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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“What are the rocks yonder, Bella?” said he, listlessly, as he puffed his cigar and pointed seaward.
“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.”
“And what is that? It looks like a dismantled house.”
“That is the ruined castle of Dunluce. It belonged to the Antrim family.”
“Good heavens! what a dreary region it all is!” cried he, interrupting. “I declare to you, South Africa is a garden compared to this.”
“Oh, Mark, for shame!” said his elder sister. “The kingdom has nothing grander than this coast-line from Portrush to Fairhead.”
“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.”
“It is a glorious day,” said Bella.
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“It was Tony planned this,—every yard of it,” said Bella, proudly.
“And who is Tony, pray?” said he, superciliously.
“You met him last night,—young Butler. He dined here, and sat next Alice.”
“You mean that great hulking fellow, with the attempt at a straw-colored moustache, who directed the fireworks.”
“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.
“And that was Tony!” said he, with a faint sneer.
“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.”
“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.”
“Tony a snob!”
“Tony Butler a snob! Just the very thing he is not. Poor boy, there never was one to whom the charge was less applicable.”
“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?”
“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.”
“I am glad of that, for I rather set him down last night”
“Set him down! What do you mean?”
“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.”
“Oh, Mark, you did not do that?” cried Bella, anxiously.
“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.'”
“And what answer did he make?” asked Bella, with an eager look.
“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.'”
“Who was the snob there, Mark?” said Mrs. Trafford, angrily.
“Alice!” said he, raising his eyebrows, and looking at her with a cold astonishment.
“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.”
“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.”
“Is your phoenix really coming here?” asked Mrs. Trafford, only too glad to get another channel for the conversation.
“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?”
“He is insufferably impudent. There is 'a snob' if there ever was one,” cried Alice, exultingly.
“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.”
“Has he been long in your regiment, Mark?” asked Mrs. Trafford.
“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?”
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.
“If he only be like your portrait, I call him downright detestable,” said Mrs. Trafford.
“Yes, but you are dying to see him all the same, and so is Bella.”
“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.”
“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.
“Isn't he changed, Alice? Did you ever see any one so altered?”
“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.”
“I wish his friend was not coming.”
“And I wish that he had not sent awayours, for I 'm sure Tony would have been up here before this if something unusual had not occurred.”
“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?”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“I wish the Leslies would take me on a visit till he goes,” said Alice.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Three days are not an eternity,” said he, half gayly, “and we must make the best of it.”
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.
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.
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.
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,—hecoming 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.
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:—
“Dear L.,—I have come down here with a Yankee, whom Ichanced upon as a travelling companion, to look at themines,—gold, they call them; and if I am not seduced intoa search after nuggets, I shall be with you some time—Icannot define the day—next week. The country is prettierand the people less barbarous than I expected; but I hearyour neighborhood will compensate me for bothdisappointments.“Yours,“N. M.”
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“If they come,” broke in Mark, “you'll have my rooms at your disposal.”
“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.”
“If Maitland is to be baited, Alice, I 'd rather the bullring was somewhere else,” said her brother, angrily.
“The real question is, shall we have room for all these people and their followers?” said Lady Lyle.
“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.”
“I think Sally thrashed you when you came home once for the holidays,” said Mrs. Trafford, laughing.
“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.”
“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.'”
“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.
“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.”
“Pray do,” added she. “Entrust me with the despatch, and I promise you the negotiation will be completed then and there.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“I wish, papa, you would ride over and see Mrs. Butler, and ask when Tony is expected back again.”
“Or if,” added Mrs. Trafford—“or if we could get him back by writing, and saying how much we want him.”
“I know I 'll never venture on Soliman till Tony has had a hand on him.”
“And those chestnuts mamma wants for the low phaeton,—who is to break them now?” cried Bella.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Why not secure all those perfections beyond risk, Alice?” said Sir Arthur, laughing.
“How so?—only tell me.”
“Marry him.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“Do so, Alice; I'm quite ready; but, first of all, give me my instructions.”
“We want Tony,” broke in Bella.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“Do you know of anything that should induce you to believe this, Alice?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“Would you like me to go with you, papa?” asked Alice.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“Is your mistress at home, Jeanie?” said he, recognizing with a smile the girl's courtesy to him.
“Yes, sir, she's at home,” was the dry answer.
“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?”
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.”
“Mr. Anthony, is he at home?” asked he, curious to remark the effect of his question.
“He's no just at name the noo,” was the cautious reply.
“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.”
A little dry nod of the head, to acknowledge that this or anything else was possible, was all that his speech elicited.
“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.”
“I winna forget,” said she; and courtesying again, closed the door. Sir Arthur rode slowly back to report that his embassy had failed.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“At the cost of our good breeding.”
“At all events, they are Jolly and good-tempered girls. We have known them for—”
“Oh, don't say how long. The younger one is two years older than myself.”
“No, Mark, Beck is exactly your own age.”
“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.”
“Sally is only thirty-four.”
“Only! the idea of sayingonlyto thirty-four.”
“They don't look within eight or nine years of it, I declare. I suppose you will scarcely detect the slightest change in them.”
“So much the worse. Any change would improve them, in my eyes.”
“And the Captain, too. He, I believe, is now Commodore.”
“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?”
“Yes; and I really believe with the same horse they had long, long ago.”
“A flea-bitten mare with a twisted tail?”
“The very same,” cried she, laughing. “I'll certainly tell Beck how well you remember their horse. She 'll take it as a flattery.”
“Tell her what you like; she'll soon find out how much flattery she has to expect fromme!” 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“It has no interest for me,” said he, walking away, while she hastened out to meet Sir Arthur.
“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.”
“How strange! You suspect that she avoids you?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“The Grahams, I declare! Oh, I must find Mark, and let him be caught here when they arrive.”
“Don't let the Commodore get atmebefore dinner; that's all I ask,” said Sir Arthur, as he rode round to the stables.
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.
“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.”
“No, no; they have their maid, whom you mistake for a man.”
“Then the maid wears a wideawake and a paletot. Look, and see for yourself;” and he handed her the glass.
“I declare you are right,—it is a man; he is beside Beck. Sally is on the side with her father.”
“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?”
“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!”
“But how, Mark, do they know him?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“I declare, Mark is afraid that I 'll kiss him,” cried Beck. “Courage,mon ami, I'll not expose you in public.”
“How are you? how are you?” cried the Commodore; “brown, brown, very brown; Indian sun. Lucky if the mischief is only skin-deep.”
“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.”
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.
“My lucky star was in the ascendant; for there I stood,” said Maitland, “in the great square of Bally—Bally—”
“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.”
“Calling, 'A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!'”
“It was 'a chaise and pair'Iheard, 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?'”
“And was I not overwhelmed with joy? Was it not in a transport of gratitude that I embraced your offer?”
“I know you very nearly embraced my maid as you lifted her off the car.”
“And, by the way, where is Patience?” asked Mrs. Trafford.
“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.”
“My people will take every care of her,” said Maitland.
“Is Fenton still with you?” asked Mark.
“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.”
Sir Arthur and Lady Lyle had now come down to welcome the new arrivals; and greetings and welcomes and felicitations resounded on all sides.
“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.”
“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?”
“No; here you are;” and Mark reddened a little at the impertinent question. “I have put you here because this was an oldgarçonapartment I had arranged for myself; and you have your bath-room yonder, and your servant, on the other side of the terrace.”
“It's all very nice, and seems very quiet,” said Maitland.
“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.”
“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 astables d'hôte. I never dreamed of such a paradise as this. May I dine here all alone when in the humor?”
“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.”
“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.”
“Lewis told me you were writing a book,—a novel, I think he said,” said Mark.
“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?”
Mark ran over the names carelessly.
“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?”
“Perhaps I do.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“No; Butler,—Tony Butler they call him here.”
“What Butlers does he belong to?” asked Maitland, with more interest in his manner.
“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.”
“There is a Sir Omerod Butler,” said Maitland, with a slow, thoughtful enunciation.
“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.”
“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?”
“Yes, he left this the same day.”
“And where for?”
“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?”
“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.”
Lyle nodded an assent, and was silent.
“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?”
“Late enough, even for you,—eight.”
“Thatiscivilized. I 'll come down—at least, to-day,” said he, after a brief pause; “and now leave me.”
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.