butler0009
Very significant—but very differently significant—were the looks that passed between Maitland and Caffarelli in the brief interval before M'Caskey entered. At last the door was flung wide, and the distinguished Major appeared in full evening dress, one side of his coat a blaze of stars and crosses, while in front of his cravat he wore the ribbon and collar of some very showy order. Nothing could be easier than hisentrée; nothing less embarrassed than his salutation to each in turn, as, throwing his white gloves into his hat, he drew over to the table, and began to search for an unused wine-glass.
“Here is a glass,” said Caffarelli. “What will you drink? This is Bordeaux, and this is some sort of Hock; this is Moselle.”
“Hand me the sherry; I am chilly. I have been chilly all day, and went out to dine against my will.”
“Where did you dine?”
“With Plon-Plon,” said he, languidly.
“With the Prince Napoleon?” asked Maitland, incredulously.
“Yes; he insisted on it I wrote to him to say that La Verrier, the sous-prefect, had invited me to make as short a delay at Paris as was consistent with my perfect convenience,—the police euphuism for twenty-four hours; and I said, 'Pray excuse me at dinner, for I shall want to see Caffarelli.' But he would n't take any apology, and I went, and we really were very pleasant.”
“Who was there?” asked Caffarelli.
“Only seven altogether: Bagration and his pretty niece; an Aldobrandini Countess,—bygone, but still handsome; Joseph Poniatowsky; Botrain of 'La Patrie;' and your humble servant. Fould, I think, was expected, but did not come. Fearfully hot, this sherry,—don't you think so?”
Maitland looked superbly defiant, and turned his head away without ceremony. Caffarelli, however, came quickly to the rescue by pushing over a bottle of Burgundy, and Baying, “And it was a pleasant party?”
“Yes, decidedly pleasant,” said M'Caskey, with the air of one pronouncing a judicial opinion. “The women were nice, very well dressed,—the little Russian, especially; and then we talked away as people only do talk in Paris, where there is none of that rotten cant of London, and no subject discussed but the little trivialities of daily life.”
Caffarelli's eyes sparkled with mischievous delight as he watched the expansive vanity in M'Caskey's face, and the disgust that darkened in Maitland's. “We had a little of everything,” said M'Caskey, with his head thrown back and two fingers of one hand jauntily stuck in his waistcoat pocket. “We had politics,—Plon-Plon's own peculiar politics,—Europe a democracy, and himself the head of it. We discussed dinners and dinner-givers,—a race fast dying out We talked a little finance, and, lastly, women.”
“Your own theme!” said Caffarelli, with a slight inclination of the head.
“Without vanity I might say it was. Poor old D'Orsay always said, 'Scratch M'Caskey, and I'll back myself for success against any man in Europe.'”
Maitland started as if a viper had bitten him; but by an effort he seemed to restrain himself, and, taking out his cigar-case, began a diligent search for a cigar.
“Ha, cheroots, I see?” cried M'Caskey; “cheroots are a weakness of mine. Pick me out a well-spotted one, will you?”
Maitland threw the case as it was across the table to him without a word.
M'Caskey selected some six or eight, and laid them beside him. “You are low, depressed, this evening, Maitland,” said he; “what's the matter with you?”
“No, sir, not depressed,—disgusted.”
“Ah, disgusted!” said M'Caskey, slowly; and his small eyes twinkled like two balls of fire. “Would it be indiscreet to ask the cause?”
“It would be very indiscreet, Count M'Caskey,” interposed Caffarelli, “to forget that you are here purely on a grave matter of business,—far too grave to be compromised by any forgetfulness on the score of temper.”
“Yes, sir,” broke in Maitland; “there can always be found a fitting time and place to arrange any small questions outstanding between you and me. We want now to learn something of what you have done in Ireland lately, for the King's service.”
M'Caskey drew from his pocket a much-worn pocket-book, crammed to bursting with a variety of loose papers, cards, and photographs, which fell about as he opened it. Not heeding the disorder, he sought out a particular page, and read aloud: “Embarked this twenty-second of September, at Gravesend, on board the 'Ocean Queen,' bound for Messina with machinery, two hundred and eleven laborers—laborers engaged for two years—to work on the State railroads, twenty-eight do. do. on board of the 'Star of Swansea,' for Molo de Gaeta with coals,—making, with three hundred and eighty-two already despatched, within about thirty of the first battalion of the Cacciatori of St Patrick.”
“Well done! bravissimo!” cried Caffarelli, right glad to seize upon the opportunity to restore a pleasanter understanding.
“There's not a man amongst them would not be taken in the Guards; and they who regard height of stature as the first element of the soldier—amongst whom I am not one—would pronounce them magnificent!”
“And are many more available of the same sort?” asked Caffarelli.
“Ten thousand, sir, if you like to pay for them.”
“Do these men understand that they are enlisted as soldiers, not engaged as navvies?” asked Maitland.
“As well as you do. Whatever our friend Caffarelli may think, I can tell him that my countrymen are no more deficient in acuteness than his own. These fellows know the cause just as well as they know the bounty.”
“I was not inquiring as to their sympathies,” said Mait-land, caustically; “I merely wanted to hear how they understood the contract.”
“They are hirelings, of course, as I am, and as you are,” said M'Caskey.
“By what presumption, sir, do you speak of me?” said Maitland, rising, his face dark with passion. “If the accidents of life range us in the same cause, is there any other tie or bond between us?”
“Once more I declare I will have none of this,” said Caffarelli, pushing Maitland down into his chair. “Count M'Caskey, the Central Committee have placed you under my orders. These orders are that you report yourself to General Filangieri at Naples as soon as you can arrive there; that you duly inform the Minister at War of what steps you have already taken in the recruitment, putting yourself at his disposition for further service. Do you want money?” added he in a lower tone, as he drew the Major aside.
“A man always wants money, sir,” said M'Caskey, sententiously.
“I am your banker: what shall it be?” said Caffarelli, drawing out his pocket-book.
“For the present,” said M'Caskey, carelessly, “a couple of thousand francs will suffice. I have a rather long bill against his Majesty, but it can wait.”
He pocketed the notes without deigning to look at them, and then, drawing closer to Caffarelli, said, in a whisper, “You 'll have to keep your friend yonder somewhat 'better in hand,'—you will, really. If not, I shall have to shoot him.”
“The Chevalier Maitland is your superior officer, sir,” said Caffarelli, haughtily. “Take care how you speak of him to any one, but more especially to me, who am his friend.”
“I am at his 'friend's' orders, equally,” said the Major; “my case contains two pistols.”
Caffarelli turned away with a shrug of the shoulder, and a look that unmistakably bespoke disgust.
“Here goes, then, for the stirrup-cup!” said M'Caskey, filling a large goblet with Burgundy. “To our next meeting, gentlemen,” and he bowed as he lifted it to his lips. “Won't you drink to my toast?” said he, stopping.
Caffarelli filled his glass, and touched it to his lips; but Maitland sat with his gaze bent upon the fire, and never looked up.
“Present my homage to the pretty widow when you see her, Maitland, and give her that;” and he flung down a photograph on the table. “It's not a good one, but it will serve to remind her of me.”
Maitland seized the card and pitched it into the fire, pressing down the embers with his boot.
Caffarelli sprang forward, and laid his hands on M'Caskey's shoulders.
“When and where?” said the Major, calmly.
“Now—here—if you like,” said Maitland, as calmly.
“At last,” said a deep voice; and a brigadier of the gendarmerie entered, followed by two of his men.
“M. le Comte,” said he, addressing the Major, “I have been in search of you since eleven o'clock. There 's a special train waiting to convey you to Macon; pray don't lose any more time.”
“I shall be at Naples within a fortnight,” whispered Maitland.
“All right,” replied M'Caskey. “M. le Brigadier,à vos ordres. Good-bye, Count. By the way, I was forgetting my cheroots, which are really excellent;” and so saying, he carefully placed them in his cigar-case; and then, giving his great-coat to one of the gendarmes to assist him while he drew it on, he waved a little familiar adieu with his hand and departed.
“My dear Maitland, how could you so far forget yourself, and with such a man?” said Caffarelli, laying his hands on his shoulder.
“With anyotherman I couldnothave forgotten myself,” said he, sternly. “Let us think no more of him.”
It was like a return to his former self—to his gay, happy, careless nature—for Tony Butler to find himself with his friend Skeflfy. As painters lay layers of the same color on, one over the other, to deepen the effect, so does youth double itself by companionship. As for Skeflfy, never did a schoolboy exult more in a holiday; and, like a schoolboy, his spirits boiled over in all manner of small excesses, practical jokes on his fellow-passengers, and all those glorious tomfooleries, to be able to do which with zest is worth all the enjoyment that ever cynicism yielded twice told.
“I was afraid you would n't come. I did n't see you when the coach drove into the inn-yard; and I was so disappointed,” said Tony, as he surveyed the mass of luggage which the guard seemed never to finish depositing before his friend.
“Two portmanteaus, sir,” said the guard, “three carpetbags, a dressing-case, a hat-box, a gun-case, bundle of sticks and umbrellas, and I think this parrot and cage are yours.”
“A parrot, Skeflfy!”
“For Mrs. Maxwell, you dog: she loves parrots, and I gave ten guineas for that beggar, because they assured me he could positively keep up a conversation; and the only thing hecansay is, 'Don't you wish you may get it?'”
No sooner had the bird heard the words than he screamed them out with a wild and scornful cry that made them sound like a bitter mockery.
“There,—that's at me,” whispered Skeflfy,—“atmeandmychance of Tilney. I 'm half inclined to wring his neck when I hear it.”
“Are you looking for any one, Harris?” asked Tony of a servant in livery who had just ridden into the yard.
“Yes, sir; I have a letter from my mistress for a gentleman that was to have come by the mail.”
“Here he is,” said Tony, as he glanced at the address. “This is Mr. Skefflngton Darner.”
While Skeffy broke the seal, Tony muttered in his ear, “Mind, old fellow, you are to come to us before you go to Tilney, no matter how pressing she may be.”
“Here's a business,” said Skeffy; “as well as I can make out her old pothooks, it is that she can't receive me. 'My dear,'—she first wrote 'Nephew,' but it's smudged out,—'My dear Cousin Darner, I am much distressed to tell you that you must not come here. It is the scarlatina, which the doctors all think highly infectious, though we burn cinnamon and that other thing through all the rooms. My advice would be to go to Harrogate, or some nice place, to amuse yourself, and I enclose this piece of thin paper.' Where is it, though?” said he, opening the letter and shaking it “Just think of the old woman forgetting to put up the enclosure!”
“Try the envelope!” cried Tony, eagerly; but, no, the envelope was also empty, and it was plain enough she had omitted it.
Skeffy read on: “'I had a very pretty pony for you here; and I remember Lydia Darner told me how nice you looked riding, with the long curls down your back.' Why, that was five-and-twenty years ago!” cried he, with a scream of laughter,—“just fancy, Tony!” and he ran his fingers through his hair. “How am I ever to keep up the illusion with this crop! 'But,'”—he went on to read,—“'but I suppose I shall not see that now. I shall be eighty-one next November. Mind that you drink my health on the 22nd, if I be alive. I could send you the pony if you thought it would not be too expensive to keep him in London. Tilney is looking beautiful, and the trees are budding as if it were spring. Drop me a line before you leave the neighborhood; and believe me, your affectionate godmother,
“'Dinah Maxwell.'
“I think I had better say I'll send an answer,” said Skeffy, as he crumpled up the letter; “and as to the enclosure—”
A wild scream and some unintelligible utterance broke from the parrot at this instant.
“Yes, you beggar, 'you wish I may get it' By the way, the servant can take that fellow back with him; I am right glad to be rid of him.”
“It's the old adage of the ill wind,” said Tony, laughing.
“How so? What do you mean?”
“I mean thatyourill-luck isourgood fortune; for as you can't go to Tilney, you'll have to stay the longer with us.”
Skeffy seized his hand and gave it a cordial shake, and the two young fellows looked fully and frankly at each other, as men do look before the game of life has caught too strong a hold upon their hearts, and taught them over-anxiety to rise winners from it.
“Now, then, for your chateau,” said Skeffy, as he leaped up on the car, already half hidden beneath his luggage.
“Our chateau is a thatched cabin,” said Tony, blushing in spite of all his attempts to seem at ease. “It is only a friend would have heart to face its humble fare.”
Not heeding, if he even heard the remark, Skeffy rattled on about everything,—past, present, and future; talked of their jolly dinner at Richmond, and of each of their companions on that gay day; asked the names of the various places they passed on the road, what were the usual fortunes of the proprietors, how they spent them; and, seldom waiting for the answer, started some new query, to be forgotten in its turn.
“It is a finer country to ride over,” said Tony, anxious to say something favorable for his locality, “than to look at. It is not pretty, perhaps, but there's plenty of grass, and no end of stone walls to jump, and in the season there's some capital trout-fishing too.”
“Don't care a copper for either. I'd rather see a new pantomime than the best stag-hunt in Europe. I 'd rather see Tom Salter do the double spring backwards than I 'd see them take a whale.”
“I 'm not of your mind, then,” said Tony. “I 'd rather be out on the hillside of a dull, good-scenting day,—well mounted, of course,—and hear the dogs as they rushed yelping through the cover.”
“Yoics, yoics, yoics! I saw it all at Astley's, and they took a gate in rare style. But, I say, what is that tower yonder, topping the trees?”
“That is Lyle Abbey,—Sir Arthur Lyle's place.”
“Lyle,—Lyle. There was such a picture in the Exhibition last year of two sisters, Maud, or Alice, or Bella Lyle, and another, by Watts. I used to go every morning, before I went down to the office, to have a look at them, and I never was quite certain which I was in love with.”
“They are here! they are Sir Arthur's daughters.”
“You don't say so! And do you know them, Tony?”
“As well as if they were my sisters.”
“Ain't I in luck!” cried Skeffy, in exultation. “I'd have gone to Tarnoff,—that's the place Holmes was named consul at,—and wrote back word that it did n't exist, and that the geography fellows were only hoaxing the office! just fancy, hoaxing the office! Hulloa!—what have we here? A four-horse team, by all that's stunning.”
“Mrs. Trafford's. Draw up at the side of the road till they pass, Peter,” said Tony, hurriedly. The servant on the box of the carriage had, however, apparently announced Tony Butler's presence, for the postilions slackened their pace, and came to a dead halt a few paces in front of the car.
“My mistress, sir, would be glad to speak to you,” said the servant, approaching Tony.
“Is she alone, Coles?” asked he, as he descended from the car.
“Yes, sir.”
Somewhat reassured by this, but at the same time not a little agitated, Tony drew nigh the carriage. Mrs. Trafford was wrapped up in a large fur mantle,—the day was a cold one,—and lay back without making any movement to salute, except a slight bend of the head as he approached.
“I have to apologize for stopping you,” said she, coldly; “but I had a message to give you from Mr. Maitland, who left this a couple of days ago.”
“Is he gone,—gone for good?” asked Tony, not really knowing what he said.
“I don't exactly know what 'for good' means,” said she, smiling faintly; “but I believe he has not any intention to return here. His message was to say that, being much pressed for time, he had not an opportunity to reply to your note.”
“I don't think it required an answer,” broke in Tony, sternly.
“Perhaps not as regarded you, but possibly it did as respected himself.”
“I don't understand you.”
“What I mean is, that, as you had declined his offer, you might possibly, from inadvertence or any other cause, allude to it; whereas he expressly wished that the subject should never be mentioned.”
“You were apparently very much in his confidence?” said Tony, fixing his eyes steadily on her.
“When I learn by what right you ask me that question, I 'll answer it,” said she, just as defiantly.
Tony's face became crimson, and he could not utter a word. At last he stammered out, “I have a friend here,—Mr. Darner: he is just come over to pay a visit at Tilney, and Mrs. Maxwell sends him a note to say that they are all ill there.”
“Only Bella, and she is better.”
“And was Bella ill?” asked Tony, eagerly.
“Yes, since Tuesday or Wednesday, and even up to Friday, very ill. There was a time this could scarcely have happened without your coming to ask after her.”
“Is it my fault, Alice? First of all, I never knew it. You know well I go nowhere. I do not mix with those who frequent grand houses. But tell me of Bella.”
“She was never alarmingly ill; but the doctor called it scarlatina, and frightened every one away; and poor Mrs. Maxwell has not yet recovered the shock of seeing her guests depart and her house deserted, for Bella and myself are all that remain.”
“May I present my friend to you?—he would take it as such a favor,” asked Tony, timidly.
“I think not,” said she, with an air of indolence.
“Do let me; he saw your picture—that picture of you and Bella at the Exhibition—and he is wild to see yourself. Don't refuse me, Alice.”
“If you think this a favor, I wonder you have courage to ask it. Come, you need not look cross, Master Tony, particularly as all the fault is on your own side. Come over to Tilney the day after to-morrow with your friend.”
“But I don't know Mrs. Maxwell.”
“That does not signify in the least; do what I bid you. I am as much mistress there as she is while I stay. Come early. I shall be quite alone, for Mark goes to-morrow to town, and Bella will scarcely be well enough to see you.”
“And you'll not let me introduce him now?”
“No; I shall look more like my picture in a house dress; and perhaps—though I 'll not promise—be in a better temper too. Good-bye.”
“Won't you shake hands with me, Alice?”
“No; it's too cold to take my hand out of my muff. Remember, now, Saturday morning, without fail.”
“Alice!” said he, with a look at once devoted and reproachful.
“Tony!” said she, imitating his tone of voice to perfection, “there's your friend getting impatient. Good-bye.”
As the spanking team whirled past, Skeffy had but a second or two to catch a glance at the veiled and muffled figure that reclined so voluptuously in the corner of the carriage; but he was ready to declare that she had the most beautiful eyes in the world, and “knew what to do with them besides.” “You 're in love with her, Tony,” cried he, fixing a steadfast stare on the pale and agitated features at his side. “I see it, old fellow! I know every shade and tint of that blessed thing they miscall the tender passion. Make me no confessions; I don't want them. Your heart is at her feet, and she treats it like a football.”
Tony's cheeks grew purple.
“There's no shame in that, my boy. Women do that with better men than either of us; ay, and will continue to do it centuries after you and I shall be canonized as saints. It's that same contempt of us that makes them worth the winning; but, I say, why is the fellow drawing up here?—Is he going to bait his beast?”
“No,” muttered Tony, with a certain confusion; “but we must get down and walk here. Our road lies by that path yonder: there 's no carriage-way up to our 'chateau;'” and he gave a peculiar accent to the last word.
“All right,” said Skeffy, gayly. “I 'm good for ten miles of a walk.”
“I 'll not test your powers so far; less than a quarter of an hour will bring us home. Take down the luggage, and I 'll send up for it,” said he to the driver.
“What honest poor devils you must be down here!” said Skeffy, as he saw the carman deposit the trunks on the road and drive off. “I 'd not like to try this experiment in Charing Cross.”
“You see there is some good in poverty, after all,” said Tony, laughing.
“Egad, I've tried it for some years without discovering it,” said Skeffy, gravely. “That,” continued he, after a brief pause, “it should make men careless, thoughtless, reckless if you like, I can conceive; but why it should make them honest, is clean beyond me. What an appetite this sharp air is giving me, Master Tony! I'll astonish that sirloin or that saddle of yours, whichever it be.”
“More likely neither, Skeffy. You 're lucky if it be a rasher and eggs.”
“Oh, that it may be,” cried the other, “and draught beer! Have you got draught beer?”
“I don't think we have any other. There's our crib,—that little cabin under the rocks yonder.”
“How pretty it is,—the snuggest spot I ever saw!”
“You're a good fellow to say so,” cried Tony; and his eyes swam in tears as he turned away.
What a change has come over Tony Butler within the last twenty-four hours! All his fears and terrors as to what Skeffy would think of their humble cottage and simple mode of life have given way, and there he goes about from place to place, showing to his friend how comfortable everything is, and how snug. “There are grander dining-rooms, no doubt, but did you ever see a warmer or a 'cosier'? And as to the drawing-room,—match the view from the window in all Europe; between that great bluff of Fairhead and the huge precipice yonder of the Causeway there is a sweep of coast unrivalled anywhere. Those great rocks are the Skerries; and there, where you see that one stone-pine tree,—there, under that cliff, is the cove where I keep my boat; not much of a boat,” added he, in a weaker voice, “because I used always to have the cutter,—Sir Arthur's yacht Round that point there is such a spot to bathe in; twenty feet water at the very edge, and a white gravel bottom, without a weed. Passing up that little pathway, you gain the ledge yonder; and there—do you mark the two stones, like gate-piers?—there you enter Sir Arthur Lyle's demesne. You can't see the shrubberies, for the ground dips, and the trees will only grow in the valleys here!” And there was a despondent tenderness in the last words that seemed to say, “If it were not for that, this would be paradise!”
Nor was it mere politeness, and the spirit of good breeding, that made Skeffy a genial listener to these praises. What between the sense of a holiday, the delight of what cockneys call an “outing,” the fine fresh breezy air of the place, the breadth and space,—great elements of expansiveness,—Skeffy felt a degree of enjoyment that amounted to ecstasy.
“I don't wonder that you like it all, Tony,” said he. “You 'll never, in all your wanderings, see anything finer.”
“I often say as much to myself,” replied Tony. “As I sit here of an evening, with my cigar, I often say, 'Why should I go over the world in search of fortune, when I have all that one wants here,—here at my very hand?' Don't you think a fellow might be content with it?”
“Content! I could be as happy as a king here!” and for a moment or two Skeffy really revelled in delighted thoughts of a region where the tinkle of a minister's hand-bell had never been heard, where no “service messengers” ever came, where no dunning tailors invaded; a paradise that knew not the post nor dreamed of the telegraph.
“And as to money,” continued Tony, “one does not want to be rich in such a place. I 'm as well off here with, we 'll say, two hundred a year—we have n't got so much, but I 'll say that—as I should be in London with a thousand.”
“Better! decidedly better!” said Skeffy, puffing his cigar, and thinking over that snowstorm of Christmas bills which awaited him on his return.
“If it were not for one thing, Skeffy, I 'd never leave it,” said he, with a deep sigh, and a look that said as plainly as ever words spoke, “Let me open my heart to you.”
“I know it all, old fellow, just as if you had confessed it to me. I know the whole story.”
“What do you know, or what do you suspect you know?” said Tony, growing red.
“I say,” said Skeffy, with that tone of superiority that he liked to assume,—“I say that I read you like a book.”
“Read aloud, then, and I 'll say if you 're right”
“It 's wrong with you here, Butler,” said Skeffy, laying his hand on the other's heart; and a deep sigh was all the answer. “Give me another weed,” said Skeffy, and for some seconds he employed himself in lighting it “There's not a man in England,” said he, slowly, and with the deliberateness of a judge in giving sentence,—“not a man in England knows more of these sort of things than I do. You, I 'm certain, take me for a man of pleasure and the world,—a gay, butterfly sort of creature, flitting at will from flower to flower; or you believe me—and in that with more reason—a fellow full of ambition, and determined to play a high stake in life; but yet, Tony Butler, within all these there is another nature, like the holy of holies in the sanctuary. Ay, my dear friend, there is the—what the poet calls the 'crimson heart within the rose.' Isn't that it?”
“I don't know,” said Tony, bluntly.
And now Skeffy smoked on for some minutes without a word. At length he said, in a solemn tone, “It has not been for nothing, Butler, that I acquired the gift I speak of. If I see into the hearts of men like you, I have paid the price of it.”
“I 'm not so certain that you can do it” said Tony, half doubting his friend's skill, and half eager to provoke an exercise of it.
“I 'll show whether I can or not. Of coarse, if you like to disclaim or deny—”
“I 'll disclaim nothing that I know to be true.”
“And I am to speak freely?”
“As freely as you are able.”
“Here it is, then, in five words: You are in love, Tony,—in love with that beautiful widow.”
Tony held his head down between his hands, and was silent.
“You feel that the case is hopeless,—that is to say, that you know, besides being of rank and wealth, she is one to make a great match, and that her family would never consent to hear of your pretensions; and yet all this while you have a sort of lurking suspicion that she cares for you?”
“No, no!” muttered Tony, between his hands.
“Well, that she did once, and that not very long ago.”
“Not even that,” said Tony, drearily.
“I know better,—youdothink so. And I'll tell you more; what makes you so keenly alive to her change—perfidy, you would like to call it—is this, that you have gone through that state of the disease yourself.”
“I don't understand you.”
“Well, you shall. The lovely Alice—isn't that the name?”
Tony nodded.
“The lovely Alice got your own heart only, at second hand. You used to be in love with the little girl that was governess at Richmond.”
“Not a word of it true,—nothing of the kind,” broke out Tony, fiercely. “Dolly and I were brother and sister,—we always said we were.”
“What does that signify? I tried the brother-and-sister dodge, and I know what it cost me when she married Maccleston;” and Skeffy here threw his cigar into the sea, as though an emblem of his shipwrecked destiny. “Mind me well, Butler,” said he, at last; “I did not say that you ever told your heart you loved her; but she knew it, take my word for it. She knew, and in the knowing it was the attraction that drew you on.”
“But I was not drawn on.”
“Don't tell me, sir. Answer me just this: Did any man ever know the hour, or even the day, that he caught a fever? Could he go back in memory, and say, it was on Tuesday last, at a quarter to three, that my pulse rose, my respiration grew shorter, and my temples began to throb? So it is with love, the most malignant of all fevers. All this time that you and What's-her-name were playing brother and sister so innocently, your hearts were learning to feel in unison,—just as two pendulums in the same room acquire the same beat and swing together. You 've heard that?”
“I may; but you are all wrong about Dolly.”
“What would she say to it?”
“Just what I do.”
“Well, we cannot ask her, for she 's not here.”
“She is here,—not two miles from where we are standing; not that it signifies much, for, of course, neither of us would dothat.”
“Not plump out, certainly, in so many words.”
“Not in any way, Skeffy. It is because I look upon Dolly as my own dear sister, I would not suffer a word to be said that could offend her.”
“Offend her! Oh dear, how young you are in these things!”
“What is it, Jenny?” cried Tony to the servant-girl, who was shouting not very intelligibly, from a little knoll at a distance. “Oh, she 's saying that supper is ready, and the kippered salmon getting cold, as if any one cared!”
“Don't they care!” cried Skeffy. “Well, then, they have n't been inhaling this sea-breeze for an hour, as I have. Heaven grant that love has carried off your appetite, Tony, for I feel as if I could eat for six.”
It was a rare thing for Tony Butler to lie awake at night, and yet he did so for full an hour or more after that conversation with Skeffy. It was such a strange blunder for one of Skeffy's shrewdness to have made,—so inexplicable.
To imagine that he, Tony, had ever been in love with Dolly! Dolly, his playfellow since the time when the “twa had paidled i' the burn;” Dolly, to whom he went with every little care that crossed him, never shrinking for an instant from those avowals of doubt or difficulty that no one makes to his sweetheart. So, at least, thought Tony. And the same Dolly to whom he had revealed once, in deepest secrecy, that he was in love with Alice! To be sure, it was a boyish confession, made years ago; and since that Alice had grown up to be a woman, and was married, so that the story of the love was like a fairy tale.
“In love with Dolly!” muttered he. “If he had but ever seen us together, he would have known that could not be.” Poor Tony! he knew of love in its moods of worship and devotion, and in its aspect of a life-giving impulse,—a soul-filling, engrossing sentiment,—inspiring timidity when near, and the desire for boldness when away. With such alternating influence Dolly had never racked his heart. He sought her with a quiet conscience, untroubled by a fear.
“How could Skeffy make such a mistake! That it is a mistake, who would recognize more quickly than Dolly herself; and with what humorous drollery—a drollery all her own—would she not treat it! A rare punishment for your blunder, Master Skeffy, would it be to tell Dolly of it all in your presence;” and at last, wearied out with thinking, he fell asleep.
The day broke with one of those bright breezy mornings which, though “trying” to the nerves of the weak and delicate, are glorious stimulants to the strong. The sea plashed merrily over the rocks, and the white streaky clouds flew over the land with a speed that said it blew hard at sea. “Glorious day for a sail, Skeffy; we can beat out, and come back with a stern-wind whenever we like.”
“I 'll anticipate the wish by staying on shore, Tony.”
“I can't offer you a mount, Skeffy, for I am not the owner of even a donkey.”
“Who wants one? Who wants anything better than to go down where we were yesterday evening, under that big black rock, with the sea before us, and the whole wide world behind us, and talk? When a fellow lives as I do, cooped up within four walls, the range of his view some tiers of pigeon-holes, mere freedom and a sea-breeze are the grandest luxuries in creation;” and off they set, armed with an ample supply of tobacco, the life-buoy of those stragglers in the sea of thought who only ask to float, but not to reach the shore.
How delightfully did the hours pass over! At least, so Tony felt, for what a wonderful fellow was Skeffy! What had he not seen or heard or read? What theme was new, what subject unknown to him? But, above all, what a marvellous insight had he into the world,—the actual world of men and women! Great people were not tohiseyes mighty gods and goddesses, seated loftily on a West-End Olympus, but fallible mortals, with chagrins about the court and grievances about invitations to Windsor. Ministers, too, whose nods shook empires, were humanities, very irritable under the gout, and much given to colchicum. Skeffy “knew the whole thing,”—hewas not one of the mere audience. He lived in the green-room or in the “flats.” He knew all the secrets of state, from the splendid armaments that existed on paper, to the mock thunders that were manufactured and patented by F. O.
These things Skeffy told like confidences,—secrete he would not have breathed to any one he held less near his heart than Tony. But somehow commonplaces told by the lips of authority will assume an immense authority, and carry with them a stupendous weight; and Tony listened to the precious words of wisdom as he might have listened to the voice of Solomon.
But even more interesting still did he become as he sketched forth, very vaguely indeed,—a sort of Turner in his later style of cloud and vapor,—his own great future. Not very clear and distinct the steps by which he was fated to rise, but palpable enough the great elevation he was ultimately to occupy.
“Don't imagine, old fellow,” said he, laying his hand on Tony's shoulders, “that I am going to forget you when that time comes. I'm not going to leave you a Queen's messenger.”
“What could you make of me?” said Tony, despondently.
“Fifty things,” said the other, with a confidence that seemed to say, “I, Skeffy, am equal to more than this; fifty things. You, of course, cannot be expected to know it, but I can tell you, it's far harder to get a small place than a big one,—harder to be a corporal than a lieutenant-general.”
“How do you explain that?” asked Tony, with an eager curiosity.
“You can't understand it without knowing life. I cannot convey to you how to win a trick where you don't know the game.” And Skeffy showed, by the impatient way he tried to light a fresh cigar, that he was not fully satisfied with the force or clearness of his own explanation; and he went on: “You see, old fellow, when you have climbed up some rungs of the ladder with a certain amount of assurance, many will think you are determined to get to the top.”
“Well, but if a man's ladder has only one rung, as I imagine is the case with mine!” broke in Tony.
Skeffy looked at his companion for a moment, half surprised that he should have carried out the figure, and then laughed heartily, as he said, “Splice it to mine, my boy; it will bear us both.”
It was no use that Tony shook his head and looked despondingly; there was a hopeful warmth about Skeffy not to be extinguished by any discouragement. In fact, if a shade of dissatisfaction seemed ever to cloud the brightness of his visions, it was the fear lest, even in his success, some other career might be neglected wherein the rewards were greater and the prizes more splendid. He knew, and he did not scruple to declare that he knew, if he had been a soldier he 'd have risen to the highest command. If he 'd have gone to the bar, he'd have ended on the woolsack. Had he “taken that Indian appointment,” he 'd have been high up by this time on the Council, with his eye on Government House for a finish. “That's what depresses me about diplomacy, Tony. The higher you go, the less sure you are. They—I mean your own party—give you Paris or St. Petersburg, we 'll say; and if they go out, so must you.”
“Why must you?” asked Tony.
“For the reason that the well-bred dog went downstairs when he saw certain preparations that betokened kicking him down.
“After all, I think a new colony and the gold-fields the real thing,—the glorious independence of it; you live how you like, and with whom you like. No Mrs. Grundy to say, 'Do you know who dined with Skeffington Darner yesterday?' 'Did you remark the young woman who sat beside him in his carriage?' and such-like.”
“But you cannot be always sure of your nuggets,” muttered Tony. “I 've seen fellows come back poorer than they went.”
“Of course you have; it's not every horse wins the Derby, old boy. And I'll tell you another thing, too; the feeling, the instinct, the inner consciousness that you carry success in your nature, is a rarer and a higher gift than the very power to succeed. You meet with clever fellows every day in the week who have no gauge of their own cleverness. To give an illustration; you write a book, we'll say.”
“No, I don't,” blurted out Tony.
“Well, but you might; it is at least possible.”
“It is not.”
“Well, let us take something else. You are about to try something that has a great reward attached to it, if successful; you want, we 'll suppose, to marry a woman of high rank and large fortune, very beautiful,—in fact, one to whom, according to every-day notions, you have not the slightest pretensions. Is n't that a strong case, eh?”
“Worse than the book. Perhaps I 'd better try authorship,” said Tony, growing very red; “but make the case your own, and I 'll listen just as attentively.”
“Well, here goes; I have only to draw on memory,” said he, with a sigh; “I suppose you don't remember seeing in the papers, about a year and a half ago, that the Prince of Cobourg Cohari—not one of our Cobourgs, but an Austrian branch—came over to visit the Queen. He brought his daughter Olga with him; she was called Olga after the Empress of Russia's sister. And such a girl! She was nearly as tall as you, Tony,—I'll swear she was,—with enormous blue eyes, and masses of fair hair that she wore in some Russian fashion that seemed as if it had fallen loose over her neck and shoulders. And were n't they shoulders! I do like a large woman! a regular Cleopatra,—indolent, voluptuous, dreamy. I like the majestic languor of their walk; and there is a massive grandeur in their slightest gesture that is very imposing.”
“Go on,” muttered Tony, as the other seemed to pause for a sentiment of concurrence.
“I was in the Household in those days, and I was sent down with old Dollington to Dover to meet them; but somehow they arrived before we got down, and were comfortably installed at the 'Lord Warden' when we arrived. It did not matter much; for old Cohari was seized with an attack of gout, and could not stir; and there I was, running back and forward to the telegraph office all day, reporting how he was, and whether he would or would not have Sir James This or Sir John That down to see him! Dollington and he were old friends, fortunately, and had a deal to say to each other, so that I was constantly with Olga. At first she was supremely haughty and distant, as you may imagine; a regular Austrian Serene Highness grafted on a beauty,—fancy that! but it never deterredme; and I contrived that she should see mine was the homage of a heart she had captivated, not of a courtier that was bound to obey her. She saw it, sir,—saw it at once; saw it with that instinct that whispers to the female heart, 'He loves me,' ere the man has ever said it to himself. She not only saw, but she did not discourage, my passion. Twenty little incidents of our daily life showed this, as we rambled across the downs together, or strolled along the shore to watch the setting sun and the arrival of the mail-boat from Calais.
“At last the Prince recovered sufficiently to continue his journey, and I went down to order a special train to take us up to town the following morning. By some stupid arrangement, however, of the directors, an earlier announcement should have been given, and all they could do was to let us have one of the royal carriages attached to the express. I was vexed at this, and so was Dollington, but the Prince did not care, in the least; and when I went to speak of it to Olga, she hung down her head for an instant, and then, in a voice and with an accent I shall never forget, she said, 'Ah, Monsieur Darner, it would appear to be your destiny to be always too late!' She left me as she spoke, and we never met after; for on that same evening I learned from Dollington she was betrothed to the Duke Max of Hohenhammelsbraten, and to be married in a month. That was the meaning of her emotion,—that was the source of a sorrow that all but overcame her; for she loved me, Tony,—she loved me! not with that headlong devotion that belongs to the wanner races, but with a Teutonic love; and when she said, 'I was too late,' it was the declaration of a heart whose valves worked under a moderate pressure, and never risked an explosion.”
“But how do you know that she was not alluding to the train, and to your being late to receive them on the landing?” asked Tony.
“Ain't you prosaic, Tony,—ain't you six-and-eight-pence! with your dull and commonplace interpretation! I tell you, sir, that she meant, 'I love you, but it is in vain,—I love you, but another is before you,—I love you, but you come too late!'”
“And what did you do?” asked Tony, anxious to relieve himself from a position of some awkwardness.
“I acted with dignity, sir. I resigned in the Household, and got appointed to the Colonial.”
“And what does it all prove, except it be something against your own theory, that a man should think there is nothing too high for his reach?”
“Verily, Tony, I have much to teach you,” said Skeffy, gravely, but good-naturedly. “This little incident shows by what slight casualties our fortunes are swayed: had it not been for Max of Hammelsbraten, where might not I have been to-day? It is by the flaw in the metal the strength of the gun is measured,—so it is by a man's failures in life you can estimate his value. Another would not have dared to raise his eyes so high!”
“That I can well believe,” said Tony, dryly.
“You, for instance, would no more have permitted yourself to fall in love with her, than you'd have thought of tossing for half-crowns with the Prince her father.”
“Pretty much the same,” muttered Tony.
“That 's it,—that is exactly what establishes the difference between men in life. It is by the elevation given to the cannon that the ball is thrown so far. It is by the high purpose of a man that you measure his genius.”
“All the genius in the world won't make you able to take a horse over seven feet of a stone wall,” said Tony; “and whatever is impossible has no interest for me.”
“You never can say what is impossible,” broke in Skeffy. “I 'll tell you experiences of mine, and you 'll exclaim at every step, 'How could that be?'” Skeffy had now thoroughly warmed to his theme,—the theme he loved best in the world,—himself; for he was one of those who “take out” all their egotism in talk. Let him only speak of himself, and he was ready to act heartily and energetically in the cause of his friends. All that he possessed was at their service,—his time, his talents, his ingenuity, his influence, and his purse. He could give them everything but one; he could not make them heroes in his stories. No, his romance was his own realm, and he could share it with none.
Listen to him, and there never was a man so traded on,—so robbed and pilfered from. A Chancellor of the Exchequer had caught up that notion of his about the tax on domestic cats. It was on the railroad he had dropped that hint about a supply of cordials in all fire-escapes. That clever suggestion of a web livery that would fit footmen of all sizes was his; he remembered the day he made it, and the fellow that stole it, too, on the chain-pier at Brighton. What leaders in the “Times,” what smart things in the “Saturday,” what sketches in “Punch” were constructed out of his dinner-talk!
Poor Tony listened to all these with astonishment, and even confusion, for one-half, at least, of the topics were totally strange and new to him. “Tell me,” said he at last, with a bold effort to come back to a land of solid reality, “what of that poor fellow whose bundle I carried away with me? Your letter said something mysterious about him, which I could make nothing of.”
“Ah, yes,—a dangerous dog,—a friend of Mazzini's, and a member of I can't say how many secret societies. The Inspector, hearing that I had asked after him at the hotel, came up to F. O. t' other morning to learn what I knew of him, and each of us tried for full half an hour to pump the other.”
“I 'll not believe one word against him,” said Tony, sturdily; “an honester, franker face I never looked at.”
“No doubt! Who would wish to see a better-looking fellow than Orsini?”
“And what has become of him,—of Quin, I mean?”
“Got away, clean away, and no one knows how or where. I 'll tellyou, Tony,” said he, “what I would not tell another,—that they stole that idea of the explosive bombs fromme.”
“You don't mean to say—”
“Of course not, old fellow. I 'm not a man to counsel assassination; but in the loose way I talk, throwing out notions for this and hints for that, they caught up this idea just as Blakeney did that plan of mine for rifling large guns.”
Tony fixed his eyes on him for a moment or two in silence, and then said gravely, “I think it must be near dinnertime; let us saunter towards home.”