When Tony Butler met Mrs. Trafford's carriage, he was on his road, by a
cross path, to the back entrance of Lyle Abbey. It was not his intention
to pay a visit there at that moment, though he was resolved to do so
later. His present errand was to convey a letter he had written to
Maitland, accepting the proposal of the day before.
He had not closed his eyes all night thinking of it. There was a
captivation in its promise of adventure that he felt to be irresistible.
He knew too well the defects of his nature and of his intelligence not
to be aware that, in any of the ordinary and recognized paths in life,
he must see himself overtaken and left behind by almost all. What were
called the learned professions were strictly debarred to him. Had he
even the means for the study he would not have the qualities to pursue
them.
He did not feel that he could take willingly to a trade; as little
could he be a clerk. To be sure, he had obtained this appointment as
messenger, but how disparagingly Maitland had spoken of it! He said,
it is true they “weren't bad things,” that “gentlemen somehow or other
managed to live on them;” but he hinted that these were gentlemen
whose knowledge of life had taught them a variety of little
accomplishments,--such as whist, billiards, and _écarté_,--which form
the traffic of society, and a very profitable traffic too, to him who
knows a little more of them than his neighbors. Worst of all, it was
a career, Maitland said, that led to nothing. You can become an “old
messenger,” if you live long enough, but nothing more; and he pictured
the life of a traveller who had lost every interest in the road he
journeyed,--who, in fact, only thought of it with reference to the time
it occupied,--as one of the dreariest of all imaginable things. “This
monotony,” added he, “will do for the fellow who has seen everything and
done everything; not for the fresh spirit of youth, eager to taste,
to learn, and to enjoy. A man of your stamp ought to have a wider and
better field,--a sphere wherein his very vitality will have fair play.
Try it; follow it if you can, Butler,” said he; “but I'm much mistaken
in you, if you 'll be satisfied to sit down with a station that only
makes you a penny-postman magnified.” Very few of us have courage to
bear such a test as this,--to hear the line we are about to take, the
service we are about to enter, the colony we are about to sail for,
disparaged, unmoved.
The unknown has always enough of terror about it without the dark
forebodings of an evil prophet.
“I like Maitland's project better,” said Tony, after a long night's
reflection. “At all events, it's the sort of thing to suit _me_. If I
should come to grief, it will be a sad day for poor mother; but the same
might happen to me when carrying a despatch-bag. I think he ought to
have been more explicit, and let me hear for whom I am to fight,
though, perhaps, it does n't much signify. I could fight for any one but
Yankees! I think I 'll say 'done.' This Maitland is a great 'Don;' has,
apparently, fortune and station. It can't be a mistake to sail in the
same boat with _him_. I'll certainly say 'done.'” With this resolve he
jumped out of bed, and wrote the following brief note:--
“Burnside, Tuesday morning.
“Dear Sir,--I'll not take the three days you gave me
to consider your offer; I accept it at once.--Yours truly,
“Tony Butler.
“Norman Maitland, Esq., Lyle Abbey.”
“I'll have to write to Skeffy,” said he to himself, “and say you may
tell my noble patron that I don't want the messengership, and that when
next I call at the Office I 'll kick Willis for nothing. I don't suppose
that this is the formal way of resigning; but I take it they 'll not
be sorry to be quit of me, and it will spare the two old coves in white
cravats all the trouble of having me plucked at the examination. Poor
Skeffy won't be pleased, though; he was to have 'coached me' in foreign
tongues and the Rule of Three. Well, I 'm glad I 'm in for a line of
life where nobody asks about Colenso's Arithmetic, nor has so much as
heard of Ollendorff's Method. Oh dear! how much happier the world must
have been when people weren't so confoundedly well informed!--so awfully
brimful of all knowledge as they now are! In those pleasant days,
instead of being a black sheep, I 'd have been pretty much like the rest
of the flock.”
The speculations on this topic--this golden age of ignorance and
bliss--occupied him all the way, as he walked over the hills to leave
his letter at the gate-lodge for Mr. Maitland.
Resisting all the lodge-keeper's inducements to talk,--for he was an
old friend of Tony's, and wanted much to know where he had been and
what doing of late, and why he was n't up at the Abbey every day as
of yore,--Tony refused to hear of all the sad consequences that had
followed on his absence; how the “two three-year-olds had gone back in
their training;” how “Piper wouldn't let a saddle be put on his back;”
how the carp were all dying in the new pond, nobody knew why,--there was
even something gone wrong with the sun-dial over the stable, as though
the sun himself had taken his departure in dudgeon, and would n't look
straight on the spot since. These were, with many more, shouted after
him as he turned away, while he, laughing, called out, “It will be all
right in a day or two, Mat. I 'll see to everything soon.”
“That I 'll not,” muttered he to himself when alone. “The smart
hussar--the brave Captain--may try his hand now. I 'd like to see him
on Piper. I only wish that he may mount him with the saddle tightly
girthed; and if he does n't cut a somerset over his head, my name is n't
Tony! Let us see, too, what he 'll do with those young dogs; they 're
wild enough by this time! I take it he 's too great a swell to know
anything about gardening or grafting; so much the worse for my Lady's
flower-pot! There 's one thing I 'd like to be able to do every morning
of my life,” thought he, in sadder mood,--“just to give Alice's chestnut
mare one canter, to make her neck flexible and her mouth light, and to
throw her back on her haunches. And then, if I could only see Alice on
her! just to see her as she bends down over the mane and pats the mare's
shoulder to coax her not to buck-leap! There never was a picture that
equalled it! the mare snorting and with eyes flashing, and Alice all the
while caressing her, and saying, 'How silly you are, Maida! come, now,
do be gentle!'”
These thoughts set others in motion,--the happy, happy days of long ago;
the wild, half-reckless gallops over the fern-clad hills in the clear
bright days of winter; or the still more delightful saunterings of a
summer's eve on the sea-shore!--none of them--not one--ever to come back
again. It was just as his reveries had reached so far that he caught
sight of the four dappled grays--they were Alice's own--swinging
smoothly along in that long easy stride by which thoroughbreds persuade
you that work is no distress to them. It was only as they breasted the
hill that he saw that the bearing-reins were not let down,--a violation
of a precept on which he was inexorable; and he hastened, with all the
speed he could, to catch them ere they gained the crest of the ridge.
To say the truth, Tony was somewhat ashamed of himself for his long
absence from the Abbey. If it was not ingratitude, it had a look of it.
_They_ knew nothing of what had passed between Mark and himself, and
could only pronounce upon his conduct as fickleness, or worse; and he
was glad of an opportunity to meet them less formally than by a regular
morning visit. Either Alice and her sister, or Alice alone, were certain
to be in the carriage; for Lady Lyle was too timid to trust herself with
those “grays;” and so he bounded forward, his heart full of expectancy,
and burning once more to hear that voice whose very chidings were as
music to him.
He was close to the carriage before he saw Maitland,--indeed, the sight
of Alice, as he drew near, had so entranced him that he saw nothing
else; but when his eyes did fall on her companion, a pang shot through
him as though he had been stabbed. In the raging jealousy of the moment
everything was forgotten but his passion,--his hatred of that man. He 'd
have given his right hand to be able to hurl at him a mortal defiance,
to have dared him to the death. Indeed, so far as the insolence of his
stare could convey his meaning, it declared an open war between them.
Nor did Maitland's attitude assuage this anger; he lay back with a
cool assumption of superiority--an air of triumphant satisfaction--that
seemed to say, Each of us is in the place that befits him.
So overcome was he by passion, that even Alice's invitation to get into
the carnage sounded like an outrage to his ears. It was bitter enough
to cast him off without making him witness the success of another.
Maitland's daring to apologize for him--to explain away why he had or
had not done this, that, or t' other--was more than his endurance could
brook; and as he hurried away from the spot, dashing recklessly down
cliff and crag, and sprang from rock to rock without a thought of the
peril, he almost accused himself of cowardice and cold-bloodedness for
not having insulted him on the instant, and by some open outrage forced
upon him a quarrel from which there could be no retreating. “If I 'd
insulted him before her,” cried he, “he never could have evaded me by
calling me an angry boy.”
“I'll have no companionship with him, at all events,” said he, suddenly
checking himself in his speed; “he shall neither be leader nor comrade
of mine. I 'll get my letter back before it reach him.” With this
resolve he turned his steps back again to the Abbey. Although he knew
well that he must reach the lodge before they could return from their
drive, he hurried along as though his life depended on it The keeper
was out, but Tony dashed into the lodge, and found, as he expected, the
letter on the chimney; he tore it into fragments, and turned away.
The day was already drawing to a close as he descended the little path
to the Burnside, and saw his mother awaiting him in the porch. As
he came nearer, he perceived that she held up a letter in her hand.
“Something important, Tony dear,” cried she. “It is printed at top, 'On
H. M's Service,' and marked 'Immediate' underneath. I have been very
impatient all the day for your return.”
Although Tony's mood at the moment did not dispose him to be on the very
best terms with the world at large, nor even with himself, he felt a
strange sort of vainglorious glow through him at being addressed on a
great square-shaped envelope, “On Her Majesty's Service,” and with
a huge seal, the royal arms affixed. It imparted a sense of
self-importance that was very welcome at such a moment It was a spoonful
of brandy to a man not far from fainting.
With all this, he did n't like his mother to see how much this gratified
or interested him; and he tossed the letter to one side, and said, “I
hope the dinner isn't far off; I'm very hungry.”
“It will be on the table in a few minutes, Tony; but let us hear what
Her Majesty wants with you.”
“It's nothing that won't keep till I have eaten my dinner, mother; at
all events, I don't mean to inquire.”
“I suppose I may break the seal myself, then,” said she, in a
half-pique.
“If you like,--if you have any curiosity in the matter.”
“That I have,” said she, tearing open the envelope. “Why, it's nothing,
after all, Tony. It's not from Her Majesty at all. It begins 'Dear
Butler.'”
“It's from Skeffy,” cried he, taking it from her hands, “and is far more
interesting to me than if it came from the Premier.”
Mrs. Butler sat down, disappointed and sad. It was a reminiscence of
long ago, that formally shaped document, with its big seal, reminding
her of days when the Colonel--her Colonel--used to receive despatches
from the War Office,--grave documents of which he seldom spoke, but
whose importance she could read in the thoughtful lines of his face, and
which always impressed her with his consequence. “Ah, dear!” sighed she,
drearily, “who would have thought it?”
So is it very often in this same world of ours, that the outsides of
things are only solemn cheats. The orderly, who terrifies the village as
he dashes past at speed, is but the bearer of an invitation to dine.
The ambassador's bag is filled not with protocols and treaties, but
with fish-sauce or pickled walnuts; the little sack--marked “most
important”--being choke-full of Russian cigarettes. Even lawn and
lawyers' wigs are occasionally the external coverings to qualities that
fall short of absolute wisdom; so that though Mrs. Butler exclaimed,
“Who would have thought it?” one more conversant with life would have
felt less surprise and less disappointment.
A laugh from Tony--almost a hearty laugh--startled her from her musings.
“What is it, Tony dear?” asked she,--“what is it that amuses you?”
“I'll read it all for you, mother. It's from Skeffy, and you 'd think
you heard him talking, it's so like him.
“'F. O., Sunday morning.
“'Dear Butler,--What a fright you have given us all, old fellow, to have
levanted so suddenly, leaving your traps with the waiter, as we first
thought, but, as we afterwards discovered, exchanging them with one Rory
Quin, who, apparently sorry for his bargain, came for three successive
mornings to the hotel to find out your present whereabouts.'
“Do you understand him, mother?” asked Tony at this.
“Partly,--go on.”
He resumed: “'Rory, however, would seem to have a private scrape of his
own to occupy him now, for I found to-day that a policeman was waiting
all the morning to arrest him, of which he seems to have had timely
notice, for he did not appear, and “R. 960” says, with much solemnity,
“he won't come no more."'”
“What does that mean, Tony?”
“I can make nothing of it. I hope and trust that I am not the cause of
the poor fellow's troubles. I 'll write about this at once. 'More of all
this, however, when we meet, which, I rejoice to say, will be soon.
I have got fourteen days' leave, and am going over to your immediate
neighborhood, to visit an aunt, or a cousin, or a grandmother,--if she
likes,--a certain Mrs. Maxwell of Tilney, who has lots of cash, and no
one to leave it to,--five thousand a year in estate; I don't know what
in the Threes; and is, they tell me, weighing all her relatives, real or
imaginary, in the balance of her esteem, to decide who is to be the Lord
of Tilney, and which of us would most worthily represent her name and
house. Preaching for a call is nothing to this; and a C. S. examination
is cakes and gingerbread to it Just fancy a grand competitive dinner of
both sexes, and the old lady watching who ate of her favorite dish, or
who passed the decanter she “affectioned.” Imagine yourself talking,
moving, sneezing, smiling, or blowing your nose, with five thousand a
year on the issue. Picture to your mind the tortures of a scrutiny that
may take in anything, from your complexion to your character, and which,
though satisfied with your morals, might discover “something unpleasing
about your mouth.”
“'Worst news of all, I hear that the great Norman Maitland is somewhere
in your vicinity, and, of course, will be invited wherever anything is
going on. If he cares to do it, I suppose he 'll cut us all out, and
that the old lady would rather fancy she made a graceful exit from life
if this illustrious swell were to play chief mourner to her. By the way,
do you know the man I 'm talking of? He's a monstrous clever fellow, and
a great mystery to boot. I know him very slightly; indeed, so slightly
that I'm not sure he knows_ me_.
“'As it would be invaluable to me to have a word of counsel from you,
knowing nothing, or next to nothing, of my dear relative, I mean to
start directly for you at once, and have one day with you before I go on
to Tilney. Will this bore you, or inconvenience you? Is your house full?
Most houses are at this time o' year.'”
At this Tony laid down the letter and laughed immoderately; not so,
however, his mother. She turned her head away, and sat, with her hands
closely locked, in silence.
“Is n't it good,--is n't it downright droll, mother, to ask if our house
be so full of guests we have no room for another? I declare, though it
has a sore side to it, the question overcomes me with its absurdity.”
“That's not the way I 'm looking at it, Tony,” said she, sadly.
“But there's no other way to look at it. If one can't take that view of
it, one would--” He stopped suddenly, for he saw the old lady lift
her handkerchief to her eyes, and hold it there. “But you are right,
mother,” said he, quickly. “To bear it well, one need n't laugh at it.
At all events, what answer are we to make him?”
“Finish the letter first.”
“Ah, this is all about putting him up--anywhere--in a dressing-room or
a closet. 'At Carlscourt, last year, they had nothing to give me but a
bathroom. They used to quiz me about sleeping in “marble halls,” for I
lay in the bath.'”
“He seems a good-tempered creature,” said the old lady, who could not
repress a laugh this time.
“The best in the world; and such spirits! I wish you saw him do the
back-somersault over a chair, or the frog's leap across a table. For
all that, mother,” said he, with a change of tone, “he's a perfect
gentleman; and though he's very short,--only so high,--he looks a
gentleman, too.”
“I am not likely to forget all his kindness to you, Tony,” said she,
feelingly. “If we could only receive him suitably, I 'd be happy and
proud to do it; as it is, however, the man, being a gentleman, will put
up all the better with our humble entertainment: so just tell him to
come, Tony; but tell him, also, what he's coming to. His room will be
pretty much like the bathroom, and the company he'll meet afterwards
very unlike what he saw at the fine house.”
“He 'll take all in good part, or I 'm much mistaken in him. So here
goes for the answer:--
“'Dear Skeff,--We live in a cottage with five rooms. We have
one maidservant, and we dine at two. If you have courage to
face all this, you'll have the heartiest of welcomes from my
mother and your sincere friend,
“'Tony Butler.
“'The mail will drop you at Coleraine, and I 'll be on the
look-out for you every morning from this forward.'
“Won't that do, mother?” asked he.
“I think you might have done it better; but I suppose you young folk
understand each other best in your own fashion, so let it be.”