By the time Maitland had despatched his man Fenton to meet Count Cafifarelli, and prevent his coming to Lyle Abbey, where his presence would be sure to occasion much embarrassment, the company had retired to their rooms, and all was quiet.
Though Mark was curious to know why and how Maitland had disappeared with his foreign friend, he had grown tired thinking over it, and fallen sound asleep. Nor did he hear Maitland as he entered the room and drew nigh his bedside.
“What's wrong,—what has happened?” cried Mark, as he started up suddenly on his bed.
“Nothing very serious, but still something worth waking you for; but are you sure you are awake?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly. What is it all about? Who are in it?”
“We are all in it, for the matter of that,” said Maitland, with a quiet laugh. “Try and listen to me attentively for a couple of minutes. The man your father brought back with him from Coleraine, believing him to be my friend Caffarelli, was not Cafifarelli at all!”
“What! And he pretended to be?”
“No such thing: hear me out. Your father spoke to him in French; and finding out—I don't exactly know how—that he and I were acquaintances, rushed at once to the conclusion that he must be Caffarelli. I conclude that the interview was not made more intelligible to either party by being carried on in French; but the invitation so frankly given was as freely accepted. The stranger came, dined, and was here in the drawing-room when we came back.”
“This is unpardonable. Who is he? What is he?”
“He is a gentleman. I believe, as well born as either of us. I know something—not much—about him, but there are circumstances which, in a manner, prevent me from talking of him. He came down to this part of the world to see me, though I never intended it should have been here.”
“Then his intrusion here was not sanctioned by you?”
“No. It was all your father's doing.”
“My father's doing, if you like, Maitland, but concurred in and abetted by this man, whoever he is.”
“I 'll not even say that; he assures me that he accepted the invitation in the belief that the arrangement was made by me.”
“And you accept that explanation?”
“Of course I do. I see nothing in it in the smallest degree improbable or unlikely.”
“Well, who is he? That is the main point; for it is clear you do not wish us to receive him as a friend of yours.”
“I say I 'd not have presented him here, certainly; but I 'll not go the length of saying he could n't have been known by any one in this house. He is one of those adventurous fellows whose lives must not be read with the same glasses as those of quieter people. He has knocked about the world for some five-and-twenty years, without apparently having found his corner in it yet. I wanted him,—what for, I shall probably tell you one of these days,—and some friends of mine found him out for me!”
“One of your mysteries, Maitland,” said Mark, laughing.
“Yes, 'one of my mysteries!”
“Of what nation is he?”
“There, again, I must balk your curiosity. The fact is, Mark, I can explain nothing about this man without going into matters which I am solemnly bound not to reveal. What I have to ask from you is that you will explain to your father, and of course to Lady Lyle and your sisters, the mistake that has occurred, and request that they will keep it a secret. He has already gone, so that your guests will probably not discuss him after a day or two.”
“Not even so much, for there's a break-up. Old Mrs. Maxwell has suddenly discovered that her birthday will fall on next Friday, and she insists upon going back to Tilney Park to entertain the tenantry, and give a ball to the servants. Most of the people here accompany her, and Isabella and myself are obliged to go. Each of us expects to be her heir, and we have to keep out competitors at all hazards.”
“'Why has she never thought of me?” said Maitland.
“She means to invite you, at all events; for I heard her consulting my mother how so formidable a personage should be approached,—whether she ought to address you in a despatch, or ask for a conference.”
“If a choice be given me, I 'll stay where I am. The three days I promised you have grown nearer to three weeks, and I do not see the remotest chance of your getting rid of me.”
“Will you promise me to stay till I tell you we want your rooms?”
“Ah, my dear fellow, you don't know—you could n't know—what very tempting words you are uttering. This is such a charming, charming spot, to compose that novel I am—not—writing—that I never mean to leave till I have finished it; but, seriously, speaking like an old friend, am I a bore here? am I occupying the place that is wanted for another? are they tired of me?”
Mark overwhelmed his friend with assurances, very honest in the main, that they were only too happy to possess him as their guest, and felt no common pride in the fact that he could find his life there endurable. “I will own now,” says he, “that there was a considerable awe of you felt before you came; but you have lived down the fear, and become a positive favorite.”
“But who could have given such a version of me as to inspire this?”
“I am afraid I was the culprit,” said Mark. “I was rather boastful about knowing you at all, and I suppose I frightened them.”
“My dear Lyle, what a narrow escape I had of being positively odious! and I now see with what consummate courtesy my caprices have been treated, when really I never so much as suspected they had been noticed.”
There was a touch of sincerity in his accent as he spoke, that vouched for the honesty of his meaning; and Mark, as he looked at him, muttered to himself, “This is the man they call an egotist, and who is only intent on taking his turn out of all around him.”
“I think I must let you go to sleep again, Mark,” said Maitland, rising. “I am a wretched sleeper myself, and quite forget that there are happy fellows who can take their ten hours of oblivion without any help from the druggist. Without this”—and he drew a small phial from his waistcoat-pocket—“I get no rest.”
“What a bad habit!”
“Isn't almost everything we do a bad habit? Have we ever a humor that recurs to us, that is not a bad habit? Are not the simple things which mean nothing in themselves an evil influence when they grow into requirements and make slaves of us? I suppose it was a bad habit that made me a bad sleeper, and I turn to another bad habit to correct it. The only things which are positively bad habits are those that require an effort to sustain, or will break down under us without we struggle to support them. To be morose is not one jot a worse habit than to be agreeable; for the time will come when you are indisposed to be pleasant, and the company in which you find yourself are certain to deem the humor as an offence to themselves; but there is a worse habit than this, which is to go on talking to a man whose eyes are closing with sleep. Good-night.”
Maitland said no more than the truth when he declared how happy he found himself in that quiet unmolested existence which he led at Lyle Abbey. To be free in every way, to indulge his humor to be alone or in company, to go and come as he liked, were great boons; but they were even less than the enjoyment he felt in living amongst total strangers,—persons who had never known, never heard of him, for whom he was not called on to make any effort or support any character.
No man ever felt more acutely the slavery that comes of sustaining a part before the world, and being as strange and as inexplicable as people required he should be. While a very young man, it amused him to trifle in this fashion, and to set absurd modes afloat for imitation; and he took a certain spiteful pleasure in seeing what a host of followers mere eccentricity could command. As he grew older, he wearied of this, and, to be free of it, wandered away to distant and unvisited countries, trying the old and barren experiment whether new sensations might not make a new nature.Cælum non animum mutant, says the adage; and he came back pretty much as he went, with this only difference, that he now cared only for quietness and repose. Not the contemplative repose of one who sought to reflect without disturbance, so much as the peaceful isolation that suited indolence. He fancied how he would have liked to be the son of that house, and dream away life in that wild secluded spot; but, after all, the thought was like the epicure's notion of how contented he could be with a meal of potatoes!
As the day broke, he was roused from his light sleep by the tumult and noise of the departing guests. He arose and watched them through the half-closed jalousies. It was picturesque enough, in that crisp, fresh, frosty air, to see the groups as they gathered on the long terrace before the door; while equipages the most varied drew up,—here a family-coach with long-tailed “blacks;” there a smart britschka, with spanking grays; a tandem, too, there was for Mark's special handling; and, conspicuous by its pile of luggage in the “well,” stood Gambier Graham's outside jaunting-car,—a large basket of vegetables and fruit, and a hamper of lobsters, showing how such guests are propitiated, even in the hours of leave-taking.
Maitland watched Isabella in all her little attentive cares to Mrs. Maxwell, and saw, as he thought, the heir-expectant in every movement. He fancied that the shawl she carried on her arm was the old lady's, and was almost vexed when he saw her wrap it around her own shoulders. “Well, that at least is sycophancy,” muttered he, as he saw her clutch up a little white Maltese terrier and kiss it; but, alas for his prescience! the next moment she had given the dog to a servant to carry back into the house; and so it was her own that she was parting from, and not Mrs. Maxwell's that she was caressing!
It is strange to say that he was vexed at being disappointed. She was very pretty, very well-mannered, and very pleasing; but he longed to find that all the charm and grace about her were conventional; he wished to believe that “the whole thing,” as he called life, was a mere trick, where all cheated in proportion to their capacities. Mark had been honest enough to own that they were fortune-hunting, and Isabella certainly could not be ignorant of the stake she played for.
One by one the carriages drew up and moved away, and now Gambier Graham's car stood before the door, alone; for the crowd of footmen who had thronged to press their services on the others, gradually melted away, hopeless of exacting a blackmail from the old Commodore. While Maitland stood watching the driver, who, in a composite sort of costume, rather more gardener than coachman, amused himself flicking with his whip imaginary flies off the old mare's neck and withers, a smart tap came to the door; while a hasty voice called out, “May I come in?”
“Let me first hear who you are?” said Maitland.
“Commodore Graham,” was the answer.
In a moment it flashed across Maitland that the old sailor had come to reveal his discovery of M'Caskey. Just as quickly did he decide that it was better to admit him, and, if possible, contrive to make the story seem a secret between themselves.
“Come in, by all means,—the very man I wanted to see,” said Maitland, as he opened the door, and gave him a cordial shake-hands. “I was afraid you were going without seeing me, Commodore; and, early as it was, I got up and was dressing in hope to catch you.”
“That I call hearty,—downright hearty,—Maitland.”
Maitland actually started at this familiar mention of him by one whom he had never met till a few days before.
“Rather a rare event in your life to be up at this hour, I 'll be sworn,—except when you have n't been to bed, eh?” And he laughed heartily at what he fancied was a most witty conceit. “You see we 're all off! We 've had springs on our cables these last twenty-four hours, with this frolicsome old woman, who would insist on being back for her birthday; but she 's rich, Maitland, immensely rich, and we all worship her!”
Maitland gave a faint shrug of the shoulders, as though he deplored the degeneracy, but couldn't help it.
“Yes, yes; I 'm coming,” cried the Commodore, shouting from the open window to his daughters beneath. “The girls are impatient; they want to be at Lesliesford when the others are crossing. There's a fresh on the river, and it 's better to get some stout fellows to guide the carriages through the water. I wanted greatly to have five minutes alone with you,—five would do; half of it, perhaps, between men of the world, as we are. You know about what.”
“I suspect I do,” said Maitland, quietly.
“I saw, too,” resumed Graham, “that you wished to have no talk about it here, amongst all these gossiping people. Was n't I right?”
“Perfectly right; you appreciated me thoroughly.”
“What I said was this,—Maitland knows the world well. He 'll wait till he has his opportunity of talking the matter over with myself. He 'll say, 'Graham and I will understand one another at once.' One minute; only one,” screamed he out from the window. “Could n't you come down and just say a word or two to them? They 'd like it so much.”
Maitland muttered something about his costume.
“Ah! there it is. You fellows will never be seen till you are in full fig. Well, I must be off. Now, then, to finish what we 've been saying. You 'll come over next week to Port-Graham,—that's my little place, though there's no port, nor anything like a port, within ten miles of it,—and we 'll arrange everything. If I 'm an old fellow, Maitland, I don't forget that I was once a young one,—mind that, my boy.” And the Commodore had to wipe his eyes, with the laughter at his drollery. “Yes; here I am,” cried he, again; and then turning to Maitland, shook his hand in both his own, repeating, “On Wednesday,—Wednesday to dinner,—not later than five, remember,”—he hastened down the stairs, and scrambled up on the car beside his eldest daughter, who apparently had already opened a floodgate of attack on him for his delay.
“Insupportable old bore!” muttered Maitland, as he waved his hand from the window, and smiled his blandest salutations to the retreating party. “What a tiresome old fool to fancy that I am going over to Graham-pond, or port, or whatever it is, to talk over an incident that I desire to have forgotten! Besides, when once I have left this neighborhood, he may discuss M'Caskey every day after his dinner; he may write his life, for anything I care.”
With this parting reflection he went down to the garden, strolling listlessly along the dew-spangled alleys, and carelessly tossing aside with his cane the apple-blossoms, which lay thick as snow-flakes on the walks. While thus lounging, he came suddenly upon Sir Arthur, as, hoe in hand, he imagined himself doing something useful.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Maitland,” cried he, “Mark has just told me of the stupid mistake I made. Will you be generous enough to forgive me?”
“It is from me, sir, that the apologies must come,” began Maitland.
“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Maitland. You will overwhelm me with shame if you say so. Let us each forget the incident; and, believe me, I shall feel myself your debtor by the act of oblivion.” He shook Maitland's hand warmly, and in an easier tone added, “What good news I have heard! You are not tired of us,—not going!”
“I cannot—I told Mark this morning—I don't believe there is a road out of this.”
“Well, wait here till I tell you it is fit for travelling,” said Sir Arthur, pleasantly, and addressed himself once more to his labors as a gardener.
Meanwhile Maitland threw himself down on a garden-bench, and cried aloud, “This is the real thing, after all,—this is actual repose. Not a word of political intrigue, no snares, no tricks, no deceptions, and no defeats; no waking to hear of our friends arrested, and our private letters in the hands of a Police Prefect. No horrid memories of the night before, and that run of ill-luck that has left us almost beggars. I wonder how long the charm of this tranquillity would endure; or is it like all other anodynes, which lose their calming power by habit? I 'd certainly like to try.”
“Well, there is no reason why you shouldn't,” said a voice from the back of the summer-house, which he knew to be Mrs. Trafford's.
He jumped up to overtake her, but she was gone.
“What was it you were saying about flowers, Jeanie? I was not minding,” said Mrs. Butler, as she sat at her window watching the long heaving roll of the sea, as it broke along the jagged and rugged shore, her thoughts the while far beyond it.
“I was saying, ma'am, that the same man that came with the books t' other day brought these roses, and asked very kindly how you were.”
“You mean the same gentleman, lassie, who left his card here!” said the old lady, correcting that very Northern habit of Ignoring all differences of condition.
“Well, I mind he was; for he had very white hands, and a big bright ring on one of his fingers.”
“You told him how sorry I was not to be able to see him,—that these bad headaches have left me unable to receive any one?”
“Na; I did n't say that,” said she, half doggedly.
“Well, and what did you say?”
“I just said, she's thinking too much about her son, who is away from home, to find any pleasure in a strange face. He laughed a little quiet laugh, and said, 'There is good sense in that, Jeanie, and I 'll wait for a better moment.'”
“You should have given my message as I spoke it to you,” said the mistress, severely.
“I 'm no sae blind that I canna see the differ between an aching head and a heavy heart Ye 're just frettin', and there 's naething else the matter wi' you. There he goes now, the same man,—the same gentleman, I mean,” said she, with a faint scoff. “He aye goes back by the strand, and climbs the white rocks opposite the Skerries.”
“Go and say that I 'll be happy to have a visit from him to-morrow, Jeanie; and mind, put nothing of your own in it, lassie, but give my words as I speak them.”
With a toss of her head Jeanie left the room, and soon after was seen skipping lightly from rock to rock towards the beach beneath. To the old lady's great surprise, however, Jeanie, instead of limiting herself to the simple words of her message, appeared to be talking away earnestly and fluently with the stranger; and, worse than all, she now saw that he was coming back with her, and walking straight for the cottage. Mrs. Butler had but time to change her cap and smooth down the braids of her snow-white hair, when the key turned in the lock, and Jeanie ushered in Mr. Norman Maitland. Nothing could be more respectful or in better taste than Maitland's approach. He blended the greatest deference with an evident desire to make her acquaintance, and almost at once relieved her from what she so much dreaded,—the first meeting with a stranger.
“Are you of the Clairlaverock Maitlands, sir?” asked she, timidly.
“Very distantly, I believe, madam. We all claim Sir Peter as the head of the family; but my own branch settled in India two generations back, and, I shame to say, thought of everything but genealogy.”
“There was a great beauty, a Miss Hester Maitland. When I was a girl, she married a lord, I think?”
“Yes, she married a Viscount Kinross, a sort of cousin of her own; though I am little versed in family history. The truth is, madam, younger sons who had to work their way in the world were more anxious to bequeath habits of energy and activity to their children than ideas of blazons and quarterings.”
The old lady sighed at this; but it was a sigh of relief. She had been dreading not a little a meeting with one of those haughty Maitlands, associated in her childhood's days with thoughts of wealth and power, and that dominance that smacks of, if it does not mean, insolence; and now she found one who was not ashamed to belong to a father who had toiled for his support and worked hard for his livelihood. And yet it was strange with what tenacity she clung to a topic that had its terrors for her. She liked to talk of the family, and high connections, and great marriages of all these people with whose names she was familiar as a girl, but whom she had never known, if she had so much as seen.
“My poor husband, sir,—you may have heard of him,—Colonel Walter Butler, knew all these things by heart. You had only to ask when did so-and-so die, and who married such a one, and he 'd tell you as if out of a book.”
“I have heard of Colonel Butler, madam. His fame as a soldier is widespread in India; indeed, I had hoped to have made his son's acquaintance when I came here; but I believe he is with his regiment.”
“No, sir, he's not in the service,” said she, flushing.
“Ah! a civilian, then. Well, madam, the Butlers have shown capacity in all careers.”
“My poor boy has not had the chance given him as yet, Mr. Maitland. We were too poor to think of a profession; and so, waiting and hoping, though it 's not very clear for what, we let the time slip over; and there he is a great grown man! as fine a young fellow as you ever looked on, and as good as handsome; but yet he cannot do one hand's turn that would give him bread; and yet, ask your friends at the Abbey if there's a grace or gift of a gentleman he is not the master of.”
“I think I know how the Lyles speak of him, and what affection they bear him.”
“Many would condemn me, sir,” cried she, warming with the one theme that engaged her whole heart, “for having thrown my boy amongst those so far above him in fortune, and given him habits and ways that his own condition must deny him; but it was my pride to see him in the station that his father held, and to know that he became it. I suppose there are dangers in it, too,” said she, rather answering his grave look than anything he had said. “I take it, sir, there are great temptations, mayhap over-strong temptations, for young natures.”
Maitland moved his head slightly, to imply that he assented.
“And it's not unlikely the poor boy felt that himself; for when he came home t' other night he looked scared and worn, and answered me shortly and abruptly in a way he never does, and made me sit down on the spot and write a letter for him to a great man who knew his father, asking—it is hard to say what I asked, and what I could have expected.”
“Colonel Butler's son can scarcely want friends, madam,” said Maitland, courteously.
“What the world calls friends are usually relatives, and we have but one who could pretend to any sort of influence; and his treatment of my poor husband debars us from all knowledge of him. He was an only brother, a certain Sir Omerod Butler. You may, perhaps, have heard of him?”
“Formerly British Minister at Naples, I think?”
“The same, sir; a person, they tell me, of great abilities, but very eccentric, and peculiar,—indeed, so his letters bespeak him.”
“You have corresponded with him then, madam?”
“No, sir, never; but he wrote constantly to my husband before our marriage. They were at that time greatly attached to each other; and the elder, Sir Omerod, was always planning and plotting for his brother's advancement. He talked of him as if he was his son, rather than a younger brother; in fact, there were eighteen years between them. Our marriage broke up all this. The great man was shocked at the humble connection, and poor Walter would not bear to have me slightingly spoken of; but dear me, Mr. Maitland, how I am running on! To talk of such things to you! I am really ashamed of myself! What will you think of me?”
“Only what I have learned to think of you, madam, from all your neighbors,—with sentiments of deep respect and sincere interest.”
“It is very good of you to say it, sir; and I wish Tony was back here to know you and thank you for all your attention to his mother.”
“You are expecting him, then?” asked he.
“Well, sir, I am, and I am not. One letter is full of hope and expectancy; by Thursday or Friday he 's to have some tidings about this or that place; and then comes another, saying how Sir Harry counsels him to go out and make friends with his uncle. All mammon, sir,—nothing but mammon; just because this old man is very rich, and never was married.”
“I suspect you are in error there, madam. Sir Omerod was married at least twenty years ago, when I first heard of him at Naples.”
She shook her head doubtfully, and said, “I have always been told the reverse, sir. I know what you allude to, but I have reason to believe I am right, and there is no Lady Butler.”
“It is curious enough, madam, that through a chance acquaintance on a railroad train, I learned all about the lady he married. She was an Italian.”
“It 's the same story I have heard myself, sir. We only differ about the ending of it. She was a stage-player or a dancer.”
“No, madam; a very celebrated prima donna.”
“Ay,” said she, as though there was no discrepancy there. “I heard how the old fool—for he was no young man then—got smitten with her voice and her beauty, and made such a fuss about her, taking her here and there in his state coach, and giving great entertainments for her at the Embassy, where the arms of England were over the door; and I have been told that the king heard of it, and wrote to Sir Omerod a fearful letter, asking how he dared so to degrade the escutcheon of the great nation he represented. Ah, you may smile, sir.” Maitland had, indeed, smiled alike at her tale, and the energy with which she told it “You may smile, sir; but it was no matter for laughter, I promise you. His Majesty called on him to resign, and the great Sir Omerod, who would n't know his own brother, because he married a minister's daughter, fell from his high station for the sake of—I will not say any hard words; but she was not certainly superior in station to myself, and I will make no other comparison between us.” \
“I suspect you have been greatly misled about all this, madam,” said Maitland, with a quiet, grave manner. “Sir Omerod—I heard it from my travelling companion—took his retiring pension and quitted diplomacy the very day he was entitled to it So far from desiring him to leave, it is said that the Minister of the day pressed him to remain at his post. He has the reputation of possessing no mean abilities, and certainly enjoyed the confidence of the Court to which he was accredited.”
“I never heard so much good of him before; and to tell you the truth, Mr. Maitland, if you had warned me that you were his friend, I 'd scarcely have been so eager to make your acquaintance.”
“Remember, my dear madam, all I have been telling you reached myself as hearsay.”
“Well, well,” said she, sighing. “He's not over-likely to trouble his head about me, and I don't see why I am to fash myself for him. Are you minded to stay much longer in this neighborhood, Mr. Maitland?” said she, to change the topic.
“I fear not, madam. I have overstayed everything here but the kindness of my hosts. I have affairs which call me abroad, and some two or three engagements that I have run to the very last hour. Indeed, I will confess to you, I delayed here to meet your son.”
“To meet Tony, sir?”
“Yes, madam. In my intercourse with the Lyles I have learned to know a great deal about him; to hear traits of his fine generous nature, his manly frankness, and his courage. These were the testimonies of witnesses who differed widely from each other in age and temperament; and yet they all concurred in saying he was a noble-hearted young fellow, who richly deserved all the fortune that could befall him.”
“Oh dear, sir, these are sweet words to his poor mother's ears. He is all that I have left me; and you cannot know how he makes up to me for want of station and means, and the fifty other things that people who are well-off look for. I do hope he 'll come back before you leave this. I 'd like to let you see I 'm not over-boastful about him.”
“I have had a project in my head for some days back. Indeed, it was in pursuance of it I have been so persevering in my attempts to see you, madam. It occurred to me, from what Sir Arthur Lyle said of your son, that he was just the person I have long been looking out for,—a man of good name and good blood, fresh to the world, neither hackneyed, on the one hand, nor awkwardly ignorant, on the other; well brought up and high-principled,—a gentleman, in fact It has long been a plan of mine to find one such as this, who, calling himself my secretary, would be in reality my companion and my friend; who would be content to share the fortunes of a somewhat wayward fellow for a year or two, till, using what little influence I possess, I could find means of effectually establishing him in life. Now, madam, I am very diffident about making such a proposal to one in every respect my equal, and, I have no doubt, more than my equal in some things; but if he were not my equal, there would be an end to what I desire in the project. In fact, to make the mere difference of age the question of superiority between us, is my plan. We should live together precisely on the terms of equality. In return for that knowledge of life I could impart to him,—what I know of the world, not acquired altogether without some sharp experience,—he would repay me by that hearty and genial freshness which is the wealth of the young. Now, madam, I will not tire you with any more of my speculations, purely selfish as they are; but will at once say, if, when your son and I meet, this notion of mine is to his taste, all the minor details of it shall not deter him. I know I am not offering a career, but it is yet the first step that will fit him for one. A young fellow, gifted as he is, will needs become, in a couple of years' intercourse with what is pre-eminently society, a man of consummate tact and ability. All that I know of life convinces me that the successful men are the ready-witted men. Of course I intend to satisfy you with respect to myself. You have a right to know the stability of the bank to whom you are intrusting your deposit At all events, think over my plan, and if nothing has already fallen to your son's hands in London, ask him to come back here and talk it over with me. I can remain here for a week, that is, if I can hope to meet him.” The old lady listened with all attention and patience to this speech. She was pleased by the flattery of it. It was flattery, indeed, to hear that consummately fine gentleman declare that he was ready to accept Tony as his equal in all things, and it was more than flattery to fancy her dear boy mingling in the pleasures and fascinations of the great world, courted and admired, as she could imagine he would be; but there were still drawbacks to all these. The position was that of a dependant; and how would Tony figure in such a post? He was the finest-tempered, most generous creature in the world, where no attempt to overbear interfered; but any show of offensive superiority would make a tiger of him.
“Well, well,” thought she, “it's not to be rejected all at once, and I 'll just talk it over with the minister.” “May I consult an old friend and neighbor of mine, sir, before I speak to Tony himself?” said she, timidly.
“By all means, madam; or, if you like it better, let me call on him, and enter more fully into my plan than I have ventured to do with you.”
“No, thank you, sir. I 'll just talk the matter over with the doctor, and I 'll see what he says to it all. This seems a very ungracious way to meet your great kindness, sir; but I was thinking of what awhile ago you called my deposit, and so it is,—it's all the wealth I possess,—and even the thought of resigning it is more than I can bear.”
“I hope to convince you one of these days, madam, that you have not invested unprofitably;” and with many courteous assurances that, decide how she might, his desire to serve her should remain, he took his leave, bequeathing, as he passed out, a glow of hope to the poor widow's heart, not the less cheering that she could not freely justify nor even define it.
Day followed day, and Tony Butler heard nothing from the Minister. He went down each morning to Downing Street, and interrogated the austere doorkeeper, till at length there grew up between that grim official and himself a state of feeling little short of hatred.
“No letter?” would say Tony.
“Look in the rack,” was the answer.
“Is this sort of thing usual?”
“What sort of thing?”
“The getting no reply for a week or eight days?”
“I should say it is very usual with certain people.”
“What do you mean by certain people?”
“Well, the people that don't have answers to the letters, nor ain't likely to have them.”
“Might I ask you another question?” said Tony, lowering his voice, and fixing a very quiet but steady look on the other.
“Yes, if it's a short one.”
“It's a very short one. Has no one ever kicked you for your impertinence?”
“Kickedme,—kickedme, sir!” cried the other, while his face became purple with passion.
“Yes,” resumed Tony, mildly; “for let me mention it to you in confidence, it's the last thing I mean to do before I leave London.”
“We 'll see about this, sir, at once,” cried the porter, who rushed through the inner door, and tore upstairs like a madman. Tony meanwhile brushed some dust off his coat with a stray clothes-brush near, and was turning to leave the spot, when Skeffington came hurriedly towards him, trying to smother a fit of laughter that would not be repressed.
“What's all this, Butler?” said he. “Here's the whole office in commotion. Willis is up with the chief clerk and old Brand telling them that you drew a revolver and threatened his life, and swore if you had n't an answer by tomorrow at twelve, you'd blow Sir Harry's brains out.”
“It's somewhat exaggerated. I had no revolver, and never had one. I don't intend any violence beyond kicking that fellow, and I 'll not do even that if he can manage to be commonly civil.”
“The Chief wishes to see this gentleman upstairs for a moment,” said a pale, sickly youth to Skeffington.
“Don't get flurried. Be cool, Butler, and say nothing that can irritate,—mind that,” whispered Skeffington, and stole away.
Butler was introduced into a spacious room, partly office, partly library, at the fireplace of which stood two men, a short and a shorter. They were wonderfully alike in externals, being each heavy-looking white-complexioned serious men, with a sort of dreary severity of aspect, as if the spirit of domination had already begun to weigh down even themselves.
“We have been informed,” began the shorter of the two, in a slow, deliberate voice, “that you have grossly outraged one of the inferior officers of this department; and although the case is one which demands, and shall have, the attention of the police authorities, we have sent for you—Mr. Brand and I—to express our indignation,—eh, Brand?” added he, in a whisper.
“Certainly, our indignation,” chimed in the other.
“And aware, as we are,” resumed the Chief, “that you are an applicant for employment under this department, to convey to you the assurance that such conduct as you have been guilty of totally debars you—excludes you—”
“Yes, excludes you,” chimed in Brand.
“From the most remote prospect of an appointment!” said the first, taking up a book, and throwing it down with a slap on the table, as though the more emphatically to confirm his words.
“Who are you, may I ask, who pronounce so finally on my prospects?” cried Tony.
“Who are we,—who are we?” said the Chief, in a horror at the query. “Will you tell him, Mr. Brand?”
The other was, however, ringing violently at the bell, and did not hear the question.
“Have you sent to Scotland Yard?” asked he of the servant who came to his summons. “Tell Willis to be ready to accompany the officer, and make his charge.”
“The gentleman asks who we are!” said Baynes, with a feeble laugh.
“I ask in no sort of disrespect to you,” said Butler, “but simply to learn in what capacity I am to regard you. Are you magistrates? Is this a court?”
“No, sir, we are not magistrates,” said Brand; “we are heads of departments,—departments which we shall take care do not include within their limits persons of your habits and pursuits.”
“You can know very little about my habits or pursuits. I promised your hall-porter I 'd kick him, and I don't suspect that either you or your little friend there would risk any interference to protect him.”
“My Lord!” said a messenger, in a voice of almost tremulous terror, while he flung open both inner and outer door for the great man's approach. The person who entered with a quick, active step was an elderly man, white-whiskered and white-haired, but his figure well set up, and his hat rakishly placed a very little on one side; his features were acute, and betokened promptitude and decision, blended with a sort of jocular humor about the mouth, as though even State affairs did not entirely indispose a man to a jest.
“Don't send that bag off to-night, Baynes, till I come down,” said he, hurriedly; “and if any telegrams arrive, send them over to the house. What's this policeman doing at the door?—who is refractory?”
“This—young man”—he paused, for he had almost said “gentleman”—“has just threatened an old and respectable servant of the office with a personal chastisement, my Lord.”
“Declared he 'd break every bone in his body,” chimed in Brand.
“Whose body?” asked his Lordship.
“Willis's, my Lord,—the hall-porter,—a man, if I mistake not, appointed by your Lordship.”
“I said I 'd kick him,” said Tony, calmly.
“Kick Willis?” said my Lord, with a forced gravity, which could not, however, suppress a laughing twinkle of his keen gray eyes,—“kick Willis?”
“Yes, my Lord; he does not attempt to deny it.”
“What's your name, sir,” asked my Lord.
“Butler,” was the brief reply.
“The son of—no, not son—but relative of Sir Omerod's?” asked his Lordship again.
“His nephew.”
“Why, Sir Harry Elphinstone has asked me for something for you. I don't see what I can do for you. It would be an admirable thing to have some one to kick the porters; but we have n't thought of such an appointment,—eh, Baynes? Willis, the very first; most impudent dog! We want a messenger for Bucharest, Brand, don't we?”
“No, my Lord; you filled it this morning,—gave it to Mr. Beed.”
“Cancel Beed, then, and appoint Butler.”
“Mr. Beed has gone, my Lord,—started with the Vienna bag.”
“Make Butler supernumerary.”
“There are four already, my Lord.”
“I don't care if there were forty, Mr. Brand! Go and pass your examination, young gentleman, and thank Sir Harry Elphinstone, for this nomination is at his request. I am only sorry you didn't kick Willis.” And with this parting speech he turned away, and hopped downstairs to his brougham, with the light step and jaunty air of a man of thirty.
Scarcely was the door closed, when Baynes and Brand retired into a window recess, conversing in lowest whispers and with much head-shaking. To what a frightful condition the country must come—any country must come—when administered by men of such levity, who make a sport of its interests, and a practical joke of its patronage—was the theme over which they now mourned in common.
“Are you going to make a minute of this appointment, Brand?” asked Baynes. “I declare I 'd not do it.”
The other pursed up his lips and leaned his head to one side, as though to imply that such a course would be a bold one.
“Will you put his name on your list?”
“I don't know,” muttered the other. “I suspect we can do it better. Where have you been educated, Mr. Butler?”
“At home, principally.”
“Never at any public school?”
“Never, except you call a village school a public one.”
Brand's eyes glistened, and Baynes's returned the sparkle.
“Are you a proficient in French?”
“Far from it. I could spell out a fable, or a page of 'Telemachus,' and even that would push me hard.”
“Do you write a good hand?”
“It is legible, but it's no beauty.”
“And your arithmetic?”
“Pretty much like my French,—the less said about it the better.”
“I think that will do, Brand,” whispered Baynes.
The other nodded, and muttered, “Of course; and it is the best way to do it.”
“These are the points, Mr. Butler,” he continued, giving him a printed paper, “on which you will have to satisfy the Civil Service Commissioners; they are, as you see, not very numerous nor very difficult. A certificate as to general conduct and character—British subject—some knowledge of foreign languages—the first four rules of arithmetic—and that you are able to ride—”
“Thank Heaven, there is one thing I can do; and if you ask the Commissioners to take a cast 'cross country, I 'll promise them a breather.”
Tony never noticed—nor, had he noticed, had he cared for—the grave austerity of the heads of departments at this outburst of enthusiasm. He was too full of his own happiness, and too eager to share it with his mother.
As he gained the street, Skeffington passed his arm through his, and walked along with him, offering him his cordial gratulations, and giving him many wise and prudent counsels, though unfortunately, from the state of ignorance of Tony's mind, these latter were lamentably unprofitable. It was of “the Office” that he warned him,—of its tempers, its caprices, its rancors, and its jealousies, till, lost in the maze of his confusion, poor Tony began to regard it as a beast of ill-omened and savage passions,—a great monster, in fact, who lived on the bones and flesh of ardent and high-hearted youths, drying up the springs of their existence, and exhausting their brains out of mere malevolence. Out of all the farrago that he listened to, all that he could collect was, “that he was one of those fellows that the chiefs always hated and invariably crushed.” Why destiny should have marked him out for such odium—why he was born to be strangled by red tape, Tony could not guess, nor, to say truth, did he trouble himself to inquire; but, resisting a pressing invitation to dine with Skeffington at his club, he hastened to his room to write his good news to his mother.
“Think of my good fortune, dearest little mother,” he wrote. “I have got a place, and such a place! You 'd fancy it was made for me, for I have neither to talk nor to think nor to read nor to write,—all my requirements are joints that will bear bumping, and a head that will stand the racket of railroad and steamboat without any sense of confusion, beyond what nature implanted there. Was he not a wise Minister who named me to a post where bones are better than brains, and a good digestion superior to intellect? I am to be a messenger,—a Foreign Service Messenger is the grand title,—a creature to go over the whole globe with a white leather bag or two, full of mischief or gossip, as it may be, and whose whole care is to consist in keeping his time, and beins never out of health.
“They say in America the bears were made for Colonel Crocket's dog, and I 'm sure these places were made for fellows of my stamp,—fellows to carry a message, and yet not intrusted with the telling it.
“The pay is capital, the position good,—that is, three fourths of the men are as good or better than myself; and the life, all tell me, is rare fun,—you go everywhere, see everything, and think of nothing. In all your dreams for me, you never fancied the like of this. They talk of places for all sorts of capacities, but imagine a berth for one of no capacity at all! And yet, mother dear, they have made a blunder,—and a very absurd blunder too, and no small one! they have instituted a test—a sort of examination—for a career that ought to be tested by a round with the boxing-gloves, or a sharp canter over a course with some four-feet hurdles!
“I am to be examined, in about six weeks from this, in some foreign tongues, multiplication, and the state of my muscles. I am to show proof that I was born of white parents, and am not too young or too old to go alone of a message. There's the whole of it. It ain't much, but it is quite enough to frighten one, and I go about with the verbavoirin my head, and the first four rules of arithmetic dance round me like so many furies. What a month of work and drudgery there is beforeyou, little woman! You 'll have to coach me through my declensions and subtractions. If you don't fag, you 'll be plucked, for, as for me, I'll only be your representative whenever I go in. Look up your grammar, then, and your history too, for they plucked a man the other day that said Piccolomini was not a general, but a little girl that sang in the 'Traviata'! I 'd start by the mail this evening, but that I have to go up to the Office—no end of a chilling place—for my examination papers, and to be tested by the doctor that I am all right, thews and sinews; but I 'll get away by the afternoon, right glad to leave all this turmoil and confusion, the very noise of which makes me quarrelsome and ill-tempered.
“There is such a good fellow here, Skeffington,—the Honorable Skeffington Darner, to speak of him more formally,—who has been most kind to me. He is private secretary to Sir Harry, and told me all manner of things about the Government offices, and the Dons that rule them. If I was a clever or a sharp fellow, I suppose this would have done me infinite service; but, as old Dr. Kinward says, it was only 'putting the wine in a cracked bottle;' and all I can remember is the kindness that dictated the attention.
“Skeff is some relation—I forget what—to old Mrs. Maxwell of Tilney, and, like all the world, expects to be her heir. He talks of coming over to see her when he gets his leave, and said—God forgive him for it—that he 'd run down and pass a day with us. I could n't say 'Don't,' and I had not heart to say 'Do!' I had not the courage to tell him frankly that we lived in a cabin with four rooms and a kitchen, and that butler, cook, footman, and housemaid were all represented by a barefooted lassie, who was far more at home drawing a fishing-net than in cooking its contents. I was just snob enough to say, 'Tell us when we may look out for you;' and without manliness to add, 'And I 'll run away when I hear it.' But he 's a rare good fellow, and teases me every day to dine with him at the Arthur,—a club where all the young swells of the Government offices assemble to talk of themselves, and sneer at their official superiors.
“I 'll go out, if I can, and see Dolly before I leave, though she told me that the family did n't like her having friends,—the flunkeys called them followers,—and of course I ought not to do what would make her uncomfortable; still, one minute or two would suffice to get me some message to bring the doctor, who 'll naturally expect it I'd like, besides, to tell Dolly of my good fortune,—though it is, perhaps, not a very graceful thing to be full of one's own success to another, whose position is so painful as hers, poor girl. If you saw how pale she has grown, and how thin; even her voice has lost that jolly ring it had, and is now weak and poor. She seems so much afraid—of what or whom I can't make out—but all about her bespeaks terror. You say very little of the Abbey, and I am always thinking of it. The great big world, and this great big city that is its capital, are very small things tome, compared to that little circle that could be swept by a compass, with a centre at the Burnside, and a leg of ten miles long, that would take in the Abbey and the salmon-weir, the rabbit-warren and the boat-jetty! If I was very rich, I 'd just add three rooms to our cottage, and put up one for myself, with my own traps; and another for you, with all the books that ever were written; and another for Skeff, or any other good fellow we 'd like to have with us. Would n't that be jolly, little mother? I won't deny I 'e seen what would be called prettier places here,—the Thames above and below Richmond, for instance. Lawns smooth as velvet, great trees of centuries' growth, and fine houses of rich people, are on every side. But I like our own wild crags and breezy hillsides better; I like the great green sea, rolling smoothly on, and smashing over our rugged rocks, better than all those smooth eddied currents, with their smart racing-boats skimming about. If I could only catch these fellows outside the Skerries some day, with a wind from the northwest: wouldn't I spoil the colors of their gay jackets? 'ere's Skeff come again. He says he is going to dine with some very pleasant fellows at the Star and Garter, and that I must positively come. He won't be denied, and I am in such rare spirits about my appointment that I feel as if I should be a churl to myself to refuse, though I have my sore misgiving about accepting what I well know I never can make any return for. How I 'd like one word from you to decide for me!
“I must shut up. I 'm off to Richmond, and they are all making such a row and hurrying me so, that my head is turning. One has to hold the candle, and another stands ready with the sealing-wax, by way of expediting me. Good-bye, dearest mother—I start to-morrow for home.—Your affectionate son,
“Tony Butler.”