Day after day went over, and no tidings of Maitland. When the post came
in of a morning, and no letter in his hand appeared, Mark's impatience
was too perceptible to make any comment for his sisters either safe or
prudent. Nor was it till nigh a week passed over that he himself said,
“I wonder what has become of Maitland? I hope he's not ill.” None
followed up the theme, and it dropped. The expected guests began to
drop in soon after, and, except by Mark himself, Mr. Norman Maitland
was totally forgotten. The visitors were for the most part squires,
and their wives and families; solid, well-to-do gentlemen, whose chief
objects in life were green crops and the poor-law. Their talk was
either of mangold or guano, swedes or the union, just as their sons'
conversation ranged over dogs, horses, meets, and covers; and the ladies
disported in toilette, and such details of the Castle drawing-rooms as
the Dublin papers afforded. There were Mr. and Mrs. Warren, with two
daughters and a son; and the Hunters, with two sons and a daughter.
There were Colonel Hoyle and Mrs. Hoyle, from regimental head-quarters,
Belfast; and Groves Bulkney, the member for the county, who had come
over, in the fear of an approaching dissolution of Parliament, to have
a look at his constituents. He was a Tory, who always voted with the
Whigs; a sort of politician in great favor with the North of Ireland,
and usually supposed to have much influence with both parties. There
were Masseys from Tipperary, and M'Clintocks from Louth; and, lastly,
herald of their approach, three large coffin-shaped trunks, undeniably
of sea-origin, with the words “Cap. Gambier Graham, R.N.,” marked on
them, which arrived by a carrier, with three gun-cases and an immense
array of fishing-tackle, gaffs, and nets.
“So I see those odious Grahams are coming,” said Mark, ill-humoredly,
as he met his elder sister in the hall. “I declare, if it were not that
Maitland might chance to arrive in my absence, I 'd set off this very
morning.”
“I assure you, Mark, you are all wrong; the girls are no favorites of
mine; but looking to the staple of our other guests, the Grahams are
perfect boons from Heaven. The Warrens, with their infant school, and
Mrs. Maxwell, with her quarrel with the bishop, and the Masseys, with
their pretension about that daughter who married Lord Claude Somebody,
are so terribly tiresome that I long for the racket and noise of those
bustling young women, who will at least dispel our dulness.”
“At the cost of our good breeding.”
“At all events, they are Jolly and good-tempered girls. We have known
them for--”
“Oh, don't say how long. The younger one is two years older than
myself.”
“No, Mark, Beck is exactly your own age.”
“Then I 'm determined to call myself five-and-thirty the first
opportunity I have. She shall have three years tacked to her for the
coming into the world along with me.”
“Sally is only thirty-four.”
“Only! the idea of saying _only_ to thirty-four.”
“They don't look within eight or nine years of it, I declare. I suppose
you will scarcely detect the slightest change in them.”
“So much the worse. Any change would improve them, in my eyes.”
“And the Captain, too. He, I believe, is now Commodore.”
“I perceive there is no change in the mode of travel,” said Mark,
pointing to the trunks. “The heavy luggage used always to arrive the
day before they drove up in their vile Irish jaunting-car. Do they still
come in that fashion?”
“Yes; and I really believe with the same horse they had long, long ago.”
“A flea-bitten mare with a twisted tail?”
“The very same,” cried she, laughing. “I'll certainly tell Beck how well
you remember their horse. She 'll take it as a flattery.”
“Tell her what you like; she'll soon find out how much flattery she
has to expect from _me!_” After a short pause, in which he made two
ineffectual attempts to light a cigar, and slightly burned his fingers,
he said, “I 'd not for a hundred pounds that Maitland had met them here.
With simply stupid country gentry, he 'd not care to notice their ways
nor pay attention to their humdrum habits; but these Grahams, with all
their flagrant vulgarity, will be a temptation too irresistible, and he
will leave this to associate us forever in his mind with the two most
ill-bred women in creation.”
“You are quite unfair, Mark; they are greatly liked,--at least, people
are glad to have them; and if we only had poor Tony Butler here, who
used to manage them to perfection, they 'd help us wonderfully with all
the dulness around us.”
“Thank Heaven we have not. I 'd certainly not face such a constellation
as the three of them. I tell you, frankly, that I 'd pack my portmanteau
and go over to Scotland if that fellow were to come here again.”
“You 're not likely to be driven to such an extremity, I suspect; but
here comes papa, and I think he has been down at the Burnside; let us
hear what news he has.”
“It has no interest for me,” said he, walking away, while she hastened
out to meet Sir Arthur.
“No tidings, Alice,--at least, none that I can learn. Mrs. Butler's
headache still prevents her seeing me, though I could wager I saw her at
work in the garden when I turned off the high-road.”
“How strange! You suspect that she avoids you?”
“I am certain of it; and I went round by the minister's, thinking to
have a talk with Stewart, and hear something that might explain this;
but he was engaged in preparing his sermon, and begged me to excuse
him.”
“I wish we could get to the bottom of this mystery. Would she receive
me, do you think, if I were to go over to the cottage?”
“Most likely not I suspect whatever it be that has led to this
estrangement will be a passing cloud; let us wait and see. Who are
those coming up the bend of the road? The horse looks fagged enough,
certainly.”
“The Grahams, I declare! Oh, I must find Mark, and let him be caught
here when they arrive.”
“Don't let the Commodore get at _me_ before dinner; that's all I ask,”
said Sir Arthur, as he rode round to the stables.
When Alice entered the house, she found Mark at the open window watching
with an opera-glass the progress of the jaunting-car as it slowly wound
along the turns of the approach, lost and seen as the woods intervened
or opened.
“I cannot make it out at all, Alice,” said he; “there are two men and
two women, as well as I can see, besides the driver.”
“No, no; they have their maid, whom you mistake for a man.”
“Then the maid wears a wideawake and a paletot. Look, and see for
yourself;” and he handed her the glass.
“I declare you are right,--it is a man; he is beside Beck. Sally is on
the side with her father.”
“Are they capable of bringing some one along with them?” cried he, in
horror. “Do you think they would dare to take such a liberty as that
here?”
“I 'm certain they would not. It must be Kenrose the apothecary, who
was coming to see one of the maids, or one of our own people, or--”
Her further conjectures were cut short by the outburst of so strong an
expletive as cannot be repeated; and Mark, pale as death, stammered out,
“It's Maitland! Norman Maitland!”
“But how, Mark, do they know him?”
“Confound them! who can tell how it happened?” said he., “I 'll not meet
him; I 'll leave the house,--I 'll not face such an indignity.”
“But remember, Mark, none of us know your friend, we have not so much as
seen him; and as he was to meet these people, it's all the better they
came as acquaintances.”
“That's all very fine,” said he, angrily; “you can be beautifully
philosophical about it, all because you have n't to go back to a
mess-table and be badgered by all sorts of allusions and references to
Maitland's capital story.”
“Here they are, here they are!” cried Alice; and the next moment she
was warmly embracing those dear friends to whose failings she was nowise
blind, however ardent her late defence of them. Mark, meanwhile, had
advanced towards Maitland, and gave him as cordial a welcome as he could
command. “My sister Mrs. Trafford, Mr. Maitland,” said he; and Alice
gave her hand with a graceful cordiality to the new guest.
“I declare, Mark is afraid that I 'll kiss him,” cried Beck. “Courage,
_mon ami_, I'll not expose you in public.”
“How are you? how are you?” cried the Commodore; “brown, brown, very
brown; Indian sun. Lucky if the mischief is only skin-deep.”
“Shake hands, Mark,” said Sally, in a deep masculine voice; “don't bear
malice, though I did pitch you out of the boat that day.”
Mark was however, happily, too much engaged with his friend to have
heard the speech. He was eagerly listening to Maitland's account of his
first meeting with the Grahams.
“My lucky star was in the ascendant; for there I stood,” said Maitland,
“in the great square of Bally--Bally--”
“Ballymena,” broke in Beck; “and there's no great square in the place;
but you stood in a very dirty stable-yard, in a much greater passion
than such a fine gentleman should ever give way to.”
“Calling, 'A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!'”
“It was 'a chaise and pair' _I_ heard, and you were well laughed at
for your demand. The baker offered you a seat, which you rejected with
dismay; and, to tell the truth, it was half in the hope of witnessing
another outburst of your indignation that I went across and said, 'Would
you accept a place beside me, sir?'”
“And was I not overwhelmed with joy? Was it not in a transport of
gratitude that I embraced your offer?”
“I know you very nearly embraced my maid as you lifted her off the car.”
“And, by the way, where is Patience?” asked Mrs. Trafford.
“She's coming on, some fashion, with the swell's luggage,” added she,
dropping her voice to a whisper,--“eight trunks, eleven carpet-bags, and
four dressing-boxes, besides what I thought was a show-box, but is only
a shower-bath.”
“My people will take every care of her,” said Maitland.
“Is Fenton still with you?” asked Mark.
“Yes; he had some thoughts of leaving me lately. He said he thought he
'd like to retire,--that he 'd take a consulate or a barrack-mastership;
but I laughed him out of it.”
Sir Arthur and Lady Lyle had now come down to welcome the new arrivals;
and greetings and welcomes and felicitations resounded on all sides.
“Come along with me, Maitland,” said Mark, hurrying his friend away.
“Let me show you your quarters;” and as he moved off, he added, “What a
piece of ill-luck it was that you should have chanced upon the greatest
bores of our acquaintance!--people so detestable to me that if I had n't
been expecting your visit I 'd have left the house this morning.”
“I don't know that,” said Maitland, half languidly; “perhaps I have
grown more tolerant, or more indifferent,--what may be another name for
the same thing; but I rather liked the young women. Have we any more
stairs to mount?”
“No; here you are;” and Mark reddened a little at the impertinent
question. “I have put you here because this was an old _garçon_
apartment I had arranged for myself; and you have your bath-room yonder,
and your servant, on the other side of the terrace.”
“It's all very nice, and seems very quiet,” said Maitland.
“As to that, you'll not have to complain; except the plash of the sea at
the foot of those cliffs, you 'll never hear a sound here.”
“It's a bold thing of you to make me so comfortable, Lyle. When I
wrote to you to say I was coming, my head was full of what we call
country-house life, with all its bustle and racket,--noisy breakfasts
and noisier luncheons, with dinners as numerous as _tables d'hôte_. I
never dreamed of such a paradise as this. May I dine here all alone when
in the humor?”
“You are to be all your own master, and to do exactly as you please. I
need not say, though, that I will scarce forgive you if you grudge us
your company.”
“I'm not always up to society. I'm growing a little footsore with the
world, Lyle, and like to lie down in the shade.”
“Lewis told me you were writing a book,--a novel, I think he said,” said
Mark.
“I write a book! I never thought of such a thing. Why, my dear Lyle, the
fellows who--like myself--know the whole thing, never write! Have n't
you often remarked that a man who has passed years of life in a foreign
city loses all power of depicting its traits of peculiarity, just
because, from habit, they have ceased to strike him as strange? So it
is. Your thorough man of the world knows life too well to describe it.
No, no; it is the creature that stands furtively in the flats that can
depict what goes on in the comedy. Who are your guests?”
Mark ran over the names carelessly.
“All new to me, and I to them. Don't introduce me, Mark; leave me to
shake down in any bivouac that may offer. I'll not be a bear if people
don't bait me. You understand?”
“Perhaps I do.”
“There are no foreigners? That's a loss. They season society, though
they never make it, and there's an evasive softness in French that
contributes much to the courtesies of life. So it is; the habits of the
Continent to the wearied man of the world are just like loose slippers
to a gouty man. People learn to be intimate there without being
over-familiar,--a great point, Mark.”
“By the way,--talking of that same familiarity,--there was a young
fellow who got the habit of coming here, before I returned from India,
on such easy terms that I found him installed like one of ourselves. He
had his room, his saddle-horse, a servant that waited on him, and who
did his orders, as if he were a son of the family. I cut the thing very
short when I came home, by giving him a message to do some trifling
service, just as I would have told my valet. He resented, left the
house, and sent me this letter next morning.”
“Not much given to letter-writing, I see,” muttered Mait-land, as he
read over Tony's epistle; “but still the thing is reasonably well put,
and means to say, 'Give me a chance, and I 'm ready for you.' What's the
name,--Buller?”
“No; Butler,--Tony Butler they call him here.”
“What Butlers does he belong to?” asked Maitland, with more interest in
his manner.
“No Butlers at all,--at least, none of any standing. My sisters, who
swear by this fellow, will tell you that his father was a colonel and
C.B., and I don't know what else; and that his uncle was, and I believe
is, a certain Sir Omerod Butler, minister or ex-minister somewhere; but
I have my doubts of all the fine parentage, seeing that this youth lives
with his mother in a cottage here that stands in the rent-roll at £18
per annum.”
“There is a Sir Omerod Butler,” said Maitland, with a slow, thoughtful
enunciation.
“But if he be this youth's uncle, he never knows nor recognizes him. My
sister, Mrs. Trafford, has the whole story of these people, and will be
charmed to tell it to you.”
“I have no curiosity in the matter,” said Maitland, languidly. “The
world is really so very small that by the time a man reaches my age
he knows every one that is to be known in it. And so,” said he, as he
looked again at the letter, “he went off, after sending you the letter?”
“Yes, he left this the same day.”
“And where for?”
“I never asked. The girls, I suppose, know all about his movements. I
overhear mutterings about poor Tony at every turn. Tell me, Maitland,”
added he, with more earnestness, “is this letter a thing I can notice?
Is it not a regular provocation?”
“It is, and it is not,” said Maitland, as he lighted a cigar, puffing
the smoke leisurely between his words. “If he were a man that you would
chance upon at every moment, meet at your club, or sit opposite at
dinner, the thing would fester into a sore in its own time; but here
is a fellow, it may be, that you 'll never see again, or if so, but on
distant terms, I 'd say, put the document with your tailor's bills, and
think no more of it.”
Lyle nodded an assent, and was silent.
“I say, Lyle,” added Maitland, after a moment, “I'd advise you never to
speak of the fellow,--never discuss him. If your sisters bring up his
name, let it drop unnoticed; it is the only way to put the tombstone on
such memories. What is your dinner-hour here?”
“Late enough, even for you,--eight.”
“That _is_ civilized. I 'll come down--at least, to-day,” said he, after
a brief pause; “and now leave me.”
When Lyle withdrew, Maitland leaned on the window-sill, and ranged
his eyes over the bold coast-line beneath him. It was not, however,
to admire the bold promontory of Fairhead, or the sweeping shore that
shelved at its base; nor was it to gaze on the rugged outline of those
perilous rocks which stretched from the Causeway far into the open sea.
His mind was far, far away from the spot, deep in cares and wiles
and schemes; for his was an intriguing head, and had its own store of
knaveries.