take this step; but if you +had a friend—a man of rank and station—one whose position your +uncle could not but acknowledge as at least the equal of his own—” + </p> +<p> +“He could be no friend of mine who should open any negotiations on my part +with a relation who has treated my mother so uncourteously, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“I think you are under a mistake, Tony. Mrs. Butler told me that it was +rather her own fault than Sir Omerod's that some sort of reconciliation +was not effected. Indeed, she once showed me a letter from your uncle when +she was in trouble about those Canadian bonds.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes, I know it all,” said Tony, rising, as if all his patience was +at last exhausted. “I have read the letter you speak of; he offered to +lend her five or six hundred pounds, or to give it, I forget which; and he +was to take <i>me</i>”—here he burst into a fit of laughter that was +almost hysterical in its harsh mockery—“to take me. I don't know +what he was to do with me, for I believe he has turned Papist, Jesuit, or +what not; perhaps I was to have been made a priest or a friar; at all +events, I was to have been brought up dependent on his bounty,—a bad +scheme for each of us. He would not have been very proud of his protégé; +and, if I know myself, I don't think I 'd have been very grateful to my +protector. My dear mother, however, had too much of the mother in her to +listen to it, and she told him so, perhaps too plainly for his refined +notions in matters of phraseology; for he frumped and wrote no more to +us.” + </p> +<p> +“Which is exactly the reason why a friend, speaking from the eminence +which a certain station confers, might be able to place matters on a +better and more profitable footing.” + </p> +<p> +“Not with <i>my</i> consent, sir, depend upon it,” said Tony, fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Tony, there is a vulgar adage about the impolicy of quarrelling +with one's bread-and-butter; but how far more reprehensible would it be to +quarrel with the face of the man who cuts it?” + </p> +<p> +It is just possible that Sir Arthur was as much mystified by his own +illustration as was Tony, for each continued for some minutes to look at +the other in a state of hopeless bewilderment. The thought of one mystery, +however, recalled another, and Tony remembered his mother's note. +</p> +<p> +“By the way, sir, I have a letter here for you from my mother,” said he, +producing it. +</p> +<p> +Sir Arthur put on his spectacles leisurely, and began to peruse it. It +seemed very brief, for in an instant he had returned it to his pocket. +</p> +<p> +“I conclude you know nothing of the contents of this?” said he, quietly. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing whatever.” + </p> +<p> +“It is of no consequence. You may simply tell Mrs. Butler from me that I +will call on her by an early day; and now, won't you come and have a cup +of tea? Lady Lyle will expect to see you in the drawing-room.” + </p> +<p> +Tony would have refused, if he knew how; even in his old days he had been +less on terms of intimacy with Lady Lyle than any others of the family, +and she had at times a sort of dignified stateliness in her manner that +checked him greatly. +</p> +<p> +“Here 's Tony Butler come to take a cup of tea with you, and say +good-bye,” said Sir Arthur, as he led him into the drawing-room. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, indeed! I am too happy to see him,” said she, laying down her book; +while, with a very chilly smile, she added, “and where is Mr. Butler bound +for this time?” And simple as the words were, she contrived to impart to +them a meaning as though she had said, “What new scheme or project has he +now? What wild-goose chase is he at present engaged in?” + </p> +<p> +Sir Arthur came quickly to the rescue, as he said, “He's going to take up +an appointment under the Crown; and, like a good and prudent lad, to earn +his bread, and do something towards his mother's comfort.” + </p> +<p> +“I think you never take sugar,” said she, smiling faintly; “and for a +while you made a convert of Alice.” + </p> +<p> +Was there ever a more common-place remark? and yet it sent the blood to +poor Tony's face and temples, and overwhelmed him with confusion. “You +know that the girls are both away?” + </p> +<p> +“It's a capital thing they 've given him,” said Sir Arthur, trying to +extract from his wife even the semblance of an interest in the young +fellow's career. +</p> +<p> +“What is it?” asked she. +</p> +<p> +“How do they call you? Are you a Queen's messenger, or a Queen's courier, +or a Foreign Office messenger?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not quite sure. I believe we are messengers, but whose I don't +remember.” + </p> +<p> +“They have the charge of all the despatches to the various embassies and +legations in every part of the world,” said Sir Arthur, pompously. +</p> +<p> +“How addling it must be,—how confusing!” + </p> +<p> +“Why so? You don't imagine that they have to retain them, and report them +orally, do you?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'm afraid I did,” said she, with a little simper that seemed to +say, What did it signify either way? +</p> +<p> +“They'd have made a most unlucky selection in my case,” said Tony, +laughing, “if such had been the duty.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you think you shall like it?” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose I shall. There is so very little I 'm really fit for, that I +look on this appointment as a piece of rare luck.” + </p> +<p> +“I fancy I 'd rather have gone into the army,—a cavalry regiment, +for instance.” + </p> +<p> +“The most wasteful and extravagant career a young fellow could select,” + said Sir Arthur, smarting under some recent and not over-pleasant +experiences. +</p> +<p> +“The uniform is so becoming too,” said she, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“It is far and away beyond any pretension of my humble fortune, Madam,” + said Tony, proudly, for there was an impertinent carelessness in her +manner that stung him to the quick. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, yes,” sighed she; “and the army, too, is not the profession for one +who wants to marry.” + </p> +<p> +Tony again felt his cheek on fire, but he did not utter a word as she went +on, “And report says something like this of you, Mr. Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“What, Tony! how is this? I never heard of it before,” cried Sir Arthur. +</p> +<p> +“Nor I, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come. It is very indiscreet of me, I know,” said Lady Lyle; “but as +we are in such a secret committee here at this moment, I fancied I might +venture to offer my congratulations.” + </p> +<p> +“Congratulations! on what would be the lad's ruin! Why, it would be +downright insanity. I trust there is not a word of truth in it.” + </p> +<p> +“I repeat, sir, that I hear it all for the first time.” + </p> +<p> +“I conclude, then, I must have been misinformed.” + </p> +<p> +“Might I be bold enough to ask from what quarter the rumor reached you, or +with whom they mated me?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, as to your choice, I hear she is a very nice girl indeed, admirably +brought up and well educated,—everything but rich; but of course +that fact was well known to you. Men in her father's position are seldom +affluent.” + </p> +<p> +“And who could possibly have taken the trouble to weave all this romance +about me?” said Tony, flushing not the less deeply that he suspected it +was Dolly Stewart who was indicated by the description. +</p> +<p> +“One of the girls, I forget which, told me. Where she learned it, I +forget, if I ever knew; but I remember that the story had a sort of +completeness about it that looked like truth.” Was it accident or +intention that made Lady Lyle fix her eyes steadily on Tony as she spoke? +As she did so, his color, at first crimson, gave way to an ashy paleness, +and he seemed like one about to faint. “After all,” said she, “perhaps it +was a mere flirtation that people magnified into marriage.” + </p> +<p> +“It was not even that,” gasped he out, hoarsely. “I am overstaying my +time, and my mother will be waiting tea for me,” muttered he; and with +some scarcely intelligible attempts at begging to be remembered to Alice +and Bella, he took his leave, and hurried away. +</p> +<p> +While Tony, with a heart almost bursting with agony, wended his way +towards home, Lady Lyle resumed her novel, and Sir Arthur took up the +“Times.” After about half an hour's reading he laid down the paper, and +said, “I hope there is no truth in that story about young Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word of it,” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Not a word of it! but I thought you believed it.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind. It was a lesson the young gentleman has long needed, +and I was only waiting for a good opportunity to give it.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't understand you. What do you mean by a lesson?” + </p> +<p> +“I have very long suspected that it was a great piece of imprudence on our +part to encourage the intimacy of this young man here, and to give him +that position of familiarity which he obtained amongst us; but I trusted +implicitly to the immeasurable distance that separated him from our girls, +to secure us against danger. That clever man of the world, Mr. Maitland, +however, showed me I was wrong. He was not a week here till he saw enough +to induce him to give me a warning; and though at first he thought it was +Bella's favor he aspired to, he afterwards perceived it was to Alice he +directed his attentions.” + </p> +<p> +“I can't believe this possible. Tony would never dare such a piece of +presumption.” + </p> +<p> +“You forget two things, Sir Arthur. This young fellow fancies that his +good birth makes him the equal of any one; and, secondly, Alice, in her +sense of independence, is exactly the girl to do a folly, and imagine it +to be heroic; so Maitland himself said to me, and it was perfectly +miraculous how well he read her whole nature. And indeed it was he who +suggested to me to charge Tony Butler with being engaged to the minister's +daughter, and told me—and as I saw, with truth—how thoroughly +it would test his suspicions about him. I thought he was going to faint,—he +really swayed back and forwards when I said that it was one of the girls +from whom I had the story.” + </p> +<p> +“If I could only believe this, he should never cross the threshold again. +Such insolence is, however, incredible.” + </p> +<p> +“That's a man's way of regarding it; and however you sneer at our +credulity, it enables us to see scores of things that your obstinacy is +blind to. I am sincerely glad he is going away.” + </p> +<p> +“So am I—now; and I trust, in my heart, we have seen the last of +him.” + </p> +<p> +“How tired you look, my poor Tony!” said his mother, as he entered the +cottage and threw himself heavily and wearily into a chair. +</p> +<p> +“I <i>am</i> tired, mother,—very tired and jaded.” + </p> +<p> +“I wondered what kept you so long, Tony; for I had time to pack your +trunk, and to put away all your things; and when it was done and finished, +to sit down and sorrow over your going away. Oh, Tony dear, are n't we +ungrateful creatures, when we rise up in rebellion against the very +mercies that are vouchsafed us, and say, Why was my prayer granted me? I +am sure it was many and many a night, as I knelt down, I begged the Lord +would send you some calling or other, that you might find means of an +honest living; and a line of life that would n't disgrace the stock you +came from; and now that He has graciously heard me, here I am repining and +complaining just as if it was n't my own supplication that was listened +to.” + </p> +<p> +Perhaps Tony was not in a humor to discuss a nice question of ethical +meaning, for he abruptly said, “Sir Arthur Lyle read your note over, and +said he'd call one of these days and see you. I suppose he meant with the +answer.” + </p> +<p> +“There was no answer, Tony; the matter was just this,—I wanted a +trifle of an advance from the bank, just to give you a little money when +you have to go away; and Tom M'Elwain, the new manager, not knowing me +perhaps, referred the matter to Sir Arthur, which was not what I wished or +intended, and so I wrote and said so. Perhaps I said so a little too +curtly, as if I was too proud, or the like, to accept a favor at Sir +Arthur's hands; for he wrote me a very beautiful letter—it went home +to my heart—about his knowing your father long ago, when they were +both lads, and had the wide world before them; and alluding very +touchingly to the Lord's bounties to himself,—blessing him with a +full garner.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope you accepted nothing from him,” broke in Tony, roughly. +</p> +<p> +“No, Tony; for it happened that James Hewson, the apothecary, had a +hundred pounds that he wanted to lay out on a safe mortgage, and so I took +it, at six per cent, and gave him over the deeds of the little place +here.” + </p> +<p> +“For a hundred pounds! Why, it 's worth twelve hundred at least, mother!” + </p> +<p> +“What a boy it is!” said she, laughing. “I merely gave him his right to +claim the one hundred that he advanced, Tony dear; and my note to Sir +Arthur was to ask him to have the bond, or whatever it is called, rightly +drawn up and witnessed, and at the same time to thank him heartily for his +own kind readiness to serve me.” + </p> +<p> +“I hate a mortgage, mother. I don't feel as if the place was our own any +longer.” + </p> +<p> +“Your father's own words, eighteen years ago, when he drew all the money +he had out of the agent's hands, and paid off the debt on this little spot +here. 'Nelly,' said he, 'I can look out of the window now, and not be +afraid of seeing a man coming ap the road to ask for his interest.'” + </p> +<p> +“It's the very first thing I 'll try to do, is to pay off that debt, +mother. Who knows but I may be able before the year is over! But I am glad +you did n't take it from Sir Arthur.” + </p> +<p> +“You're as proud as your father, Tony,” said she, with her eyes full of +tears; “take care that you're as good as he was too.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVI. A CORNER IN DOWNING STREET +</h2> +<p> +When Tony Butler found himself inside of the swinging glass-door at +Downing Street, and in presence of the august Mr. Willis, the porter, it +seemed as if all the interval since he had last stood in the same place +had been a dream. The head-porter looked up from his “Times,” and with a +severity that showed he had neither forgotten nor forgiven, said, +“Messengers' room—first pair—corridor—third door on the +left.” There was an unmistakable dignity in the manner of the speaker +which served to show Tony not merely that his former offence remained +unpardoned, but that his entrance into public life had not awed or +impressed in any way the stern official. +</p> +<p> +Tony passed on, mounted the stairs, and sauntered along a very ill-kept +corridor, not fully certain whether it was the third, fourth, or fifth +door he was in search of, or on what hand. After about half an hour passed +in the hope of seeing one to direct him, he made bold to knock gently at a +door. To his repeated summons no answer was returned, and he tried +another, when a shrill voice cried, “Come in.” He entered, and saw a +slight, sickly-looking youth, very elaborately dressed, seated at a table, +writing. The room was a large one, very dirty, ill-furnished, and +disorderly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, what is it?” asked the young gentleman, without lifting his head or +his eyes from the desk. +</p> +<p> +“Could you tell me,” said Tony, courteously, “where I ought to go? I 'm +Butler, an extra messenger, and I have been summoned to attend and report +here this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“All right; we want you,” said the other, still writing; “wait an +instant.” So saying, he wrote on for several minutes at a rapid pace, +muttering the words as his pen traced them; at last he finished, and, +descending from his high seat, passed across the room, opened a door, +which led into another room, and called out,— +</p> +<p> +“The messenger come, sir!” + </p> +<p> +“Who is he?” shouted a very harsh voice. +</p> +<p> +“First for Madrid, sir,” said the youth, examining a slip of paper he had +just taken from his pocket. +</p> +<p> +“His name?” shouted out the other again. +</p> +<p> +“Poynder, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” suggested Tony, mildly. “I'm Butler, not Poynder.” + </p> +<p> +“Who's talking out there,—what's that uproar?” screamed the voice, +very angrily. +</p> +<p> +“He says he 's not for Madrid, sir. It's a mistake,” cried the youth. +</p> +<p> +“No; you misunderstand me,” whispered Tony. “I only said I was not +Poynder.” + </p> +<p> +“He says he 's in Poynder's place.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll stop this system of substitutes!” cried the voice. “Send him in +here.” + </p> +<p> +“Go in there,” said the youth, with a gesture of his thumb, and his face +at the same time wore an expression which said as plain as any words could +have spoken, “And you 'll see how you like it.” + </p> +<p> +As Tony entered, he found himself standing face to face to the awful +official, Mr. Brand, the same who had reported to the Minister his +intended assault upon Willis, the porter. “Aw! what's all this about?” + said Mr. Brand, pompously. “You are Mr.—Mr.—” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Butler,” said Tony, quietly, but with an air of determination. +</p> +<p> +“And instead of reporting yourself, you come here to say that you have +exchanged with Poynder.” + </p> +<p> +“I never heard of Poynder till three minutes ago.” + </p> +<p> +“You want, however, to take his journey, sir. You call yourself first for +Madrid?” + </p> +<p> +“I do nothing of the kind. I have come here because I got a telegram two +days ago. I know nothing of Poynder, and just as little about Madrid.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh—aw! you're Butler! I remember all about you now; there is such a +swarm of extras appointed, that it's impossible to remember names or +faces. You 're the young gentleman who—who—yes, yes, I +remember it all; but have you passed the civil-service examiners?” + </p> +<p> +“No; I was preparing for the examination when I received that message, and +came off 'at once.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you 'll present yourself at Burlington House. Mr. Blount will make +out the order for you; you can go up the latter end of this week, and we +shall want you immediately.” + </p> +<p> +“But I am not ready. I was reading for this examination when your telegram +came, and I set off at the instant.” + </p> +<p> +“Blount, Mr. Blount!” screamed out the other, angrily; and as the +affrighted youth presented himself, all pale and trembling, he went on: +“What's the meaning of this, sir? You first attempt to pass this person +off for Poynder: and when that scheme fails, you endeavor to slip him into +the service without warrant or qualification. He tells me himself he knows +nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“Very little, certainly, but I don't remember telling you so,” said Tony. +</p> +<p> +“And do you imagine, sir, that a bravado about your ignorance is the sure +road to advancement? I can tell you, young gentleman, that the days of +mighty patronage are gone by; the public require to be served with +competent officials. We are not in the era of Castlereaghs and +Vansittarts. If you can satisfy the Commissioners, you may come back here; +if you cannot, you may go back to—to whatever life you were leading +before, and were probably most fit for. As for you, Mr. Blount, I told you +before that on the first occasion of your attempting to exercise here that +talent for intrigue on which you pride yourself, and of which Mr. Vance +told me you were a proficient, I should report you. I now say, sir,—and +bear in mind I say so openly, and to yourself, and in presence of your +friend here,—I shall do so this day.” + </p> +<p> +“May I explain, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“You may not, sir,—withdraw!” The wave of the hand that accompanied +this order evidently included Tony; but he held his ground undismayed, +while the other fell back, overwhelmed with shame and confusion. +</p> +<p> +Not deigning to be aware of Tony's continued presence in the room, Mr. +Brand again addressed himself to his writing materials, when a green-cloth +door at the back of the room opened, and Mr. Vance entered, and, advancing +to where the other sat, leaned over his chair and whispered some words in +his ear. “You 'll find I 'm right,” muttered he, as he finished. +</p> +<p> +“And where's the Office to go to?” burst out the other, in a tone of +ill-repressed passion; “will you just tell me that? Where's the Office to +go—if this continues?” + </p> +<p> +“That's neither your affair nor mine,” whispered Vance. “These sort of +things were done before we were born, and they will be done after we 're +in our graves!” + </p> +<p> +“And is he to walk in here, and say, 'I 'm first for service; I don't care +whether you like it or not'?” + </p> +<p> +“He 's listening to you all this while,—are you aware of that?” + whispered Vance; on which the other grew very red in the face, took off +his spectacles, wiped and replaced them, and then, addressing Tony, said, +“Go away, sir,—leave the Office.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Brand means that you need not wait,” said Vance, approaching Tony. +“All you have to do is to leave your town address here, in the outer +office, and come up once or twice a day.” + </p> +<p> +“And as to this examination,” said Tony, stoutly, “it's better I should +say once for all—” + </p> +<p> +“It's better you should just say nothing at all,” said the other, +good-humoredly, as he slipped his arm inside of Tony's and led him away. +“You see,” whispered he, “my friend Mr. Brand is hasty.” + </p> +<p> +“I should think he <i>is</i> hasty!” growled out Tony. +</p> +<p> +“But he is a warm-hearted—a truly warm-hearted man—” + </p> +<p> +“Warm enough he seems.” + </p> +<p> +“When you know him better—” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want to know him better!” burst in Tony. “I got into a scrape +already with just such another: he was collector for the port of Derry, +and I threw him out of the window, and all the blame was laid upon me!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, that certainly was hard,” said Vance, with a droll twinkle of his +eye,—“I call that very hard.” + </p> +<p> +“So do I, after the language he used to me, saying all the while, 'I'm no +duellist,—I'm not for a saw-pit, with coffee and pistols for two,'—and +all that vulgar slang about murder and such-like.” + </p> +<p> +“And was he much hurt?” + </p> +<p> +“No; not much. It was only his collar-bone and one rib, I think,—I +forget now,—for I had to go over to Skye, and stay there a good part +of the summer.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Blount, take down this gentleman's address, and show him where he is +to wait; and don't—” Here he lowered his voice, so that the +remainder of his speech was inaudible to Tony. +</p> +<p> +“Not if I can help it, sir,” replied Blount; “but if you knew how hard it +is!” + </p> +<p> +There was something almost piteous in the youth's face as he spoke; and, +indeed, Vance seemed moved to a certain degree of compassion as he said, +“Well, well, do your best,—do your best, none can do more.” + </p> +<p> +“It's two o'clock. I 'll go out and have a cigar with you, if you don't +mind,” said Blount to Tony. “We 're quite close to the Park here; and a +little fresh air will do me good.” + </p> +<p> +“Come along,” said Tony, who, out of compassion, had already a sort of +half-liking for the much-suffering young fellow. +</p> +<p> +“I wish Skeffy was here,” said Tony, as they went downstairs. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know Skeff Darner, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Know him! I believe he 's about the fellow I like best in the world.” + </p> +<p> +“So do I,” cried the other, warmly; “he hasn't his equal living; he 's the +best-hearted and he's the cleverest fellow I ever met.” + </p> +<p> +And now they both set to, as really only young friends ever do, to extol a +loved one with that heartiness that neither knows limit nor measure. What +a good fellow he was,—how much of this, without the least of that,—how +unspoiled, too, in the midst of the flattery he met with! “If you just saw +him as I did a few days back,” said Tony, calling up in memory Skeffy's +hearty enjoyment of their humble cottage-life. +</p> +<p> +“If you but knew how they think of him in the Office,” said Blount, whose +voice actually trembled as he touched on the holy of holies. +</p> +<p> +“Confound the Office!” cried Tony. “Yes; don't look shocked. I hate that +dreary old house, and I detest the grim old fellows inside of it.” + </p> +<p> +“They 're severe, certainly,” muttered the other, in a deprecatory tone. +</p> +<p> +“Severe isn't the name for it. They insult—they outrage—that's +what they do. I take it that you and the other young fellows here are +gentlemen, and I ask, Why do you bear it,—why do you put up with it? +Perhaps you like it, however.” + </p> +<p> +“No; we don't like it,” said he, with an honest simplicity. +</p> +<p> +“Then, I ask again, why do you stand it?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe we stand it just because we can't help it.” + </p> +<p> +“Can't help it!” + </p> +<p> +“What <i>could</i> we do? What would <i>you</i> do?” asked Blount +</p> +<p> +“I 'd go straight at the first man that insulted me, and say, Retract +that, or I 'll pitch you over the banisters.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all very fine with you fellows who have great connections and +powerful relatives ready to stand by you and pull you out of any scrape, +and then, if the worst comes, have means enough to live without work. That +will do very well for you and Skeffy. Skeffy will have six thousand a year +one of these days. No one can keep him out of Digby Darner's estate; and +you, for aught I know, may have more.” + </p> +<p> +“I have n't sixpence, nor the expectation of sixpence in the world. If I +am plucked at this examination I may go and enlist, or turn navvy, or go +and sweep away the dead leaves like that fellow yonder.” + </p> +<p> +“Then take my advice, and don't go up.” + </p> +<p> +“Go up where?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't go up to be examined; just wait here in town; don't show too often +at the office, but come up of a morning about twelve,—I 'm generally +down here by that time. There will be a great press for messengers soon, +for they have made a regulation about one going only so far, and another +taking up his bag and handing it on to a third; and the consequence is, +there are three now stuck fast at Marseilles, and two at Belgrade, and all +the Constantinople despatches have gone round by the Cape. Of course, as I +say, they 'll have to alter this, and then we shall suddenly want every +fellow we can lay hands on; so all you have to do is just to be ready, and +I 'll take care to start you at the first chance.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're a good fellow,” cried Tony, grasping his hand; “if you only knew +what a bad swimmer it was you picked out of the water.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I can do that much, at least,” said he, modestly, “though I'm not a +clever fellow like Skeffy; but I must go back, or I shall 'catch it.' Look +in the day after to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“And let us dine together; that is, you will dine with me,” said Tony. The +other acceded freely, and they parted. +</p> +<p> +That magnetism by which young fellows are drawn instantaneously towards +each other, and feel something that, if not friendship, is closely akin to +it, never repeats itself in after life. We grow more cautious about our +contracts as we grow older. I wonder do we make better bargains? +</p> +<p> +If Tony was then somewhat discouraged by his reception at the Office, he +had the pleasure of thinking he was compensated in that new-found friend +who was so fond of Skeffy, and who could talk away as enthusiastically +about him as himself. “Now for M'Gruder and Cannon Row, wherever that may +be,” said he, as he sauntered along; “I 'll certainly go and see him, if +only to shake hands with a fellow that showed such 'good blood.'” There +was no one quality which Tony could prize higher than this. The man who +could take a thrashing in good part, and forgive him who gave it, must be +a fine fellow, he thought; and I 'm not disposed to say he was wrong. +</p> +<p> +The address was 27 Cannon Street, City; and it was a long way off, and the +day somewhat spent when he reached it. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. M'Gruder?” asked Tony of a blear-eyed man, at a small faded desk in a +narrow office. +</p> +<p> +“Inside!” said he, with a jerk of his thumb; and Tony pushed his way into +a small room, so crammed with reams of paper that there was barely space +to squeeze a passage to a little writing-table next the window. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, your pleasure?” said M'Gruder, as Tony came forward. +</p> +<p> +“You forget me, I see; my name is Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“Eh! what! I ought not to forget you,” said he, rising, and grasping the +other's hand warmly; “how are you? when did you come up to town? You see +the eye is all right; it was a bit swollen for more than a fortnight, +though. Hech, sirs! but you have hard knuckles of your own.” + </p> +<p> +It was not easy to apologize for the rough treatment he had inflicted, and +Tony blundered and stammered in his attempts to do so; but M'Gruder +laughed it all off with perfect good-humor, and said, “My wife will +forgive you, too, one of these days, but not just yet; and so we'll go and +have a bit o' dinner our two selves down the river. Are you free to-day?” + </p> +<p> +Tony was quite free and ready to go anywhere; and so away they went, at +first by river steamer, and then by a cab, and then across some low-lying +fields to a small solitary house close to the Thames,—“Shads, chops, +and fried-fish house,” over the door, and a pleasant odor of each around +the premises. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't we snug here? no tracking a man this far,” said M'Grader, as he +squeezed into a bench behind a fixed table in a very small room. “I never +heard of the woman that ran her husband to earth down here.” + </p> +<p> +That this same sense of security had a certain value in M'Grader's +estimation was evident, for he more than once recurred to the sentiment as +they sat at dinner. +</p> +<p> +The tavern was a rare place for “hollands,” as M'Grader said; and they sat +over a peculiar brew for which the house was famed, but of which Tony's +next day's experiences do not encourage me to give the receipt to my +readers. The cigars, too, albeit innocent of duty, might have been better; +but all these, like some other pleasures we know of, only were associated +with sorrow in the future. Indeed, in the cordial freedom that bound them +they thought very little of either. They had grown to be very +confidential; and M'Gruder, after inquiring what Tony proposed to himself +by way of a livelihood, gave him a brief sketch of his own rise from very +humble beginnings to a condition of reasonably fair comfort and +sufficiency. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm in rags, ye see, Mr. Butler,” said he, “my father was in rags before +me.” + </p> +<p> +“In rags!” cried Tony, looking at the stout sleek broadcloth beside him. +</p> +<p> +“I mean,” said the other, “I 'm in the rag trade, and we supply the +paper-mills; and that's why my brother Sam lives away in Italy. Italy is a +rare place for rags,—I take it they must have no other wear, for the +supply is inexhaustible,—and so Sam lives in a seaport they call +Leghorn; and the reason I speak of it to you is that if this messenger +trade breaks down under you, or that ye 'd not like it, there's Sam there +would be ready and willing to lend you a hand; he 'd like a fellow o' your +stamp, that would go down amongst the wild places on the coast, and care +little about the wild people that live in them. Mayhap this would be +beneath you, though?” said he, after a moment's pause. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm above nothing at this moment except being dependent; I don't want to +burden my mother.” + </p> +<p> +“Dolly told us about your fine relations, and the high and mighty folk ye +belong to.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but they don't belong to me,—there 's the difference,” said +Tony, laughing; then added, in a more thoughtful tone, “I never suspected +that Dolly spoke of me.” + </p> +<p> +“That she did, and very often too. Indeed, I may say that she talked of +very little else. It was Tony this and Tony that; and Tony went here and +Tony went there; till one day Sam could bear it no longer—for you +see Sam was mad in love with her, and said over and over again that he +never met her equal. Sam says to me, 'Bob,' says he, 'I can't bear it any +more.' 'What is it,' says I, 'that you can't bear?'—for I thought it +was something about the drawback duty on mixed rags he was meaning. But +no, sirs; it was that he was wild wi' jealousy, and couldn't bear her to +be a-talkin' about you. 'I think,' says he, 'if I could meet that same +Tony, I 'd crack his neck for him.'” + </p> +<p> +“That was civil, certainly!” said Tony, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“'And as I can't do that, I 'll just go and ask her what she means by it +all, and if Tony's her sweetheart?'” + </p> +<p> +“He did not do that!” Tony cried, half angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, but he did, though; and what for no? You would n't have a man lose +his time pricing a bale of goods when another had bought them? If she was +in treaty with you, Mr. Butler, where was the use of Sam spending the day +trying to catch a word wi' her? So, to settle the matter at once, he +overtook her one morning going to early meeting with the children, and he +had it out.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well?” asked Tony, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, she told him there never was anything like love between herself and +you; that you were aye like brother and sister; that you knew each other +from the time you could speak; that of all the wide world she did not know +any one so well as you; and then she began to cry, and cried so bitterly +that she had to turn back home again, and go to her room as if she was +taken ill; and that's the way Mrs. M'Gruder came to know what Sam was +intending. She never suspected it before; but, hech sirs! if she did n't +open a broadside on every one of us! And the upshot was, Dolly was packed +off home to her father; Sam went back to Leghorn; and there's Sally and +Maggie going back in everything ever they learned; for it ain't every day +you pick up a lass like that for eighteen pounds a year, and her washing.” + </p> +<p> +“But did he ask her to marry him?” cried Tony. +</p> +<p> +“He did. He wrote a letter—a very good and sensible letter too—to +her father. He told him that he was only a junior, with a small share, but +that he had saved enough to furnish a house, and that he hoped, with +industry and care and thrifty ways, he would be able to maintain a wife +decently and well; and he referred to Dr. Forbes of Auchterlonie for a +character of him; and I backed it myself, saying, in the name of the +house, it was true and correct.” + </p> +<p> +“What answer came to this?” + </p> +<p> +“A letter from the minister, saying that the lassie was poorly, and in so +delicate a state of health it would be better not to agitate her by any +mention of this kind for the present; meanwhile he would take up his +information from Dr. Forbes, whom he knew well; and if the reply satisfied +him, he 'd write again to us in the course of a week or two; and Sam's +just waiting patiently for his answer, and doing his best, in the mean +while, to prepare, in case it's a favorable one.” + </p> +<p> +Tony fell into a revery. That story of a man in love with one it might +never be his destiny to win had its own deep significance for him. Was +there any grief, was there any misery, to compare with it? And although +Sam M'Gruder, the junior partner in the rag trade, was not a very romantic +sort of character, yet did he feel an intense sympathy for him. They were +both sufferers from the same malady,—albeit Sam's attack was from a +very mild form of the complaint. +</p> +<p> +“You must give me a letter to your brother,” said he at length. “Some day +or other I 'm sure to be in Italy, and I'd like to know him.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, and he like to know <i>you</i>, now that he ain't jealous of you. The +last thing he said to me at parting was, 'If ever I meet that Tony Butler, +I 'll give him the best bottle of wine in my cellar.'” + </p> +<p> +“When you write to him next, say that I 'm just as eager to take <i>him</i> +by the hand, mind that. The man that's like to be a good husband to Dolly +Stewart is sure to be a brother to <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +And they went back to town, talking little by the way, for each was +thoughtful,—M'Grader thinking much over all they had been saying; +Tony full of the future, yet not able to exclude the past. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVII. MR. BUTLER FOR DUTY ON——— +</h2> +<p> +“I suppose M'Gruder's right,” mattered Tony, as he sauntered away drearily +from the door at Downing Street, one day in the second week after his +arrival in London. “A man gets to feel very like a 'flunkey,' coming up in +this fashion each morning 'for orders.' I am more than half disposed to +close with his offer and go 'into rags' at once.” + </p> +<p> +If he hesitated, be assured himself, very confidently too, that it was not +from the name or nature of the commercial operation. He had no objection +to trade in rags any more than in hides or tallow or oakum, and some gum +which did not “breathe of Araby the blest.” He was sure that it could not +possibly affect his choice, and that rags were just as legitimate and just +as elevating a speculation as sherry from Cadiz or silk from China. He was +ingenious enough in his self-discussions; but somehow, though he thought +he could tell his mother frankly and honestly the new trade he was about +to embark in, for the life of him he could not summon courage to make the +communication to Alice. He fancied her, as she read the avowal, repeating +the word “rags,” and, while her lips trembled with the coming laughter, +saying, “What in the name of all absurdity led him to such a choice?” And +what a number of vapid and tasteless jokes would it provoke! “Such +snobbery as it all is,” cried he, as he walked the room angrily; “as if +there was any poetry in cotton bales, or anything romantic in molasses, +and yet I might engage in these without reproach, without ridicule. I +think I ought to be above such considerations. I do think my good blood +might serve to assure me that in whatever I do honorably, honestly, and +avowedly there is no derogation.” + </p> +<p> +But the snobbery was stronger than he wotted of; for, do what he would, he +could not frame the sentence in which he should write the tidings to +Alice, and yet he felt that there would be a degree of meanness in the +non-avowal infinitely more intolerable. +</p> +<p> +While he thus chafed and fretted, he heard a quick step mounting the +stair, and at the same instant his door was flung open, and Skeffy Darner +rushed towards him and grasped both his hands. +</p> +<p> +“Well, old Tony, you scarcely expected to see me here, nor did I either +thirty hours ago, but they telegraphed for me to come at once. I 'm off +for Naples.” + </p> +<p> +“And why to Naples?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you, Tony,” said he, confidentially; “but remember this is for +yourself alone. These things mustn't get abroad; they are Cabinet secrets, +and not known out of the Privy Council.” + </p> +<p> +“You may trust me,” said Tony; and Skeffy went on. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm to be attached there,” said be, solemnly. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean by attached?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm going there officially. They want me at our Legation. Sir George Home +is on leave, and Mecklam is Chargé d'Affaires; of course every one knows +what that means.” + </p> +<p> +“But <i>I</i> don't,” said Tony, bluntly. +</p> +<p> +“It means being bullied, being jockeyed, being outmanoeuvred, laughed at +by Brennier, and derided by Caraffa. Mecklam's an ass, Tony, that 's the +fact, and they know it at the Office, and I'm sent out to steer the ship.” + </p> +<p> +“But what do <i>you</i> know about Naples?” + </p> +<p> +“I know it just as I know the Ecuador question,—just as I know the +Month of the Danube question,—as I know the slave treaty with +Portugal, and the Sound dues with Denmark, and the right of search, and +the Mosquito frontier, and everything else that is pending throughout the +whole globe. Let me tell you, old fellow, the others—the French, the +Italians, and the Austrians—know me as well as they know Palmerston. +What do you think Walewski told Lady Pancroft the day Cavour went down to +Vichy to see the Emperor? They held a long conversation at a table where +there were writing-materials, and Cavour has an Italian habit of +scribbling all the time he talks, and he kept on scratching with a pen on +a sheet of blotting-paper, and what do you think he wrote?—the one +word, over and over again, Skeff, Skeff,—nothing else. 'Which led +us,' says Walewski, 'to add, Who or what was Skeff? when they told us he +was a young fellow'—these are his own words—'of splendid +abilities in the Foreign Office;' and if there is anything remarkable in +Cavour, it is the way he knows and finds out the coming man.” + </p> +<p> +“But how could he have heard of you?” + </p> +<p> +“These fellows have their spies everywhere, Tony. Gortchakoff has a +photograph of me, with two words in Russian underneath, that I got +translated, and that mean 'infernally dangerous'—<i>tanski +serateztrskoff</i>, infernally dangerous!—over his stove in his +study. You 're behind the scenes now, Tony, and it will be rare fun for +you to watch the newspapers, and see how differently things will go on at +Naples after I arrive there.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell me something about home, Skeffy; I want to hear about Tilney. Whom +did you leave there when you came away?” + </p> +<p> +“I left the Lyles, Alice and Bella,—none else. I was to have gone +back with them to Lyle Abbey if I had stayed till Monday, and I left them, +of course, very disconsolate, and greatly put out.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose you made up to Alice. I thought you would,” said Tony, half +sulkily. +</p> +<p> +“No, old fellow, you do me wrong; that's a thing I never do. As I said to +Ernest Palfi about Pauline Esterhazy, I 'll take no unfair advantage,—I +'ll take no steps in your absence; and Alice saw this herself.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you mean? Alice saw it?” said Tony, reddening. +</p> +<p> +“She saw it, for she said to me one day, 'Mr. Damer, it seems to me you +have very punctilious notions on the score of friendship.' +</p> +<p> +“'I have,' said I; 'you 're right there.' +</p> +<p> +“'I thought so,' said she.” + </p> +<p> +“After all,” said Tony, in a half-dogged tone, “I don't see that the +speech had any reference to me, or to any peculiar delicacy of yours with +respect to me.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, my poor Tony, you have a deal to learn about women and their ways! By +good luck fortune has given you a friend—the one man—I declare +I believe what I say—the one man in Europe that knows the whole +thing; as poor Balzac used to say, '<i>Cher</i> Skeffy, what a fellow you +would be if you had my pen!' He was a vain creature, Balzac; but what he +meant was, if I could add his descriptive power to my own knowledge of +life; for you see, Tony, this was the difference between Balzac and me. He +knew Paris and the salons of Paris, and the women who frequent these +salons. I knew the human, heart. It was woman, as a creature, not a mere +conventionality, that she appeared to me.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I take it,” grumbled out Tony, “you and your friend had some points +of resemblance too.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! you would say that we were both vain. So we were, Tony,—so is +every man that is the depository of a certain power. Without this same +conscious thought, which you common folk call vanity, how should we come +to exercise the gift! The little world taunts us with the very quality +that is the essence of our superiority.” + </p> +<p> +“Had Bella perfectly recovered? was she able to be up and about?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, she was able to take carriage airings, and to be driven about in a +small phaeton by the neatest whip in Europe.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Skeff Damer, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“The same. Ah, these drives, these drives! What delicious memories of +woodland and romance! I fell desperately in love with that girl, Tony—I +pledge you my honor I did. I 've thought a great deal over it all since I +started for Ireland, and I have a plan, a plan for us both.” + </p> +<p> +“What is it?” + </p> +<p> +“Let us marry these girls. Let us be brothers in law as well as in love. +You prefer Alice,—I consent. Take her, take her, Tony, and may you +be happy with her!” And as he spoke, he laid his hand on the other's head +with a reverend solemnity. +</p> +<p> +“This is nonsense, and worse than nonsense,” said Tony, angrily; but the +other's temper was imperturbable, and he went on: “You fancy this is all +dreamland that I 'm promising you: but that is because you, my dear Tony, +with many good qualities, are totally wanting in one,—you have no +imagination, and, like all fellows denied this gift, you never can +conceive anything happening to you except what has already happened. You +like to live in a circle, and you do live in a circle,—you are the +turnspits of humanity.” + </p> +<p> +“I am a troublesome dog, though, if you anger me,” said Tony, half +fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“Very possibly, but there are certain men dogs never attack.” And as +Skeffy said this, he threw forward his chest, held his head back, and +looked with an air of such proud defiance that Tony lay back in a chair +and laughed heartily. +</p> +<p> +“I never saw a great hulking fellow yet that was not impressed with the +greatness of his stature,” said Skeffy. “Every inch after five feet six +takes a foot off a man's intellectual standard. It is Skeff Darner says +it, Tony, and you may believe it.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish you 'd tell me about Tilney,” said Tony, half irritably. +</p> +<p> +“I appreciate you, as the French say. You want to hear that I am not your +rival,—you want to know that I have not taken any ungenerous +advantage of your absence. <i>Tonino mio</i>, be of good comfort,—I +preferred the sister; shall I tell you why?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want to hear anything about it.” + </p> +<p> +“What a jealous dog it is, even after I have declared, on the word of a +Darner, that he has nothing to apprehend from me! It was a lucky day led +me down there, Tony. Don't you remember the old woman's note to me, +mentioning a hundred pounds, or something like it, she had forgotten to +enclose? She found the bank-note afterwards on her table, and after much +puzzling with herself, ascertained it was the sum she had meant to remit +me. Trifling as the incident was she thought it delicate, or high-minded, +or something or other, on my part. She said 'it was so nice of me;' and +she wrote to my uncle to ask if he ever heard such a pretty trait, and my +uncle said he knew scores of spendthrifts would have done much the same; +whereupon the old lady of Tilney, regarding me as ill-used by my +relatives, declared she would do something for me; but as her good +intentions were double-barrelled, and she wanted to do something also for +Bella, she suggested that we might, as the Oberland peasants say, 'put our +eggs in the same basket.' A day was named, too, in which we were all to +have gone over to Lyle Abbey, and open negotiations with Sir Arthur, when +came this confounded despatch ordering me off to Naples! At first I +determined not to go,—to resign,—to give up public life +forever. 'What's Hecuba to him?' said I; that is, 'What signifies it to me +how Europe fares? Shall I not think of Skeff Darner and his fortunes?' +Bowling down dynasties and setting up ninepin princes may amuse a man, +but, after all, is it not to the tranquil enjoyments of home he looks for +happiness? I consulted Bella, but she would not agree with me. Women, my +dear Tony, are more ambitious than men,—I had almost said, more +worldly. She would not, she said, have me leave a career wherein I had +given such great promise. 'You might be an ambassador one day,' said she. +'Must be!' interposed I,—'must be!' My unfortunate admission decided +the question, and I started that night.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think I clearly understand you,” said Tony, passing his hand over +his brow. “Am I to believe that you and Bella are engaged?” + </p> +<p> +“I know what's passing in your mind, old fellow; I read you like large +print. You won't, you can't, credit the fact that I would marry out of the +peerage. Say it frankly; out with it.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind; but I cannot believe that Bella—” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but she did,” said Skeffy, filling up his pause, while he smoothed +and caressed his very young moustaches. “Trust a woman to find out the +coming man! Trust a woman to detect the qualities that insure supremacy! I +was n't there quite three weeks in all, and see if she did not discover +me. What's this? Here comes an order for you, Tony,” said he, as he looked +into the street and recognized one of the porters of the Foreign Office. +“This is the place, Trumins,” cried he, opening the window and calling to +the man. “You 're looking for Mr. Butler, are n't you?” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Butler on duty, Friday, 21,” was all that the slip of paper +contained. “There,” cried Skeffy, “who knows if we shall not cross the +Channel together to-night? Put on your hat and we 'll walk down to the +Office.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVII. TONY WAITING FOR ORDERS +</h2> +<p> +Tony Butler was ordered to Brussels to place himself at the disposal of +the Minister as an ex-messenger. He crossed over to Calais with Skeffy in +the mail-boat; and after a long night's talking, for neither attempted to +sleep, they parted with the most fervent assurances of friendship. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd go across Europe to thrash the fellow would say a hard word of him,” + muttered Tony; while Skeffy, with an emotion that made his lip tremble, +said, “If the world goes hard with you, I 'll turn my back on it, and we +'ll start for New Zealand or Madagascar, Tony, remember that,—I give +it to you as a pledge.” + </p> +<p> +When Tony presented himself at the Legation, he found that nobody knew +anything about him. They had some seven or eight months previous requested +to have an additional messenger appointed, as there were cases occurring +which required frequent reference to home; but the emergency had passed +over, and Brussels was once again as undisturbed by diplomatic relations +as any of the Channel Islands. +</p> +<p> +“Take a lodging and make yourself comfortable, marry, and subscribe to a +club if you like it,” said a gray-headed attaché, with a cynical face, +“for in all likelihood they'll never remember you're here.” The speaker +had some experiences of this sort of official forgetfulness, with the +added misfortune that, when he once had summoned courage to remonstrate +against it, they did remember him, but it was to change him from a first +to a second-class mission—in Irish phrase, promoting him backwards—for +his temerity. +</p> +<p> +Tony installed himself in a snug little quarter outside the town, and set +himself vigorously to study French. In Knickerbocker's “History of New +York,” we read that the sittings of the Council were always measured and +recorded by the number of pipes smoked by the Cabinet. In the same way +might it be said that Tony Butler's progress in Ollendorf was only to be +computed by the quantity of tobacco consumed over it. The pronouns had +cost two boxes of cigars; the genders a large packet of assorted cavendish +and bird's-eye; and he stood fast on the frontier of the irregular verbs, +waiting for a large bag of Turkish that Skeffy wrote to say he had +forwarded to him through the Office. +</p> +<p> +Why have we no statistics of the influence of tobacco on education? Why +will no one direct his attention to the inquiry as to how far the Tony +Butlers—a large class in the British Islands—are more moved to +exertion, or hopelessly muddled in intellect, by the soothing influences +of smoke? +</p> +<p> +Tony smoked on and on. He wrote home occasionally, and made three attempts +to write to Alice, who, despite his silence, had sent him a very pleasant +letter about home matters. It was not a neighborhood to afford much news; +and indeed, as she said, “they have been unusually dull of late; scarcely +any visitors, and few of the neighbors. We miss your friend Skeff greatly; +for, with all his oddities and eccentricities, he had won upon us +immensely by real traits of generosity and high-mindedness. There is +another friend of yours here I would gladly know well, but she—Miss +Stewart—retreats from all my advances, and has so positively +declined all our invitations to the Abbey that it would seem to imply, if +such a thing were possible, a special determination to avoid us. I know +you well enough, Master Tony, to be aware that you will ascribe all my +ardor in this pursuit to the fact of there being an obstacle. As you once +told me about a certain short cut from Portrush, the only real advantage +it had was a stiff four-foot wall which must be jumped; but you are wrong, +and you are unjust,—two things not at all new to you. My intentions +here were really good. I had heard from your dear mother that Miss Stewart +was in bad health,—that fears were felt lest her chest was affected. +Now, as the doctors concurred in declaring that Bella must pass one +winter, at least, in a warm climate, so I imagined how easy it would be to +extend the benefit of genial air and sunshine to this really interesting +girl, by offering, to take her as a companion. Bella was charmed with my +project, and we walked over to the Burn-side on Tuesday to propose it in +all form. +</p> +<p> +“To the shame of our diplomacy we failed completely. The old minister, +indeed, was not averse to the plan, and professed to think it a most +thoughtful attention on our part; but Dolly,—I call her Dolly, for +it is by that name, so often recurring in the discussion, I associate her +best with the incident,—Dolly was peremptory in her refusal. I +wanted,—perhaps a little unfairly,—I wanted to hear her +reasons. I asked if there might not possibly be something in her +objections to which we could reply. I pressed her to reconsider the +matter,—to take a week, two if she liked, to think over it; but no, +she would not listen to my compromise; she was steady and resolute, and +yet at the same time much moved. She said 'No!' but she said it as if +there was a reason she should say so, while it was in direct violence to +all her wishes. Mind, this is mere surmise on my part. I am speaking of +one of whose nature and temperament I know nothing. I may just as easily +be wrong as right. She is, indeed, a puzzle to me; and one little trait of +her has completely routed all my conceit in my own power of reading +character. In my eagerness to overcome her objections, I was picturing the +life of enjoyment and interest Italy would open to her,—the charm of +a land that realizes in daily life what poets and painters can only shadow +forth; and in my ardor I so far forgot myself as to call her Dolly,—'dear +Dolly,' I said. The words overcame her at once. She grew pale, so sickly +pale that I thought she would have fainted; and as two heavy tears stood +in her eyes, she said in a cold quiet voice: 'I beg you will not press me +any more. I am very grateful to you; but I cannot accept your offer.' +</p> +<p> +“Bella insisted on our going over to your mother, and enlisting her +advocacy in the cause. I did not like the notion, but I gave way. Your +dear mother, all kind as she ever is, went the same evening to the +Burnside; but a short note from her the next morning showed she had no +better success than ourselves. +</p> +<p> +“Naturally,—you at least will say so,—I am ten times more +eager about my plan now that it is pronounced impracticable. I have +written to Dr. Stewart. I have sent papa to him; mamma has called at the +cottage. I have made Dr. Reede give a written declaration that Miss +Stewart's case,—I quote him,—'as indicated by a distinct +“Bronchoffany” in the superior portion of the right lung, imperatively +demands the benefit of a warm and genial climate;' and with all these <i>pièces +de conviction</i> I am beaten, turned out of court, and denied a verdict. +</p> +<p> +“Have you any explanation to offer about this, Master Tony? Dolly was an +old playfellow of yours, your mother tells me. What key can you give us as +to her nature? Is she like what she was in those old days; and when did +you cease to have these games together? I fancied—was it mere fancy?—that +she grew a little red when we spoke of you. Mind, sir, I want no +confessions. I want nothing from <i>you</i> but what may serve to throw +light upon <i>her</i>. If you can suggest to me any means of overcoming +the objection she seems to entertain to our plan, do so; and if you +cannot, please to hold your peace on this matter ever after. I wrote +yesterday to Mark, who is now at Milan, to make some inquiries about +Italian villa life. I was really afraid to speak to your friend Skeff, +lest, as mamma said, he should immediately offer us one of the royal +palaces as a residence. No matter, he is a dear good fellow, and I have an +unbounded reliance on his generosity. +</p> +<p> +“Not, a word about yourself. Why are you at Brussels? Why are you a fixed +star, after telling us you were engaged as a planet? Are there any +mysterious reasons for your residence there? If so, I don't ask to hear +them; but your mother naturally would like to know something about you a +little more explanatory than your last bulletin, that said, 'I am here +still, and likely to be so.' +</p> +<p> +“I had a most amusing letter from Mr. Maitland a few days ago. I had put +it into this envelope to let you read it, but I took it out again, as I +remembered your great and very unjust prejudices against him. He seems to +know every one and everything, and is just as familiar with the great +events of politics as with the great people who mould them. I read for +your mother his description of the life at Fontainebleau, and the +eccentricities of a beautiful Italian Countess Castagnolo, the reigning +belle there; and she was much amused, though she owned that four changes +of raiment daily was too much even for Delilah herself. +</p> +<p> +“Do put a little coercion on yourself, and write me even a note. I assure +you I would write you most pleasant little letters if you showed you +merited them. I have a budget of small gossip about the neighbors, no +particle of which shall you ever see till you deserve better of your old +friend, +</p> +<p> +“Alice Trafford.” + </p> +<p> +It may be imagined that it was in a very varying tone of mind he read +through this letter. If Dolly's refusal was not based on her unwillingness +to leave her father,—and if it were, she could have said so,—it +was quite inexplicable. Of all the girls he had ever known, he never saw +one more likely to be captivated by such an offer. She had that sort of +nature that likes to invest each event of life with a certain romance; and +where could anything have opened such a vista for castle-building as this +scheme of foreign travel? Of course he could not explain it; how should +he? Dolly was only partly like what she used to be long ago. In those days +she had no secrets,—at least, none from him; now she had long dreary +intervals of silence and reflection, as though brooding over something she +did not wish to tell of. This was not the Dolly Stewart he used to know so +well. As he re-read the letter, and came to that passage in which she +tells him that if he cannot explain what Dolly's refusal is owing to +without making a confession, he need not do so, he grew almost irritable, +and said, “What can she mean by this?” Surely it is not possible that +Alice could have listened to any story that coupled his name with Dolly's, +and should thus by insinuation charge him with the allegation? Lady Lyle +had said to himself, “I heard the story from one of the girls.” Was it +this, then, that Alice referred to? Surely she knew him better; surely she +knew how he loved her, no matter how hopelessly it might be. Perhaps women +liked to give this sort of pain to those whose heart they owned. Perhaps +it was a species of torture they were given to. Skeffy could tell if he +were here. Skeffy could resolve this point at once, but it was too much +for <i>him</i>. +</p> +<p> +As to the passage about Maitland, he almost tore the paper as he read it. +By what right did he correspond with her at all? Why should he write to +her even such small matter as the gossip of a court? And what could Alice +mean by telling him of it, unless—and oh, the bitterness of this +thought!—it was to intimate by a mere passing word the relations +that subsisted between herself and Maitland, and thus convey to him the +utter hopelessness of his own pretensions? +</p> +<p> +As Tony walked up and down his room, he devised a very strong, it was +almost a fierce, reply to this letter. He would tell her that as to Dolly +he could not say, but she might have some of his own scruples about that +same position called companion. When he knew her long ago, she was +independent enough in spirit, and it was by no means impossible she might +prefer a less brilliant condition if unclogged with observances that might +savor of homage. At all events, <i>he</i> was no fine and subtle +intelligence to whom a case of difficulty could be submitted. +</p> +<p> +As for Maitland, he hated him! he was not going to conceal it in any way. +His air of insolent superiority he had not forgotten, nor would he forget +till he had found an opportunity to retort it. Alice might think him as +amusing as she pleased. To himself the man was simply odious, and if the +result of all his varied gifts and accomplishments was only to make up +such a being as he was, then would he welcome the most unlettered and +uninformed clown that ever walked, rather than this mass of conceit and +self-sufficiency. +</p> +<p> +He sat down to commit these thoughts to paper, and though he scrawled over +seven sheets in the attempt, nothing but failure came of it. Maitland came +in, if not by name, by insinuation, everywhere; and, in spite of himself, +he found he had got into a tone not merely querulous, but actually +aggressive, and was using towards Alice an air of reproof that he almost +trembled at as he re-read it. +</p> +<p> +“This will never do,” cried he, as he tore up the scribbled sheets. “I 'll +wait till to-morrow, and perhaps I shall do better.” When the morrow came, +he was despatched on duty, and Alice remained unanswered. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIX. THE MAJOR'S MISSION +</h2> +<p> +If my reader has been as retentive as I could wish him, he will have borne +in mind that on the evening when Major M'Caskey took a very menacing leave +of Norman Maitland at Paris, Count Caffarelli had promised his friend to +write to General Filangieri to obtain from the King a letter addressed to +Maitland in the royal hand by the title of Count of Amalfi,—such a +recognition being as valid an act of ennoblement as all the declarations +and registrations and emblazonments of heralds and the colleges. +</p> +<p> +It had been originally intended that this letter should be enclosed to +Count Ludolf, the Neapolitan envoy at Turin, where Maitland would have +found it; but seeing the spirit which had now grown up between Maitland +and M'Caskey, and foreseeing well what would occur whenever these two men +should meet, Caffarelli, with that astuteness that never fails the +Italian, determined to avert the peril by a stratagem which lent its aid +to the object he had in hand. He begged the General would transmit the +letter from the King, not to Turin, but to the Castello di Montanara, +where Maitland had long resided, in a far-away part of Calabria, and +employ as the messenger M'Caskey himself; by which means this very +irritable and irritating individual might be, for a time at least, +withdrawn from public view, and an immediate meeting with Maitland +prevented. +</p> +<p> +It was not very difficult, without any breach of confidence, for +Caffarelli to convey to Filangieri that his choice of M'Caskey for this +mission was something stronger than a caprice, and that his real wish was +that this fiery personage should not be at Naples when they arrived there. +</p> +<p> +A very brief note, which reached Caffarelli before he had left Paris, +informed him that all he had requested had been duly done. “He gave it,”—it +was of the King he spoke,—“he gave it at once, Carlo; only saying, +with a laugh, 'One of my brothers may dispute it with him some of these +days, for it gives some privilege; but whether it be to claim the rights +of the Church after high treason, or to have two wives in Lower Calabria, +I don't remember; but tell your friend to avoid both murder and matrimony, +at least till he returns to a more civilized region.' +</p> +<p> +“I shall send the Irish Major with the despatch, as you wish. If I +understand you aright, you are not over-anxious he should come back with +the answer. But why not be more explicit? If you want——remember +Calabria is——Calabria,—you understand.” + </p> +<p> +At first Caffarelli had intended not to show this note to Maitland; but +the profound contempt which his friend exhibited for M'Caskey, proved that +no sense of a debt of honor outstanding between them would lessen +Maitland's satisfaction at hearing that this troublesome “cur”—so he +called him—should not be yelping at his heels through the streets of +Naples. +</p> +<p> +Maitland, in fact, declared that he knew of no misfortune in life so +thoroughly ruinous as to be confronted in a quarrel with a questionable +antagonist. From the ridicule of such a situation, he averred, the only +escape was in a fatal ending; and Maitland knew nothing so bad as +ridicule. Enmity in all its shapes he had faced, and could face again. +Give him a foe but worthy of him, and no man ever sprang into the lists +with a lighter heart; the dread of a false position was too much for him. +</p> +<p> +Leaving these two friends then at Paris, to talk, amid their lives of many +dissipations, of plots and schemes and ambitions, let us betake ourselves +to a very distant spot, at the extreme verge of the Continent,—a +little inlet on the Calabrian coast below Reggio; where, on a small +promontory separating two narrow bays, stands the lone castle of +Montanara. It had been originally a convent, as its vast size indicates, +but was purchased and converted into a royal residence by a former king of +Naples, who spent incredible sums on the buildings and the gardens. The +latter, especially, were most costly, since they were entirely artificial,—the +earth having been carried from the vicinity of Naples. +</p> +<p> +The castle itself was the most incongruous mass that could be conceived, +embracing the fortress, the convent, the ornate style of Venice, and the +luxurious vastness of an Oriental palace, all within its walls. It may be +imagined that no private fortune, however ample, could have kept in +perfect order a place of such immense size, the gardens alone requiring +above thirty men constantly at work, and the repairs of the sea-wall being +a labor that never ended. +</p> +<p> +The present occupant, Sir Omerod Butler, lived in one small block called +the “Biolo,” which projected into the sea at the very end of the +promontory, and was approachable on the land side by a beautiful avenue of +cedars. They were of great age, and, tradition said, had been brought from +Lebanon. If ruin and neglect and desolation characterized all around, no +sooner had the traveller entered this shady approach than all changed to +the most perfect care and culture,—flowery shrubs of every kind, +beds of gorgeous flowers, <i>pergolati</i> of vines leading down to the +sea, and orange groves dipping their golden balls in the blue +Mediterranean at every step, till the ample gate was reached; passing into +which you entered a spacious court paved with variegated marble, with a +massive fountain in the centre. From this court, under a pillared archway, +led off all the lower rooms,—great spacious chambers, with richly +painted ceilings and tessellated floors. Into these was gathered the most +costly furniture of the whole palace; tables and consoles of malachite and +porphyry, gorgeously inlaid slabs of <i>lapis lazuli</i> and agate, +cabinets of rare beauty, and objects of ancient art. Passing through these +again, you gained the rooms of daily habitation, arranged with all the +taste and luxury of modern refinement, and distinctively marking that the +cold splendor without could not attain to that sense of comfort and +voluptuous ease which an age of greater indulgence requires. +</p> +<p> +The outer gate of the castle, which opened by a draw-bridge over a deep +moat, on the Reggio road, was little less than a mile off; and it may give +some idea of the vast size of the place to state that, from that entrance +to the Molo, there was a succession of buildings of one kind or other, +only interrupted by areas of courtyard or garden. +</p> +<p> +When, at the close of a sultry day, Major M'Caskey presented himself at +this gate, summoning the porter with a vigorous pull of the bell, he was +not admitted till a very careful scrutiny showed that he was alone, and +did not, besides, exhibit anything very formidable in his appearance. He +was told, as he passed in, that he must leave his horse at the stables +beside the gate, and make the rest of his way on foot The Major was both +tired and hungry; he had been in the saddle since daybreak, had twice +missed his way, and tasted no food since he set out. +</p> +<p> +“Is there much more of this confounded way to go?” asked he of his guide, +as they now mounted a terrace, only to descend again. +</p> +<p> +“About a quarter of an hour will bring you to the Molo,” said the other, +just as ill-pleased to have the duty of escorting him. A quick glance at +the fellow's face showed the Major how hopeless it would be to expect any +information from him; and though he was burning to know who inhabited this +lonesome place, and why he lived there, he forebore all questioning, and +went along in silence. +</p> +<p> +“There!” said his guide, at last, as they reached a great archway standing +alone in a sort of lawn,—“there! you follow that road to the little +gate yonder, pass in, cross the garden, and you will be at the side +entrance of the Molo. I don't suppose you want to enter by the grand +gate?” + </p> +<p> +Major M'Caskey was not much in the habit of suffering an insolence to pass +unresented; but he seemed to control himself as he drew forth his purse +and took out a crown piece. “This is for your trouble, my worthy fellow,” + said he; “go and look for it yonder;” and he jerked the piece of money +over the low parapet, and sent it skimming along the sea a hundred yards +off. +</p> +<p> +Though the man's lips murmured in passion, and his dark eyes flashed +anger, one look at the face of his companion assured him that the safer +policy was to restrain his wrath, and, touching his hat in salute, he +retired without a word. +</p> +<p> +As though he felt in better temper with himself for having thus discharged +this little debt, the Major stepped more briskly forward, gained the small +postern, and entered a large and formal garden, the chief avenue of which +showed him the gate at the extremity. It lay open, and he found himself in +a large vaulted hall, from which doors led off. In doubt which course to +take, he turned to seek for a bell, but there was none to be found; and +after a careful search on every side, he determined to announce himself by +a stout knocking at one of the doors before him. +</p> +<p> +The hollow clamor resounded through the whole building, and soon brought +down two men in faded livery, half terrified, half angry at the summons. +</p> +<p> +M'Caskey, at once assuming the upper hand, a habit in which practice had +made him proficient, demanded haughtily to see “the Count,” their master. +</p> +<p> +“He is at dinner,” said they both together. +</p> +<p> +“I wish I were so too,” said the Major. “Go in and tell him that I am the +bearer of a royal despatch, and desire to see him immediately.” + </p> +<p> +They held counsel together in whispers for a few minutes, during which the +name Maria occurred frequently between them. “We will tell the Signora +Maria you are here,” said one, at last. +</p> +<p> +“And who may she be?” said M'Caskey, haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“She is the Cameriera of the Countess, and the chief of all the +household.” + </p> +<p> +“My business is not with a waiting-woman. I have come to see the Count of +Amalfi,” said the Major, sternly. +</p> +<p> +The men apparently knew their own duties best, and, civilly asking him to +follow, they led the way up a small flight of stairs, and after traversing +some scantily furnished rooms, showed him into a pretty decorated little +chamber, with two windows looking on the sea. +</p> +<p> +Having politely begged him to be seated, they left him. The Major, besides +being hungry and jaded, was irritable and angry. Filangieri had told him +his mission was one of importance and high trust; in fact, so much so, +that it could not be confided to one less known than himself. And was this +the way they received a royal envoy, sent on such an errand? While he thus +fumed and chafed, he heard a door open and close, and shortly after the +sweep of a woman's dress coming along the corridor; and now the step came +nearer, and the door opened, and a tall, sickly-looking woman entered; but +scarcely had she advanced one pace within the room, when she uttered a +faint scream and fainted. +</p> +<p> +The Major's first care was to turn the key in the lock; his second was to +lift up the almost lifeless figure, and place her on a sofa. As he did so, +any emotion that his features betrayed was rather of displeasure than +astonishment; and in the impatient way he jerked open the window to let +the fresh air blow on her, there was far more of anger than surprise. +</p> +<p> +“So, then, you are the Signora Maria, it would seem,” were the first words +she heard as she rallied from her swoon. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Miles!” cried she, with an intense agony, “why have you tracked me +here? Could you not have let me drag out my few years of life in peace?” + </p> +<p> +It was difficult to guess how these words affected him, or, rather, in how +many different ways; for though at first his eyes flashed angrily, he soon +gave a short jeering sort of laugh, and, throwing himself down into a +chair, he crossed his arms on his breast and gazed steadily at her. +</p> +<p> +The look seemed to remind her of bygone suffering, for she turned her head +away, and then covered her face with her hands. +</p> +<p> +“Signora Maria,” said he, slowly,—“unless, indeed, you still desire +I should call you Mrs. M'Caskey.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no,—Maria,” cried she, wildly; “I am but a servant—I toil +for my bread; but better that than—” She stopped, and, after an +effort to subdue her emotion, burst into tears and sobbed bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“It matters little to me, madam, what the name. The chain that ties us is +just as irrevocable, whatever we choose to call ourselves. As to anything +else, I do not suppose you intend to claim <i>me</i> as your husband.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, never,” cried she, impetuously. +</p> +<p> +“Nor am I less generous, madam. None shall ever hear from me that you were +my wife. The contract was one that brought little credit to either of us.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing but misery and misfortune to me!” said she, bitterly; “nothing +else,—nothing else!” + </p> +<p> +“You remind me, madam,” said he, in a slow, deliberate voice, as though he +were enunciating some long-resolved sentiment,—“you remind me much +of Josephine.” + </p> +<p> +“Who is Josephine?” asked she, quickly. +</p> +<p> +“I speak of the Empress Josephine, so you may perceive that I have sought +your parallel in high places. She, like you, deemed herself the most +unhappy of women, and all because destiny had linked her with a greatness +that she could not measure.” + </p> +<p> +Though her vacant stare might have assured him either that she did not +understand his words, or follow their meaning, never daunted, he went on. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, madam; and, like <i>her</i> husband, yours has had much to bear,—levity, +frivolity, and—worse.” + </p> +<p> +“What are you here for? Why have you come after me?” cried she, wildly. “I +swore to you before, and I swear it again, that I will never go back to +you.” + </p> +<p> +“Whenever you reduce that pledge to writing, madam, call on me to be your +security for its due performance; be it known to you, therefore, that this +meeting was an unexpected happiness to me.” + </p> +<p> +She covered her face, and rocked to and fro like one in the throes of a +deep suffering. +</p> +<p> +“I should be a glutton, madam, if I desired a repetition of such scenes as +these; they filled eight years—eight mortal years—of a life +not otherwise immemorable.” + </p> +<p> +“And what have they done for <i>me?</i>” cried she, roused almost to +boldness by his taunting manner. +</p> +<p> +“Made you thinner, paler, a trifle more aged, perhaps,” said he, scanning +her leisurely; “but always what Frenchmen would call a <i>femme charmante</i>.” + </p> +<p> +The mockery seemed more than she could bear, for she sprang to her feet, +and, in a voice vibrating with passion, said, “Take care, Miles M'Caskey,—take +care; there are men here, if they saw me insulted, would throw you over +that sea-wall as soon as look at you.” + </p> +<p> +“Ring for your bravos, madam,—summon your condottieri at once,” said +he, with an impudent laugh; “they 'll have some warmer work than they +bargained for.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, why not leave me in peace?—why not let me have these few years +of life without more of shame and misery?” said she, throwing herself on +her knees before him. +</p> +<p> +“Permit me to offer you a chair, madam,” said he, as he took her hands, +and placed her on a seat; “and let me beg that we talk of something else. +Who is the Count?—'The Onoratissimo e Pregiatissimo Signor Conte,'” + for he read now from the address of a letter he had drawn from his pocket,—“'Signor +Conte d'Amalfi,'—is that the name of the owner of this place?” + </p> +<p> +“No; it is the Chevalier Butler, formerly minister at Naples, lives here,—Sir +Omerod Bramston Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, then, I perceive it is really meant for another person! I thought it +was a mode of addressing him secretly. The Count of Amalfi lives here, +perhaps?” “I never heard of him.” “Who lives here besides Sir Omerod?” “My +Lady,—that is, the Countess; none else.” “Who is the Countess? +Countess of what, and where?” “She is a Milanese; she was a Brancaleone.” + “Brancaleone, Brancaleone! there were two of them. One went to Mexico with +the Duke of Sommariva,—not his wife.” + </p> +<p> +“This is the other; she is married to Sir Omerod.” “She must be Virginia +Brancaleone,” said M'Caskey, trying to remember,—“the same Lord +Byron used to rave about.” She nodded an assent, and he continued,—“Nini +Brancaleone was a toast, I remember, with Wraxall and Trelawney, and the +rest of us. She was the 'reason fair' of many a good glass of claret which +Byron gave us, in those days before he became stingy.” + </p> +<p> +“You had better keep your memories to yourself in case you meet her,” said +she, warningly. “Miles M'Caskey, madam, requires very little advice or +admonition in a matter that touches tact or good breeding.” A sickly smile +of more than half-derision curled the woman's lip, but she did not speak. +</p> +<p> +“And now let us come back to this Count of Amalfi, who is he? where is +he?” + </p> +<p> +“I have told you already I do not know.” + </p> +<p> +“There was a time, madam, you would have required no second intimation +that it was your duty to find out.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, I remember those words but too well,” cried she, bitterly. “Finding +out was my task for many a year.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, madam, it was an exercise that might have put a fine edge on your +understanding, but, like some other advantages of your station, it slipped +by you without profit. I am generous, madam, and I forbear to say more. +Tell me of these people here all that you know of them, for they are my +more immediate interest at present.” + </p> +<p> +“I will tell you everything, on the simple condition that you never speak +to me nor of me again. Promise me but this, Miles M'Caskey, and I swear to +you I will conceal nothing that I know of them.” + </p> +<p> +“You make hard terms, madam,” said he, with a mock courtesy. “It is no +small privation to be denied the pleasure of your agreeable presence, but +I comply.” + </p> +<p> +“And this shall be our last meeting?” asked she, with a look of imploring +meaning. +</p> +<p> +“Alas, madam, if it must be!” + </p> +<p> +“Take care,” cried she, suddenly; “you once by your mockery drove me to—” + </p> +<p> +“Well, madam, your memory will perhaps record what followed. I shot the +friend who took up your cause. Do you chance to know of another who would +like to imitate his fortune?” + </p> +<p> +“Gracious Heaven!” cried she, in an agony, “has nothing the power to +change your cruel nature; or are you to be hard-hearted and merciless to +the end?” + </p> +<p> +“I am proud to say, madam, that Miles M'Caskey comes of a house whose +motto is 'Semper M'Caskey'.” + </p> +<p> +A scornful curl of her lip seemed to show what respect she felt for the +heraldic allusion; but she recovered herself quickly, and said, “I can +stay no longer. It is the hour the Countess requires me; but I will come +back to-morrow, without you would let me buy off this meeting. Yes, Miles, +I am in earnest; this misery is too much for me. I have saved a little +sum, and I have it by me in gold. You must be more changed than I can +believe, or you will be in want of money. You shall have it all, every +ducat of it, if you only pledge me your word never to molest me,—never +to follow me,—never to recognize me again!” + </p> +<p> +“Madam,” said he, severely, “this menial station you have descended to +must have blunted your sense of honor rudely, or you had never dared to +make me such a proposal. Let me see you to-morrow, and for the last time.” + And haughtily waving his hand, he motioned to her to leave; and she turned +away, with her hands over her face, and quitted the room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XL. THE MAJOR'S TRIALS +</h2> +<p> +Major Miles M'Caskey is not a foreground figure in this our story, nor +have we any reason to suppose that he possesses any attractions for our +readers. When such men—and there are such to be found on life's +highway—are met with, the world usually gives them what sailors call +a “wide berth and ample room to swing in,” sincerely trusting that they +will soon trip their anchor and sail off again. Seeing all this, I have no +pretension, nor indeed any wish, to impose his company any more than is +strictly indispensable, nor dwell on his sojourn at the Molo of Montanara. +Indeed, his life at that place was so monotonous and weary to himself, it +would be a needless cruelty to chronicle it. +</p> +<p> +The Major, as we have once passingly seen, kept a sort of brief journal of +his daily doings; and a few short extracts from this will tell us all that +we need know of him. On a page of which the upper portion was torn away, +we find the following:— +</p> +<p> +“Arrived at M——- on the 6th at sunset. Ruined old rookery. +Open at land side, and sea defences all carried away; never could have +been strong against artillery. Found Mrs. M'C. in the style of +waiting-woman to a Countess Butler, formerly Nini Brancaleone. A warm +interview; difficult to persuade her that I was not in pursuit of herself,—a +feminine delusion I tried to dissipate. She”—henceforth it is thus +he always designates Mrs. M'Caskey—“she avers that she knows nothing +of the Count d' Amalfi, nor has ever seen him. Went into a long story +about Sir Omerod Butler, of whom I know more myself. She pretends that +Nini is married to him—legally married; don't believe a word of it +Have my own suspicions that the title of Amalfi has been conferred on B. +himself, for he lives estranged from England and Englishmen. Will learn +all, however, before I leave. +</p> +<p> +“Roast pigeons, with tomato, a strange fish, and omelette, with Capri to +wash it down; a meagre supper, but they say it shall be better to-morrow. +</p> +<p> +“<i>7th, Wednesday</i>.—Slept soundly and had a swim; took a sea +view of the place, but could see no one about. Capital breakfast—'<i>Frutti +di mare</i>' boiled in Rhine wine; fellow who waited said a favorite dish +of his Excellency's, meaning Sir. O. B. Best chocolate I ever tasted out +of Paris. Found the <i>menu</i> for dinner on the table all right; the +wine is <i>au choix</i>, and I begin with La Rose and La Veuve Cliquot. A +note from her referring to something said last night; she is ill and +cannot see me, but encloses an order on Parodi of Genoa, in favor of the +nobile Signor il Maggiore M'Caskey, for three thousand seven hundred and +forty-eight francs, and a small tortoise-shell box, containing eighty-six +double ducats in gold, so that it would seem I have fallen into a '<i>vrai +Californie</i>' here. Reflected, and replied with a refusal; a M'Caskey +cannot stoop to this. Reproved her for ignoring the character to whom she +addressed such a proposal, and reiterated my remark of last night, that +she never rose to the level at which she could rightly take in the native +chivalry of my nature. +</p> +<p> +“Inquired if my presence had been announced to Sir O., and learned it had. +Orders given to treat me with distinguished consideration, but nothing +said of an audience. +</p> +<p> +“Pigeons again for supper, with apology; quails had been sent for to +Messina, and expected to-morrow. Shot at a champagne-flask in the sea, and +smoked. Sir O.'s tobacco exquisite, and the supply so ample, I am making a +<i>petite provision</i> for the future. +</p> +<p> +“Full moon. Shot at the camellias out of my window. Knocked off seventeen, +when I heard a sharp cry,—a stray shot, I suppose. Shut the casement +and went to bed. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Thursday</i>.—Gardener's boy—flesh wound in the calf of +the leg; hope Sir O. may hear of it and send for me. +</p> +<p> +“A glorious capon for dinner, stuffed with oysters,—veritable +oysters. Drank Mrs. M'C.'s health in the impression that this was a polite +attention on her part. No message from Sir O. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Friday</i>.—A general fast; a lentil soup and a fish; good but +meagre; took it out in wine and tobacco. Had the gardener's boy up, and +introduced him to sherry-cobbler. The effect miraculous; danced Tarantella +till the bandage came off and he fainted. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Saturday</i>.—Rain and wind; macaroni much smoked; cook lays it +on the chimney, that won't draw with a Levant wind. Read over my +instructions again, and understand them as little as before: 'You will +hold yourself at the orders of the Count d'Amalfi till further +instructions from this department.' Vague enough all this; and for +anything I see, or am likely to see, of this Count, I may pass the autumn +here. Tried to attract Sir O.'s attention by knocking off the oranges at +top of his wall, and received intimation to fire in some other direction. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Sunday</i>.—Don Luigi something has come to say mass. Asked him +to dinner, but find him engaged to the Countess. A dry old cove, who +evidently knows everything but will tell nothing; has promised to lend me +a guitar and a book or two, in return for which I have sent down three +bottles of our host's champagne to his reverence. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Monday</i>.—Lobsters. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Tuesday</i>.—Somebody ill apparently; much ringing of bells and +disorder. My dinner an hour late. Another appeal from Mrs. M'C, repeating +her former proposal with greater energy; this feminine insistence provokes +me. I might tell her that of the three women who have borne my name none +but herself would have so far presumed, but I forbear. Pity has ever been +the weakness of my nature; I feel its workings even as I write this. It +may not carry me to the length of forgiveness, but I can compassionate; I +will send her this note:— +</p> +<p> +“'Madam,—Your prayers have succeeded; I yield. It would not be +generous in me to say what the sacrifice has cost me. When a M'Caskey +bends, it is an oak of the forest snaps in two. I make but one condition; +I will have no gratitude. Keep the tears that you would shed at my feet +for the hours of your solitary sorrow. You will, see, therefore, that we +are to meet no more. +</p> +<p> +“'One of the ducats is clipped on the edge, and another discolored as by +an acid; I am above requiring that they be exchanged. Nothing in this last +act of our intercourse shall prevent you remembering me as “Semper +M'Caskey.”' +</p> +<p> +“'Your check should have specified Parodi & Co., not Parodi alone. To +a man less known the omission might give inconvenience; this too, however, +I pardon. Farewell.'” + </p> +<p> +It was evident that the Major felt he had completed this task with +befitting dignity, for he stood up before a large glass, and, placing one +hand within his waistcoat, he gazed at himself in a sort of rapturous +veneration. “Yes,” said he, thoughtfully, “George Seymour and D'Orsay and +myself, we were men! When shall the world look upon our like again? Each +in his own style, too, perfectly distinct, perfectly dissimilar,—neither +of them, however, had this,—neither had this,” cried he, as he +darted a look of catlike fierceness from his fiery gray eyes. “The +Princess Metternich fainted when I gave her that glance. She had the +temerity to say, 'Qui est ce Monsieur M'Caskey?' Why not ask who is Soult? +Who is Wellington? Who is everybody? Such is the ignorance of a woman! +Madame la princesse,” added he, in a graver tone, “if it be your fortune +to turn your footsteps to Montpellier, walk into the churchyard there, and +see the tomb of Jules de Besançon, late major of the 8th Cuirassiers, and +whose inscription is in these few words,—'Tué par M'Caskey.' I put +up the monument myself, for he was a brave soldier, and deserved his +immortality.” + </p> +<p> +Though self-admiration was an attractive pastime, it palled on him at +last, and he sat down and piled up the gold double ducats in two tall +columns, and speculated on the various pleasures they might procure, and +then he read over the draft on Parodi, and pictured to his mind some more +enjoyments, all of which were justly his due, “for,” as he said to himself +aloud, “I have dealt generously by that woman.” + </p> +<p> +At last he arose, and went out on the terrace. It was a bright starlit +night, one of those truly Italian nights when the planets streak the calm +sea with long lines of light, and the very air seems weary with its burden +of perfume. Of the voluptuous enervation that comes of such an hour he +neither knew nor asked to know. Stillness and calm to him savored only of +death; he wanted movement, activity, excitement, life, in fact,—life +as he had always known and always liked it. Once or twice the suspicion +had crossed his mind that he had been sent on this distant expedition to +get rid of him when something of moment was being done elsewhere. His +inordinate vanity could readily supply the reasons for such a course. He +was one of those men that in times of trouble become at once famous. “They +call us dangerous,” said he, “just as Cromwell was dangerous, Luther was +dangerous, Napoleon was dangerous. But if we are dangerous, it is because +we are driven to it. Admit the superiority that you cannot oppose, yield +to the inherent greatness that you can only struggle against, and you will +find that we are not dangerous,—we are salutary.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it possible,” cried he, aloud, “that this has been a plot,—that +while I am here living this life of inglorious idleness the great stake is +on the table,—the game is begun, and the King's crown being played +for?” M'Caskey knew that whether royalty conquered or was vanquished,—however +the struggle ended,—there was to be a grand scene of pillage. The +nobles or the merchants—it mattered very little which to him—were +to pay for the coming convulsion. Often and often, as he walked the +streets of Naples, had he stood before a magnificent palace or a great +counting-house, and speculated on the time when it should be his +prerogative to smash in that stout door, and proclaim all within it his +own. “<i>Spolia di</i> M'Caskey,” was the inscription that he felt would +defy the cupidity of the boldest. “I will stand on the balcony,” said he, +“and declare, with a wave of my hand, These are mine: pass on to other +pillage.” + </p> +<p> +The horrible suspicion that he might be actually a prisoner all this time +gained on him more and more, and he ransacked his mind to think of some +great name in history whose fate resembled his own. “Could I only assure +myself of this,” said he, passionately, “it is not these old walls would +long confine me; I 'd scale the highest of them in half an hour; or I 'd +take to the sea, and swim round that point yonder,—it 's not two +miles off; and I remember there's a village quite close to it.” Though +thus the prospect of escape presented itself so palpably before him, he +was deterred from it by the thought that if no intention of forcible +detention had ever existed, the fact of his having feared it would be an +indelible stain upon his courage. “What an indignity,” thought he, “for a +M'Caskey to have yielded to a causeless dread!” + </p> +<p> +As he thus thought, he saw, or thought he saw, a dark object at some short +distance off on the sea. He strained his eyes, and, though long in doubt, +at last assured himself it was a boat that had drifted from her moorings, +for the rope that had fastened her still hung over the stern, and trailed +in the sea. By the slightly moving flow of the tide towards shore she came +gradually nearer, till at last he was able to reach her with the crook of +his riding-whip, and draw her up to the steps. Her light paddle-like oars +were on board; and M'Caskey stepped in, determined to make a patient and +careful study of the place on its sea-front, and see, if he could, whether +it were more of chateau or jail. +</p> +<p> +With noiseless motion he stole smoothly along, till he passed a little +ruined bastion on a rocky point, and saw himself at the entrance of a +small bay, at the extremity of which a blaze of light poured forth, and +illuminated the sea for some distance. As he got nearer, he saw that the +light came from three large windows that opened on a terrace, thickly +studded with orange-trees, under the cover of which he could steal on +unseen, and take an observation of all within; for that the room was +inhabited was plain enough, one figure continuing to cross and recross the +windows as M'Caskey drew nigh. +</p> +<p> +Stilly and softly, without a ripple behind him, he glided on till the +light skiff stole under the overhanging boughs of a large acacia, over a +branch of which he passed his rope to steady the boat, and then standing +up he looked into the room, now so close as almost to startle him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLI. EAVESDROPPING +</h2> +<p> +If M'Caskey was actually startled by the vicinity in which he suddenly +found himself to the persons within the room, he was even more struck by +the tone of the voice which now met his ear. It was Norman Maitland who +spoke, and he recognized him at once. Pacing the large room in its length, +he passed before the windows quite close to where M'Caskey stood,—so +close, indeed, that he could mark the agitation on his features, and note +the convulsive twitchings that shook his cheek. +</p> +<p> +The other occupant of the room was a lady; but M'Caskey could only see the +heavy folds of her dark velvet dress as she sat apart, and so distant that +he could not hear her voice. +</p> +<p> +“So, then, it comes to this!” said Maitland, stopping in his walk and +facing where she sat: “I have made this wearisome journey for nothing! +Would it not have been as easy to say he would not see me? It was no +pleasure to me to travel some hundred miles and be told at the end of it I +had come for nothing.” + </p> +<p> +She murmured something inaudible to M'Caskey, but to which Maitland +quickly answered: “I know all that; but why not let <i>me</i> hear this +from his own lips, and let <i>him</i> hear what I can reply to it? He will +tell <i>me</i> of the vast sums I have squandered and the heavy debts I +have contracted; and I would tell <i>him</i> that in following his rash +counsels I have dissipated years that would have won me distinction in any +land of Europe.” + </p> +<p> +Again she spoke; but before she uttered many words he broke suddenly in +with, “No, no, no! ten thousand times no! I knew the monarchy was rotten—rotten +to the very core; but I said, Better to die in the street <i>à cheval</i> +than behind the arras on one's knees. Have it out with the scoundrels, and +let the best man win,—that was the advice <i>I</i> gave. Ask +Caraffa, ask Filangieri, ask Acton, if I did not always say, 'If the king +is not ready to do as much for his crown as the humblest peasant would for +his cabin, let him abdicate at once.'” + </p> +<p> +She murmured something, and he interrupted her with: “Because I never did—never +would—and never will trust to priestcraft. All the intrigues of the +Jesuits, all the craft of the whole College of Cardinals, will not bring +back confidence in the monarchy. But why do I talk of these things to you? +Go back and ask him to see me. Say that I have many things to tell him; +say”—and here the mockery of his voice became conspicuous—“that +I would wish much to have his advice on certain points.—And why +not?” cried he aloud to something she said; “has my new nobility no charm +for him? Well, then, I am ready to strike a bargain with him. I owe +Caffarelli two hundred and eighty thousand francs, which I mean to pay, if +I take to the highway to do it. Hush! don't interrupt me. I am not asking +he should pay this for me,—all I want is that he will enable me to +sell that villa which he gave me some years ago beyond Caserta. Yes, the +Torricelia; I know all that,—it was a royal present. It never had +the more value in my eyes for that; and perhaps the day is not far distant +when the right to it may be disputed. Let him make out my title, such as +it is, so that I can sell it. There are Jews who will surely take it at +one-half its worth. Get him to consent to this, and I am ready to pledge +my word that he has seen the last of me.” + </p> +<p> +“He gave it to you as a wedding-present, Norman,” said she, haughtily; and +now her deep-toned voice rung out clear and strong; “and it will be an +unpardonable offence to ask him this.” + </p> +<p> +“Have I not told you that I shall not need forgiveness,—that with +this act all ends between us?” + </p> +<p> +“I will be no party to this,” said she, haughtily; and she arose and +walked out upon the terrace. As she passed, the lamplight flared strongly +on her features, and M'Caskey saw a face he had once known well; but what +a change was there! The beautiful Nini Brancaleone, the dark-haired Norma, +the belle that Byron used to toast with an enthusiasm of admiration, was a +tall woman advanced in years, and with two masses of snow-white hair on +either side of a pale face. The dark eyes, indeed, flashed brightly still, +and the eyebrows were dark as of yore; but the beautifully formed mouth +was hard and thin-lipped, and the fair brow marked with many a strong line +of pain. +</p> +<p> +“You forget, perhaps,” said she, after a short pause,—“you forget +that it is from this villa I take my title. I am Brancaleone della +Torricella, and I forfeit the name when it leaves our hands.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you hold to this, mother?” asked he, in a voice of sorrow, through +which something of scorn was detectable. +</p> +<p> +“Do I hold to it? Of course I hold to it! You know well the value it has +in his eyes. Without it he never would have consented—” She stopped +suddenly, and seemed to catch herself in time to prevent the utterance of +some rash avowal. “As it is,” added she, “he told me so late as yesterday +that he has no rest nor peace, thinking over his brother's son, and the +great wrong he has done him.” + </p> +<p> +“Let him think of the greater wrong he has done me!—of my youth that +he has wasted, and my manhood lost and shipwrecked. But for him and his +weak ambition, I had belonged to a party who would have prized my ability +and rewarded my courage. I would not find myself at thirty brigaded with a +set of low-hearted priests and seminarists, who have no other weapons than +treachery, nor any strategy but lies. If I have squandered his fortune, he +has beggared me in reputation. He does not seem to remember these things. +As to him whom he would prefer to me and make his heir, I have seen him.” + </p> +<p> +“You have seen him, Norman! When?—where?—how?” cried she, in +wild impatience. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, I even had a plan to let the uncle meet his promising nephew. I +speculated on bringing together two people more made for mutual +detestation than any other two in Europe.” + </p> +<p> +“It would have been a rash venture,” said she, fiercely; “If you mean for +<i>me</i>, that was the very reason I thought of it. What other game than +the rash one is open to a mau like <i>me?</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Who ever had the safer road to fortune if he could have walked with the +commonest prudence?” said she, bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“How can you say that? Talk of prudence to the man who has no fortune, no +family, not even a name,—no!” cried he, fiercely; “for by the first +Maitland I met I might be challenged to say from what stock I came. He +could have saved me from all this. Nothing was ever easier. You yourself +asked,—ay, begged this. You told me you begged it on your knees; and +I own, if I never forgave him for refusing, I have never forgiven you for +the entreaty.” + </p> +<p> +“And I would do it again to-day!” cried she, passionately. “Let him but +acknowledge you, Norman, and he may turn me out upon the world houseless +and a beggar, and I will bless him for it!” + </p> +<p> +“What a curse is on the bastard,” broke he ont, in a savage vehemence, “if +it robs him of every rightful sentiment, and poisons even a mother's love! +Do not talk to me this way, or you will drive me mad!” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Norman! my dear, dear Norman!” cried she, passionately; “it is not +yet too late.” + </p> +<p> +“Too late for what?” + </p> +<p> +“Not too late to gain back his favor. When he saw the letter in the King's +hand, calling you Count of Amalfi, he said: 'This looks ill for the +monarchy. I have a Scotch earldom myself in my family granted by another +king the day after he had lost his own crown.' Try, then, if you cannot +rally to the cause those men who are so much under your influence that as +you have often told me they only wanted to be assured of your devotion to +pledge their own. If <i>he</i> could believe the cause triumphant, there +is nothing he would not do to uphold it.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said he, thoughtfully, “there never lived the man who more +worshipped success! The indulgences that he heaped upon myself were merely +offerings to a career of insolent triumph.” + </p> +<p> +“You never loved him, Norman,” said she, sadly. +</p> +<p> +“Love had no share in the compact between us. He wanted to maintain a +cause which, if successful, must exclude from power in England the men who +had insulted him, and turned him out of office. I wanted some one who +could afford to pay my debts, and leave me free to contract more. But why +talk to you about these intrigues?—Once more, will he see me?” + </p> +<p> +She shook her bead slowly in dissent. “Could you not write to him, +Norman?” said she at last. +</p> +<p> +“I will not write to a man under the same roof as myself. I have some news +for him,” added be, “if he cares to buy it by an audience; for I suppose +he would make it an audience;” and the last word he gave with deep scorn. +</p> +<p> +“Let me bring him the tidings.” + </p> +<p> +“No, he shall bear them from myself, or not hear them at all. I want this +villa!” cried be, passionately,—“I want the title to sell it, and +pay off a debt that is crushing me. Go, then, and say I have something of +importance enough to have brought me down some hundred miles to tell him, +something that deeply concerns the cause he cares for, and to which his +counsel would be invaluable.” + </p> +<p> +“And this is true?” + </p> +<p> +“Did I ever tell you a falsehood, mother?” asked he, in a voice of deep +and sorrowful meaning. +</p> +<p> +“I will go,” said she, after a few moments of thought, and left the room. +Maitland took a bottle of some essenced water from the table and bathed +his forehead. He had been more agitated than he cared to confess; and now +that he was alone, and, as he believed unobserved, his features betrayed a +deep depression. As he sat with his bead leaning on both hands, the door +opened. “Come,” said she, gently,—“come!” He arose, and followed +her. No sooner was all quiet around than M'Caskey rowed swiftly back to +his quarters, and, packing up hastily his few effects, made with all speed +for the little bay, where was the village he had passed on his arrival, +and through which led the road to Reggio. That something was “up” at +Naples he was now certain, and he resolved to be soon on the field; +whoever the victors, they would want <i>him</i>. +</p> +<p> +On the third evening he entered the capital, and made straight for +Caffarelli's house. He met the Count in the doorway. “The man I wanted,” + said he, as he saw the Major. “Go into my study and wait for me.” + </p> +<p> +“What has happened?” asked M'Caskey, in a whisper. “Everything. The King +is dead.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLII. MARK LYLE'S LETTER +</h2> +<p> +The following letter was received at Lyle Abbey shortly after the events +recorded in our last chapter had happened. It was from Mark Lyle to his +sister, Mrs. Trafford:— +</p> +<p> +“Hotel Victoria, Naples. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Alice,—While I was cursing my bad luck at being too late +for the P. and O. steamer at Marseilles, your letter arrived deciding me +to come on here. Nothing was ever more fortunate: first of all, I shall be +able to catch the Austrian Lloyds at Anevna, and reach Alexandria in good +time for the mail; and, secondly, I have perfectly succeeded—at +least I hope so—in the commission you gave me. For five mortal days +I did nothing but examine villas. I got a list of full fifty, but in the +course of a little time the number filtered down to ten possible, and came +at last to three that one could pronounce fairly habitable. To have health +in this climate—that is to say, to escape malaria—you must +abjure vegetation; and the only way to avoid tertian is to book yourself +for a sunstroke. These at least were my experiences up to Tuesday last, +for all the salubrious spots along the seashore had been long since seized +on either by the King or the Church, and every lovely point of view was +certain to be crowned by a royal villa or a monastery. I was coming back +then on Tuesday, very disconsolate indeed from a long day's fruitless +search, when I saw a perfect gem of a place standing on the extreme point +of a promontory near Caserta. It was of course 'royal'—at least it +belonged to a Count d'Amalfi, which title was borne by some younger branch +of the Bourbons; yet as it was untenanted, and several people were working +in the gardens, I ventured in to have a look at it. I will not attempt +description, but just say that both within and without it realizes all I +ever dreamed or imagined of an Italian villa. Marble and frescos and +fountains, terraces descending to the sea, and gardens a wilderness of +orange and magnolia, and grand old rooms, the very air of which breathed +splendor and magnificence; but <i>à quoi bon?</i> dear Alice. It was a <i>palazzotto +reale</i>, and one could only gaze enviously at delights they could not +hope to compass. +</p> +<p> +“Seeing my intense admiration of the place, the man who showed me around +it said, as I was coming away, that it was rumored that the Count would +not be indisposed to sell the property. I know enough of Italians to be +aware that when a stranger supposed to be rich: all English are in this +category—is struck with anything—picture, house, or statue—the +owner will always part with it at tenfold its value. Half out of +curiosity, half to give myself the pretext for another morning's ramble +over the delicious place, I asked where I could learn any details as to +the value, and received an address as follows: 'Count Carlo Caffarelli, +Villino del Boschetto, Chiaja, Naples.' Caffarelli I at once remembered as +the name of Maitland's friend, and in this found another reason for +calling on him, since I had totally failed in all my attempts to discover +M. either in London, Paris, or even here. +</p> +<p> +“The same evening I went there, and found Count Caffarelli in one of those +fairy-tale little palaces which this country abounds in. He had some +friends at dinner, but on reading my name, recognized me, and came out +with a most charming politeness to press me to join his party. It was no +use refusing; the Italian persuasiveness has that element of the +irresistible about it that one cannot oppose; and I soon found myself +smoking my cigar in a company of half a dozen people who treated me as an +intimate friend. +</p> +<p> +“I may amuse you some day by some of the traits of their <i>bonhomie</i>. +I must now confine myself to our more immediate interests. Caffarelli, +when he found that I wanted some information about the villa, drew his arm +within my own, and, taking me away from the rest, told me in strictest +confidence that the villa was Maitland's,—Maitland being the Conte +d'Amalfi,—the title having been conferred by the late King, one of +the very last acts of his life. +</p> +<p> +“'And Maitland,' said I, scarcely recovering from my astonishment; 'where +is he now?' +</p> +<p> +“'Within a few yards of you,' said he, turning and pointing to the closed +jalousies of a room that opened on a small separately enclosed garden; 'he +is there.' +</p> +<p> +“There was something like secrecy, mystery at least, in his manner as he +said this, that prevented my speaking for a moment, and he went on: 'Yes, +Maitland is in that room, stretched on his bed, poor fellow; he has been +severely wounded in a duel which, had I been here, should never have been +fought. All this, remember, is in confidence; for it is needless to tell +you Maitland is one of those men who hate being made gossip of; and I +really believe that his wound never gave him one-half the pain that he +felt at the bare possibility of his adventure being made town-talk. So +well have we managed hitherto, that of the men you see here to-night—all +of them intimate with him—one only knows that his illness is not a +malaria fever.' +</p> +<p> +“'But can you answer for the same prudence and reserve on the part of the +other principal?' +</p> +<p> +“'We have secured it, for the time at least, by removing him from Naples; +and as the laws here are very severe against duelling, his own safety will +suggest silence.' +</p> +<p> +“'Do you think Maitland would see me?' +</p> +<p> +“'I suppose he will be delighted to see you; but I will ascertain that +without letting him know that I have already told you he was here. +Remember, too, if he should receive you, drop nothing about the duel or +the wound. Allude to his illness as fever, and leave to himself entirely +the option of telling you the true story or not.' +</p> +<p> +“After a few more words of caution—less needed, if he only had known +how thoroughly I understood his temper and disposition—he left me. +He was back again in less than five minutes, and, taking me by the arm, +led me to Maitland's door. 'There,' said he, 'go in I he expects you.' +</p> +<p> +“It was only after a few seconds that I could see my way through the +half-darkened room, but, guided by a weak voice saying, 'Come on—here,' +I approached a bed, on the outside of which, in a loose dressing-gown, the +poor fellow lay. +</p> +<p> +“'You find it hard to recognize me, Lyle,' said he, with an attempt to +smile at the amazement which I could not by any effort repress; for he was +wasted to a shadow, his brown cheeks were sunken and sallow, and his dark +flashing eyes almost colorless. +</p> +<p> +“'And yet,' added he, 'the doctor has just been complimenting me on my +improved looks. It seems I was more horrible yesterday.' I don't remember +what I said, but he thanked me and pressed my hand,—a great deal +from him, for he is not certainly demonstrative; and then he pressed me to +tell about you all,—how you were, and what doing. He inquired so +frequently, and recurred so often to Bella, that I almost suspected +something between them,—though, after all, I ought to have known +that this was a conquest above Bella's reach,—the man who might any +day choose from the highest in Europe. +</p> +<p> +“'Now a little about yourself, Maitland,' said I. 'How long have you been +ill?' +</p> +<p> +“'This is the seventeenth day,' said he, sighing. 'Caffarelli of course +told you fever—but here it is;' and he turned on his side and showed +me a great mass of appliances and bandages. 'I have been wounded. I went +out with a fellow whom none of my friends would consent to my meeting, and +I was obliged to take my valet Fenton for my second, and he, not much +versed in these matters, accepted the Neapolitan sword instead of the +French one. I had not touched one these eight years. At all events, my +antagonist was an expert swordsman,—I suspect, in this style of +fencing, more than my equal; he certainly was cooler, and took a thrust I +gave him through the fore-arm without ever owning he was wounded till he +saw me fall.' +</p> +<p> +“'Plucky fellow,' muttered I. +</p> +<p> +“'Yes, pluck he has, unquestionably; nor did he behave badly when all was +over, for though it was as much as his neck was worth to do it, he offered +to support me in the carriage all the way back to Naples.' +</p> +<p> +“'That was a noble offer,' said I. +</p> +<p> +“'And there never was a less noble antagonist!' cried Maitland, with a +bitter laugh. 'Indeed, if it ever should get abroad that I crossed swords +with him, it would go near to deny me the power of demanding a similar +satisfaction from one of my own rank to-morrow. Do not ask me who he is, +Lyle; do not question me about the quarrel itself. It is the thinking, the +brooding over these things as I lie here, that makes this bed a torture to +me. The surgeon and his probes are not pleasant visitors, but I welcome +them when they divert my thoughts from these musings.' +</p> +<p> +“I did my best to rally him, and get him to talk of the future, when he +should be up and about again. I almost thought I had done him some little +good, when Caffarelli came in to warn me that the doctors were imperative +against his receiving any visitors, and I had been there then full two +hours! +</p> +<p> +“'I have told Lyle, said he, as we were leaving the room, 'that you must +let him come and see me to-morrow; there are other things I want to talk +over with him.' +</p> +<p> +“It was high time I should have left him, for his fever was now coming on, +and Caffarelli told me that he raved throughout the whole night, and +talked incessantly of places which, even in a foreign pronunciation, I +knew to be in our own neighborhood in Ireland. The next day I was not +admitted to see him. The day after that I was only suffered to pass a few +minutes beside his bed, on condition, too, that he should not be allowed +to speak; and to-day, as it is my last in Naples, I have been with him for +above an hour. I am certain, my dear Alice, that there is something at +least in my suspicion about Bella, from what took place to-day. Hearing +that I was obliged to leave to-night to catch the steamer at Ancona, he +said, 'Lyle, I shall want a few minutes with you, alone, though, before +you leave.' He said this because either the doctor or Caffarelli, or both, +have been with us since our first meeting. 'Don't look gloomy, old +fellow,' he added; 'I 'm not going to speak about my will. It is rather of +life I mean to talk, and what to do with life to make it worth living for. +Meanwhile Caffarelli has been telling me of your hunt after a villa. There +is mine,—the Torricella,—take it. Carlo says you were greatly +struck with it; and as it is really pretty, and inhabitable too,—a +thing rare enough with villas,—I insist upon your offering it to +your family. There's a sort of summer-house or “Belvedere” on the extreme +point of the rock, with half a dozen little rooms; I shall keep that for +myself; but tell Lady Lyle I shall not be a troublesome visitor. It will +be the rarest of all events to see me there, for I shall not be long in +Italy.' I was eager to ask why, or whither he was turning his steps, but +he was never one to stand much questioning, and in his present state it +would have been dangerous to cross him. By way of saying something—anything +at the moment—I asked how were things going on here politically. He +laughed his usual little quiet laugh, and called out to Caffarelli, who +stood in the window. 'Come here, Carlo, and tell Lyle how we are getting +on here. He wants to know if the ammunition has been yet served out for +the bombardment; or are you waiting for the barricades?' He jumped up in +his bed as he spoke, and then fell back again. The doctor ran hastily +over, and cried, out, 'That's exactly what I said would come of it. There +'s hemorrhage again.' And so we were turned out of the room, and the other +doctors were speedily summoned, and it was only an hour ago I heard that +he was going on favorably; but that in future a strict interdict should be +put upon all visits, and none admitted to him but his physicians. Seeing +this, there was no use deferring my departure, which would, besides, place +my commission in jeopardy. I have already outstayed my leave by two mails. +</p> +<p> +“Caffarelli is to write to you about the villa, and take all your +directions about getting it in order for your arrival. He says that there +is only too much furniture; and as there are something like eighty odd +rooms,—it is called Palazzotto, a grand word for palace,—the +chances are that even you will have space enough for what you call 'to +turn round in.' I am in no dread of your being disappointed in it, and I +repeat once more, it is the most exquisitely beautiful spot I ever saw. I +would rather own it than its larger brother, the great kingly palace on +the opposite side of the bay. +</p> +<p> +“I left my card at the Legation for your friend Mr. Darner, but he has not +returned my visit. I own I had no peculiar anxiety to know him. Maitland +could only say that he 'was not an ill-natured fellow, and perhaps a shade +smarter than his colleagues.' +</p> +<p> +“Caffarelli promises to keep you informed about, poor Maitland, of whom, +notwithstanding all the doctors say, I do not augur too favorably. On +every account, whether you really avail yourself of it or not, do not +refuse his offer of the villa; it would give him the deepest pain and +mortification, knowing how I had fixed upon it before I heard of his being +the owner. I am very sorry to leave him, and sorrier that I have not heard +what he was so eager to tell me. I shall be very impatient till I hear +from you, and know whether you concur in my conjecture or not. +</p> +<p> +“The King sent twice to-day to inquire after M., and has already announced +his intention to come in person, so soon as the doctors deem such a visit +safe. To see the names that were left to-day with the porter you would say +it was one of the first men in Europe was causing all this public anxiety. +</p> +<p> +“I trust, my dear Alice, you will be satisfied with this long-winded +epistle,—the last probably you will get from me till I reach +Calcutta. I had intended to have given you all the gossip of this pleasant +place, which, even on the verge, as some think, of a revolution, has time +and to spare for its social delinquencies; but Maitland has so engrossed +my thoughts that he has filled my letter; and yet I have not told you one +tithe of what I have heard about him from his friend Caffarelli. Indeed, +in his estimation, M. has no equal living; he is not alone the cleverest, +boldest, and most accomplished of men, but the truest and the +best-hearted. I sat late into the night last night listening to traits of +his generosity,—the poor people he had helped, the deserving +creatures he had succored, and the earnest way he had pressed claims on +the Ministry for wretched families who had been friendless without him. I +was dying to ask other questions about him, but I did not venture, and yet +the man puzzles me more than ever. Once, indeed, Caffarelli seemed on the +verge of telling me something. I had asked what Maitland meant by saying +that he should probably soon quit Italy? 'Ah,' replied Caffarelli, +laughing, 'then he has told you of that mad scheme of his; but of all +things in the world, why go into the service of a Bey of Tunis?' 'A Bey of +Tunis!' cried I, in such evident astonishment as showed I had heard of the +project for the first time. 'Of course it was but a jest,' said +Caffarelli, catching himself up quickly. 'The present Bey and Maitland +lived together in Paris in their early days; and I have seen scores of +letters entreating Maitland to come to Tunis, and offering him the command +of a division, the place of a Minister,—anything, in fact, that +might be supposed to tempt him. You may imagine yourself how likely it is +that a man with all Europe at his feet would consent to finish his life in +an African banishment.' +</p> +<p> +“If I could only have one week more here, I feel certain that Caffarelli +would tell me everything that I want to learn, but I must up and away. My +servant is already hurrying down my baggage, and I have not more time than +to send my loves to you all. +</p> +<p> +“Yours always, +</p> +<p> +“Mark Lyle. +</p> +<p> +“P. S. Caff is just the fellow to be made very useful, and likes it; so +don't scruple to write to him as fully as you please. He has already told +me of a first-rate chief-servant, a Maestro di Casa, for you; and, in +fact, only commission him, and he'll improvise you a full household ready +for your arrival. <i>Addio!</i>” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIII. THE MAJOR AT BADEN +</h2> +<p> +“You will please to write your name there, sir,” said a clerk from behind +a wooden railing to a fierce-looking little man in a frogged coat and a +gold-banded cap, in the busy bank-room of Parodi at Genoa. +</p> +<p> +“And my qualities?” asked the other, haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“As you please, sir.” + </p> +<p> +The stranger took the pen, and wrote “Milo M'Caskey, Count of the two +Sicilies, Knight of various orders, and Knight-postulate of St. John of +Jerusalem, &c. &c.” + </p> +<p> +“Your Excellency has not added your address,” said the clerk, +obsequiously. +</p> +<p> +“The Tuileries when in Paris, Zarkoe-Zeloe when in Russia. Usually incog, +in England, I reside in a cottage near Osborne. When at this side of the +Alps, wherever be the royal residence of the Sovereign in the city I +chance to be in.” He turned to retire, and then, suddenly wheeling round, +said, “Forward any letters that may come for me to my relative, who is now +at the Trombetta, Turin.” + </p> +<p> +“Your Excellency has forgotten to mention his name.” + </p> +<p> +“So I have,” said he, with a careless laugh. “It is somewhat new to me to +be in a town where I am unknown. Address my letters to the care of his +Highness the Duke of Lauenburg-Gluckstein;” and with a little gesture of +his hand to imply that he did not exact any royal honors at his departure, +he strutted out of the bank and down the street. +</p> +<p> +Few met or passed without turning to remark him, such was the contrast +between his stature and his gait; for while considerably below the middle +size, there was an insolent pretension in his swagger, a defiant +impertinence in the stare of his fiery eyes, that seemed to seek a quarrel +with each that looked at him. His was indeed that sense of overflowing +prosperity that, if it occasionally inclines the right-minded to a feeling +of gratitude and thankfulness, is just as certain to impel the men of a +different stamp to feats of aggressiveness and insolence. Such was indeed +his mood, and he would have hailed as the best boon of Fate the occasion +for a quarrel and a duel. +</p> +<p> +The contempt he felt for the busy world that moved by, too deep in its own +cares to interpret the defiance he threw around him, so elevated him that +he swaggered along as if the flagway were all his own. +</p> +<p> +Was he not triumphant? What had not gone well with him? Gold in his +pocket, success in a personal combat with a man so highly placed that it +was a distinction to him for life to have encountered; the very peremptory +order he received to quit Naples at once, was a recognition of his +importance that actually overwhelmed him with delight; and he saw in the +vista before him, the time when men would stop at the windows of +printshops to gaze on the features of “Le fameux M'Caskey.” + </p> +<p> +There was something glorious in his self-conceit, for there was nothing he +would not dare to achieve that estimation which he had already conceived +of his own abilities. At the time I now speak of, there was a momentary +lull in the storm of Italian politics caused by Count Cavour's crafty +negotiations with the Neapolitan Government,—negotiations solely +devised to induce that false sense of security which was to end in +downfall and ruin. Whether M'Caskey had any forebodings of what was to +come or not, he knew well that it was not the moment for men like himself +to be needed. “When the day of action comes, will come the question, +'Where is M'Caskey?' Meanwhile I will be off to Baden. I feel as though I +ought to break the bank.” + </p> +<p> +To Baden he went. How many are there who can recall that bustling, +pretentious, over-dressed little fellow, who astonished the pistol-gallery +by his shooting, and drove the poor <i>maître d'armes</i> to the verge of +despair by his skill with the rapier, and then swaggered into the +play-room to take the first chair he pleased, only too happy if he could +provoke any to resent it. How he frowned down the men and ogled the women; +smiling blandly at the beauties that passed, as though in recognition of +charms their owners might well feel proud of, for they had captivated a +M'Caskey! +</p> +<p> +How sumptuous, too, his dinner; how rare and curious his wines; how +obsequious were they who waited on him; what peril impended over the man +that asked to be served before him! +</p> +<p> +Strong men,—men in all the vigor of their youth and strength,—men +of honor and men of tried courage, passed and repassed, looked at, but +never dreamed of provoking him. Absurd as he was in dress, ridiculous in +his overweening pretension, not one ventured on the open sneer at what +each in his secret heart despised for its vulgar insolence. And what a +testimony to pluck was there in all this! for to what other quality in +such a man's nature had the world consented to have paid homage? +</p> +<p> +Not one of those who made way for him would have stooped to know him. +There was not a man of those who controlled his gravity to respect a +degree of absurdity actually laughable, who would have accepted his +acquaintance at any price; and yet, for all that, he moved amongst them +there, exacting every deference that was accorded to the highest, and +undeniably inferior to none about him. +</p> +<p> +What becomes of the cant that classes the courage of men with the +instincts of the lowest brutes in presence of a fact like this? or must we +not frankly own that in the respect paid to personal daring we read the +avowal that, however constituted men may be, courage is a quality that all +must reverence? +</p> +<p> +Not meeting with the resistance he had half hoped for, denied none of the +claims he preferred, M'Caskey became bland and courteous. He vouchsafed a +nod to the croupier at the play-table, and manifested, by a graceful +gesture as he took his seat, that the company need not rise as he deigned +to join them.. +</p> +<p> +In little more than a week after his arrival he had become famous; he was +splendid, too, in his largesses to waiters and lackeys; and it is a +problem that might be somewhat of a puzzle to resolve, how far the +sentiments of the very lowest class can permeate the rank above them, and +make themselves felt in the very highest; for this very estimation, thus +originating, grew at last to be at least partially entertained by others +of a very superior station. It was then that men discussed with each other +who was this strange Count,—of what nation? Five modern languages +had he been heard to talk in, without a flaw even of accent. What country +he served? Whence and what his resources? It was when newspaper +correspondents began vaguely to hint at an interesting stranger, whose +skill in every weapon was only equalled by his success at play, &c, +that he disappeared as suddenly as he had come, but not without leaving +ample matter for wonder in the telegraphic despatch he sent off a few +hours before starting, and which, in some form more or less garbled, was +currently talked of in society. It was addressed to M. Mocquard, +Tuileries, Paris, and in these words: “Tell E. I shall meet him at the +Compiègne on Saturday.” + </p> +<p> +Could anything be more delightfully intimate? While the crafty idlers of +Baden were puzzling their heads as to who he might be who could thus write +to an imperial secretary, the writer was travelling at all speed through +Switzerland, but so totally disguised in appearance that not even the eye +of a detective could have discovered in the dark-haired, black-bearded, +and sedate-looking Colonel Chamberlayne the fiery-faced and irascible +Count M'Caskey. +</p> +<p> +A very brief telegram in a cipher well known to him was the cause of his +sudden departure. It ran thus: “Wanted at Chambéry in all haste.” And at +Chambéry, at the Golden Lamb, did he arrive with a speed which few save +himself knew how to compass. Scarcely had he entered the arched doorway of +the inn, than a traveller, preceded by his luggage, met him. They bowed, +as people do who encounter in a passage, but without acquaintance; and yet +in that brief courtesy the stranger had time to slip a letter into +M'Cas-key's hand, who passed in with all the ease and unconcern +imaginable. Having ordered dinner, he went to his room to dress, and then, +locking his door, he read:— +</p> +<p> +“The Cabinet courier of the English Government will pass Chambéry on the +night of Saturday the 18th, or on the morning of Sunday the 19th. He will +be the bearer of three despatch-bags, two large and one small one, bearing +the letters F. O. and the number 18 on it. You are to possess yourself of +this, if possible—the larger bags are not required. If you succeed, +make for Naples by whatever route you deem best and speediest, bearing in +mind that the loss may possibly be known at Turin within a brief space. +</p> +<p> +“If the contents be as suspected, and all goes well, you are a made man. +</p> +<p> +“C. C.” + </p> +<p> +M'Caskey read this over three several times, dwelling each time on the +same places, and then he arose and walked leisurely up and down the room. +He then took out his guide-book and saw that a train started for St. Jean +de Maurienne at six, arriving at eight,—a short train, not in +correspondence with any other; and as the railroad ended there, the +remainder of the journey, including the passage of Mont Cenis, must be +performed by carriage. Of course, it was in this short interval the feat +must be accomplished, if at all. +</p> +<p> +The waiter announced “his Excellency's” dinner while he thus cogitated, +and he descended and dined heartily; he even ordered a bottle of very rare +chambertin, which stood at eighteen francs in the <i>carte</i>. He sipped +his wine at his ease; he had full an hour before the train started, and he +had time for reflection as well as enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +“You are to possess yourself of this,” muttered he, reading from a +turned-down part of the note. “Had you been writing to any other man in +Europe, Signor Conte Caffarelli, you would have been profuse enough of +your directions; you would have said, 'You are to shoot this fellow; you +are to waylay him; you are to have him attacked and come to his rescue,' +and a-score more of such-like contrivances; but—to me—to me—there +was none of this. It was just as Buonaparte said to Desaix at Marengo, +'Ride through the centre,'—he never added how. A made man! I should +think so! The man has been made some years since, sir. Another bottle, +waiter, and mind that it be not shaken. Who was it—I can't remember—stopped +a Russian courier with despatches for Constantinople? Ay, to be sure, it +was Long Wellesley; he told me the story himself. It was a clumsy trick, +too; he upset his sledge in the snow, and made off with the bags, and got +great credit for the feat at home.” + </p> +<p> +“The train will start in a quarter of an hour, sir,” said the waiter. +</p> +<p> +“Not if I am not ready, my good fellow,” said the Major,—“though now +I see nothing to detain me, and I will go.” + </p> +<p> +Alone in his first-class, he had leisure to think over his plans. Much +depended on who might be the courier. He knew most of them well, and +speculated on the peculiar traits of this or that. “If it be Bromley, he +will have his own <i>calèche</i>; Airlie will be for the cheap thing, and +take the diligence; and Poynder will be on the look-out for some one to +join him, and pay half the post-horses and all the postilions. There are +half a dozen more of these fellows on this 'dodge,' but I defy the +craftiest of them to know me now;” and he took out a little pocket-glass, +and gazed complacently at his features. “Colonel Moore Chamberlayne, +A.D.C., on his way to Corfu, with despatches for the Lord High +Commissioner. A very soldierlike fellow, too,” added he, arranging his +whiskers, “but, I shrewdly suspect, a bit of a Tartar. Yes, that's the +ticket,” added he, with a smile at his image in the glass,—“despatches +of great importance for Storks at Corfu.” + </p> +<p> +Arrived at St Jean, he learned that the mail train from France did not +arrive until 11.20, ample time for all his arrangements. He also learned +that the last English messenger had left his <i>calèche</i> at Susa, and, +except one light carriage with room for only two, there was nothing on +that side of the mountain but the diligence. This conveyance he at once +secured, ordering the postilion to be in the saddle and ready to start, if +necessary, when the mail train came in. “It is just possible,” said he, +“that the friend I am expecting may not arrive, in which case I shall +await the next train; but if he comes you must drive your best, my man, +for I shall want to catch the first train for Susa in the morning.” Saying +this, he retired to his room, where he had many things to do,—so +many, indeed, that he had but just completed them when the shriek of the +engine announced that the train was coming; the minute after, the long +line dashed into the station and came to a stand. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIV. THE MESSENGER'S FIRST JOURNEY +</h2> +<p> +As the train glided smoothly into the station, M'Caskey passed down the +platform, peering into each carriage as if in search of an unexpected +friend. “Not come,” muttered he, in a voice of displeasure, loud enough to +be heard by the solitary first-class passenger, who soon after emerged +with some enormous bags of white linen massively sealed, and bearing +addresses in parchment. +</p> +<p> +“I beg pardon,” said M'Caskey, approaching and touching his hat in salute. +“Are you with despatches?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said the other, in some astonishment at the question. +</p> +<p> +“Have you a bag for <i>me?</i>” and then suddenly correcting himself with +a little smile at the error of his supposing he must be universally known, +added, “I mean for the Hon. Colonel Chamberlayne.” + </p> +<p> +“I have nothing that is not addressed to a legation,” said the other, +trying to pass on. +</p> +<p> +“Strange! they said I should receive some further instructions by the +first messenger. Sorry to have detained you,—good-evening.” + </p> +<p> +The young man—for he was young—was already too deep in an +attempt to inquire in French after a carriage, to hear the last words, and +continued to ask various inattentive bystanders certain questions about a +<i>calèche</i> that ought to have been left by somebody in somebody's care +for the use of somebody else. +</p> +<p> +“Is it true, can you tell me?” said he, running after M'Caskey. “They say +that there is no conveyance here over the mountain except the diligence.” + </p> +<p> +“I believe it is quite true,” said the “Colonel,” gravely. +</p> +<p> +“And they say, too, that the diligence never, at this season, arrives in +time to catch the early train at—I forget the place.” + </p> +<p> +“At Susa?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, that's it.” + </p> +<p> +“They are perfectly correct in all that; and knowing it so well, and as my +despatches are urgent, I sent on my own light carriage here from Geneva.” + </p> +<p> +“And have you despatches too?” asked the other, whom we may as well +announce to the reader as Tony Butler. “Have you despatches too?” cried +he, in great delight at meeting something like a colleague. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; I take out orders for the Lord High Commissioner to Corfu. I am the +head of the Staff there.” + </p> +<p> +Tony bowed in recognition of the announced rank, and said quietly: “My +name is Butler. I am rather new to this sort of thing, and never crossed +the Alps in my life.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll give you a lift, then, for I have a spare place. My servant has +gone round with my heavy baggage by Trieste, and I have a seat to spare.” + </p> +<p> +“This is most kind of you, but I scarcely dare put you to such +inconvenience.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't talk of that. We are all in the same boat. It 's my luck to have +this offer to-day; it will be yours tomorrow. What 's your destination?” + </p> +<p> +“First Turin, then Naples; but I believe I shall have no delay at Turin, +and the Naples bags are the most urgent ones.” + </p> +<p> +“Is there anything going on down there, then?” asked M'Caskey, carelessly. +</p> +<p> +“I suspect there must be, for three of our fellows have been sent there,—I +am the fourth within a fortnight.” + </p> +<p> +“A country that never interested me. Take a cigar. Are you ready, or do +you want to eat something?” + </p> +<p> +“No, I am quite ready, and only anxious not to be late for this first +train. The fact is, it's all a new sort of life to me, and as I am a +wretchedly bad Frenchman, I don't get on too well.” + </p> +<p> +“The great secret is, be peremptory, never listen to excuses, tolerate no +explanations. That's my plan. I pay liberally, but I insist on having what +I want.” + </p> +<p> +They were now seated, and dashing along at all the speed and with all the +noise of four wiry posters, and M'Caskey went on to describe how, with +that system of united despotism and munificence, he had travelled over the +whole globe with success. As for the anecdotes he told, they embraced +every land and sea; and there was scarcely an event of momentous +importance of the last quarter of a century of which he had not some +curious private details. He was the first man to discover the plans of +Russia on the Pruth. It was he found out Louis Philippe's intrigue about +the Spanish marriages. “If you feel interest in this sort of thing,” said +he, carelessly, “just tell the fellows at home to show you the blue-book +with Chamberlayne's correspondence. It is private and confidential; but, +as a friend of mine, you can see it” And what generosity of character he +had! he had let Seymour carry off all the credit of that detection of +Russia. “To be sure,” added he, “one can't forget old times, and Seymour +was my fag at Eton.” It was he, too, counselled Lord Elgin to send off the +troops from China to Calcutta to assist in repressing the mutiny. “Elgin +hesitated; he could n't make up his mind; he thought this at one moment +and that the next; and he sent for me at last, and said, 'George, I want a +bit of advice from you.' 'I know what you mean,' said I, stopping him; +'send every man of them,—don't hold back a drummer.' I will say,” he +added, “he had the honesty to own from whom he got that counsel, and he +was greatly provoked when he found I could not be included in the vote of +thanks of the House. 'Confound their etiquette,' said he; 'it is due to +George, and he ought to have it.' You don't know why I 'm in such haste to +Corfu now?” + </p> +<p> +“I have not the faintest notion.” + </p> +<p> +“I will tell you: first, because a man can always trust a gentleman; +secondly, it will be matter of table-talk by the time you get back. The +Tories are in need of the Radicals, and to buy their support intend to +offer the throne of Greece, which will be vacant whenever we like, to +Richard Cobden.” + </p> +<p> +“How strange! and would he accept it?” + </p> +<p> +“Some say no; <i>I</i> say yes; and Louis Napoleon, who knows men +thoroughly, agrees with me. 'Mon cher Cham,'—he always called me +Cham,—'talk as people will, it is a very pleasant thing to sit on a +throne, and it goes far towards one's enjoyment of life to have so many +people employed all day long to make it agreeable.'” If Tony thought at +times that his friend was a little vainglorious, he ascribed it to the +fact that any man so intimate with the great people of the world, talking +of them as his ordinary every-day acquaintances, might reasonably appear +such to one as much removed from all such intercourse as he himself was. +That the man who could say, “Nesselrode, don't tell me,” or “Rechberg, my +good fellow, you are in error there!” should be now sitting beside him, +sharing his sandwich with him, and giving him to drink from his +sherry-flask; was not that glory enough to turn a stronger head than poor +Tony's? Ah, my good reader, I know well that <i>you</i> would not have +been caught by such blandishments. You have “seen men and cities.” You +have been at courts, dined beside royalties, and been smiled on by serene +highnesses; but Tony has not had your training; he has had none of these +experiences; he has heard of great names just as he has heard of great +victories. The illustrious people of the earth are no more within the +reach of his estimation than are the jewels of a Mogul's turban; but it is +all the more fascinating to him to sit beside one who “knows it all.” + </p> +<p> +Little wonder, then, if time sped rapidly, and that he never knew +weariness. Let him start what theme he might, speak of what land, what +event, what person he pleased, the Colonel was ready for him. It was +marvellous, indeed,—so very marvellous that to a suspicious mind it +might have occasioned distrust,—with how many great men he had been +at school, what shoals of distinguished fellows he had served with. With a +subtle flattery, too, he let drop the remark that he was not usually given +to be so frank and communicative. “The fact is,” said he, “young men are, +for the most part, bad listeners to the experiences of men of my age; they +fancy that they know life as well, if not better, than ourselves, and that +our views are those of 'bygones.' <i>You</i>, however, showed none of this +spirit; you were willing to hear and to learn from one of whom it would be +false modesty were I not to say, Few know more of men and their doings.” + </p> +<p> +Now Tony liked this appreciation of him, and he said to himself, “He <i>is</i> +a clever fellow,—not a doubt of it; he never saw me till this +evening, and yet he knows me thoroughly well.” Seeing how the Colonel had +met with everybody, he resolved he would get from him his opinion of some +of his own friends, and, to lead the way, asked if he was acquainted with +the members of the English Legation at Turin.' +</p> +<p> +“I know Bathurst,—we <i>were</i> intimate,” said he; “but we once +were in love with the same woman,—the mother of an empress she is +now,—and as I rather 'cut him out,' a coldness ensued, and somehow +we never resumed our old footing. As for Croker, the Secretary, it was I +got him that place.” + </p> +<p> +“And Damer,—Skeff Damer,—do you know him?” + </p> +<p> +“I should think I do. I was his godfather.” + </p> +<p> +“He's the greatest friend I have in the world!” cried Tony, in ecstasy at +this happy accident. +</p> +<p> +“I made him drop Chamberlayne. It was his second name, and I was vain +enough to be annoyed that it was not his first. Is he here now?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, he is attached to the Legation, and sometimes here, sometimes at +Naples.” + </p> +<p> +“Then we 'll make him give us a dinner to-day, for I shall refuse +Bathurst: he is sure to ask me; but you will tell Darner that we are both +engaged to <i>him</i>.” + </p> +<p> +Tony only needed to learn the tie that bound his newly made acquaintance +with his dearest friend, to launch freely out about himself and his new +fortunes; he told all about the hard usage his father had met with,—the +services he had rendered his country in India and elsewhere, and the +ungenerous requital he had met for them all. “That is why you see me here +a messenger, instead of being a soldier, like all my family for seven +generations back. I won't say I like it,—that would n't be true; but +I do it because it happens to be one of the few things I <i>can</i> do.” + </p> +<p> +“That's a mistake, sir,” said the Colonel, fiercely; “a mistake thousands +fall into every day. A man can make of life whatever he likes, if only—mark +me well—if only his will be strong enough.” + </p> +<p> +“If wishing would do it—” + </p> +<p> +“Hold! I'm not talking of wishing; schoolboys wish, pale-cheeked freshmen +at college, goggle-eyed ensigns in marching regiments wish. Men, real men, +do not wish; they will,—that's all the difference. Strong men make a +promise to themselves early in life, and they feel it a point of honor to +keep it. As Rose said one day in the club at Calcutta, speaking of me, 'He +has got the Bath, just because he said he would get it.'” + </p> +<p> +“The theory is a very pleasant one.” + </p> +<p> +“You can make the practice just as pleasant, if you like it. Whenever you +take your next leave,—they give you leave, don't they?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, three months; we might have more, I believe, if we asked for it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, come and spend your next leave with me at Corfu. You shall have +some good shooting over in Albania, plenty of mess society, pleasant +yachting, and you 'll like our old Lord High; he's stiff and cold at +first, but, introduced by me, you 'll be at once amongst the 'most favored +nations.'” + </p> +<p> +“I can't thank you enough for so kind a proposal,” began Tony; but the +other stopped him with, “Don't thank me, but help me to take care of this +bag. It contains the whole fate of the Levant in its inside. Those sacks +of yours,—I suppose you know what they have for contents?” + </p> +<p> +“No; I have no idea what's in them.” + </p> +<p> +“Old blue-books and newspapers, nothing else; they 're all make-believes,—a +farce to keep up the notion that great activity prevails at the Foreign +Office, and to fill up that paragraph in the newspapers, 'Despatches were +yesterday sent off to the Lord High Commissioner of the Bahamas,' or 'Her +Majesty's Minister at Otaheite.' Here we are at the rail now,—that's +Susa. Be alive, for I see the smoke, and the steam must be up.” + </p> +<p> +They were just in time; the train was actually in motion when they got in, +and, as the Colonel, who kept up a rapid conversation with the +station-master, informed Tony, nothing would have induced them to delay +but having seen himself. “They knew me,” said he; “they remembered my +coming down here last autumn with the Prince de Carignan and Cavour.” And +once more had Tony to thank his stars for having fallen into such +companionship. +</p> +<p> +As they glided along towards Turin, the Colonel told Tony that if he found +the “Weazle” gunboat at Genoa, as he expected, waiting for him, he would +set him, Tony, and his despatches, down safely at Naples, as he passed on +to Malta. “If it 's the 'Growler,'” said he, “I 'll not promise you, +because Hurton the commander is not in good-humor with me. I refused to +recommend him the other day to the First Lord for promotion—say +nothing about this to the fellows at the Legation; indeed, don't mention +anything about me, except to Damer—for the dinner, you know.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose I ought to go straight to the Legation at once?” said Tony, as +they entered Turin; “my orders are to deliver the bags before anything +else.” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly; let us drive there straight,—there's nothing like doing +things regularly; I 'm a martinet about all duty;” and so they drove to +the Legation, where Tony, throwing one large sack to the porter, +shouldered the other himself, and passed in. +</p> +<p> +“Holloa!” cried the Colonel; “I 'll give you ten minutes, and if you 're +not down by that time, I 'll go off and order breakfast at the inn.” + </p> +<p> +“All right,” said Tony; “this fellow says that Darner is at Naples.” + </p> +<p> +“I knew that,” muttered the Colonel to himself; and then added aloud, “Be +alive and come down as quick as you can,”—he looked at his watch as +he spoke; it wanted five minutes to eight,—“at five minutes past +eight the train should start for Genoa.” + </p> +<p> +He seized the small despatch-bag in his hand, and, telling the cabman to +drive to the Hotel Feder and wait for him there, he made straight for the +railroad. He was just in the nick; and while Tony was impatiently pacing +an anteroom of the Legation, the other was already some miles on the way +to Genoa. +</p> +<p> +At last a very sleepy-looking attaché, in a dressing-gown and slippers, +made his appearance. “Nothing but these?” said he, yawning and pointing to +the great sacks. +</p> +<p> +“No; nothing else for Turin.” + </p> +<p> +“Then why the——did you knock me up,—when it's only a +shower-bath and Greydon's boot-trees?” + </p> +<p> +“How the——did I know what was in them?” said +</p> +<p> +Tony, as angrily. +</p> +<p> +“You must be precious green, then. When were you made?” + </p> +<p> +“When was I made?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; when were you named a messenger?” + </p> +<p> +“Some time in spring.” + </p> +<p> +“I thought you must be an infant, or you 'd know that it's only the small +bags are of any consequence.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you anything more to say? I want to get a bath and my breakfast” + </p> +<p> +“I 've a lot more to say, and I shall have to tell Sir Joseph you 're +here! and I shall have to sign your time bill, and to see if we have n't +got something for Naples. You 're for Naples, ain't you? And I want to +send Darner some cigars and a pot of caviare that's been here these two +months, and that he must have smelled from Naples.” + </p> +<p> +“Then be hasty, for heaven's sake, for I'm starving.” + </p> +<p> +“You're starving! How strange, and it's only eight o'clock! Why, we don't +breakfast here till one, and I rarely eat anything.” + </p> +<p> +“So much the worse for you,” said Tony, gruffly. “My appetite is +excellent, if I only had a chance to gratify it.” + </p> +<p> +“What's the news in town,—is there anything stirring?” + </p> +<p> +“Not that <i>I</i> know.” + </p> +<p> +“Has Lumley engaged Teresina again?” + </p> +<p> +“Never heard of her.” + </p> +<p> +“He ought; tell him <i>I</i> said so. She's fifty times better than La +Gradina. Our <i>chef</i> here,” added he, in a whisper, “says she has +better legs than Pochini.” + </p> +<p> +“I am charmed to hear it. Would you just tell him that mine are getting +very tired here?” + </p> +<p> +“Will Lawson pay that handicap to George Hobart?” + </p> +<p> +Tony shook his head to imply total ignorance of all concerned. +</p> +<p> +“He needn't, you know; at least, Saville Harris refused to book up to +Whitemare on exactly the same grounds. It was just this way: here was the +winning-post—no, here; that seal there was the grand stand; when the +mare came up, she was second. I don't think you care for racing, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“A steeple-chase; yes, particularly when I'm a rider. But what I care most +for just now is a plunge into cold water and a good breakfast.” + </p> +<p> +There was something actually touching in the commiserating look the +attaché gave Tony as he turned away and left the room. What was the public +service to come to if these were the fellows to be named as messengers? +</p> +<p> +In a very few minutes he was back again in the room. “Where's Naples?” + asked he, curtly. +</p> +<p> +“Where's Naples? Where it always was, I suppose,” said Tony, doggedly,—“in +the Gulf of that name.” + </p> +<p> +“I mean the bag,—the Naples bag: it is under flying seal, and Sir +Joseph wants to see the despatches.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, that is below in the cab. I 'll go down and fetch it;” and without +waiting for more, he hastened downstairs. The cab was gone. “Naturally +enough,” thought Tony, “he got tired waiting; he's off to order +breakfast.” + </p> +<p> +He hurried upstairs again to report that a friend with whom he travelled +had just driven away to the hotel with all the baggage. +</p> +<p> +“And the bags?” cried the other, in a sort of horror. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, the bags, of course; but I 'll go after him. What 's the chief hotel +called?” + </p> +<p> +“The Trombetta.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think that was the name.” + </p> +<p> +“The Czar de Russie?” + </p> +<p> +“No, nor that” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps Feder?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, that's it. Just send some one to show me the way, and I 'll be back +immediately. I suspect my unlucky breakfast must be prorogued to +luncheon-time.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it!” cried a fine, fresh-looking, handsome man, who entered +the room with a riding-whip in his hand; “come in and take share of mine.” + </p> +<p> +“He has to go over to Feder's for the bags, Sir Joseph,” whispered the +attaché, submissively. +</p> +<p> +“Send the porter,—send Jasper,—send any one you like. Come +along,” said he, drawing his arm within Tony's. “You 've not been in Italy +before, and your first impression ought to be favorable; so I 'll +introduce you to a Mont Cenis trout.” + </p> +<p> +“And I 'll profit by the acquaintance,” said Tony. “I have the appetite of +a wolf.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLV. A SHOCK FOR TONY +</h2> +<p> +If Tony Butler took no note of time as he sat at breakfast with Sir +Joseph, he was only sharing the fortune of every man who ever found +himself in that companionship. From one end of Europe to the other his +equal could not be found. It was not alone that he had stores of +conversation for the highest capacities and the most cultivated minds, but +he possessed that thorough knowledge of life so interesting to men of the +world, and with it that insight into character which is so often the key +to the mystery of statecraft; and with all these he had a geniality and a +winning, grace of look, voice, and demeanor that sent one from his +presence with the thought that if the world could but compass a few more +like him, one would not change the planet for the brightest in the +firmament. Breakfast over, they smoked; then they had a game at billiards; +after that they strolled into the garden, and had some pistol-firing. Here +Tony acquitted himself creditably, and rose in his host's esteem; for the +minister liked a man who could do anything—no matter what—very +well. Tony, too, gained on him. His own fine joyous nature understood at +once the high-hearted spirit of a young fellow who bad no affectations +about him, thoroughly at his ease without presumption; and yet, through +that gentleman element so strong in him, never transgressing the limits of +a freedom so handsomely accorded him. +</p> +<p> +While the hours rolled over thus delightfully, a messenger returned to say +that he had been at each of the great hotels, but could find no trace of +Colonel Chamberlayne, nor of the missing bags. +</p> +<p> +“Send Moorcap,” said the minister. Moorcap was away two hours, and came +back with the same story. +</p> +<p> +“I suspect how it is,” said Tony. “Chamberlayne has been obliged to start +suddenly, and has carried off my bags with his own; but when he discovers +his mistake, he 'll drop them at Naples.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Joseph smiled,—perhaps he did not think the explanation very +satisfactory; and perhaps,—who knows?—but he thought that the +loss of a despatch-bag was not amongst the heaviest of human calamities. +“At all events,” he said, “we'll give you an early dinner, Butler, and you +can start by the late train to Genoa, and catch the morning steamer to +Naples.” + </p> +<p> +Tony asked no better; and I am afraid to have to confess that he engaged +at a game of “pool” with all the zest of one who carried no weighty care +on his breast. +</p> +<p> +When the time for leave-taking came, Sir Joseph shook his hand with +cordial warmth, telling him to be sure to dine with him as he came through +Turin. “Hang up your hat here, Butler; and if I should be from home, tell +them that you are come to dinner.” + </p> +<p> +Very simple words these. They cost little to him who spoke them, but what +a joy and happiness to poor Tony! Oh, ye gentlemen of high place and +station, if you but knew how your slightest words of kindness—your +two or three syllables of encouragement—give warmth and glow and +vigor to many a poor wayfarer on life's high-road, imparting a sense not +alone of hope, but of self-esteem, to a nature too distrustful of itself, +mayhap you might be less chary of that which, costing you so little, is +wealth unspeakable to him it is bestowed upon. Tony went on his way +rejoicing; he left that threshold, as many others had left it, thinking +far better of the world and its people, and without knowing it, very proud +of the notice of one whose favor he felt to be fame. “Ah,” thought he, “if +Alice had but heard how that great man spoke to me,—if Alice only +saw how familiarly he treated me,—it might show her, perhaps, that +others at least can see in me some qualities not altogether hopeless.” + </p> +<p> +If, now and then, some thought of that “unlucky bag”—so he called it +to himself—would invade, he dismissed it speedily, with the +assurance that it had already safely reached its destination, and that the +Colonel and Skeffy had doubtless indulged in many a hearty laugh over his +embarrassment at its loss. “If they knew but all,” muttered he; “I take it +very coolly. I 'm not breaking my heart over the disaster.” And so far he +was right,—not, however, from the philosophical indifference that he +imagined, but simply because he never believed in the calamity, nor had +realized it to himself. +</p> +<p> +When he landed at Naples, he drove off at once to the lodgings of his +friend Darner, which, though at a considerable height from the ground, in +a house of the St. Lucia Quarter, he found were dignified with the title +of British Legation; a written notice on the door informed all the readers +that “H. R. M.'s Chargé d'Affaires transacted business from twelve to four +every day.” It was two o'clock when Tony arrived, and, notwithstanding the +aforesaid announcement, he had to ring three times before the door was +opened. At length a sleepy-looking valet appeared to say that “His +Excellency”—he styled him so—was in his bath, and could not be +seen in less than an hour. Tony sent in his name, and speedily received +for answer that he would find a letter addressed to him in the rack over +the chimney, and Mr. Darner would be dressed and with him by the time he +had read it. +</p> +<p> +Poor Tony's eyes swam with tears as he saw his mother's handwriting, and +he tore open the sheet with hot impatience. It was very short, as were all +her letters, and so we give it entire:— +</p> +<p> +“My own darling Tony,—Your beautiful present reached me yesterday, +and what shall I say to my poor reckless boy for such an act of +extravagance? Surely, Tony, it was made for a queen, and not for a poor +widow that sits the day long mending her stockings at the window. But +ain't I proud of it, and of him that sent it! Heaven knows what it has +cost you, my dear boy, for even the carriage here from London, by the +Royal Parcel Company, Limited, came to thirty-two and fourpence. Why they +call themselves 'Limited' after that, is clean beyond my comprehension. +[If Tony smiled here, it was with a hot and flushed cheek, for he had +forgotten to prepay the whole carriage, and he was vexed at his +thoughtlessness.] +</p> +<p> +“As to my wearing it going to meeting, as you say, it's quite impossible. +The thought of its getting wet would be a snare to take my mind off the +blessed words of the minister; and I 'm not sure, my dear Tony, that any +congregation could sit profitably within sight of what—not knowing +the love that sent it—would seem like a temptation and a vanity +before men. Sables, indeed, real Russian sables, appear a strange covering +for these old shoulders. +</p> +<p> +“It was about two hours after it came that Mrs. Trafford called in to see +me, and Jeanie would have it that I'd go into the room with my grand new +cloak on me; and sure enough I did, Tony, trying all the while not to seem +as if it was anything strange or uncommon, but just the sort of wrapper I +'d throw round me of a cold morning. But it would n't do, my dear Tony. I +was half afraid to sit down on it, and I kept turning out the purple-satin +lining so often that Mrs. Trafford said at last, 'Will you forgive my +admiration of your cloak, Mrs. Butler, but I never saw one so beautiful +before;' and then I told her who it was that sent it; and she got very red +and then very pale, and then walked to the window, and said something +about a shower that was threatening; though, sooth to say, Tony, the only +threat of rain I could see was in her own blue eyes. But she turned about +gayly and said, 'We are going away, Mrs. Butler,—going abroad;' and +before I could ask why or where, she told me in a hurried sort of way that +her sister Isabella had been ordered to pass a winter in some warm +climate, and that they were going to try Italy. She said it all in a +strange quick voice, as if she did n't like to talk of it, and wanted it +over; but she grew quite herself again when she said that the gardener +would take care that my flowers came regularly, and that Sir Arthur and +Lady Lyle would be more than gratified if I would send up for anything I +liked out of the garden. 'Don't forget that the melons were all of Tony's +sowing, Mrs. Butler,' said she, smiling; and I could have kissed her for +the way she said it. +</p> +<p> +“There were many other kind things she said, and in a way, too, that made +them more than kind; so that when she went away, I sat thinking if it was +not a temptation to meet a nature like hers,—so sweet, so lovely, +and yet so worldly; for in all she spoke, Tony, there was never a word +dropped of what sinful creatures we are, and what a thorny path it is that +leads us to the better life before us. +</p> +<p> +“I was full of her visit, and everything she said, when Dr. Stewart +dropped in to say that they had been down again at the Burnside to try and +get him to let Dolly go abroad with them. 'I never liked the notion, Mrs. +Butler,' he said; 'but I was swayed here and swayed there by my thoughts +for the lass, what was best for her body's health, and that other health +that is of far more value; when there came a letter to me,—it was +anonymous,—saying, “Before you suffer your good and virtuous +daughter to go away to a foreign land, just ask the lady that is to +protect her if she still keeps up the habit of moonlight walks in a garden +with a gentleman for her companion, and if that be the sort of teaching +she means to inculcate.” Mrs. Trafford came to the door as I was reading +the letter, and I said, “What can you make of such a letter as this?” and +as she read it her cheek grew purple, and she said, “There is an end of +our proposal, Dr. Stewart. Tell your daughter I shall importune her no +more; but this letter I mean to keep: it is in a hand I know well.” And +she went back to the carriage without another word; and tomorrow they +leave the Abbey, some say not to come back again.' +</p> +<p> +“I cried the night through after the doctor went away, for what a world it +is of sin and misery; not that I will believe wrong of her, sweet and +beautiful as she is, but what for was she angry? and why did she show that +this letter could give her such pain? And now, my dear Tony, since it +could be no other than yourself she walked alone with, is it not your duty +to write to the doctor and tell him so? The pure heart fears not the +light, neither are the good of conscience afraid. That she is above your +hope is no reason that she is above your love. That I was your father's +wife may show that Above all, Tony, think that a Gospel minister should +not harbor an evil thought of one who does not deserve it, and whose +mightiest sin is perchance the pride that scorns a self-defence. +</p> +<p> +“The poor doctor is greatly afflicted: he is sorry now that he showed the +letter, and Dolly cries over it night and day. +</p> +<p> +“Is it not a strange thing that Captain Graham's daughters, that never +were used to come here, are calling at the Burnside two or three times a +week? +</p> +<p> +“Write to me, my dear Tony, and if you think well of what I said, write to +the doctor also, and believe me your ever loving mother, +</p> +<p> +“Eleanor Butler. +</p> +<p> +“Dolly Stewart has recovered her health again, but not her spirits. She +rarely comes to see me, but I half suspect that her reason is her dislike +to show me the depression that is weighing over her. So is it, dear Tony, +go where you will; there is no heart without its weary load, no spirit +without that touch of sorrow that should teach submission. Reflect well +over this, dear boy; and never forget that though at times we put off our +troubles as a wayfarer lays down his pack, we must just strap on the load +again when we take to the road, for it is a burden we have to bear to the +journey's end.” + </p> +<p> +Not all the moral reflections of this note saved it from being crushed +passionately in his hand as he finished reading it. That walk, that +moonlight walk, with whom could it have been? with whom but Maitland? And +it was by her—by her that his whole heart was filled,—her +image, her voice, her gait, her smile, her faintest whisper, that made up +the world in which he lived. Who could love her as <i>he</i> did? Others +would have their hopes and ambitions, their dreams of worldly success, and +such like; but he,—he asked none of these; <i>her</i> heart was all +he strove for. With her he would meet any fortune. He knew she was above +him in every way,—as much by every gift and grace as by every +accident of station; but what did that signify? The ardor of his love +glowed only the stronger for the difficulty,—just as his courage +would have mounted the higher, the more hazardous the feat that dared it. +These were his reasonings,—or rather some shadowy shapes of these +flitted through his mind. +</p> +<p> +And was it now all over? Was the star that had guided him so long to be +eclipsed from him? Was he never again to ask himself in a moment of +difficulty or doubt, What will Alice say?—what will Alice think? As +for the scandalous tongues that dared to asperse her, he scorned them; and +he was indignant with the old minister for not making that very letter +itself the reason of accepting a proposal he had been until then averse +to. He should have said, “<i>Now</i> there can be no hesitation,—Dolly +must go with you <i>now</i>.” It was just as his musings got thus far that +Skeffy rushed into the room and seized him by both hands. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't I glad to see your great sulky face again? Sit down and tell me +everything—how you came—when——how long you 're to +stay—and what brought you here.” + </p> +<p> +“I came with despatches,—that is, I ought to have had them.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean that some of the bags I left at Tarin; and one small fellow, which +I take to have been the cream of the correspondence, Chamberlayne carried +on here,—at least I hope so. Have n't you got it?” + </p> +<p> +“What infernal muddle are your brains in? Who is Chamberlayne?” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Skeffy, I 'm not in a joking mood;” and he glanced at the +letter in his hand as he spoke. “Don't worry me, old fellow, but say that +you have got the bag all right.” + </p> +<p> +“But I have not, I never saw it,—never heard of it.” + </p> +<p> +“And has the Colonel not been here?” + </p> +<p> +“Who is the Colonel?” + </p> +<p> +“Chamberlayne.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is Chamberlayne.” + </p> +<p> +“That <i>is</i> cool, certainly; I think a man might acknowledge his +godfather.” + </p> +<p> +“Whose godfather is he?” + </p> +<p> +“Yours,—your own. Perhaps you 'll deny that you were christened +after him, and called Chamberlayne?” + </p> +<p> +Skeffy threw up his embroidered cap in the air at these words, and, +flinging himself on a sofa, actually screamed with laughter. “Tony,” cried +he at last, “this will immortalize you. Of all the exploits performed by +messengers, this one takes the van.” + </p> +<p> +“Look here, Damer,” said Tony, sternly; “I have told you already I 'm in +no laughing humor. I 've had enough here to take the jollity out of me”—and +he shook the letter in his hand—“for many a day to come; so that +whatever you have to say to me, bear in mind that you say it to one little +disposed to good-humor. Is it true that you have not received these +despatches?” + </p> +<p> +“Perfectly true.” + </p> +<p> +“Then how are we to trace him? His name is Colonel Moore Chamberlayne, +aide-de-camp to the Lord High Commissioner, Corfu.” + </p> +<p> +Skeffy bit his lip, and by a great effort succeeded in repressing the +rising temptation to another scream of laughter, and, taking down a bulky +red-covered volume from a shelf, began to turn over its pages. “There,” + said he at last,—“there is the Whole staff at Corfu: Hailes, +Winchester, Corbett, and Ainslie. No Chamberlayne amongst them.” + </p> +<p> +Tony stared at the page in hopeless bewilderment. “What do you know of +him? Who introduced you to each other? Where did you meet?” asked Skeffy. +</p> +<p> +“We met at the foot of the Mont Cenis, where, seeing that I had +despatches, and no means to get forward, he offered me a seat in his +calèche. I accepted gladly, and we got on capitally; he was immense fun; +he knew everybody, and had been everywhere; and when he told me that he +was your godfather—” + </p> +<p> +“Stop, stop! for the love of Heaven, will you stop, or you 'll kill me!” + cried Skeffy; and, throwing himself on his back on the sofa, he flung his +legs into the air, and yelled aloud with laughter. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know, Master Darner, I'm sorely tempted to pitch you neck and crop +out of the window?” said Tony, savagely. +</p> +<p> +“Do so, do so, by all means, if you like; only let me have my laugh out, +or I shall burst a blood-vessel.” + </p> +<p> +Tony made no reply, but walked up and down the room with his brow bent and +his arms folded. +</p> +<p> +“And then?” cried Skeff,—“and then? What came next?” + </p> +<p> +“It is your opinion, then,” said Tony, sternly, “that this fellow was a +swindler, and not on the Staff at all?” + </p> +<p> +“No more than he was my godfather!” cried Darner, wiping his eyes. +</p> +<p> +“And that the whole was a planned scheme to get hold of the despatches?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course. Filangieri knows well that we are waiting for important +instructions here. There is not a man calls here who is not duly reported +to him by his secret police.” + </p> +<p> +“And why did n't Sir Joseph think of that when I told him what had +happened? All he said was, 'Be of good cheer, Butler; the world will go +round even after the loss of a despatch-bag.'” + </p> +<p> +“So like him,” said Skeffy; “the levity of that man is the ruin of him. +They all say so at the Office.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know what they say at the Office; but I can declare that so +perfect a gentleman and so fine a fellow I never met before.” + </p> +<p> +Skeffy turned to the glass over the chimney, smoothed his moustaches, and +pointed their tips most artistically, smiling gracefully at himself, and +seeming to say, “You and I, if we were not too modest, could tell of some +one fully his equal.” + </p> +<p> +“And what's to be done,—what's to come of this?” asked Tony, after a +short silence. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll have to report you, Master Tony. I 'll have to write home: 'My +Lord,—The messenger Butler arrived here this morning to say that he +confided your Lordship's despatches and private instructions to a most +agreeable gentleman, whose acquaintance he made at St. Jean de Maurienne; +and that the fascinating stranger, having apparently not mastered their +contents up to the present—'” + </p> +<p> +“Go to the———” + </p> +<p> +“No, Tony, I shall not; but I think it not at all improbable that such +will be the destination his Lordship will assign assistant-messenger +Butler. The fact is, my boy, your career in our department is ended.” + </p> +<p> +“With all my heart! Except for that fine fellow I saw at Turin, I think I +never met such a set of narrow-minded snobs.” + </p> +<p> +“Tony, Tony,” said the other, “when Moses, in the 'Vicar of Wakefield,'—and +I take it he is more familiar to you than the other of that name,—was +'done' by the speculator in green spectacles, he never inveighed against +those who had unfortunately confided their interests to his charge. Now, +as to our department—” + </p> +<p> +“Confound the department! I wish I had never heard of it. You say it's all +up with me, and of course I suppose it is; and, to tell you the truth, +Skeffy, I don't think it signifies a great deal just now, except for that +poor mother of mine.” Here he turned away, and wiped his eyes hurriedly. +“I take it that all mothers make the same sort of blunder, and never will +believe that they can have a blockhead for a son till the world has set +its seal on him.” + </p> +<p> +“Take a weed, and listen to me,” said Skeffy, dictatorially, and he threw +his cigar-case across the table, as he spoke. “You have contrived to make +as bad a <i>début</i> in your career as is well possible to conceive.” + </p> +<p> +“What's the use of telling me that? In your confounded passion for hearing +yourself talk, you forget that it is not so pleasant for me to listen.” + </p> +<p> +“Prisoner at the bar,” continued Skeffy, “you have been convicted—you +stand, indeed, self-convicted—of an act which, as we regard it, is +one of gross ignorance, of incredible folly, or of inconceivable +stupidity,—places you in a position to excite the pity of +compassionate men, the scorn of those severer moralists who accept not the +extenuating circumstances of youth, unacquaintance with life, and a +credulity that approaches childlike—” + </p> +<p> +“You 're a confounded fool, Skeffy, to go on in this fashion when a fellow +is in such a fix as I am, not to speak of other things that are harder to +bear. It's a mere toss-up whether he laughs at your nonsense or pitches +you over the banisters. I've been within an ace of one and the other three +times in the last five minutes; and now all my leaning is towards the last +of the two.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't yield to it, then, Tony. Don't, I warn you.” + </p> +<p> +“And why?” + </p> +<p> +“Because you 'd never forgive yourself, not alone for having injured a +true and faithful friend, but for the far higher and more irreparable loss +in having cut short the career of a man destined to be a light to Europe. +I say it in no vanity,—no boastfuluess. No, on my honor! if I could—if +the choice were fairly given to me, I 'd rather not be a man of mark and +eminence. I 'd rather be a commonplace, tenth-rate sort of dog like +yourself.” + </p> +<p> +The unaffected honesty with which he said this did for Tony what no +cajolery nor flattery could have accomplished, and set him off into a roar +of laughter that conquered all his spleen and ill-humor. +</p> +<p> +“Your laugh, like the laugh of the foolish, is ill-timed. You cannot see +that you were introduced, not to be stigmatized, but to point a moral. You +fancy yourself a creature,—you are a category; you imagine you are +an individuality,—you are not; you are a fragment rent from a +primeval rock.” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I ought to be as insensible as a stone to stand you. But stop +all this, I say, and listen to me. I 'm not much up to writing,—but +you 'll help me, I know; and what I want said is simply this: 'I have been +tricked out of one of the bags by a rascal that if ever I lay hands on I +'ll bring bodily before the Office at home, and make him confess the whole +scheme; and I 'll either break his neck afterwards, or leave him to the +law, as the Secretary of State may desire.'” + </p> +<p> +Now, poor Tony delivered this with a tone and manner that implied he +thought he was dictating a very telling and able despatch. “I suppose,” + added he, “I am to say that I now resign my post, and I wish the devil had +me when I accepted it.” + </p> +<p> +“Not civil, certainly, to the man who gave you the appointment, Tony. +Besides, when a man resigns, he has to wait for the acceptance of his +resignation.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, as for that, there need be no ceremony. They'll be even better +pleased to get rid of me than I to go. They got a bad bargain; and, to do +them justice, they seemed to have guessed as much from the first.” + </p> +<p> +“And then, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll go to sea,—I 'll go before the mast; there must be many a +vessel here wants a hand, and in a few weeks' practice I'll master the +whole thing; my old yachting experiences have done that for me.” + </p> +<p> +“My poor Tony,” said Skeffy, rising and throwing his arms round him, “I'll +not listen to it. What! when you have a home here with me, are you to go +off and brave hardship and misery and degradation?” + </p> +<p> +“There's not one of the three,—I deny it. Coarse food and hard work +are no misery; and I 'll be hanged if there's any degradation in earning +one's bread with his hands when his head is not equal to it.” + </p> +<p> +“I tell you I 'll not suffer it. If you drive me to it, I 'll prevent it +by force. I am her Majesty's Charge d'Affaires. I 'll order the consul to +enroll you at his peril,—I 'll imprison the captain that takes you,—I +'ll detain the ship, and put the crew in irons.” + </p> +<p> +“Before you do half of it, let me have some dinner,” said Tony, laughing, +“for I came on shore very hungry, and have eaten nothing since.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll take you to my favorite restaurant, and you shall have a regular +Neapolitan banquet, washed down by some old Capri. There, spell out that +newspaper till I dress and if any one rings in the mean while, say his +Excellency has just been sent for to Caserta by the King, and will not be +back before to-morrow.” As he reached the door he put his head in again, +and said, “Unless, perchance, it should be my godfather, when, of course, +you 'll keep him for dinner.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVI. “THE BAG NO. 18” + </h2> +<p> +Almost overlooking the terraced garden where Damer and Tony dined, and +where they sat smoking till a late hour of the night, stood a large +palace, whose vast proportions and spacious entrance, as well as an +emblazoned shield over the door, proclaimed it to belong to the +Government. It was the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; and here, now, in a +room projecting over the street beneath, and supported on arches, sat the +Minister himself, with our two acquaintances, Mait-land and Caffarelli. +</p> +<p> +Maitland was still an invalid, and rested on a sofa, but he had recovered +much of his former looks and manner, though he was dressed with less care +than was his wont. +</p> +<p> +The Minister—a very tall thin man, stooped in the shoulders, and +with a quantity of almost white gray hair streaming on his neck and +shoulders—walked continually up and down the room, commenting and +questioning at times, as Maitland read forth from a mass of documents +which littered the table, and with which Caffarelli supplied him, breaking +the seals and tearing open the envelopes before he gave them to his hand. +</p> +<p> +Though Maitland read with ease, there was yet that half-hesitation in the +choice of a word, as he went on, that showed he was translating; and +indeed once or twice the Prince-Minister stopped to ask if he had rightly +imparted all the intended force to a particular expression. +</p> +<p> +A white canvas bag, marked “F. O., No. 18,” lay on the table; and it was +of that same bag and its possible fortunes two others, not fully one +hundred yards off, were then talking: so is it that in life we are often +so near to, and so remote from, the inanimate object around which our +thoughts and hopes, and sometimes our very destinies, revolve. +</p> +<p> +“I am afraid,” said the Prince, at last, “that we have got nothing here +but the formal despatches, of which Ludolf has sent us copies already. Are +there no 'Private and Confidential'?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, here is one for Sir Joseph Trevor himself,” said Caffarelli, handing +a square-shaped letter to Maitland. Maitland glanced hurriedly over it, +and muttered: “London gossip, Craddock's divorce case, the +partridge-shooting,—ah, here it is! 'I suppose you are right about +the expedition, but say nothing of it in the despatches. We shall be +called on one of these days for a blue-book, and very blue we should look, +if it were seen that amidst our wise counsels to Caraffa we were secretly +aware of what G. was preparing.'” + </p> +<p> +“It must be 'C. was preparing,'” broke in Caraffa; “it means Cavour.” + </p> +<p> +“No; he speaks of Garibaldi,” said Maitland. +</p> +<p> +“Garibaldi!” cried Caraffa, laughing. “And are there still <i>gobemouches</i> +in England who believe in the Filibuster?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe in him, for one,” said Maitland, fiercely, for the phrase +irritated him; “and I say, too, that such a Filibuster on our side would +be worth thirty thousand of those great hulking grenadiers you passed in +review this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't tell the King so when you wait on him to-morrow, that's all!” said +the Minister, with a sneering smile. +</p> +<p> +“Read on,” broke in Caffarelli, who was not at all sure what the +discussion might lead to. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps, too, you would class Count Cavour amongst these <i>gobemouches</i>,” + said Maitland, angrily; “for he is also a believer in Garibaldi.” + </p> +<p> +“We can resume this conversation at Caserta to-morrow before his Majesty,” + said Caraffa, with the same mocking smile; “pray, now, let me hear the +remainder of that despatch.” + </p> +<p> +“'It is not easy to say,'” read he aloud from the letter, “'what France +intends or wishes. C. says—'” + </p> +<p> +“Who is C.?” asked Caraffa, hastily. +</p> +<p> +“C. means Cowley, probably,—'that the Emperor would not willingly +see Piedmontese troops at Naples; nor is he prepared to witness a new map +of the Peninsula. We, of course, will do nothing either way—'” + </p> +<p> +“Read that again,” broke in Caraffa. +</p> +<p> +“'We, of course, will do nothing either way; but that resolve is not to +prevent your tendering counsel with a high hand, all the more since the +events which the next few months will develop will all of them seem of our +provoking, and part and parcel of a matured and long meditated policy.'” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Bentssimo!</i>” cried the minister, rubbing his hands in delight. “If +we reform, it is the Whigs have reformed us. If we fall, it is the Whigs +have crushed us.” + </p> +<p> +“'Caraffa, we are told,'” continued Maitland, “'sees the danger, but is +outvoted by the Queen-Dowager's party in the Cabinet,—not to say +that, from his great intimacy with Pietri, many think him more of a +Muratist than a Bourbon.'” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco!</i> when your countryman tries to be acute, there is +nothing too hazardous for his imagination; so, then, I am a French spy!” + </p> +<p> +“'What you say of the army,'” read on Maitland, “'is confirmed by our +other reports. Very few of the line regiments will be faithful to the +monarchy, and even some of the artillery will go over. As to the fleet, +Martin tells me they have not three seaworthy ships in the fifty-seven +they reckon, nor six captains who would undertake a longer voyage than +Palermo. Their only three-decker was afraid to return a salute to the +“Pasha,” lest her old thirty-two-pounders should explode; and this is +pretty much the case with the monarchy,—the first shock must shake +it, even though it only come of blank cartridge. +</p> +<p> +“'While events are preparing, renew all your remonstrances; press upon +Caraffa the number of untried prisoners, and the horrid condition of the +prisons. Ask, of course in a friendly way, when are these abuses to cease? +Say that great hopes of amelioration—speak generally—were +conceived here on the accession of the new King, and throw in our regrets +that the liberty of the press with us will occasionally lead to strictures +whose severities we deplore, without being able to arraign their justice; +and lastly, declare our readiness to meet any commercial exchanges that +might promise mutual advantage. This will suggest the belief that we are +not in any way cognizant of Cavour's projects. In fact, I will know +nothing of them, and hold myself prepared, if questioned in the House, to +have had no other information than is supplied by the newspapers. Who is +Maitland? None of the Maitlands here can tell me.'” This sentence he read +out ere he knew it, and almost crushed the paper when he had finished in +his passion. +</p> +<p> +“Go on,” said Caraffa, as the other ceased to read aloud, while his eyes +ran over the lines,—“go on.” + </p> +<p> +“It is of no moment, or, at least, its interest is purely personal. His +Lordship recommends that I should be bought over, but still left in +intimate relations with your Excellency.” + </p> +<p> +“And I see no possible objection to the plan.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you, sir?” cried Maitland, fiercely; “then I do. Some little honor +is certainly needed to leaven the rottenness that reeks around us.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Caro Signor Conte</i>,” said the Prince, in an insinuating voice, but +of which insincerity was the strong characteristic, “do not be angry with +my Ultramontane morality. I was not reared on the virtuous benches of a +British Parliament; but if there is anything more in that letter, let me +hear it.” + </p> +<p> +“There is only a warning not to see the Count of Syracuse, nor any of his +party, who are evidently waiting to see which horse is to win. Ah, and +here is a word for your address, Carlo! 'If Caffarelli be the man we saw +last season here, I should say, Do not make advances to him; he is a +ruined gambler, and trusted by no party. Lady C————believes +in him, but none else!'” + </p> +<p> +This last paragraph set them all a-laughing, nor did any seem to enjoy it +more than Caffarelli himself. +</p> +<p> +“One thing is clear,” said Caraffa, at last,—“England wishes us +every imaginable calamity, but is not going to charge herself with any +part of the cost of our ruin. France has only so much of good-will towards +us as is inspired by her dislike of Piedmont, and she will wait and watch +events. Now, if Bosco be only true to his word, and can give us a 'good +account' of his treatment of Garibaldi, I think all will go well.” + </p> +<p> +“When was Garibaldi to set out?” asked Caffarelli. +</p> +<p> +“Brizzi, but he is seldom correct, said the 18th.” + </p> +<p> +“That Irish fellow of ours, Maitland, is positive it will be by the 13th +at latest. By the way, when I asked him how I could reward this last piece +of service he rendered us in securing these despatches, his reply was, 'I +want the cordon of St. Januarius.' I, of course, remonstrated, and +explained that there were certain requisites as to birth and family, +certain guarantees as to nobility of blood, certain requirements of +fortune. He stopped me abruptly, and said, 'I can satisfy them all; and if +there be any delay in according my demand, I shall make it in person to +his Majesty.'” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” cried Caffarelli,—“well, and what followed?” + </p> +<p> +“I yielded,” said the Prince, with one of his peculiar smiles. “We are in +such a perilous predicament that we can't afford the enmity of such a +consummate rascal; and then, who knows but he may be the last knight of +the order!” In the deep depression of the last words was apparent their +true sincerity, but he rallied hastily, and said, “I have sent the fellow +to Bosco with despatches, and said that he may be usefully employed as a +spy, for he is hand-and-glove with all the Garibaldians. Surely he must +have uncommon good luck if he escapes a bullet from one side or the +other.” + </p> +<p> +“He told me yesterday,” said Caffarelli, “that he would not leave Naples +till his Majesty passed the Irish Legion in review, and addressed them +some words of loyal compliment.” + </p> +<p> +“Why did n't he tell you,” said the Prince, sarcastically, “that seventy +of the scoundrels have taken service with Garibaldi, some hundreds have +gone to the hills as brigands, and Castel d'Ovo has got the remainder; and +it takes fifteen hundred foot and a brigade of artillery to watch them?” + </p> +<p> +“Did you hear this, Maitland?” cried Caffarelli; “do you hear what his +Excellency says of your pleasant countrymen?” + </p> +<p> +Maitland looked up from a letter that he was deeply engaged in, and so +blank and vacant was his stare that Caffarelli repeated what the Minister +had just said. “I don't think you are minding what I say. Have you heard +me, Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; no—that is, my thoughts were on something that I was reading +here.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it of interest to us?” asked Caraffa. +</p> +<p> +“None whatever. It was a private letter which got into my hands open, and +I had read some lines before I was well aware. It has no bearing on +politics, however;” and, crushing up the note, he placed it in his pocket, +and then, as if recalling his mind to the affairs before him, said: “The +King himself must go to Sicily. It is no time to palter. The personal +daring of Victor Emmanuel is the bone and sinew of the Piedmontese +movement. Let us show the North that the South is her equal in +everything.” + </p> +<p> +“I should rather that it was from <i>you</i> the advice came than from <i>me</i>,” + said Caraffa, with a grin. “I am not in the position to proffer it.” + </p> +<p> +“If I were Prince Caraffa, I should do so, assuredly.” + </p> +<p> +“You would not, Maitland,” said the other, calmly. “You would not, and for +this simple reason, that you would see that, even if accepted, the counsel +would be fruitless. If it were to the Queen, indeed—” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, <i>per Bacco!</i>” broke in Caffarelli, “there is not a gentleman in +the kingdom would not spring into the saddle at such a call.” + </p> +<p> +“Then why not unfold this standard?” asked Maitland. “Why not make one +effort to make the monarchy popular?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you know enough of Naples,” said Caraffa, “to know that the cause +of the noble can never be the cause of the people; and that to throw the +throne for defence on the men of birth is to lose the 'men of the +street'?” + </p> +<p> +He paused, and with an expression of intense hate on his face, and a +hissing passionate tone in his voice, continued, “It required all the +consummate skill of that great man, Count Cavour, to weld the two classes +together, and even he could not elevate the populace; so that nothing was +left to him but to degrade the noble.” + </p> +<p> +“I think, meanwhile, we are losing precious time,” said Maitland, as he +took up his hat “Bosco should be reinforced. The squadron, too, should be +strengthened to meet the Sardinian fleet; for we have sure intelligence +that they mean to cover Garibaldi's landing; Persano avows it.” + </p> +<p> +“All the better if they do,” said Caraffa. “The same act which would +proclaim their own treachery would deliver into our hands this +hare-brained adventurer.” + </p> +<p> +“Your Excellency may have him longer in your hands than you care for,” + said Maitland, with a saucy smile. The Prince bowed a cold acknowledgment +of the speech, and suffered them to retire without a word. +</p> +<p> +“It is fated, I believe,” said Caffarelli, as they gained the street, +“that the Prince and you are never to separate without anger; and you are +wrong, Maitland. There is no man stands so high in the King's favor.” + </p> +<p> +“What care I for that, Carlo mio? the whole thing has ceased to interest +me. I joined the cause without any love for it; the more nearly I saw its +working, the more I despised myself for acting with such associates; and +if I hold to it now, it is because it is so certain to fail. Ay, my +friend, it is another Bourbon bowled over. The age had got sick of vested +interests, and wanted to show what abuses they were; but you and I are +bound to stand fast; we cannot rescue the victim, but we must follow the +hearse.” + </p> +<p> +“How low and depressed you are to-night! What has come over you?” + </p> +<p> +“I have had a heavy blow, mio Carlo. One of those papers whose envelopes +you broke and handed to me was a private letter. It was from Alice +Trafford to her brother; and the sight of my own name in it tempted me to +see what she said of me. My curiosity has paid its price.” He paused for +some minutes, and then continued: “She wrote to refuse the villa I had +offered her,—to refuse it peremptorily. She added: 'The story of +your friend's duel is more public than you seem to know. It appeared in +the “Patrie” three weeks ago, and was partly extracted by “Galignani.” The +provocation given was an open declaration that Mr. Maitland was no +Maitland at all, but the illegitimate son of a well-known actress, called +Brancaleone, the father unknown. This outrage led to a meeting, and the +consequences you know of. The whole story has this much of authenticity, +that it was given to the world with the name of the other principal, who +signs himself Milo M'Caskey, Lieut.-Col. in the service of Naples, Count, +and Commander of various orders.' She adds,” continued Maitland, in a +shaken voice, and an effort, but yet a poor one, to smile,—“she +adds: 'I own I am sorry for him. All his great qualities and cultivation +seemed to suit and dignify station; but now that I know his condition to +have been a mere assumption, the man himself and his talents are only a +mockery,—only a mockery!' Hard words these, Carlo, very hard words! +</p> +<p> +“And then she says: 'If I had only known him as a passing acquaintance, +and thought of him with the same indifference one bestows on such,-perhaps +I would not now insist so peremptorily as I do on our ceasing to know him; +but I will own to you, Mark, that he did interest me greatly. He had, or +seemed to have,'—this, that, and t' other,” said he, with an +ill-tempered haste, and went on. “'But now, as he stands before me, with a +borrowed name and a mock rank—' There is half a page more of the +same trash; for this gentle lady is a mistress of fierce words, and not +over-merciful, and she ends thus: 'I think, if you are adroit, you can +show him, in declining his proffered civility, that we had strong reasons +for our refusal, and that it would be unpleasant to renew our former +acquaintance.' In fact, Carlo, she means to cut me. This woman, whose hand +I had held in mine while I declared my love, and who, while she listened +to me, showed no touch of displeasure, affects now to resent the accident +of my birth, and treat me as an impostor! I am half sorry that letter has +not reached its destination; ay, and, strange as you will think it, I am +more than half tempted to write and tell her that I have read it The story +of the stolen despatch will soon be a newspaper scandal, and it would +impart marvellous interest to her reading it when she heard that her own +'private and confidential' was captured in the same net.” + </p> +<p> +“You could not own to such an act, Maitland.” + </p> +<p> +“No. If it should not lead to something further; but I do yearn to repay +her. She is a haughty adversary, and well worth a vengeance.” + </p> +<p> +“What becomes of your fine maxim, 'Never quarrel with a woman,' Maitland?” + </p> +<p> +“When I uttered it, I had never loved one,” muttered he; and they walked +on now in silence. +</p> +<p> +Almost within earshot—so close, indeed, that had they not been +conversing in Italian, some of their words must have been overheard by +those behind—walked two other friends, Darner and Tony, in close +confab. +</p> +<p> +“I most telegraph F. O,” said Skeffy, “that bag is missing, and that +Messenger Butler has gone home to make his report Do you hear me?” + </p> +<p> +A grunt was the reply. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll give you a letter to Howard Pendleton, and he 'll tell what is the +best thing to be done.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect I know it already,” muttered Tony. +</p> +<p> +“If you could only persuade my Lord to listen to you, and tell him the +story as you told it to me, he 'd be more than a Secretary of State if he +could stand it.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no great desire to be laughed at, Skeffy.” + </p> +<p> +“Not if it got you out of a serious scrape,—a scrape that may cost +you your appointment?” + </p> +<p> +“Not even at that price.” + </p> +<p> +“I can't understand that; it is quite beyond me. They might put <i>me</i> +into 'Joe Miller' to-morrow, if they 'd only gazette me Secretary of +Embassy the day after. But here's the hotel; a good sleep will set you all +right; and let me see you at breakfast as jolly as you used to be.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVII. ADRIFT +</h2> +<p> +The dawn was scarcely breaking as Tony Butler awoke and set off to visit +the ships in the port whose flags proclaimed them English. There were full +thirty, of various sizes and rigs; but though many were deficient in +hands, no skipper seemed disposed to accept a young fellow who, if he was +stalwart and well grown, so palpably pertained to a class to which hard +work and coarse usage were strangers. +</p> +<p> +“You ain't anything of a cook, are you?” asked one of the very few who did +not reject his demand at once. +</p> +<p> +“No,” said he, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Them hands of yours might do something in the caboose, but they ain't +much like reefing and clewing topsails. Won't suit <i>me</i>.” And, thus +discouraged, he went on from one craft to the other, surprised and +mortified to discover that one of the resources he had often pictured to +his mind in the hours of despondency was just as remote, just as much +above him, as any of the various callings his friends had set before him. +</p> +<p> +“Not able to be even a sailor! Not fit to serve before the mast! Well, +perhaps I can carry a musket; but for <i>that</i> I must return to +England.” + </p> +<p> +He fell to thinking of this new scheme, but without any of that hope that +had so often colored his projects. He owed the service a grudge. His +father had not been fairly treated in it So, at least, from his very +childhood, had his mother taught him to believe, and, in consequence, +vehemently opposed all his plans to obtain a commission. Hard necessity, +however, left no room for mere scruples; something he must do, and that +something was narrowed to the one single career of a soldier. +</p> +<p> +He was practical enough in a certain sense, and he soon resolved on his +line of action; he would reserve just so much as would carry him back to +England, and remit the remainder of what he had to his mother. +</p> +<p> +This would amount to nigh eighty pounds,—a very considerable sum to +one whose life was as inexpensive as hers. The real difficulty was how to +reconcile her to the thought of his fallen condition, and the hardships +she would inevitably associate in her mind with his future life. “Ain't I +lucky,” cried he in his bitterness, and trying to make it seem like a +consolation,—“ain't I lucky, that, except my poor dear mother, I +have not one other in the whole world to care what comes to me,—none +other to console, none other before whom I need plead or excuse myself! My +failure or my disgrace are not to spread a widecast sorrow. They will only +darken one fireside, and one figure in the corner of it.” + </p> +<p> +His heart was full of Alice all the while, but he was too proud to utter +her name even to himself. To have made a resolve, however, seemed to rally +his courage again; and when the boatman asked him where he should go next, +he was so far away in his thoughts that he had some difficulty to remember +what he had been actually engaged in. +</p> +<p> +“Whereto?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I can't well tell you,” said he, laughing. “Isn't that schooner +English,—that one getting underway yonder? Shove me aboard of her.” + </p> +<p> +“She's outward bound, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“No matter, if they 'll agree to take me,” muttered he to himself. +</p> +<p> +The craft was “hauling short” on the anchor as Tony came alongside and +learned that she was about to sail for Leghorn, having failed in obtaining +a freight at Naples; and as by an accident one of the crew had been left +on shore, the skipper was too willing to take Tony so far, though looking, +as he remarked, far more like a swell landsman than an ordinary seaman. +</p> +<p> +Once outside the bay, and bowling along with a smart breeze and a calm +sea, the rushing water making pleasant music at the bow, while the helm +left a long white track some feet down beneath the surface, Tony felt, +what so many others have felt, the glorious elation of being at sea. How +many a care “blue water” can assuage, how many a sorrow is made bearable +by the fresh breeze that strains the cordage, and the laughing waves we +cleave through so fast! +</p> +<p> +A few very eventful days, in which Tony's life passed less like reality +than a mere dream, brought them to Leghorn; and the skipper, who had taken +a sort of rough liking to the “Swell,” as he still called him, offered to +take him on to Liverpool, if he were willing to enter himself regularly on +the ship's books as one of the crew. +</p> +<p> +“I am quite ready,” said Tony, who thought by the time the brief voyage +was completed he should have picked up enough of the practice and the look +of a sailor to obtain another employment easily. +</p> +<p> +Accompanied by the skipper, he soon found himself in the consul's office, +crowded with sailors and other maritime folk, busily engaged in preferring +complaints or making excuses, or as eagerly asking for relief against this +or that exaction on the part of the foreign government. +</p> +<p> +The consul sat smoking his cigar with a friend at a window, little heeding +the turmoil around, but leaving the charge of the various difficulties to +his clerks, who only referred to him on some special occasions. +</p> +<p> +“Here's a man, sir,” cried one of the clerks, “who wishes to be entered in +the ship's books under an assumed name. I have told him it can't be done.” + </p> +<p> +“Why does he ask it? Is he a runaway convict?” asked the consul. +</p> +<p> +“Not exactly,” said Tony, laughing; “but as I have not been brought up +before the mast, and I have a few relatives who might not like to hear of +me in that station—” + </p> +<p> +“A scamp, I take,” broke in the consul, “who, having done his worst on +shore, takes to the sea for a refuge?” + </p> +<p> +“Partly right,—partly wrong,” was the dry answer. +</p> +<p> +“Well, my smart fellow, there 's no help for it. You must give your name +and your birthplace; and if they should prove false ones, take any +consequences that might result.” + </p> +<p> +“What sort of consequences might these be?” asked Tony, calmly; and the +consul, having either spoken without any distinct knowledge attached to +his words, or provoked by the pertinacity of the question, half irritably +answered: “I 've no time to throw away in discussing casualties; give your +name or go your way.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes,” murmured the skipper. “Who knows anything about you down here?—Just +sign the sheet and let's be moving.” + </p> +<p> +The sort of good-humored tone and look that went with the words decided +Tony, and he took the pen and wrote “Tony Butler, Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +The consul glanced at the writing, and said, “What part of Ireland? Name a +town or a village.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot; my father was a soldier, quartered in various places, and I 'm +not sure in what part of the island I was born.” + </p> +<p> +“Tony Butler means Anthony Butler, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“Tony Butler!” cried the consul's friend, suddenly starting up, and coming +forward; “did <i>you</i> say your name was Tony Butler?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; that is my name.” + </p> +<p> +“And are you from the North of Ireland,—near the Causeway?” + </p> +<p> +Tony nodded, while a flush of shame at the recognition covered his face. +</p> +<p> +“And do you know Dr. Stewart, the Presbyterian minister in that +neighborhood?” + </p> +<p> +“I should think so. The Burnside, where he lives, is not above a mile from +us.” + </p> +<p> +“That's it,—the Burnside,—that's the name of it. I'm as glad +as fifty pounds in my pocket to see you, Mr. Butler,” cried he, grasping +Tony's hand in both his own. “There 's not a man from this to England I 'd +as soon have met as yourself. I 'm Sam M'Grader, Robert M'Grader's +brother. You have n't forgot <i>him</i>, I hope?” + </p> +<p> +“That I haven't,” cried Tony, warmly returning the honest pressure of the +other's hand. “What a stupid dog I have been not to remember that you +lived here! and I have a letter for you, too, from your brother!” + </p> +<p> +“I want no letter of introduction with you, Mr. Butler; come home with me. +You 're not going to sea this time;” and, taking a pen, he drew a broad +line of ink across Tony's name; and then turning, he whispered a few words +in the consul's ear. +</p> +<p> +“I hope,” said the consul, “Mr. Butler is not offended at the freedom with +which I commented on him.” + </p> +<p> +“Not in the least,” said Tony, laughing. “I thought at the time, if you +knew me you would not have liked to have suggested my having been a +runaway convict; and now that you <i>do</i> know me, the shame you feel is +more than enough to punish you.” + </p> +<p> +“What could have induced you to go before the mast, Mr. Butler?” said +M'Gruder, as he led Tony away. +</p> +<p> +“Sheer necessity. I wanted to earn my bread.” + </p> +<p> +“But you had got something,—some place or other?” + </p> +<p> +“I was a messenger, but I lost my despatches, and was ashamed to go home +and say so.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you stop with me? Will you be a clerk?” asked the other; and a +certain timidity in his voice showed that he was not quite assured as he +spoke. “My business is like my brother's,—we 're 'in rags.'”. +</p> +<p> +“And so should I be in a few days,” laughed out Tony, “if I had n't met +you. I 'll be your clerk, with a heart and a half,—that is, if I be +capable; only don't give me anything where money enters, and as little +writing as possible, and no arithmetic, if you can help it.” + </p> +<p> +“That will be a strange sort of clerkship,” said M'Gruder, with a smile; +“but we 'll see what can be done.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVIII. “IN RAGS” + </h2> +<p> +If Tony Butler's success in his new career only depended on his zeal, he +would have been a model clerk. Never did any one address himself to a new +undertaking with a stronger resolution to comprehend all its details, and +conquer all its difficulties. First of all, he desired to show his +gratitude to the good fellow who had helped him; and secondly, he was +eager to prove, if proven it could be, that he was not utterly incapable +of earning his bread, nor one of those hopeless creatures who are doomed +from their birth to be a burden to others. +</p> +<p> +So long as his occupation led him out of doors, conveying orders here and +directions there, he got on pretty well. He soon picked up a sort of +Italian of his own, intelligible enough to those accustomed to it; and as +he was alert, active, and untiring, he looked, at least, a most valuable +assistant. Whenever it came to indoor work and the pen, his heart sank +within him; he knew that his hour of trial had come, and he had no +strength to meet it. He would mistake the letter-book for the ledger or +the day-book; and he would make entries in one which should have been in +the other, and then, worst of all, erase them, or append an explanation of +his blunder that would fill half a page with inscrutable blottedness. +</p> +<p> +As to payments, he jotted them down anywhere, and in his anxiety to +compose confidential letters with due care, he would usually make three or +four rough drafts of the matter, quite sufficient to impart the contents +to the rest of the office. +</p> +<p> +Sam M'Gruder bore nobly up under these trials. He sometimes laughed at the +mistakes, did his best to remedy,—never rebuked them. At last, as he +saw that poor Tony's difficulties, instead of diminishing, only increased +with time, inasmuch as his despair of himself led him into deeper +embarrassments, M'Gruder determined Tony should be entirely employed in +journeys and excursions here and there through the country,—an +occupation, it is but fair to own, invented to afford him employment, +rather than necessitated by any demands of the business. Not that Tony had +the vaguest suspicion of this. Indeed, he wrote to his mother a letter +filled with an account of his active and useful labors. Proud was he at +last to say that he was no longer eating the bread of idleness. “I am up +before dawn, mother, and very often have nothing to eat but a mess of +Indian corn steeped in oil, not unlike what Sir Arthur used to fatten the +bullocks with, the whole livelong day; and sometimes I have to visit +places there are no roads to; nearly all the villages are on the tops of +the mountains; but, by good luck, I am never beat by a long walk, and I do +my forty miles a day without minding it. +</p> +<p> +“If I could only forget the past, dearest mother, or think it nothing but +a dream, I 'd never quarrel with the life I am now leading; for I have +plenty of open air, mountain walking, abundance of time to myself, and +rough fellows to deal with, that amuse me; but when I am tramping along +with my cigar in my mouth, I can't help thinking of long ago,—of the +rides at sunset on the sands, and all the hopes and fancies I used to +bring home with me, after them. Well! it is over now,—just as much +done for as if the time had never been at all; and I suppose, after a +while, I 'll learn to bear it better, and think, as you often told me, +that 'all things are for the best.' +</p> +<p> +“I feel my own condition more painfully when I come, back here, and have +to sit a whole evening listening to Sam M'Gruder talking about Dolly +Stewart and the plans about their marriage. The poor fellow is so full of +it all that even the important intelligence I have for him he won't hear, +but will say, 'Another time, Tony, another time,—let us chat about +Dolly.' One thing I 'll swear to, she 'll have the honestest fellow for +her husband that ever stepped, and tell her I said so. Sam would take it +very kindly of you if you could get Dolly to agree to their being married +in March. +</p> +<p> +“It is the only time he can manage a trip to England,—not but, as he +says, whatever time Dolly consents to shall be his time. +</p> +<p> +“He shows me her letters sometimes, and though he is half wild with +delight at them, I tell you frankly, mother, they would n't satisfy <i>me</i> +if I was her lover. She writes more like a creature that was resigned to a +hard lot, than one that was about to marry a man she loved. Sam, however, +does n't seem to take this view of her, and so much the better. +</p> +<p> +“There was one thing in your last letter that puzzled me, and puzzles me +still. Why did Dolly ask if I was likely to remain here? The way you put +it makes me think that she was deferring the marriage till such time as I +was gone. If I really believed this to be the case, I'd go away tomorrow, +though I don't know well where to, or what for, but it is hard to +understand, since I always thought that Dolly liked me, as certainly I +ever did, and still do, <i>her</i>. +</p> +<p> +“Try and clear up this for me in your next. I suppose it was by way of +what is called 'sparing me,' you said nothing of the Lyles in your last, +but I saw in the 'Morning Post' all about the departure for the Continent, +intending to reside some years in Italy. +</p> +<p> +“And that is more than I 'd do if I owned Lyle Abbey, and had eighteen +blood-horses in my stable, and a clipper cutter in the Bay of Curryglass. +I suppose the truth is, people never do know when they're well off.” + </p> +<p> +The moral reflection, not arrived at so easily or so rapidly as the reader +can imagine, concluded Tony's letter, to which in due time came a long +answer from his mother. With the home gossip we shall not burden the +reader, nor shall we ask of him to go through the short summary—four +close pages—of the doctor's discourses on the text, “I would ye were +hot or cold,” two sensations that certainly the mere sight of the +exposition occasioned to Tony. We limit ourselves to the words of the +postscript. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot understand Dolly at all, and I am afraid to mislead you as to +what you ask. My impression is—but mind, it is mere impression—she +has grown somewhat out of her old friendship for you. Some stories +possibly have represented you in a wrong light, and I half think you may +be right, and that she would be less averse to the marriage if she knew +you were not to be in the house with them. It was, indeed, only this +morning the doctor said, 'Young married folk should aye learn each other's +failings without bystanders to observe them,'—a significant hint I +thought I would write to you by this post.” + </p> +<p> +When Tony received his epistle, he was seated in his own room, leisurely +engaged in deciphering a paragraph in an Italian newspaper, descriptive of +Garibaldi's departure from a little bay near Genoa to his Sicilian +expedition. +</p> +<p> +Nothing short of a letter from his mother could have withdrawn his +attention from a description so full of intense interest to him; and +partly, indeed, from this cause, and partly from the hard labor of +rendering the foreign language, the details stuck in his mind during all +the time he was reading his mother's words. +</p> +<p> +“So that 's the secret, is it?” muttered he. “Dolly wishes to be alone +with her husband,—natural enough; and I'm not the man to oppose it. +I hope she'll be happy, poor girl; and I hope Garibaldi will beat the +Neapolitans. I 'm sure Sam is worthy of a good wife; but I don't know +whether these Sicilian fellows deserve a better government. At all events, +my course is clear,—here I mustn't stay. Sam does not know that I am +the obstacle to his marriage; but <i>I</i> know it, and that is enough. I +wonder would Garibaldi take me as a volunteer? There cannot be much choice +at such a time. I suppose he enrolls whoever offers; and they must be +mostly fellows of my own sort,—useless dogs, that are only fit to +give and take hard knocks.” + </p> +<p> +He hesitated long whether he should tell Sam M'Gruder of his project; he +well knew all the opposition he should meet, and how stoutly his friend +would set himself against a plan so fatal to all habits of patient +industry. “And yet,” muttered Tony to himself, “I don't like to tell him +that I hate 'rags,' and detest the whole business. It would be so +ungrateful of me. I could say my mother wanted to see me in Ireland; but I +never told him a lie, and I can't bear that our parting should be sealed +with a falsehood.” + </p> +<p> +As he pondered, he took out his pistols and examined them carefully; and, +poising one neatly in his hand, he raised it, as marksmen sometimes will +do, to take an imaginary aim. As he did so, M'Gruder entered, and cried +out, laughing, “Is he covered,—is he dead?” + </p> +<p> +Tony laid down the weapon, with a flush of shame, and said, “After all, +M'Gruder, the pistol is more natural to me than the pen; and it was just +what I was going to confess to you.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're not going to take to the highways, though?” + </p> +<p> +“Something not very unlike it; I mean to go and have a turn with +Garibaldi.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, what do you know about Garibaldi or his cause?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps not a great deal; but I've been spelling out these newspapers +every night, and one thing is clear, whether he has right or wrong on his +side, the heavy odds are all against him. He's going in to fight regular +troops, with a few hundred trampers. Now I call that very plucky.” + </p> +<p> +“So do I; but courage may go on to rashness, and become folly.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I feel as if a little rashness will do me a deal of good. I am too +well off here,—too easy,—too much cared for. Life asks no +effort, and I make none; and if I go on a little longer, I 'll be capable +of none.” + </p> +<p> +“I see,” said the other, laughing, “Rags do not rouse your ambition, +Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know what would,—that is, I don't think I <i>have</i> any +ambition now;” and there was a touch of sorrow in the last word that gave +all the force to what he said. +</p> +<p> +“At all events, you are tired of this sort of thing,” said the other, +good-humoredly, “and it's not to be much wondered at. You began life at +what my father used to call 'the wrong end.' You started on the sunny side +of the road, Tony, and it is precious hard to cross over into the shade +afterwards.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're right there, M'Gruder. I led the jolliest life that ever man did +till I was upwards of twenty; but I don't believe I ever knew how glorious +it was till it was over; but I must n't think of that now. See! this is +what I mean to do. You 'll find some way to send that safely to my mother. +There's forty-odd pounds in it, and I 'd rather it was not lost I have +kept enough to buy a good rifle—a heavy Swiss one, if I can find it—and +a sword-bayonet, and with these I am fully equipped.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Tony, I'll not hear of this; that you are well weary of the +life you lead here is not hard to see, nor any blame to you either, old +fellow. One must be brought up to Rags, like everything else, and <i>you</i> +were not. But my brother writes me about starting an American agency,—what +do you say to going over to New York?” + </p> +<p> +“What a good fellow you are!” cried Tony, staring at him till his eyes +began to grow clouded with tears; “what a good fellow! you 'd risk your +ship just to give me a turn at the tiller! But it must n't be,—it +cannot be; I 'm bent on this scheme of mine,—I have determined on +it.” + </p> +<p> +“Since when? since last night?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it's not very long, certainly, since I made up my mind.” + </p> +<p> +The other smiled. Tony saw it, and went on: “I know what you mean. You are +of old Stewart's opinion. When he heard me once say I had made up my mind, +he said, 'It does n't take long to make up a small parcel;' but every +fellow, more or less, knows what he can and what he cannot do. Now I +cannot be orderly, exact, and punctual,—even the little brains I +have I can't be sure of keeping them on the matter before me; but I defy a +horse to throw me; I 'll bring you up a crown-piece out of six fathoms +water, if it 's clear; I'll kill four swallows out of six with a ball; and +though these are not gifts to earn one's bread by, the man that has them +need n't starve.” + </p> +<p> +“If I thought that you had really reflected well over this plan,—given +it all the thought and consideration it required—” + </p> +<p> +“I have given it just as much consideration as if I took five weeks to it. +A man may take an evening over a pint of ale, but it's only a pint, after +all,—don't you see that?” + </p> +<p> +M'Gruder was puzzled; perhaps there was some force in the illustration. +Tony looked certainly as if he thought he had said a clever thing. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Tony,” said the other, after a moment of grave thought, “you 'll +have to go to Genoa to embark, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; the committee sits at Genoa, and every one who enrolls must appear +before them.” + </p> +<p> +“You could walk there in four days.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; but I can steam it in one.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, true enough; what I mean to ask of you is this, that you will go the +whole way on foot; a good walker as you are won't think much of that; and +in these four days, as you travel along,—all alone,—you 'll +have plenty of time to think over your project. If by the time you reach +Genoa you like it as well as ever, I 've no more to say; but if—and +mark me, Tony, you must be honest with your own heart—if you really +have your doubts and your misgivings; if you feel that for your poor +mother's sake—” + </p> +<p> +“There, there! I've thought of all that,” cried Tony, hurriedly. “I 'll +make the journey on foot, as you say you wish it, but don't open the thing +to any more discussion. If I relent, I 'll come back. There's my hand on +it!” + </p> +<p> +“Tony, it gives me a sad heart to part with you;” and he turned away, and +stole out of the room. +</p> +<p> +“Now, I believe it's all done,” said Tony, after he had packed his +knapsack, and stored by in his trunk what he intended to leave behind him. +There were a few things there, too, that had their own memories! There was +the green silk cap, with its gold tassel, Alice had given him on his last +steeple-chase. Ah, how it brought back the leap—a bold leap it was—into +the winning field, and Alice, as she stood up and waved her handkerchief +as he passed! There was a glove of hers; she had thrown it down sportively +on the sands, and dared him to take it up in full career of his horse; he +remembered they had a quarrel because he claimed the glove as a prize, and +refused to restore it to her. There was an evening after that in which she +would not speak to him. He had carried a heavy heart home with him that +night! What a fund of love the heart must be capable of feeling for a +living, sentient thing, when we see how it can cling to some object +inanimate and irresponsive. “I'll take that glove with me,” muttered Tony +to himself; “it owes me some good luck; who knows but it may pay me yet?” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIX. MET AND PARTED +</h2> +<p> +Tony went on his way early next morning, stealing off ere it was yet +light, for he hated leave-takings, and felt that they weighed upon him for +many a mile of a journey. There was enough on the road he travelled to +have interested and amused him, but his heart was too full of its own +cares, and his mind too deep in its own plans, to dispose him to such +pleasures, and so he passed through little villages on craggy eminences +and quaint old towers on mountain-tops, scarcely observing them. Even +Pisa, with its world-known Tower, and the gem-like Baptistery beside it, +scarce attracted notice from him, though he muttered as he passed, +“Perhaps on some happier day I 'll be able to come back here and admire +it” And so onward he plodded through the grand old ruined Massa and the +silent Sarzana, whose palaces display the quarterings of old crusading +knights, with many an emblem of the Holy War; and by the beauteous Bay of +Spezia he went, not stopping to see poor Shelley's home, and the terrace +where his midnight steps had almost worn a track. The road now led through +the declining ridges of the Apennines, gorgeous in color,—such color +as art would have scarce dared to counterfeit, so emerald the dark green +of the waving pines, so silver-like the olive, so gloriously purple the +great cliffs of porphyry; and then through many a riven cleft, through +feathery foliage and broad-leaved fig-trees, down many a fathom low the +sea!—the blue Mediterranean, so blue as to seem another sky of +deeper meaning than the one above it. +</p> +<p> +He noticed little of all these; he felt none of them! It was now the third +day of his journey, and though he had scarcely uttered a word, and been +deeply intent on his own fate, all that his thinking had done was to lead, +as it were, into some boundless prairie, and there desert him. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose,” muttered he to himself, “I am one of those creatures that +must never presume to plan anything, but take each day's life as I find +it. And I could do this. Ay, I could do it manfully, too, if I were not +carrying along with me memories of long ago. It is Alice, the thought of +Alice, that dashes the present with a contrast to the past, and makes all +I now attempt so poor and valueless.” + </p> +<p> +As the road descends from Borghetto, there is a sudden bend, from which, +through a deep cleft, the little beach and village of Levanto are seen +hundreds of feet beneath, but yet in that clear still atmosphere so near +that not only the white foam of the breaking wave could be seen, but its +rhythm-like plash heard as it broke upon the beach. For the first time +since he set out had the charm of scenery attracted him, and, descending a +few feet from the road, he reached a large square rock, from which he +could command the whole view for miles on every side. +</p> +<p> +He took out his bread and cheese and a melon he had bought that morning, +and disposed himself to eat his dinner. He had often partaken of a more +sumptuous meal, but never had he eaten with so glorious a prospect at his +feet. +</p> +<p> +A little lateen-sailed boat stole out from beneath the olives and gained +the sea; and as Tony watched her, he thought if he would only have been a +fisherman there, and Alice his wife, how little he could have envied all +that the world has of wealth and honors and ambitions. His friend Skeffy +could not do this, but <i>he</i> could. <i>He</i> was strong of limb and +stout of heart; he could bear hardships and cold; and it would be so fine +to think that, born gentleman as he was, he never flinched from the +hardest toil, or repined at the roughest fare, he and Alice treasuring up +their secret, and hoarding it as a miser hoards his gold. +</p> +<p> +Ay, down there, in that little gorge, with the pine-wood behind and the +sea before, he could have passed his life, with never a longing thought +for the great world and its prizes. As he ran on thus in fancy, he never +heard the sound of footsteps on the road above, nor noticed the voices of +persons talking. +</p> +<p> +At last he heard, not the words, but the tone of the speakers, and +recognized them to be English. There is that peculiar sound in English +utterance that at once distinguishes it from all other speech; and Tony, +quite forgetting that his high-peaked Calabrian hat and massive beard made +him far more like an Italian brigand than a British gentleman, not wishing +to be observed, never turned his head to look at them. At last one said, +“The little fishing-village below there must be Levante. John Murray tells +us that this is the land of the fan palm and the cactus, so that at length +we are in Italy.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know—shall I confess it,” said the other, “that I am not +thinking of the view, beautiful as it is? I am envying that peasant with +his delicious melon on the rock there. I am half tempted to ask him to +share it with me.” + </p> +<p> +“Ask him, by all means,” said the first speaker, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“You are jesting,” replied the other, “but I am in sober earnest. I can +resist no longer. Do you, however, wait here, or the carriage may pass on +and leave us behind.” + </p> +<p> +Tony heard nothing of these words; but he heard the light footsteps, and +he heard the rustle of a woman's dress as she forced her way, through +bramble and underwood, till at last, with that consciousness so +mysterious, he felt there was some one standing close behind him. Half +vexed to think that his isolation should be invaded, he drew his hat +deeper over his eyes, and sat steadfastly gazing on the sea below him. +</p> +<p> +“Is that Levante I see beneath that cliff?” asked she, in Italian,—less +to satisfy her curiosity than to attract fris attention. +</p> +<p> +Tony started. How intensely had his brain been charged with thoughts of +long ago, that every word that met his ears should seem impregnated with +these memories! A half-sulky “Si” was, however, his only rejoinder. +</p> +<p> +“What a fine melon you have there, my friend!” said she; and now her voice +thrilled through him so strangely that he sprang to his feet and turned to +face her. “Is my brain tricking me?—are my senses wandering?” + muttered he to himself. “Alice, Alice!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Tony,” cried she. “Who ever heard of so strange a meeting? How came +you here? Speak, or I shall be as incredulous as yourself!” But Tony could +not utter a word, but stood overwhelmed with wonder, silently gazing on +her. +</p> +<p> +“Speak to me, Tony,” said she, in her soft winning voice,—“speak to +me; tell me by what curious fortune you came here. Let us sit down on this +bank; our carriage is toiling up the hill, and will not be here for some +time.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/butler0482.jpg" alt="482 " width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“So it is not a dream!” sighed he, as he sat down beside her. “I have so +little faith in my brain that I could not trust it.” + </p> +<p> +It was easy to see that his bewilderment still remained; and so, with a +woman's tact, she addressed herself to talking of what would gradually +lead his thoughts into a collected shape. She told how they were all on +their way to the South,—Naples or Palermo, not certain which,—somewhere +for climate, as Isabella was still delicate. That her father and mother +and sister were some miles behind on the road, she having come on more +rapidly with a lighter carriage. “Not all alone, though, Master Tony; +don't put on that rebukeful face. The lady you see yonder on the road is +what is called my companion,—the English word for duenna; and I half +think I am scandalizing her very much by this conduct of mine, sitting +down on the grass with a brigand chief, and, I was going to say, sharing +his breakfast, though I have to confess it never occurred to him to offer +it. Come, Tony, get up, and let me present you to her, and relieve her +mind of the terrible thoughts that must be distressing her.” + </p> +<p> +“One moment, Alice,—one moment,” said he, taking her hand. “What is +this story my mother tells me?” He stopped, unable to go on; but she +quickly broke in, “Scandal travels quickly, indeed; but I scarcely thought +your mother was one to aid its journey.” + </p> +<p> +“She never believed it,” said he, doggedly. +</p> +<p> +“Why repeat it, then? Why give bad money currency? I think we had better +join my friend. I see she is impatient.” + </p> +<p> +The coldness with which she spoke chilled him like a wintry blast; but he +rallied soon, and with a vigorous energy said, “My mother no more believed +ill of you than I did; and when I asked you what the slander meant, it was +to know where I could find the man to pay for it.” + </p> +<p> +“You must deny yourself the pleasure this time, Tony,” said she, laughing. +“It was a woman's story,—a disappointed woman,—and so, not so +very blamable as she might be; not but that it was true in fact.” + </p> +<p> +“True, Alice,—true?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir. The inference from it was the only falsehood; but, really, we +have had too much of this. Tell me of yourself,—why are you here? +Where are you now going?” + </p> +<p> +“You 've heard of my exploits as a messenger, I suppose,” said Tony, with +a bitter laugh. +</p> +<p> +“I heard, as we all heard with great sorrow, that you left the service,” + said she, with a hesitation on each word. +</p> +<p> +“Left it? Yes; I left to avoid being kicked out of it I lost my +despatches, and behaved like a fool. Then I tried to turn sailor, but no +skipper would take me; and I <i>did</i> turn clerk, and half ruined the +honest fellow that trusted me. And now I am going—in good truth, +Alice, I don't exactly know where, but it is somewhere in search of a +pursuit to fit a fellow who begins to feel he is fit for nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not thus your friends think of you, Tony,” said she, kindly. +</p> +<p> +“That's the worst of it,” rejoined he, bitterly; “I have all my life been +trying to justify an opinion that never should have been formed of me,—ay, +and that I well knew I had no right to.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, Tony, come back with us. I don't say with me, because I must be +triple discreet for some time to come; but come back with papa; he 'll be +overjoyed to have you with us.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no,” muttered Tony, in a faint whisper; “I could not, I could not.” + </p> +<p> +“Is that old grudge of long ago so deep that time has not filled it up?” + </p> +<p> +“I could not, I could not,” muttered he, evidently not hearing the words +she had just spoken. +</p> +<p> +“And why not, Tony? Just tell me why not?” + </p> +<p> +“Shall I tell you, Alice?” said he; and his lip shook and his cheek grew +pale as he spoke,—“shall I tell you?” + </p> +<p> +She nodded; for she too was moved, and did not trust herself to speak. +</p> +<p> +“Shall I tell you?” said he; and he looked into her eyes with a meaning so +full of love, and yet of sorrow, that her cheek became crimson, and she +turned away in shame. +</p> +<p> +“No, Tony,” whispered she, faintly, “better not say—what might pain +us both, perhaps.” + </p> +<p> +“Enough, if you know,” said he, faintly. +</p> +<p> +“There, see, my friend has lost all patience; come up to the road, Tony. +She must see that my interview has been with an English gentleman, and not +a brigand chief. Give me your arm, and do not look so sulky.” + </p> +<p> +“You women can look any way you will,” mumbled he, “no matter what you may +feel; that is, if you <i>do</i> feel.” + </p> +<p> +“You are the same old savage, Tony, as ever,” said she, laughing. “I never +got my melon, after all, Miss Lester; the sight of an old friend was, +however, better. Let me present him to you,—Mr. Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Tony Butler?” asked she, with a peculiar smile; and though she spoke +it low, he heard her, and said, “Yes; I am Tony Butler.” + </p> +<p> +“Sir Arthur will be charmed to know you are here. It was but yesterday he +said he 'd not mind taking a run through Calabria if we only had you with +us.” + </p> +<p> +“I have said all that and more to him, but he does n't mind it,” said +Alice. +</p> +<p> +“Is this fair, Alice?” whispered he. +</p> +<p> +“In fact,” resumed she, “he has nowhere particular to go to, provided it +be not the same road that we are taking.” + </p> +<p> +“Is this kind, Alice?” whispered he, again. +</p> +<p> +“And though I have told him what pleasure it would give us all if he would +turn back with us—” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll drive me to say it,” muttered he, between his teeth. +</p> +<p> +“If you dare, sir,” said she, in a low but clear whisper; and now she +stepped into the carriage, and affected to busy herself with her mufflers. +Tony assisted Miss Lester to her place, and then walked round to the side +where Alice sat. +</p> +<p> +“You are not angry with me, Alice?” said he, falteringly. +</p> +<p> +“I certainly am not pleased,” said she, coldly. “There was a time I had +not to press a wish,—I had but to utter it.” + </p> +<p> +“And yet, Alice,” said he, leaning over, and whispering so close that she +felt his breath on her face,—“and yet I never loved you then as I +love you now.” + </p> +<p> +“You have determined that I should not repeat my invitation,” said she, +leaning back in the carriage; “I must—I have no help for it—I +must say good-bye!” + </p> +<p> +“Good-bye,” said he, pressing her hand, from which he had just drawn off +the glove, to his lips. She never made any effort to withdraw it, but +leaned forward as though to conceal the action from her companion. +</p> +<p> +“Good-bye, dearest Alice,” said he, once more. +</p> +<p> +“Give me my glove, Tony. I think it has fallen,” said she, carelessly, as +she leaned back once more. +</p> +<p> +“There it is,” muttered he; “but I have another here that I will never +part with;” and he drew forth the glove she had thrown on the strand for +him to pick up—so long ago! +</p> +<p> +“You will see papa, Tony?” said she, drawing down her veil; “you can't +fail to meet him before night. Say you saw us. Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +And Tony stood alone on the mountain, and watched the cloud of dust that +rose behind the carriage, and listened to the heavy tramp of the horses +till the sounds died off in the distance. +</p> +<p> +“Oh if I could trust the whisper at my heart!” cried he. “If I could—if +I could—I 'd be happier than I ever dared to hope for.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER L. THE SOLDIER OF MISFORTUNE +</h2> +<p> +The little flicker of hope—faint enough it was—that cheered up +Tony's heart, served also to indispose him to meet with Lady Lyle; for he +remembered, fresh as though it had been the day before, the sharp lesson +that lady had read him on the “absurd pretensions of certain young +gentlemen with respect to those immeasurably above them in station.” “I am +not in a humor to listen to the second part of the homily, which certainly +would not be the less pointed, seeing that I am a wayfarer on foot, and +with my knapsack strapped behind me.” It gave him no sense of shame that +Alice should have seen him thus poor and humble. He never blushed for his +pack or his hobnailed shoes. If <i>she</i> could not think of him apart +from the accidents of his condition, it mattered very little what he wore +or how he journeyed. And as he cheered himself with these thoughts he +gained a high peak, from which he could see the pine-clad promontory of +Sestri, some thousand feet down below him. He knew the spot from +description, and remembered that it was to be one of his resting-places +for a night. It was no new thing for Tony to strike out his own line +across country—his was a practised eye—to mark the course by +which a certain point was to be reached, and to know, by something like +instinct, where a ravine—where a river must lie—where the +mountain-side would descend too precipitously for human footsteps—where +the shelving decline would admit of a path—all these were his; and +in their exercise he had that sort of pride a man feels in what he deems a +gift. +</p> +<p> +This same pride and his hope together lightened the way, and he went +forward almost happy; so that once or twice he half asked himself if +fortune was not about to turn on him with a kindlier look than she had yet +bestowed? When about a mile from the high-road, a dull rumbling sound, +like far-away thunder, caught his ear: he looked up, and saw the great +massive carriage of the wealthy Sir Arthur rolling ponderously along, with +its six horses, and followed by a dense “wake” of dust for half a mile +behind. “I am glad that we have not met,” muttered he: “I could have +wished to see Bella, and speak to her. She was ever my fast friend; but +that haughty old woman, in the midst of all the pride of her wealth, would +have jarred on me so far that I might have forgotten myself. Why should my +poverty provoke <i>her</i> to slight me? My poverty is mine, just as much +as any malady that might befall me, and whose sufferings I must bear as I +may, and cannot ask another to endure for me. It may try <i>me</i> to +stand up against, but surely it is no burden to her; and why make it seem +as a gulf between us?” Ah, Master Tony! subtler heads than yours have +failed to untie this knot. It was dusk when he reached Sestri, and found +himself in the little vine-clad porch of the “Angelo d' Oro,” a modest +little inn for foot-travellers on the verge of the sea. He ordered his +supper to be served in the open air, under the fresh foliage, and with the +pleasant night-wind gently stirring the leaves. +</p> +<p> +As the landlord arranged the table, he informed Tony that another +traveller had come a short time before, but so ignorant of the language +was he that he was only served by means of signs; and he seemed so poor, +too, that they had scruples about giving him a bed, and were disposed to +let him pass the night under the porch. +</p> +<p> +Tony learned that the traveller had only tasted a glass of wine and a +piece of bread, and then, as if overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, +dropped off asleep. “I will see him,” said he, rising, without partaking +of the soup that was just placed before him; “the poor fellow may perhaps +be ill.” The landlord led the way to the end of the house, where, on a +heap of chestnut leaves, the usual bedding of the cattle in these regions, +a large strongly built man, poorly clad and travel-stained, lay sound +asleep. Tony took the lantern and held it to his face. How was it he knew +the features? He knew them, and yet not the man. He was sure that the +great massive brow and that large strong cheek were not seen by him for +the first time, and though he was sorry to disturb the poor fellow's +slumber, he could not control his impatience to resolve the doubt; and, +stooping down, he shook him gently by the shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“What is it?” cried the man, starting up to a sitting posture; “what is it +now?” + </p> +<p> +“You are a countryman of mine,” said Tony, “and I'm trying to think if we +have not met before.” + </p> +<p> +The man rose to his feet, and, taking the lantern from Tony's hand, held +it up to his face. “Don't you know me, sir,” cried he; “don't you remember +me?” + </p> +<p> +“I do, and I do not,” muttered Tony, still puzzled. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you mind the day, sir, that you was near been run over in London, +and a man pulled you out just as the horses was on top o' you?” + </p> +<p> +“And are you the man? Are you the poor fellow whose bundle I carried off?”—but +he stopped, and, grasping the man's hand, shook it cordially and +affectionately. “By what chance do I find you here?” + </p> +<p> +The man looked about, as if to see that he was not overheard; and Tony, +marking the caution of the gesture, said, “None can understand us here. +Don't be afraid to say what you like; but first of all, come and share my +supper with me.” + </p> +<p> +It was not without a modest reluctance that the poor fellow took his seat +at the table; and, indeed, for some time so overcome was he by the honor +accorded him, that he scarcely ate at all. If Tony Butler was no finished +conversationalist, able to lead the talk of a dinner-table, yet in the +tact that pertains to making intercourse with an inferior easy and +familiar he had not many his equal; and before the meal was finished, he +slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and said, “Rory Quin, here's your +health, and a long life to you!” + </p> +<p> +“How did you know my name, sir?” asked the poor fellow, whose face glowed +with delight at the flattery of such a recognition. +</p> +<p> +“At first I did not trust my memory, Rory, for I wrote it down in a +note-book I have; and after a while I learned to think of you so often, +and to wish I might meet you, that I had no need of the writing. You don't +seem to remember that I am in your debt, my good fellow. I carried off +your bundle, and, what was worse, it fell overboard and was lost.” + </p> +<p> +“It could n't have any but bad luck,” said Rory, thoughtfully; “and maybe +it was just the best thing could happen it.” + </p> +<p> +There was a touch of sorrow in what he said that Tony easily saw; a hidden +grief had been removed, and after a little inducement he led him on to +tell his story; and which, though, narrated in Rory's own words, it +occupied hours, may, happily for my readers, be condensed into a very few +sentences. +</p> +<p> +Rory had been induced, partly by the glorious cause itself, partly through +the glittering promises of personal advancement, to enlist for foreign +service. A certain Major M'Caskey—a man that, as Rory said, would +wile the birds off the trees—came down to the little village he +lived in at the foot of the Galtee Mountains; and there was not one, young +or old, was not ready to follow him. To hear him talk, as Rory described, +was better than a play. There wasn't a part of the world he hadn't seen, +there was n't a great man in it he did n't know; and “what beat all,” as +Rory said, “was the way he had the women on his side.” Not that he was a +fine-looking man, or tall, or handsome,—far from it; he was a little +“crith of a cray-ture,” not above five feet four or five, and with red +whiskers and a beard, and a pair of eyes that seemed on fire; and he had a +way of looking about him as he went, as much as to say, “Where's the man +that wants to quarrel with me? for I'm ready and willin'.” + </p> +<p> +“I won't say,” added Rory, with a touch of humility, “that one like your +honor would have thought so much of him as we did. I won't say that all +the fine people he knew, and all the wonderful things he did, would have +made your honor admire him, as I, and others like me, did. Maybe, indeed, +you 'd have found out it was lies from beginning to end.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not so sure of that,” muttered Tony; “there are plausible fellows of +that sort that take in men of the world every day!” And Tony sat back in +his chair and puffed his cigar in silence, doubtless recalling one such +adept in his own experience. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, I'm proud to hear your honor say that!” cried Rory. “I 'm as glad +as a pound-note to know that even a gentleman might have been 'taken in' +by the Major.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll not go that far, perhaps,” remarked Tony, “as regards your Major; +but I repeat that there are certain fellows of his kind who actually <i>have</i> +imposed on gentlemen,—yes, on gentlemen who were no fools, either. +But how was it he tricked you?” + </p> +<p> +Now were the floodgates of Rory's eloquence thrown open, and for above an +hour did he revel, as only an Irishman or an Italian can, in a narrative +of cruel wrongs and unmerited hardships; sufferings on land and sufferings +at sea; short rations, bad language, and no pay. Rory was to have been an +officer,—a captain, at least; and when they landed at Ancona, he was +marched away hundreds of miles, with a heavy musket, and a heavier pack, +as a common soldier, and given nothing but beans and oil for his food, and +told he 'd be shot if he grumbled. But what he felt most of all was, that +he never knew whose service he was in, and what he was going to fight for. +Now it was the Holy Father,—Rory was ready to die for him and the +Blessed Virgin; now it was the King of Naples and Saint Somebody, whose +name he couldn't remember, and that Rory felt no enthusiasm for. At one +moment he was told the Pope was going to bless the whole battalion, and +sprinkle them with his own hand; and then it was the Queen—and purty +she was, no doubt—was to lead them on, God knows where! “And that's +the way we were living in the mountains for six weeks, and every time they +paraded us—about once a week—there would be thirty or forty +less of us; some gone off to be sailors, some taking to the highway as +robbers, and a few selling whatever they had and making for home. At last +the Major himself came down to inspect us,—he was Colonel then, and +covered with gold, and all over stars and crosses. We were drawn up in a +square of a little town they call Loretto, that has houses on three sides +of it, and a low sea-wall with a drop of about twenty feet to the sea. I +'ll not forget the place to my dying day. +</p> +<p> +“There was four hundred and twenty-seven of us out of two thousand and +sixty,—the rest ran away; and when the Major heard the roll called, +I thought he 'd go out of his mind; and he walked up and down in front of +us, gnashing his teeth and blaspheming as never I heard before. 'Ye +scoundrels,' he said at last, 'you 've disgraced me eternally, and I 'll +go back to the Holy Father and tell him it's curses and not blessings he +'d have to give you.' +</p> +<p> +“This was too much to bear, and I cried out, 'You'd better not!' +</p> +<p> +“'Who says that?' cries he. 'Where 's the cowardly rascal that has n't the +courage to step forward and repeat these words?' and with that I advanced +two paces, and, putting my gun to my shoulder, took a steady aim at him. I +had him covered. If I pulled the trigger, he was a dead man; but I could +n't do it,—no, if I got the whole world for it, I could n't; and do +you know why?—here it is, then: It was the way he stood up, bould +and straight, with one hand on his breast, and the other on the hilt of +his sword, and he cried out, 'Fire! you scoundrel, fire!' Bad luck to me +if I could; but I walked on, covering him all the while, till I got within +ten paces of the wall, and then I threw down my musket, and with a run I +cleared it, and jumped into the sea. He fired both his pistols at me, and +one ball grazed my head; but I dived and swam and dived till he lost sight +of me; and it was half an hour before they got out a boat, and before that +I was snug hiding between the rocks, and so close to him that I could hear +him swearing away like mad. When it was dark I crept out, and made my way +along the shore to Pesaro, and all the way here. Indeed, I had only to say +anywhere I was a deserter, and every one was kind to me. And do you know, +sir, now that it's all over, I'm glad I didn't shoot him in cold blood?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course you are,” said Tony, half sternly. +</p> +<p> +“But if I am,” rejoined the other,—“if I am glad of it, it's a'most +breaking my heart to think I 'm going back to Ireland without a chance of +facing him in a fair fight.” + </p> +<p> +“You could do that, too, if you were so very anxious for it,” said Tony, +gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Do you tell me so? And how, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“Easy enough, Rory. I 'm on my way now to join a set of brave fellows that +are going to fight the very soldiers your Major will be serving with. The +cause that he fights for, I need not tell you, can't be a very good one.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed, it oughtn't,” said Rory, cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“Come along with me, then; if it's only fighting you ask for, there 's a +fellow to lead us on that never balked any one's fancy that way. In four +days from this we can be in the thick of it I don't want to persuade you +in a hurry, Rory. Take a day—take two—three days, if you like, +to think of it.” + </p> +<p> +“I won't take three minutes. I'll follow your honor to the world's end! +and if it gives me a chance to come up with the Major, I 'll bless the +hour I met you.” + </p> +<p> +Tony now told him—somewhat more ambiguously, I 'm afraid, than +consisted with perfect candor—of the cause they were going to fight +for. He made the most of those magical words so powerful to the Celtic +heart,—oppression, cruelty, injustice; he imparted a touch of repeal +to the struggle before them; and when once pressed hard by Rory with the +home question, “Which side is the Holy Father?” he roughly answered, “I +don't think he has much to say to it one way or other.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, I 'm ashamed of myself,” said Rory, flushing up; “and I ought to +know that what's good enough for your honor to fight for is too good for +me.” + </p> +<p> +They drained the last glasses of their flask in pledge of their compact, +and, resolving to keep their resting-time for the sultry heat of the day, +started by the clear starlight for Genoa. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LI. A PIECE OF GOOD TIDINGS +</h2> +<p> +It was about a week after this event when Sam M'Grader received a few +lines from Tony Butler, saying that he was to sail that morning with a +detachment for Garibaldi. They were bound for Marsala, and only hoped that +they might not be caught by the Neapolitan cruisers which were said to +swarm along the coast. “I suppose,” he writes, “there's plenty of 'fight' +amongst us; but we are more picturesque than decent-looking; and an honest +countryman of mine, who has attached himself to my fortunes, tells me in +confidence that 'they 're all heathens, every man of them.' They are +certainly a wild, dare-devil set, whom it will be difficult to reduce to +any discipline, and, I should fear, impossible to restrain from outrage if +occasion offers. We are so crowded that we have only standing-room on +deck, and those below are from time to time relieved in squads, to come up +and breathe a little fresh air. The suffering from heat and thirst was bad +yesterday, but will, perhaps, be less at sea, with a fresh breeze to cool +us. At all events, no one complains. We are the jolliest blackguards in +the world, and going to be killed in a better humor with life than half +the fine gentlemen feel as they wake in the morning to a day of pleasure. +</p> +<p> +“I shall be glad when we put foot on land again; for I own I 'd rather +fight the Neapolitans than live on in such close companionship with my +gallant comrades. If not 'bowled' over, I 'll write to you within a week +or two. Don't forget me.—Yours ever, +</p> +<p> +“Tony Butler.” + </p> +<p> +M'Gruder was carefully plodding his way through this not very legible +document, exploring it with a zeal that vouched for his regard for the +writer, when he was informed that an English gentleman was in the office +inquiring for Mr. Butler. +</p> +<p> +The stranger soon presented himself as a Mr. Culter, of the house of Box +& Culter, solicitors, London, and related that he had been in search +of Mr. Anthony Butler from one end of Europe to the other. “I was first of +all, sir,” said he, “in the wilds of Calabria, and thence I was sent off +to the equally barbarous north of Ireland, where I learned that I must +retrace my steps over the Alps to your house; and now I am told that Mr. +Butler has left this a week ago.” + </p> +<p> +“Your business must have been important to require such activity,” said +M'Gruder, half inquiringly. +</p> +<p> +“Very important, indeed, for Mr. Butler, if I could only meet with him. +Can you give any hint, sir, how that is to be accomplished?” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely think you 'll follow him when I tell you where he has gone,” + said M'Gruder, dryly. “He has gone to join Garibaldi.” + </p> +<p> +“To join Garibaldi!” exclaimed the other. “A man with a landed estate and +thirty-six thousand in the Three per Cents gone off to Garibaldi!” + </p> +<p> +“It is clear we are not talking of the same person. My poor friend had +none olthat wealth you speak of.” + </p> +<p> +“Probably not, sir, when last you saw him; but his uncle, Sir Omerod +Butler, has died, leaving him all he had in the world.” + </p> +<p> +“I never knew he had an uncle. I never heard him speak of a rich +relation.” + </p> +<p> +“There was some family quarrel,—some estrangement, I don't know +what; but when Sir Omerod sent for me to add a codicil to his will, he +expressed a great wish to see his nephew before he died, and sent me off +to Ireland to fetch him to him; but a relapse of his malady occurred the +day after I left him, and he died within a week.” + </p> +<p> +The man of law entered into a minute description of the property to which +Tony was to succeed. There was a small family estate in Ireland, and a +large one in England; there was a considerable funded fortune, and some +scattered moneys in foreign securities; the whole only charged with eight +hundred a-year on the life of a lady no longer young, whom scandal called +not the widow of Sir Omerod Butler. M'Grader paid little attention to +these details; his whole thought was how to apprise Tony of his good-luck,—how +call him back to a world where he had what would make life most enjoyable. +“I take it, sir,” asked he, at last, “that you don't fancy a tour in +Sicily?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing is less in my thoughts, sir. We shall be most proud to act as Mr. +Butler's agents, but I 'm not prepared to expose my life for the agency.” + </p> +<p> +“Then, I think I must go myself. It's clear the poor fellow ought to know +of his good fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect that the Countess Brancaleone, the annuitant I mentioned, will +not send to tell him,” said the lawyer, smiling; “for if Mr. Butler should +get knocked over in this ugly business, she inherits everything, even to +the family plate with the Butler arms.” + </p> +<p> +“She sha'n't, if I can help it,” said M'Gruder, firmly. “I'll set out +to-night.” + </p> +<p> +Mr. Culter passed a warm eulogium on this heroic devotion, enlarged on the +beauty of friendship in general, and concluded by saying he would step +over to his hotel, where he had ordered dinner; after which he would +certainly drink Mr. M'Grader's health. +</p> +<p> +“I shall want some details from you,” said M'Grader,—“something +written and formal,—to assure my friend that my tidings are +trustworthy. I know it will be no easy task to persuade him that he is a +man of fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“You shall have all you require, sir,—a copy of the will, a formal +letter from our house, reciting details of the property, and, what will +perhaps impart the speediest conviction of all, a letter of credit, in Mr. +Butler's favor, for five hundred pounds for immediate use. These are the +sort of proofs that no scepticism is strong enough to resist. The only +thing that never jests, whose seriousness is above all levity, is money;” + and so M'Grader at once acknowledged that when he could go fortified with +such testimonies, he defied all doubt. +</p> +<p> +His preparations for departure were soon made. A short letter to his +brother explained the cause of his sudden leaving; a longer one to Dolly +told how, in his love for her, he could not do enough for her friend; and +that, though he liked Tony well for his own sake, he liked him far more as +the “adopted brother and old playfellow of his dearest Dolly.” Poor +fellow! he wrote this from a full heart, and a very honest one too. +Whether it imparted all the pleasure he hoped it might to her who read it, +is none of our province to tell. It is only ours to record that he started +that night for Genoa, obtained from a friend—a subordinate in the +Government employment—a letter to Garibaldi himself, and sailed with +an agent of the General's in charge of a supply of small-arms and +ammunition. +</p> +<p> +They were within thirty miles of Sicily when they were boarded by the +Neapolitan corvette the “Veloce,” and carried off prisoners to Palermo,—the +one solitary capture the royal navy made in the whole of that eventful +struggle. +</p> +<p> +The proofs that they were Garibaldians were too strong and many for +denial; and for a day and a half their fate was far from hopeful. Indeed, +had the tidings of the first encounters between the King's forces and the +buccaneers been less disastrous than they were, the prisoners would have +been shot; but already a half doubt had arisen as to the fidelity of the +royal troops. This and that general, it was rumored, had resigned; and of +those who remained, it was said, more than one had counselled +“concessions.” Ominous word at such a moment, but the presage of something +darker and more ominous still. +</p> +<p> +M'Gruder bore up with a stout heart, and nothing grieved him in all his +calamity more than the thought that all this time Tony might be exposing +his life as worthless and hopeless, while, if he only knew it, he had +already succeeded to what men are content to pass their whole existence to +grasp and gain. +</p> +<p> +Nor was he inactive in his imprisonment He wrote letters to Garibaldi, +enclosing others to Tony; he wrote to all the consuls he could think of; +to the Minister at Naples, or to his representative; and he proclaimed his +right as a “civis Romanus,” and threatened a Palmerstonian vengeance on +all and every that had a hand in curtailing his freedom. +</p> +<p> +In this very natural and British pursuit we must now leave him, and betake +ourselves to other cares and other characters. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LII. ON THE CHIAJA AT NIGHT +</h2> +<p> +The night had just closed in after a hot sultry day of autumn in Naples, +as Maitland and Caffarelli sat on the sea-wall of the Chiaja, smoking +their cigars in silence, apparently deep in thought, or sometimes startled +by the distant shouts and cries of the populace who crammed the Toledo or +the Quarter of St Lucia; for all Naples was now in the streets, and wild +songs and yells resounded on every side. +</p> +<p> +In the bay the fleet lay at anchor; but the rapid flash of lanterns, as +they rose and fell in the riggings, showed that the signalman was at work, +and that messages were being transmitted and replied to throughout the +squadron. A like activity seemed to prevail in the forts above the city, +and the roll of the drum and the bugle-call occasionally could be heard +overtopping all other sounds. +</p> +<p> +“What would a newly come traveller say to all this?” said Caffarelli, at +last. “Would he think it was a city about to be attacked by an enemy, or +would he deem it a town in open revolt, or one given up to pillage after +the assault? I have seen to-night what might confirm any of these +impressions.” + </p> +<p> +“And all three are present,” said Maitland, moodily. “Your traveller could +scarcely be more puzzled than we are.” + </p> +<p> +The other sighed wearily, and Maitland went on. “What do you trust, or +whom? Is it those noisy legions up there, who only muster to disband; or +that gallant fleet that has come to anchor, only the more easily to +surrender and change its flag?” + </p> +<p> +“There may be some traitors, but the great majority, I 'll swear, will +stand by the King.” + </p> +<p> +“No; not one in fifty,—not one in a hundred. You don't seem to +apprehend that loyalty is not a sudden instinct. It is a thing a man +inherits. Take my word for it, Carlo, these men will not fight to keep a +certain set of priests around a bigoted old Queen, or support a King whose +highest ambition is to be a Jesuit.” + </p> +<p> +“And if you thought so meanly of the cause, why have you adopted it?” + </p> +<p> +“Because, ill as I think of the Court, I hate the rabble more. Remember, +Carlo,”—and now he spoke in a rapid and marked tone,—“remember +that, when I joined you, I deemed myself a rich man, and I had my +ambitions, like the rest of you. Had I known what I now know,—had I +foreseen that the day was so near wherein I was to find myself a beggar—” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, Maitland; don't say this.” + </p> +<p> +“And why not say it? It is true. You know as well as I do, that amongst +that yelling rabble there is none poorer than myself; and for this reason, +I repeat, I might have chosen my associates more wisely. You yourself saw +the treatment I met with this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but bear in mind, Maitland, what was the provocation you gave. It is +no small thing to tell a king, surrounded by his ministers and generals, +that he has not one loyal and true man in his train; that, what between +treachery and cowardice, he will find himself alone, at the head of a few +foreign regiments, who will only fight to cut their way through towards +home.” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely went so far as this,” said Maitland, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Did you not, <i>per Bacco!</i> I was there and heard you. You accused +Laguila to his face of being bought, and named the sum; and you told +Cadorno that you had a copy of his letter promising to surrender the +flag-ship to Garibaldi.” + </p> +<p> +“And they listened to me with an admirable patience.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know that; I am certain Cadorno will send you a message before +the week is over.” + </p> +<p> +“And why not before the day was over? Are these accusations a man sleeps +upon?” + </p> +<p> +“The King commanded them both to reply to your charges formally and +distinctly, but not with the sword; and he was right so far.” + </p> +<p> +“At all events, was it kingly to tell me of the favors that had been +bestowed upon me, and to remind me that I was an alien, and unknown?” + </p> +<p> +“The King was angry.” + </p> +<p> +“He was angrier when I handed him back his patent, and told him that I did +not care to be the last-made noble of a dynasty.” + </p> +<p> +“It was outrageous, I was shocked to hear you; and for one so young, I was +struck with the dignity with which he heard you.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think he understood me; he was impassive because he did not know +he was wounded. But why do I talk of these things? They have no longer the +faintest interest for me. Except yourself, there is not a man in the cause +I care for.” + </p> +<p> +“This is a mere passing depression, my dear Maitland. All things seem +sad-colored to you now. Wait till tomorrow, or wait till there be a moment +of danger, and you will be yourself again.” + </p> +<p> +“As for that,” said Maitland, bitterly, “I am terribly myself just now. +The last eight or ten years of my life were the dream; now is the +awakenment. But cheer up, my old friend. I will stand by <i>you</i>, +though I care very little for the cause you fight for. I will still serve +on the Staff, and play out my part to the fall of the curtain.” + </p> +<p> +“What a strange scene that council was this morning!” said Caffarelli, +half wishing to draw him from the personal theme. +</p> +<p> +“What a strange thing to call a council, where not merely men walked in +and out unbidden, but where a chance traveller could sit down amongst the +King's advisers, and give his opinion like a servant of the crown! Do you +even know his name?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not sure that I do; but it sounded like Tchernicheff. He +distinguished himself against the Turks on the Danube.” + </p> +<p> +“And because he routed some ill-disciplined hordes with others a mere +shade more civilized, he comes here to impose his opinion on our councils, +and tell us how we are to defend ourselves!” + </p> +<p> +“I did not hear him utter a word.” + </p> +<p> +“No, but he handed in a paper drawn up by himself, in which he recommends +the King to withdraw all the forces in front of Capua, and meet these +marauders, where they will less like to fight, in the open. The advice was +good, even though it came from a barbarian. In street-fighting your +buccaneer is as good as, if not better than, a regular. All the +circumstances of the ground favor him. Take him, however, where he must +move and manouvre,—where he will have to form and re-form, to dress +his line under fire, and occasionally change his flank,—then all the +odds will be against him. So far the Scythian spoke well. His only +miscalculation was to suppose that we will fight anywhere.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare, Maitland, I shall lose temper with you. You can't surely know +what insulting things you say.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish they could provoke any other than yourself, <i>mio caro</i>. But +come away from this. Let us walk back again. I want to have one more look +at those windows before I go.” + </p> +<p> +“And are you really in love?” asked the other, with more of astonishment +in his voice than curiosity. +</p> +<p> +“I wish I knew how to make <i>her</i> believe it, that's all,” said he, +sadly; and, drawing his arm within his friend's, moved on with bent-down +head and in silence. +</p> +<p> +“I think your friends are about the only travellers in Naples at this +moment, and, indeed, none but English would come here at such a season. +The dog-days and the revolution together ought to be too much even for +tourist curiosity.” + </p> +<p> +Caffarelli went on to describe the arrival of the three heavy-laden +carriages with their ponderous baggage and their crowd of servants, and +the astonishment of the landlord at such an apparition; but Maitland paid +him no attention,—perhaps did not even hear him. +</p> +<p> +Twice or thrice Caffarelli said something to arouse notice Or attract +curiosity, even to pique irritability, as when he said: “I suppose I must +have seen your beauty, for I saw two,—and both good-looking,—but +neither such as would drive a man distracted out of pure admiration. Are +you minding me? Are you listening to me?” + </p> +<p> +“No, I have not heard one word you were saying.” + </p> +<p> +“Civil, certainly; but, seriously, Maitland, is there not something more +pressing to do at this moment than to loiter along the Chiaja to catch a +glimpse of the closed curtains within which some blond angel may be taking +her tea?” + </p> +<p> +“Go home, and I will join you later on. I have given orders about the +horses. My man will have all in readiness by daybreak. You seem to me most +terribly eager to have your head smashed. The King ought to reward your +valor. It will be the only 'Cross' he will have to bestow.” + </p> +<p> +Caffarelli turned impatiently from him, and walked away. +</p> +<p> +Maitland looked after him for a moment, and then continued his way. He +sauntered on, rather like one seeking to kill time than to reach a goal, +and once or twice he stopped, and seemed to reflect whether he would go +on. At last he reached a spot where a broad path of light streamed across +the street, and extended till it was lost in the thick foliage-of the +garden on the sea-side, and, looking suddenly up, he saw he was in front +of the great hotel of Naples, “L'Universo.” The drawing-room windows were +open on a long balcony, and Maitland could see in the well-lighted room +certain figures which he persuaded himself he could recognize even through +the muslin curtains, which slightly moved and waved in the faint +night-air. As he still strained his eyes to mark the scene, two figures +approached the window, and passed out upon the balcony. There could be no +mistake,—they were Alice and her sister; and so perfect was the +stillness of the air, and so thin withal, that he could hear the sound of +their voices, though not trace their words. +</p> +<p> +“Is it not delicious here, Alice?” said Bella. “These are the glorious +nights of Italy Maitland used to tell us of,—so calm, so balmy, and +so starry.” + </p> +<p> +“What was that Skeffy was saying to you about Maitland as you came +upstairs?” asked Alice, sharply. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, it was a rumor he mentioned that Maitland had quarrelled with the +Court party. He had advised something, or rejected something; in fact, I +paid little attention, for I know nothing of these Italian plots and +schemes, and I like Maitland much better when he does not speak of them.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he here now, do you know?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; Skeff said he saw him this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope and pray he may not hear that we have arrived. I trust that we may +not see him.” + </p> +<p> +“And why so, Alice dearest?” + </p> +<p> +“Can you ask me?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean, why not receive him on the terms of an easy intimacy? A person of +his tact is always quick enough to appreciate the exact amount of favor he +is held in.” + </p> +<p> +“It is of myself I am thinking,—not of him,” said she, with +something of resentment in her tone. +</p> +<p> +“If you speak this way, Alice, I shall believe that you care for him.” + </p> +<p> +“The greater mistake yours, my dear Bella.” + </p> +<p> +“Well—that you did once care for him, and regret the fact, or regret +the change,—which is it?” + </p> +<p> +“Neither, on my honor! He interested me,—I own to that; but now that +I know his mystery, and what a vulgar mystery it is, I am half ashamed +that I even felt an interest in him.” + </p> +<p> +“Gossip would say you did more, Alice,—that you gave him +encouragement.” + </p> +<p> +“What an odious word you have impressed into your service! but I deny it; +nor was he one to want it. Your adventurer never does.” + </p> +<p> +“Adventurer!” + </p> +<p> +“I mean it in its least offensive sense; but, really, I see no reason why +this man's name is to persecute me. I left Ireland half to avoid it. I +certainly need not encounter it here.” + </p> +<p> +“And if you meet him?” + </p> +<p> +“I shall not meet him. I don't intend to go out so long as we are here, +and I trust I can refuse to receive him when at home.” + </p> +<p> +“I had almost said, Poor fellow!” + </p> +<p> +“Say it, by all means; compassionate—console him, too, if Skeff has +no objection.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Alice!” + </p> +<p> +“Your own fault, Bella, if I say provoking things. No, mamma,” added she, +to some remark from within; “our secrets, as you call them, cannot be +overheard; for, first of all, we are talking English; and secondly, there +is no person whatever in the street.” + </p> +<p> +Lady Lyle now made her appearance on the balcony, and soon afterwards they +all re-entered the room. Maitland sat hours long on the stone bench, +watching with intense eagerness as a shadow would pass or repass behind +the curtains, and there he remained till all the lights were out in the +hotel and the whole house sunk in silence. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LIII. UNPLEASANT RECKONINGS +</h2> +<p> +There were few busier diplomatists in Europe during these eventful days of +Naples than Skeffington Darner; and if England had not her share of +influence, it was no fault of his. He sent off special messengers every +day. He wrote to F. O. in a cipher, of which it was said no one had the +key; and he telegraphed in mystical language to the Admiral at Malta, +which went far to persuade the gallant seaman that his correspondent was a +maniac. He besieged the Court and the ministerial offices, and went home +to receive deputations from the wildest leaders of the extreme democracy. +He was determined, as he said, to “know the truth,” and he surrounded +himself for that purpose with a mass of inextricable perfidy and +falsehood; and yet, with all these occupations, he passed his entire +mornings with the Lyles, and dined with them every day. +</p> +<p> +It was a great pleasure, as Sir Arthur said, to be “behind the scenes;” + and really the phrase did not ill represent their position, for they knew +as much of what was going on upon the stage as people usually do who have +only an occasional glimpse, and that from a wrong point of view. Sir +Arthur, however, believed Skeffy to be the rising diplomatist, the embryo +Talleyrand of Great Britain; and it was strange to see an old, crafty, +case-hardened man of the world listening with implicit trustfulness to the +hare-brained speculations of a young fellow, whose solitary pretensions +were, that he sent off his daily balderdash marked “On Her Majesty's +Service,” and sealed with the royal arms. +</p> +<p> +Lady Lyle only half believed in him; and as for Alice, she laughed at, but +liked him; while Bella gave him all her confidence, and admired him +greatly. And a very nice thing it is of young ladies, and never to be too +much commended, how they will hang on the words, and store up the sayings, +and repeat the opinions of the man who prefers them. It is not exactly +Love, no more than gooseberry wine is champagne; but it effervesces and +exhilarates, and I 'm not sure if it does not agree very well with weak +constitutions. +</p> +<p> +Now Skeffy told Bella every morning in the most mysterious manner how he +had checkmated Bresson, the French Minister, and outwitted Caraffa and the +Cardinal Riario. They never could make out whence he had his information. +The Queen had spent a fortune in paying spies to watch him, but he +out-manoeuvred them all. Nobody knew—nobody ever could know—the +resources of his craft; and, indeed, except Louis Napoleon, there was not +a man in Europe had fathomed the depth of his astuteness. “I have to +pretend,” would he say, “to be a light, flippant, volatile creature, given +up to pleasure, fond of play, of the ballet, and all that sort of thing. I +let them bear every day of the sums I have lost at lansquenet, and the +enormous extravagance of my daily life, but they don't know what goes on +here,” and he would tap his forehead; “they never suspect what plots and +plans and machinations are at work within that brain they imagine to be +abandoned to enjoyment. It will come out one of these days, dearest Bella; +they'll know who 'did it' yet.” And this was a very favorite phrase with +him, and Bella caught it up, and talked of the people who had not “done +it,” and never could “do it,” and hinted at one whom an ignorant world +would awake one morning to see had “done it,” and “done it” to perfection. +</p> +<p> +To hear him talk, you would say that he rather liked the mistaken estimate +the world had formed of him; that it was one of those excellent jokes +whose point lay in a surprise; and what a surprise would that be one of +these days when he came forth in his true character, the great political +genius of Europe! Bella believed it all; not that she was deficient in +common sense, or wanting in discernment; but she liked him,—there +was the secret. She had made her investment in a certain stock, and would +persist in regarding it as a most profitable venture; and thus would they +pass their mornings,—a strange way to make love, perhaps; but that +passion, etherealize it how you may, trades on some one form or other of +selfishness; and all these endearments were blended with the thought of +how happy they should be when they were great people. +</p> +<p> +Skeffy would bring with him, besides, a whole bagful of papers, +despatches, and “private and confidentials,” and such-like, and make Bella +copy out pages for him of that dreary trash, which, like a bad tapestry, +has served no other purpose than to employ the small mind that devised it. +And he would sit there, with his eyes closed, and dictate to her endless +“brief glances” at the present aspect of the Italian question, till the +poor girl was half worn out between the importance of her task and its +weariness. +</p> +<p> +“What's that you are poring over, Bella?” he asked, as she read over a +somewhat lengthy letter. +</p> +<p> +“It is the complaint of an Englishman at being detained by the +authorities, first at Palermo and again here: he was a mere traveller, he +asserts, and not in any way engaged in political schemes. He says that +this is his fourth appeal to you without an answer, and he declares that +if this be not replied to, he will address the Chief Secretary at home.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell the fellow that a Darner is inaccessible to a menace; tell him that +his stupid letter would be promptly referred back to me; and say that, so +far as this peninsula is concerned, I am F. O., and to be propitiated by +humility, and not outraged by a threat.” + </p> +<p> +“But if it be really true—if the poor fellow should be imprisoned +for nothing, Skeff?” + </p> +<p> +“If so, I shall liberate him;” and as he spoke, he arose and walked the +room with a haughty stride and a head erect “Write— +</p> +<p> +“'Sir,—I am directed by H. M.'s Chargé d'Affaires'—or rather +say, 'The undersigned has to acknowledge the receipt of'—what's his +name?” + </p> +<p> +“Samuel M'Gruder.” + </p> +<p> +“What a name!—'of Samuel M'Gruder's letter; and although he takes +exception to the passages marked A and B, and requires explanation of the +paragraph C, beginning at the words “nor can I,” and ending at “British +subject”'—You 'll have to copy out the whole of this despatch, +Bella, and then I shall mark the passages—Where was I?” + </p> +<p> +“'British subject.'” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I remember. 'Yet that, conceding much to the feelings '—no, +that is too familiar—'making allowances for an irritability—'” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think you can say that, Skeff. He has now been seven weeks in +confinement.” + </p> +<p> +“'Lucky dog that he has not been seven weeks worked almost to a skeleton, +like me, with the cares of a whole nation on my head, and the eyes of +Europe upon me.” + </p> +<p> +“Just let me say that you will look into his case, and do your best to get +him out of prison.” + </p> +<p> +“With all my heart. It is fearfully undignified; but let it go, and I'll +send off a messenger to the Prefetto Lanzi to deliver up the prisoner +M'Gruder to me to-morrow morning, and we will interrogate him here.” + </p> +<p> +The roll of a drum was now heard in the street without, and from the +balcony could be seen an immense crowd of people moving in front of an +infantry regiment, who marched past, travel-stained and disordered, and +with an indescribable something in their air that indicated, it might be +defeat, it might be disaffection. +</p> +<p> +“Here's strange news,” said Sir Arthur, as he joined them. “The landlord +tells me Garibaldi has landed in Calabria, near Reggio, beaten the royal +troops, and is in full march on Naples. The regiment that you see there +were ordered off to reinforce the advanced guard, but cried out, 'Viva +Garibaldi!' and have been now recalled, and are to be sent into the +fortress.” + </p> +<p> +“Look!” cried Skeff; “here comes the Artillery after them, a strong proof +that they don't trust these fellows. Bella, I must write off the news at +once.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me first finish about M'Gruder,” said she, as she sat down to the +table. +</p> +<p> +“I wish we were all safe back in England,” said Lady Lyle, as she came up. +</p> +<p> +“I was just thinking the very same thing,” said Sir Arthur. +</p> +<p> +“Have no fears,” interposed Skeffy; “I shall order up the fleet from +Malta. You shall have a frigate—a line-of-battle ship, if you like +it better.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd much rather we had post-horses and an escort,” said Lady Lyle. +</p> +<p> +“Would that be possible, Darner?” + </p> +<p> +“All is possible, Sir Arthur, to power properly exercised. I 'll go down +at once to the War Office, and see what can be done.” + </p> +<p> +“If it were perfectly safe,” said Bella, “I should like to drive through +the streets and see what is going on; and as Alice refuses to go out, we +are just enough for one carriage.” The project was agreed to, all the more +readily that Skeff assured them his presence was au aegis that all parties +would know how to respect; he was, in fact, as he put it, a sort of +emblematized British lion, who with folded paws was about to take an +airing for his own amusement. +</p> +<p> +“As we drive along,” whispered he to Bella, “just watch the recognitions +fellows will throw me,—a look, a gesture, a sign, scarcely +perceptible, but enough to say, 'Your Excellency may depend upon us.'” + </p> +<p> +And Bella felt a certain elation at the thought that she was the chosen +one of a man so eminent and so distinguished. And, oh dear, let us not be +severe upon her for it! If we could not make occasional swans of our geese +in this life, we should be very ill off in matters of ornithology. Away +they drove down the Chiaja and up the Toledo, where, amidst wild yells and +cries for the King, and at times for Garibaldi, a dense mass of people +surged and swayed like a mighty monster awaking out of slumber and +arousing to deeds of violence. +</p> +<p> +The populace seemed intoxicated, but not with wine or with joy, but a sort +of dare-devil recklessness which sought something—anything—to +vent its passion upon. Lines of men linked arm in arm, and, filling the +full breadth of the street, marched rapidly on, chanting wild songs; and +it was strange to mark in these the old gray-headed feeble man coupled +with the stalwart youth, or, perhaps, the mere boy. Here and there were +groups listening to some street-orator, now greeting his words with a +cheer, now with a burst of vociferous laughter; and through all these went +other men, busily, eagerly whispering to this, conferring with that, now +exerting every effort of persuasiveness, now seeming to employ incentives +to vengeance. +</p> +<p> +Except the carriage where sat the Lyles, not another vehicle of any kind +was to be seen; and as the horses moved slowly along through the dense +crowd, many a rude jest and droll comment was passed upon the <i>matti +Inglesi</i>,—the mad English,—who had taken such a time and +place for a carriage airing. Nor was the courage of the act unrecognized, +and twice or thrice a wild cheer proclaimed what they thought of a nation +whose very ladies were above all fear and timidity. +</p> +<p> +The most striking, feature in all this tumult was that soldiers were seen +everywhere mixed up with the civilians; not merely furloughed men in +undress, but soldiers in full uniform and perfectly armed, but yet +displaying, sometimes ostentatiously, by the way they carried their +shakoes or their bayonets, or wore their coats open and unbuttoned, that +they no longer respected the claims of discipline. +</p> +<p> +Patrols on foot or horseback would be met, too; but the men, under no +restraint, would not only exchange words of greeting with the mob, but +accept offers of wine or cigars; and it was seen that the officers were +either powerless to prevent or unwilling to curb this indiscipline. +</p> +<p> +“What does all this portend, Damer?” asked Sir Arthur. “We hear cheers for +the King; but all I see seems to threaten his downfall.” + </p> +<p> +Skeffy was puzzled, and a wiser man might have been puzzled; but his +diplomatic instincts forbade such a humiliating avowal, and so he merely +muttered something to the purport that “We” had not fully determined what +was to be the issue; and that till “We” had made up our minds, all these +signs and portents were mere street-noises. +</p> +<p> +If I am not perfectly just to him in this rendering of his explanation, I +am, at least, merciful to my reader; and, leaving the party to follow out +the exploration, I shall return to the drawing-room they had just quitted, +and where Alice now sat alone, and deep in thought The yells and cries +that filled the street outside, and the continual uproar that resounded +through the city, were all unheeded by her; and so immersed was she in her +reflection, that when a servant entered the room to present the card of a +visitor, she was unaware of his presence till he had twice addressed her. +</p> +<p> +“It cannot be for us,” said she, looking at the name. “I do not know the +Count d'Amalfi.” + </p> +<p> +“He hopes to be better remembered as Mr. Maitland,” said that gentleman, +as, pushing wide the half-opened door, he approached her and made a low +bow. +</p> +<p> +The servant had time to retire and shut the door before Alice had +sufficiently recovered herself to ask Maitland to be seated. So coldly was +the request conveyed, however, that if he was not determined on having an +interview, he would have affected to make his call an offer of some sort +of attention, and taken his leave almost on the instant Far different were +his present intentions; and as he deposited his hat and cane, and took his +place in front of her, there was a methodical slowness that indicated +purpose. +</p> +<p> +“I am almost afraid to tell you, Mr. Maitland,” she began, “that I gave +orders to be denied to all visitors. They have all gone out to drive, and—” + </p> +<p> +“It was for that reason that I took this opportunity to call, madam,” said +he, very quietly, but in a tone of some decision. “I desired to see you +all alone.” + </p> +<p> +“Not, surely, if you were aware that I did not receive?” + </p> +<p> +“Do not oblige me to convict myself, Mrs. Trafford; for I, too, shall be +almost afraid to tell the truth;” and a very faint smile moved his mouth +as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“But, as I conjecture, you would like to meet my father—” + </p> +<p> +“My visit at present is for you,” said he, interrupting; “and as I cannot +assure myself how long the opportunity may last, let me profit by it.” + </p> +<p> +She became very pale; some fear she certainly felt; but there was more of +anger than fear in the thought that this man was, by his manner, almost +asserting a right to see and speak with her. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Maitland is too accomplished a man of the world to need being told +that, when a person has declared an indisposition to receive, it is +usually deemed enough to secure privacy.” + </p> +<p> +“Usually,—yes; but there are occasions which are not in this +category.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you mean to say this is one of them, sir?” said she, haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“Most certainly, madam, this is one of them!” As Mait-land said this, he +saw the color mount to her face; and he saw, too, how, now that her proud +spirit was, as it were, challenged, she would not think of retreat, but +brave him, whatever might come of it. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said she, with a scornful laugh,—“indeed!” and the last +syllable was drawn out in an accent of most insolent irony. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, madam,” he continued, in a tone perfectly calm and un impassioned; +“our last relations together fully warrant me to say so much; and however +presumptuous it might have been in me to aspire as I did, the gracious +favor with which I was listened to seemed to plead for me.” + </p> +<p> +“What favor do you speak of, sir?” said she, with evident agitation. +</p> +<p> +“I must not risk the faint hope that remains to me, by recalling what you +may not wish to remember; but I may at least ask you to bring to mind a +certain evening—a certain night—when we walked together in the +garden at Tilney.” + </p> +<p> +“I do not think I am likely to forget it, sir; some anonymous slanderer +has made it the pretext of a most insolent calumny. I do not, I need not +say, connect you in any way with this base scandal; but it is enough to +make the incident the reverse of a pleasant memory.” + </p> +<p> +“And yet it was the happiest of my whole life.” + </p> +<p> +“It is unfortunate, sir, that we should look back to an event with +feelings so diametrically opposite.” + </p> +<p> +Maitland gave no heed to the irony of her tone, but went on: “If I was +conscious of my own unworthiness, I had certain things in my favor which +served to give me courage,—not the least of these was your brother's +friendship.” + </p> +<p> +“Mark was always proud of being Mr. Maitland's friend,” said she, rather +touched by this haughty man's humility. +</p> +<p> +“That friendship became very precious to me when I knew his sister. +Indeed, from that hour I loved him as a brother.” + </p> +<p> +“Forgive me, sir, if I interrupt you. At the time to which you allude we +would seem to have been living in a perfect realm of misconceptions. +Surely it is not necessary to revive them; surely, now that we have awoke, +we need not take up the clew of a dream to assist our reflections.” + </p> +<p> +“What may be the misconceptions you refer to?” said he, with a voice much +shaken and agitated. +</p> +<p> +“One was, it would appear, that Mr. Maitland made me certain professions. +Another, that he was—that he had—that is, that he held—I +cannot say it, sir; and I beg you to spare me what a rash temper might +possibly provoke me to utter.” + </p> +<p> +“Say all that you will; I loved you, Alice.” + </p> +<p> +“You will force me to leave you, sir, if you thus forget yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“I loved you, and I love you still. Do not go, I beg, I implore you. As +the proof of how I love you, I declare that I know all that you have heard +of me, all that you have said of me,—every harsh and cruel word. Ay, +Alice, I have read them as your hand traced them, and through all, I love +you.” + </p> +<p> +“I will not stoop to ask how, sir; but I will say that the avowal has not +raised you in my estimation.” + </p> +<p> +“If I have not your love, I will never ask for your esteem; I wanted your +affection as a man wants that which would make his life a reality. I could +have worked for you; I could have braved scores of things I have ever +shrunk from; and I had a right to it.” + </p> +<p> +“A right!—what right?” + </p> +<p> +“The right of him who loved as I did, and was as ready to prove his love. +The man who has done what I have is no adventurer, though that fair hand +wrote him one. Remember that, madam; and remember that you are in a land +where men accept no such slights as this you would pass upon me.” His eyes +glared with passion as he spoke, and his dark cheeks grew purple. “You are +not without those who must answer for your levity.” + </p> +<p> +“Now, sir, I leave you,” said she, rising. +</p> +<p> +“Not yet. You shall hear me out. I know why you have treated me thus +falsely. I am aware who is my rival.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me pass, sir.” + </p> +<p> +He placed his back to the door, and folded his arms on his breast; but +though he made an immense effort to seem calm, his lip shook as he spoke. +“You shall hear me out. I tell you, I know my rival, and I am ready and +prepared to stake my pretensions against his.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on, sir, go on; very little more in this strain will efface any memory +I preserved of what you first appeared to me.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Alice!” cried he, in a voice of deep anguish. “It is despair has +brought me to this. When I came, I thought I could have spoken with calm +and self-restraint; but when I saw you—saw what I once believed +might have been mine—I forgot all—all but my misery.” + </p> +<p> +“Suffer me to pass out, sir,” said she, coldly. He moved back, and opened +the door wide, and held it thus as she swept past him, without a word or a +look. +</p> +<p> +Maitland pressed his hat deep over his brow, and descended the stairs +slowly, one by one. A carriage drove to the door as he reached it, and his +friend Caffarelli sprang out and grasped his hand. +</p> +<p> +“Come quickly, Maitland!” cried he. “The King has left the palace. The +army is moving out of Naples to take up a position at Capua. All goes +badly. The fleet is wavering, and Garibaldi passed last night at Salerno.” + </p> +<p> +“And what do I care for all this? Let me pass.” + </p> +<p> +“Care for it! It is life or death, <i>caro mio!</i> In two hours more the +populace will tear in pieces such men as you and myself, if we 're found +here. Listen to those yells, <i>Morte ai Reali!</i> Is it with 'Death to +the Royalists!' ringing in our ears we are to linger here?” + </p> +<p> +“This is as good a spot to die in as another,” said Maitland; and he +lighted his cigar and sat down on the stone bench beside the door. +</p> +<p> +“The Twenty-fifth of the Line are in open revolt, and the last words of +the King were, 'Give them to Maitland, and let him deal with them.'” + </p> +<p> +Maitland shrugged his shoulders, and smoked on. +</p> +<p> +“Genario has hoisted the cross of Savoy over the fort at Baia,” continued +the other, “and no one can determine what is to be done. They all say, +'Ask Maitland.'” + </p> +<p> +“Imitate him! Do the same over the Royal Palace!” said the other, +mockingly. +</p> +<p> +“There, there! Listen to that cry! The mob are pouring down the Chiaja. +Come away.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us look at the scoundrels,” said Maitland, taking his friend's arm, +and moving into the street Caffarelli pushed and half lifted him into the +carriage, and they drove off at speed. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LIV. SKEFF DAMER TESTED +</h2> +<p> +When the Lyles returned from their drive, it was to find that Alice was +too ill to come down to dinner. She had, she said, a severe headache, and +wished to be left perfectly quiet and alone. This was a sore +disappointment to Bella, brimful of all she had seen and heard, and +burning with impatience to impart how Skeffy had been sent for by the +King, and what he said to his Majesty, and how the royal plans had been +modified by his sage words; and, in fact, that the fate of the Neapolitan +kingdom was at that moment in the hands of that “gifted creature.” + </p> +<p> +It was such she called him; and I beg my kind reader not to think the less +of her that she so magnified her idol. The happiest days of our lives are +the least real, just as the evils which never befall us are the greatest. +</p> +<p> +Bella was sincerely sorry for her sister's headache; but with all that, +she kept stealing every now and then into her room to tell what Skeff said +to Caraffa, and the immense effect it produced. “And then, dearest,” she +went on, “we have really done a great deal to-day. We have sent off three +'formal despatches,' and two 'confidential,' and Skeff has told my Lord +B., Secretary of State though he be, a piece of his mind,—he does +write so ably when he is roused; and he has declared that he will not +carry out his late instructions. Few men would have had courage to say +that; but they know that, if Skeff liked, he has only to go into +Parliament: there are scores of boroughs actually fighting for him; he +would be positively terrible in opposition.” + </p> +<p> +A deep wearied sigh was all Alice's response. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, dearest, I 'm sure I am tiring you; but I must tell how we liberated +Mr. M'Gruder. He has been, he says, fifty-three days in prison, and really +he looks wretched. I might have felt more for the man, but for the cold +good-for-nothing way he took all Skeff's kindness. Instead of bursting +with gratitude, and calling him his deliverer, all he said was, 'Well, +sir, I think it was high time to have done this, which, for aught I see, +might just as easily have been done three or, perhaps, four weeks ago.' +Skeff was magnificent; he only waved his hand, and said, 'Go; you are +free!' 'I know that well enough,' said he, in the same sturdy voice; 'and +I intend to make use of my freedom to let the British people know how I +have been treated. You 'll see honorable mention of it all, and yourself, +too, in the “Times,” before ten days are over.'” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Bella, my head is racking; would you just wet that handkerchief +and lay it on my forehead?” + </p> +<p> +“My poor sweet Alice! and I so cruel, with all my stupid stories; but I +thought you 'd like to hear about Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“Tony!—what of Tony?” asked she, raising herself on one elbow and +looking up. +</p> +<p> +“Well, dearest, it was while in search after Tony that M'Grader got +imprisoned. They were sworn friends, it seems. You know, dear, Tony was +never very particular in his choice of friends.” + </p> +<p> +“But what of him,—where is he?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll tell you everything, if you'll only have a little patience. Tony, +who was living with M'Grader in Leghorn,—a partner, I think, in some +odious traffic,—cast-off clothes, I believe,—grew tired of it, +or got into debt, or did something that brought him into trouble, and he +ran away and joined that mad creature Garibaldi.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, go on.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, he had not been gone more than ten days or so, when a lawyer came +out from England to say that his uncle, Sir Somebody Butler, had died and +left him all he had,—a fine estate, and I don't know how much money. +When Mr. M'Grader was quite satisfied that all this was true,—and, +like a canny Scotchman, he examined it thoroughly,—he set off +himself to find Tony and tell him his good news; for, as he said, it would +have been a terrible thing to let him go risk his life for nothing, now +that he had a splendid fortune and large estate. Indeed, you should have +heard Mr. M'Gruder himself on this theme. It was about the strangest +medley of romance and worldliness I ever listened to. After all, he was a +stanch friend, and he braved no common dangers in his pursuit. He had +scarcely landed, however, in Sicily, when he was arrested and thrown into +prison.” + </p> +<p> +“And never met Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“Never,—of course not; how could he? He did not even dare to speak +of one who served under Garibaldi till he met Skeffy.” + </p> +<p> +“But where is Tony? Is he safe? How are we to hear of him?” asked Alice, +hurriedly. +</p> +<p> +“Skeff has undertaken all that, Alice. You know how he has relations with +men of every party, and is equally at home with the wildest followers of +Mazzini and the courtiers about the throne. He says he 'll send off a +confidential messenger at once to Garibaldi's camp with a letter for Tony. +Indeed, it was all I could do to prevent him going himself, he is so +attached to Tony, but I begged and implored him not to go.” + </p> +<p> +“Tony would have done as much for him,” said Alice, gloomily. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps he would; but remember the difference between the men, Alice. If +anything should befall Skeffy, who is there to replace him?” + </p> +<p> +Alice, perhaps, could not satisfactorily answer this, for she lay back on +her bed, and covered her face with her hands. +</p> +<p> +“Not, indeed, that he would listen to me when I made that appeal to him, +but he kept on repeating, 'Tony is the finest, truest-hearted fellow I +ever met. <i>He</i>'d never have left a friend in the lurch; he'd never +have thought of himself if another was in danger; and help him I must and +will:' and that's the reason we are waiting dinner, dear, for he would go +off to the Minister of War or the President of the Council; and he told +papa, as he shook hands, on no account to wait for him, for he might be +detained longer than he expected.” + </p> +<p> +As she spoke, a tap came to the door, and a servant announced dinner. +</p> +<p> +“Has Mr. Damer arrived?” asked Bella, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“No, ma'am, but Sir Arthur has just got a note from him.” + </p> +<p> +“I must see what he says!” cried she, and left the room. +</p> +<p> +Sir Arthur was reading the letter when she entered. +</p> +<p> +“Here's Skeff gone off to what he calls the 'front;' he says that Tony +Butler has joined the insurgents, and he must get him out of their hands +at any price.” + </p> +<p> +“But of course, papa, you 'll not permit it; you 'll forbid him +peremptorily,” broke in Bella. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm not so sure of that, Bella; because, amongst other reasons, I 'm not +so sure he 'd mind me. Our gifted friend is endowed with considerable +self-will.” + </p> +<p> +“Immense determination, I should rather call it, papa; but, pray, try to +stop this mad freak. He is not certainly called on to expose such a life +as his, and at such a moment.” + </p> +<p> +“What am I to do?” + </p> +<p> +“Go over to him at once; declare that you have the right to speak on such +a subject. Say that if he is pleased to overlook the necessity of his +presence here at this crisis, he ought to remember his position with +regard to us,—ought to think of <i>me</i>,” said she, with a burst +of grief that ended in a shower of tears, and drove her from the room. +</p> +<p> +Sir Arthur was far more disposed to sit down to his dinner than go off on +this mission of affection; but Lady Lyle took the same view of the case as +her daughter, and there was no help for it. And although the bland butler +repeated, “Soup is served, sir,” the poor man had to step downstairs to +his carriage and drive off to the Legation. +</p> +<p> +On arriving there, he learned that his Excellency had gone to see the +Prime Minister. Sir Arthur set off in the pursuit, which led him from one +great office of the state to another, always to discover that the object +of his search had just left only five minutes before; till, at length, his +patience became exhausted on hearing that Mr. Darner was last seen in +company with an officer of rank on the road to Castelamare, whither, +certainly, he determined not to follow him. +</p> +<p> +It was near nine o'clock when he got home to report himself unsuccessful, +to meet dark looks from his wife and daughter, and sit down alone to a +comfortless dinner, chagrined and disconcerted. +</p> +<p> +Lady Lyle tried to interest him by relating the news of Tony Butler's +accession to fortune; but the re-heated mutton and the half-cold <i>entrées</i> +were too trying to leave any portion of his nature open to such topics, +and he sulkily muttered something about the folly of “having snubbed the +young fellow,”—a taunt Lady Lyle resented by rising and leaving him +to his own reflections. +</p> +<p> +And now to turn to Skeff Darner. I am forced to confess, and I do not make +the confession without a certain pain, that our gifted friend had not that +amount of acceptance with the Ministers of the King that his great talents +and his promise might be supposed to have inspired; nor had he succeeded +in acquiring for the country he represented the overwhelming influence he +believed to be her due. When, therefore, he drove to Caraffa's house, the +Prince frankly told him, what certainly was true, that he had affairs far +too weighty on his mind to enter upon that small question H. M.'s Chargé +d'Affaires desired to discuss. “Try Carini,” said he, “the Minister of +Grace and Justice; he looks after the people who break the law.” Skeff +grew angry, and the Minister bowed him out. He went in succession to some +five or six others, all occupied, all overwhelmed with cares, troubles, +and anxieties. At last, by a mere accident, he chanced upon Filangieri +going off to wait on the King; he was accompanied by a small man, in a +very gorgeous uniform, studded over with stars and decorations. +</p> +<p> +In a few hurried words Skeff told how his friend, a man of rank and +fortune, had been seduced by some stupid representations to take service +with Garibaldi, and that it was all-important to rescue him from such evil +associations, and restore him at once to his friends and country. +</p> +<p> +“Where is he?” + </p> +<p> +“Wherever Garibaldi may be,—I can't tell.” + </p> +<p> +“He's nearer than we like,” said the other, with a faint smile. “Are you +sure your friend will return with you, even if you should track him out?” + </p> +<p> +“I think I can answer for him. I am almost certain that I can.” + </p> +<p> +“Can you answer for Garibaldi, too?—will <i>he</i> give him up?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe Garibaldi cares a great deal for the good opinion of England; +and when he sees me, her Majesty's—” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes, I can understand that. Well, I have no time to give you for +more consideration of the matter; but I 'll do better. I'll give you this +gentleman,—my aide-decamp, Colonel the Count M'Caskey; he'll pass +you through our lines, and go, as flag of truce, to the head-quarters of +the rebels. The whole thing is a blunder, and I am doing exceedingly +wrong; but here we are, making one mistake after another every day, and +all regularity and order are totally forgotten.” Turning to M'Caskey, he +took him aside for a few seconds and spoke eagerly and rapidly to him, and +then, once more shaking Skeff's hand, he wished him well through his +adventure and drove off. +</p> +<p> +“Whenever you have all in readiness, sir,” said M'Cas-key, slightly +raising his hat,—“and I hope your carriage is a comfortable one,—take +me up at the Aquila d' Oro, two doors from the Café di Spagno;” uttering +the words in a tone of such positive command that Skeffy had only to +accede; and, coldly bowing to each other, they separated. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LV. AMONGST THE GARIBALDIANS +</h2> +<p> +By heavy bribery and much cajolery, Skeff Darner secured a carriage and +horses, and presented himself at the Café di Spagna a little before +midnight. It was not, however, till he had summoned M'Caskey for the third +time that the gallant Colonel arose and joined him. +</p> +<p> +“I suspect that waiter did not tell you I was here, and waiting for you?” + said Skeff, somewhat irritated. +</p> +<p> +“I rather apprehend,” replied M'Caskey, “that you were not aware I was at +supper.” + </p> +<p> +With this brief passage of arms each sank back into his corner, and +nothing more was said. +</p> +<p> +For a long while the way led through that long suburb of Naples that lies +on the south of the city, and the tramp of the horses over the pavement +would have made any conversation difficult to hear. At length, however, +they gained the smooth road, and then Skeff discovered, from the +long-drawn breathings of his companion, that he was sound asleep. +</p> +<p> +By the small wax taper with which he lighted his cigar, Skeff examined the +features of the man; and, brief as was the inspection, there was enough +seen to show him that he was not a subject for either dictation or +raillery. The hard, stern, thin-lipped mouth, the knitted brows, the +orbits marked with innumerable wrinkles, and an ugly scar, evidently from +a sabre, that divided one whisker, and reached from nigh the ear to the +chin, presented enough to show that he might easily have chanced upon a +more genial fellow-traveller. +</p> +<p> +Skeff knew that the Neapolitan service had for some years back attracted +adventurers from various countries. Poles, Americans, with Irish and +Hungarian refugees, had flocked to the scene of what they foresaw must be +a struggle, and taken their side with the Royalists or against them as +profit or inclination prompted. Now this man's name, M'Caskey, proclaimed +him as Irish or Scotch; and the chances were, in either case, if a +renegade from his own country, he would not be over well disposed towards +one who represented the might and majesty of England. +</p> +<p> +“If I could only let him see,” thought Skeff, “that I am one of those +fellows who have done everything and know every one, a thorough man of the +world, and no red-tapist, no official pendant, we should get on all the +better.” He puffed away at his cigar as he thus mused, turning over in his +mind by what species of topic he should open acquaintance with his +companion. +</p> +<p> +“That's good tobacco,” said M'Caskey, without opening his eyes. “Who's +smoking the cheroot?” + </p> +<p> +“I am. May I offer you one?” + </p> +<p> +“A dozen if you like,” said the Colonel, giving himself a shake, and +sitting bolt upright. +</p> +<p> +Skeff held out his cigar-case, and the other coolly emptied it, throwing +the contents into his hat, which lay on the cushion in front of him. +</p> +<p> +“When old Olozaga was Captain-General of Cuba, he always supplied me with +havannahs; but when O'Donnell's party came into power, I came down to +cheroots, and there I have been ever since. These are not bad.” + </p> +<p> +“They are considered particularly good, sir,” said Skeff, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“<i>That</i> I will not say; but I own I am not easy to please either in +wine, women, or tobacco.” + </p> +<p> +“You have had probably large experiences of all three?” + </p> +<p> +“I should like much to meet the man who called himself my equal.” + </p> +<p> +“It might be presumptuous in me, perhaps, to stand forward on such ground; +but I, too, have seen something of life.” + </p> +<p> +“You! you!” said M'Caskey, with a most frank impertinence in his tone. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, I, I,—Mr. Skeffington Darner, Her Majesty's +Representative and Chargé d'Affaires at this Court.” + </p> +<p> +“Where the deuce was it I heard your name? Darner—Darner—Skeff—Skeffy—I +think they called you? Who could it be that mentioned you?” + </p> +<p> +“Not impossibly the newspapers, though I suspect they did not employ the +familiarity you speak of.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, Skeff, what's all this business we're bent on? What wildgoose chase +are we after here?” + </p> +<p> +Darner was almost sick with indignation at the fellow's freedom; he nearly +burst with the effort it cost him to repress his passion; but he +remembered how poor Tony Butler's fate lay in the balance, and that if +anything should retard his journey by even an hour, that one hour might +decide his friend's destiny. +</p> +<p> +“Might I take the liberty to observe, sir, that our acquaintance is of the +very shortest; and until I shall desire, which I do not anticipate, the +privilege of addressing you by your Christian name—” + </p> +<p> +“I am called Milo,” said M'Caskey; “but no man ever called me so but the +late Duke of Wellington; and once, indeed, in a moment of enthusiasm, poor +Byron.” + </p> +<p> +“I shall not imitate them, and I desire that you may know me as Mr. +Damer.” + </p> +<p> +“Damer or Skeffy—I don't care a rush which—only tell me where +are we going, and what are we going for?” + </p> +<p> +Skeff proceeded in leisurely fashion, but with a degree of cold reserve +that he hoped might check all freedom, to explain that he was in search of +a young countryman, whom he desired to recall from his service with +Garibaldi, and restore to his friends in England. +</p> +<p> +“And you expect me to cross over to Garibaldi's lines?” asked M'Caskey, +with a grin. +</p> +<p> +“I certainly reckon on your accompanying me wherever I deem it essential +to proceed in furtherance of my object. Your General said as much when he +offered me your services.” + </p> +<p> +“No man disposes of M'Caskey but the Sovereign he serves.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I can't see what you have come for!” cried Skeff, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Take care, take care,” said the other, slowly. +</p> +<p> +“Take care of what?” + </p> +<p> +“Take care of Skeffington Darner, who is running his head into a very +considerable scrape. I have the most tenacious of memories; and there's +not a word—not a syllable—falls from you, I 'll not make you +accountable for hereafter.” + </p> +<p> +“If you imagine, sir, that a tone of braggadocio—” + </p> +<p> +“There you go again. Braggadocio costs blood, my young fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not to be bullied.” + </p> +<p> +“No; but you might be shot.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll find me as ready as yourself with the pistol.” + </p> +<p> +“I am charmed to hear it, though I never met a fellow-brought up at a desk +that was so.” + </p> +<p> +Skeff was by no means deficient in courage, and, taken with a due regard +to all the conventional usages of such cases, he would have “met his man” + as became a gentle-man; but it was such a new thing in his experiences to +travel along in a carriage arranging the terms of a duel with the man who +ought to have been his pleasant companion, and who indeed, at the very +moment, was smoking his cheroots, that he lost himself in utter +bewilderment and confusion. +</p> +<p> +“What does that small flask contain?” said M'Caskey, pointing to a +straw-covered bottle, whose neck protruded from the pocket of the +carriage. +</p> +<p> +“Cherry brandy,” said Skeff, dryly, as he buttoned the pocket-flap over +it. +</p> +<p> +“It is years upon years since I tasted that truly British cordial.” + </p> +<p> +Skeff made no reply. +</p> +<p> +“They never make it abroad, except in Switzerland, and there, too, badly.” + </p> +<p> +Still Skeff was silent. +</p> +<p> +“Have you got a sandwich with you?” + </p> +<p> +“There is something eatable in that basket,—I don't know what,” said +Skeff, pointing to a little neatly corded hamper. “But I thought you had +just finished supper when I drove up.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're a Londoner, I take it,” said M'Caskey. +</p> +<p> +“Why so, sir? for what reason do you suppose so?” + </p> +<p> +“The man who reminds another of the small necessity there is to press him +to take something—be it meat or drink—must be a Cockney.” + </p> +<p> +“I am neither a Cockney, nor accustomed to listen to impertinence.” + </p> +<p> +“Hand me your flask and I 'll give you my opinion of it, and that will be +better than this digression.” + </p> +<p> +The impudence seemed superhuman, and in this way overcame all power of +resistance; and Skeffy actually sat there looking on while M'Caskey cut +the cords of the little provision-basket, and arranged the contents on the +front seat of the carriage, assuring him, as he ate, that he “had tasted +worse.” + </p> +<p> +For some time the Major continued to eat and drink, and was so completely +immersed in this occupation as to seem quite oblivious of his companion. +He then lighted his cigar and smoked on till they reached Caserta, where +the carriage halted to change horses. +</p> +<p> +“The fellow is asking for something for the ostler,” said M'Caskey, +nudging Skeffy with his elbow as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“My servant, sir, looks to these details,” said Skefify, haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“Take these, old boy,” said M'Caskey, pitching out to him the basket with +the fragments of his late meal, and the silver forks and cup it contained; +and the horses whirled the carriage along at full speed as he did so. +</p> +<p> +“You are perfectly munificent, sir,” cried Skefif, angrily, “with what +does not belong to you. The proprietor of the Hotel d'Universo will +probably look to you for payment for hi s property.” + </p> +<p> +“If your friend of the Universo has a salt spoon of his own this time +to-morrow, he 'll be a lucky dog.” + </p> +<p> +“How so? What do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean, sir, that as the troops withdraw, pillage will begin. There is +but one force in Naples that could control a mob.” + </p> +<p> +“And that is?” + </p> +<p> +“The Camorra! and but one man could command the Camorra, and he is here!” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said Skeff, with the very faintest possible sarcasm. +</p> +<p> +“As I tell you, sir. Colonel M'Caskey might have saved that city; and, +instead of it, he is rumbling along over a paved road, going heaven knows +where, with heaven knows whom, for heaven knows what!” + </p> +<p> +“You are either rude or forgetful, sir. I have already told you my name +and quality.” + </p> +<p> +“So you have, Skeff; but as a man rises in the service, he forgets the +name of the uncommissioned officers. You are attaché, or what is it?” + </p> +<p> +“I am Chargé d'Affaires of Great Britain.” + </p> +<p> +“And devilish few will be the affairs you 'll have in your charge this day +week.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you make out that?” + </p> +<p> +“First of all, if we are to pass through our lines to reach Garibaldi, all +our fellows will fire a parting salute after us as we go,—ay, and +with ball. Secondly, as we approach the rebels, they 'll pay us the same +attention.” + </p> +<p> +“Not with our flag of truce flying.” + </p> +<p> +“Your flag of truce, Skeffy, will only show them that we come unarmed, and +make their aim all the steadier in consequence.” + </p> +<p> +“And why was I told that your presence would be protection?” + </p> +<p> +“Because, sir, if it should fail to be, it is that no other man's in +Europe could be such.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll not turn back, if you mean that,” said Skeff, boldly; and for the +first time on the journey M'Caskey turned round and took a leisurely +survey of his companion. +</p> +<p> +“You are, I hope, satisfied with my personal appearance,” said Skeff, +insolently. +</p> +<p> +“Washy, washy,” said M'Caskey, dryly; “but I have met two or three of the +same stamp who had pluck.” + </p> +<p> +“The freedom of your tongue, sir, inclines me very considerably to doubt +<i>yours</i>.” + </p> +<p> +M'Caskey made a bound on his seat, and threw his cigar through the window, +while he shouted to the postilion to stop. +</p> +<p> +“Why should he stop?” asked Skeff. +</p> +<p> +“Let us settle this at once; we 'll take each of us one of the carriage +lamps and fire at the word three. One—two—three! Stop, I say.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; I shall hold myself at your orders, time and place fitting, but +I 'll neither shoot nor be shot at like a brigand.” + </p> +<p> +“I have travelled with many men, but in my long and varied experience, I +never saw a fellow so full of objections. You oppose everything. Now I +mean to go asleep; have you anything against <i>that</i>, and what is it?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing,—nothing whatever!” muttered Skeff, who for the first time +heard words of comfort from his companion's lips. +</p> +<p> +Poor Skeff! is it too much to say that, if you had ever imagined the +possibility of such a fellow-traveller, you would have thought twice ere +you went on this errand of friendship? Perhaps it might be unfair to +allege so much; but unquestionably, if his ardor were not damped, his +devotion to his friend was considerably disturbed by thoughts of himself +and his own safety. +</p> +<p> +Where could this monster have come from? What land could have given him +birth? What life had he led? How could a fellow of such insolent +pretensions have escaped being flayed alive ere he reached the age he +looked to be? +</p> +<p> +Last of all, was it in malice and out of malevolence that Filangieri had +given him this man as his guide, well knowing what their companionship +must end in? This last suspicion, reassuring so far, as it suggested +dreams of personal importance, rallied him a little, and at last he fell +asleep. +</p> +<p> +The hours of the night rolled over thus; and just as the dawn was breaking +the <i>calèche</i> rattled into the ruinous old piazza of Nocera. Early as +it was, the market-place was full of people, amongst whom were many +soldiers, with or without arms, but, evidently, under no restraint of +discipline, and, to all seeming, doubtful and uncertain what to do. +</p> +<p> +Aroused from his sleep by the sudden stoppage of the carriage, M'Caskey +rubbed his eyes and looked out. “What is all this?” cried he. “Who are +these fellows I see here in uniform? What are they?” + </p> +<p> +“Part of Cardarelli's brigade, your Excellency,” said a café-keeper who +had come to the carriage to induce the travellers to alight. “General +Cardarelli has surrendered Soveria to Garibaldi, and his men have +dispersed.” + </p> +<p> +“And is there no officer in command here to order these fellows into +arrest?” cried M'Caskey, as he sprang out of the carriage into the midst +of them. “Fall in!” shouted he, in a voice of thunder; “fall in, and be +silent: the fellow who utters a word I 'll put a bullet through.” + </p> +<p> +If the first sight of the little fellow thus insolently issuing his orders +might have inspired laughter, his fierce look, his flashing eye, his +revolver in hand, and his coat blazing with orders, speedily overcame such +a sentiment, and the disorderly rabble seemed actually stunned into +deference before him. +</p> +<p> +“What!” cried he, “are you deserters? Is it with an enemy in front that I +find you here? Is it thus that you show these civilians what stuff +soldiers are made of?” There was not a degrading epithet, not a word of +infamous reproach, he did not hurl at them. They were Vili! Birbanti! +</p> +<p> +Ladri! Malandrini! Codardi! They had dishonored their fathers and mothers, +and wives and sweethearts. They had degraded the honor of the soldier, and +the Virgin herself was ashamed of them. “Who laughs there? Let him come +out to the front and laugh here!” cried he. And now, though a low murmur +little indicative of mirth ran through the crowd, strange to say, the men +began to slink away, at first one by one, then in groups and parties, so +that in very few minutes the piazza was deserted, save by a few of the +townsfolk, who stood there half terrified, half fascinated, by the daring +insolence of this diminutive hero. +</p> +<p> +Though his passion seemed almost choking him, he went on with a wonderful +fluency to abuse the whole nation. They were brigands for three centuries, +and brigands they would be for thirty more, if Providence would not send +an earthquake to swallow them up, and rid the world of such rascals. He +scoffed at them, he jeered them; he told them that the few Sicilians that +followed Garibaldi would make slaves of the whole kingdom, taking from the +degenerate cowards of Calabria wives, daughters, home, and households; and +it was only when the last straggler shuffled slowly away, and he stood +alone in the square, that he would consent to re-enter the carriage and +pursue his journey. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll know every face amongst them if I meet them again,” said he to +Skeffy, “and it will be an evil day for the scoundrels when that time +comes.” His wrath continued during the entire stage, and never flagged in +its violence till they reached a cluster of poor cabins, around which a +guard of soldiers was stationed. Here they were refused a further passage, +since at Mauro, three miles further on, Melani, with a force of three +thousand men and some guns, held the pass against the Garibaldians. +M'Caskey was not long in explaining who he was, nor, indeed, very modest +in proclaiming his personal importance; and the subaltern, with every show +of deference to such greatness, detached a corporal of his guard to +accompany them to the General's quarters. The General was asleep when they +reached Mauro; he had been, they said, “up all night,” but they did not +add it was in the celebration of an orgie, in which the festivities were +more classic than correct. M'Caskey, however, learned that at about five +miles in front, Garibaldi's advanced guard was posted, and that Garibaldi +himself had ridden up and reconnoitred their position on the evening +before. +</p> +<p> +“We expect to be attacked by noon,” said the officer, in a tone the very +reverse of hopeful or encouraging. +</p> +<p> +“You can hold this pass against twenty thousand,” said M'Caskey. +</p> +<p> +“We shall not try,” said the other. “Why should we be the only men to get +cut to pieces?” + </p> +<p> +The ineffable scorn of the little Colonel as he turned away was not lost +on the other; but he made no reply to it, and retired. “We are to have an +escort as far as Ravello; after that we are to take care of ourselves; and +I own to you I think we shall be all the safer when we get out of the +reach of his Majesty's defenders.” + </p> +<p> +“There,” cried the Sergeant who acted as their guard,—“there, on +that rock yonder, are the Reds. I'll go no further.” + </p> +<p> +And as they looked they saw a small group of red-shirted fellows lying or +lounging on a small cliff which rose abruptly over a stream crossed by a +wooden bridge. Attaching his handkerchief to his walking-stick, M'Caskey +stepped out boldly. Skeffy followed; they reached the bridge, and crossed +it, and stood within the lines of the Garibaldians. A very young, almost +boyish-looking, officer met them, heard their story, and with much +courtesy told them that he would send one of his men to conduct them to +head-quarters. “You will not find the General there,” said he, smiling; +“he's gone on in that direction;” and he pointed, as he spoke, towards +Naples. +</p> +<p> +Skeff asked eagerly if the young officer had ever heard of Tony Butler, +and described with ardor the handsome face and figure of his friend. The +other believed he had seen him. There was, he knew, a <i>giovane Irlandese</i> +who was wounded at Melazzo, and, if he was not mistaken, wounded again +about four days back at Lauria. “All the wounded are at Salerno, however,” + said he, carelessly, “and you are sure to find him amongst them.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LVI. THE HOSPITAL AT CAVA +</h2> +<p> +Had Skeff been in any mood for mirth, he might have enjoyed as rich +drollery the almost inconceivable impertinence of his companion, who +scrutinized everything, and freely distributed his comments around him, +totally regardless that he stood in the camp of the enemy, and actually +surrounded by men whose extreme obedience to discipline could scarcely be +relied on. +</p> +<p> +“Uniformity is certainly not studied here,” cried M'Cas-key, as he stared +at a guard about to be detached on some duty; “three fellows have gray +trousers; two, blue, one a sort of canvas petticoat; and I see only one +real coat in the party.” + </p> +<p> +A little further on he saw a group of about a dozen lying on the grass +smoking, with their arms in disorderly fashion about, and he exclaimed, +“How I 'd like to surprise those rascals, and make a swoop down here with +two or three companies of Cacciatori! Look at their muskets; there has n't +been one of them cleaned for a month. +</p> +<p> +“Here they are at a meal of some sort. Well, men won't fight on beans and +olive oil. My Irish fellows are the only devils can stand up on roots.” + </p> +<p> +These comments were all delivered in Italian, and listened to with a sort +of bewildered astonishment, as though the man who spoke them must possess +some especial and peculiar privilege to enable him to indulge so much +candor. +</p> +<p> +“That's not a knapsack,” said he, kicking a soldier's pack that he saw on +the grass; “that's more like a travelling tinker's bundle. Open it, and +let's see the inside!” cried he to the owner, who, awed by the tone of +command, immediately obeyed; and M'Caskey ridiculed the shreds and patches +of raiment, the tattered fragments of worn apparel, in which fragments of +cheese and parcels of tobacco were rolled up. “Why, the fellows have not +even risen to the dignity of pillage,” said he. “I was sure we should have +found some saintly ornament or a piece of the Virgin's petticoat among +their wares.” + </p> +<p> +With all this freedom, carried to the extreme of impertinence, none +molested, none ever questioned them; and as the guide had accidentally +chanced upon some old friends by the way, he told M'Caskey that they had +no further need of him; that the road lay straight before them, and that +they would reach Cava in less than an hour. +</p> +<p> +At Cava they found the same indifference. They learned that Garibaldi had +not come up, though some said he had passed on with a few followers to +Naples, and others maintained that he had sent to the King of Naples to +meet him at Salerno to show him the inutility of all resistance, and offer +him a safe-conduct out of the kingdom. Leaving M'Caskey in the midst of +these talkers, and not, perhaps, without some uncharitable wish that the +gallant Colonel's bad tongue would involve him in serious trouble, Skeffy +slipped away to inquire after Tony. +</p> +<p> +Every one seemed to know that there was a brave <i>Irlandese</i>,—a +daring fellow who had shown himself in the thick of every fight; but the +discrepant accounts of his personal appearance and looks were most +confusing. Tony was fair-haired, and yet most of the descriptions +represented a dark man, with a bushy black beard and moustache. At all +events, he was lying wounded at the convent of the Cappuccini, on a hill +about a mile from the town; and Father Pantaleo—Garibaldi's Vicar, +as he was called—offered his services to show him the way. The Frate—a +talkative little fellow, with a fringe of curly dark-brown hair around a +polished white head—talked away, as they went, about the war, and +Garibaldi, and the grand future that lay before Italy, when the tyranny of +the Pope should be overthrown, and the Church made as free—and, +indeed, he almost said as easy—as any jovial Christian could desire. +</p> +<p> +Skeffy, by degrees, drew him to the subject nearest his own heart at the +moment, and asked about the wounded in hospital. The Frate declared that +there was nothing very serious the matter with any of them. He was an +optimist. Some died, some suffered amputations, some were torn by shells +or grape-shot. But what did it signify? as he said. It was a great cause +they were fighting for, and they all agreed it was a pleasure to shed +one's blood for Italy. “As for the life up there,” said he, pointing to +the convent, “it is a <i>vita da Santi</i>,—the 'life of saints +themselves.'” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know my friend Tony the Irlandese?” asked Skeff, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“If I know him! <i>Per Bacco!</i> I think I know him. I was with him when +he had his leg taken off.” + </p> +<p> +Skeff's heart sickened at this terrible news, and he could barely steady +himself by catching the Fra's arm. “Oh, my poor dear Tony,” cried he, as +the tears ran down his face,—“my poor fellow!” + </p> +<p> +“Why did you pity him? Garibaldi gave him his own sword, and made him an +officer on the day of the battle. It was up at Calanzaro, so that he 's +nearly well now.” + </p> +<p> +Skeff poured in innumerable questions,—how the mischance occurred, +and where; how he bore up under the dreadful operation; in what state he +then was; if able to move about, and how? And as the Fra was one of those +who never confessed himself unable to answer anything, the details he +obtained were certainly of the fullest and most circumstantial. +</p> +<p> +“He's always singing; that's how he passes his time,” said the Frate. +</p> +<p> +“Singing! how strange! I never knew him to sing. I never heard him even +hum a tune.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll hear him now, then. The fellows about curse at him half the day +to be silent, but he does n't mind them, but sings away. The only quiet +moment he gives them is while he's smoking.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, yes! he loves smoking.” + </p> +<p> +“There—stop. Listen. Do you hear him? he's at it now.” Skeff halted, +and could hear the sound of a full deep voice, from a window overhead, in +one of those prolonged and melancholy cadences which Irish airs abound in. +</p> +<p> +“Wherever he got such doleful music I can't tell, but he has a dozen +chants like that.” + </p> +<p> +Though Skeff could not distinguish the sounds, nor recognize the voice of +his friend, the thought that it was poor Tony who was there singing in his +solitude, maimed and suffering, without one near to comfort him, so +overwhelmed him that he staggered towards a bench, and sat down sick and +faint. +</p> +<p> +“Go up and say that a friend, a dear friend, has come from Naples to see +him; and if he is not too nervous or too much agitated, tell him my name; +here it is.” The friar took the card and hurried forward on his mission. +In less time than Skeff thought it possible for him to have arrived, +Pantaleo called out from the window, “Come along; he is quite ready to see +you, though he doesn't remember you.” + </p> +<p> +Skeff fell back upon the seat at the last words. “Not remember me! my poor +Tony,—my poor, poor fellow,—how changed and shattered you must +be, to have forgotten me!” With a great effort he rallied, entered the +gate, and mounted the stairs,—slowly, indeed, and like one who +dreaded the scene that lay before him. Pantaleo met him at the top, and, +seeing his agitation, gave him his arm for support. “Don't be nervous,” + said he, “your friend is doing capitally; he is out on the terrace in an +armchair, and looks as jolly as a cardinal.” + </p> +<p> +Summoning all his courage, Skeflf walked bravely forwards, passed down the +long aisle, crowded with sick and wounded on either side, and passed out +upon a balcony at the end, where, with his back towards him, a man sat +looking out over the landscape. +</p> +<p> +“Tony, Tony!” said Skeffy, coming close. The man turned his head, and +Skeff saw a massive-looking face, all covered with black hair, and a +forehead marked by a sabre cut. “This is not my friend. This is not Tony!” + cried he, in disappointment. “No, sir; I'm Rory Quin, the man that was +with him,” said the wounded man, submissively. +</p> +<p> +“And where is he himself? Where is Tony?” cried he. +</p> +<p> +“In the little room beyond, sir. They put him there when he began to rave; +but he's better now, and quite sensible.” + </p> +<p> +“Take me to him at once; let me see him,” said Skefif, whose impatience +had now mastered all prudence. +</p> +<p> +The moment after, Skefif found himself in a small chamber, with a single +bed in it, beside which a Sister of Charity was seated, busily employed +laying cloths wet with iced water on the sick man's head. One glance +showed that it was Tony. The eyes were closed, and the face thinner, and +the lips dry; but there was a hardy manhood in the countenance, sick and +suffering as he was, that told what qualities a life of hardship and peril +had called into activity. The Sister motioned to Skefif to sit down, but +not to speak. “He's not sleeping,” said she, softly, “only dozing.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he in pain?” asked Skefify. +</p> +<p> +“No; I have no pain,” said Tony, faintly. +</p> +<p> +Skefif bent down to whisper some words close to his ear, when he heard a +step behind. He looked up and saw it was M'Caskey, who had followed him. +“I came here, sir,” said the Colonel, haughtily, “to express my +astonishment at your unceremonious departure, and also to say that I shall +now hold myself as free of all further engagement towards you.” + </p> +<p> +“Hush, be quiet,” said Skefif, with a gesture of caution. +</p> +<p> +“Is that your friend?” asked M'Caskey, with a smile. +</p> +<p> +Tony slowly opened his eyes at these words, looking at the speaker, +turning his gaze then on Skeff, gave a weak, sickly smile, and then in a +faint, scarce audible voice, said, “So he <i>is</i> your godfather, after +all.” + </p> +<p> +Skeff's heart grew full to bursting, and for a moment or two he could not +speak. +</p> +<p> +“There—there, no more,” whispered the Sister; and she motioned them +both to withdraw. Skeff arose at once, and slipped noiselessly away; but +the Colonel stepped boldly along, regardless of everything and every one. +</p> +<p> +“He 's wandering in his mind,” said M'Caskey, in a loud, unfeeling tone. +</p> +<p> +“By all that's holy, there's the scoundrel I 'm dying to get at,” screamed +Rory, as the voice caught his ear. “Give me that crutch; let me have one +lick at him, for the love of Mary.” + </p> +<p> +“They're all mad here, that's plain,” said M'Caskey, turning away with a +contemptuous air. “Sir,” added he, turning towards Skeff, “I have the +honor to salute you;” and with a magnificent bow he withdrew, while Rory, +in a voice of wildest passion and invective, called down innumerable +curses on his head, and inveighed even against the bystanders for not +securing the “greatest villain in Europe.” “I shall want to send a letter +to Naples,” cried out Skeff to the Colonel; “I mean to remain here;” but +M'Caskey never deigned to notice his words, but walked proudly down the +stairs, and went his way. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LVII. AT TONY'S BEDSIDE +</h2> +<p> +My story draws to a close, and I have not space to tell how Skeff watched +beside his friend, rarely quitting him, and showing in a hundred ways the +resources of a kind and thoughtful nature. Tony had been severely wounded; +a sabre-cut had severed his scalp, and he had been shot through the +shoulder; but all apprehension of evil consequences was now over, and he +was able to listen to Skeff's wondrous tidings, and hear all the details +of his accession to wealth and fortune. His mother—how she would +rejoice at it! how happy it would make her!—not for her own sake, +but for his; how it would seem to repay to her all she had suffered from +the haughty estrangement of Sir Omerod, and how proud she would be at the +recognition, late though it came! These were Tony's thoughts; and very +often, when Skeflf imagined him to be following the details of his +property, and listening with eagerness to the description of what he +owned, Tony was far away in thought at the cottage beside the Causeway, +and longing ardently when he should sit at the window with his mother at +his side planning out some future in which they were to be no more +separated. +</p> +<p> +There was no elation at his sudden fortune, nor any of that anticipation +of indulgence which Skeff himself would have felt, and which he indeed +suggested. No. Tony's whole thoughts so much centred in his dear mother, +that she entered into all his projects; and there was not a picture of +enjoyment wherein she was not a foreground figure. +</p> +<p> +They would keep the cottage,—that was his first resolve: his mother +loved it dearly; it was associated with years long of happiness and of +trials too; and trials can endear a spot when they are nobly borne, and +the heart will cling fondly to that which has chastened its emotions and +elevated its hopes. And then, Tony thought, they might obtain that long +stretch of land that lay along the shore, with the little nook where the +boats lay at anchor, and where he would have his yacht. “I suppose,” said +he, “Sir Arthur Lyle would have no objection to my being so near a +neighbor?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course not; but we can soon settle that point, for they are all here.” + </p> +<p> +“Here?” + </p> +<p> +“At Naples, I mean.” + </p> +<p> +“How was it that you never told me that?” he asked sharply. +</p> +<p> +Skeff fidgeted—bit his cigar—threw it away; and with more +confusion than became so distinguished a diplomatist, stammered out, “I +have had so much to tell you—such lots of news;” and then with an +altered voice he added, “Besides, old fellow, the doctor warned me not to +say anything that might agitate you; and I thought—that is, I used +to think—there was something in that quarter, eh?” + </p> +<p> +Tony grew pale, but made no answer. +</p> +<p> +“I know she likes you, Tony,” said Skeff, taking his hand and pressing it. +“Bella, who is engaged to me—I forget if I told you that—” + </p> +<p> +“No, you never told me!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, Bella and I are to be married immediately,—that is, as soon +as I can get back to England. I have asked for leave already; they 've +refused me twice. It 's all very fine saying to me that I ought to know +that in the present difficulties of Italy no man could replace me at this +Court. My answer to that is: Skeff Darner has other stuff in him as well +as ambition. He has a heart just as much as a head. Nor am I to go on +passing my life saving this dynasty. The Bourbons are not so much to me as +my own happiness, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose not,” said Tony, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“You 'd have done the same, would n't you?” + </p> +<p> +“I can't tell. I cannot even imagine myself filling any station of +responsibility or importance.” + </p> +<p> +“My reply was brief: Leave for six months' time, to recruit an over-taxed +frame and over-wrought intellect; time also for them to look out what to +offer me, for I 'll not go to Mexico, nor to Rio; neither will I take +Washington, nor any of the Northern Courts. Dearest Bella must have +climate, and I myself must have congenial society; and so I said, not in +such terms, but in meaning, Skeff Darner is only yours at <i>his</i> +price. Let them refuse me,—let me see them even hesitate, and I give +my word of honor, I'm capable of abandoning public life altogether, and +retiring into my woods at Tilney, leaving the whole thing at sizes and +sevens.” + </p> +<p> +Now, though Tony neither knew what the “whole thing” meant, nor the dire +consequences to which his friend's anger might have consigned it, he +muttered something that sounded like a hope that he would not leave Europe +to shift for herself at such a moment. +</p> +<p> +“Let them not drive me to it, that's all,” said he, haughtily; and he +arose and walked up and down with an air of defiance. “The Lyles do not +see this,—Lady Lyle especially. She wants a peerage for her +daughter, but ambition is not always scrupulous.” + </p> +<p> +“I always liked her the least of them,” muttered Tony, who never could +forget the sharp lesson she administered to him. +</p> +<p> +“She 'll make herself more agreeable to you now, Master Tony,” said Skeff, +with a dry laugh. +</p> +<p> +“And why so?” + </p> +<p> +“Can't you guess?” + </p> +<p> +“No.” + </p> +<p> +“On your word?”. +</p> +<p> +“On my word, I cannot.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you think Mr. Butler of something or other in Herefordshire is +another guess man from Tony Butler of nowhere in particular?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! I forgot my change of fortune: but if I had ever remembered it, I 'd +never have thought so meanly of <i>her</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all rot and nonsense. There's no meanness in a woman wanting to +marry her daughter well, any more than in a man trying to get a colonelcy +or a legation for his son. You were no match for Alice Trafford three +months ago. Now both she and her mother will think differently of your +pretensions.” + </p> +<p> +“Say what you like of the mother, but you shall not impute such motives to +Alice.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you get red in the face and look like a tiger, young man, or I 'll +take my leave and send that old damsel here with the ice-pail to you.” + </p> +<p> +“It was the very thing I liked in you,” muttered Tony, “that you never did +impute mean motives to women.” + </p> +<p> +“My poor Tony! the fellow who has seen life as I have, who knows the thing +in its most minute anatomy, comes out of the investigation infernally +case-hardened; he can't help it. I love Alice. Indeed, if I had not seen +Bella, I think I should have married Alice. There, you are getting +turkey-cock again. Let us talk of something else. What the deuce was it I +wanted to ask you?—something about that great Irish monster in the +next room, the fellow that sings all day: where did you pick him up?” + </p> +<p> +Tony made no reply, but lay with his hand over his eyes, while Skeff went +on rambling over the odds and ends he had picked up in the course of Rory +Quin's story, and the devoted love he bore to Tony himself. “By the way, +they say that it was for you Garibaldi intended the promotion to the rank +of officer, but that you managed to pass it to this fellow, who could n't +sign his name when they asked him for it.” + </p> +<p> +“If he could n't write, he has left his mark on some of the Neapolitans!” + said Tony, fiercely; “and as for the advancement, he deserved it far more +than I did.” + </p> +<p> +“It was a lucky thing for that aide-de-camp of Filangieri who accompanied +me here, that your friend Rory had n't got two legs, for he wanted to +brain him with his crutch. Both of you had an antipathy to him, and indeed +I own to concurring in the sentiment. My godfather you called him!” said +he, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“I wish he had come a little closer to my bedside, that's all,” muttered +Tony; and Skeff saw by the expression of his features that he was once +more unfortunate in his attempt to hit upon an unexciting theme. +</p> +<p> +“Alice knew of your journey here, I think you said?” whispered Tony, +faintly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes. I sent them a few lines to say I was setting out to find you.” + </p> +<p> +“How soon could I get to Naples? Do you think they would let me move +to-morrow?” + </p> +<p> +“I have asked that question already. The doctor says in a week; and I must +hasten away to-night,—there's no saying what confusion my absence +will occasion. I mean to be back here by Thursday to fetch you.” + </p> +<p> +“Good fellow! Remember, though,” added he, after a moment, “we must take +Rory. I can't leave Rory here.” + </p> +<p> +Skeff looked gravely. +</p> +<p> +“He carried <i>me</i> when I was wounded out of the fire at Melazzo, and I +am not going to desert him now.” + </p> +<p> +“Strange situation for her Majesty's Chargé d'Affaires,” said Skeff,—“giving +protection to the wounded of the rebel army.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't talk to me of rebels. We are as legitimate as the fellows we were +fighting against. It was a good stand-up fight, too,—man to man, +some of it; and if it was n't that my head reels so when I sit or stand +up, I 'd like to be at it again.” + </p> +<p> +“It is a fine bull-dog,—just a bull-dog,” said Skeff, patting him on +the head, while in the compassionate pity of his voice he showed how +humbly he ranked the qualities he ascribed to him. “Ah! now I remember +what it was <i>I</i> wished to ask you (it escaped me till this moment): +who is the creature that calls himself Sam M'Gruder?” + </p> +<p> +“As good a fellow as ever stepped, and a true friend of mine. What of +him?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't look as if you would tear me in pieces, and scatter the fragments +to the four winds of heaven. Sir, I 'll not stand it,—none of your +buccaneering savageries <i>to me!</i>” + </p> +<p> +Tony laughed, and laughed heartily at the air of offended dignity of the +other; and Skeff was himself disposed at last to smile at his own anger. +“That 's the crying sin of <i>your</i> nature, Tony,” said he. “It is the +one defect that spoils a really fine fellow. I tell you frankly about it, +because I 'm your friend; and if you don't curb it, you 'll never be +anything,—never! never!” + </p> +<p> +“But what is this fault? you have forgotten to tell it.” + </p> +<p> +“Over and over again have I told it It is your stupid animal confidence in +your great hulking form: your coarse reliance on your massive shoulders,—a +degenerate notion that muscle means manhood. It is here, sir,—here;” + and Skeff touched his forehead with the tip of his finger; “here lies the +godlike attribute. And until you come to feel that, you never will have +arrived at the real dignity of a great creature.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if I be the friend of one, Skeffy, it will satisfy all my +ambition,” said he, grasping his hand warmly; “and now what of M'Gruder? +How did you come to know of him?” + </p> +<p> +“Officially,—officially, of course. Skeffington Darner and Sam +M'Gruder might revolve in ether for centuries and their orbits never +cross! but it happened this honest fellow had gone off in search of you +into Sicily; and with that blessed propensity for blundering the British +subject is gifted with, had managed to offend the authorities and get +imprisoned. Of course he appealed to me. They all appeal to <i>me!</i> but +at the moment unhappily for him, the King was appealing to me, and Cavour +was appealing to me, and so was the Emperor; and, I may mention in +confidence, so was Garibaldi!—not in person, but through a friend. I +know these things must be. Whenever a fellow has a head on his shoulders +in this world, the other fellows who have no heads find it out and work <i>him</i>. +Ay, sir, work him! That 's why I have said over and over again the stupid +dogs have the best of it. I declare to you, on my honor, Tony, there are +days I 'd rather be you than be Skeff Darner!” + </p> +<p> +Tony shook his head. +</p> +<p> +“I know it sounds absurd, but I pledge you my sacred word of honor I <i>have</i> +felt it.” + </p> +<p> +“And M'Gruder?” asked Tony. +</p> +<p> +“M'Gruder, sir, I liberated! I said, Free him! and, like the fellow in +Curran's celebrated passage, his chains fell to the ground, and he stood +forward, not a bit grateful,—far from it,—but a devilish +crusty Scotchman, telling me what a complaint he 'd lodge against me as +soon as he arrived in England.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; he 's not the fellow to do that.” + </p> +<p> +“If he did, sir, <i>it</i> would crush him! The Emperor of Russia could +not prefer a complaint against Skeff Darner, and feel the better of it!” + </p> +<p> +“He 's a true-hearted, fine fellow,” said Tony. +</p> +<p> +“With all my heart I concede to him all the rough virtues you may desire +to endow him with; but please to bear in mind, Master Tony, that a man of +your station and your fortune cannot afford such intimacies as your friend +Rory here and this M'Gruder creature.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I was a richer man when I had nothing, for I <i>could</i> afford it +then,” said Tony, sturdily; “and I tell you more, Skeffy,—I mean to +afford it still. There is no fellow living I love better—no, nor as +well—as I love yourself; but even for your love I'll not give up the +fine-hearted fellows who were true to me in my days of hardship, shared +with me what they had, and gave me—what was better to me—their +loving-kindness and sympathy.” + </p> +<p> +“You'd bring down the house if you said that in the Adelphi, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“It 's well for you that I can't get out of bed,” said Tony, with a grim +laugh. +</p> +<p> +“There it is again; another appeal to the brute man and the man brute! +Well, I 'll go to dinner, and I 'll tell the fair Sister to prepare your +barley-water, and administer it in a more diluted form than heretofore;” + and, adjusting his hat so as to display a favorite lock to the best +advantage, and drawing on his gloves in leisurely fashion, Skeff Darner +walked proudly away, bestowing little benevolent gestures on the patients +as he passed, and intimating by certain little signs that he had taken an +interest in their several cases, and saying, by a sweet smile, “You 'll be +the better of this visit of mine. You 'll see, you will.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LVIII. THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER +</h2> +<p> +On the evening of the 6th of September a corvette steamed rapidly out of +the Bay of Naples, threading her way deviously through the other ships of +war, unacknowledged by salute,—not even an ensign dipped as she +passed. +</p> +<p> +“There goes the King and the monarchy,” said Skeff, as he stood on the +balcony with the Lyles, and pointed to the fast-retreating vessel. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose the sooner <i>we</i> leave the better,” said Lady Lyle, whose +interest in political affairs was very inferior to that she felt on +personal matters. +</p> +<p> +“Skeff says that the 'Talisman' will take us on board,” said Sir Arthur. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Skeff; “Captain Paynter will be here by and by to take your +orders, and know when he is to send in his boats for you; and though I +feel assured my general directions will be carried out here, and that no +public disturbance will take place, you will all be safer under the Union +Jack.” + </p> +<p> +“And what of Tony Butler? When is he to arrive?” asked Bella. +</p> +<p> +“Tony,” said Skeff, “is to arrive here to-night I have had a note from his +friend M'Gruder, who has gone down to meet him, and is now at Salerno.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is his friend M'Gruder?” asked Lady Lyle, superciliously. +</p> +<p> +“A rag-merchant from Leghorn,” said Skeff; “but Tony calls him an +out-and-out good fellow; and I must say he did n't take five minutes to +decide when I told him Tony was coming up from Cava, and would be glad to +have his company on the road.” + </p> +<p> +“These are, of course, exceptional times, when all sorts of strange +intimacies will be formed; but I <i>do</i> hope that Tony will see that +his altered circumstances as to fortune require from him more care in the +selection of his friends than he has hitherto been distinguished for.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't trouble yourself about that, my dear,” said Sir Arthur; “a man's +fortune very soon impresses itself on all he says and does.” + </p> +<p> +“I mistake him much,” said Bella, “if any wealth will estrange him from +one of those he cared for in his humbler days. Don't you agree with me, +Alice?” + </p> +<p> +Alice made no reply, but continued to gaze at the ships through a glass. +</p> +<p> +“The danger is that he'll carry that feeling to excess,” said Skeff; “for +he will not alone hold to all these people, but he 'll make you and me +hold to them too.” + </p> +<p> +“That would be impossible, perfectly impossible,” said my Lady, with a +haughty toss of her head. +</p> +<p> +“No, no; I cannot agree to go that far,” chimed in Sir Arthur. +</p> +<p> +“It strikes me,” said Alice, quietly, “we are all of us deciding a little +too hastily as to what Tony Butler will or will not do. Probably a very +slight exercise of patience would save us some trouble.” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not, Alice, after what Mr. Darner has said. Tony would seem to +have thrown down a sort of defiance to us all. We must accept him with his +belongings, or do without him.” + </p> +<p> +“He shall have me on his own terms,” said Skeffy. “He is a noble savage, +and I love him with all my heart.” + </p> +<p> +“And you will know his rag friend?” asked Lady Lyle. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, that will I; and an Irish creature, too, that he calls Rory,—a +fellow of six feet four, with a voice like an enraged bull and a hand as +wide as one of these flags!” + </p> +<p> +“It is Damon and Pythias over again, I declare!” said Lady Lyle. “Where +did he pick up his monster?” + </p> +<p> +“They met by chance in England, and, equally by chance, came together to +Italy, and Tony persuaded him to accompany him and join Garibaldi. The +worthy Irishman, who loved fighting, and was not very particular as to the +cause, agreed; and though he had originally come abroad to serve in the +Pope's army, some offence they had given him made him desert, and he was +well pleased not to return home without, as he said, 'batin' somebody.' It +was in this way he became a Garibaldian. The fellow, it seems, fought like +a lion; he has been five times wounded, and was left for dead on the +field; but he bears a charm which he knows will always protect him.” + </p> +<p> +“A charm,—what is the charm?” + </p> +<p> +“A medallion of the Pope, which he wears around his neck, and always +kisses devoutly before he goes into battle.” + </p> +<p> +“The Pope's image is a strange emblem for a Garibaldian, surely,” said Sir +Arthur, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Master Rory thinks it will dignify any cause; and as he never knew what +or for whom he was fighting, this small bit of copper saved him a world of +trouble and casuistry; and so in the name of the Holy Father he has broken +no end of Neapolitan skulls.” + </p> +<p> +“I must say Mr. Butler has surrounded himself with some choice +associates,” said Lady Lyle; “and all this time I have been encouraging +myself to believe that so very young a man would have had no connections, +no social relations, he could not throw off without difficulty.” + </p> +<p> +“The world will do all his sifting process for him, if we only have +patience,” said Sir Arthur; and, indeed, it is but fair to say that he +spoke with knowledge, since, in his own progress through life, he had +already made the acquaintance of four distinct and separate classes in +society, and abandoned each in turn for that above it. +</p> +<p> +“Was he much elated, Mr. Damer,” asked Lady Lyle, “when he heard of his +good fortune?” + </p> +<p> +“I think he was at first; but it made so little impression on him, that +more than once he went on to speculate on his future, quite forgetting +that he had become independent; and then, when he remembered it, he +certainly did look very happy and cheerful.” + </p> +<p> +“And what sort of plans has he?” asked Bella. +</p> +<p> +“They're all about his mother; everything is for <i>her</i>. She is to +keep that cottage, and the ground about it, and he is to make a garden for +her; and it seems she likes cows,—she is to have cows. It's a lucky +chance that the old lady had n't a taste for a plesiosaurus, or he 'd be +offering a prize for one to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“He's a dear good fellow, as he always was,” said Bella. +</p> +<p> +“The only real change I see in him,” said Skeffy, “is that now he is never +grumpy,—he takes everything well; and if crossed for a moment, he +says, 'Give me a weed; I must smoke away that annoyance.'” + </p> +<p> +“How sensual!” said my Lady; but nobody heeded the remark. +</p> +<p> +At the moment, too, a young midshipman saluted Darner from the street, and +informed him that the first cutter was at the jetty to take the party off +to the “Talisman;” and Captain Paynter advised them not to delay very +long, as the night looked threatening. Lady Lyle needed no stronger +admonition; she declared that she would go at once; and although the +Captain's own gig, as an attention of honor, was to be in to take her, she +would not wait, but set out immediately. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll take care of me, Skeffy,” said Alice, “for I have two letters to +write, and shall not be ready before eleven o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +For a while all was bustle and confusion. Lady Lyle could not make up her +mind whether she would finally accept the frigate as a refuge or come on +shore again the next day. There were perils by land and by water, and she +weighed them and discussed them, and turned fiercely on everybody who +agreed with her, and quarrelled with all round. Sir Arthur, too, had his +scruples, as he bethought him of the effect that would be produced by the +fact that a man of his station and importance had sought the protection of +a ship of war; and he asked Skeffy if some sort of brief protest—some +explanation—should not be made in the public papers, to show that he +had taken the step in compliance with female fears, and not from the +dictates of his own male wisdom. “I should be sorry, sincerely sorry, to +affect the Funds,” said he; and really, the remark was considerate. As for +Bella, she could not bear being separated from Skeffy; he was so daring, +so impulsive, as she said, and with all this responsibility on him now,—people +coming to him for everything, and all asking what was to be done,—he +needed more than ever support and sympathy. +</p> +<p> +And thus is it the world goes on, as unreal, as fictitious, as visionary +as anything there ever was put on the stage and illuminated by footlights. +There was a rude realism outside in the street, however, that compensated +for much of this. There, all was wildest fun and jollity; not the +commotion of a people in the throes of a revolution, not the highly +wrought passion of an excited populace mad with triumph; it was the orgie +of a people who deemed the downfall of a hated government a sort of +carnival occasion, and felt that mummery and tomfoolery were the most +appropriate expressions of delight. +</p> +<p> +Through streets crowded with this dancing, singing, laughing, embracing, +and mimicking mass, the Lyles made their way to the jetty reserved for the +use of the ships of war, and soon took their places, and were rowed off to +the frigate, Skeffy waving his adieux till darkness rendered his gallantry +unnoticed. +</p> +<p> +All his late devotion to the cares of love and friendship had made such +inroads on his time that he scarcely knew what was occurring, and had +lamentably failed to report to “the Office” the various steps by which +revolution had advanced, and was already all but installed as master of +the kingdom. Determined to write off a most telling despatch, he entered +the hotel, and, seeing Alice engaged letter-writing at one table, he +quietly installed himself at another, merely saying, “The boat will be +back by midnight, and I have just time to send off an important despatch.” + </p> +<p> +Alice looked up from her writing, and a very faint smile curled her lip. +She did not speak, however, and after a moment continued her letter. +</p> +<p> +For upwards of half an hour the scraping sounds of the pens were the only +noises in the room, except at times a low murmur as Skeff read over to +himself some passage of unusual force and brilliancy. +</p> +<p> +“You must surely be doing something very effective, Skeff,” said Alice, +from the other end of the room, “for you rubbed your hands with delight, +and looked radiant with triumph.” + </p> +<p> +“I think I have given it to them!” cried he. “There 's not another man in +the line would send home such a despatch. Canning wouldn't have done it in +the old days, when he used to bully them. Shall I read it for you?” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Skeff, I 'm not Bella. I never had a head for questions of +politics. I am hopelessly stupid in all such matters.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, yes; Bella told me that Bella herself, indeed, only learned to feel +an interest in them through me; but, as I told her, the woman who would +one day be an ambassadress cannot afford to be ignorant of the great +European game in which her husband is a player.” + </p> +<p> +“Quite true; but I have no such ambitions before me; and fortunate it is, +for really I could not rise to the height of such lofty themes.” + </p> +<p> +Skeff smiled pleasantly; her humility soothed him. He turned to the last +paragraph he had penned and re-read it. +</p> +<p> +“By the way,” said Alice, carelessly, and certainly nothing was less +apropos to what they had been saying, though she commenced thus,—“by +the way, how did you find Tony looking,—improved, or the reverse?” + </p> +<p> +“Improved in one respect; fuller, browner, more manly, perhaps, but +coarser; he wants the—you know what I mean—he wants this!” and +he swayed his arm in a bold sweep, and stood fixed, with his hand +extended. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, indeed!” said she, faintly. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you think so—don't you agree with me, Alice?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps to a certain extent I do,” said she, diffidently. +</p> +<p> +“How could it be otherwise, consorting with such a set? You 'd not expect +to find it there?” + </p> +<p> +Alice nodded assent all the more readily that she had not the vaguest +conception of what “it” might mean. +</p> +<p> +“The fact is, Alice,” said he, arising and walking the room with immense +strides, “Tony will always be Tony!” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose he will,” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; but you don't follow me. You don't appreciate my meaning. I desired +to convey this opinion, that Tony being one of those men who cannot add to +their own natures the gifts and graces which a man acquires who has his +successes with your sex—” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Skeff, you must neither be metaphysical nor improper. Tony is +a very fine boy,—only a boy, I acknowledge, but he has noble +qualities; and every year he lives will, I feel certain, but develop them +further.” + </p> +<p> +“He won't stand the 'boy' tone any longer,” said Skeff, dryly. “I tried +it, and he was down on me at once.” + </p> +<p> +“What did he say when you told him we were here?” said she, carelessly, +while putting her papers in order. +</p> +<p> +“He was surprised.” + </p> +<p> +“Was he pleased?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, yes, pleased, certainly; he was rather afraid of meeting your mother, +though.” + </p> +<p> +“Afraid of mamma! how could that be?” + </p> +<p> +“Some lesson or other she once gave him sticks in his throat; something +she said about presumption, I think.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, no, no; this is quite impossible,—I can't credit it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it might be some fancy of his; for he has fancies, and very queer +ones too. One was about a godfather of mine. Come in,—what is it?” + cried he, as a knock came to the door. +</p> +<p> +“A soldier below stairs, sir, wishes to speak to you,” said the waiter. +</p> +<p> +“Ah! something of importance from Filangieri, I've no doubt,” said Skeff, +rising and leaving the room. Before he had gone many paces, however, he +saw a large, powerful figure in the red shirt and small cap of the +Garibaldians, standing in the corridor, and the next instant he turned +fully round,—it was Tony. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Tony, when did you arrive?” + </p> +<p> +“This moment; I am off again, however, at once, but I would n't leave +without seeing you.” + </p> +<p> +“Off, and whereto?” + </p> +<p> +“Home; I've taken a passage to Marseilles in the Messageries boat, and she +sails at two o'clock. You see I was no use here till this arm got right, +and the General thought my head would n't be the worse of a little quiet; +so I 'll go back and recruit, and if they want me they shall have me.” + </p> +<p> +“You don't know who's there?” whispered Skeff. Tony shook his head. “And +all alone, too,” added the other, still lower. “Alice,—Alice +Trafford.” + </p> +<p> +Tony grew suddenly very pale, and leaned against the wall. +</p> +<p> +“Come in; come in at once, and see her. We have been talking of you all +the evening.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no,—not now,” said Tony, faintly. +</p> +<p> +“And when, if not now? You 're going off, you said.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm in no trim to pay visits; besides, I don't wish it. I 'll tell you +more some other time.” + </p> +<p> +“Nonsense; you look right well in your brigand costume, and with an old +friend, not to say—Well, well, don't look sulky;” and as he got thus +far—he had been gradually edging closer and closer to the door—he +flung it wide open, and called out, “Mr. Tony Butler!” Pushing Tony +inside, and then closing the door behind, he retreated, laughing heartily +to himself over his practical joke. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LIX. AN AWKWARD MOMENT +</h2> +<p> +Alice started as she heard the name Tony Butler, and for a moment neither +spoke. There was confusion and awkwardness on either side; all the greater +that each saw it in the other. She, however, was the first to rally; and, +with a semblance of old friendship, held out her hand, and said, “I am so +glad to see you, Tony, and to see you safe.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd not have dared to present myself in such a dress,” stammered he out; +“but that scamp Skeffy gave me no choice: he opened the door and pushed me +in.” + </p> +<p> +“Your dress is quite good enough to visit an old friend in. Won't you sit +down?—sit here.” As she spoke, she seated herself on an ottoman, and +pointed to a place at her side. “I am longing to hear something about your +campaigns. Skeff was so provoking; he only told us about what he saw at +Cava, and his own adventures on the road.” + </p> +<p> +“I have very little to tell, and less time to tell it I must embark in +about half an hour.” + </p> +<p> +“And where for?” + </p> +<p> +“For home.” + </p> +<p> +“So that if it had not been for Skeff's indiscretion I should not have +seen you?” said she, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“Not at this moment,—not in this guise.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” And there was another pause. +</p> +<p> +“I hope Bella is better. Has she quite recovered?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“She is quite well again; she 'll be sorry to have missed you, Tony. She +wanted, besides, to tell you how happy it made her to hear of all your +good fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“My good fortune! Oh, yes—to be sure. It was so unlooked for,” added +he, with a faint smile, “that I have hardly been able to realize it yet; +that is, I find myself planning half-a-dozen ways to earn my bread, when I +suddenly remember that I shall not need them.” + </p> +<p> +“And I hope it makes you happy, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course it does. It enables me to make my mother happy, and to secure +that we shall not be separated. As for myself alone, my habits are simple +enough, and my tastes also. My difficulty will be, I suppose, to acquire +more expensive ones.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not a very hard task, I believe,” said she, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Not for others, perhaps; but I was reared in narrow fortune, Alice, +trained to submit to many a privation, and told too—I 'm not sure +very wisely—that such hardships are all the more easily borne by a +man of good blood and lineage. Perhaps I did not read my lesson right. At +all events, I thought a deal more of my good blood than other people were +willing to accord it; and the result was, it misled me.” + </p> +<p> +“Misled you! and how—in what way?” + </p> +<p> +“Is it you who ask me this—you, Alice, who have read me such wise +lessons on self-dependence, while Lady Lyle tried to finish my education +by showing the evils of over-presumption; and you were both right, though +I did n't see it at the time.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare I do not understand you, Tony!” said she. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I 'll try to be clearer,” said he, with more animation. “From the +first day I knew you, Alice, I loved you. I need not say that all the +difference in station between us never affected my love. You were too far +above me in every gift and grace to make rank, mere rank, ever occur to my +mind, though others were good enough to jog my memory on the subject.” + </p> +<p> +“Others! of whom are you speaking?” + </p> +<p> +“Your brother Mark, for one; but I don't want to think of these things. I +loved you, I say; and to that degree that every change of your manner +towards me made the joy or the misery of my life. This was when I was an +idle youth, lounging about in that condition of half dependence that, as I +look back on, I blush to think I ever could have endured. My only excuse +is, however, that I knew no better.” + </p> +<p> +“There was nothing unbecoming in what you did.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, there was, though. There was this: I was satisfied to hold an +ambiguous position,—to be a something, neither master nor servant, +in another man's house, all because it gave me the daily happiness to be +near you, and to see you, and to hear your voice. That was unbecoming, and +the best proof of it was, that with all my love and all my devotion, you +could not care for me.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Tony! do not say that.” + </p> +<p> +“When I say care, you could not do more than care; you couldn't love me.” + </p> +<p> +“Were you not always as a dear brother to me?” + </p> +<p> +“I wanted to be more than brother, and when I found that this could not +be, I grew very careless, almost reckless, of my life; not but that it +took a long time to teach me the full lesson. I had to think over, not +only all that separated us in station, but all that estranged us in tone +of mind; and I saw that your superiority to me chafed me, and that if you +should ever come to feel for me, it would be through some sense of pity.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Tony!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Alice, you know it better than I can say it; and so I set my pride +to fight against my love, with no great success at first. But as I lay +wounded in the orchard at Melazzo, and thought of my poor mother, and her +sorrow if she were to hear of my death, and compared her grief with what +yours would be, I saw what was real in love, and what was mere interest; +and I remember I took out my two relics,—the dearest objects I had +in the world,—a lock of my mother's hair and a certain glove,—a +white glove you may have seen once on a time; and it was over the little +braid of brown hair I let fall the last tears I thought ever to shed in +life; and here is the glove—I give it back to you. Will you have +it?” + </p> +<p> +She took it with a trembling hand; and in a voice of weak but steady +utterance said, “I told you that this time would come.” + </p> +<p> +“You did so,” said he, gloomily. +</p> +<p> +Alice rose and walked out upon the balcony; and after a moment Tony +followed her. They leaned on the balustrade side by side, but neither +spoke. +</p> +<p> +“But we shall always be dear friends, Tony, sha'n't we?” said she, while +she laid her hand gently over his. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Alice,” said he, plaintively, “do not—do not, I beseech you—lead +me back again into that land of delusion I have just tried to escape from. +If you knew how I loved you—if you knew what it costs me to tear +that love out of my heart—you'd never wish to make the agony greater +to me.” + </p> +<p> +“Dear Tony, it was a mere boyish passion. Remember for a moment how it +began. I was older than you—much older as regards life and the world—and +even older by more than a year. You were so proud to attach yourself to a +grown woman,—you a mere lad; and then your love—for I will +grant it was love—dignified you to yourself. It made you more daring +where there was danger, and it taught you to be gentler and kinder, and +more considerate to every one. All your good and great qualities grew the +faster that they had those little vicissitudes of joy and sorrow, the sun +and rain of our daily lives; but all that is not love.” + </p> +<p> +“You mean there is no love where there is no return of love?” + </p> +<p> +She was silent +</p> +<p> +“If so, I deny it. The faintest flicker of a hope was enough for me; the +merest shadow, a smile, a passing word, your mere 'Thank you, Tony,' as I +held your stirrup, the little word of recognition you would give when I +had done something that pleased you,—these—any of them—would +send me home happy,—happier, perhaps, than I ever shall be again.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Tony, do not believe that,” said she, calmly; “not,” added she, +hastily, “that I can acquit myself of all wrong to you. No; I was in +fault,—gravely in fault I ought to have seen what would have come of +all our intimacy; I ought to have known that I could not develop all that +was best in your nature without making you turn in gratitude—well, +in love—to myself; but shall I tell you the truth? I over-estimated +my power over you. I not only thought I could make you love, but unlove +me; and I never thought what pain that lesson might cost—each of +us.” + </p> +<p> +“It would have been fairer to have cast me adrift at first,” said he, +fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“And yet, Tony, you will be generous enough one of these days to think +differently!” + </p> +<p> +“I certainly feel no touch of that generosity now.” + </p> +<p> +“Because you are angry with me, Tony,—because you will not be just +to me; but when you have learned to think of me as your sister, and can +come and say, Dear Alice, counsel me as to this, advise me as to that,—then +there will be no ill-will towards me for all I have done to teach you the +great stores that were in your own nature.” + </p> +<p> +“Such a day as that is distant,” said he, gloomily. +</p> +<p> +“Who knows? The changes which work within us are not to be measured by +time; a day of sorrow will do the work of years.” + </p> +<p> +“There! that lantern at the peak is the signal for me to be off. The +skipper promised to give me notice; but if you will say 'Stay!' be it so. +No, no, Alice, do not lay your hand on my arm if you would not have me +again deceive myself.” + </p> +<p> +“You will write to me, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +He shook his head to imply the negative. +</p> +<p> +“Well, to Bella, at least?” + </p> +<p> +“I think not. I will not promise. Why should I? Is it to try and knot +together the cords we have just torn, that you may break them again at +your pleasure?” + </p> +<p> +“How ungenerous you are!” + </p> +<p> +“You reminded me awhile ago it was my devotion to you that civilized me; +is it not natural that I should go back to savagery, as my allegiance was +rejected?” + </p> +<p> +“You want to be Garibaldian in love as in war,” said she, smiling. +</p> +<p> +The deep boom of a gun floated over the bay, and Tony started. +</p> +<p> +“That's the last signal,—good-bye.” He held out his hand. +</p> +<p> +“Good-bye, dear Tony,” said she. She held her cheek towards him. He +hesitated, blushed till his face was in a dame, then stooped and kissed +her. Skeff's voice was heard at the instant at the door; and Tony rushed +past him and down the stairs, and then, with mad speed, dashed along to +the jetty, leaped into the boat, and, covering his face with his hands, +never raised his head till they were alongside. +</p> +<p> +“You were within an inch of being late, Tony,” cried M'Gruder, as he came +up the side. “What detained you?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you all another time,—let me go below now;” and he +disappeared down the ladder. The heavy paddles flapped slowly, then +faster; and the great mass moved on, and made for the open sea. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LX. A DECK WALK +</h2> +<p> +The steamer was well ont to sea when Tony appeared on deck. It was a calm, +starlight night,—fresh, but not cold. The few passengers, however, +had sought their berths below, and the only one who lingered on deck was +M'Grader and one other, who, wrapped in a large boat-cloak, lay fast +asleep beside the binnacle. +</p> +<p> +“I was thinking you had turned in,” said M'Grader to Tony, “as you had not +come up.” + </p> +<p> +“Give me a light; I want a smoke badly. I felt that something was wrong +with me, though I did n't know what it was. Is this Rory here?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sound asleep, poor fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll wager a trifle he has a lighter heart than either of us, Sam.” + </p> +<p> +“It might easily be lighter than mine,” sighed M'Grader, heavily. +</p> +<p> +Tony sighed too, but said nothing, and they walked along side by side, +with that short jerking stride men pace a deck with, feeling some sort of +companionship, although no words were exchanged between them. +</p> +<p> +“You were nigh being late,” said M'Grader, at last “What detained you on +shore?” + </p> +<p> +“I saw her!” said Tony, in a low muffled voice. +</p> +<p> +“You saw her! Why, you told me you were determined not to see her.” + </p> +<p> +“So I was, and so I intended. It came about by mere accident That strange +fellow, Skeffy, you've heard me speak of,—he pushed me plump into +the room where she was, and there was nothing to be done but to speak to +her.” + </p> +<p> +“Well?” + </p> +<p> +“Well! I spoke,” said he, half gruffly; and then, as if correcting the +roughness of his tone, added, “It was just as I said it would be; just as +I told you. She liked me well enough as a brother, but never thought of me +as anything else. All the interest she had taken in me was out of +friendship. She didn't say this haughtily, not a bit; she felt herself +much older than me, she said; that she felt herself better was like +enough, but she never hinted it, but she let me feel pretty plainly that +we were not made for each other; and though the lesson wasn't much to my +liking, I began to see it was true.” + </p> +<p> +“Did you really?” + </p> +<p> +“I did,” said he, with a deep sigh. “I saw that all the love I had borne +her was only paid back in a sort of feeling half compassionately, half +kindly; that her interest in me was out of some desire to make something +out of me; I mean, to force me to exert myself and do something,—anything +besides living a hanger-on at a great house. I have a notion, too,—Heaven +knows if there 's anything in it,—but I 've a notion, Sam, if she +had never known me till now,—if she had never seen me idling and +lounging about in that ambiguous position I held,—something between +gamekeeper and reduced gentleman,—that I might have had a better +chance.” + </p> +<p> +M'Gruder nodded a half-assent, and Tony continued: “I'll tell you why I +think so. Whenever she asked me about the campaign and the way I was +wounded, and what I had seen, there was quite a change in her voice, and +she listened to what I said very differently from the way she heard me +when I talked to her of my affection for her.” + </p> +<p> +“There 's no knowing them! there's no knowing them!” said M'Gruder, +drearily; “and how did it end?” + </p> +<p> +“It ended that way.” + </p> +<p> +“What way?” + </p> +<p> +“Just as I told you. She said she'd always be the same as a sister to me, +and that when I grew older and wiser I 'd see that there should never have +been any closer tie between us. I can't repeat the words she used, but it +was something to this purport,—that when a woman has been lecturing +a man about his line of life, and trying to make something out of him, +against the grain of his own indolence, she can't turn suddenly round and +fall in love, even though <i>he</i> was in love with <i>her</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“She has a good head on her shoulders, she has,” muttered M'Gruder. +</p> +<p> +“I'd rather she had a little more heart,” said Tony, peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“That may be; but she's right, after all.” + </p> +<p> +“And why is she right? why should n't she see me as I am now, and not +persist in looking at me as I used to be?” + </p> +<p> +“Just because it's not her humor, I suppose; at least, I don't know any +better reason.” + </p> +<p> +Tony wheeled suddenly away from his companion, and took two or three turns +alone. At last he said, “She never told me so, but I suppose the truth +was, all this time she <i>did</i> think me very presumptuous; and that +what her mother did not scruple to say to me in words, Alice had often +said to her own heart.” + </p> +<p> +“You are rich enough now to make you her equal.” + </p> +<p> +“And I 'd rather be as poor as I used to be and have the hopes that have +left me.” + </p> +<p> +M'Gruder gave a heavy sigh, and, turning away, leaned on the bulwark and +hid his face. “I'm a bad comforter, Tony,” said he at last, and speaking +with difficulty. “I did n't mean to have told you, for you have cares +enough of your own, but I may as well tell you,—read that.” As he +spoke, he drew out a letter and handed it to him; and Tony, stooping down +beside the binnacle light, read it over twice. +</p> +<p> +“This is clear and clean beyond me,” exclaimed he, as he stood up. “From +any other girl I could understand it; but Dolly,—Dolly Stewart, who +never broke her word in her life,—I never knew her tell a lie as a +little child. What can she mean by it?” + </p> +<p> +“Just what she says—there—she thought she could marry me, and +she finds she cannot.” + </p> +<p> +“But why?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! that's more than she likes to tell me,—more, mayhap, than she +'d tell any one.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you any clew to it?” + </p> +<p> +“None,—not the slightest.” + </p> +<p> +“Is your sister-in-law in it? Has she said or written anything that Dolly +could resent?” + </p> +<p> +“No; don't you mark what she says at the end? 'You must not try to lighten +any blame you would lay on me by thinking that any one has influenced me. +The fault is all my own. It is I myself have to ask your forgiveness.'” + </p> +<p> +“Was there any coldness in your late letters? Was there anything that she +could construe into change of affection?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing,—nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“What will her father say to it?” said Tony, after a pause. +</p> +<p> +“She's afraid of that herself. You mind the words?—'If I meet +forgiveness from you, I shall not from others, and my fault will bear its +heavy punishment on a heart that is not too happy.' Poor thing! I do +forgive her,—forgive her with all my heart; but it's a great blow, +Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“If she was a capricious girl, I could understand it, but that's what she +never was.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; she was true and honest in all things.” + </p> +<p> +“It may be something about her father; he's an old man, and failing. She +cannot bear to leave him, perhaps, and it's just possible she could n't +bring herself to say it. Don't you think it might be that?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't give me a hope, Tony. Don't let me see a glimpse of light, my dear +friend, if there 's to be no fulfilment after.” + </p> +<p> +The tone of emotion he spoke in made Tony unable to reply for some +minutes. “I have no right to say this, it is true,” said he, kindly; “but +it's the nearest guess I can make: I know, for she told me so herself, she +'d not go and be a governess again if she could help it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, if you were to be right, Tony! Oh, if it was to be as you suspect; +for we could make him come out and live with us here! We've plenty of +room, and it would be a pleasure to see him happy, and at rest, after his +long life of labor. Let us read the letter over together, Tony, and see +how it agrees with that thought;” and now they both crouched down beside +the light, and read it over from end to end. Here and there were passages +that they pondered over seriously, and some they read twice and even +thrice, and although they brought to this task the desire to confirm a +speculation, there was that in the tone of the letter that gave little +ground for their hope. It was so self-accusing throughout, that it was +plain she herself laid no comfort to her own heart in the thought of a +high duty fulfilled. +</p> +<p> +“Are you of the same mind still?” asked M'Gruder, sadly, and with little +of hopefulness in his voice; and Tony was silent. +</p> +<p> +“I see you are not. I see that you cannot give me such a hope.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you answered this yet?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I have written it; but it's not sent off. I kept it by me to read +over, and see that there was nothing harsh or cruel,—nothing I would +not say in cold blood; for oh, Tony! I will avow it was hard to forgive +her; no, I don't mean that, but it was hard to bring myself to believe I +had lost her forever. For a while I thought the best thing I could do was +to comfort myself by thinking how false she was, and I took out all her +letters, to convince me of her duplicity; but what do you think I found? +They all showed me, what I never saw till then, that she was only going to +be my wife out of a sort of resignation; that the grief and fretting of +her poor father at leaving her penniless in the world was more than she +could bear; and that to give him the comfort of his last few days in +peace, she 'd make any sacrifice; and through all the letters, though I +never saw it before, she laid stress on what she called doing her best to +make me happy, but there was no word of being happy herself.” + </p> +<p> +Perhaps Tony did not lay the same stress on this that his friend did; +perhaps no explanation of it came readily to his mind; at all events, he +made no attempt at comment, and only said,— +</p> +<p> +“And what will your answer be?” + </p> +<p> +“What can it be?—to release her, of course.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but how will you say it?” + </p> +<p> +“Here's what I have written; it is the fourth attempt, and I don't much +like it yet, but I can't do it better.” + </p> +<p> +And once more they turned to the light while M'Gruder read out his letter. +It was a kind and feeling letter; it contained not one word of reproach, +but it said that, into the home he had taken, and where he meant to be so +happy, he 'd never put foot again. “You ought to have seen it, Tony,” said +he, with a quiver in his voice. “It was all so neat and comfortable; and +the little room I meant to be Dolly's own was hung round with prints, and +there was a little terrace, with some orange-trees and myrtles, that would +grow there all through the winter,—for it was a sheltered spot under +the Monte Nero; but it's all over now.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't send off that letter. I mean, let me see her and speak to her +before you write. I shall be at home, I hope, by Wednesday, and I'll go +over to the Burnside,—or, better still, I 'll make my mother ask +Dolly to come over to us. Dolly loves her as if she were her own mother, +and if any one can influence her she will be that one.” + </p> +<p> +“But I'd not wish her to come round by persuasion, Tony. Dolly's a girl to +have a will of her own, and she's never made op her mind to write me that +letter without thinking well over it.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps she'll tell my mother her reasons. Perhaps she'll say why she +draws back from her promise.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't even know that I'd like to drive her to that; it mightn't be +quite fair.” + </p> +<p> +Tony flung away his cigar with impatience; he was irritated, for he +bethought him of his own case, and how it was quite possible that no such +scruples of delicacy would have interfered with him if he could only have +managed to find out what was passing in Alice's mind. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm sure,” said M'Gruder, “you agree with me, Tony; and if she says, +'Don't hold me to my pledge,' I have no right to ask why.” + </p> +<p> +A short shrug of the shoulders was all Tony's answer. +</p> +<p> +“Not that I 'd object to your saying a word for me, Tony, if there was to +be any hope from it,—saying what a warm friend could say of one he +thought well of. You 've been living under the same roof with me, and you +know more of my nature, and my ways and my temper, than most men, and +mayhap what you could tell her might have its weight.” + </p> +<p> +“That I know and believe.” + </p> +<p> +“But don't think only of me, Tony. <i>She's</i> more to be considered than +I am; and if this bargain was to be unhappy for her, it would only be +misery for both of us. You'd not marry your own sweetheart against her own +will?” + </p> +<p> +Tony neither agreed to nor dissented from this remark. The chances were +that it was a proposition not so readily solved, and that he 'd like to +have thought over it. +</p> +<p> +“No; I know you better than that,” said M'Gruder, once more. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps not,” remarked Tony; but the tone certainly gave no positive +assurance of a settled determination. “At all events, I 'll see what I can +do for you.” + </p> +<p> +“If it was that she cares for somebody else that she could n't marry,—that +her father disliked, or that he was too poor,—I 'd never say one +word; because who can tell what changes may come in life, and the man that +could n't support a wife now, in a year or two may be well off and +thriving? And if it was that she really liked another,—you don't +think that likely? Well, neither do I; but I say it here because I want to +take in every consideration of the question; but I repeat, if it were so, +I 'd never utter one word against it. Your mother, Tony, is more likely to +find <i>that</i> out than any of us; and if she says Dolly's heart is +given away already, that will be enough. I 'll not trouble nor torment her +more.” + </p> +<p> +Tony grasped his friend's hand and shook it warmly, some vague suspicion +darting through him at the time that this rag-merchant was more generous +in his dealing with the woman he loved than he, Tony, would have been. Was +it that he loved less, or was it that his love was more? Tony could n't +tell; nor was it so very easy to resolve it either way. +</p> +<p> +As day broke, the steamer ran into Leghorn to land some passengers and +take in others; and M'Gruder, while he took leave of Tony, pointed to a +red-tiled roof rising amongst some olive-trees,—the quaint little +pigeon-house on top surmounted with a weather-vane fashioned into an +enormous letter S. +</p> +<p> +“There it is,” said he, with a shake in his voice; “that was to have been +her home. I 'll not go near it till I hear from you, and you may tell her +so. Tell her you saw it, Tony, and that it was a sweet little spot, where +one might look for happiness if they could only bring a quiet heart to it. +And above all, Tony, write to me frankly and openly, and don't give me any +hopes if your own conscience tells you I have no right to them.” + </p> +<p> +With a strong grasp of the hand, and a long full look at each other in +silence, M'Grader went over the side to his boat, and the steamer ploughed +on her way to Marseilles. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LXI. TONY AT HOME AGAIN +</h2> +<p> +Though Tony was eager to persuade Rory to accompany him home, the poor +fellow longed so ardently to see his friends and relations, to tell all +that he had done and suffered for “the cause,” and to show the rank he had +won, that Tony yielded at last, and only bound him by a promise to come +and pass his Christmas at the Causeway; and now he hastened on night and +day, feverishly impatient to see his mother, and yearning for that +affection which his heart had never before so thirsted after. +</p> +<p> +There were times when he felt that, without Alice, all his good fortune in +life was valueless; and it was a matter of utter indifference whether he +was to see himself surrounded with every means of enjoyment, or rise each +morning to meet some call of labor. And then there were times when he +thought of the great space that separated them,—not in condition, +but in tastes and habits and requirements. She was of that gay and +fashionable world that she adorned,—made for it, and made to like +it; its admiration and its homage were things she looked for. What would +he have done if obliged to live in such a society? His delight was the +freedom of an out-of-door existence,—the hard work of field-sports, +dashed with a certain danger that gave them their zest. In these he +admitted no man to be his superior; and in this very conscious strength +lay the pride that sustained him. Compel him, however, to live in another +fashion, surround him with the responsibilities of station, and the +demands of certain ceremonies, and he would be wretched. “Perhaps she saw +all that,” muttered he to himself. “With that marvellous quickness of +hers, who knows if she might not have foreseen how unsuited I was to all +habits but my own wayward careless ones? And though I hope I shall always +be a gentleman, in truth there are some forms of the condition that puzzle +me sorely. +</p> +<p> +“And, after all, have I not my dear mother to look after and make happy? +and what a charm it will give to life to see her surrounded with the +little objects she loved and cared for! What a garden she shall have!” + Climate and soil, to be sure, were stiff adversaries to conquer, but money +and skill could fight them; and that school for the little girls—the +fishermen's daughters—that she was always planning, and always +wondering Sir Arthur Lyle had never thought of, she should have it now, +and a pretty building, too, it should be. He knew the very spot to suit +it, and how beautiful he would make their own little cottage, if his +mother should still desire to live there. Not that he thought of this +positively with perfect calm and indifference. To live so near the Lyles, +and live estranged from them, would be a great source of unpleasantness, +and yet how could he possibly renew his relations there, now that all was +over between Alice and himself? “Ah,” thought he, at last, “the world +would stand still if it had to wait for stupid fellows like me to solve +its difficulties. I must just let events happen, and do the best I can +when they confront me;” and then mother would be there, mother would +counsel and advise him; mother would warn him of this, and reconcile him +to that; and so he was of good cheer as to the future, though there were +things in the present that pressed him sorely. +</p> +<p> +It was about an hour after dark of a starry, sharp October evening, that +the jaunting-car on which he travelled drove up to the spot where the +little pathway turned off to the cottage, and Jeanie was there with her +lantern waiting for him. +</p> +<p> +“You've no a' that luggage, Maister Tony?” cried she, as the man deposited +the fourth trunk on the road. +</p> +<p> +“How's my mother?” asked he, impatiently,—“is she well?” + </p> +<p> +“Why wouldn't she be weel, and hearty too?” said the girl, who rather felt +the question as savoring of ingratitude, seeing what blessings of fortune +had been showered upon them. +</p> +<p> +As he walked hurriedly along, Jeanie trotted at his side, telling him, in +broken and disjointed sentences, the events of the place,—the joy of +the whole neighborhood on hearing of his new wealth; their hopes that he +might not leave that part of the country; what Mrs. Blackie of Craigs +Mills said at Mrs. Dumphy's christening, when she gave the name of Tony to +the baby, and wouldn't say Anthony; and how Dr. M'Candlish improved the +occasion for “twa good hours, wi' mair text o' Scripture than wad make a +Sabbath-day's discourse; and ech, Maister Tony, it's a glad heart I'll hae +o' it all, if I could only think that you 'll no be going to keep a man +creature,—a sort of a butler like; there 's no such wastefu' bodies +in the world as they, and wanting mair ceremonies than the best gentleman +in the land.” + </p> +<p> +Before Tony had finished assuring her that no change in the household +should displace herself, they had reached the little wicket; his mother, +as she stood at the door, caught the sound of his voice, rushed out to +meet him, and was soon clasped in his arms. +</p> +<p> +“It's more happiness than I hoped for,—more, far more,” was all she +could say, as she clung to him. Her next words were uttered in a cry of +joy, when the light fell full upon him in the doorway,—“you 're just +your father, Tony; it's your own father's self I see standing before me, +if you had not so much hair over your face.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll soon get rid of that, mother, if you dislike it.” + </p> +<p> +“Let it be, Master Tony,—let it be,” cried Jeanie; “though it +frightened me a bit at first, it 's no so bad when one gets used to it.” + </p> +<p> +Though Mrs. Butler had determined to make Tony relate every event that +took place from the day he left her, in regular narrative order, nothing +could be less connected, nothing less consecutive, than the incidents he +recounted. Now it would be some reminiscence of his messenger days,—of +his meeting with that glorious Sir Joseph, who treated him so handsomely; +then of that villain who stole his despatches; of his life as a +rag-merchant, or his days with Garibaldi. Rory, too, was remembered; and +he related to his mother the pious fraud by which he had transferred to +his humble follower the promotion Garibaldi had bestowed upon himself. +</p> +<p> +“He well deserved it, and more; he carried me, when I was wounded, through +the orchard at Melazzo on his back, and though struck with a bullet +himself, never owned he was hit till he fell on the grass beside me,—a +grand fellow that, mother, though he never learned to read.” And there was +a something of irony in his voice as he said this, that showed how the +pains of learning still rankled in his mind. +</p> +<p> +“And you never met the Lyles? How strange!” exclaimed she. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, I met Alice; at least,” said he, stooping down to settle the log on +the fire, “I saw her the last evening I was at Naples.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell me all about it” + </p> +<p> +“There 's no all. I met her, we talked together for half an hour or so, +and we parted; there's the whole of it.” + </p> +<p> +“She had heard, I suppose, of your good fortune?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Skeff had told them the story and, I take it, made the most of our +wealth; not that rich people like the Lyles would be much impressed by our +fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“That may be true, Tony, but rich folk have a sympathy with other rich +folk, and they 're not very wrong in liking those whose condition +resembles their own. What did Alice say? Did she give you some good advice +as to your mode of life?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, plenty of that; she rather likes advice-giving.” + </p> +<p> +“She was always a good friend of yours, Tony. I mind well when she used to +come here to hear your letters read to her. She ever made the same remark: +'Tony is a fine true-hearted boy; and when he's moulded and shaped a bit +by the pressure of the world, he 'll grow to be a fine true-hearted man.'” + </p> +<p> +“It was very gracious of her, no doubt,” said he, with a sharp, short +tone; “and she was good enough to contribute a little to that self-same +'pressure' she hoped so much from.” + </p> +<p> +His mother looked at him to explain his words, but he turned his head away +and was silent. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me something about home, mother. How are the Stewarts? Where is +Dolly?” + </p> +<p> +“They are well, and Dolly is here; and a dear good girl she is. Ah, Tony! +if you knew all the comfort she has been to me in your absence,—coming +here through sleet and snow and storm, and nursing me like a daughter.” + </p> +<p> +“I liked her better till I learned how she had treated that good-hearted +fellow Sam M'Gruder. Do you know how she has behaved to him?” + </p> +<p> +“I know it all. I read her letters, every one of them.” + </p> +<p> +“And can you mean that you defend her conduct?'” + </p> +<p> +“I mean that if she were to marry a man she did not love, and were +dishonest enough not to tell him so, I 'd not attempt to defend her. +There's what I mean, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“Why promise him, then,—why accept him?” + </p> +<p> +“She never did.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah!” exclaimed he, holding up both his hands. +</p> +<p> +“I know what I say, Tony. It was the doctor answered the letter in which +Mr. M'Gruder proposed for Dolly. He said that he could not, would not, use +any influence over his daughter; but that, from all he had learned of Mr. +M'Gruder's character, he would give his free consent to the match.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, Dolly said—” + </p> +<p> +“Wait a bit, I am coming to Dolly. She wrote back that she was sorry he +had not first written to herself, and she would frankly have declared that +she did not wish to marry; but now, as he had addressed her father,—an +old man in failing health, anxious above all things about what was to +become of her when he was removed,—the case was a more difficult +one, since to refuse his offer was to place herself in opposition to her +father's will,—a thing that in all her life had never happened. 'You +will see from this,' said she, 'that I could not bring to you that love +and affection which would be your right, were I only to marry you to spare +my father's anxieties. You ought to have more than this in your wife, and +I cannot give you more; therefore do not persist in this suit, or, at all +events, do not press it.'” + </p> +<p> +“But I remember your writing me word that Dolly was only waiting till I +left M'Gruder's house, or quitted the neighborhood, to name the day she +would be married. How do you explain that?” + </p> +<p> +“It was her father forced her to write that letter: his health was +failing, and his irritability had increased to that degree that at times +we were almost afraid of his reason, Tony; and I mind well the night Dolly +came over to show me what she had written. She read it in that chair where +you are sitting now, and when she finished she fell on her knees, and, +hiding her face in my lap, she sobbed as if her poor heart was breaking.” + </p> +<p> +“So, in fact, she was always averse to this match?” + </p> +<p> +“Always. She never got a letter from abroad that I could n't have told it +by her red eyes and swelled eyelids, poor lassie!” + </p> +<p> +“I say, 'poor fellow!' mother; for I declare that the man who marries a +woman against her will has the worst of it.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, Tony; all sorrows fall heaviest on the helpless. When at last the +time came that she could bear no more, she rallied her courage and told +her father that if she were to marry M'Gruder it would be the misery of +her whole life. He took it very ill at first; he said some very cruel +things to her; and, indeed, it was only after seeing how I took the +lassie's side, and approved of all she had done, that he yielded and gave +way. But he isn't what he used to be, Tony. Old age, they say, makes +people sometimes sterner and harder. A grievous thing to think of, that we +'d be more worldly just when the world was slipping away beneath us; and +so what do you think he does? The same day that Dolly writes that letter +to M'Gruder, he makes her write to Dr. M'Candlish to say that she 'd take +a situation as a governess with a family going to India which the doctor +mentioned was open to any well-qualified young person like herself. 'Ye +canna say that your “heart will be broke wi' treachery” here, lassie,' +said her father, jeering at what she said in her tears about the +marriage.” + </p> +<p> +“You oughtn't to suffer this, mother; you ought to offer Dolly a home here +with yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“It was what I was thinking of. Tony; but I did n't like to take any step +in it till I saw you and spoke to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Do it, by all means,—do it to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Not to-morrow, Tony, nor even the next day; for Dolly and the doctor left +this to pass a few days with the M'Candlishes at Articlave, and they 'll +not be back before Saturday; but I am so glad that you like the plan,—so +glad that it came from yourself too.” + </p> +<p> +“It's the first bit of pleasure our new wealth has given us, mother; may +it be a good augury!” + </p> +<p> +“That's a heathenish word, Tony, and most unsuited to be used in +thankfulness for God's blessings.” + </p> +<p> +Tony took the rebuke in good part, and, to change the topic, laughingly +asked if she thought Garibaldians never were hungry, for she had said +nothing of supper since he came. +</p> +<p> +“Jeanie has been in three times to tell you it was ready, and the last +time she said she 'd come no more; but come, and we'll see what there's +for us.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LXII. SKEFF DAMER'S LAST “PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL” + </h2> +<p> +After some four or five days passed almost like a dream—for while he +stood in the midst of old familiar objects, all Tony's thoughts as to the +future were new and strange—there came a long letter from Skeff +Darner, announcing his approaching marriage with Bella,—the “dear +old woman of Tilney” having behaved “beautifully.” “Short as the time has +been since you left this, my brave Tony, great events have occurred. The +King has lost his throne, and Skeff Darner has gained an estate. I would +have saved him, for I really like the Queen; but that his obstinacy is +such, the rescue would have only been a reprieve, not a pardon. Sicily I +meant for us,—I mean for England,—myself to be the Viceroy. +The silver mines at Stromboli have never been worked since the time of +Tiberius; they contain untold wealth: and as to coral fishery, I have +obtained statistics will make your teeth water. I can show you my +calculations in hard figures, that in eight years and four months I should +be the richest man in Europe,—able to purchase the soil of the +island out-and-out, if the British Government were stupid enough not to +see that they ought to establish me and my dynasty there. These are now +but visions,—grand and glorious visions, it is true,—and +dearest Bella sheds tears when I allude to them. +</p> +<p> +“I have had a row with 'the Office;' they blame me for the downfall of the +monarchy, but they never told me to save it. To you I may make the +confession, it was the two days I passed at Cava cost this Bourbon his +crown. Not that I regret, my dear Tony, this tribute to friendship. During +that interval, as Caraffa expresses it, they were paralyzed. 'Where is +Damer?' 'Who has seen Skeff?' 'What has become of him?' 'With whom is he +negotiating?' were the questions on every side; and in the very midst of +the excitement, back comes the fellow M'Caskey, the little fiery-faced +individual you insisted in your raving on calling my 'godfather,' and +declares that I am in the camp of the Garibaldians, and making terms and +stipulations with the General himself. The Queen-Mother went off in strong +hysterics when she heard it; the King never uttered a word,—has +never spoken since,—and the dear Queen merely said, 'Darner will +never betray us.' +</p> +<p> +“These particulars I learned from Francardi. Meanwhile Garibaldi, seeing +the immense importance of my presence at his head-quarters, pushes on for +the capital, and enters Naples, as he gives out, with the concurrence and +approval of England! You will, I have no doubt, hear another version of +this event. You will be told bushels of lies about heroic daring and +frantic popular enthusiasm. To your friendly breast I commit the truth, +never to be revealed, however, except to a remote posterity. +</p> +<p> +“One other confession, and I have done,—done with politics forever. +You will hear of Garibaldi as a brave, straightforward, simple-minded, +unsuspectful man, hating intrigues of all kinds. This is totally wrong. +With all his courage, it is as nothing to his craft He is the deepest +politician, and the most subtle statesman in Europe, and, to my thinking,—mind, +it is <i>my</i> estimate I give you,—more of Machiavelli than any +man of his day. Bear this in mind, and keep your eye on him in future. We +had not been five minutes together till each of us had read the other. We +were the two 'Augurs' of the Latin satirist, and if we did n't laugh, we +exchanged a recognition just as significant. I ought to tell you that he +is quite frantic at my giving up political life, and he says that my +retirement will make Cavour's fortune, for there is no other man left fit +to meet him. There was not a temptation, not a bribe, he did not throw out +to induce me to withhold my resignation; and when he found that personal +advantages had no weight with me, he said, 'Mind my words, Monsieur +Darner; the day will come when you will regret this retirement. When you +will see the great continent of Europe convulsed from one end to the +other, and yourself no longer in the position to influence the course of +events, and guide the popular will, you will bitterly regret this step.' +But I know myself better. What could the Peerage, what could the Garter, +what could a seat in the Cabinet do for me? I have been too long and too +much behind the scenes to be dazzled by the blaze of the 'spectacle.' I +want repose, a home, the charms of that domestic life which are denied to +the mere man of ambition. Bella, indeed, has her misgivings, that to live +without greatness—greatness in action, and greatness to come—will +be a sore trial to me; but I tell her, as I tell you, my dear friend, that +it is exactly the men who, like myself, have moved events, and given the +spring to the greatest casualties, who are readiest to accept tranquillity +and peace as the first of blessings. Under the shade of my old elms at +Tilney—I may call them mine already, as Reeves and Tucker are +drawing out the deeds—I will write my memoirs,—one of the most +interesting contributions, when it appears, that history has received for +the last century. I can afford to be fearless, and I will be; and if +certain noble lords go down to posterity with tarnished honor and +diminished fame, they can date the discovery to the day when they +disparaged a Darner. +</p> +<p> +“Now for a minor key. We led a very jolly life on board the 'Talisman;' +only needing yourself to make it perfect. My Lady L. was 'out of herself' +at your not coming; indeed, since your accession to fortune, she has +discovered some very amiable and some especially attractive qualities in +your nature, and that if you fall amongst the right people—I hope +you appreciate the sort of accident intended—you will become a very +superior article. Bella is, as always, a sincere friend; and though Alice +says, nothing, she does not look ungrateful to him who speaks well of you. +Bella has told me in confidence—mind, in confidence—that all +is broken off between Alice and you, and says it is all the better for +both; that you were a pair of intractable tempers, and that the only +chance for either of you is to be allied to somebody or something that +would consent to think you perfection, and yet manage you as if you were +not what is called 'absolute wisdom.' +</p> +<p> +“Bella also said, 'Tony might have had some chance with Alice had he +remained poor; the opposition of her family would have had its weight in +influencing her in his favor; but now that he is a prize in the +matrimonial lottery, she is quite ready to see any defects he may have, +and set them against all that would be said in his behalf. Last of all, +she likes her independence as a widow. I half suspected that Maitland had +been before you in her favor; but Bella says not. By the way, it was the +fortune that has fallen to you Maitland had always expected; Sir Omerod +having married, or, as some say, not married, his mother, and adopted +Maitland, who contrived to spend about eighty thousand of the old man's +savings in ten or eleven years. He is a strange fellow, and mysterious to +the last. Since the overthrow of the Government, we have been reduced to +ask protection to the city from the secret society called the Camorra, a +set of Neapolitan Thugs, who cut throats in reciprocity; and it was by a +guard of these wretches that we were escorted to the ship's boats when we +embarked. Bella swears that the chief of the gang was no other than +Maitland, greatly disguised, of course; but she says that she recognized +him by his teeth as he smiled accidentally. It would be, of course, at the +risk of his life he was there, since anything that pertained to the Court +would, if discovered, be torn to fragments by the people. My 'godfather' +had a narrow escape on Tuesday last. He rode through the Toledo in full +uniform, amidst all the people, who were satisfied with hissing him +instead of treating him to a stiletto, and the rascal grinned an insolent +defiance as he went, and said, as he gained the Piazza, 'You 're not such +bad <i>canaille</i>, after all; I have seen worse in Mexico.' He went on +board a despatch-boat in the bay, and ordered the commander to take him to +Gaeta; and the oddest of all is, the officer complied, overpowered, as +better men have been, by the scoundrels impertinence. Oh, Tony, to you,—to +yourself, to your heart's most secret closet, fast to be locked, when you +have my secret inside of it,—to <i>you</i>, I own, that the night I +passed in that wretch's company is the darkest page of my existence. He +overwhelmed me with insult, and I had to bear it, just as I should have to +bear the buffeting of the waves if I had been thrown into the sea. I 'd +have strangled him then and there if I was able, but the brute would have +torn me limb from limb if I attempted it. Time may diminish the acuteness +of this suffering, but I confess to you, up to this, when I think of what +I went through, my humiliation overpowers me. I hope fervently you may +meet him one of these days. You have a little score of your own, I +suspect, to settle with him; at all events, if the day of reckoning comes, +include my balance, and trust to my eternal gratitude. +</p> +<p> +“Here have come Alice and Bella to make me read out what I have written to +you; of course I have objected. This is a 'strictly private and +confidential.' What we do for the blue-books, Master Tony, we do in a +different fashion. Alice, perhaps, suspects the reasons of my reserve,—'appreciates +my reticence,' as we say in the 'Line.' +</p> +<p> +“At all events, she tells me to make you write to her. 'When Tony,' said +she, 'has found out that he was only in love with me because I made him +better known to his own heart, and induced him to develop some of his own +fine qualities, he 'll begin to see that we may and ought to be excellent +friends; and some day or other, when there shall be a Mrs. Tony, if she be +a sensible woman, she 'll not object to their friendship.' She said this +so measuredly and calmly that I can almost trust myself to say I have +reported her word for word. It reads to me like a very polite <i>congé</i>. +What do you say to it? +</p> +<p> +“The Lyles are going back at the end of the month, but Alice says she 'll +winter at Cairo. There is an insolent independence about these widows, +Tony, that adds one more terror to death. I protest I 'd like to haunt the +woman that could employ her freedom of action in this arbitrary manner. +</p> +<p> +“Dearest Bella insists on your coming to our wedding; it will come off at +Tilney, strictly private. None but our nearest relatives, not even the +Duke of Dullchester, nor any of the Howards. They will feel it; but it +can't be helped, I suppose. Cincinnatus had to cut his connections, too, +when he took to horticulture. You, however, must not desert me; and if you +cannot travel without Rory, bring him with you. +</p> +<p> +“I am impatient to get away from this, and seek the safety of some obscure +retreat; for I know the persecution I shall be exposed to to withdraw my +resignation and remain. To this I will never consent. I give it to you +under my hand, Tony, and I give it the more formally, as I desire it may +be historic. I know well the whining tone they will assume,—just as +well as if I saw it before me in a despatch. 'What are we to tell the +Queen?' will be the cry. My dignified answer will be, 'Tell her that you +made it impossible for one of the ablest of her servants to hold his +office with dignity. Tell her, too, that Skeff Darner has done enough for +honor; he now seeks to do something for happiness.' Back to office again I +will not go. Five years and two months of unpaid services have I given to +my country, and England is not ashamed to accept the unrewarded labors of +her gifted sons! My very 'extraordinaries' have been cavilled at. I give +you my word of honor, they have asked me for vouchers for the champagne +and lobsters with which I have treated some of the most dangerous +regicides of Europe,—men whose language would make your hair stand +on end, and whose sentiments actually curdled the blood as one listened to +them. +</p> +<p> +“The elegant hospitalities which I dispensed, in the hope—vain hope!—of +inducing them to believe that the social amenities of life had extended to +our insular position,—these the Office declares they have nothing to +do with; and insolently asks me, 'Are there any other items of my pleasure +whose cost I should wish to submit to Parliament?' +</p> +<p> +“Ask Talleyrand, ask Metternich, ask any of our own people,—B., or +S., or H.—since when have cookery and the ballet ceased to be the +lawful weapons of diplomacy? +</p> +<p> +“The day of reckoning for all this, my dear Tony, is coming. At first I +thought of making some of my friends in the House move for the +corrrespondence between F. O. and myself,—the Damer papers they +would be called, in the language of the public journals,—and thus +bring on a smashing debate. Reconsideration, however, showed me that my +memoirs, 'Five Years of a Diplomatist on Service,' would be the more +fitting place; and in the pages of those volumes you will find revelations +more astounding, official knaveries more nefarious, and political +intrigues more Machiavellian, than the wildest imagination for wickedness +has ever conceived. What would they not have given rather than see such an +exposure? I almost think I will call my book '“Extraordinaries” of a +Diplomatist.' Sensational and taking both, that title! You mustn't be +provoked if, in one of the lighter chapters—there must be light +chapters—I stick in that little adventure of your own with my +godfather.” + </p> +<p> +“Confound the fellow!” muttered Tony, and with such a hearty indignation +that his mother heard him from the adjoining room, and hastened in to ask +who or what had provoked him. Tony blundered out some sort of evasive +reply, and then said, “Was it Dr. Stewart's voice I heard there a few +minutes ago?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Tony; he called in as he was passing to Coleraine on important +business. The poor man is much agitated by an offer that has just been +made him to go far away over the seas, and finish his days, one may call +it, at the end of the world. Some of this country folk, it seems, who +settled in New Zealand, at a place they call Wellington Gap, had invited +him to go out there and minister among them; and though he 's not minded +to make the change at his advanced time of life, nor disposed to lay his +bones in a far-away land, yet for Dolly's sake—poor Dolly, who will +be left friendless and homeless when he is taken away—he thinks, +maybe, it's his duty to accept the offer; and so he's gone into the town +to consult Dr. M'Candlish and the elder Mr. Mc Elwain, and a few other +sensible men.” + </p> +<p> +“Why won't Dolly marry the man she ought to marry,—a good +true-hearted fellow, who will treat her well and be kind to her? Tell me +that, mother.” + </p> +<p> +“It mauna be,—it mauna be,” said the old lady, who, when much moved, +frequently employed the Scotch dialect unconsciously. +</p> +<p> +“Is there a reason for her conduct?” + </p> +<p> +“There is a reason,” said she, firmly. +</p> +<p> +“And do you know it? Has she told you what it is?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not at liberty to talk over this matter with you, Tony. Whatever I +know, I know as a thing confided to me in honor.” + </p> +<p> +“I only asked, Was the reason one that you yourself were satisfied with?” + </p> +<p> +“It was, and is,” replied she, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Do you think, from what you know, that Dolly would listen to any +representations I might make her? for I know M'Grader thoroughly, and can +speak of him as a friend likes to speak.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, Tony; don't do it! don't do it!” cried she, with a degree of +emotion that perfectly amazed him, for the tears swam in her eyes, and her +lips trembled as she spoke. He stared fixedly at her; but she turned away +her head, and for some minutes neither spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Come, mother,” said Tony, at last, and in his kindliest voice, “you have +a good head of your own; think of some way to prevent the poor old doctor +from going off into exile.” + </p> +<p> +“How could we help him that he would not object to?” + </p> +<p> +“What if you were to hit upon some plan of adopting Dolly? You have long +loved her as if she were your own daughter, and she has returned your +affections.” + </p> +<p> +“That she has,” muttered the old lady, as she wiped her eyes. +</p> +<p> +“What use is this new wealth of ours if it benefit none but ourselves, +mother? Just get the doctor to talk it all over with you, and say to him, +'Have no fears as to Dolly; she shall never be forced to marry against her +inclinations,—merely for support; her home shall be here with us, +and she shall be no dependant, neither.' I'll take care of that.” + </p> +<p> +“How like your father you said these words, Tony!” cried she, looking at +him with a gaze of love and pride together; “it was his very voice too.” + </p> +<p> +“I meant to have spoken to her on poor M'Grader's behalf,—I promised +him I would; but if you tell me it is of no use—” + </p> +<p> +“I tell you more, Tony,—I tell you it would be cruel; it would be +worse than cruel,” cried she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Then I 'll not do it, and I 'll write to him to-day, and say so, though, +Heaven knows, I 'll be sorely puzzled to explain myself; but as he is a +true man, he 'll feel that I have done all for the best, and that if I +have not served his cause it has not been for any lack of the will!” + </p> +<p> +“If you wish it, Tony, I could write to Mr. M'Gruder myself. A letter from +an old body like me is sometimes a better means to break a misfortune than +one from a younger hand. Age deals more naturally with sorrow, perhaps.” + </p> +<p> +“You will be doing a kind thing, my dear mother,” said he, as he drew her +towards him, “and to a good fellow who deserves well of us.” + </p> +<p> +“I want to thank him, besides, for his kindness and care of you, Tony; so +just write his address for me there on that envelope, and I 'll do it at +once.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm off for a ramble, mother, till dinner-time,” said Tony, taking his +hat. +</p> +<p> +“Are you going up to the Abbey, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said he, blushing slightly. +</p> +<p> +“Because, if you had, I'd have asked you to fetch me some fresh flowers. +Dolly is coming to dine with us, and she is so fond of seeing flowers on +the centre of the table.” + </p> +<p> +“No; I have nothing to do at the Abbey. I 'm off towards Portrash.” + </p> +<p> +“Why not go over to the Burnside and fetch Dolly?” said she, carelessly. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps I may,—that is, if I should find myself in that quarter; +but I'm first of all bent on a profound piece of thoughtfulness or a good +smoke,—pretty much the same thing with me, I believe. So good-bye +for a while.” + </p> +<p> +His mother looked after him with loving eyes till the tears dulled them; +but there are tears which fall on the affections as the dew falls on +flowers, and these were of that number. +</p> +<p> +“His own father,—his own father!” muttered she, as she followed the +stalwart figure till it was lost in the distance. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LXIII. AT THE COTTAGE BESIDE THE CAUSEWAY +</h2> +<p> +I must use more discretion as to Mrs. Butler's correspondence than I have +employed respecting Skeff Damer's. What she wrote on that morning is not +to be recorded here. It will be enough if I say that her letter was not +alone a kind one, but that it thoroughly convinced him who read it that +her view was wise and true, and that it would be as useless as ungenerous +to press Dolly further, or ask for that love which was not hers to give. +</p> +<p> +It was a rare event with her to have to write a letter. It was not, +either, a very easy task; but if she had not the gift of facile +expression, she had another still better for her purpose,—an honest +nature steadfastly determined to perform a duty. She knew her subject, +too, and treated it with candor, while with delicacy. +</p> +<p> +While she wrote, Tony strolled along, puffing his cigar or re-lighting it, +for it was always going out, and dreaming away in his own misty fashion +over things past, present, and future, till really the actual and the +ideal became so thoroughly commingled he could not well distinguish one +from the other. He thought—he knew, indeed, he ought to be very +happy. All his anxieties as to a career and a livelihood ended, he felt +that a very enjoyable existence might lie before him; but somehow,—he +hoped he was not ungrateful,—but somehow he was not so perfectly +happy as he supposed his good fortune should have made him. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps it will come later on; perhaps when I am active and employed; +perhaps when I shall have learned to interest myself in the things money +brings around a man; perhaps, too, when I can forget,—ay, that was +the lesson was hardest of all.” All these passing thoughts, a good deal +dashed through each other, scarcely contributed to enlighten his +faculties; and he rambled on over rocks and yellow strand, up hillsides, +and through fern-clad valleys, not in the least mindful of whither he was +going. +</p> +<p> +At last he suddenly halted, and saw he was in the shrubberies of Lyle +Abbey, his steps having out of old habit taken the one same path they had +followed for many a year. The place was just as he had seen it last. Trees +make no marvellous progress in the north of Ireland, and a longer absence +than Tony's would leave them just as they were before. All was neat, +orderly, and well kept; and the heaps of dried leaves and brushwood ready +to be wheeled away, stood there as he saw them when he last walked that +way with Alice. He was poor then, without a career, or almost a hope of +one; and yet it was possible, could it be possible, that he was happier +then than he now felt? Was it that love sufficed for all, and that the +heart so filled had no room for other thoughts than those of her it +worshipped? He certainly had loved her greatly. She,—she alone made +up that world in which he had lived. Her smile, her step, her laugh, her +voice,—ay, there they were, all before him. What a dream it was! +Only a dream, after all; for she never cared for him. She had led him on +to love her, half in caprice, half in a sort of compassionate interest for +a poor boy,—boy she called him,—to whom a passion for one +above him was certain to elevate and exalt him in his own esteem. “Very +kind, doubtless,” muttered he, “but very cruel too. She might have +remembered that this same dream was to have a very rough awaking. I had +built nearly every hope upon one, and that one, she well knew, was never +to be realized. It might not have been the most gracious way to do it, but +I declare it would have been the most merciful, to have treated me as her +mother did, who snubbed my pretensions at once. It was all right that I +should recognize her superiority over me in a hundred ways; but perhaps +she should not have kept it so continually in mind, as a sort of barrier +against a warmer feeling for me. I suppose this is the fine-lady view of +the matter. This is the theory that young fellows are to be civilized, as +they call it, by a passion for a woman who is to amuse herself by their +extravagances, and then ask their gratitude for having deceived them. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll be shot if I <i>am</i> grateful,” said he, as he threw his cigar +into the pond. “I 'm astonished—amazed—now that it's all over” + (here his voice shook a little), “that my stupid vanity could ever have +led me to think of her, or that I ever mistook that patronizing way she +had towards me for more than good-nature. But, I take it, there are scores +of fellows who have had the selfsame experiences. Here's the seat I made +for her,” muttered he, as he came in front of a rustic bench. For a moment +a savage thought crossed him that he would break it in pieces, and throw +the fragments into the lake,—a sort of jealous anger lest some day +or other she might sit there with “another;” but he restrained himself, +and said, “Better not; better let her see that her civilizing process has +done something, and that though I have lost my game I can bear my defeat +becomingly.” + </p> +<p> +He began to wish that she were there at that moment. Not that he might +renew his vows of love, or repledge his affection; but to show her how +calm and reasonable—ay, reasonable was her favorite word—he +could be, how collectedly he could listen to her, and how composedly +reply. He strolled up to the entrance door. It was open. The servants were +busy in preparing for the arrival of their masters, who were expected +within the week. All were delighted to see Master Tony again, and the +words somehow rather grated on his ears. It was another reminder of that +same “boyhood” he bore such a grudge against “I am going to have a look +out of the small drawing-room window, Mrs. Hayles,” said he to the +housekeeper, cutting short her congratulations, and hurrying upstairs. +</p> +<p> +It was true he went up for a view; but not of the coastline to Fairhead, +fine as it was. It was of a full-length portrait of Alice, life-size, by +Grant. She was standing beside her horse,—the Arab Tony trained for +her. A braid of her hair had fallen, and she was in the act of arranging +it, while one hand held up her drooping riding-dress. There was that in +the air and attitude that bespoke a certain embarrassment with a sense of +humorous enjoyment of the dilemma. A sketch from life, in fact, had given +the idea of the picture, and the reality of the incident was +unquestionable. +</p> +<p> +Tony blushed a deep crimson as he looked, and muttered, “The very smile +she had on when she said good-bye. I wonder I never knew her till now.” + </p> +<p> +A favorite myrtle of hers stood in the window; he broke off a sprig of it, +and placed it in his button-hole, and then slowly passed down the stairs +and out into the lawn. With very sombre thoughts and slow steps he +retraced his way to the cottage. He went over to himself much of his past +life, and saw it, as very young men will often in such retrospects, far +less favorably as regarded himself than it really was. He ought to have +done—Heaven knows what. He ought to have been—scores of things +which he never was, perhaps never could be. At all events, there was one +thing he never should have imagined, that Alice Lyle—she was Alice +Lyle always to him—in her treatment of him was ever more closely +drawn towards him than the others of her family. “It was simply the +mingled kindness and caprice of her nature that made, the difference; and +if I had n't been a vain fool, I 'd have seen it. I see it now, though; I +can read it in the very smile she has in her picture. To be sure I have +learned a good deal since I was here last; I have outgrown a good many +illusions. I once imagined this dwarfed and stinted scrub to be a wood. I +fancied the Abbey to be like a royal palace; and in Sicily a whole +battalion of us have bivouacked in a hall that led to suites of rooms +without number. If a mere glimpse of the world could reveal such +astounding truths, what might not come of a more lengthened experience?” + </p> +<p> +“How tired and weary you look, Tony!” said his mother, as he threw himself +into a chair; “have you overwalked yourself?” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose so,” said he, with a half smile. “In my poorer days I thought +nothing of going to the Abbey and back twice—I have done it even +thrice—in one day; but perhaps this weight of gold I carry now is +too heavy for me.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd like to see you look more grateful for your good for time, Tony,” + said she, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“I'm not ungrateful, mother; but up to this I have not thought much of the +matter. I suspect, however, I was never designed for a life of ease and +enjoyment Do you remember what Dr. Stewart said one day?—'You may +put a weed in a garden, and dig round it and water it, and it will only +grow to be a big weed after all.'” + </p> +<p> +“I hope better from Tony,—far better,” said she, sharply. “Have you +answered M'Carthy's letter? Have you arranged where you are to meet the +lawyers?” + </p> +<p> +“I have said in Dublin. They couldn't come here, mother; we have no room +for them in this crib.” + </p> +<p> +“You must not call it a 'crib' for all that. It sheltered your father +once, and he carried a very high head, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“And for that very reason, dear mother, I'm going to make it our own home +henceforth,—without you 'd rather go and live in that old +manor-house on the Nore; they tell me it is beautiful.” + </p> +<p> +“It was there your father was born, and I long to see it,” said she, with +emotion. “Who 's that coming in at the gate, Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“It is Dolly,” said he, rising, and going to the door to meet her. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Dolly,” cried he, as he embraced her, and kissed her on either +cheek; “this brings me back to old times at once.” + </p> +<p> +If it was nothing else, the total change in Tony's appearance abashed her; +the bronzed and bearded man, looking many years older than he was, seemed +little like the Tony she had seen last; and so she half shrank back from +his embrace, and, with a flushed cheek and almost constrained manner, +muttered some words of recognition. +</p> +<p> +“How well you are looking,” said he, staring at her, as she took off her +bonnet, “and the nice glossy hair has all grown again, and I vow it is +brighter and silkier than ever.” + </p> +<p> +“What's all this flattery about bright een and silky locks I'm listening +to?” said the old lady, coming out laughing into the ball. +</p> +<p> +“It's Master Tony displaying his foreign graces at my expense, ma'am,” + said Dolly, with a smile. +</p> +<p> +“Would you have known him again, Dolly? Would you have thought that great +hairy creature there was our Tony?” + </p> +<p> +“I think he is changed,—a good deal changed,” said Dolly, without +looking at him. +</p> +<p> +“I did n't quite like it at first; but I'm partly getting used to it now; +and though the Colonel never wore a beard on his upper lip, Tony's more +like him now than ever.” The old lady continued to ramble on about the +points of resemblance between the father and son, and where certain traits +of manner and voice were held in common; and though neither Tony nor Dolly +gave much heed to her words, they were equally grateful to her for +talking. +</p> +<p> +“And where 's the doctor, Dolly? Are we not to see him at dinner?” + </p> +<p> +“Not to-day, ma'am; he's gone over to M'Laidlaw's to make some +arrangements about this scheme of ours,—the banishment, he calls +it.” + </p> +<p> +“And is it possible, Dolly, that he can seriously contemplate such a +step?” asked Tony, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; and very seriously too.” + </p> +<p> +“And you, Dolly; what do you say to it?” + </p> +<p> +“I say to it what I have often said to a difficulty, what the old Scotch +adage says of 'the stout heart to the stey brae.'” + </p> +<p> +“And you might have found more comforting words, lassie,—how the +winds can be tempered to the shorn lamb,” said the old lady, almost +rebukefully; and Dolly drooped her head in silence. +</p> +<p> +“I think it's a bad scheme,” said Tony, boldly, and as though not hearing +his mother's remark. “For a man at the doctor's age to go to the other end +of the globe, to live in a new land, and make new friendships at his time +of life, is, I 'm sure, a mistake.” + </p> +<p> +“That supposes that we have a choice; but my father thinks we have no +choice.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot see that. I cannot see that what a man has borne for +five-and-thirty or forty years—he has been that long at the Burnside—I +believe he can endure still longer. I must have a talk with him myself +over it.” And unconsciously—quite unconsciously—Tony uttered +the last words with a high-sounding importance, so certain is it that in a +man's worldly wealth there is a store of self-confidence that no mere +qualities of head or heart can ever supply; and Dolly almost smiled at the +assured tone and the confident manner of her former playfellow. +</p> +<p> +“My father will be glad to see you, Tony,—he wants to hear all about +your campaigns; he was trying two nights ago to follow you on the map, but +it was such a bad one he had to give up the attempt.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll give you mine,” cried the old lady,—“the map Tony brought over +to myself. I 'll no just give it, but I 'll lend it to you; and there's a +cross wherever there was a battle, and a red cross wherever Tony was +wounded.” + </p> +<p> +“Pooh, pooh, mother! don't worry Dolly about these things; she 'd rather +hear of pleasanter themes than battles and battle-fields. And here is one +already,—Jeanie says, 'dinner'.” + </p> +<p> +“Where did you find your sprig of myrtle at this time?” asked Dolly, as +Tony led her in to dinner. +</p> +<p> +“I got it at the Abbey. I strolled up there to-day,” said he, in a +half-confusion. “Will you have it?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said she, curtly. +</p> +<p> +“Neither will I, then,” cried he, tearing it out of his button-hole and +throwing it away. +</p> +<p> +What a long journey in life can be taken in the few steps from the +drawing-room to the dinner-table! +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0064" id="link2HCH0064"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LXIV. THE END +</h2> +<p> +As Dr. Stewart had many friends to consult and many visits to make,—some +of them, as he imagined, farewell ones,—Dolly was persuaded, but not +without difficulty, to take up her residence at the cottage till she +should be able to return home. And a very pleasant week it was. To the old +lady it was almost perfect happiness. She had her dear Tony back with her +after all his dangers and escapes, safe and sound, and in such spirits as +she had never seen him before. Not a cloud, not a shadow, now ever +darkened his bright face; all was good-humor, and thoughtful kindness for +herself and for Dolly. +</p> +<p> +And poor Dolly, too, with some anxious cares at her heart,—a load +that would have crushed many,—bore up so well that she looked as +cheery as the others, and entered into all the plans that Tony formed +about his future house, and his gardens and stables, as though many a +hundred leagues of ocean were not soon to roll between her and the spots +she traced so eagerly on the paper. One evening they sat even later than +usual. Tony had induced Dolly, who was very clever with her pencil, to +make him a sketch for a little ornamental cottage,—one of those +uninhabitable little homesteads, which are immensely suggestive of all the +comforts they would utterly fail to realize; and he leaned over her as she +drew, and his arm was on the back of her chair, and his face so close at +times that it almost touched the braids of the silky hair beside him. +</p> +<p> +“You must make a porch there, Dolly; it would be so nice to sit there with +that noble view down the glen at one's feet, and three distinct reaches of +the Nore visible.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I'll make a porch; I'll even make you yourself lounging in it See, +it shall be perfect bliss!” + </p> +<p> +“What does that mean?” + </p> +<p> +“That means smoke, sir; you are enjoying the heavenly luxury of tobacco, +not the less intensely that it obscures the view.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Dolly, I'll not have that. If you put me there, don't have me +smoking; make me sitting beside you as we are now,—you drawing, and +I looking over you.” + </p> +<p> +“But I want to be a prophet as well as a painter, Tony. I desire to +predict something that will be sure to happen, if you should ever build +this cottage.” + </p> +<p> +“I swear I will,—I 'm resolved on it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, so sure as you do, and so sure as you sit in that little +honeysuckle-covered porch, you 'll smoke.” + </p> +<p> +“And why not do as I say? Why not make you sketching—” + </p> +<p> +“Because I shall not be sketching; because, by the time your cottage is +finished, I shall probably be sketching a Maori chief, or a war-party +bivouacking on the Raki-Raki.” + </p> +<p> +Tony drew away his arm and leaned back in his chair, a sense almost of +faintish sickness creeping over him. +</p> +<p> +“Here are the dogs too,” continued she. “Here is Lance with his great +majestic face, and here Gertrude with her fine pointed nose and piercing +eyes, and here's little Spicer as saucy and pert as I can make him without +color; for one ought to have a little carmine for the corner of his eye, +and a slight tinge to accent the tip of his nose. Shall I add all your +'emblems,' as they call them, and put in the fishing-rods against the +wall, and the landing-net, and the guns and pouches?” + </p> +<p> +She went on sketching with inconceivable rapidity, the drawing keeping +pace almost with her words. +</p> +<p> +But Tony no longer took the interest he had done before in the picture, +but seemed lost in some deep and difficult reflection. +</p> +<p> +“Shall we have a bridge—a mere plank will do—over the river +here, Tony? and then this zigzag pathway will be a short way up to the +cottage.” + </p> +<p> +He never heard her words, but arose and left the room. He passed out into +the little garden in front of the house, and, leaning on the gate, looked +out into the dark still night. +</p> +<p> +Poor Tony! impenetrable as that darkness was, it was not more difficult to +peer through than the thick mist that gathered around his thoughts. +</p> +<p> +“Is that Tony?” cried his mother from the doorway. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said he, moodily, for he wanted to be left to his own thoughts. +</p> +<p> +“Come here, Tony, and see what a fine manly letter your friend Mr. +M'Gruder writes in answer to mine.” + </p> +<p> +Tony was at her side in an instant, and almost tore the letter in his +eagerness to read it. It was very brief, but well deserved all she had +said of it. With a delicacy which perhaps might scarcely have been looked +for in a man so educated and brought up, he seemed to appreciate the +existence of a secret he had no right to question; and bitterly as the +resolve cost him, he declared that he had no longer a claim on Dolly's +affection. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely understand him, mother; do you?” asked Tony. +</p> +<p> +“It 's not very hard to understand, Tony,” said she, gravely. “Mr. +M'Gruder sees that Dolly Stewart could not have given him her love and +affection as a man's wife ought to give, and he would be ashamed to take +her without it.” + </p> +<p> +“But why could n't she? Sam seems to have a sort of suspicion as to the +reason, and I cannot guess it.” + </p> +<p> +“If he does suspect, he has the nice feeling of a man of honor, and sees +that it is not for one placed as he is to question it.” + </p> +<p> +“If any man were to say to me, 'Read that letter, and tell me what does it +infer,' I'd say the writer thought that the girl he wanted to marry liked +some else.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, there's one point placed beyond an inference, Tony; the engagement +is ended, and she is free.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose she is very happy at it.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Dolly has little heart for happiness just now. It was a little +before dinner a note came from the doctor to say that all the friends he +had consulted advised him to go out, and were ready and willing to assist +him in every way to make the journey. As January is the stormy month in +these seas, they all recommended his sailing as soon as he possibly could; +and the poor man says very feelingly, 'To-morrow, mayhap, will be my +farewell sermon to those who have sat under me eight-and-forty years.'” + </p> +<p> +“Why did you not make some proposal like what I spoke of, mother?” asked +he, almost peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“I tried to do it, Tony, but he would n't hear of it. He has a pride of +his own that is very dangerous to wound, and he stopped me at once, +saying, 'I hope I mistake your meaning; but lest I should not, say no more +of this for the sake of our old friendship.'” + </p> +<p> +“I call such pride downright want of feeling. It is neither more nor less +than consummate selfishness.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't tell him so, Tony, or maybe you 'd fare worse in the argument. He +has a wise, deep head, the doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish he had a little heart with it,” said Tony, sulkily, and turned +again into the garden. +</p> +<p> +Twice did Jeanie summon him to tea, but he paid no attention to the call; +so engrossed, indeed, was he by his thoughts, that he even forgot to +smoke, and not impossibly the want of his accustomed weed added to his +other embarrassments. +</p> +<p> +“Miss Dolly's for ganging hame, Master Tony,” said the maid at last, “and +the mistress wants you to go wi' her.” + </p> +<p> +As Tony entered the hall, Dolly was preparing for the road. Coquetry was +certainly the least of her accomplishments, and yet there was something +that almost verged on it in the hood she wore, instead of a bonnet, lined +with some plushy material of a rich cherry color, and forming a frame +around her face that set off all her features to the greatest advantage. +Never did her eyes look bluer or deeper,—never did the gentle beauty +of her face light up with more of brilliancy. Tony never knew with what +rapture he was gazing on her till he saw that she was blushing under his +fixed stare. +</p> +<p> +The leave-taking between Mrs. Butler and Dolly was more than usually +affectionate; and even after they had separated, the old lady called her +back and kissed her again. +</p> +<p> +“I don't know how mother will bear up after you leave her,” muttered Tony, +as he walked along at Dolly's side; “she is fonder of you than ever.” + </p> +<p> +Dolly murmured something, but inaudibly. +</p> +<p> +“For my own part,” continued Tony, “I can't believe this step necessary at +all. It would be an ineffable disgrace to the whole neighborhood to let +one we love and revere as we do him, go away in his old age, one may say, +to seek his fortune. He belongs to us, and we to him. We have been linked +together for years, and I can't bear the thought of our separating.” + </p> +<p> +This was a very long speech for Tony, and he felt almost fatigued when it +was finished; but Dolly was silent, and there was no means by which he +could guess the effect it had produced upon her. +</p> +<p> +“As to my mother,” continued he, “she'd not care to live here any longer,—I +know it. I don't speak of myself, because it's the habit to think I don't +care for any one or anything,—that's the estimate people form of me, +and I must bear it as I can.” + </p> +<p> +“It's less than just, Tony,” said Dolly, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, if I am to ask for justice, Dolly, I shall get the worst of it,” said +he, laughing, but not merrily. +</p> +<p> +For a while they walked on without a word on either side. +</p> +<p> +“What a calm night!” said Dolly, “and how large the stars look! They tell +me that in southern latitudes they seem immense.” + </p> +<p> +“You are not sorry to leave this, Dolly?” murmured he, gloomily; “are +you?” + </p> +<p> +A very faint sigh was all her answer. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm sure no one could blame you,” he continued. “There is not much to +attach any one to the place, except, perhaps, a half-savage like myself, +who finds its ruggedness congenial.” + </p> +<p> +“But you will scarcely remain here, now, Tony; you'll be more likely to +settle at Butler Hall, won't you?” + </p> +<p> +“Wherever I settle it sha'n't be here, after you have left it,” said he, +with energy. +</p> +<p> +“Sir Arthur Lyle and his family are all coming back in a few days, I +hear.” + </p> +<p> +“So they may; it matters little to me, Dolly. Shall I tell you a secret? +Take my arm, Dolly,—the path is rough here,—you may as well +lean on me. We are not likely to have many more walks together. Oh dear! +if you were as sorry as I am, what a sad stroll this would be!” + </p> +<p> +“What's your secret, Tony?” asked she, in a faint voice +</p> +<p> +“Ah! my secret, my secret,” said he, ponderingly: “I don't know why I +called it a secret,—but here is what I meant. You remember, Dolly, +how I used to live up there at the Abbey formerly. It was just like my +home. I ordered all the people about just as if they had been my own +servants,—and, indeed, they minded my orders more than their +master's. The habit grew so strong upon me, of being obeyed and followed, +that I suppose I must have forgot my own real condition. I take it I must +have lost sight of who and what I actually was, till one of the sons—a +young fellow in the service in India—came back and contrived to let +me make the discovery, that, though I never knew it, I was really living +the life of a dependant. I 'll not tell you how this stung me, but it did +sting me—all the more that I believed, I fancied, myself—don't +laugh at me—but I really imagined I was in love with one of the +girls—Alice. She was Alice Trafford then.” + </p> +<p> +“I had heard of that,” said Dolly, in a faint voice. +</p> +<p> +“Well, she too undeceived me—not exactly as unfeelingly nor as +offensively as her brother, but just as explicitly—you know what I +mean?” + </p> +<p> +“No; tell me more clearly,” said she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I don't know how to tell you. It's a long story,—that is to say, I +was a long while under a delusion, and she was a long while indulging it. +Fine ladies, I 'm told, do this sort of thing when they take a caprice +into their heads to civilize young barbarians of my stamp.” + </p> +<p> +“That's not the generous way to look at it, Tony.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want to be generous,—the adage says one ought to begin by +being just. Skeffy—you know whom I mean, Skeff Darner—saw it +clearly enough—he warned me about it. And what a clever fellow he +is! Would you believe it, Dolly? he actually knew all the time that I was +not really in love when I thought I was. He knew that it was a something +made up of romance and ambition and boyish vanity, and that my heart, my +real heart, was never in it.” + </p> +<p> +Dolly shook her head, but whether in dissent or in sorrow it was not easy +to say. +</p> +<p> +“Shall I tell you more?” cried Tony, as he drew her arm closer to him, and +took her hand in his; “shall I tell you more, Dolly? Skeff read me as I +could not read myself. He said to me, 'Tony, this is no case of love, it +is the flattered vanity of a very young fellow to be distinguished not +alone by the prettiest, but the most petted woman of society. <i>You</i>,' +said he, 'are receiving all the homage paid to her at second-hand.' But +more than all this, Dolly; he not merely saw that I was not in love with +Alice Trafford, but he saw with whom my heart was bound up, for many and +many a year.” + </p> +<p> +“Her sister, her sister Bella,” whispered Dolly. +</p> +<p> +“No, but with yourself, my own own Dolly,” cried he; and turning, and +before she could prevent it, he clasped her in his arms, and kissed her +passionately. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Tony!” said she, sobbing, “you that I trusted, you that I confided +in, to treat me thus.” + </p> +<p> +“It is that my heart is bursting, Dolly, with this long pent-up love, for +I now know I have loved you all my life long. Don't be angry with me, my +darling Dolly; I'd rather die at your feet than hear an angry word from +you. Tell me if you can care for me; oh, tell me, if I strive to be all +you could like and love, that you will not refuse to be my own.” + </p> +<p> +She tried to disengage herself from his arm; she trembled, heaved a deep +sigh, and fell with her head on his shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“And you are my own,” said he, again kissing her; “and now the wide world +has not so happy a heart as mine.” + </p> +<p> +Of those characters of my story who met happiness, it is as well to say no +more. A more cunning craftsman than myself has told us that the less we +track human life the more cheerily we shall speak of it. Let us presume, +and it is no unfair presumption, that, as Tony's life was surrounded with +a liberal share of those gifts which make existence pleasurable, he was +neither ungrateful nor unmindful of them. Of Dolly I hope there need be no +doubt. “The guid dochter is the best warrant for the guid wife:” so said +her father, and he said truly. +</p> +<p> +In the diary of a Spanish guerilla chief, there is mention of a “nobile +Inglese,” who met him at Malta, to confer over the possibility of a +landing in Calabria, and the chances of a successful rising there. The +Spaniard speaks of this man as a person of rank, education, and talents, +high in the confidence of the Court, and evidently warmly interested in +the cause. He was taken prisoner by the Piedmontese troops on the third +day after they landed, and, though repeatedly offered life under +conditions it would have been no dishonor to accept, was tried by +court-martial, and shot. +</p> +<p> +There is reason to believe that the “nobile Inglese” was Maitland. +</p> +<p> +From the window where I write, I can see the promenade on the Pincian +Hill; and if my eyes do not deceive me, I can perceive that at times the +groups are broken, and the loungers fall back, to permit some one to pass. +I have called the waiter to explain the curious circumstance, and asked if +it be royalty that is so deferentially acknowledged. He smiles, and says: +“No. It is the major domo of the palace exacts the respect you see. He can +do what he likes at Rome. Antonelli himself is not greater than the Count +M'Caskey.” + </p> +<p> +As some unlettered guide leads the traveller to the verge of a cliff, from +which the glorious landscape beneath is visible, and winding river and +embowered homestead, and swelling plain and far-off mountain, are all +spread out beneath for the eye to revel over, so do I place you, my valued +reader, on that spot from which the future can be seen, and modestly +retire that you may gaze in peace, weaving your own fancies at will, and +investing the scene before you with such images and such interests as best +befit it. +</p> +<p> +<i>My</i> part is done: if I have suggested something for <i>yours</i>, it +will not be all in vain that I have written “Tony Butler.” + </p> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tony Butler, by Charles James Lever + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TONY BUTLER *** + +***** This file should be named 33604-h.htm or 33604-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/6/0/33604/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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