When Maitland entered the drawing-room before dinner, the Commodore
was standing in the window-recess pondering over in what way he should
receive him; while Sally and Beck sat somewhat demurely watching
the various presentations to which Mrs. Maxwell was submitting her
much-valued guest. At last Maitland caught sight of where they sat,
and hurried across the room to shake hands with them, and declare the
delight he felt at meeting them. “And the Commodore, is he here?”
“Yes; I 'll find him for you,” said Beck, not sorry to display before
her country acquaintance the familiar terms she stood on with the great
Mr. Maitland.
With what a frank cordiality did he shake the old sailor's hand, and
how naturally came that laugh about nothing, or something very close to
nothing, that Graham said, in allusion to the warm quarters they found
themselves in. “Such Madeira!” whispered he, “and some old '34 claret.
By the way, you forgot your promise to taste mine.”
“I 'll tell you how that occurred when we 've a quiet moment together,”
said Maitland, in a tone of such confidential meaning that the old man
was reassured at once. “I 've a good deal to say to you; but we 'll have
a morning together. You know every one here? Who is that with all the
medals on his coat?”
“General Carnwroth; and that old woman with the blue turban is his wife;
and these are the Grimsbys; and that short man with the bald head
is Holmes of Narrow Bank, and the good-looking girl there is his
niece,--and heiress too.”
“What red arms she has!” whispered Maitland.
“So they are, by Jove!” said Graham, laughing; “and I never noticed it
before.”
“Take me in to dinner,” said Mrs. Trafford, in a low voice, as she swept
past Maitland.
“I can't. Mrs. Maxwell has ordered me to give her my arm,” said he,
following her; and they went along for some paces, conversing.
“Have you made your peace with the Grahams?” asked she, smiling half
maliciously.
“In a fashion; at least, I have put off the settling-day.”
“If you take to those morning rambles again with the fair Rebecca, I
warn you it will not be so easy to escape an explanation. Here's Mrs.
Maxwell come to claim you.”
Heaving with fat and velvet and bugles and vulgar good-humor, the old
lady leaned heavily on Maitland's arm, really proud of her guest, and
honestly disposed to show him that she deemed his presence an honor. “It
seems like a dream to me,” said she, “to see you here after reading of
your name so often in the papers at all the great houses in England. I
never fancied that old Tilney would be so honored.”
It was not easy to acknowledge such a speech, and even Maitland's
self-possession was pushed to its last limits by it; but this awkward
feeling soon passed away under the genial influence of the pleasant
dinner. And it was as pleasant a dinner as good fare and good wine and a
well-disposed company could make it.
At first a slight sense of reserve, a shade of restraint, seemed to hold
conversation in check, and more particularly towards where Maitland sat,
showing that a certain dread of him could be detected amongst those who
would have fiercely denied if charged with such a sentiment.
The perfect urbanity, tinctured, perhaps, with a sort of racy humor,
with which Maitland acknowledged the old Commodore's invitation to
take wine with him, did much to allay this sense of distrust. “I say,
Maitland,” cried he, from the foot of the table, “are you too great a
dandy to drink a glass of wine with me?”
A very faint flush colored Maitland's cheek, but a most pleasant
smile played on his mouth as he said, “I am delighted, my dear
Commodore,--delighted to repudiate the dandyism and enjoy the claret at
the same time.”
“They tell me it's vulgar and old-fashioned, and I don't know what else,
to take wine with a man,” resumed the old sailor, encouraged by his
success to engage a wider attention.
“I only object to the custom when practised at a royal table,” said
Maitland, “and where it obliges you to rise and drink your wine
standing.” As some of the company were frank enough to own that they
heard of the etiquette for the first time, and others, who affected
to be conversant with it, ingeniously shrouded their ignorance, the
conversation turned upon the various traits which characterize
different courtly circles; and it was a theme Maitland knew how to make
amusing,--not vaingloriously displaying himself as a foreground figure,
or even detailing the experiences as his own, but relating his anecdotes
with all the modest diffidence of one who was giving his knowledge at
second-hand.
The old General was alone able to cap stories with Maitland on this
theme, and told with some gusto an incident of his first experiences at
Lisbon. “We had,” said he, “a young attaché to our Legation there; I
am talking of, I regret to say, almost fifty years ago. He was a very
good-looking young fellow, quite fresh from England, and not very long,
I believe, from Eton. In passing through the crowd of the ball-room,
a long streamer of lace which one of the Princesses wore in her hair
caught in the attache's epaulette. He tried in vain to extricate
himself, but, fearing to tear the lace, he was obliged to follow the
Infanta about, his confusion making his efforts only the more hopeless.
'Where are you going, sir? What do you mean by this persistence?' asked
a sour-faced old lady-of-honor, as she perceived him still after them.
'I am attached to her Royal Highness,' said he, in broken French, 'and I
cannot tear myself away.' The Infanta turned and stared at him, and then
instantly burst out a-laughing, but so good-humoredly withal, and with
such an evident forgiveness, that the duenna became alarmed, reported
the incident to the Queen, and the next morning our young countryman got
his orders to leave Lisbon at once.”
While the company commented on the incident, the old General sighed
sorrowfully,--over the long past, perhaps,--and then said, “He did not
always get out of his entanglements so easily.”
“You knew him, then?” asked some one.
“Slightly; but I served for many years with his brother, Wat Butler, as
good a soldier as ever wore the cloth.”
“Are you aware that his widow and son are in this neighborhood?” asked
Mrs. Trafford.
“No; but it would give me great pleasure to see them. Wat and I were in
the same regiment in India. I commanded the company when he joined us.
And how did he leave them?”
“On short rations,” broke in old Graham. “Indeed, if It was n't for Lyle
Abbey, I suspect very hard up at times.”
“Nothing of the kind, Commodore,” broke in Mrs. Trafford. “You have
been quite misinformed. Mrs. Butler is, without affluence, perfectly
independent; and more so even in spirit than in fortune.”
A very significant smile from Maitland seemed to say that he recognized
and enjoyed her generous advocacy of her friend.
“Perhaps you could do something, General, for his son?” cried Mrs.
Maxwell.
“What sort of a lad is he?”
“Don't ask me, for I don't like him; and don't ask my sisters, for they
like him too well,” said Mark.
“Have you met him, Mr. Maitland?” asked the General.
“Yes, but passingly. I was struck, however, by his good looks and manly
bearing. The country rings with stories of his courage and intrepidity.”
“And they are all true,” said Isabella Lyle. “He is the best and bravest
creature breathing.”
“There's praise,--that's what I call real praise,” said the General.
“I'll certainly go over and see him after that.”
“I 'll do better, General,” said Mrs. Maxwell; “I 'll send over and ask
him here to-morrow. Why do you shake your head, Bella? He 'll not come?”
“No,” said she, calmly.
“Not if you and Alice were to back my request?”
“I fear not,” said Alice. “He has estranged himself of late from
every one; he has not been even once to see us since he came back from
England.”
“Then Mark will go and fetch him for us,” said Mrs. Maxwell, the most
unobservant of all old ladies.
“Not I, madam; nor would that be the way to secure him.”
“Well, have him we must,” said Mrs. Maxwell; while she added in a
whisper to Mrs. Trafford, “It would never do to lose the poor boy such a
chance.”
“Beck says, if some one will drive her over to the Causeway,” cried the
Commodore, “she'll vouch for success, and bring young Tony back with
her.”
“Mr. Maitland offers himself,” said Alice, whose eyes sparkled with fun,
while her lips showed no trace of a smile.
“Take the phaeton, then,” said Mrs. Maxwell; “only there will be no
place for young Butler; but take a britscha, and order post-horses at
Greme's Mill.” And now a sharp discussion ensued which road was the
shorter, and whether the long hill or the “new cut” was the more severe
on the cattle.
“This was most unfair of you,” said Maitland to Mrs. Trafford, as they
rose from the table; “but it shall not succeed.”
“How will you prevent it?” said she, laughing. “What can you do?”
“Rather than go I 'd say anything.”
“As how, for instance?”
He leaned forward and whispered a few words in her ear, and suddenly her
face became scarlet, her eyes flashed passionately, as she said, “This
passes the limit of jest, Mr. Maitland.”
“Not more than the other would pass the limit of patience,” said he;
and now, instead of entering the drawing-room, he turned short round and
sought his own room.