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.
“I was thinking you had turned in,” said M'Grader to Tony, “as you had not come up.”
“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?”
“Yes, sound asleep, poor fellow.”
“I 'll wager a trifle he has a lighter heart than either of us, Sam.”
“It might easily be lighter than mine,” sighed M'Grader, heavily.
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.
“You were nigh being late,” said M'Grader, at last “What detained you on shore?”
“I saw her!” said Tony, in a low muffled voice.
“You saw her! Why, you told me you were determined not to see her.”
“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.”
“Well?”
“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.”
“Did you really?”
“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.”
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.”
“There 's no knowing them! there's no knowing them!” said M'Gruder, drearily; “and how did it end?”
“It ended that way.”
“What way?”
“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 thoughhewas in love withher.”
“She has a good head on her shoulders, she has,” muttered M'Gruder.
“I'd rather she had a little more heart,” said Tony, peevishly.
“That may be; but she's right, after all.”
“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?”
“Just because it's not her humor, I suppose; at least, I don't know any better reason.”
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 shedidthink 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.”
“You are rich enough now to make you her equal.”
“And I 'd rather be as poor as I used to be and have the hopes that have left me.”
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.
“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?”
“Just what she says—there—she thought she could marry me, and she finds she cannot.”
“But why?”
“Ah! that's more than she likes to tell me,—more, mayhap, than she 'd tell any one.”
“Have you any clew to it?”
“None,—not the slightest.”
“Is your sister-in-law in it? Has she said or written anything that Dolly could resent?”
“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.'”
“Was there any coldness in your late letters? Was there anything that she could construe into change of affection?”
“Nothing,—nothing.”
“What will her father say to it?” said Tony, after a pause.
“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.”
“If she was a capricious girl, I could understand it, but that's what she never was.”
“No, no; she was true and honest in all things.”
“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?”
“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.”
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.”
“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.
“Are you of the same mind still?” asked M'Gruder, sadly, and with little of hopefulness in his voice; and Tony was silent.
“I see you are not. I see that you cannot give me such a hope.”
“Have you answered this yet?”
“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.”
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,—
“And what will your answer be?”
“What can it be?—to release her, of course.”
“Ay, but how will you say it?”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Perhaps she'll tell my mother her reasons. Perhaps she'll say why she draws back from her promise.”
“I don't even know that I'd like to drive her to that; it mightn't be quite fair.”
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.
“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.”
A short shrug of the shoulders was all Tony's answer.
“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.”
“That I know and believe.”
“But don't think only of me, Tony.She'smore 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?”
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.
“No; I know you better than that,” said M'Gruder, once more.
“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.”
“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 findthatout 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.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
“You've no a' that luggage, Maister Tony?” cried she, as the man deposited the fourth trunk on the road.
“How's my mother?” asked he, impatiently,—“is she well?”
“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.
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.”
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.
“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.”
“I 'll soon get rid of that, mother, if you dislike it.”
“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.”
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.
“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.
“And you never met the Lyles? How strange!” exclaimed she.
“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.”
“Tell me all about it”
“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.”
“She had heard, I suppose, of your good fortune?”
“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.”
“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?”
“Yes, plenty of that; she rather likes advice-giving.”
“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.'”
“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.”
His mother looked at him to explain his words, but he turned his head away and was silent.
“Tell me something about home, mother. How are the Stewarts? Where is Dolly?”
“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.”
“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?”
“I know it all. I read her letters, every one of them.”
“And can you mean that you defend her conduct?'”
“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.”
“Why promise him, then,—why accept him?”
“She never did.”
“Ah!” exclaimed he, holding up both his hands.
“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.”
“Well, then, Dolly said—”
“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.'”
“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?”
“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.”
“So, in fact, she was always averse to this match?”
“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!”
“I say, 'poor fellow!' mother; for I declare that the man who marries a woman against her will has the worst of it.”
“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.”
“You oughtn't to suffer this, mother; you ought to offer Dolly a home here with yourself.”
“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.”
“Do it, by all means,—do it to-morrow.”
“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.”
“It's the first bit of pleasure our new wealth has given us, mother; may it be a good augury!”
“That's a heathenish word, Tony, and most unsuited to be used in thankfulness for God's blessings.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.'
“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.
“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 ismyestimate 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.
“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.'
“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 badcanaille, 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,—toyou, 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.
“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.'
“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 politecongé. What do you say to it?
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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?'
“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?
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“It mauna be,—it mauna be,” said the old lady, who, when much moved, frequently employed the Scotch dialect unconsciously.
“Is there a reason for her conduct?”
“There is a reason,” said she, firmly.
“And do you know it? Has she told you what it is?”
“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.”
“I only asked, Was the reason one that you yourself were satisfied with?”
“It was, and is,” replied she, gravely.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“How could we help him that he would not object to?”
“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.”
“That she has,” muttered the old lady, as she wiped her eyes.
“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.”
“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.”
“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—”
“I tell you more, Tony,—I tell you it would be cruel; it would be worse than cruel,” cried she, eagerly.
“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!”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I'm off for a ramble, mother, till dinner-time,” said Tony, taking his hat.
“Are you going up to the Abbey, Tony?”
“No,” said he, blushing slightly.
“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.”
“No; I have nothing to do at the Abbey. I 'm off towards Portrash.”
“Why not go over to the Burnside and fetch Dolly?” said she, carelessly.
“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.”
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.
“His own father,—his own father!” muttered she, as she followed the stalwart figure till it was lost in the distance.