While Tony was absent that morning from home, Mrs. Butler had a visit
from Dr. Stewart; he came over, he said, to see Tony, and ask the news
of what he had done in England. “I hope, ma'am,” said he,--and there was
something dry and reserved in his manner,--“I hope, ma'am, your son
has brought you good tidings of his late journey. A big city is a big
temptation, and we dinna want temptations in this world of ours.”
“I know it well, doctor,” said she, with a sigh; “and if it had been
any other than Tony--Ah, doctor! why do you shake your head? you make me
think you 've heard something or other. What is it, sir?”
“It's just nothing at all, Mrs. Butler, but your own fears, and very
proper fears too they are, for a young lad that goes away from home for
the first time in his life, and to such a place too. Ah me!” cried he,
in a soil of apostrophe, “it 's not so easy to be in grace down about
Charing Cross and the Hay market.”
“You 're just frightening me, Dr. Stewart; that's what it is you are
doing.”
“And I say it again, ma'am, it's yourself is the cause o' it all. But
tell me what success he has had,--has he seen Sir Harry Elphinstone?”
“That he has, and seen a greater than Sir Harry; he has come back with a
fine place, doctor; he's to be one of the Queen's--I forget whether they
call them couriers or messengers--that bring the state despatches all
over the world; and, as poor dear Tony says, it's a place that was made
for him,--for they don't want Greek or Latin, or any more book-learning
than a country gentleman should have.
“What are you sighing about, Dr. Stewart? There's nothing to sigh over
getting five, maybe six, hundred a year.”
“I was not sighing; I was only thinkin'. And when is he to begin this
new life?”
“If you are sighing over the fall it is for a Butler, one of his kith
and kin, taking a very humble place, you may just spare your feelings,
doctor, for there are others as good as himself in the same employ.”
“And what does Sir Arthur say to it, ma'am?” asked he, as it were to
divert her thoughts into another course.
“Well, if you must know, Dr. Stewart,” said she, drawing herself up and
smoothing down her dress with dignity, “we have ventured to take this
step without consulting Sir Arthur or any of his family.”
A somewhat long silence ensued. At last she said: “If Tony was at home,
doctor, he 'd tell you how kindly his father's old friend received
him,--taking up stories of long ago, and calling him Watty, just as he
used to do. And so, if they did not give my poor boy a better place,
it was because there was nothing just ready at the moment, perhaps,--or
nothing to fit him; for, as Sir Harry said laughingly, 'We can't make
you a bishop, I fear.'”
“I dinna see anything against it,” muttered the old minister, not sorry
for the chance of a shot against Episcopacy.
“I'm thinking, Dr. Stewart,” said she, tartly, “that your rheumatism
must be troubling you to-day; and, indeed, I 'm ashamed to say I never
asked you how the pains were?”
“I might be better, and I might be worse, ma'am,” was the qualified
reply; and again came a pause.
“Tony was saying the other day, doctor,” resumed she, “that if you will
try a touch of what he calls the white oils.”
“I 'm very much obliged to him, Mrs. Butler; he put a touch of the same
white oils on my pony one day, and the beast that was always a lamb
before just kicked me over his head when I got into the saddle.”
“You forget, doctor, you are not a beast of burden yourself.”
“We 're all beasts of burden, ma'am,--all of us,--even the best, if
there be any best! heavy laden wi' our sins, and bent down wi' our
transgressions. No, no,” added he, with a slight asperity, “I 'll have
none of his white oils.”
“Well, you know the proverb, doctor, 'He that winna use the means must
bear the moans.'”
“'T is a saying that hasna much sense in it,” said the doctor, crankily;
“for who's to say when the means is blessed?”
Here was a point that offered so wide a field for discussion that the
old lady did not dare to make a rejoinder.
“I 'll be going to Derry to-morrow, Mrs. Butler,” resumed he, “if I can
be of any service to you.”
“Going to Derry, doctor? that's a long road for you!”
“So it is, ma'am; but I'm going to fetch back my dochter Dolly; she's to
come by the packet to-morrow evening.”
“Dolly coming home! How is that? You did not expect her, did you?”
“Not till I got her letter this morning; and that's what made me come
over to ask if Tony had, maybe, told you something about how she was
looking, and what sort of spirits she seemed in; for her letter's very
short; only says, 'I 've got a kind of longing to be back again, dear
father; as the song says, “It's hame, and it's hame, and it's hame I
fain wad be;” and as I know well there will be an open heart and an open
door to greet me, I 'm off tonight for Liverpool.'”
“She 's a good girl, and whatever she does it will be surely for the
best,” said the old lady.
“I know it well;” and he wiped his eyes as he spoke. “But I 'm sore
troubled to think it's maybe her health is breaking, and I wanted to ask
Tony about her. D' ye remember, ma'am, how he said she was looking?”
Now, if there was anything thoroughly repugnant to the old lady's
habits, it was untruthfulness; and yet, as Tony had not mentioned Dolly
since his return, her only escape was by a little evasion, saying, “When
he wrote to me his first letter from London, doctor, he said, 'I was
sorry to find Dolly looking pale, and I thought thin also; besides,'
added he, 'they have cut off her pretty brown hair.'”
“Yes, she told me of that,” sighed the doctor. “And in her last note
she says again, 'Dinna think me a fright father dear, for it's growing
again, and I 'm not half so ugly as I was three weeks ago;' for the
lassie knows it was always a snare to me, and I was ever pleased wi' her
bright, cheery face.”
“And a bright, cheery face it was!”
“Ye mind her smile, Mrs. Butler. It was like hearing good news to see
it. Her mother had the same.” And the old man's lip trembled, and his
cheek too, as a heavy tear rolled slowly down it. “Did it ever strike
you, ma'am,” added he, in a calmer tone, “that there's natures in this
world gi'en to us just to heal the affections, as there are herbs and
plants sent to cure our bodily ailments?”
“It's a blessed thought, doctor.”
“Eh, ma'am, it's more than a thought; it's a solemn truth. But I 'm
staying o'er-long; I 've to go over to John Black's and see his sister
before I leave; and I 'd like, too, to say a word o' comfort to auld
Matty McClintock.”
“You 'll be back for the Sabbath, doctor?” asked she.
“Wi' _His_ help and blessing, ma'am.”
“I was thinking if maybe you and dear Dolly would come and take dinner
here--Saturday--there will be nothing ready for you at home; and it
would be such a pleasure to Tony before he goes away.”
“T thank you heartily, Mrs. Butler; but our first evening under the auld
roof we must e'en have it by ourselves. You 'll no think the worse o' us
for this, I am sure, ma'am.”
“Certainly not; then shall we say Monday? Dolly will be rested by that
time, and Tony talks of leaving me so soon.”
“I 'll just, wi' your good leave--I 'll just wait till I see Dolly; for
maybe she 'll no be ower-strong when she comes. There's nothing I can do
for you in Derry, is there?”
“Nothing, sir,--nothing that I think of at this moment,” said she,
coldly; for the doctor's refusal of her second invitation had piqued her
pride, and whether it was from his depression or some other cause, the
doctor himself seemed less cordial than was his wont, and took his leave
with more ceremony than usual.
The old lady watched him till he was out of sight, sorely perplexed to
divine whether he had really unburdened his conscience of all he had
to say, or had yet something on his mind unrevealed. Her kindly nature,
however, in the end, mastered all other thoughts; and as she sat down
once more to her knitting, she muttered, “Poor man! it's a sore stroke
of poverty when the sight of one's only child coming back to them brings
the sense of distress and want with it.” The words were not well uttered
when she saw Tony coming up the little pathway; he was striding along at
his own strong pace, but his hat was drawn down over his brows, and be
neither looked right nor left as he went.
“Did you meet the doctor, Tony?” said she, as she opened the door for
him.
“No; how should I meet him? I've not been to the Burn Bide.”
“But he has only left the house this minute,--you must have passed each
other.”
“I came down the cliff. I was taking a short cut,” said he, as he threw
himself into a seat, evidently tired and weary.
“He has been here to say that he's off for Derry to-night with the mail
to meet Dolly.”
“To meet Dolly!”
“Yes, she's coming back; and the doctor cannot say why, for she's over
that fever she had, and getting stronger every day; and yet she writes,
'You must come and fetch me from Derry, father, for I 'm coming home to
you.' And the old man is sore distressed to make out whether she's ill
again, or what's the meaning of it. And he thought, if he saw you, it
was just possible you could tell him something.”
“What could I tell him? Why should he imagine I could tell him?” said
Tony, as a deep crimson flush covered his face.
“Only how she was looking, Tony, and whether you thought she seemed
happy where she was living, and if the folk looked kind to her.”
“I thought she looked very sickly, and the people about her--the woman
at least--not over-kind. I'm not very sure, too, that Dolly herself was
n't of my mind, though she did n't say so. Poor girl!”
“It's the poor old father I pity the most, Tony; he's not far off
seventy, if he 's not over it; and sore work he finds it keeping body
and soul together; and now he has the poor sick lassie come back to him,
wanting many a little comfort, belike, that he can't afford her. Ah,
dear! is n't there a deal of misery in this life?”
“Except for the rich,” said Tony, with an almost savage energy. “They
certainly have fine times of it. I saw that fellow, Maitland, about an
hour ago, lolling beside Alice Lyle--Trafford, I mean, in her carriage,
as if he owned the equipage and all it contained; and why? Just because
he is rich.”
“He's a fine handsome man, Tony, and has fine manners, and I would not
call him a fellow.”
“I would, then; and if he only gives me the chance, I 'll call him a
harder name to his face.”
“Tony, Tony, how can you speak so of one that wanted to befriend you?”
“Befriend me, mother! You make me ashamed to bear you say such a word.
Befriend me!”
“What's the matter with you, Tony? You are not talking, no, nor looking
like yourself. What's befallen you, my dear Tony? You went out this
morning so gay and light-hearted, it made me cheery to see you. Ay, and
I did what I 've not done for many a day, I sang to myself over my work
without knowing it, and now you 're come back as dark as night. What's
in it, my boy? tell your poor old mother. What's in it?”
“There's nothing in it, my own little mother, except that I'm a
good-for-nothing, discontented dog, that sees himself in a very shabby
condition without having the pluck to try and get out of it. I say,
mother, when are we to begin our lessons? That confounded river Danube
goes between me and my rest. Whether it rises in the Black Sea or the
Black Forest is just as great a puzzle to me as whether the word is
spelt 'peo' or 'poe' in 'people.'”
“Oh, Tony!”
“It's all very well saying, 'Oh, Tony;' but I tell you, mother, a stupid
fellow ought never to be told two ways for anything: never say to him,
you can do it in this fashion or in that; but, there's the road straight
before you; take care you never go off it.”
“Mr. Maitland made that same remark to me last week.”
“Then don't tell it to me, for I hate him. By the way, there's that gun
of his. I forgot to take it back to Lyle Abbey. I think it was precious
cool in him to suppose a stranger--a perfect stranger, as I am--would
accept a present from him.”
“If you are going to the Abbey, Tony, I wish you 'd leave these books
there, and thank my Lady for all her kind attentions to me; and say a
word to Sir Arthur, too, to excuse my not seeing him when he called.
Tell Gregg, the gardener, not to send me any more vegetables now; it's
the scarce season, and they 'll be wanting them for themselves; and if
you should chance to see Mr. Lockyer, the steward, just mention to him
that the new sluice is just no good at all, and when the rain comes
heavy, and the mill is not working, the water comes up to the kitchen
door. Are you minding me, Tony?”
“I 'm not sure that I am,” said he, moodily, as he stood examining the
lock of the well-finished rifle. “I was to tell Lady Lyle something
about cabbages or the mill-race,--which was it?”
“You are not to make a fool of yourself, Tony,” said she, half vexed and
half amused. “I 'll keep my message for another day.”
“And you'll do well,” said he; “besides, I'm not very sure that I 'll go
further than the gate-lodge;” and so saying, he took his hat, and, with
the rifle on his shoulder, strolled out of the room.
“Ah! he 's more like his father every day!” sighed she, as she looked
after him; and if there was pride in the memory, there was some pain
also.