“Who said that Tony Butler had come back?” said Sir Arthur, as they sat at breakfast on the day after his arrival.
“The gardener saw him last night, papa,” said Mrs. Trafford; “he was sitting with his mother on the rocks below the cottage; and when Gregg saluted him, he called out, 'All well at the Abbey, I hope?'”
“It would have been more suitable if he had taken the trouble to assure himself of that fact by a visit here,” said Lady Lyle. “Don't you think so, Mr. Maitland?”
“I am disposed to agree with you,” said he, gravely.
“Besides,” added Sir Arthur, “he must have come over in the 'Foyle,' and ought to be able to bring me some news of my horses. Those two rough nights have made me very uneasy about them.”
“Another reason for a little attention on his part,” said her Ladyship, bridling; and then, as if anxious to show that so insignificant a theme could not weigh on her thoughts, she asked her daughter when Mark and Isabella purposed coming home.
“They spoke of Saturday, mamma; but it seems now that Mrs. Maxwell has got up—or somebody has for her—an archery meeting for Tuesday, and she writes a most pressing entreaty for me to drive over, and, if possible, persuade Mr. Maitland to accompany me.”
“Which I sincerely trust he will not think of.”
“And why, dearest mamma?”
“Can you ask me, Alice? Have we not pushed Mr. Maitland's powers of patience far enough by our own dulness, without subjecting him to the stupidities of Tilney Park?—the dreariest old mansion of a dreary neighborhood.”
“But he might like it. As a matter of experimental research, he told us how he passed an autumn with the Mandans, and ate nothing but eels and wood-squirrels.”
“You are forgetting the prairie rats, which are really delicacies.”
“Nor did I include the charms of the fair Chachinhontas, who was the object of your then affections,” said she, laughingly, but in a lower tone.
“So, then,” said he, “Master Mark has been playing traitor, and divulging my confidence. The girl was a marvellous horsewoman, which is a rare gift with Indian women. I 've seen her sit a drop-leap—I 'll not venture to say the depth, but certainly more than the height of a man—with her arms extended wide, and the bridle loose and flowing.”
“And you followed in the same fashion?” asked Alice, with a roguish twinkle of the eye.
“I see that Mark has betrayed me all through,” said he, laughing. “I own I tried it, but not with the success that such ardor deserved. I came head-foremost to the ground before my horse.”
“After all, Mr. Maitland, one is not obliged to ride like a savage,” said Lady Lyle.
“Except when one aspires to the hand of a savage princess, mamma. Mr. Maitland was ambitious in those days.”
“Very true,” said he, with a deep sigh; “but it was the only time in my life in which I could say that I suffered my affection to be influenced by mere worldly advantages. She was a great heiress; she had a most powerful family connection.”
“How absurd you are!” said Lady Lyle, good-humoredly.
“Let him explain himself, mamma; it is so very seldom he will condescend to let us learn any of his sentiments on any subject. Let us hear him about marriage.”
“It is an institution I sincerely venerate. If I have not entered into the holy estate myself, it is simply from feeling I am not good enough. I stand without the temple, and only strain my eyes to catch a glimpse of the sanctuary.”
“Does it appear to you so very awful and appalling, then?” said my Lady.
“Certainly it does. All the efforts of our present civilization seem directed to that end. We surround it with whatever can inspire terror. We call in the Law as well as the Church,—we add the Statutes to the Liturgy; and we close the whole with the most depressing of all festivities,—a wedding-breakfast.”
“And the Mandans, do they take a more cheerful view of matters?” asked Alice.
“How can you be so silly, Alice?” cried Lady Lyle.
“My dear mamma, are you forgetting what a marvellous opportunity we enjoy of learning the geography of an unknown sea, from one of the only voyagers who has ever traversed it?”
“Do you mean to go to Tilney, Alice?” asked her mother, curtly.
“If Mr. Maitland would like to add Mrs. Maxwell to his curiosities of acquaintance.”
“I have met her already. I think her charming. She told me of some port, or a pair of coach-horses, I can't be certain which, her late husband purchased forty-two years ago; and she so mingled the subjects together, that I fancied the horses were growing yellow, and the wine actually frisky.”
“I see that youhavereally listened to her,” said Mrs. Trafford. “Well, do you consent to this visit?”
“Delighted. Tell me, by way of parenthesis, is she a near neighbor of the worthy Commodore with the charming daughters? Gambier Graham, I think his name is.”
“Yes; she lives about twelve miles from his cottage: but why do you ask?”
“I have either promised, or he fancies I have promised, to pay him a flying visit.”
“Another case of a savage princess,” whispered Mrs. Trafford; and he laughed heartily at the conceit. “If we take the low road,—it's very little longer and much prettier,—we pass the cottage; and if your visit be not of great length, more than a morning call, in fact,—I 'll go there with you.”
“You overwhelm me with obligations,” said he, bowing low, to which she replied by a courtesy so profound as to throw an air of ridicule over his courtly politeness.
“Shall we say to-morrow for our departure, Mr. Maitland?”
“I am at your orders, madam.”
“Well, then, I'll write to dear old Aunt Maxwell—I suppose she'll be your aunt too before you leave Tilney (for we all adopt a relation so very rich and without an heir)—and delight her by saying that I have secured Mr. Maitland, an announcement which will create a flutter in the neighborhood by no means conducive to good archery.”
“Tell her we only give him up till Wednesday,” said Lady Lyle, “for I hope to have the Crayshaws here by that time, and I shall need you all back to receive them.”
“More beauties, Mr. Maitland,” exclaimed Mrs. Trafford. “What are you looking so grave about?”
“I was thinking it was just possible that I might be called away suddenly, and that there are some letters I ought to write; and, last of all, whether I should n't go and make, a hurried visit to Mrs. Butler; for in talking over old friends in Scotland, we have grown already intimate.”
“What a mysterious face for such small concerns!” said Mrs. Trafford. “Did n't you say something, papa, about driving me over to look at the two-year-olds?”
“Yes; I am going to inspect the paddock, and told Giles to meet me there.”
“What's the use of our going without Tony?” said she, disconsolately; “he's the only one of us knows anything about a colt.”
“I really did hope you were beginning to learn that this young gentleman was not an essential of our daily life here,” said Lady Lyle, haughtily. “I am sorry that I should have deceived myself.”
“My dear mamma, please to remember your own ponies that have become undrivable, and Selim, that can't even be saddled. Gregg will tell you that he does n't know what has come over the melon-bed,—the plants look all scorched and withered; and it was only yesterday papa said that he 'd have the schooner drawn up till Tony came back to decide on the new keel and the balloon jib!”
“What a picture of us to present to Mr. Maitland! but I trust, sir, that you know something of my daughter's talent for exaggerated description by this time, and you will not set us down for the incapables she would exhibit us.” Lady Lyle moved haughtily away as she spoke; and Sir Arthur, drawing Mrs. Trafford's arm within his own, said, “You 're in a fighting mood to-day. Come over and torment Giles.”
“There 's nothing I like better,” said she. “Let me go for my hat and a shawl.”
“And I'm off to my letter-writing,” said Maitland.
What a calm, still, mellow evening it was, as Tony sat with his mother in the doorway of the cottage, their hands clasped, and in silence, each very full of thought, indeed, but still fuller of that sweet luxury, the sense of being together after an absence,—the feeling that home was once more home, in all that can make it a centre of love and affection.
“I began to think you were n't coming back at all, Tony,” said she, “when first you said Tuesday, and then it was Friday, and then it came to be the middle of another week. 'Ah me!' said I to the doctor, 'he 'll not like the little cottage down amongst the tall ferns and the heather, after all that grand town and its fine people.'”
“If you knew how glad I am to be back here,” said he, with a something like choking about the throat; “if you knew what a different happiness I feel under this old porch, and with you beside me!”
“My dear, dear Tony, let us hope we are to have many such evenings as this together. Let me now hear all about your journey; for, as yet, you have only told me about that good-hearted country fellow whose bundle has been lost Begin at the beginning, and try and remember everything.”
“Here goes, then, for a regular report. See, mother, you 'd not believe it of me, but I jotted all down in a memorandum-book, so that there's no trusting to bad memory; all's in black and white.”
“That was prudent, Tony. I 'm really glad that you have such forethought. Let me see it.”
“No, no. It's clean and clear beyond your reading. I shall be lucky enough if I can decipher it myself. Here we begin: 'Albion, Liverpool. Capital breakfast, but dear. Wanted change for my crown-piece, but chaffed out of it by pretty barmaid, who said—' Oh, that's all stuff and nonsense,” said he, reddening. “'Mail-train to London; not allowed to smoke first-class; travelled third, and had my 'baccy.' I need n't read all this balderdash, mother; I 'll go on to business matters. 'Skeffy, a trump, told me where he buys “birdseye” for one and nine the pound; and, mixed with cavendish, it makes grand smoking. Skeffy says he 'll get me the first thing vacant'”
“Who is Skeffy? I never heard of him before.”
“Of course you 've heard. He's private secretary to Sir Harry, and gives away all the Office patronage. I don't think he 's five feet five high, but he 's made like a Hercules. Tom Sayers says Skeffy's deltoid—that's the muscle up here—is finer than any in the ring, and he's such an active devil. I must tell you of the day I held up the 'Times' for him to jump through; but I see you are impatient for the serious things: well, now for it.
“Sir Harry, cruel enough, in a grand sort of overbearing way, told me my father was called Watty. I don't believe it; at least, the fellow who took the liberty must have earned the right by a long apprenticeship.”
“You are right there, Tony; there were not many would venture on it.”
“Did any one ever call him Wat Tartar, mother?”
“If they had, they 'd have caught one, Tony, I promise you.”
“I thought so. Well, he went on to say that he had nothing he could give me. It was to the purport that I was fit for nothing, and I agreed with him.”
“That was not just prudent, Tony; the world is prone enough to disparage without helping them to the road to it.”
“Possibly; but he read me like a book, and said that I only came to him because I was hopeless. He asked me if I knew a score of things he was well aware that I must be ignorant of, and groaned every time I said 'No!' When he said, 'Go home and brush up your French and Italian,' I felt as if he said, 'Look over your rent roll, and thin your young timber.' He 's a humbug, mother.”
“Oh, Tony, you must not say that.”
“I will say it; he's a humbug, and so is the other.”
“Who is the other you speak of?”
“Lord Ledgerton, a smartish old fellow, with a pair of gray eyes that look through you, and a mouth that you can't guess whether he's going to eat you up or to quiz you. It was he that said, 'Make Butler a messenger.' They did n't like it. The Office fellows looked as sulky as night; but they had to bow and snigger, and say, 'Certainly, my Lord;' but I know what they intend, for all that. They mean to pluck me; that's the way they 'll do it; for when I said I was nothing to boast of in English, and something worse in French, they grinned and exchanged smiles, as much as to say, 'There's a rasper he 'll never get over.'”
“And what is a messenger, Tony?”
“He's a fellow that carries the despatches over the whole world,—at least, wherever there is civilization enough to have a Minister or an Envoy. He starts off from Downing Street with half-a-dozen great bags as tall as me, and he drops one at Paris, another at Munich, another at Turin, and perhaps the next at Timbuctoo. He goes full speed,—regular steeple-chase pace,—and punches the head of the first postmaster that delays him; and as he is well paid, and has nothing to think of but the road, the life is n't such a bad one.”
“And does it lead to anything; is there any promotion from it?”
“Not that I know, except to a pension; but who wants anything better? Who asks for a jollier life than rattling over Europe in all directions at the Queen's expense? Once on a time they were all snobs, or the same thing; now they are regular swells, who dine with the Minister, and walk into the attachés at billiards or blind hookey; for the dons saw it was a grand thing to keep the line for younger sons, and have a career where learning might be left out, and brains were only a burden!”
“I never heard of such a line of life,” said she, gravely.
“I had it from the fellows themselves. There were five of them in the waiting-room, tossing for sovereigns, and cursing the first clerk, whoever he is; and they told me they 'd not change with the first secretaries of any legation in Europe. But who is this, mother, that I see coming down the hill?—he 's no acquaintance of ours, I think?”
“Oh, it's Mr. Maitland, Tony,” said she, in some confusion; for she was not always sure in what temper Tony would receive a stranger.
“And who may Mr. Maitland be?”
“A very charming and a very kind person, too, whose acquaintance I made since you left this; he brought me books and flowers, and some geranium slips; and, better than all, his own genial company.”
“He's not much of a sportsman, I see; that short gun he carries is more like a walking-stick than a fowling-piece.” And Tony turned his gaze seaward, as though the stranger was not worth a further scrutiny.
“They told me I should find you here, madam,” said Maitland, as he came forward, with his hat raised, and a pleasant smile on his face.
“My son, sir,” said the old lady, proudly,—“my son Tony, of whom I have talked to you.”
“I shall be charmed if Mr. Butler will allow me to take that place in his acquaintance which a sincere interest in him gives me some claim to,” said Maitland, approaching Tony, intending to shake his hand, but too cautious to risk a repulse, if it should be meditated.
182
Tony drew himself up haughtily, and said, “I am much honored, sir; but I don't see any reason for such an interest in me.”
“Oh, Tony,” broke in the widow; but Maitland interrupted, and said: “It's easy enough to explain. Your mother and myself have grown, in talking over a number of common friends, to fancy that we knew each other long ago. It was, I assure you, a very fascinating delusion for me. I learned to recall some of the most cherished of my early friends, and remember traits in them which had been the delight of my childhood. Pray forgive me, then, if in such a company your figure got mixed up, and I thought or fancied that I knew you.”
There was a rapid eagerness in the manner he said these words that seemed to vouch for their sincerity; but their only immediate effect was to make Tony very ill at ease and awkward.
“Mr. Maitland has not told you, as he might have told you, Tony, that he came here with the offer of a substantial service. He had heard that you were in search of some pursuit or occupation.”
“Pray, madam, I entreat of you to say nothing of this now; wait, at least, until Mr. Butler and I shall know more of each other.”
“A strange sort of a piece you have there,” said Tony, in his confusion; for his cheek was scarlet with shame,—“something between an old duelling-pistol and a carbine.”
“It 's a short Tyrol rifle, a peasant's weapon. It 's not a very comely piece of ordnance, but it is very true and easy to carry. I bought it from an old chamois-hunter at Maltz; and I carried it with me this morning with the hope that you would accept it.”
“Oh, I couldn't think of it; I beg you to excuse me. I 'm much obliged; in fact, I never do—never did—take a present.”
“That's true, sir. Tony and I bear our narrow means only because there's a sort of ragged independence in our natures that saves us from craving for whatever we can do without.”
“A pretty wide catalogue, too, I assure you,” said Tony, laughing, and at once recovering his wonted good-humor. “We have made what the officials call the extraordinaires fill a very small column. There!” cried he, suddenly, “is the sea-gull on that point of rock yonder out of range for your rifle?”
“Nothing near it. Will you try?” asked Maitland, offering the gun.
“I 'd rather see you.”
“I 'm something out of practice latterly. I have been leading a town life,” said Maitland, as he drew a small eyeglass from his pocket and fixed it in his eye. “Is it that fellow there you mean? There's a far better shot to the left,—that large diver that is sitting so calmly on the rolling sea. There he is again.”
“He 's gone now,—he has dived,” said Tony; “there's nothing harder to hit than one of these birds,—what between the motion of the sea and their own wariness. Some people say that they scent gunpowder.”
“That fellow shall!” said Maitland, as he fired; for just as the bird emerged from the depth, he sighted him, and with one flutter the creature fell dead on the wave.
“A splendid shot; I never saw a finer!” cried Tony, in ecstasy, and with a look of honest admiration at the marksman. “I'd have bet ten—ay, twenty—to one you 'd have missed. I 'm not sure I 'd not wager against your doing the same trick again.”
“You 'd lose your money, then,” said Maitland; “at least, if I was rogue enough to take you up.”
“You must be one of the best shots in Europe, then!”
“No; they call me second in the Tyrol. Hans Godrel is the first We have had many matches together, and he has always beaten me.”
The presence of a royal prince would not have inspired Tony with the same amount of respect as these few words, uttered negligently and carelessly; and he measured the speaker from head to foot, recognizing for the first time his lithe and well-knit, well-proportioned figure.
“I 'll be bound you are a horseman, too?” cried Tony.
“If you hadn't praised my shooting, I 'd tell you that I ride better than I shoot.”
“How I 'd like to have a brush across country with you!” exclaimed Tony, warmly.
“What easier?—what so easy? Our friend Sir Arthur has an excellent stable; at least, there is more than one mount for men of our weight I suspect Mark Lyle will not join us; but we 'll arrange a match,—a sort of home steeple-chase.”
“I 'd like it well,” broke in Tony, “but I have no horses of my own, and I 'll not ride Sir Arthur's.”
“This same independence of ours has a something about it that won't let us seem very amiable, Mr. Maitland,” said the old lady, smiling.
“Pardon me, madam; it has an especial attraction forme. I have all my life long been a disciple of that school; but I must say that in the present case it is not applicable. I have been for the last couple of weeks a guest at Lyle Abbey; and if I were asked whose name came most often uppermost, and always in terms of praise, I should say—your son's.”
“I have met with great kindness from Sir Arthur and his family,” said Tony, half sternly, half sorrowfully. “I am not likely ever to forget it.”
“You have not seen them since your return, I think?” said Maitland, carelessly.
“No, sir,” broke in the old lady; “my son has been so full of his travels, and all the great people he met, that we have not got through more than half of his adventures. Indeed, when you came up he was just telling me of an audience he had with a Cabinet Minister—”
“Pooh, pooh, mother! Don't bore Mr. Maitland with these personal details.”
“I know it is the privilege of friendship to listen to these,” said Maitland, “and I am sincerely sorry that I have not such a claim.”
“Well, sir, you ought to have that claim, were it only in consideration of your own kind offer to Tony.”
“Oh, pray, madam, do not speak of it,” said Maitland, with something nearer confusion than so self-possessed a gentleman was likely to exhibit “When I spoke of such a project, I was in utter ignorance that Mr. Butler was as much a man of the world as myself, and far and away beyond the reach of any guidance of mine.”
“What, then, were your intentions regarding me?” asked Tony, in some curiosity.
“I entreat of you, madam,” said Maitland, eagerly, “to forget all that we said on that subject.”
“I cannot be so ungrateful, sir. It is but fair and just that Tony should hear of your generous plan. Mr. Maitland thought he 'd just take you abroad—to travel with him—to go about and see the world. He 'd call you his secretary.”
“His what!” exclaimed Tony, with a burst of laughter. “His what, mother?”
“Letmetry and explain away, if I can, the presumption of such a project. Not now, however,” said Maitland, look-ing at his watch, “for I have already overstayed my time; and I have an appointment for this evening,—without you will kindly give me your company for half a mile up the road, and we can talk the matter over together.”
Tony looked hesitatingly for a moment at bis mother; but she said, “To be sure, Tony. I 'll give Mr. Maitland a loan of you for half an hour. Go with him, by all means.”
With all that courtesy of which he was a master, Maitland thanked her for the sacrifice she was making, and took his leave.
“You have no objection to walk fast, I hope,” said Maitland; “for I find I am a little behind my time.”
Tony assented with a nod, and they stepped out briskly; the device of the speed being merely assumed to give Maitland an opportunity of seeing a little more of his companion before entering upon any serious converse. Tony, however, was as impenetrable in his simplicity as some others are in their depth; and after two or three attempts to draw him on to talk of commonplaces, Maitland said abruptly: “You must have thought it a great impertinence on my part to make such a proposal to your mother as she has just told you of; but the fact was, I had no other way of approaching a very difficult subject, and opening a question which to her, certainly, I could not explain myself fully upon. I heard a good deal about you up at the Abbey, and all that I heard confirmed me in the notion that you were just the man for an enterprise in which I am myself deeply interested. However, as I well knew, even if I succeeded in inducing you to become my comrade, it would be necessary to have a sort of narrative which would conceal the project from your mother, it occurred to me to get up this silly idea of a secretaryship, which I own freely may have offended you.”
“Not offended; it only amused me,” said Tony, good-humoredly. “I can't imagine a man less fitted for such an office than myself.”
“I 'm not so sure of that,” said Maitland, “though I'm quite certain it would be a very unprofitable use to make of you. You are, like myself, a man of action; one to execute and do, and not merely to note and record. The fellows who write history very seldom make it,—isn't that true?”
“I don't know. I can only say I don't think I 'm very likely to do one or the other.”
“We shall see that I don't concur in the opinion, but we shall see. It would be rather a tedious process to explain myself fully as to my project, but I 'll give you two or three little volumes.”
“No, no; don't give me anything to read; if you want me to understand you, tell it out plainly, whatever it is.”
“Here goes, then, and it is not my fault if you don't fully comprehend me; but mind, what I am about to reveal to you is strictly on honor, and never to be divulged to any one. I have your word for this?” They pressed hands, and he continued: “There is a government on the Continent so undermined by secret treachery that it can no longer rely upon its own arms for defence, but is driven to enlist in its cause the brave and adventurous spirits of other countries,—men who, averse to ignoble callings or monotonous labor, would rather risk life than reduce it to the mere condition of daily drudgery. To this government, which in principle has all my sympathies, I have devoted all that I have of fortune, hope, or personal energy. I have, in a word, thrown my whole future into its cause. I have its confidence in return; and I am enabled not only to offer a high career and a noble sphere of action, but all that the world calls great rewards, to those whom I may select to join me in its defence.”
“Is it France?” asked Tony; and Maitland had to bite his lip to repress a smile at such a question.
“No, it is not France,” said he, calmly; “for France, under any rule, I 'd not shed one drop of my blood.”
“Nor I, neither!” cried Tony. “I hate Frenchmen; my father hated them, and taught me to do the same.”
“So far from enlisting you to serve France, it is more than probable that in the cause I speak of you 'll find yourself arrayed against Frenchmen.”
“All right; I 'd do that with a heart and a half; but what is the State? Is it Austria?—is it Russia?”
“Neither. If you only give me to believe that you listen favorably to my plan, you shall hear everything; and I 'll tell you, besides, what I shall offer to you, personally,—the command of a company in an Irish regiment, with the certainty of rapid advancement, and ample means to supply yourself with all that your position requires. Is that sufficient?”
“Quite so, if I like the cause I 'm to fight for.”
“I 'll engage to satisfy you on that head. You need but read the names of those of our own countrymen who adopt it, to be convinced that it is a high and a holy cause. I don't suppose you have studied very deeply that great issue which our century is about to try,—the cause of orderversusanarchy,—the right to rule of the good, the virtuous, and the enlightened, against the tyranny of the unlettered, the degraded, and the base.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“Well, I 'll tax your patience some day to listen to it all from me; for the present what say you to my plan?”
“I rather like it. If it had only come last week, I don't think I could have refused it.”
“And why last week?”
“Because I have got a promise of an appointment since that”
“Of what nature,—a commission in the army?”
“No,” said he, shaking his head.
“They 're not going to make a clerk of a fellow like you, I trust?”
“They 'd be sorely disappointed if they did.”
“Well, whatarethey going to do with you?”
“Oh, it's nothing very high and mighty. I am to be what they call a Queen's Messenger.”
“Under the Foreign Office?”
“Yes.”
“Not bad things these appointments,—that is to say, gentlemen hold them, and contrive to live on them. How they do so it's not very easy to say; but the fact is there, and not to be questioned.”
This speech, a random shot as it was, hit the mark; and Maitland saw that Tony winced under it, and he went on.
“The worst is, however, that these things lead to nothing. If a man takes to the law, he dreams of the Great Seal, or, at least, of the bench. If he be a soldier, he is sure to scribble his name with 'lieutenant-general' before it. One always has an eye to the upper branches, whatever be the tree; but this messenger affair is a mere bush, which does not admit of climbing. Last of all, it would never do for you.”
“And why not do for me?” asked Tony, half fiercely.
“Simply because you could not reduce yourself to the mere level of a piece of mechanism,—a thing wound up at Downing Street, to go 'down' as it reached Vienna. To you life should present, with its changes of fortune, its variety, its adventures, and its rewards. Men like you confront dangers, but are always conquered by mere drudgery. Am I right?”
“Perhaps there is something in that.”
“Don't fancy that I am talking at hazard; I have myself felt the very thing I am telling you of; and I could no more have begun life as a Cabinet postboy, than I could have taken to stone-breaking.”
“You seem to forget that there is a class of people in this world whom a wise proverb declares are not to be choosers.”
“There never was a sillier adage. It assumes that because a man is poor he must remain poor. It presumes to affirm that no one can alter his condition. And who are the successful in life? The men who have energy to will it,—the fellows who choose their place, and insist upon taking it. Let me assure you, Butler, you are one of these, if you could only throw off your humility and believe it. Only resolve to join us, and I 'll give you any odds you like that I am a true prophet; at all events, turn it over in your mind; give it a fair consideration,—of course, I mean your own consideration, for it is one of those things a man cannot consult his mother upon; and when we meet again, which will not be for a few days, as I leave for a short absence to-morrow, you 'll give me your answer.”
“What day do you expect to be back here?”
“I hope, by Saturday; indeed, I can safely say by Saturday.”
“By that time I shall have made up my mind. Goodbye.”
“The mind is made up already,” mattered Maitland, as he moved away,—“I have him.”
A great moralist and a profound thinker has left it on record that there were few pleasanter sensations than those of being whirled rapidly along a good road at the top speed of a pair of posters. Whether, had he lived in our age of express trains, the “rail” might not have qualified the judgment is not so sure. One thing is, however, certain,—the charm of a brisk drive on a fine breezy morning, along a bold coast, with a very beautiful woman for a companion, is one that belongs to all eras, independent of broad gauges and narrow, and deriving none of its enjoyment from steam or science. Maitland was to know this now in all its ecstasy, as he drove off from Lyle Abbey with Mrs. Trafford. There was something of gala in the equipage,—the four dappled grays with pink roses at their heads, the smartly dressed servants, and, more than all, the lovely widow herself, most becomingly dressed in a costume which, by favor of the climate, could combine furs with lace,—that forcibly struck him as resembling the accompaniments of a wedding; and he smiled at the pleasant conceit.
“What is it amuses you, Mr. Maitland?” said she, unable to repress her curiosity.
“I am afraid to tell you,—that is, I might have told you a moment ago, but I can't now.”
“Perhaps I guess it?”
“I don't think so.”
“No matter; let us talk of something else. Isn't that a very beautiful little bay? It was a fancy of mine once to build a cottage there. You can see the spot from here, to the left of those three rocks.”
“Yes; but there are walls there,—ruins, I think.”
“No, not exactly ruins. They were the outer walls of my intended villa, which I abandoned after I had begun it; and there they stand,—accusers of a change of mind, sad reminders of other days and their projects.”
“Were they very pleasant days that you sigh over them, or are they sad reminiscences?”
“Both one and the other. I thought it would be such a nice thing to retire from the world and all its vanities, and live there very secluded and forgotten.”
“And how long ago was this?”
“Oh, very long ago,—fully a year and a half.”
“Indeed!” cried he, with a well-feigned astonishment.
“Yes,” said she, resuming. “I was very tired of being flattered and feted, and what people call 'spoiled;' for it is by no means remembered how much amusement is afforded to those who play the part of 'spoilers' in the wilfulness and caprice they excite; and so I thought, 'I 'll show you all how very easy it is to live without you. I 'll let you see that I can exist without your homage.'”
“And you really fancied this?”
“You ask as if you thought the thing incredible.”
“Only difficult,—not impossible.”
“I never intended total isolation, mind. I 'd have had my intimates, say two or three,—certainly not more,—dear friends, to come and go and stay as they pleased.”
“And do you know how you 'd have passed your time, or shall I tell you?”
“Yes. Let me hear your version of it.”
“In talking incessantly of that very world you had quitted, in greedily devouring all its scandals, and canvassing all its sins,—criticising, very possibly, its shortcomings and condemning its frivolities; but still following with a wistful eye all its doings, and secretly longing to be in the thick of them.”
“Oh, how wrong you are, how totally wrong! You know very little about him who would have been my chief adviser and Grand Vizier.”
“And who, pray, would have been so fortunate as to fill that post?”
“The son of that old lady to whom you devoted so many mornings,—the playfellow of long ago, Tony Butler.”
“Indeed, I only made his acquaintance yesterday, and it would be rash to speak on such a short experience; but I may be permitted to ask, has he that store of resources which enliven solitude? is he so full of life's experiences that he can afford to retire from the world and live on the interest of his knowledge of mankind?”
“He knows nothing whatever of what is called life,—at least what Mr. Maitland would call life. He is the most simple-hearted young fellow in the world, with the finest nature, and the most generous.”
“What would I not give for a friend who would grow so enthusiastic about me!”
“Are you so sure you 'd deserve it?”
“If I did, there would be no merit in the praise. Credit means trust for what one may or may not have.”
“Well, I am speaking of Tony as I know him; and, true to the adage, there he is, coming down the hill. Pull up, George.”
“Mr. Butler's making me a sign, ma'am, not to stop till I reach the top of the hill.”
The moment after, the spanking team stood champing their bits and tossing their manes on the crest of the ridge.
“Come here, Tony, and be scolded!” cried Mrs. Trafford; while the young fellow, instead of approaching the carriage, busied himself about the horses.
“Wait a moment till I let down their heads. How could you have suffered them to come up the long hill with the bearing-reins on, Alice?” cried he.
“So, then, it is I that am to have the scolding,” said she, in a whisper; then added aloud, “Come here and beg pardon. I 'm not sure you 'll get it, for your shameful desertion of us. Where have you been, sir? and why have not you reported yourself on your return?”
Tony came up to the side of the carriage with an attempt at swagger that only increased his own confusion, and made him blush deeply. No sooner, however, had he seen Maitland, of whose presence up to that he had been ignorant, than he grew pale, and had to steady himself by catching hold of the door.
“I see you are ashamed,” said she, “but I 'll keep you over for sentence. Meanwhile, let me present you to Mr. Maitland.”
“I know him,” said Tony, gulping out the words.
“Yes,” chimed in Maitland, “we made acquaintance yesterday; and if Mr. Butler be but of my mind, it will not be a mere passing knowledge we shall have of each other.”
“Get in, Tony, and come a mile or two with us. You know all the short cuts in the mountains, and can get back easily.”
“There's the short cut I mean to take now,” said Tony, sternly, as he pointed to a path that led down to the seashore. “I am going home.”
“Yes, sir,” resumed she, with a well-feigned air of severity; “but mine is a command.”
“I have left the service,—I have taken my discharge,” said he, with a forced laugh.
“At least, you ought to quit with honor,—not as a deserter,” said she, softly but sadly.
“Perhaps he could not trust his resolution, if he were to see again the old flag he had served under,” said Maitland.
“Who made you the exponent of what I felt, sir?” said he, savagely. “I don't remember that in our one single conversation we touched on these things.”
“Tony!” cried Alice, in a low voice, full of deep feeling and sorrow,—“Tony!”
“Good-bye, Alice; I 'm sorry to have detained you, but I thought—I don't know what I thought. Remember me to Bella,—good-bye!” He turned away; then suddenly, as if remembering himself, wheeled round and said, “Good-morning, sir,” with a short quick nod of his head. The moment after he had sprung over the low wall at the roadside, and was soon lost to view in the tall ferns.
“How changed he is! I declare I can scarcely recognize him,” said Mrs. Trafford, as they resumed their journey. “He used to be the gentlest, easiest, and softest of all natures,—never put out, never crossed by anything.”
“And so I 've no doubt you 'd have found him to-day if I had not been here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Surely you remarked the sudden change that came over his face when he saw me. He thought you were alone. At all events, he never speculated on finding me at your side.”
“Indeed!” said she, with an air of half-offended pride; “and are you reputed to be such a very dangerous person that to drive out with you should inspire all this terror?”
“I don't believe I am,” said Maitland, laughing; “but perhaps your rustic friend might be pardoned if he thought so.”
“How very subtle that is! Even in your humility you contrive to shoot a bolt at poor Tony.”
“And why poor? Is he poor who is so rich in defenders? Is it a sign of poverty when a man can afford to dispense with all the restraints that attach to others, and say and do what he likes, with the certainty that it will all be submitted to? I call that wealth unbounded,—at least, it is the one prize that money confers; and if one can have it without the dross, I 'd say, Give me the privilege and keep the title-deeds.”
“Mr. Maitland,” said she, gravely, “Tony Butler is not in the least like what you would represent him. In my life I never knew any one so full of consideration for others.”
“Go on,” said he, laughing. “It's only another goldmine of his you are displaying before me. Has he any other gifts or graces?”
“He has a store of good qualities, Mr. Maitland; they are not, perhaps, very showy ones.”
“Like those of some other of our acquaintance,” added he, as if finishing her speech for her. “My dear Mrs. Trafford, I would not disparage your early friend—your once playfellow—for the world. Indeed, I feel, if life could be like a half-holiday from school, he 'd be an admirable companion to pass it with; the misfortune is that these men must take their places in the common tournament with the rest of us, and then they are not so certain of making a distinguished figure as when seen in the old playground with bat and ball and wicket.”
“You mean that such a man as Tony Butler will not be likely to make a great career in life?”
His reply was a shrug of the shoulders.
“And why not, pray?” asked she, defiantly.
“What if you were to ask Mark this question? Let him give you his impressions on this theme.”
“I see what it is,” cried she, warmly. “You two fine gentlemen have conspired against this poor simple boy,—for really, in all dealings with the world, he is a boy; and you would like us to believe that if we saw him under other circumstances and with other surroundings, we should be actually ashamed of him. Now, Mr. Maitland, I resent this supposition at once, and I tell you frankly I am very proud of his friendship.”
“You are pushing me to the verge of a great indiscretion; in fact, you have made it impossible for me to avoid it,” said he, seriously. “I must now trust you with a secret, or what I meant to be one. Here it is. Of course, what I am about to tell you is strictly to go no further,—never, never to be divulged. It is partly on this young man's account—chiefly so—that I am in Ireland. A friend of mine—that same Caffarelli of whom you heard—was commissioned by a very eccentric old Englishman who lives abroad, to learn if he could hear some tidings of this young Butler,—what sort of person he was, how brought up, how educated, how disciplined. The inquiry came from the desire of a person very able indeed to befriend him materially. The old man I speak of is the elder brother of Butler's father; very rich and very influential. This old man, I suppose, repenting of some harshness or other to his brother in former days, wants to see Tony,—wants to judge of him for himself,—wants, in fact, without disclosing the relationship between them, to pronounce whether this young fellow is one to whom he could rightfully bequeath a considerable fortune, and place before the world as the head of an honored house; but he wants to do this without exciting hopes or expectations, or risking, perhaps, disappointments. Now, I know very well by repute something of this eccentric old man, whose long life in the diplomatic service has made him fifty times more lenient to a moral delinquency than to a solecism in manners, and who could forgive the one and never the other. If he were to see your diamond in the rough, he 'd never contemplate the task of polishing,—he 'd simply say, 'This is not what I looked for; I don't want a gamekeeper, or a boatman, or a horse-breaker.'”
“Oh, Mr. Maitland!”
“Hear me out. I am representing, and very faithfully representing, another; he 'd say this more strongly too than I have, and he 'd leave him there. Now, I 'm not very certain that he 'd be wrong; permit me to finish. I mean to say that in all that regards what the old Minister-plenipotentiary acknowledges to be life, Master Tony would not shine. The solid qualities you dwelt on so favorably are like rough carvings; they are not meant for gilding. Now, seeing the deep interest you and all your family take in this youth, and feeling as I do a sincere regard for the old lady his mother, in whose society I have passed two or three delightful mornings, I conceived a sort of project which might possibly give the young fellow a good chance of success. I thought of taking him abroad,—on the Continent,—showing him something of life and the world in a sphere in which he had not yet seen it; letting him see for himself the value men set upon tact and address, and making him feel that these are the common coinage daily intercourse requires, while higher qualities are title-deeds that the world only calls for on emergencies.”
“But you could never have persuaded him to such a position of dependence.”
“I'd have called him my private secretary; I'd have treated him as my equal.”
“It was very generous; it was nobly generous.”
“When I thought I had made him presentable anywhere,—and it would not take long to do so—I'd have contrived to bring him under his uncle's notice,—as a stranger, of course: if the effect were favorable, well and good; if it proved a failure, there was neither disappointment nor chagrin. Mrs. Butler gave me a half assent, and I was on the good road with her son till this morning, when that unlucky meeting has, I suspect, spoiled everything.”
“But why should it?”
“Why should anything happen as men's passions or impulses decide it? Why should one man be jealous of the good fortune that another man has not won?”
She turned away her bead and was silent.
“I 'd not have told you one word of this, Mrs. Trafford, if I had not been so sore pressed that I could n't afford to let you, while defending your friend, accuse me of want of generosity and unfairness. Let me own it frankly,—I was piqued by all your praises of this young man; they sounded so like insidious criticisms on others less fortunate in your favor.”
“As if the great Mr. Maitland could care for any judgments of mine!” said she; and there was in her voice and manner a strange blending of levity and seriousness.
“They are the judgments that he cares most for in all the world,” said he, eagerly. “To have heard from your lips one half the praise, one tenth part of the interest you so lately bestowed on that young man—”
“Where are we going, George? What river is this?” exclaimed she, suddenly.
“To Tilney Park, ma'am; this is the Larne.”
“But it's the upper road, and I told you to take the lower road, by Captain Graham's.”
“No, ma'am; you only said Tilney.”
“Is it possible? and did n't you tell him, Mr. Maitland?”
“I? I knew nothing of the road. To tell you the truth,” added he, in a whisper, “I cared very little where it led, so long as I sat at your side.”
“Very flattering, indeed! Have we passed the turn to the lower road very far, George?”
“Yes, ma'am; it's a good five miles behind us, and a bad bit of road too,—all fresh stones.”
“And you were so anxious to call at the cottage?” said she, addressing Maitland, with a smile of some significance.
“Nothing of the kind. I made some sort of silly promise to make a visit as I passed. I 'm sure I don't know why, or to gratify whom.”
“Oh, cruel Mr. Maitland, false Mr. Maitland I how can you say this? But are we to go back?—that is the question; for I see George is very impatient, and trying to make the horses the same.”
“Of course not. Go back! it was all the coachman's fault,—took the wrong turning, and never discovered his blunder till we were—I don't know where.”
“Tilney, George,—go on,” said she; then turning to Maitland, “and do you imagine that the charming Sally Graham or the fascinating Rebecca will understand such flimsy excuses as these, or that the sturdy old Commodore will put up with them?”
“I hope so, for their sakes at least; for it will save them a world of trouble to do so.”
“Ungrateful as well as perfidious! You were a great favorite with the Grahams. Beck told me, the night before they left the Abbey, that you were the onlyélégant—exquisite she called it—she ever met that was n't a fool.”
“The praise was not extravagant. I don't feel my cheek growing hot under it.”
“And Sally said that if she had not seen with her own eyes, she'd never have believed that a man with such a diamond ring, and such wonderful pendants to his watch, could hook an eight-pound salmon, and bring him to land.”
“That indeed touches me,” said he, laying his hand over his heart.
“And old Graham himself declared to my father that if one of his girls had a fancy that way, though you were n't exactly his style of man, nor precisely what he 'd choose—”
“Do spare me. I beseech you, havesomepity on me.”
“That he'd not set himself against it; and that, in fact, with a good certificate as to character, and the approved guarantee of respectable people, who had known you some years—”
“I implore you to stop.”
“Of course I'll stop when you tell me the theme is one too delicate to follow up; but, like all the world, you let one run into every sort of indiscretion, and only cry Halt when it is too late to retire. The Grahams, however, are excellent people,—old G. G., as they call him, a distinguished officer. He cut out somebody or something from under the guns of a Spanish fort, and the girls have refused—let me see whom they have not refused; but I 'll make them tell you, for we 'll certainly call there on our way back.”
The malicious drollery with which she poured out all this had heightened her color and given increased brilliancy to her eyes. Instead of the languid delicacy which usually marked her features, they shone now with animation and excitement, and became in consequence far more beautiful. So striking was the change that Maitland paid little attention to the words, while he gazed with rapture at the speaker.
It must have been a very palpable admiration he bestowed, for she drew down her veil with an impatient jerk of the hand, and said, “Well, sir, doesn't this arrangement suit you, or would you rather make your visit to Port-Graham alone?”
“I almost think I would,” said he, laughing. “I suspect it would be safer.”
“Oh, now that I know your intentions,—that you have made me your confidante,—you 'll see that I can be a marvel of discretion.”
“Put up your veil again, and you may be asmaligneas you please.”
“There! yonder is Tilney,” said she, hastily, “where you see those fine trees. Are the horses distressed, George?”
“Well, ma'am, they 've had enough of it”
“I mean, are they too tired to go round by the river-side and the old gate?”
“It's a good two miles round, ma'am.”
“Oh, I know what that means,” said she, in a whisper. “If there should be anything amiss for the next three months, it will be that cruel day's work down at Tilney will be charged with it. Go in by the new lodge,” added she, aloud; “and as they have innumerable carriages here, Mr. Maitland, I 'll take you a drive over there to-morrow. It's a very nice thing, is n't it, to be as rich as old Mrs. Maxwell, and to be always playing the part of 'Good Fairy,' giving splendid banquets, delicious little country-parties to all the world; offering horses to ride, boats to sail in? Whatareyou looking at so fixedly?”
“I think I recognize a conveyance I once had the happiness to travel in. Isn't that the Graham equipage before us?”
“I declare, it is!” cried she, joyfully. “Oh, lucky Mr. Maitland; they are going to Tilney.”
As she spoke, George, indignant at being dusted by a shambling old mare with long fetlocks, gathered up his team in hand, and sent them “spinning” past the lumbering jaunting-car, giving the Grahams only time to recognize the carriage and its two occupants.