Tony's first care, when he got back to his hotel, was to write to his
mother. He knew how great her impatience would be to hear of him, and
it was a sort of comfort to himself, in his loneliness, to sit down and
pour out his hopes and his anxieties before one who loved him. He told
her of his meeting with the Minister, and, by way of encouragement,
mentioned what Damer had pronounced upon that event. Nor did he forget
to say how grateful he felt to Damer, who, “after all, with his
fine-gentleman airs and graces, might readily have turned a cold
shoulder to a rough-looking fellow like me.”
Poor Tony! in his friendlessness he was very grateful for very little.
Nor is there anything which is more characteristic of destitution than
this sentiment. It is as with the schoolboy, who deems himself rich with
a half-crown!
Tony would have liked much to make some inquiry about the family at the
Abbey; whether any one had come to ask after or look for him; whether
Mrs. Trafford had sent down any books for his mother's reading, or any
fresh flowers,--the only present which the widow could be persuaded to
accept; but he was afraid to touch on a theme that had so many painful
memories to himself. Ah, what happy days he had passed there! What a
bright dream it all appeared now to look back on! The long rides along
the shore, with Alice for his companion, more free to talk with him,
less reserved than Isabella; and who could, on the pretext of her own
experiences of life,--she was a widow of two-and-twenty,--caution him
against so many pitfalls, and guard him against so many deceits of the
world. It was in this same quality of widow, too, that she could go out
to sail with him alone, making long excursions along the coast, diving
into bays, and landing on strange islands, giving them curious names as
they went, and fancying that they were new voyagers on unknown seas.
Were such days ever to come back again? No, he knew they could not They
never do come back, even to the luckiest of us; and how far less would
be our enjoyment of them if we but knew that each fleeting moment
could never be re-acted! “I wonder, is Alice lonely? Does she miss me?
Isabella will not care so much. She has books and her drawing, and she
is so self-dependent; but Alice, whose cry was, 'Where 's Tony?' till it
became a jest against her in the house. Oh, if she but knew how I envy
the dog that lies at her feet, and that can look up into her soft blue
eyes, and wonder what she is thinking of! Well, Alice, it has come at
last. Here is the day you so long predicted. I have set out to seek my
fortune; but where is the high heart and the bold spirit you promised
me? I have no doubt,” cried he, as he paced his room impatiently, “there
are plenty who would say, it is the life of luxurious indolence and
splendor that I am sorrowing after; that it is to be a fancied great
man,--to have horses to ride, and servants to wait on me, and my every
wish gratified,--it is all this I am regretting. But _I_ know better! I
'd be as poor as ever I was, and consent never to be better, if she 'd
just let me see her, and be with her, and love her, to my own heart,
without ever telling her. And now the day has come that makes all these
bygones!”
It was with a choking feeling in his throat, almost hysterical, that
he went downstairs and into the street to try and walk off his gloomy
humor. The great city was now before him,--a very wide and a very noisy
world,--with abundance to interest and attract him, had his mind been
less intent on his own future fortunes; but he felt that every hour he
was away from his poor mother was a pang, and every shilling he should
spend would be a privation to her. Heaven only could tell by what thrift
and care and time she had laid by the few pounds he had carried away
to pay his journey! As his eye fell upon the tempting objects of the
shop-windows, every moment displaying something he would like to have
brought back to her,--that nice warm shawl, that pretty clock for her
mantelpiece, that little vase for her flowers; how he despised himself
for his poverty, and how meanly the thought of a condition that made him
a burden where he ought to have been a benefit! Nor was the thought the
less bitter that it reminded him of the wide space that separated him
from her he had dared to love! “It comes to this,” cried he bitterly to
himself, “that I have no right to be here; no right to do anything, or
think of anything that I have done. Of the thousands that pass me, there
is not, perhaps, one the world has not more need of than of me! Is there
even one of all this mighty million that would have a kind word for me,
if they knew the heavy heart that was weighing me down?” At this minute
he suddenly thought of Dolly Stewart, the doctor's daughter, whose
address he had carefully taken down from his mother, at Mr. Alexander
M'Grader's, 4 Inverness Terrace, Richmond.
It would be a real pleasure to see Dolly's good-humored face, and hear
her merry voice, instead of those heavy looks and busy faces that addled
and confused him; and so, as much to fill up his time as to spare his
purse, he set out to walk to Richmond.
With whatever gloom and depression he began his journey, his spirits
rose as he gained the outskirts of the town, and rose higher and higher
as he felt the cheering breezes and the perfumed air that swept over the
rich meadows at either side of him. It was, besides, such a luxuriant
aspect of country as he had never before seen nor imagined,--fields
cultivated like gardens, trim hedgerows, ornamental trees, picturesque
villas on every hand. How beautiful it all seemed, and how happy! Was
not Dolly a lucky girl to have her lot thrown in such a paradise? How
enjoyable she must find it all!--she whose good spirits knew always
how “to take the most out of” whatever was pleasant How he pictured her
delight in a scene of such loveliness!
“That's Inverness Terrace, yonder,” said a policeman of whom he inquired
the way,--“that range of small houses you see there;” and he pointed to
a trim-looking row of cottage-houses on a sort of artificial embankment
which elevated them above the surrounding buildings, and gave a view of
the Thames as it wound through the rich meadows beneath. They were neat
with that English neatness which at once pleases and shocks a foreign
eye,--the trim propriety that loves comfort, but has no heart for
beauty. Thus, each was like his neighbor. The very jalousies were
painted the same color; and every ranunculus in one garden had his
brother in the next No. 4 was soon found, and Tony rang the bell and
inquired for Miss Stewart.
“She's in the school-room with the young ladies,” said the woman
servant; “but if you 'll step in and tell me your name, I 'll send her
to you.”
“Just say that I have come from her own neighborhood; or, better, say
Mr. Tony Butler would be glad to see her.” He had scarcely been a moment
in the neat but formal-looking front parlor, when a very tall, thin,
somewhat severe-looking lady--not old, nor yet young--entered, and
without any salutation said, “You asked for Miss Stewart, sir,--are you
a relative of hers?”
“No, madam. My mother and Miss Stewart's father are neighbors and very
old friends; and being by accident in London, I desired to see her, and
bring back news of her to the doctor.”
“At her father's request, of course?”
“No, madam; I cannot say so, for I left home suddenly, and had no time
to tell him of my journey.”
“Nor any letter from him?”
“None, madam.”
The thin lady pursed up her parched lips, and bent her keen cold eyes
on the youth, who really felt his cheek grow hot under the scrutiny. He
knew that his confession did not serve to confirm his position; and he
heartily wished himself out of the house again.
“I think, then, sir,” said she, coldly, “it will serve every purpose if
I inform _you_ that Miss Stewart is well; and if I tell _her_ that you
were kind enough to call and ask after her.”
“I'm sure you are right, madam,” said he, hurriedly moving towards
the door, for already he felt as if the ground was on fire beneath
him,--“quite right; and I 'll tell the doctor that though I did n't see
Miss Dora, she was in good health, and very happy.”
“I did n't say anything about her happiness, that I remember, sir; but
as I see her now passing the door, I may leave that matter to come from
her own lips. Miss Stewart,” cried she, louder, “there is a gentleman
here, who has come to inquire after you.” A very pale but nicely
featured young girl, wearing a cap,--her hair had been lately cut short
in a fever,--entered the room, and, with a sudden flush that made her
positively handsome, held out her hand to young Butler, saying, “Oh,
Tony, I never expected to see you here! how are all at home?”
Too much shocked at the change in her appearance to speak, Tony could
only mumble out a few broken words about her father.
“Yes,” cried she, eagerly, “his last letter says that he rides old
Dobbin about just as well as ever; 'perhaps it is,' says he, 'that
having both of us grown old together, we bear our years with more
tolerance to each other;' but won't you sit down, Tony? you 're not
going away till I have talked a little with you.”
“Is the music lesson finished, Miss Stewart?” asked the thin lady,
sternly.
“Yes, ma'am; we have done everything but sacred history.”
“Everything but the one important task, you might have said, Miss
Stewart; but, perhaps, you are not now exactly in the temperament to
resume teaching for to-day; and as this young gentleman's mission is
apparently to report, not only on your health but your happiness, I
shall leave you a quarter of an hour to give him his instructions.”
“I hate that woman,” muttered Tony, as the door closed after her.
“No, Tony, she's not unkind; but she doesn't exactly see the world the
way you and I used long ago. What a great big man you have grown!”
“And what a fine tall girl, you! And I used to call you a stump!”
“Ay, there were few compliments wasted between us in those days; but
weren't they happy?”
“Do you remember them all, Dolly?”
“Every one of them,--the climbing the big cherry-tree the day the branch
broke, and we both fell into the melon-bed; the hunting for eels under
the stones in the river,--was n't that rare sport? and going out to sea
in that leaky little boat that I 'd not have courage to cross the Thames
in now!--oh, Tony, tell me, you never were so jolly since?”
“I don't think I was; and what's worse, Dolly, I doubt if I ever shall
be.”
The tone of deep despondency of these words went to her heart, and her
lip trembled, as she said,--
“Have you had any bad news of late? is there anything going wrong with
you?”
“No, Dolly, nothing new, nothing strange, nothing beyond the fact that
I have been staring at, though I did not see it three years back, that I
am a great hulking idle dog, of no earthly use to himself or to anybody
else. However, I _have_ opened my eyes to it at last; and here I am,
come to seek my fortune, as we used to say long ago, which, after all,
seems a far nicer thing in a fairy book than when reduced to a fact.”
Dolly gave a little short cough, to cover a faint sigh which escaped
her; for she, too, knew something about seeking her fortune, and that
the search was not always a success.
“And what are you thinking of doing, Tony?” asked she, eagerly.
“Like all lazy good-for-nothings, I begin by begging; that is to say, I
have been to a great man this morning who knew my father, to ask him to
give me something,--to make me something.”
“A soldier, I suppose?”
“No; mother won't listen to that She 's so indignant about the way they
treated my poor father about that good-service pension,--one of a race
that has been pouring out their blood like water for three centuries
back,--that she says she 'd not let me accept a commission if it were
offered to me, without it came coupled with a full apology for the wrong
done my father; and as I am too old for the navy, and too ignorant for
most other things, it will push all the great man's ingenuity very close
to find out the corner to suit me.”
“They talk a deal about Australia, Tony; and, indeed, I sometimes think
I 'd like to go there myself. I read in the 'Times' t' other day that
a dairy-maid got as much as forty-six pounds a-year and her board; only
fancy, forty-six pounds a-year! Do you know,” added she, in a cautious
whisper, “I have only eighteen pounds here, and was in rare luck too,
they say, to get it.”
“What if we were to set out together, Dolly?” said he, laughing; but a
deep scarlet flush covered her face, and though she tried to laugh too,
she had to turn her head away, for the tears were in her eyes.
“But how could _you_ turn dairymaid, Dolly?” cried he, half
reproachfully.
“Just as well, or rather better, than _you_ turn shepherd or
gold-digger. As to mere labor, it would be nothing; as to any loss of
condition, I 'd not feel it, and therefore not suffer it.”
“Oh, I have no snobbery myself about working with my hands,” added he,
hastily. “Heaven help me if I had, for my head would n't keep _me_; but
a girl's bringing up is so different from a boy's; she oughtn't to do
anything menial out of her own home.”
“We ought all of us just to do our best, Tony, and what leaves us less
of a burden to others,--that's my reading of it; and when we do that, we
'll have a quiet conscience, and that's something that many a rich man
could n't buy with all his money.”
“I think it's the time for the children's dinner, Miss Stewart,” said
the grim lady, entering. “I am sorry it should cut short an interview so
interesting.”
A half-angry reply rose to Tony's lips, when a look from Dora stopped
him, and he stammered out, “May I call and see you again before I go
back?”
“When _do_ you go back, young gentleman?” asked the thin lady.
“That's more than I can tell. This week if I can; next week if I must.”
“If you 'll write me a line, then, and say what day it would be your
convenience to come down here, I will reply, and state whether it will
be Miss Stewart's and mine to receive you.”
“Come, at all events,” said Dora, in a low voice, as they shook hands
and parted.
“Poor Dolly!” muttered he, as he went his way towards town. “What
between the pale cheeks and the cropped hair and the odious cap, I 'd
never have known her!” He suddenly heard the sound of footsteps behind
him, and, turning, he saw her running towards him at full speed.
“You had forgotten your cane, Tony,” said she, half breathless, “and I
knew it was an old favorite of yours, and you 'd be sorry to think it
was lost. Tell me one thing,” cried she, and her cheek flushed even a
deeper hue than the exercise had given it; “could you--would you be a
clerk--in a merchant's office, I mean?”
“Why do you ask me, Dolly?” said he; for her eager and anxious face
directed all his solicitude from himself to her.
“If you only would and could, Tony,” continued she, “write. No; make
papa write me a line to say so. There, I have no time for more; I have
already done enough to secure me a rare lesson when I get back. Don't
come here again.”
She was gone before he could answer her; and with a heavier heart and
a very puzzled head, he resumed his road to London, “Don't come here
again” ringing in his head as he went.