When Tony Butler met Mrs. Trafford's carriage, he was on his road, by a cross path, to the back entrance of Lyle Abbey. It was not his intention to pay a visit there at that moment, though he was resolved to do so later. His present errand was to convey a letter he had written to Maitland, accepting the proposal of the day before.
He had not closed his eyes all night thinking of it. There was a captivation in its promise of adventure that he felt to be irresistible. He knew too well the defects of his nature and of his intelligence not to be aware that, in any of the ordinary and recognized paths in life, he must see himself overtaken and left behind by almost all. What were called the learned professions were strictly debarred to him. Had he even the means for the study he would not have the qualities to pursue them.
He did not feel that he could take willingly to a trade; as little could he be a clerk. To be sure, he had obtained this appointment as messenger, but how disparagingly Maitland had spoken of it! He said, it is true they “weren't bad things,” that “gentlemen somehow or other managed to live on them;” but he hinted that these were gentlemen whose knowledge of life had taught them a variety of little accomplishments,—such as whist, billiards, andécarté,—which form the traffic of society, and a very profitable traffic too, to him who knows a little more of them than his neighbors. Worst of all, it was a career, Maitland said, that led to nothing. You can become an “old messenger,” if you live long enough, but nothing more; and he pictured the life of a traveller who had lost every interest in the road he journeyed,—who, in fact, only thought of it with reference to the time it occupied,—as one of the dreariest of all imaginable things. “This monotony,” added he, “will do for the fellow who has seen everything and done everything; not for the fresh spirit of youth, eager to taste, to learn, and to enjoy. A man of your stamp ought to have a wider and better field,—a sphere wherein his very vitality will have fair play. Try it; follow it if you can, Butler,” said he; “but I'm much mistaken in you, if you 'll be satisfied to sit down with a station that only makes you a penny-postman magnified.” Very few of us have courage to bear such a test as this,—to hear the line we are about to take, the service we are about to enter, the colony we are about to sail for, disparaged, unmoved.
The unknown has always enough of terror about it without the dark forebodings of an evil prophet.
“I like Maitland's project better,” said Tony, after a long night's reflection. “At all events, it's the sort of thing to suitme. If I should come to grief, it will be a sad day for poor mother; but the same might happen to me when carrying a despatch-bag. I think he ought to have been more explicit, and let me hear for whom I am to fight, though, perhaps, it does n't much signify. I could fight for any one but Yankees! I think I 'll say 'done.' This Maitland is a great 'Don;' has, apparently, fortune and station. It can't be a mistake to sail in the same boat withhim. I'll certainly say 'done.'” With this resolve he jumped out of bed, and wrote the following brief note:—
“Burnside, Tuesday morning.“Dear Sir,—I'll not take the three days you gave meto consider your offer; I accept it at once.—Yours truly,“Tony Butler.“Norman Maitland, Esq., Lyle Abbey.”
“I'll have to write to Skeffy,” said he to himself, “and say you may tell my noble patron that I don't want the messengership, and that when next I call at the Office I 'll kick Willis for nothing. I don't suppose that this is the formal way of resigning; but I take it they 'll not be sorry to be quit of me, and it will spare the two old coves in white cravats all the trouble of having me plucked at the examination. Poor Skeffy won't be pleased, though; he was to have 'coached me' in foreign tongues and the Rule of Three. Well, I 'm glad I 'm in for a line of life where nobody asks about Colenso's Arithmetic, nor has so much as heard of Ollendorff's Method. Oh dear! how much happier the world must have been when people weren't so confoundedly well informed!—so awfully brimful of all knowledge as they now are! In those pleasant days, instead of being a black sheep, I 'd have been pretty much like the rest of the flock.”
The speculations on this topic—this golden age of ignorance and bliss—occupied him all the way, as he walked over the hills to leave his letter at the gate-lodge for Mr. Maitland.
Resisting all the lodge-keeper's inducements to talk,—for he was an old friend of Tony's, and wanted much to know where he had been and what doing of late, and why he was n't up at the Abbey every day as of yore,—Tony refused to hear of all the sad consequences that had followed on his absence; how the “two three-year-olds had gone back in their training;” how “Piper wouldn't let a saddle be put on his back;” how the carp were all dying in the new pond, nobody knew why,—there was even something gone wrong with the sun-dial over the stable, as though the sun himself had taken his departure in dudgeon, and would n't look straight on the spot since. These were, with many more, shouted after him as he turned away, while he, laughing, called out, “It will be all right in a day or two, Mat. I 'll see to everything soon.”
“That I 'll not,” muttered he to himself when alone. “The smart hussar—the brave Captain—may try his hand now. I 'd like to see him on Piper. I only wish that he may mount him with the saddle tightly girthed; and if he does n't cut a somerset over his head, my name is n't Tony! Let us see, too, what he 'll do with those young dogs; they 're wild enough by this time! I take it he 's too great a swell to know anything about gardening or grafting; so much the worse for my Lady's flower-pot! There 's one thing I 'd like to be able to do every morning of my life,” thought he, in sadder mood,—“just to give Alice's chestnut mare one canter, to make her neck flexible and her mouth light, and to throw her back on her haunches. And then, if I could only see Alice on her! just to see her as she bends down over the mane and pats the mare's shoulder to coax her not to buck-leap! There never was a picture that equalled it! the mare snorting and with eyes flashing, and Alice all the while caressing her, and saying, 'How silly you are, Maida! come, now, do be gentle!'”
These thoughts set others in motion,—the happy, happy days of long ago; the wild, half-reckless gallops over the fern-clad hills in the clear bright days of winter; or the still more delightful saunterings of a summer's eve on the sea-shore!—none of them—not one—ever to come back again. It was just as his reveries had reached so far that he caught sight of the four dappled grays—they were Alice's own—swinging smoothly along in that long easy stride by which thoroughbreds persuade you that work is no distress to them. It was only as they breasted the hill that he saw that the bearing-reins were not let down,—a violation of a precept on which he was inexorable; and he hastened, with all the speed he could, to catch them ere they gained the crest of the ridge.
To say the truth, Tony was somewhat ashamed of himself for his long absence from the Abbey. If it was not ingratitude, it had a look of it.Theyknew nothing of what had passed between Mark and himself, and could only pronounce upon his conduct as fickleness, or worse; and he was glad of an opportunity to meet them less formally than by a regular morning visit. Either Alice and her sister, or Alice alone, were certain to be in the carriage; for Lady Lyle was too timid to trust herself with those “grays;” and so he bounded forward, his heart full of expectancy, and burning once more to hear that voice whose very chidings were as music to him.
He was close to the carriage before he saw Maitland,—indeed, the sight of Alice, as he drew near, had so entranced him that he saw nothing else; but when his eyes did fall on her companion, a pang shot through him as though he had been stabbed. In the raging jealousy of the moment everything was forgotten but his passion,—his hatred of that man. He 'd have given his right hand to be able to hurl at him a mortal defiance, to have dared him to the death. Indeed, so far as the insolence of his stare could convey his meaning, it declared an open war between them. Nor did Maitland's attitude assuage this anger; he lay back with a cool assumption of superiority—an air of triumphant satisfaction—that seemed to say, Each of us is in the place that befits him.
So overcome was he by passion, that even Alice's invitation to get into the carnage sounded like an outrage to his ears. It was bitter enough to cast him off without making him witness the success of another. Maitland's daring to apologize for him—to explain away why he had or had not done this, that, or t' other—was more than his endurance could brook; and as he hurried away from the spot, dashing recklessly down cliff and crag, and sprang from rock to rock without a thought of the peril, he almost accused himself of cowardice and cold-bloodedness for not having insulted him on the instant, and by some open outrage forced upon him a quarrel from which there could be no retreating. “If I 'd insulted him before her,” cried he, “he never could have evaded me by calling me an angry boy.”
“I'll have no companionship with him, at all events,” said he, suddenly checking himself in his speed; “he shall neither be leader nor comrade of mine. I 'll get my letter back before it reach him.” With this resolve he turned his steps back again to the Abbey. Although he knew well that he must reach the lodge before they could return from their drive, he hurried along as though his life depended on it The keeper was out, but Tony dashed into the lodge, and found, as he expected, the letter on the chimney; he tore it into fragments, and turned away.
The day was already drawing to a close as he descended the little path to the Burnside, and saw his mother awaiting him in the porch. As he came nearer, he perceived that she held up a letter in her hand. “Something important, Tony dear,” cried she. “It is printed at top, 'On H. M's Service,' and marked 'Immediate' underneath. I have been very impatient all the day for your return.”
Although Tony's mood at the moment did not dispose him to be on the very best terms with the world at large, nor even with himself, he felt a strange sort of vainglorious glow through him at being addressed on a great square-shaped envelope, “On Her Majesty's Service,” and with a huge seal, the royal arms affixed. It imparted a sense of self-importance that was very welcome at such a moment It was a spoonful of brandy to a man not far from fainting.
With all this, he did n't like his mother to see how much this gratified or interested him; and he tossed the letter to one side, and said, “I hope the dinner isn't far off; I'm very hungry.”
“It will be on the table in a few minutes, Tony; but let us hear what Her Majesty wants with you.”
“It's nothing that won't keep till I have eaten my dinner, mother; at all events, I don't mean to inquire.”
“I suppose I may break the seal myself, then,” said she, in a half-pique.
“If you like,—if you have any curiosity in the matter.”
“That I have,” said she, tearing open the envelope. “Why, it's nothing, after all, Tony. It's not from Her Majesty at all. It begins 'Dear Butler.'”
“It's from Skeffy,” cried he, taking it from her hands, “and is far more interesting to me than if it came from the Premier.”
Mrs. Butler sat down, disappointed and sad. It was a reminiscence of long ago, that formally shaped document, with its big seal, reminding her of days when the Colonel—her Colonel—used to receive despatches from the War Office,—grave documents of which he seldom spoke, but whose importance she could read in the thoughtful lines of his face, and which always impressed her with his consequence. “Ah, dear!” sighed she, drearily, “who would have thought it?”
So is it very often in this same world of ours, that the outsides of things are only solemn cheats. The orderly, who terrifies the village as he dashes past at speed, is but the bearer of an invitation to dine. The ambassador's bag is filled not with protocols and treaties, but with fish-sauce or pickled walnuts; the little sack—marked “most important”—being choke-full of Russian cigarettes. Even lawn and lawyers' wigs are occasionally the external coverings to qualities that fall short of absolute wisdom; so that though Mrs. Butler exclaimed, “Who would have thought it?” one more conversant with life would have felt less surprise and less disappointment.
A laugh from Tony—almost a hearty laugh—startled her from her musings. “What is it, Tony dear?” asked she,—“what is it that amuses you?”
“I'll read it all for you, mother. It's from Skeffy, and you 'd think you heard him talking, it's so like him.
“'F. O., Sunday morning.
“'Dear Butler,—What a fright you have given us all, old fellow, to have levanted so suddenly, leaving your traps with the waiter, as we first thought, but, as we afterwards discovered, exchanging them with one Rory Quin, who, apparently sorry for his bargain, came for three successive mornings to the hotel to find out your present whereabouts.'
“Do you understand him, mother?” asked Tony at this.
“Partly,—go on.”
He resumed: “'Rory, however, would seem to have a private scrape of his own to occupy him now, for I found to-day that a policeman was waiting all the morning to arrest him, of which he seems to have had timely notice, for he did not appear, and “R. 960” says, with much solemnity, “he won't come no more."'”
“What does that mean, Tony?”
“I can make nothing of it. I hope and trust that I am not the cause of the poor fellow's troubles. I 'll write about this at once. 'More of all this, however, when we meet, which, I rejoice to say, will be soon. I have got fourteen days' leave, and am going over to your immediate neighborhood, to visit an aunt, or a cousin, or a grandmother,—if she likes,—a certain Mrs. Maxwell of Tilney, who has lots of cash, and no one to leave it to,—five thousand a year in estate; I don't know what in the Threes; and is, they tell me, weighing all her relatives, real or imaginary, in the balance of her esteem, to decide who is to be the Lord of Tilney, and which of us would most worthily represent her name and house. Preaching for a call is nothing to this; and a C. S. examination is cakes and gingerbread to it Just fancy a grand competitive dinner of both sexes, and the old lady watching who ate of her favorite dish, or who passed the decanter she “affectioned.” Imagine yourself talking, moving, sneezing, smiling, or blowing your nose, with five thousand a year on the issue. Picture to your mind the tortures of a scrutiny that may take in anything, from your complexion to your character, and which, though satisfied with your morals, might discover “something unpleasing about your mouth.”
“'Worst news of all, I hear that the great Norman Maitland is somewhere in your vicinity, and, of course, will be invited wherever anything is going on. If he cares to do it, I suppose he 'll cut us all out, and that the old lady would rather fancy she made a graceful exit from life if this illustrious swell were to play chief mourner to her. By the way, do you know the man I 'm talking of? He's a monstrous clever fellow, and a great mystery to boot. I know him very slightly; indeed, so slightly that I'm not sure he knowsme.
“'As it would be invaluable to me to have a word of counsel from you, knowing nothing, or next to nothing, of my dear relative, I mean to start directly for you at once, and have one day with you before I go on to Tilney. Will this bore you, or inconvenience you? Is your house full? Most houses are at this time o' year.'”
At this Tony laid down the letter and laughed immoderately; not so, however, his mother. She turned her head away, and sat, with her hands closely locked, in silence.
“Is n't it good,—is n't it downright droll, mother, to ask if our house be so full of guests we have no room for another? I declare, though it has a sore side to it, the question overcomes me with its absurdity.”
“That's not the way I 'm looking at it, Tony,” said she, sadly.
“But there's no other way to look at it. If one can't take that view of it, one would—” He stopped suddenly, for he saw the old lady lift her handkerchief to her eyes, and hold it there. “But you are right, mother,” said he, quickly. “To bear it well, one need n't laugh at it. At all events, what answer are we to make him?”
“Finish the letter first.”
“Ah, this is all about putting him up—anywhere—in a dressing-room or a closet. 'At Carlscourt, last year, they had nothing to give me but a bathroom. They used to quiz me about sleeping in “marble halls,” for I lay in the bath.'”
“He seems a good-tempered creature,” said the old lady, who could not repress a laugh this time.
“The best in the world; and such spirits! I wish you saw him do the back-somersault over a chair, or the frog's leap across a table. For all that, mother,” said he, with a change of tone, “he's a perfect gentleman; and though he's very short,—only so high,—he looks a gentleman, too.”
“I am not likely to forget all his kindness to you, Tony,” said she, feelingly. “If we could only receive him suitably, I 'd be happy and proud to do it; as it is, however, the man, being a gentleman, will put up all the better with our humble entertainment: so just tell him to come, Tony; but tell him, also, what he's coming to. His room will be pretty much like the bathroom, and the company he'll meet afterwards very unlike what he saw at the fine house.”
“He 'll take all in good part, or I 'm much mistaken in him. So here goes for the answer:—
“'Dear Skeff,—We live in a cottage with five rooms. We haveone maidservant, and we dine at two. If you have courage toface all this, you'll have the heartiest of welcomes from mymother and your sincere friend,“'Tony Butler.“'The mail will drop you at Coleraine, and I 'll be on thelook-out for you every morning from this forward.'
“Won't that do, mother?” asked he.
“I think you might have done it better; but I suppose you young folk understand each other best in your own fashion, so let it be.”
While Tony was absent that morning from home, Mrs. Butler had a visit from Dr. Stewart; he came over, he said, to see Tony, and ask the news of what he had done in England. “I hope, ma'am,” said he,—and there was something dry and reserved in his manner,—“I hope, ma'am, your son has brought you good tidings of his late journey. A big city is a big temptation, and we dinna want temptations in this world of ours.”
“I know it well, doctor,” said she, with a sigh; “and if it had been any other than Tony—Ah, doctor! why do you shake your head? you make me think you 've heard something or other. What is it, sir?”
“It's just nothing at all, Mrs. Butler, but your own fears, and very proper fears too they are, for a young lad that goes away from home for the first time in his life, and to such a place too. Ah me!” cried he, in a soil of apostrophe, “it 's not so easy to be in grace down about Charing Cross and the Hay market.”
“You 're just frightening me, Dr. Stewart; that's what it is you are doing.”
“And I say it again, ma'am, it's yourself is the cause o' it all. But tell me what success he has had,—has he seen Sir Harry Elphinstone?”
“That he has, and seen a greater than Sir Harry; he has come back with a fine place, doctor; he's to be one of the Queen's—I forget whether they call them couriers or messengers—that bring the state despatches all over the world; and, as poor dear Tony says, it's a place that was made for him,—for they don't want Greek or Latin, or any more book-learning than a country gentleman should have.
“What are you sighing about, Dr. Stewart? There's nothing to sigh over getting five, maybe six, hundred a year.”
“I was not sighing; I was only thinkin'. And when is he to begin this new life?”
“If you are sighing over the fall it is for a Butler, one of his kith and kin, taking a very humble place, you may just spare your feelings, doctor, for there are others as good as himself in the same employ.”
“And what does Sir Arthur say to it, ma'am?” asked he, as it were to divert her thoughts into another course.
“Well, if you must know, Dr. Stewart,” said she, drawing herself up and smoothing down her dress with dignity, “we have ventured to take this step without consulting Sir Arthur or any of his family.”
A somewhat long silence ensued. At last she said: “If Tony was at home, doctor, he 'd tell you how kindly his father's old friend received him,—taking up stories of long ago, and calling him Watty, just as he used to do. And so, if they did not give my poor boy a better place, it was because there was nothing just ready at the moment, perhaps,—or nothing to fit him; for, as Sir Harry said laughingly, 'We can't make you a bishop, I fear.'”
“I dinna see anything against it,” muttered the old minister, not sorry for the chance of a shot against Episcopacy.
“I'm thinking, Dr. Stewart,” said she, tartly, “that your rheumatism must be troubling you to-day; and, indeed, I 'm ashamed to say I never asked you how the pains were?”
“I might be better, and I might be worse, ma'am,” was the qualified reply; and again came a pause.
“Tony was saying the other day, doctor,” resumed she, “that if you will try a touch of what he calls the white oils.”
“I 'm very much obliged to him, Mrs. Butler; he put a touch of the same white oils on my pony one day, and the beast that was always a lamb before just kicked me over his head when I got into the saddle.”
“You forget, doctor, you are not a beast of burden yourself.”
“We 're all beasts of burden, ma'am,—all of us,—even the best, if there be any best! heavy laden wi' our sins, and bent down wi' our transgressions. No, no,” added he, with a slight asperity, “I 'll have none of his white oils.”
“Well, you know the proverb, doctor, 'He that winna use the means must bear the moans.'”
“'T is a saying that hasna much sense in it,” said the doctor, crankily; “for who's to say when the means is blessed?”
Here was a point that offered so wide a field for discussion that the old lady did not dare to make a rejoinder.
“I 'll be going to Derry to-morrow, Mrs. Butler,” resumed he, “if I can be of any service to you.”
“Going to Derry, doctor? that's a long road for you!”
“So it is, ma'am; but I'm going to fetch back my dochter Dolly; she's to come by the packet to-morrow evening.”
“Dolly coming home! How is that? You did not expect her, did you?”
“Not till I got her letter this morning; and that's what made me come over to ask if Tony had, maybe, told you something about how she was looking, and what sort of spirits she seemed in; for her letter's very short; only says, 'I 've got a kind of longing to be back again, dear father; as the song says, “It's hame, and it's hame, and it's hame I fain wad be;” and as I know well there will be an open heart and an open door to greet me, I 'm off tonight for Liverpool.'”
“She 's a good girl, and whatever she does it will be surely for the best,” said the old lady.
“I know it well;” and he wiped his eyes as he spoke. “But I 'm sore troubled to think it's maybe her health is breaking, and I wanted to ask Tony about her. D' ye remember, ma'am, how he said she was looking?”
Now, if there was anything thoroughly repugnant to the old lady's habits, it was untruthfulness; and yet, as Tony had not mentioned Dolly since his return, her only escape was by a little evasion, saying, “When he wrote to me his first letter from London, doctor, he said, 'I was sorry to find Dolly looking pale, and I thought thin also; besides,' added he, 'they have cut off her pretty brown hair.'”
“Yes, she told me of that,” sighed the doctor. “And in her last note she says again, 'Dinna think me a fright father dear, for it's growing again, and I 'm not half so ugly as I was three weeks ago;' for the lassie knows it was always a snare to me, and I was ever pleased wi' her bright, cheery face.”
“And a bright, cheery face it was!”
“Ye mind her smile, Mrs. Butler. It was like hearing good news to see it. Her mother had the same.” And the old man's lip trembled, and his cheek too, as a heavy tear rolled slowly down it. “Did it ever strike you, ma'am,” added he, in a calmer tone, “that there's natures in this world gi'en to us just to heal the affections, as there are herbs and plants sent to cure our bodily ailments?”
“It's a blessed thought, doctor.”
“Eh, ma'am, it's more than a thought; it's a solemn truth. But I 'm staying o'er-long; I 've to go over to John Black's and see his sister before I leave; and I 'd like, too, to say a word o' comfort to auld Matty McClintock.”
“You 'll be back for the Sabbath, doctor?” asked she.
“Wi'Hishelp and blessing, ma'am.”
“I was thinking if maybe you and dear Dolly would come and take dinner here—Saturday—there will be nothing ready for you at home; and it would be such a pleasure to Tony before he goes away.”
“T thank you heartily, Mrs. Butler; but our first evening under the auld roof we must e'en have it by ourselves. You 'll no think the worse o' us for this, I am sure, ma'am.”
“Certainly not; then shall we say Monday? Dolly will be rested by that time, and Tony talks of leaving me so soon.”
“I 'll just, wi' your good leave—I 'll just wait till I see Dolly; for maybe she 'll no be ower-strong when she comes. There's nothing I can do for you in Derry, is there?”
“Nothing, sir,—nothing that I think of at this moment,” said she, coldly; for the doctor's refusal of her second invitation had piqued her pride, and whether it was from his depression or some other cause, the doctor himself seemed less cordial than was his wont, and took his leave with more ceremony than usual.
The old lady watched him till he was out of sight, sorely perplexed to divine whether he had really unburdened his conscience of all he had to say, or had yet something on his mind unrevealed. Her kindly nature, however, in the end, mastered all other thoughts; and as she sat down once more to her knitting, she muttered, “Poor man! it's a sore stroke of poverty when the sight of one's only child coming back to them brings the sense of distress and want with it.” The words were not well uttered when she saw Tony coming up the little pathway; he was striding along at his own strong pace, but his hat was drawn down over his brows, and be neither looked right nor left as he went.
“Did you meet the doctor, Tony?” said she, as she opened the door for him.
“No; how should I meet him? I've not been to the Burn Bide.”
“But he has only left the house this minute,—you must have passed each other.”
“I came down the cliff. I was taking a short cut,” said he, as he threw himself into a seat, evidently tired and weary.
“He has been here to say that he's off for Derry to-night with the mail to meet Dolly.”
“To meet Dolly!”
“Yes, she's coming back; and the doctor cannot say why, for she's over that fever she had, and getting stronger every day; and yet she writes, 'You must come and fetch me from Derry, father, for I 'm coming home to you.' And the old man is sore distressed to make out whether she's ill again, or what's the meaning of it. And he thought, if he saw you, it was just possible you could tell him something.”
“What could I tell him? Why should he imagine I could tell him?” said Tony, as a deep crimson flush covered his face.
“Only how she was looking, Tony, and whether you thought she seemed happy where she was living, and if the folk looked kind to her.”
“I thought she looked very sickly, and the people about her—the woman at least—not over-kind. I'm not very sure, too, that Dolly herself was n't of my mind, though she did n't say so. Poor girl!”
“It's the poor old father I pity the most, Tony; he's not far off seventy, if he 's not over it; and sore work he finds it keeping body and soul together; and now he has the poor sick lassie come back to him, wanting many a little comfort, belike, that he can't afford her. Ah, dear! is n't there a deal of misery in this life?”
“Except for the rich,” said Tony, with an almost savage energy. “They certainly have fine times of it. I saw that fellow, Maitland, about an hour ago, lolling beside Alice Lyle—Trafford, I mean, in her carriage, as if he owned the equipage and all it contained; and why? Just because he is rich.”
“He's a fine handsome man, Tony, and has fine manners, and I would not call him a fellow.”
“I would, then; and if he only gives me the chance, I 'll call him a harder name to his face.”
“Tony, Tony, how can you speak so of one that wanted to befriend you?”
“Befriend me, mother! You make me ashamed to bear you say such a word. Befriend me!”
“What's the matter with you, Tony? You are not talking, no, nor looking like yourself. What's befallen you, my dear Tony? You went out this morning so gay and light-hearted, it made me cheery to see you. Ay, and I did what I 've not done for many a day, I sang to myself over my work without knowing it, and now you 're come back as dark as night. What's in it, my boy? tell your poor old mother. What's in it?”
“There's nothing in it, my own little mother, except that I'm a good-for-nothing, discontented dog, that sees himself in a very shabby condition without having the pluck to try and get out of it. I say, mother, when are we to begin our lessons? That confounded river Danube goes between me and my rest. Whether it rises in the Black Sea or the Black Forest is just as great a puzzle to me as whether the word is spelt 'peo' or 'poe' in 'people.'”
“Oh, Tony!”
“It's all very well saying, 'Oh, Tony;' but I tell you, mother, a stupid fellow ought never to be told two ways for anything: never say to him, you can do it in this fashion or in that; but, there's the road straight before you; take care you never go off it.”
“Mr. Maitland made that same remark to me last week.”
“Then don't tell it to me, for I hate him. By the way, there's that gun of his. I forgot to take it back to Lyle Abbey. I think it was precious cool in him to suppose a stranger—a perfect stranger, as I am—would accept a present from him.”
“If you are going to the Abbey, Tony, I wish you 'd leave these books there, and thank my Lady for all her kind attentions to me; and say a word to Sir Arthur, too, to excuse my not seeing him when he called. Tell Gregg, the gardener, not to send me any more vegetables now; it's the scarce season, and they 'll be wanting them for themselves; and if you should chance to see Mr. Lockyer, the steward, just mention to him that the new sluice is just no good at all, and when the rain comes heavy, and the mill is not working, the water comes up to the kitchen door. Are you minding me, Tony?”
“I 'm not sure that I am,” said he, moodily, as he stood examining the lock of the well-finished rifle. “I was to tell Lady Lyle something about cabbages or the mill-race,—which was it?”
“You are not to make a fool of yourself, Tony,” said she, half vexed and half amused. “I 'll keep my message for another day.”
“And you'll do well,” said he; “besides, I'm not very sure that I 'll go further than the gate-lodge;” and so saying, he took his hat, and, with the rifle on his shoulder, strolled out of the room.
“Ah! he 's more like his father every day!” sighed she, as she looked after him; and if there was pride in the memory, there was some pain also.
If a cordial host and a graceful hostess can throw a wondrous charm over the hospitalities of a house, there is a feature in those houses where neither host nor hostess is felt which contributes largely to the enjoyment of the assembled company. I suspect, indeed, that republics work more smoothly domestically than nationally. Tilney was certainly a case in point. Mrs. Maxwell was indeed the owner,—the demesne, the stables, the horses, the gardens, the fish-ponds, were all hers; but somehow none of the persons under her roof felt themselves her guests. It was an establishment in which each lived as he liked, gave his own orders, and felt very possibly more at home, in the pleasant sense of the phrase, than in his own house. Dinner alone was a “fixture;” everything else was at the caprice of each. The old lady herself was believed to take great pride in the perfect freedom her guests enjoyed; and there was a story current of a whole family who partook of her hospitalities for three weeks, meeting her once afterwards in a watering-place, and only recognizing her as an old woman they saw at Tilney. Other tales there were of free comments of strangers made upon the household, the dinners, and such-like to herself, in ignorance of who she was, which she enjoyed vastly, and was fond of relating, in strict confidence, to her few intimates.
If there were a number of pleasant features in such a household, there were occasionally little trifling drawbacks that detracted slightly from its perfect working,—mere specks in the sun, it is true, and, after all, only such defects as are inseparable from all things where humanity enters and influences. One of these—perhaps the most marked one—was the presumption of certainhabituésto install themselves in certain rooms, which, from long usage, they had come to regard as their own. These prescriptive rights were so well understood that the frequenters of Tilney no more thought of disturbing them than they would of contesting their neighbors' title-deeds, or appropriating to themselves some portions of their wardrobes. Occasionally, however, it did happen that some guest of more than ordinary pretension arrived,—some individual whose rank or station placed him above these conventionalities,—and in such cases some deviations from ordinary routine would occur, but so quietly and peacefully withal as never to disturb the uniform working of the domestic machinery.
“I find my rooms always ready for me here,” said Mrs. Trafford; “and I have no doubt that Mrs. Maxwell has given orders about yours, Mr. Maitland; but it's your own fault, remember, if you 're not lodged to your liking.”
Maitland was not long in making his choice. A little garden pavilion, which was connected with the house by a glass corridor, suited him perfectly; it combined comfort and quiet and isolation,—who could ask for more?—within an easy access of society when it was wanted. There was the vast old garden, as much orchard and shrubbery as garden, to stroll in unobserved; and a little bathroom into which the water trickled all day long with a pleasant drip, drip, that sounded most soothingly.
“It's the Commodore's favorite place, sir, this garden-house,” said the butler, who did the honors to Maitland, “and it's only a chance that he's not here to claim it. There was some mistake about his invitation, and I suppose he's not coming.”
“Yes, I passed him a couple of miles off; he 'll be here almost immediately.”
“We 'll put him up on the second floor, sir; the rooms are all newly done up, and very handsome.”
“I 'm sorry if I inconvenience him, Mr. Raikes,” said Maitland, languidly; “but I've got here now, and I'm tired, and my traps are half taken out; and, in fact, I should be sorrier still to have to change. You understand me,—don't you?”
“Perfectly, sir; and my mistress, too, gave orders that you were to have any room you pleased; and your own hours, too, for everything.”
“She is most kind. When can I pay my respects to her?”
“Before dinner, sir, is the usual time. All the new company meet her in the drawing-room. Oh, there's the Commodore now; I hear his voice, and I declare they 're bringing his trunks here, after all I said.”
The old sailor was now heard, in tones that might have roused a main-deck, calling to the servants to bring down all his baggage to the pavilion, to heat the bath, and send him some sherry and a sandwich.
“I see you 're getting ready for me, Raikes,” said he, as the somewhat nervous functionary appeared at the door.
“Well, indeed, Commodore Graham, these rooms are just taken.”
“Taken! and by whom? Don't you know, and have n't you explained, that they are always mine?”
“We thought up to this morning, Commodore, that you were not coming.”
“Who are 'we,'—you and the housemaids, eh? Tell me who are 'we,' sir?”
“My mistress was greatly distressed, sir, at George's mistake, and she sent him back late last night.”
“Don't bother me about that. Who's here,—who has got my quarters, and where is he? I suppose it's a man.”
“It's a Mr. Norman Maitland.”
“By George, I'd have sworn it!” cried the Commodore, getting purple with passion. “I knew it before you spoke. Go in and say that Commodore Graham would wish to speak with him.”
“He has just lain down, sir; he said he did n't feel quite well, and desired he mightn't be disturbed.”
“He's not too ill to hear a message. Go in and say that Commodore Graham wishes to have one word with him. Do you hear me, sir?”
A flash of the old man's eye and a tighter grasp of his cane—very significant in their way—sent Mr. Raikes on his errand, from which, after a few minutes, he came back, saying, in a low whisper, “He's asleep, sir,—at least I think so; for the bedroom door is locked, and his breathing comes very long.”
“This is about the most barefaced, the most outrageously impudent—” He stopped, checked by the presence of the servant, which he had totally forgotten. “Take my traps back into the hall,—do you hear me?—the hall.”
“If you 'd allow me, sir, to show the yellow rooms upstairs, with the bow window—”
“In the attics, I hope?”
“No, sir,—just over the mistress's own room on the second floor.”
“I 'll save you that trouble, Mr. Raikes; send Corrie here, my coachman,—send him here at once.”
While Mr. Raikes went, or affected to go, towards the stables,—a mission which his dignity secretly scorned,—the Commodore called out after him, “And tell him to give the mare a double feed, and put on the harness again,—do you hear me?—to put the harness on her.”
Mr. Raikes bowed respectfully; but had the Commodore only seen his face, he would have seen a look that said, “What I now do must not be taken as a precedent,—I do it, as the lawyers say, 'without prejudice.'”
In a glow of hot temper, to which the ascent of two pairs of stairs contributed something, the old Commodore burst into the room where his daughters were engaged unpacking. Sofas, tables, and chairs were already covered with articles of dress, rendering his progress a matter of very nice steering through the midst of them.
“Cram them in again,—stow them all away!” cried he; “we 're going back.”
“Back where?” asked the elder, in a tone of dignified resistance years of strong opposition had taught her.
“Back to Port-Graham, if you know such a place. I 've ordered the car round to the door, and I mean to be off in a quarter of an hour.”
“But why—what has happened? what's the reason for this?”
“The reason is that I 'm not going to be packed up in the top story, or given a bed in a barrack room. That fellow Raikes,—I 'll remember it to him next Christmas,—that fellow has gone and given the garden-house to that Mr. Maitland.”
“Oh, is that all?” broke in Miss Graham.
“All, all! Why, what more would you have? Did you expect that he had told me to brush his coat or fetch his hot water? What the d——l do you mean by 'all'?”
“Then why don't you take Mrs. Chetwyn's rooms? They are on this floor. She's going now. They are most comfortable, and have a south aspect: by the way she was just talking of Maitland; she knows all about him, and he is the celebrated Norman Maitland.”
“Ah, let us hear that. I want to unearth the fellow if I only knew how,” said he, taking a chair.
“There's nothing to unearth, papa,” said the younger daughter. “Mrs. Chetwyn says that there's not a man in England so courted and feted as he is; that people positively fight for him at country-houses; and it's a regular bait to one's company to say, 'We 're to have Maitland with us.'”
“And who is he?”
“She does n't know.”
“What's his fortune?”
“She doesn't know.”
“Where is it?”
“She's not sure. It must be somewhere abroad,—in India, perhaps.”
“So that this old woman knows just as much as we do ourselves,—which is simply nothing, but that people go on asking this man about to this dinner and that shooting just because they met him somewhere else, and he amused them.”
“'T is pretty clear that he has money, wherever it comes from,” said Miss Graham, authoritatively. “He came to Hamilton Court with four hunters and three hackneys, the like of which were never seen in the county.”
“Tell papa about his yacht,” broke in the younger.
“I don't want to hear about his yacht; I 'd rather learn why he turned me out of my old quarters.”
“In all probability he never heard they were yours. Don't you know well what sort of house this is,—how everybody does what he likes?”
“Why didn't Alice Lyle—Mrs. Trafford, I mean—tell him that I always took these rooms.”
“Because probably she was thinking of something else,” said Miss Graham, significantly. “Mrs. Chetwyn watched them as they drove up, and she declared that, if Maitland had n't his hand in her muff, her eyes have greatly deceived her.”
“And what if he had?”
“Simply that it means they are on very excellent terms. Not that Alice will make any real conquest there: for, as Mrs. Chetwyn said, 'he has seen far too many of these fine-lady airs and graces to be taken by them;' and she added, 'A frank, outspoken, natural girl, like your sister there, always attracts men of this stamp.'”
“Why didn't he come over on Wednesday, then? It was his own appointment, and we waited dinner till seven o'clock, and have not had so much as one line—no, not one line of apology.”
“Perhaps he was ill, perhaps he was absent; his note might have miscarried. At all events, I 'd wait till we meet him, and see what explanation he 'll make.”
“Yes, papa,” chimed in Beck, “just leave things alone. 'A strange hand on the rod never hooked the salmon,' is a saying of your own.”
“There's that stupid fellow brought the car round to the door; just as if our splendid equipage had n't attracted criticism enough on our arrival,” said Miss Graham, as she opened the window, and by a gesture more eloquent than graceful motioned to the servant to return to the stableyard; “and there come the post-horses,” added she, “for the Chetwyns. Go now and secure her rooms before you 're too late;” and, rather forcibly aiding her counsel, she bundled the old Commodore out of the chamber, and resumed the unpacking of the wardrobe.
“I declare, I don't know what he'll interfere in next,” said Miss Graham.
“Yes,” said Beck, with a weary sigh, “I wish he'd go back to the American war, and what we did or did not do at Ticonderoga.”
Leaving these young ladies to discuss in a spirit more critical than affectionate the old Commodore's ways and habits, let us for a moment return to Maitland who had admitted young Lyle after two unsuccessful attempts to see him.
“It's no easy matter to get an audience of you,” said Mark. “I have been here I can't say how many times, always to hear Fenton lisp out. In the bath sir.”
“Yes. I usually take my siesta that way. With plenty of eau-de-Cologne in it there 'a no weakening effect. Well, and what is going on here? any people that I know? I suppose not.”
“I don't think it very likely: they are all country families, except a few refreshers from the garrison at Newry and Dundalk.”
“And what do they do?”
“Pretty much the same sort of thing you 'd find in an English country-house. There 's some not very good shooting. They make riding-parties. They have archery when it's fine, and billiards when it rains; but they always dine very well at seven, that much I can promise you.”
“Not such a cook as your father's, Lyle, I 'm certain.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mark, evidently flattered by the compliment. “But the cellar here is unequalled. Do you know that in the mere shadowy possibility of being one day her heir, I groan every time I see that glorious Madeira placed on the table before a set of fellows that smack their lips and say, 'It's good sherry, but a trifle too sweet for my taste.'”
“And this same heritage,—how do the chances look?”
“I shall want your power of penetration to say that. One day the old woman will take me aside and consult me about fifty things; and the next she'll say, 'Perhaps we'd better make no changes, Mark. Heaven knows what ideas they may have who 'll come after me.' She drives me half distracted with these capricious turns.”
“It is provoking, no doubt of it.”
“I 'd not care so much if I thought it was to fall to Bella; though, to be sure, no good-looking girl needs such a fortune as this. Do you know that the timber thrown down by the late gales is worth eight thousand pounds? and Harris the steward tells me it's not one fourth of what ought to be felled for the sake of the young wood.”
“And she has the whole and sole disposal of all this?”
“Every stick of it, and some six thousand acres besides!”
“I 'd marry her if I were you. I declare I would.”
“Nonsense! this is a little too absurd.”
“Amram married his aunt, and I never heard that she had such a dower; not to say that the relationship in the present case is only a myth.”
“Please to remember that she is about thirty years older than my mother.”
“I bear it most fully in mind, and I scout the vulgar impertinences of those who ridicule these marriages. I think there is something actually touching in the watchful care and solicitude of a youthful husband for the venerable object of his affections.”
“Well, you shall not point the moral by my case, I promise you,” said Mark, angrily.
“That sublime spectacle that the gods are said to love—a great man struggling with adversity—is so beautifully depicted in these unions.”
“Then why not—” He was going to say, “Why not marry her yourself?” but the fear of taking such a liberty with his distinguished friend just caught him in time and stopped him.
“I 'll tell you why not,” said Maitland, replying to the unuttered question. “If you have ever dined at a civicfêteyou 'll have remarked that there is some one dish or other the most gluttonous alderman will suffer to pass untasted,—a sort of sacrifice offered to public opinion. And so it is, an intensely worldly man, as people are polite enough to regard me, must show, every now and then, that there are temptations which he is able to resist. Marrying for money is one of these. I might speculate in a bubble company, I might traffic in cotton shares, or even 'walk into' my best friend al faro, but I mustn't marry for money,—that's positive.”
“But apparentlyImight,” said Mark, sulkily.
“You might,” replied Maitland, with calm dignity of manner.
“It is a privilege of which I do not mean to avail myself,” said Mark, while his face was flushed with temper. “Do you know that your friends the Grahams are here?”
“Yes; I caught a glimpse of the fair Rebecca slipping sideways through life on a jaunting-car.”
“And there's the old Commodore tramping over the house, and worrying every one with his complaints that you have turned him out of his rooms here,—rooms dedicated to his comfort for the last thirty years.”
“Reason enough to surrender them now. Men quit even the Treasury benches to give the Opposition a turn of office.”
“He 's a quarrelsome old blade, too,” said Mark, “particularly if he suspects he's been 'put upon.'”
“No blame to him for that.”
“A word or two, said as you well know how to say it, will set all right; or a line, perhaps, saying that having accidentally heard from me—”
“No, no, Mark. Written excuses are like undated acceptances, and they may be presented unexpectedly to you years after you 've forgotten them. I 'll tell the Commodore that I shall not inconvenience him beyond a day or two, for I mean to start by the end of the week.”
“They expect you to come back with us. Alice told me you had promised.”
“L'homme propose,” said he, sighing. “By the way, I saw that young fellow you told me about,—Butler; a good-looking fellow, too, well limbed and well set up, but not a marvel of good-breeding or tact.”
“Did he attempt any impertinences withyou?” asked Mark, in a tone of amazement.
“Not exactly; he was not, perhaps, as courteous as men are who care to make a favorable impression; but he is not, as you suspected,—he is not a snob.”
“Indeed!” said Mark, reddening; for, though provoked and angry, he did not like to contest the judgment of Norman Maitland on such a point. “You 'll delight my sisters by this expression of your opinion; for my own part, I can only say I don't agree with it.”
“The more reason not to avow it, Lyle. Whenever you don't mean very well by a man, never abuse him, since, after that, all your judgments of him becomesuspect. Remember that where you praise you can detract; nobody has such unlimited opportunities to poison as the doctor. There, now,—there's a bit of Machiavelism to think over as you dress for dinner, and I see it's almost time to do so.”