“I don't think I 'll walk down to the Burnside with you to-day,” said
Beck Graham to Maitland, on the morning after their excursion.
“And why not?”
“People have begun to talk of our going off together alone,--long
solitary walks. They say it means something--or nothing.”
“So, I opine, does every step and incident of our lives.”
“Well. You understand what I intended to say.”
“Not very clearly, perhaps; but I shall wait a little further
explanation. What is it that the respectable public imputes to us?”
“That you are a very dangerous companion for a young lady in a country
walk.”
“But am I? Don't you think you are in a position to refute such a
calumny?”
“I spoke of you as I found you.”
“And how might that be?”
“Very amusing at some moments; very absent at others; very desirous to
be thought lenient and charitable in your judgments of people, while
evidently thinking the worst of every one; and with a rare frankness
about yourself that, to any one not very much interested to learn the
truth, was really as valuable as the true article.”
“But you never charged me with any ungenerous use of my advantage; to
make professions, for instance, because I found you alone.”
“A little--a very little of that--there was; just as children stamp on
thin ice and run away when they hear it crack beneath them.”
“Did I go so far as that?”
“Yes; and Sally says, if she was in my place, she 'd send papa to you
this morning.”
“And I should be charmed to see him. There are no people whom I prefer
to naval men. They have the fresh, vigorous, healthy tone of their own
sea life in all they say.”
“Yes; you'd have found him vigorous enough, I promise you.”
“And why did you consult your sister at all?”
“I did not consult her; she got all out of me by cross-questioning. She
began by saying, 'That man is a mystery to me; he has not come down here
to look after the widow nor Isabella; he's not thinking of politics nor
the borough; there 's no one here that he wants or cares for. What can
he be at?'”
“Could n't you have told her that he was one of those men who have lived
so much in the world it is a luxury to them to live a little out of it?
Just as it is a relief to sit in a darkened room after your eyes have
been dazzled with too strong light. Could n't you have said, He delights
to talk and walk with me, because he sees that he may expand freely, and
say what comes uppermost, without any fear of an unfair inference? That,
for the same reason,--the pleasure of an unrestricted intercourse,--he
wishes to know old Mrs. Butler, and talk with her,--over anything, in
short? Just to keep mind and faculties moving,--as a light breeze stirs
a lake and prevents stagnation?”
“Well. I 'm not going to perform Zephyr, even in such a high cause.”
“Could n't you have said, We had a pleasant walk and a mild cigarette
together,--_voilà tout?_” said he, languidly.
“I think it would be very easy to hate you,--hate you cordially,--Mr.
Norman Maitland.”
“So I've been told; and some have even tried it, but always
unsuccessfully.”
“Who is this wonderful foreigner they are making so much of at the
Castle and the Viceregal Lodge?” cried Mark, from one of the window
recesses, where he was reading a newspaper. “Maitland, you who know all
these people, who is the Prince Caffarelli?”
“Caffarelli! it must be the Count,” cried Maitland, hurrying over to
see the paragraph. “The Prince is upwards of eighty; but his son, Count
Caffarelli, is my dearest friend in the world. What could have brought
him over to Ireland?”
“Ah! there is the very question he himself is asking about the great Mr.
Norman Maitland,” said Mrs. Trafford, smiling.
“My reasons are easily stated. I had an admirable friend who could
secure me a most hospitable reception. I came here to enjoy the
courtesies of country home life in a perfection I scarcely believed
they could attain to. The most unremitting attention to one's comfort,
combined with the wildest liberty.”
“And such port wine,” interposed the Commodore, “as I am free to say no
other cellar in the province can rival.”
“Let us come back to your Prince or Count,” said Mark, “whichever he is.
Why not ask him down here?”
“Yes; we have room,” said Lady Lyle; “the M'Clintocks left this
morning.”
“By all means, invite him,” broke in Mrs. Trafford; “that is, if he be
what we conjecture the dear friend of Mr. Maitland might and should be.”
“I am afraid to speak of him,” said Maitland; “one disserves a friend
by any over-praise; but at Naples, and in his own set, he is thought
charming.”
“I like Italians myself,” said Colonel Hoyle. “I had a fellow I picked
up at Malta,--a certain Geronimo. I 'm not sure he was not a Maltese;
but such a salad as he could make! There was everything you could think
of in it,--tomato, eggs, sardines, radishes, beetroot, cucumber.”
“Every Italian is a bit of a cook,” said Maitland, relieving adroitly
the company from the tiresome detail of the Colonel. “I 'll back my
friend Caffarelli for a dish of macaroni against all professional
artists.”
While the Colonel and his wife got into a hot dispute whether there was
or was not a slight flavor of parmesan in the salad, the others gathered
around Maitland to hear more of his friend. Indeed, it was something new
to hear of an Italian of class and condition. They only knew the nation
as tenors or modellers or language masters. Their compound idea of
Italian was a thing of dark skin and dark eyes; very careless in dress,
very submissive in aspect, with a sort of subdued fire, however, in
look, that seemed to say how much energy was only sleeping there! and
when Maitland sketched the domestic ties of a rich magnate of the land,
living a life of luxurious indolence, in a sort of childlike simplicity
as to what engaged other men in other countries, without a thought for
questions of politics, religion, or literature, living for mere life's
sake, he interested them much.
“I shall be delighted to ask him here,” said he, at last; “only let me
warn you against disappointment. He'll not be witty like a Frenchman,
nor profound like a German, nor energetic like an Englishman; he 'll
neither want to gain knowledge nor impart it. He'll only ask to be
permitted to enjoy the pleasures of a very charming society without any
demand being made upon him to contribute anything; to make him fancy, in
short, that he knew you all years and years ago, and has just come back
out of cloud-land to renew the intimacy. Will you have him after this?”
“By all means,” was the reply. “Go and write your letter to him.”
Maitland went to his room, and soon wrote the following:--
“Caro Carlo mio,--Who'd have thought of seeing you in
Ireland? but I have scarce courage to ask you how and why
you came here, lest you retort the question upon myself. For
the moment, however, I am comfortably established in a
goodish sort of country-house, with some pretty women, and,
thank Heaven, no young men save one son of the family, whom
I have made sufficiently afraid of me to repress all
familiarities. They beg me to ask you here, and I see
nothing against it. We eat and drink very well. The place is
healthy, and though the climate is detestable, it braces and
gives appetite. We shall have, at all events, ample time to
talk over much that interests us both, and so I say, Come!
“The road is by Belfast, and thence to Coleraine, where we
shall take care to meet you. I ought to add that your host's
name is Sir Arthur Lyle, an Anglo-Indian, but who, thank
your stars for it! being a civilian, has neither shot tigers
nor stuck pigs. It will also be a relief to you to learn
that there's no sport of any kind in the neighborhood, and
there cannot be the shade of a pretext for making you mount
a horse or carry a gun, nor can any insidious tormentor
persecute you with objects of interest or antiquity; and so,
once again, Come--and believe me, ever your most cordial
friend,
“N. Maitland.
“There is no reason why you should not be here by Saturday,
so that, if nothing contrary is declared, I shall look out
for you by that day; but write at all events.”