On the morning after this conversation, the two friends set out for Tilney; Skeffy, as usual, full of himself, and consequently in high spirits,—happy in the present, and confident for the future. Tony, indeed, was delighted with his companion, and thoroughly enjoyed the volatile gayety of one who seemed to derive pleasure from everything. With all a school-boy's zest for a holiday, Skeffy would be forever at something. Now he would take the driver's seat on the car and play coachman till, with one wheel in the ditch and the conveyance nearly over, he was summarily deposed by Tony, and stoutly rated for his awkwardness.
Then it was his pleasure to “chaff” the people on the road,—a population the least susceptible of drollery in all Europe!—a grave, saturnine race, who, but for Tony's intervention, would have more than once resented such liberties very practically. As they saw the smoke from the chimney of a little cottage under the hill, and heard it was there Dolly Stewart lived, it was all Tony could do to prevent Skeffy running down to “have a look at her,” just as it required actual force to keep him from jumping off as they passed a village school, where Skeffy wanted to examine a class in the Catechism. Then he would eat and drink everywhere, and, with a mock desire for information, ask the name of every place they passed, and as invariably miscall them, to the no small amusement of the carman, this being about the limit of his appreciation of fun.
“What a fidgety beggar you are!” said Tony, half angry and half laughing at the incessant caprices of his vivacious companion. “Do you know it's now going on to eleven o'clock, and we have fourteen miles yet before us?”
“One must eat occasionally, my dear friend. Even in the 'Arabian Nights' the heroine takes a slight refection of dates now and then.”
“But this is our third 'slight refection' this morning, and we shall probably arrive at Tilney for luncheon.”
“Youcan bear long fasts, I know. I have often heard of the 'starving Irish;' but the Anglo-Saxon stomach requires a 'retainer,' to remind it of the great cause to be tried at dinner-time. A mere bite of bread and cheese, and I'm with you.”
At last the deep woods of Tilney came in sight; and evidence of a well-cared-for estate—trim cottages on the roadside, and tasteful little gardens—showed that they were approaching the residence of one who was proud of her tenantry.
“What's the matter with you?” asked Tony, struck by a momentary silence on his companion's part.
“I was thinking, Tony,” said he, gravely,—“I was just thinking whether I could not summon up a sort of emotion at seeing the woods under whose shade my ancestors must have walked for heaven knows what centuries.”
“Your ancestors! Why, they never lived here.”
“Well, if they did n't, they ought. It seems a grand old place, and I already feel my heart warming to it. By the way, where's Maitland?”
“Gone; I told you he was off to the Continent. What do you know about this man,—anything?”
“Not much. When I was at school, Tony, whenever in our New Testament examination they asked me who it was did this or said that, I always answered John the Baptist, and in eight times out of ten it was a hit; and so in secular matters, whenever I was puzzled about a fellow's parentage, I invariably said—and you 'll find as a rule it is invaluable—he's a son of George IV., or his father was. It accounts for everything,—good looks, plenty of cash, air, swagger, mystery. It explains how a fellow knows every one, and is claimed by none.”
“And is this Maitland's origin?”
“I can't tell; perhaps it is. Find me a better, or, as the poet says, 'bas accipe mecum.' I say, is that the gate-lodge? Tony, old fellow, I hope I'll have you spending your Christmas here one of these days, with Skeff Darner your host!”
“More unlikely things have happened!” said Tony, quietly.
“What a cold northernism is that! Why, man, what so likely—what so highly probable—what, were I a sanguine fellow, would I say so nearly certain? It was through a branch of the Darners—no, of the Nevils, I mean—who intermarried with us, that the Maxwells got the estate. Paul Nevil was Morton Maxwell's mother—aunt, I should say—”
“Or uncle, perhaps,” gravely interposed Tony.
“Yes, uncle,—you 're right! but you 've muddled my genealogy for all that! Let us see. Who was Noel Skeffington? Noel was a sort of pivot in our family-engine, and everything seemed to depend on him; and such a respect had we for his intentions, that we went on contesting the meaning of his last will till we found out there was nothing more left to fight for. This Noel was the man that caught King George's horse when he was run away with at the battle of Dettingen; and the King wanted to make him a baronet, but with tears in his eyes, he asked how he had ever incurred the royal displeasure to be visited with such a mark of disgrace? 'At all events,' said he, 'my innocent child, who is four years old, could never have offended your Majesty. Do not, therefore, involve him in my shame. Commute the sentence to knighthood, and my dishonor will die with me.'”
“I never heard of greater insolence,” said Tony.
“It saved us, though; but for this, I should have been Sir Skeffington to-day. Is that the house I see yonder?”
“That's a wing of it.”
“'Home of my fathers, how my bosom throbs!' What's the next line? 'Home of my fathers, through my heart there runs!' That's it,—'there runs'—runs. I forget how it goes, but I suppose it must rhyme to 'duns.'”
“Now, try and be reasonable for a couple of minutes,” said Tony. “I scarcely am known to Mrs. Maxwell at all. I don't mean to stop here; I intend to go back to-night What are your movements?”
“Let the Fates decide; that is to say, I'll toss up,—heads, and I am to have the estate, and therefore remain; tails,—I'm disinherited, and go back with you.”
“I want you to be serious, Skeffy.”
“Very kind of you, when I've only got fourteen days' leave, and three of them gone already.”
“I 'd rather you 'd return with me; but I 'd not like you to risk your future to please me.”
“Has jealousy no share in this? Be frank and open: 'Crede Darner' is our proud motto; and by Jove, if certain tailors and bootmakers did not accept it, it would be an evil day for your humble servant!”
“I don't understand you,” said Tony, gravely.
“You fear I 'll make love to 'your widow,' Tony. Don't get so red, old fellow, nor look as if you wanted to throw me into the fish-pond.”
“I had half a mind to do it,” muttered Tony, in something between jest and earnest.
“I knew it,—I saw it. You looked what the Yankees call mean-ugly; and positively I was afraid of you. But just reflect on the indelible disgrace it would be to you if I was drowned.”
“You can swim, I suppose?”
“Not a stroke; it's about the only thing I cannot do.”
“Why, you told me yesterday that you never shoot, you could n't ride, never handled a fishing-rod.”
“Nor hemmed a pocket-handkerchief,” broke in Skeffy. “I own not to have any small accomplishments. What a noble building! I declare I am attached to it already. No, Tony; I pledge you my word of honor, no matter how pressed I may be, I'll not cut down a tree here.”
“You may go round to the stable-yard,” said Tony to the driver,—“they 'll feed you and your horse here.”
“Of course they will,” cried Skeffy; and then, grasping Tony's two hands, he said, “You are welcome to Tilney, my dear boy; I am heartily glad to see you here.”
Tony turned and pulled the bell; the deep summons echoed loudly, and a number of small dogs joined in the uproar at the same time.
“There's 'the deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home,'” said Skeffy, while he threw the end of his cigar away.
A servant soon appeared and ushered them into a large low-ceilinged room, with fireplaces of antique fashion, the chimney-pieces of dark oak, surmounted by massive coats of arms glowing in all the colors of heraldry. It was eminently comfortable in all its details of fat low ottomans, deep easy-chairs, and squat cushions; and although the three windows which lighted it looked out upon a lawn, the view was bounded by a belt of trees, as though to convey that it was a room in which snugness was to be typified, to the exclusion of all that pretended to elegance. A massive and splendidly bound Bible, showing little signs of use, lay on a centre table; a very well-thumbed “Peerage” was beside it.
“I say, Tony, this is evidently Aunt Maxwell's own drawing-room. It has all the peculiar grimness of an old lady's sanctum; and I declare that fat old dog, snoring away on the rug, looks like a relation.” While he stooped down to examine the creature more closely, the door opened, and Mrs. Maxwell, dressed in bonnet and shawl, and with a small garden watering-pot in her hand, entered. She only saw Tony; and, running towards him with her open hand, said, “You naughty boy, did n't I tell you not to come here?”
Tony blushed deeply, and blurted something about being told or ordered to come by Mrs. Trafford.
“Well, well; it does n't matter now; there 's no danger. It's not 'catching,' the doctor says, and she'll be up tomorrow. Dear me! and who is this?” The latter question was addressed to Skeffy, who had just risen from his knees.
“Mr. Skeffington Darner, ma'am,” said Tony.
“And who are you, then?”
“Tony Butler: I thought you knew me.”
“To be sure I do, and delighted to see you too. And this Pickle is Skeff, is he?”
“Dear aunt, let me embrace you,” cried Skeffy, rushing rapturously into her arms.
“Well, I declare!” said the old lady, looking from one to the other; “I thought, if it was you, Skeff, what a great fine tall man you had grown; and there you are, the same little creature I saw you last.”
“Little, aunt! what do you mean by little? Standard of the Line! In France I should be a Grenadier!”
The old lady laughed heartily at the haughty air with which he drew himself up and threw forward his chest as he spoke.
“What a nice parrot you have sent me! but I can't make out what it is he says.”
“He says, 'Don't you wish you may get it?' aunt.”
“Ah! so it is; and he means luncheon, I 'm sure, which is just coming on the table. I hope you are both very hungry?”
“I ought to be, aunt. It's a long drive from the Causeway here.—Hold your tongue, you dog,” whispered he to Tony; “say nothing about the three breakfasts on the road, or I shall be disgraced.”
“And how is your mother, Mr. Tony? I hope she has good health. Give me your arm to the dining-room; Pickle will take care of himself. This is a sickly season. The poor dear Commodore fell ill! and though the weather is so severe, woodcocks very scarce,—there's a step here,—and all so frightened for fear of the scarlatina that they run away; and I really wanted you here to introduce you to—who was it?—not Mrs. Craycroft, was it? Tell Mrs. Trafford luncheon is ready, Groves, and say Mr. Butler is here. She doesn't know you, Pickle. Maybe you don't like to be called Pickle now?”
“Of course I do, aunt; it reminds me of long ago,” said he, with an air of emotion.
“By the way, it was George, and not you, I used to call Pickle,—poor George, that went to Bombay.”
“Ah, yes; he was India Pickle, aunt, and you used to call me Piccalilli!”
“Perhaps I did, but I forget. Here, take the head of the table; Mr. Tony, sit by me. Oh dear! what a small party! This day last week we were twenty-seven! Oh, he 'll not find Alice, for I left her in my flower-garden; I 'll go for her myself.”
“Make yourself at home, Tony,” said Skeffy, as soon as the old Lady left the room. “Believe me, it is with no common pleasure that I see you under my roof.”
“I was going to play parrot, and say, 'Don't you wish you may?'” muttered Tony, dryly.
“Unbeliever, that will not credit the mutton on his plate, nor the sherry in his glass! Hush! here they are.”
Alice sailed proudly into the room, gave her hand to Tony with a pretended air of condescension, but a real cordiality, and said, “You 're a good boy, after all; and Bella sends you all manner of kind forgivenesses.”
“My nephew Darner, Alice,” said Mrs. Maxwell, never very formal in her presentations of those she regarded as little more than children. “I suppose he 'll not mind being called Pickle before you?”
Even Tony—not the shrewdest, certainly, of observers—was struck by the well-bred ease with which his friend conducted himself in a situation of some difficulty, managing at the same time neither to offend the old lady's susceptibilities nor sacrifice the respect he owed himself. In fact, the presence of Alice recalled Skeffy, as if by magic, to every observance of his daily life. She belonged to the world he knew best,—perhaps the only one he knew at all; and his conversation at once became as easy and as natural as though he were once more back in the society of the great city.
Mrs. Maxwell, however, would not part with him so easily, and proceeded to put him through a catechism of all their connections—Skeffingtons, Darners, Maxwells, and Nevils—in every variety of combination. As Skeffy avowed afterwards, “The 'Little Go' was nothing to it.” With the intention of shocking the old lady, and what he called “shunting her” off all her inquiries, he reported nothing of the family but disasters and disgraces. The men and women of the house inherited, according to him, little of the proud boast of the Bayards; no one ever before heard such a catalogue of rogues, swindlers, defaulters, nor so many narratives of separations and divorces. What he meant for a shock turned out a seduction; and she grew madly eager to hear more,—more even than he was prepared to invent.
“Ugh!” said he at last to himself, as he tossed off a glass of sherry, “I'm coming fast to capital offences, and if she presses me more I'll give her a murder.”
These family histories, apparently so confidentially imparted, gave Alice a pretext to take Tony off with her, and show him the gardens. Poor Tony, too, was eager to have an opportunity to speak of his friend to Alice. “Skeffy was such a good fellow; so hearty, so generous, so ready to do a kind thing; and then, such a thorough gentleman! If you had but seen him, Alice, in our little cabin, so very different in every way from all he is accustomed to, and saw how delighted he was with everything; how pleasantly he fell into all our habits, and how nice his manner to my mother. She reads people pretty quickly; and I 'll tell you what she said,—'He has a brave big heart under all his motley.'”
“I rather like him already,” said Alice, with a faint smile at Tony's eagerness; “he is going to stop here, is he not?”
“I cannot tell. I only know that Mrs. Maxwell wrote to put him off.”
“Yes, that she did a couple of days ago; but now that Bella is so much better,—so nearly well, I may say,—I think she means to keep him, and you too, Tony, if you will so far favor us.”
“I cannot,—it is impossible.”
“I had hoped, Tony,” said she, with a malicious sparkle in her eyes, “that it was only against Lyle Abbey you bore a grudge, and not against every house where I should happen to be a visitor.”
“Alice, Alice!” said he, with trembling lips, “surely this is not fair.”
“If it be true, is the question; and until you have told me why you ceased to come to us,—why you gave up those who always liked you,—I must, I cannot help believing it to be true.”
Tony was silent: his heart swelled up as if it would burst his chest; but he struggled manfully, and hid his emotion.
“I conclude,” said she, sharply, “it was not a mere caprice which made you throw us off. You had a reason, or something that you fancied was a reason.”
“It is only fair to suppose so,” said he, gravely.
“Well, I 'll give you the benefit of that supposition; and I ask you, as a matter of right, to give me your reason.”
“I cannot, Alice,—I cannot,” stammered he out, while a deadly paleness spread over his face.
“Tony,” said she, gravely, “if you were a man of the world like your friend Mr. Darner, for instance, I would probably say that in a matter of this kind you ought to be left to your own judgment; but you are not. You are a kind-hearted simple-minded boy. Nay, don't blush and look offended; I never meant to offend you. Don't you know that?” and she held out to him her fair white hand, the taper fingers trembling with a slight emotion. Tony stooped and kissed it with a rapturous devotion. “There, I did not mean that, Master Tony,” said she, blushing; “I never intended your offence was to be condoned; I only thought of a free pardon.”
“Then give it to me, Alice,” said he, gulping down his emotion; “for I am going away, and who knows when I shall see you again?”
“Indeed,” said she, with a look of agitation; “have you reconsidered it, then? have you resolved to join Maitland?”
“And were you told of this, Alice?”
“Yes, Tony: as one who feels a very deep interest in you, I came to hear it; but, indeed, partly by an accident.”
“Will you tell me what it was you heard?” said he, gravely; “for I am curious to hear whether you know more than myself.”
“You were to go abroad with Maitland,—you were to travel on the Continent together.”
“And I was to be his secretary, eh?” broke in Tony, with a bitter laugh; “was n't that the notable project?”
“You know well, Tony, it was to be only in name.”
“Of course I do; my incapacity would insure that much.”
“I must say, Tony,” said she, reproachfully, “that so far as I know of Mr. Maitland's intentions towards you, they were both kind and generous. In all that he said to me, there was the delicacy of a gentleman towards a gentleman.”
“He told you, however, that I had refused his offer?”
“Yes; he said it with much regret, and I asked his leave to employ any influence I might possess over you to make you retract the refusal,—at least to think again over his offer.”
“And of course he refused you nothing?” said Tony, with a sneering smile.
“Pardon me,—he did not grant my request.”
“Then I think better of him than I did before.”
“I suspect, Tony, that, once you understood each other, you are men to be friends.”
“You mean by that to flatter me, Alice,—and of course it is great flattery; but whether it is that I am too conscious of my own inferiority, or that I have, as I feel I have, such a hearty hatred of your accomplished friend, I would detest the tie that should bind me to him. Is he coming back here?”
“I do not know.”
“You do not know!” said he, slowly, as he fixed his eyes on her.
“Take care, sir, take care; you never trod on more dangerous ground than when you forgot what was due tome, I told you I did not know; it was not necessary I should repeat it.”
“There was a time when you rebuked my bad breeding less painfully, Alice,” said he, in deep sorrow; “but these are days not to come back again. I do not know if it is not misery to remember them.”
“John Anthony Butler, Esq.,” cried a loud voice, and Skeffy sprang over a box-hedge almost as tall as himself, flourishing a great sealed packet in his band. “A despatch on Her Majesty's service just sent on here!” cried he; “and now remember, Tony, if it's Viceroy you're named, I insist on being Chief Sec.; if you go to India as Governor-General, I claim Bombay or Madras. What stuff is the fellow made of? Did you ever see such a stolid indifference? He doesn't want to know what the Fates have decreed him.”
“I don't care one farthing,” said Tony, doggedly.
“Here goes, then, to see,” cried Skeffy, tearing open the packet and reading: “'Downing Street, Friday, 5th.—Mr. Butler will report himself for service as F. O. Messenger on Tuesday morning, 9 th. By order of the Under-Secretary of State.'”
“There's a way to issue a service summons. It was Graves wrote that, I 'd swear. All he ought to have said was, 'Butler for service, F. O., to report immediately.'”
“I suppose the form is no great matter,” said Mrs. Trafford, whose eyes now turned with an anxious interest towards Tony.
“The form is everything, I assure you. The Chief Secretary is a regular Tartar about style. One of our fellows, who has an impediment in his speech, once wrote, 'I had had,' in a despatch, and my Lord noted it with, 'It is inexcusable that he should stutter in writing.'”
“I must be there on Wednesday, is it?” asked Tony.
“Tuesday—Tuesday, and in good time too. But ain't you lucky, you dog! They 're so hard pressed for messengers, they've got no time to examine you. You are to enter official lifepar la petite porte, but you get in without knocking.”
“I cannot imagine that the examination would be much of a difficulty,” said Mrs. Trafford.
Tony shook his head in dissent, and gave a sad faint sigh.
“I 'd engage to coach him in a week,” broke in Skeffy. “It was I ground Vyse in Chinese, and taught him that glorious drinking-song, 'Tehin Tehan Ili-Ta!' that he offered to sing before the Commissioners if they could play the accompaniment.”
Leaving Skeffy to revel in his gratifying memories of such literary successes, Alice turned away a few steps with Tony.
“Let us part good friends, Tony,” said she, in a low tone. “You 'll go up to the Abbey, I hope, and wish them a good-bye, won't you?”
“I am half ashamed to go now,” muttered he.
“No, no, Tony; don't fancy that there is any breach in our friendship; and tell me another thing: would you like me to write to you? I know you 're not very fond of writing yourself, but I 'll not be exacting. You shall have two for one,—three, if you deserve it.”
He could not utter a word; his heart felt as if it would burst through his side, and a sense of suffocation almost choked him. He knew, if he tried to speak, that his emotion would break out, and in his pride he would have suffered torture rather than shed a tear.
With a woman's nice tact she saw his confusion, and hastened to relieve it. “The first letter must, however, be from you, Tony. It need be only half a dozen lines, to say if you have passed your examination, what you think of your new career, and where you are going.”
“I couldn't write!” stammered out Tony; “I could not!”
“Well, I will,” said she, with a tone of kind feeling. “Your mother shall tell me where to address you.”
“You will see mother, then?” asked he, eagerly.
“Of course, Tony. If Mrs. Butler will permit me, I will be a frequent visitor.”
“Oh, if I thought so!”
“Do think so,—be assured of it; and remember, Tony, whenever you have courage to think of me as your own old friend of long ago, write and tell me so.” These words were not said without a certain difficulty. “There, don't let us appear foolish to your smart friend, yonder. Goodbye.”
“Good-bye, Alice,” said he, and now the tears rushed fast, and rolled down his cheeks; but he drew his hand roughly across his face, and, springing upon the car, said, “Drive on, and as hard as you can; I am too late here.”
Skeffy shouted his adieux, and waved a most picturesque farewell; but Tony neither heard nor saw either. Both hands were pressed on his face, and he sobbed as if his very heart was breaking.
“Well, if that's not a melodramatic exit, I'm a Dutchman,” exclaimed Skeffy, turning to address Alice; but she too was gone, and he was left standing there alone.
“Don't be angry with me, Bella! don't scold, and I 'll tell you of an indiscretion I have just committed,” said Alice, as she sat on her sister's bed.
“I think I can guess it,” said Bella, looking up in her face.
“No, you cannot,—you are not within a thousand miles of it. I know perfectly what you mean, Bella; you suspect that I have opened a flirtation with the distinguished Londoner, the wonderful Skeffington Darner.”
Bella shook her head dissentingly.
“Not but one might,” continued Alice, laughing, “in a dull season, with an empty house and nothing to do; just as I 've seen you trying to play that twankling old harpsichord in the Flemish drawing-room, for want of better; but you are wrong, for all that.”
“It was not of him I was thinking, Alice,—on my word, it was not. I had another, and, I suppose, a very different person in my head.”
“Tony!”
“Just so.”
“Well, what of him; and what the indiscretion with which you would charge me?”
“With which you charge yourself, Alice dearest! I see it all in that pink spot on your cheek, in that trembling of your lips, and in that quick impatience of your manner.”
“Dear me! what can it be which has occasioned such agitation, and called up such terrible witnesses against me?”
“I 'll tell you, Alice. You have sent away that poor boy more in love than ever. You have let him carry away a hope which you well know is only a delusion.”
“I protest this is too bad. I never dreamed of such a lecture, and I 'll just go downstairs and make a victim of Mr. Damer.”
Alice arose and dashed out of the room; not, however, to do as she said, but to hurry to her own room, and lock the door after her as she entered it.
It was just as Bella said; Alice had sent off that poor boy “twice as much in love as ever.” Poor fellow! what a strange conflict was that that raged within him!—all that can make life glorious, give ecstasy to the present and hope to the future, mingled with everything that can throw a gloom over existence, and make it a burden and a task. Must it be ever thus?—must the most exquisite moments of our life, when we have youth and hope and health and energy, be dashed with fears that make us forget all the blessings of our lot, and deem ourselves the most wretched of created beings?
In this feverish alternation he travelled along homeward,—now thinking of the great things he could do and dare to win her love, now foreshadowing the time when all hopes should be extinguished, and he should walk the world alone and forsaken. He went over in memory—who has not done so at one time or other?—all she had said to him at their last meeting, asking what ground there might be for hope in this, what reason for belief in that. With what intense avidity do we seek for the sands of gold in this crushed and crumbled rock! how eagerly do we peer to catch one glittering grain that shall whisper to us of wealth hereafter!
Surely, thought he, Alice is too good and too true-hearted to give me even this much of hope if she meant me to despair. Why should she offer to write to me if she intended that I was to forget her? “I wonder,” muttered he, in his dark spirit of doubt,—“I wonder if this be simply the woman's way of treating a love she deems beneath her?” He had read in some book or other that it is no uncommon thing for those women whose grace and beauty win homage and devotion thus to sport with the affections of their worshippers, and that in this exercise of a cruel power they find an exquisite delight. But Alice was too proud and too high-hearted for such an ignoble pastime. But then he had read, too, that women sometimes fancy that, by encouraging a devotion they never mean to reward, they tend to elevate men's thoughts, ennobling their ambitions, and inspiring them with purer, holier hopes. What if she should mean this, and no more than this? Would not her very hatred be more bearable than such pity? For a while this cruel thought unmanned him, and he sat there like one stunned and powerless.
For some time the road had led between the low furze-clad bills of the country, but now they had gained the summit of a ridge, and there lay beneath them that wild coast-line, broken with crag and promontory towards the sea, and inland swelling and falling in every fanciful undulation, yellow with the furze and the wild broom, but grander for its wide expanse than many a scene of stronger features. How dear to his heart it was! How inexpressibly dear the spot that was interwoven with every incident of his life and every spring of his hope! There the green lanes he used to saunter with Alice; there the breezy downs over which they cantered; yonder the little creek where they had once sheltered from a storm: he could see the rock on which he lit a fire in boyish imitation of a shipwrecked crew! It was of Alice that every crag and cliff, every bay and inlet spoke.
“And is all that happiness gone forever?” cried he, as he stood gazing at the scene. “I wonder,” thought he, “could Skeffy read her thoughts and tell me how she feels towards me? I wonder will he ever talk to her of me, and what will they say?” His cheek grew hot and red, and he muttered to himself, “Who knows but it may be in pity?” and with the bitterness of the thought the tears started to his eyes, and coursed down his cheeks.
That same book,—how it rankled, like a barbed arrow, in his side!—that same book said that men are always wrong in their readings of woman,—that they cannot understand the finer, nicer, more subtle springs of her action; and in their coarser appreciation they constantly destroy the interest they would give worlds to create. It was as this thought flashed across his memory the car-driver exclaimed aloud, “Ah, Master Tony, did ever you see as good a pony as you? he 's carried the minister these eighteen years, and look at him how he jogs along to-day!”
He pointed to a little path in the valley where old Dr. Stewart ambled along on his aged palfrey, the long mane and flowing tail of the beast marking him out though nigh half a mile away.
“Why didn't I think of that before?” thought Tony. “Dolly Stewart is the very one to help me. She has not been bred and brought up like Alice, but she has plenty of keen woman's wit, and she has all a sister's love for me, besides. I 'll just go and tell her how we parted, and I 'll ask her frankly what she says to it.”
Cheered by this bright idea, he pursued his way in better spirits, and soon reached the little path which wound off from the high-road through the fields to the Burnside. Not a spot there unassociated with memories, but they were the memories of early boyhood. The clump of white thorns they used to call the Forest, and where they went to hunt wild beasts; the little stream they fancied a great and rapid river, swarming with alligators; the grassy slope, where they had their house, and the tiny garden whose flowers, stuck down at daybreak, were withered before noon!—too faithful emblems of the joys they illustrated!
“Surely,” thought he, “no boy had ever such a rare playfellow as Dolly; so ready to take her share in all the rough vicissitudes of a boy's pleasures, and yet to bring to them a sort of storied interest and captivation which no mere boy could ever have contributed. What a little romance the whole was,—just because she knew how to impart the charm of a story to all they did and all they planned!”
It was thus thinking that he entered the cottage. So still was everything that he could hear the scratching noise of a pen as a rapid writer's hand moved over the paper. He peeped cautiously in and saw Dolly seated, writing busily at a table all strewn over with manuscript: an open book, supported by other books, lay before her, at which from time to time she glanced.
Before Tony had advanced a step she turned round and saw him. “Was it not strange, Tony?” said she, and she flushed as she spoke. “I felt that you were there before I saw you; just like long ago, when I always knew where you were hid.”
“I was just thinking of that same long ago, Dolly,” said he, taking a chair beside her, “as I came up through the fields. There everything is the same as it used to be when we went to seek our fortune across the sandy desert, near the Black Lake.”
“No,” said she, correcting; “the Black Lake was at the foot of Giant's Rock, beyond the rye-field.”
“So it was, Dolly; you are right.”
“Ah, Master Tony, I suspect I have a better memory of those days than you have. To be sure, I have not had as many things happening in the mean while to trouble these memories.”
There was a tone of sadness in her voice, very slight, very faint, indeed, but still enough to tinge these few words with melancholy.
“And what is all this writing about?” said he, moving his hands through the papers. “Are you composing a book, Dolly?”
“No,” said she, timidly; “I am only translating a little German story. When I was up in London, I was lucky enough to obtain the insertion of a little fairy tale in a small periodical meant for children, and the editor encouraged me to try and render one of Andersen's stories; but I am a very sorry German, and, I fear me, a still sorrier prose writer; and so, Tony, the work goes on as slowly as that bridge of ours used long ago. Do you remember when it was made, we never had the courage to pass over it! Mayhap it will be the same with my poor story, and when finished, it will remain unread.”
“But why do you encounter such a piece of labor?” said he. “This must have taken a week or more.”
“A month yesterday, my good Tony; and very proud I am, too, that I did it in a month.”
“And for what, in heaven's name?”
“For three bright sovereigns, Master Tony!” said she, blushing.
“Oh, I didn't mean that,” said he, in deep shame and confusion. “I meant only, why did you engage on such a hard task.”
“I know you did n't mean it, Tony; but I was so proud of my success as an author it would out. Yes,” said she, with a feigned air of importance, “I have just disposed of my copyright; and you know, Tony, Milton did not get a great deal more for 'Paradise Lost.' You see,” added she, seriously, “what with poor papa's age and his loneliness, and my own not over-great strength, I don't think I shall try (at least, not soon) to be a governess again; and it behoves me to be as little as I can of a burden to him; and after thinking of various things, I have settled upon this as the best.”
“What a good girl you are!” said he, and he fixed his eyes full upon her; nor did he know how admiringly, till he saw that her face, her forehead, and even her neck were crimson with shame and confusion.
“There is no such great goodness, in doing what is simply one's duty,” said she, gravely.
“I don't know that, Dolly.”
“Come, come, Tony, you never fancied yourself a hero, just because you are willing to earn your bread, and ready to do so by some sacrifice of your tastes and habits.”
The allusion recalled Tony to himself and his own cares, and after a few seconds of deep thought, he said, “I am going to make the venture now, Dolly. I am called away to London by telegraph, and am to leave to-morrow morning.”
“Are you fully prepared, Tony, for the examination?”
“Luckily for me, they do not require it Some accidental want of people has made them call in all the available fellows at a moment's warning, and in this way I may chance to slip into the service unchallenged.”
“Nay, but, Tony,” said she, reproachfully, “you surely could face the examination?”
“I could face it just as I could face being shot at, of course, but with the same certainty of being bowled over. Don't you know, Dolly, that I never knew my grammar long ago till you had dinned it into my head; and as you never come to my assistance now, I know well what my fate would be.”
“My dear Tony,” said she, “do get rid once for all of the habit of underrating your own abilities; as my dear father says, people very easily make self-depreciation a plea of indolence. There, don't look so dreary; I 'm not going to moralize in the few last minutes we are to have together. Talk to me about yourself.”
“It was for that I came, Dolly,” said he, rising and taking a turn or two up and down the room; for, in truth, he was sorely puzzled how to approach the theme that engaged him. “I want your aid; I want your woman's wit to help me in a difficulty. Here's what it is, Dolly,” and he sat down again at her side, and took her hand in his own. “Tell me, Dolly,” said he, suddenly, “is it true, as I have read somewhere, that a woman, after having made a man in love with her, will boast that she is not in the least bound to requite his affection if she satisfies herself that she has elevated him in his ambition, given a higher spring to his hope,—made him, in fact, something better and nobler than his own uninspired nature had ever taught him to be? I 'm not sure that I have said what I meant to say; but you 'll be able to guess what I intend.”
“You mean, perhaps, will a woman accept a man's love as a means of serving him without any intention of returning it?”
Perhaps he did not like the fashion in which she put his question, for he did not answer, save by a nod.
“I say yes; such a thing is possible, and might happen readily enough if great difference of station separated them.”
“Do you mean if one was rich and the other poor?”
“Not exactly; because inequalities of fortune may exist between persons of equal condition.”
“In which case,” said he, hurriedly, “you would not call their stations unequal, would you?”
“That would depend on how far wealth contributed to the habits of the wealthier. Some people are so accustomed to affluence, it is so much the accompaniment of their daily lives, that the world has for them but one aspect.”
“Like our neighbors here, the Lyles, for instance?” said he.
Dolly gave a slight start, like a sudden pang of pain, and grew deadly pale. She drew away her hand at the same time, and passed it across her brow.
“Does your head ache, dear Dolly?” asked he, compassionately.
“Slightly; it is seldom quite free of pain. You have chosen a poor guide, Tony, when there is a question of the habits of fine folk. None know so little of their ways as I do. But surely you do not need guidance. Surely you are well capable of understanding them in all their moods.”
With all her attempts to appear calm and composed, her lips shook and her cheeks trembled as she spoke; and Tony, more struck by her looks than her words, passed his arm round her, and said, in a kind and affectionate voice, “I see you are not well, my own dear Dolly; and that I ought not to come here troubling you about my own selfish cares; but I can never help feeling that it's a sister I speak to.”
“Yes, a sister,” said she, in a faint whisper,—“a sister!”
“And that your brother Tony has the right to come to you for counsel and help.”
“So he has,” said she, gulping down something like a sob; “but these days, when my head is weary and tired, and when—as to-day, Tony—I am good for nothing—Tell me,” said she, hastily, “how does your mother bear your going away? Will she let me come and sit with her often? I hope she will.”
“That she will, and be so happy to have you too; and only think, Dolly, Alice Lyle—Mrs. Trafford, I mean—has offered to come and keep her company sometimes. I hope you 'll meet her there; how you 'd like her. Dolly!”
Dolly turned away her head; and the tears, against which she had struggled so long, now burst forth, and slowly fell along her cheek.
“You must not fancy, Dolly, that because Alice is rich and great you will like her less. Heaven knows, if humble fortune could separate us, ours might have done so.”
“My head is splitting, Tony dear. It is one of those sudden attacks of pain. Don't be angry if I say good-bye; there's nothing for it but a dark room, and quiet.”
“My poor dear Dolly,” said he, pressing her to him, and kissing her twice on the cheek.
“No, no!” cried she, hysterically, as though to something she was answering; and then, dashing away, she rushed from the room, and Tony could hear her door shut and locked as she passed in.
“How changed from what she used to be!” muttered he, as he went his way; “I scarcely can believe she is the same! And, after all, what light has she thrown on the difficulty I put before her? Or was it that I did not place the matter as clearly as I might? Was I too guarded, or was I too vague? Well, well. I remember the time when, no matter how stupidIwas, she would soon have found out my meaning! What a dreary thing that life of a governess must be, when it could reduce one so quick of apprehension and so ready-witted as she was to such a state as this! Oh, is she not changed!” And this was the burden of his musings as he wended his way towards home.
“Here it is at last, mother,” said Tony, holding up the “despatch” as he entered the cottage.
“The order for the examination, Tony!” said she, as she turned pale.
“No, but the order to do without it, mother dear!—the order for Anthony Butler to report himself for service, without any other test than his readiness to go wherever they want to send him. It seems that there 's a row somewhere—or several rows—just now. Heaven bless the fellows that got them up, for it gives them no time at the Office to go into any impertinent inquiries as to one's French, or decimal fractions, or the other qualifications deemed essential to carrying a letter-bag, and so they 've sent for me to go off to Japan.”
“To Japan, Tony,—to Japan?”
“I don't mean positively to Japan, for Skeffy says it might be Taganrog, or Timbuctoo, or Tamboff, or some other half-known place. But no matter, mother; it 's so much a mile, and something besides, per day; and the short and long of it is, I am to show myself on Tuesday, the 9th, at Downing Street, there to be dealt with as the law may direct.”
“It's a hasty summons, my poor Tony—”
“It might be worse, mother. What would we say to it if it were, 'Come up and be examined'? I think I 'm a good-tempered fellow; but I declare to you frankly, if one of those 'Dons' were to put a question to me that I could n't answer,—and I 'm afraid it would not be easy to put any other,—I 'd find it very hard not to knock him down! I mean, of course, mother, if he did it offensively, with a chuckle over my ignorance, or something that seemed to say, 'There 's a blockhead, if ever there was one!' I know I couldn't help it!”
“Oh, Tony, Tony!” said she, deprecatingly.
“Yes, it's all very well to say Tony, Tony; but here's how it is. It would be 'all up' with me. It would be by that time decided that I was good for nothing, and to be turned back. The moment would be a triumphant one for the fellow that 'plucked' me,—it always is, I 'm told,—but I 'll be shot if it should be all triumph to him!”
“I won't believe this of you, Tony,” said she, gravely. “It 's not like your father, sir!”
“Then I 'd not do it, mother,—at least, if I could help it,” said he, growing very red. “I say, mother, is it too late to go up to the Abbey and bid. Sir Arthur good-bye? Alice asked me to do it, and I promised her.”
“Well, Tony, I don't know how you feel about these things now, but there was a time that you never thought much what hour of the day or night it was when you went there.”
“It used to be so!” said he, thoughtfully; and then added, “but I 'll go, at all events, mother; but I 'll not be long away, for I must have a talk with you before bedtime.”
“I have a note written to Sir Arthur here; will you just give it to him, Tony, or leave it for him when you 're coming away, for it wants no answer?”
“All right, mother; don't take tea till I come back, and I 'll do my best to come soon.”
It was a well-worn path that led from the cottage to Lyle Abbey. There was not an hour of day or night Tony had not travelled it; and as he went now, thoughts of all these long-agos would crowd on his memory, making him ask himself, Was there ever any one had so much happiness as I had in those days? Is it possible that my life to come will ever replace to me such enjoyment as that?
He was not a very imaginative youth, but he had that amount of the quality that suffices for small castle-building; and he went on, as he walked, picturing to himself what would be the boon he would ask from Fortune if some benevolent fairy were to start out from the tall ferns and grant him his wish. Would it be to be rich and titled and great, so that he might propose to make Alice his wife without any semblance of inordinate pretension? or would it not be to remain as he was, poor and humble in condition, and that Alice should be in a rank like his own, living in a cottage like Dolly Stewart, with little household cares to look after?
It was a strange labyrinth these thoughts led him into, and he soon lost his way completely, unable to satisfy himself whether Alice might not lose in fascination when no longer surrounded by all the splendid appliances of that high station she adorned, or whether her native gracefulness would not be far more attractive when her life became ennobled by duties. A continual comparison of Alice and Dolly would rise to his mind; nothing could be less alike, and yet there they were, in incessant juxtaposition; and while he pictured Alice in the humble manse of the minister, beautiful as he had ever seen her, he wondered whether she would be able to subdue her proud spirit to such lowly ways, and make of that thatched cabin the happy home that Dolly had made it. His experiences of life were not very large, but one lesson they had certainly taught him,—it was, to recognize in persons of condition, when well brought up, a great spirit of accommodation. In the varied company of Sir Arthur's house he had constantly found that no one submitted with a better grace to accidental hardships than he whose station had usually elevated him above the risks of their occurrence, and that in the chance roughings of a sportsman's life it was the born gentleman—Sybarite it might be at times—whose temper best sustained him in all difficulties, and whose gallant spirit bore him most triumphantly over the crosses and cares that beset him. It might not be a very logical induction that led him to apply this reasoning to Alice, but he did so, and in so doing he felt very little how the time went over, till he found himself on the terrace at Lyle Abbey.
Led on by old habit, he passed in without ringing the bell, and was already on his way to the drawing-room when he met Hailes the butler.
In the midst of a shower of rejoicings at seeing him again,—for he was a great favorite with the household,—Hailes hastened to show him into the dining-room, where, dinner over, Sir Arthur sat in an easy-chair at the fire, alone, and sound asleep. Roused by the noise of the opening door, Sir Arthur started and looked up; nor was he, indeed, very full awake while Tony blundered out his excuses for disturbing him.
“My dear Tony, not a word of this. It is a real pleasure to see you. I was taking a nap, just because I had nothing better to do. We are all alone here now, and the place feels strange enough in the solitude. Mark gone—the girls away—and no one left but Lady Lyle and myself. There's your old friend; that's some of the '32 claret; fill your glass, and tell me that you are come to pass some days with us.”
“I wish I was, sir; but I have come to say good-bye. I 'm off to-morrow for London.”
“For London! What! another freak, Tony?”
“Scarcely a freak, sir,” said he, smiling. “They 've telegraphed to me to come up and report myself for service at the Foreign Office.”
“As a Minister, eh?”
“No, sir; a Messenger.”
“An excellent thing, too; a capital thing. A man must begin somewhere, you know. Every one is not as lucky as I was, to start with close on twelve hundred a year. I was n't twenty when I landed at Calcutta, Tony,—a mere boy!” Here the baronet filled his glass, and drank it off with a solemnity that seemed as if it were a silent toast to his own health, for in his own estimation he merited that honor, very few men having done more for themselves than he had; not that he had not been over-grateful, however, to the fortune of his early days in this boastful acknowledgment, since it was in the humble capacity of an admiral's secretary—they called them clerks in those days—he had first found himself in the Indian Ocean, a mere accident leading to his appointment on shore and all his subsequent good fortune. “Yes, Tony,” continued he, “I started at what one calls a high rung of the ladder. It was then I first saw your father; he was about the same age as you are now. He was on Lord Dollington's staff. Dear me, dear me! it seems like yesterday;” and he closed his eyes, and seemed lost in revery; but if he really felt like yesterday, he would have remembered how insolently the superb aide-de-camp treated the meek civilian of the period, and how immeasurably above Mr. Lyle of those days stood the haughty Captain Butler of the Governor-General's staff.
“The soldiers used to fancy they had the best of it, Tony; but, I take it, we civilians won the race at last;” and his eyes ranged over the vast room, with the walls covered by pictures, and the sideboard loaded with massive plate, while the array of decanters on the small spider-table beside him suggested largely of good living.
“A very old friend of mine, Jos. Hughes—he was salt assessor at Bussorabad—once remarked to me, 'Lyle,' said he, 'a man must make his choice in life, whether he prefers a brilliant start or a good finish, for he cannot have both.' Take your pleasure when young, and you must consent to work when old; but if you set out vigorously, determined to labor hard in early life, when you come to my age, Tony, you may be able to enjoy your rest”—and here he waved his hand round, as though to show the room in which they sat,—“to enjoy your rest, not without dignity.”
Tony was an attentive listener, and Sir Arthur was flattered, and went on. “I am sincerely glad to have the opportunity of these few moments with you. I am an old pilot, so to say, on the sea you are about to venture upon; and really, the great difficulty young fellows have in life is, that the men who know the whole thing from end to end will not be honest in giving their experiences. There is a certain 'snobbery'—I have no other word for it—that prevents their confessing to small beginnings. They don't like telling how humble they were at the start; and what is the consequence? The value of the whole lesson is lost! Now, I have no such scruples, Tony. Good family connections and relatives of influence I had; I cannot deny it. I suppose there are scores of men would have coolly sat down and said to their right honorable cousin or their noble uncle, 'Help me to this,—get me that;' but sach was not my mode of procedure. No, sir; I resolved to be my own patron, and I went to India.”
When Sir Arthur said this, he looked as though his words were: “I volunteered to lead the assault It was I that was first up the breach.” “But, after all, Tony, I can't get the boys to believe this.” Now these boys were his three sons, two of them middle-aged, white-headed, liverless men in Upper India, and the third that gay dragoon with whom we have had some slight acquaintance.
“I have always said to the boys, 'Don't lie down on your high relations.'” Had he added that they would have found them a most uncomfortable bed, he would not have been beyond the truth. “'Do as I did, and see how gladly, ay, and how proudly, they will recognize you.' I say the same to you, Tony. You have, I am told, some family connections that might be turned to account?”
“None, sir; not one,” broke in Tony, boldly.
“Well, there is that Sir Omerod Butler. I don't suspect he is a man of much actual influence. He is, I take it, a bygone.”
“I know nothing of him; nor do I want to know anything of him,” said Tony, pushing his glass from him, and looking as though the conversation were one he would gladly change for any other topic; but it was not so easy to tear Sir Arthur from such a theme, and he went on.
“It would not do for you, perhaps, to make any advances towards him.”
“I should like to see myself!” said Tony, half choking with angry impatience.
“I repeat, it would not do foryouto take this step; but if you had a friend—a man of rank and station—one whose position your uncle could not but acknowledge as at least the equal of his own—”
“He could be no friend of mine who should open any negotiations on my part with a relation who has treated my mother so uncourteously, sir.”
“I think you are under a mistake, Tony. Mrs. Butler told me that it was rather her own fault than Sir Omerod's that some sort of reconciliation was not effected. Indeed, she once showed me a letter from your uncle when she was in trouble about those Canadian bonds.”
“Yes, yes, I know it all,” said Tony, rising, as if all his patience was at last exhausted. “I have read the letter you speak of; he offered to lend her five or six hundred pounds, or to give it, I forget which; and he was to takeme”—here he burst into a fit of laughter that was almost hysterical in its harsh mockery—“to take me. I don't know what he was to do with me, for I believe he has turned Papist, Jesuit, or what not; perhaps I was to have been made a priest or a friar; at all events, I was to have been brought up dependent on his bounty,—a bad scheme for each of us. He would not have been very proud of his protégé; and, if I know myself, I don't think I 'd have been very grateful to my protector. My dear mother, however, had too much of the mother in her to listen to it, and she told him so, perhaps too plainly for his refined notions in matters of phraseology; for he frumped and wrote no more to us.”
“Which is exactly the reason why a friend, speaking from the eminence which a certain station confers, might be able to place matters on a better and more profitable footing.”
“Not withmyconsent, sir, depend upon it,” said Tony, fiercely.
“My dear Tony, there is a vulgar adage about the impolicy of quarrelling with one's bread-and-butter; but how far more reprehensible would it be to quarrel with the face of the man who cuts it?”
It is just possible that Sir Arthur was as much mystified by his own illustration as was Tony, for each continued for some minutes to look at the other in a state of hopeless bewilderment. The thought of one mystery, however, recalled another, and Tony remembered his mother's note.
“By the way, sir, I have a letter here for you from my mother,” said he, producing it.
Sir Arthur put on his spectacles leisurely, and began to peruse it. It seemed very brief, for in an instant he had returned it to his pocket.
“I conclude you know nothing of the contents of this?” said he, quietly.
“Nothing whatever.”
“It is of no consequence. You may simply tell Mrs. Butler from me that I will call on her by an early day; and now, won't you come and have a cup of tea? Lady Lyle will expect to see you in the drawing-room.”
Tony would have refused, if he knew how; even in his old days he had been less on terms of intimacy with Lady Lyle than any others of the family, and she had at times a sort of dignified stateliness in her manner that checked him greatly.
“Here 's Tony Butler come to take a cup of tea with you, and say good-bye,” said Sir Arthur, as he led him into the drawing-room.
“Oh, indeed! I am too happy to see him,” said she, laying down her book; while, with a very chilly smile, she added, “and where is Mr. Butler bound for this time?” And simple as the words were, she contrived to impart to them a meaning as though she had said, “What new scheme or project has he now? What wild-goose chase is he at present engaged in?”
Sir Arthur came quickly to the rescue, as he said, “He's going to take up an appointment under the Crown; and, like a good and prudent lad, to earn his bread, and do something towards his mother's comfort.”
“I think you never take sugar,” said she, smiling faintly; “and for a while you made a convert of Alice.”
Was there ever a more common-place remark? and yet it sent the blood to poor Tony's face and temples, and overwhelmed him with confusion. “You know that the girls are both away?”
“It's a capital thing they 've given him,” said Sir Arthur, trying to extract from his wife even the semblance of an interest in the young fellow's career.
“What is it?” asked she.
“How do they call you? Are you a Queen's messenger, or a Queen's courier, or a Foreign Office messenger?”
“I'm not quite sure. I believe we are messengers, but whose I don't remember.”
“They have the charge of all the despatches to the various embassies and legations in every part of the world,” said Sir Arthur, pompously.
“How addling it must be,—how confusing!”
“Why so? You don't imagine that they have to retain them, and report them orally, do you?”
“Well, I 'm afraid I did,” said she, with a little simper that seemed to say, What did it signify either way?
“They'd have made a most unlucky selection in my case,” said Tony, laughing, “if such had been the duty.”
“Do you think you shall like it?”
“I suppose I shall. There is so very little I 'm really fit for, that I look on this appointment as a piece of rare luck.”
“I fancy I 'd rather have gone into the army,—a cavalry regiment, for instance.”
“The most wasteful and extravagant career a young fellow could select,” said Sir Arthur, smarting under some recent and not over-pleasant experiences.
“The uniform is so becoming too,” said she, languidly.
“It is far and away beyond any pretension of my humble fortune, Madam,” said Tony, proudly, for there was an impertinent carelessness in her manner that stung him to the quick.
“Ah, yes,” sighed she; “and the army, too, is not the profession for one who wants to marry.”
Tony again felt his cheek on fire, but he did not utter a word as she went on, “And report says something like this of you, Mr. Butler.”
“What, Tony! how is this? I never heard of it before,” cried Sir Arthur.
“Nor I, sir.”
“Come, come. It is very indiscreet of me, I know,” said Lady Lyle; “but as we are in such a secret committee here at this moment, I fancied I might venture to offer my congratulations.”
“Congratulations! on what would be the lad's ruin! Why, it would be downright insanity. I trust there is not a word of truth in it.”
“I repeat, sir, that I hear it all for the first time.”
“I conclude, then, I must have been misinformed.”
“Might I be bold enough to ask from what quarter the rumor reached you, or with whom they mated me?”
“Oh, as to your choice, I hear she is a very nice girl indeed, admirably brought up and well educated,—everything but rich; but of course that fact was well known to you. Men in her father's position are seldom affluent.”
“And who could possibly have taken the trouble to weave all this romance about me?” said Tony, flushing not the less deeply that he suspected it was Dolly Stewart who was indicated by the description.
“One of the girls, I forget which, told me. Where she learned it, I forget, if I ever knew; but I remember that the story had a sort of completeness about it that looked like truth.” Was it accident or intention that made Lady Lyle fix her eyes steadily on Tony as she spoke? As she did so, his color, at first crimson, gave way to an ashy paleness, and he seemed like one about to faint. “After all,” said she, “perhaps it was a mere flirtation that people magnified into marriage.”
“It was not even that,” gasped he out, hoarsely. “I am overstaying my time, and my mother will be waiting tea for me,” muttered he; and with some scarcely intelligible attempts at begging to be remembered to Alice and Bella, he took his leave, and hurried away.
While Tony, with a heart almost bursting with agony, wended his way towards home, Lady Lyle resumed her novel, and Sir Arthur took up the “Times.” After about half an hour's reading he laid down the paper, and said, “I hope there is no truth in that story about young Butler.”
“Not a word of it,” said she, dryly.
“Not a word of it! but I thought you believed it.”
“Nothing of the kind. It was a lesson the young gentleman has long needed, and I was only waiting for a good opportunity to give it.”
“I don't understand you. What do you mean by a lesson?”
“I have very long suspected that it was a great piece of imprudence on our part to encourage the intimacy of this young man here, and to give him that position of familiarity which he obtained amongst us; but I trusted implicitly to the immeasurable distance that separated him from our girls, to secure us against danger. That clever man of the world, Mr. Maitland, however, showed me I was wrong. He was not a week here till he saw enough to induce him to give me a warning; and though at first he thought it was Bella's favor he aspired to, he afterwards perceived it was to Alice he directed his attentions.”
“I can't believe this possible. Tony would never dare such a piece of presumption.”
“You forget two things, Sir Arthur. This young fellow fancies that his good birth makes him the equal of any one; and, secondly, Alice, in her sense of independence, is exactly the girl to do a folly, and imagine it to be heroic; so Maitland himself said to me, and it was perfectly miraculous how well he read her whole nature. And indeed it was he who suggested to me to charge Tony Butler with being engaged to the minister's daughter, and told me—and as I saw, with truth—how thoroughly it would test his suspicions about him. I thought he was going to faint,—he really swayed back and forwards when I said that it was one of the girls from whom I had the story.”
“If I could only believe this, he should never cross the threshold again. Such insolence is, however, incredible.”
“That's a man's way of regarding it; and however you sneer at our credulity, it enables us to see scores of things that your obstinacy is blind to. I am sincerely glad he is going away.”
“So am I—now; and I trust, in my heart, we have seen the last of him.”
“How tired you look, my poor Tony!” said his mother, as he entered the cottage and threw himself heavily and wearily into a chair.
“Iamtired, mother,—very tired and jaded.”
“I wondered what kept you so long, Tony; for I had time to pack your trunk, and to put away all your things; and when it was done and finished, to sit down and sorrow over your going away. Oh, Tony dear, are n't we ungrateful creatures, when we rise up in rebellion against the very mercies that are vouchsafed us, and say, Why was my prayer granted me? I am sure it was many and many a night, as I knelt down, I begged the Lord would send you some calling or other, that you might find means of an honest living; and a line of life that would n't disgrace the stock you came from; and now that He has graciously heard me, here I am repining and complaining just as if it was n't my own supplication that was listened to.”
Perhaps Tony was not in a humor to discuss a nice question of ethical meaning, for he abruptly said, “Sir Arthur Lyle read your note over, and said he'd call one of these days and see you. I suppose he meant with the answer.”
“There was no answer, Tony; the matter was just this,—I wanted a trifle of an advance from the bank, just to give you a little money when you have to go away; and Tom M'Elwain, the new manager, not knowing me perhaps, referred the matter to Sir Arthur, which was not what I wished or intended, and so I wrote and said so. Perhaps I said so a little too curtly, as if I was too proud, or the like, to accept a favor at Sir Arthur's hands; for he wrote me a very beautiful letter—it went home to my heart—about his knowing your father long ago, when they were both lads, and had the wide world before them; and alluding very touchingly to the Lord's bounties to himself,—blessing him with a full garner.”
“I hope you accepted nothing from him,” broke in Tony, roughly.
“No, Tony; for it happened that James Hewson, the apothecary, had a hundred pounds that he wanted to lay out on a safe mortgage, and so I took it, at six per cent, and gave him over the deeds of the little place here.”
“For a hundred pounds! Why, it 's worth twelve hundred at least, mother!”
“What a boy it is!” said she, laughing. “I merely gave him his right to claim the one hundred that he advanced, Tony dear; and my note to Sir Arthur was to ask him to have the bond, or whatever it is called, rightly drawn up and witnessed, and at the same time to thank him heartily for his own kind readiness to serve me.”
“I hate a mortgage, mother. I don't feel as if the place was our own any longer.”
“Your father's own words, eighteen years ago, when he drew all the money he had out of the agent's hands, and paid off the debt on this little spot here. 'Nelly,' said he, 'I can look out of the window now, and not be afraid of seeing a man coming ap the road to ask for his interest.'”
“It's the very first thing I 'll try to do, is to pay off that debt, mother. Who knows but I may be able before the year is over! But I am glad you did n't take it from Sir Arthur.”
“You're as proud as your father, Tony,” said she, with her eyes full of tears; “take care that you're as good as he was too.”